All Around the Town

  It was early Friday afternoon. The plan was in motion. Opal had won Betsy Lyons’s confidence. It was time to see the Kenyon place. The housekeeper was in on Monday and Friday mornings. She would be gone by now. The older sister was busy in court, involved in a highly publicized trial. Opal would be alone inside Lee’s home with someone who would be off guard.

  Betsy Lyons was an attractive woman in her early sixties. She loved her job and was good at it. She frequently bragged that she could spot a phony a mile away. “Listen, I don’t waste my time,” she would tell new agents. “Time is money. Don’t think because people obviously can’t afford the houses they want to see that you should automatically steer them away. Daddy might be sitting in the background with a bundle of cash he made in his 7-Eleven. On the other hand, don’t assume because people look as though they can pay steep prices that they’re really serious. Some of the wives just want to get inside pricey houses to see the decorating. And never take your eyes off any of them.”

  The thing that Betsy Lyons liked about Carla Hawkins was that she was so on the level. Straight off, she’d put her cards on the table. She was looking in other locations. She didn’t gush at every house she saw. Neither did she point out what was wrong with it. Some people did that whether or not they had any plans to buy. “The baths are too small.” Sure, honey. You’re used to a Jacuzzi in the bedroom.

  Mrs. Hawkins asked intelligent questions about the houses that sparked mild interest in her. There was obviously money there. A good real estate agent learned to spot expensive clothes. The bottom line was that Betsy Lyons had a feeling that this could turn into a big sale.

  “This is a particularly charming place,” she said, pointing to the picture of an all-brick ranch house. “Nine rooms, only four years old, in mint condition, a fortune in landscaping and on a cul-de-sac.”

  Opal pretended interest, poring over the specifics listed under the picture. “That would be interesting,” she said slowly, “but let’s keep looking. Oh, what’s this?” She had finally come to the page with the picture of the Kenyon home.

  “Now if you want a really beautiful, roomy, comfortable house, this is a buy,” Lyons said enthusiastically. “Over an acre of property, a swimming pool, four large bedrooms, each with its own bath; a living room, dining room, breakfast room, den and library on the main floor. Eight thousand square feet, crown molding, wainscoting, parquet floors, butler’s pantry.”

  “Let’s see both of these this morning,” Opal suggested. “That’s about as much as I’m up to with this ankle.”

  Bic had fastened an Ace bandage on her left ankle. “You tell that agent you sprained it,” he told her. “Then when you say you must have dropped a glove up in one of the bedrooms she won’t mind leaving you in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll check about the ranch,” Lyons said. “They have young children and want us to call ahead. I can go in the Kenyon place any weekday without notice.”

  They stopped at the ranch house first. Opal remembered to ask all the right questions. Finally they were on their way to the Kenyon home. Mentally she reviewed Bic’s instructions.

  “Rotten weather, isn’t it,” Lyons said as she drove through the quiet streets of Ridgewood. “But it’s nice to think that spring is on the way. The Kenyon property is alive with flowering trees in the spring. Dogwood. Cherry blossoms. Mrs. Kenyon loved gardening and there are three blooms a year. Whoever gets this place will be lucky.”

  “Why is it being sold?” It seemed to Opal that it would be unnatural not to ask the question. She hated driving down this road. It reminded her of those two years. She remembered how her heart pounded when they turned at the pink corner house. That house was painted white now.

  Lyons knew there was no use trying to hide the truth. Problem was, some people steered clear of a hard-luck house. Better to say it right out than let them nose around and find out for themselves was her motto. “There are just two sisters living here now,” she said. “The parents were killed in an automobile accident last September. A bus slammed into them on Route 78.” Skillfully she attempted to make Opal concentrate on the fact that the accident had taken place on Route 78 and not in the house.

  They were turning into the driveway. Bic had told Opal to be sure to notice everything. He was real curious about the kind of place where Lee lived. They got out of the car, and Lyons fished for the key to the lock.

