Two Little Girls in Blue

  Lila had forgotten about the play. “I know why she wanted to talk to me,” she said quietly. “There was another woman shopping here the same evening Mrs. Frawley was shopping for the birthday dresses last week. She was selecting clothes for three-year-old twins, and she didn’t seem to have a clue what size to buy for them. I told that to Mrs. Frawley because I thought it was so unusual. I even . . .”

  Lila let her voice trail off. She did not think that Joan Howell, a stickler for doing things according to the book, would like the idea that she had twisted the bookkeeper’s arm to phone the credit card company and get the address of the woman who had bought clothes for twins, not knowing their size. “If it would help Mrs. Frawley to talk to me, I’d really like to talk to her,” she finished.

  “She didn’t leave her number. I’d say, let it go.” Joan Howell glanced at her watch, a clear indication to Lila that it was five minutes after ten and that as of ten A.M. she was being paid to sell Abby’s Discount Clothes.

  Lila remembered the name of the customer who hadn’t known the size of the three-year-old twins. It’s Downes, she thought as she headed for a sales rack. She signed the slip as Mrs. Clint Downes, but when I talked to Jim Gilbert about her, he told me her name is Angie, that she’s not married to Downes, and that he’s the caretaker at the Danbury Country Club, and they live in a cottage on the grounds of the club.

  Aware that Joan Howell’s eyes were on her, she turned to a woman at the sales rack who by now had several pantsuits over her arm. “May I put these aside for you?” she asked. At the customer’s grateful nod, she took the garments, and, as she waited, thought about how convinced she had been that it wouldn’t hurt to mention the incident to the police. They had been begging for anyone to report anything that might help them find the kidnappers.

  Jim Gilbert made me feel like an idiot, she thought. Talked about how many phony clues the police were getting. And because he’s a retired detective, I listened to him.

  The shopper had found two more suits to try on and was ready to go to a dressing room. “There’s an empty one right over here,” Lila told her. I could talk to the police now, she thought, but they might just dismiss it the way Jim did. I’ve got a better idea. The country club is only ten minutes from here. On my lunch hour I’ll drive over, ring the bell of the caretaker’s cottage, and I’ll say that I realized the polo shirts I sold her were defective, and I wanted to replace them. Then, if I still feel funny about anything, I will call the police.

  At one o’clock Lila took two size 4 polo shirts to the cashier. “Kate, toss these in a bag,” she said. “Ring them up when I get back. I’m in a hurry.” She realized that for some reason she had a compelling feeling of urgency.

  It had begun to rain again, and in her haste she had not bothered to take her umbrella with her. Oh, so what if I get wet, she thought as she ran across the parking lot to her car. Twelve minutes later, she was at the gate to the Danbury Country Club. To her dismay, she saw that it was padlocked. There’s got to be another entrance, she thought. She drove around slowly, stopping at another locked gate before she found a service road with a bar across it and a box to punch in the code to raise the bar. In the distance, well to the right and behind the club house, she could see a small building which she knew might be the caretaker’s cottage Jim Gilbert had mentioned.

  The rain was getting heavier. I’ve come this far, Lila decided, I’m going ahead. At least I was smart enough to wear a raincoat. She got out of the car, ducked under the security arm, and, keeping as much as possible in the shelter of the evergreens, began to jog toward the cottage, the bag with the polo shirts cradled under her jacket.

  She passed a one-car garage to the right of the cottage. The door was open, and she could see that the garage was empty. Maybe there’s no one home, she thought. In that case, what do I do?

  But as she got closer to the cottage she could see that there was a light on in the front room. Here goes nothing, she thought, as she went up the two steps to the small porch and rang the bell.

  * * *

  On Friday evening, Clint had gone out with Gus again, got home late, slept until noon, and now was hungover and nervous. While they were having dinner at the bar, Gus had said that when he’d phoned the other night and talked to Angie, he’d have sworn he heard two kids crying in the background.

