“Much more of what?” Sean asked, holding out my stool for me. It looked like a giant stainless-steel Frito on a stick. It was probably designer, had probably cost a fortune, and was probably the ugliest piece of furniture I’d ever laid eyes on.
“That dog,” she said, waving the knife. “He has to go. I hate to say it, I really do, but he has to go.”
“You can’t get rid of him. What if Mac comes home?”
She moved on from the garlic and started taking mushrooms out of a plastic grocer’s bag. Gingerly she placed each on the counter.
In the silence, I picked up on the soft strains of classical music coming from a speaker nearly hidden in the ceiling. Something staccato, feisty, and rebellious.
Jemima Hayes looked me straight in the eyes. The dying sunlight softened the angles of her face. I was surprised to notice how pretty she was. She dampened a cloth, set about wiping down the mushrooms. “If he comes back.”
“About that,” Sean said. “You know Dovie Valentine has hired me to look into Mac’s disappearance.”
“Good luck to you. If he was coming back, he’d be back by now. He’d never leave the mutt behind. Or Christa, either. They were close, those two.”
Nothing in Jemima’s voice hinted at any pain in relation to what she had silently implied. That Mac hadn’t been close to her. But I could sense it like an electric undercurrent, ready to shock when least expected.
Pulling a small notebook out of his leather coat, Sean said, “When did you realize Mac was missing?”
She heaved a sigh that sent her breasts near to spilling out of her spandex top. “You’re really going to make me do this again?”
“It might help find Mac,” I said.
“Mom?”
I jumped as Christa came into the kitchen—I hadn’t heard her.
“Are they looking for Granddad?”
Rufus barked from somewhere downstairs. Jemima’s lips pressed together. “I swear to God. That dog is going to be the death of me. Please go quiet him down, take him for a walk. Something,” Jemima begged.
“But—”
“Christa,” Jemima said with more patience than I had given her credit for. “We’ve been through this.”
“But…”
I spotted moisture in Jemima’s eyes before she looked away. “Please go take care of Rufus. Dinner’s almost ready. We’ll talk about it then.”
The teen turned and walked out.
“That girl could sneak up on a flea.” Jemima turned off the flame beneath the roux. “Mac took Rufus for a walk on January third. The stupid dog came back; Mac didn’t. Knew something was wrong right off the bat. Esme and I drove around and around. Searched culverts, drop-offs, beaches, everything. There was no trace of him. He was just,” she drew in a breath, “gone.”
It was mid-February now, and there hadn’t been any sign of him since.
“What was he wearing?” Sean asked.
“Jeans, sneakers, white gym socks, hideous knit sweater, corduroy coat, gloves.”
“Were any of those items gifts?” I asked.
Jemima popped the top off a mushroom. “Not that I know of. Most of it was replacement clothes.” She bit her bottom lip.
“After the fire?” I asked.
Drawing her shoulders back, she ripped the head off another mushroom. “That’s right.” Her breath hitched. “We moved in with Mac right after the house was rebuilt. Dad needed someone to look after him in those early days. The dog was actually my idea, if you can believe it.” She ruthlessly tore off another mushroom cap. “I have to admit Mac was a lot happier after Rufus.” She shook her head, sending a shock wave through her red hair. “That’s why I know he’s not coming back. That dog … he was Mac’s world.”
A housekeeper came in carrying a small stack of dish towels.
“Thank you, Esme,” Jemima said, taking one from the top.
“Did he have anything else with him?” I asked. “Like glasses or an iPod or a cell phone?”
“No. Mac’s vision is just fine, and he doesn’t believe in modern technology.”
I raised an eyebrow, looked around at the state-of-the-art kitchen with its luxury appliances, wine cooler, and high-tech toys.
Jemima smiled. “Mac gave me carte blanche when we rebuilt. Said I might as well design the new place since it would be mine one day. It’s glorious, isn’t it? My dream house.”
“It’s something,” I said. Grudgingly I had to admit the place was a showpiece. It didn’t fit the neighborhood, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t amazing.
Sean tapped on his notebook with the tip of his pen. “Did Mac have any enemies?”
“Mac only had a handful of close friends. Liked to be by himself most of the time. Can’t imagine anyone would want to do him any harm.”
“Any chance he just walked away?” I asked.
“I just can’t see that happening.”
I said, “What about suicide?”
Her eyes filled with such sadness it tugged at my heart. She shrugged. “Are we almost done?”