  “This is the central foyer,” she said as she opened the door. “See what I mean about a well-kept place? Isn’t this beautiful?”

  Be quiet, Opal wanted to tell her as they walked around the first floor. The living room was to the left. Archway. Big windows. Upholstery predominantly blue. Dark polished floor with a large Oriental and a contrasting small rug in front of the fireplace. Opal felt a nervous impulse to laugh. They had taken Lee from this place to that dumpy farm. Wonder she didn’t crack up on the spot.

  In the library, portraits lined the walls. “Those are the Kenyons,” Betsy Lyons pointed out. “Handsome couple, weren’t they? And those are watercolors of the girls when they were little. From the time Laurie was born, Sarah was always such a little mother to her. I don’t know if, being in Georgia, you would have known about it but . . .”

  As she heard the story of the disappearance seventeen years earlier, Opal felt her heart begin to race. On an end table there was a picture of Lee with an older girl. Lee was wearing the pink bathing suit she’d had on when they picked her up. With the cluster of framed photos in this room, it was crazy that her eye fell on that one. Bic was right. There was a reason why God had sent them here to be on guard against Lee now.

  She chose to fake a sneeze, pull her handkerchief from her coat pocket and drop a glove in Lee’s bedroom. Even if Betsy Lyons hadn’t told her, it was easy to figure which one was Lee’s. The sister’s room was loaded with law books over the desk.

  Opal followed Lyons down the stairs, then asked to see the kitchen again. “I love this kitchen,” she sighed. “This house is a dream.” At least that was honest, she thought with some amusement. “Now I’d really better be going. My ankle is telling me to stop walking.” She sat on one of the tall stools in front of the island counter.

  “Of course.” Betsy Lyons could smell a potential sale warming up.

  Opal reached in her coat pocket for her gloves, then frowned. “I know I had both of them when we came in.” She fished in the other pocket, brought out her handkerchief. “Oh, I know. I bet when I sneezed, I pulled out my glove with the hankie. That was in the bedroom with the blue carpet.” She began to slide from the stool.

  “You wait right there,” Betsy Lyons ordered. “I’ll run up and look for it.”

  “Oh, would you?”

  Opal waited until a faint padding on the staircase assured her that Lyons was on her way to the second floor. Then she jumped from the stool and raced to the row of blue-handled knives attached to the wall next to the stove. She grabbed the largest one, a long carving knife, and dropped it in her oversize shoulder bag.

  She was back on the stool, slightly bent over, her hand rubbing her ankle, when Betsy Lyons returned to the kitchen, a triumphant smile on her face, the missing glove clutched in her fingers.

  30

  THE FIRST PART of the week had passed in a blur. Sarah worked through Thursday night, poring over her closing statement.

  She read intently, clipping, inserting, preparing three-by-five cards with the highlights of the points she wanted to hammer at the jury. The morning light began to filter into the bedroom. At seven-fifteen, Sarah read her closing paragraph. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Marcus is a skilled and experienced defense attorney. He hammered away at each of the witnesses who had been in the station that night. Admittedly it was not broad daylight but neither was it so dark they could not see James Parker’s face. Every one of them had seen him approach and be rebuffed by Maureen Mays in the railroad station. Every one of them told you, without hesitation, that James Parker is the person who got into Maureen’s car
that night. . . .

  “I would say, ladies and gentlemen, the evidence has shown to you beyond any reasonable doubt that James Parker murdered this fine young woman and forever robbed her husband, mother, father and siblings of her love and support.

  “There is nothing any of us can do to bring her back, but what you, the jury, can do is to bring her murderer to justice.”

  She had covered all the points. The solid mass of evidence was undeniable. Still Conner Marcus was the best criminal attorney she’d ever been up against. And juries were unpredictable.

  Sarah got up and stretched. The adrenaline that always pulsed through her body during a trial would reach fever pitch when she began her final arguments. She was counting on that.

  She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. It was a temptation to linger under the cascade of hot water. Her shoulders especially seemed to be tied up in knots. Instead she turned off the hot water and twisted the cold-water tap completely to the right. Grimacing, she endured the icy blast.