  I tried to make a joke of it, Clint thought. I told him he must have been drunk to think that there were two kids in this chicken coop. I told him that I don’t mind that Angie makes money babysitting, but if she ever showed up with two kids, I’d tell her to hit the road. I think he bought it, but I don’t know. He’s got a big mouth. Suppose he mentions to someone else that he heard two crying kids who Angie was minding. Besides that, he told me about seeing Angie at the drugstore buying the vaporizer and aspirin. For all I know, he could have told somebody else.

  I’ve got to rent a car and get rid of that crib, he thought as he made coffee. At least I took it apart, but I have to get it out of here and ditch it in the woods somewhere. Why did Angie keep one of the kids? Why did she kill Lucas? If both kids had been returned, we’d have split the money with Lucas, and no one would be the wiser. Now the whole country is on the warpath because they think one of the kids is dead.

  Angie will get sick of minding her. Then she’ll dump her somewhere. I know she will. I just hope she doesn’t . . . Clint didn’t finish the thought, but the image of Angie leaning into the car and shooting Lucas was never far from his mind. She had shocked him, and now he was terrified of what else she might do.

  He was hunched over the kitchen table, wearing a heavy sweatshirt and jeans; his hair was uncombed; a two-day growth of beard darkened his face; his second cup of coffee sat untouched in front of him. Then the doorbell rang.

  The cops! It would be the cops, he was sure of it. Perspiration began to pour from him. No, maybe it’s Gus, he thought, grasping at straws. He had to open the door. If it was the cops, they’d have seen that the light was on, and they wouldn’t go away.

  He was still barefoot when he padded across the living room, his thick feet noiseless on the shabby rug. He put his hand on the knob, turned it, and yanked the door open.

  Lila gasped. She had expected that the woman who had shopped for the clothes would be standing there. Now she was faced with a heavyset, sloppy man, who was glaring at her suspiciously.

  To Clint, the reprieve of not being confronted by the police was replaced by fear that this was some sort of trap. Maybe she’s an undercover cop nosing around, he thought. Don’t look nervous, he told himself. If I didn’t have anything to worry about, I’d be polite and ask her what I could do for her.

  He forced something like a smile to cross his face. “Hello.”

  I wonder if he’s sick, was Lila’s first thought. He’s perspiring so much. “Is Mrs. Downes, I mean, is Angie home?” she asked.

  “No. She’s away on a babysitting job. I’m Clint. Why do you want her?”

  This is probably going to sound stupid, Lila thought, but I’m going to say it anyhow. “I’m Lila Jackson,” she explained. “I work at Abby’s Discount on Route 7. My boss sent me over to give Angie something. I’m expected back in a few minutes. Do you mind if I step in?”

  As long as I give him the impression that people know where I am, it should be okay, she thought. She realized she could not leave until she was sure Angie wasn’t hiding somewhere in the house.

  “Sure, come in.” Clint stood aside and Lila brushed past him. In a quick glance she saw that there was no one else in the living room, dining or kitchen area, and that the bedroom door was open. Clint Downes was apparently alone in the house, and if there had been children here, there was no sign of them now. She unbuttoned her coat, fished out the bag with the polo shirts, and handed it to him. “When Mrs. Downes, I mean Angie, was in our store last week, she bought polo shirts for the twins,” she said. “We received a notice from the manufacturer that the whole run of two of the shirts I sold her had def
ects, so I came over with replacements.”

  “That was very nice of you,” Clint said slowly, his mind scrambling to explain the purchase. Angie had to have charged that stuff on my credit card, he thought. She was stupid enough to leave a paper trail. “My girlfriend babysits all the time,” he explained to Lila. “She drove to Wisconsin with a family to help take care of their kids. She’ll be there for a couple of weeks. She bought that stuff because the mother called ahead to say she forgot to bring one of their suitcases.”

  “The mother of the three-year-old twins?” Lila asked.

  “Yeah. Actually from what Angie told me, the kids are less than a year apart. They’re about the same size, though. The mother dresses them alike and calls them twins, but they’re not really. Why don’t you just leave the shirts here? I’m sending a package to Angie and I’ll put them in it.”

  Lila did not know how to refuse the offer. This is a wild-goose chase, she decided. This guy looks harmless. People do jokingly call children who are very close in age twins. I know they do. She handed the bag to Clint. “I’ll be on my way,” she said. “Please apologize to Angie, or to her employer.”

  “Sure, glad to. No problem.”

  The phone rang. “Well anyhow, goodbye,” Clint said as he hurried to pick up the receiver. “Hi,” he said, his eyes fixed on Lila whose hand was now on the doorknob.

  “Why haven’t you been answering my phone? I’ve called you a dozen times,” a voice barked.

  It was the Pied Piper.

  For Lila’s benefit Clint tried to sound casual. “Not tonight, Gus,” he said. “I really want to take it easy.”

  Lila was opening the door slowly, hoping to hear what Clint was saying. But there was no way she could hang around, and besides, she clearly had rushed here on a fool’s errand. Jim Gilbert had told her that Angie was a babysitter, and it was reasonable that the mother had asked her to pick up some extra clothes. Now I’m drenched and out the money for the shirts, she thought as she hurried back to the car.

  “Who’s there with you?” the Pied Piper was demanding.

  Clint waited until he saw Lila pass the window, then said, “Angie took off with the kid. She didn’t think it was safe to hang around here anymore. She has the cell phone you gave Lucas to pass on to me. She charged the clothes she bought for the kids to my credit card. Some woman was here from the store replacing shirts that were no good. I don’t know whether or not she’s on the level.” He knew his voice was rising as he said, “I’ve got to figure out what to do. I don’t even know where Angie is.”

  He heard the sharp intake of breath and knew that the Pied Piper was nervous, too.

  “Take it easy, Clint. Do you think Angie will call again?”

  “I think so. She trusts me. I think she knows she needs me.”

  “But you don’t need her. What would happen if you told her a cop had come around looking for her?”

  “She’d panic.”

  “Then tell her that. Arrange to meet her wherever she is. And remember—what she did to Lucas, she could do to you.”

  “Don’t think I’m not thinking about that.”

  “And while you’re thinking about that, remember that if the child really is still alive, she could identify you, too.”

  57

  “Everyone has a breaking point, Margaret,” Dr. Sylvia Harris said gently early Saturday afternoon. It was one o’clock, and she and Kelly had just awakened Margaret.

  Now Margaret was sitting up in bed, Kelly snuggled beside her. She tried to smile. “Whatever did you give me to knock me out like that? Do you realize I’ve been sleeping for twelve hours?”

  “Do you realize how much sleep you’ve lost in the past week?” Dr. Harris’s tone was light, but her eyes were watchful. Margaret’s so thin, she thought, and so terribly pale. “I hated to wake you up even now, but Agent Carlson phoned. He wants to stop by. Steve is on his way over and asked me to wake you up.”

  “The FBI is probably trying to decide what I was up to when I took off last night. I wonder if they think I’m crazy. Right after you left yesterday, I called Agent Carlson. I screamed at him that Kathy was still alive, and he had to find her.” Margaret pulled Kelly into her arms. “Then I went over to the place where I bought the dresses and practically attacked the manager, or whoever she was. I just lost it, I guess.”

  “Do you have any idea of where you went after you left the store?” Dr. Harris asked. “Last night, you said it was a total blank.”

  “I don’t really remember anything until I saw a sign for Cape Cod. That kind of woke me up, and I knew I had to turn around. I feel so guilty. Poor Steve has had enough stress without me going off the deep end.”

  Dr. Harris thought of the look of desperation she had seen on Steve’s face last night when she returned to the house at eight o’clock and learned that Margaret was missing.

  “Dr. Sylvia,” Steve had explained, his voice agonized. “Right after I brought Kelly home from nursery school, as she was taking off her jacket, she let out a yell and grabbed her arm in that same spot where she had the bruise. She must have banged it on the leg of that table in the foyer. But Margaret went nuts! She was sure it meant that someone was hurting Kathy and that Kelly was feeling the pain with her. Margaret grabbed the car keys from me and told me she had to talk to someone in that store where she bought the birthday dresses. When she didn’t come home, and when I couldn’t remember the name of the store, I finally called the police and reported her missing. Dr. Sylvia, she wouldn’t harm herself, would she? Do you think she would harm herself?”