  She toweled dry quickly, pulled on a long, thick terry-cloth robe, stuck her feet in slippers and ran downstairs to make coffee. While she waited for it to seep through the coffee maker, she did stretching exercises and looked around the kitchen. Betsy Lyons, the real estate agent, seemed to think that she had a hot prospect for the house. Sarah realized she was still ambivalent about selling it. She had told Lyons she absolutely would not lower the price.

  The coffee was ready. She dug out her favorite mug, the one her squad of detectives gave her when she was the assistant prosecutor in charge of the sex-crimes unit. It was inscribed “For Sarah, who made sex so interesting.” Her mother had not been amused.

  She carried the coffee upstairs and sipped while she dabbed on a touch of lipstick, blusher and eyeshadow. That had become a morning ritual, a loving tribute to her mother. Mom, if you don’t mind I’ll look tailored today, she thought. But she knew Marie would have approved of the blue-and-gray tweed suit.

  Her hair. A cloud of curls . . . no, a mass of frizz. Impatiently she brushed it. “The sun will come out tomorrow . . .” she sang softly. All I need is a red dress with a white collar and a dopey-looking dog.

  She checked her briefcase. All her notes for the closing argument were there. This is it, she thought. She was almost at the bottom of the stairs when she heard the kitchen door open. “It’s me, Sarah,” Sophie called. Footsteps padded across the kitchen. “I have to go to the dentist, so I thought I’d come a bit early. Oh, you look nice.”

  “Thanks. You didn’t have to come so early. After ten years, don’t you think you should just take some time off when you need it?” They smiled at each other.

  The prospect of the house being sold distressed Sophie, and she’d said as much.

  “Unless, of course, you girls get an apartment near here so I can look after you,” she’d told Sarah.

  This morning she looked troubled. “Sarah, you know the good set of knives next to the stove?”

  Sarah was buttoning her coat. “Yes.”

  “Did you take one of them out for anything?”

  “No.”

  “I just noticed the biggest carving knife is missing. It’s the queerest thing.”

  “Oh, it’s got to be around somewhere.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you where.”

  Sarah felt suddenly uneasy. “When was the last time you saw it?”

  “I’m not sure. I missed it on Monday and began looking around. It isn’t in the kitchen, I’ll tell you that. How long it’s been gone, I have no idea.” Sophie hesitated. “I don’t suppose Laurie would have had any use for it at school?”

  Sophie knew about the knife dream. “I hardly think so.” Sarah swallowed over the sudden constriction in her throat. “Got to run.” As she opened the door, she said, “If, by any chance, you come across that knife, leave a message for me at the office, will you? Just a simple ‘I found it.’ Okay?”

  She saw the compassion in Sophie’s face. She thinks Laurie took it, Sarah thought. My God!

  Frantically she ran to the phone and dialed Laurie’s number. A sleepy voice. Laurie had picked up on the first ring.

  “Sarah? Sure. I’m fine. In fact I got a couple of my marks back. They’re good. Let’s celebrate somehow.”

  Relieved, Sarah hung up and rushed outside to the garage. A four-car garage with only her car in it. Laurie always left hers in the driveway. The other empty spaces were a constant reminder of the accident.

  As she pulled out, she decided that for the moment Laurie sounded okay. Tonight she’d call Dr. Carpenter and Dr. Donnelly and tell them about the knife. But now she had to put it out of her mind. It wasn’t fair to Maureen Mays or her family to do less than her best in court today. But why in the name of God would Laurie take the carving knife?

  31

  “SARAH’S JURY is still out,” Laurie told Dr. Carpenter as she sat across from him in his office. “I envy her. She’s so committed to what she does, to being a prosecutor, that she can block out everything she doesn’t want to think about.”

  Carpenter waited. The temperature had changed. Laurie was different. It was the first time he had seen her express hostility toward Sarah. There was pent-up anger flashing in her eyes. Something had happened between her and Sarah. “I’ve been reading about that case,” he said mildly.

  “I’ll bet you have. Sarah the prosecutor. But she’s not as subtle as she thinks she is.”

  Again he waited. “I no sooner got home last night than she came in. All apologies. Sorry she hadn’t been home to welcome me. Big sister. I said, ‘Look, Sarah, at some point even I have to take care of myself. I’m twenty-one, not four.’ ”

  “Four?”

  “That’s the age I was when she should have stayed home from her damn party. I wouldn’t have been kidnapped if she’d stayed home.”

  “You’ve always blamed yourself for being kidnapped, Laurie.”

  “Oh, me too. But big sister had a hand in it. I bet she hates me.”

  Dr. Carpenter had intended as one of his goals to wean Laurie away from dependence on her sister, but this was something new. It was like being with a totally different patient. “Why would she hate you?”

  “She has no time for a life of her own. You should have her as a patient. Boy, that would be something to hear! All her life being big sister. I read her old diary this morning. She’s been keeping one since she was a little kid. She wrote a lot about me being kidnapped and then coming back and that she thought I was different. I guess I really chilled her out.” There was satisfaction in Laurie’s tone.

  “Do you make it a habit to go through Sarah’s diaries?”

  The look Laurie gave him was pure pity. “You’re the one who wants to know what everyone is thinking. What makes you better?”

  It was the way she was sitting, the belligerent posture, knees pressed together, hands grasping the arms of the chair, head thrust forward, features rigid. Where was the soft, troubled young face, the hesitant Jackie Onassis voice?

  “That’s a good question, but I don’t have any one-sentence answer to it. Why are you annoyed at Sarah?”

  “The knife. Sarah thinks I sneaked a carving knife out of the kitchen.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  “Only because it’s missing. I sure as hell didn’t take it. Sophie, our housekeeper, started the whole thing. I mean I don’t mind admitting that a lot of things fall in my camp, but not this one, Doc.”

  “Did Sarah accuse you or just ask you about the knife? There’s a big difference, you know.”

  “Buddy, I know an accusation when I hear one.”

  “I had the feeling that you were afraid of knives. Was I wrong, Laurie?”

  “I wish you’d call me Kate.”

  “Kate? Any reason?”

  “Kate sounds better than Laurie—more mature. Anyhow, my middle name is Katherine.”

  “That could be very positive. Putting away of childish things. Is that the way y
ou feel now, that you’re putting away childish things?”

  “No. I just don’t want to be afraid of knives.”

  “I was under the strong impression that you were desperately afraid of them.”

  “Oh no. Not me. Laurie is afraid of everything. A knife is her ‘worst-case scenario.’ You know, Doctor, there are some people who bring grief and pain to the rest of the universe. Our gal Laurie, for example.”

  Dr. Peter Carpenter realized that he now knew that Kate was the name of one of Laurie Kenyon’s alter personalities.

  32

  ON SATURDAY MORNING they parked near Dr. Carpenter’s office. Bic had deliberately rented the same color late-model Buick that Laurie drove. Only the interior was a different shade of leather. “If anyone happens to question my opening this door, I’ll point to the other car,” he explained, then answered her unspoken question. “We have observed that Lee never locks her car. Her tote bag filled with textbooks is always on the floor of the front seat. I’ll just slip in that knife right at the bottom. Doesn’t matter when she finds it. The point is that she’s sure to come across it soon. Just a little reminder for her of what happens if she starts thinking on us with her head doctor. And now do what you must do, Opal.”

  Lee always left Dr. Carpenter’s office at exactly five of twelve. At six of twelve Opal casually opened the door of the private entrance to his upstairs office. A narrow foyer with a flight of stairs led to his suite. She glanced around as though she’d made a mistake and meant to use the main door of the professional building at the corner of Ridgewood Avenue. There was no one on the stairs. Quickly she unwrapped the small package she was holding, dropped its contents in the center of the foyer and left. Bic was already in the rented car.