  It was three more agonizing hours before the call came that the police had found Margaret, sitting in her car near the Danbury airport. When they finally brought her home, she had not been able to tell them where she had been all that time. I gave her a strong sleeping pill, Dr. Harris thought, and it was the right thing to do. I can’t lighten her grief, but at least I am able to give her a chance to escape it and rest.

  She watched now as Margaret brushed her finger over Kelly’s cheek.

  “Hey, somebody’s really quiet,” Margaret said softly. “How are we doing, Kel?”

  Kelly looked up at her solemnly but did not answer.

  “Our little girl really has been pretty quiet all morning,” Dr. Harris observed. “I slept in with you last night, didn’t I, Kelly?”

  Kelly nodded silently.

  “Did she sleep well?” Margaret asked.

  “She was having a little reaction to everything, I think. She was crying in her sleep and doing quite a bit of coughing. That’s why I thought it best to stay with her.”

  Margaret bit her lip. Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, “She’s probably getting her sister’s cold.” She kissed the top of Kelly’s head. “We’ll take very good care of that, won’t we, Dr. Sylvia?”

  “Indeed we will, but I can assure you that her chest is absolutely clear.” In fact, Dr. Sylvia Harris thought, there is no reason for all that coughing. She doesn’t have a cold. She stood up. “Margaret, why don’t we give you a chance to shower and dress? We’ll go downstairs, and Kelly will pick out whatever story she wants me to read to her.”

  Kelly hesitated.

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Margaret said firmly.

  Silently, Kelly slid off the bed and reached for Sylvia Harris’s hand. They went downstairs to the study. There, Kelly selected a book and climbed onto the doctor’s lap. The room was a little cool. Sylvia reached for the afghan that was folded over the arm of the couch and tucked it around Kelly. She began to open the book, then pushed up Kelly’s sleeve for the second time that day.

  The purple bruise on her forearm was in almost exactly the same spot as the one that was fading. It looks as though someone pinched her hard, Sylvia thought. “You didn’t get that by hitting your arm against a table, Kelly,” she said aloud, and then wondered if it was possible. Is Margaret right that Kelly was actually feeling Kathy’s pain? She could not stop herself from voicin
g the question that was burning in her mind.

  “Kelly,” she asked, “can you sometimes feel what Kathy feels?”

  Kelly looked at her and shook her head, her eyes frightened. “Ssshhh,” she whispered, then rolled into a ball, put her thumb in her mouth, and pulled the afghan over her head.

  58

  Special Agent Connor Ryan had called a meeting in his New Haven office for eleven o’clock on Saturday morning. Grimly determined to track down the kidnappers, he, Agents Carlson and Realto, and Jed Gunther, a captain with the Connecticut State Police, were settled around a conference table, reviewing the status of the investigation.

  As head of the Bureau in Connecticut, Ryan led the discussion. “Wohl, as he was known, could have killed himself. It was physically possible, but it’s not the way most people do it. The typical suicide puts a gun in his mouth or to the side of his head and pulls the trigger. Take a look at these.”

  He passed the autopsy pictures of Lucas Wohl to the other men. “From the angle of the bullet we can tell that he would have to be holding the gun above his head when he fired it.”

  “Then we have the suicide note, which is another problem,” he said flatly. “Wohl’s fingerprints are on it, but not all over it, the way they would be if he had rolled the sheet of paper into the typewriter and then removed it after he finished typing his confession. Unless, of course, he was wearing gloves when he did the typing.” He handed the note to Carlson.

  “Let’s reconstruct,” Ryan continued. “We know we have at least two people involved. One was Lucas Wohl. The night of the kidnapping, the babysitter was on her way to the twins’ bedroom because one of them had cried out. Then she was grabbed from behind in the upstairs hallway. She believes that there has to have been someone in the room with the children when she was attacked. It makes sense, because we know that two men were seen carrying the ransom money.”