“Any chance we can look around?” Sean asked. “Does Mac have a den or an office?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Mac’s space is downstairs. No one has touched anything down there since he’s been gone. You have five minutes. Then you need to leave.”
6
Opening the door to the lower level was like falling down Alice’s rabbit hole.
This was Mac’s domain and it showed the minute we took the first step down. There was nothing contemporary down here; instead there were sturdy, gleaming oak steps, lined with a carpet runner.
The stairs curved, leading down into a cozy masculine one-bedroom apartment, scented with pipe tobacco that had me immediately thinking of my Grandpa Henry. Instantly I was a little girl again, curled up with him in his favorite chair while he puffed on his pipe and read me storybooks of faraway lands and handsome princes. A feeling of warmth and love washed over me, and the moisture in my eyes took me by surprise.
Rufus charged toward us, jumping. He dropped a squeaky rubber chicken at Sean’s feet.
“Chicken toss is his favorite game,” Christa said. She was tucked into a hunter green leather armchair. She pulled an iPod bud from her ear and stretched out her long legs. I guessed her to be sixteen or seventeen—more woman than little girl.
Sean picked up the chicken and tossed it across the room. Rufus thundered after it, tail slashing.
It was quite spacious down here. Wooden bookcases lined chocolate walls that were bare of any artwork, but there were family photos on the mantel. I was drawn to them. All looked recent and most were of Christa and Rufus.
“All the older pictures were lost in the fire.” Christa stood behind me.
Sean threw the chicken again and headed toward an L-shaped desk built into the corner of the room.
“It must have been a horrible time.”
“Did you know my grandma?”
“Not really. Just to say hello. My grandmother was good friends with her.”
“Would she have any pictures?”
Why hadn’t I thought of that? “I’m sure she would. Do you want me to get you some copies?”
She nodded.
I glanced around. There was a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Near double doors leading outside, an easel sat empty. Open-faced cabinets held hundreds of tubes of color, dozens of paintbrushes, and canvases of every size imaginable. “Your granddad was still working?”
“He’d just finished a project when he went missing.”
“Had anything else been going on around that time?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t pressing too hard. She was old enough to know what was going on, but that didn’t make it any easier to understand.
Sean went through files, pausing every few moments to throw the rubber chicken.
“Not really,” she said.
“Did Mac have many friends?” Two dog bowls had been placed at the end of the kitchen peninsula. One bowl was filled to the
brim with water; the other had kibble spilling over its edges, chunky brown blobs littering the floor as if Rufus played with his food more than he ate it. On hooks near the double doors hung a small silver dog whistle and two leashes—a plain blue one and a red retractable leash imprinted with rubber chickens.
“To hang out with?” she asked. “He had his weekly poker game at Mr. Ross’s house. Every Wednesday night. He never missed it.”
Fred Ross lived right across the street and had been a friend of Dovie’s for close to three decades. I made a mental note to talk to him.
Sean walked over, holding a sheet of paper. “Christa, how was your grandfather’s health?”
She shrugged. “Good. He was hardly ever sick.”
Sean tucked the paper into his coat pocket and gave me a look that said he might have found something.
“What do you think happened to Mac?” I asked her.
She bit her lip. Her eyebrows dipped. “I don’t know, but the night before he went missing, I heard him on the phone. He was angry.”
I glanced at Sean. He said, “Do you know who he was talking to?”
“No.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Granddad didn’t know I was listening.”
That girl could sneak up on a flea.
I had a feeling Christa knew everything that went on in this house.
“Do you remember what he said?” Sean asked.
“Something like, ‘My life is my concern. My decisions are my own. Mind your own business.’ ”
“This was right before he disappeared?” I asked.
“The night before,” she said. “I told the police.”
“That’s good,” I said. Maybe they had checked phone records and knew who he’d been talking to.
“Do you know if anything he was wearing the day he went missing was a gift from someone else? Your mom mentioned an ugly sweater—had someone knitted that for him?”
“Granddad bought it to drive Mom crazy. She was always trying to get him to change his look. She buys him leather pants for Christmas every year. She told him he dresses like a geezer. He told me that he’d show her geezer. He bought it at a consignment shop in Hingham. Said it was the ugliest sweater they had.”
I bit back a smile. “It must have been truly ugly.”
“It was bright orange with colored shapes all over it that looked like confetti.”
“Yep, that sounds hideous.”
I wanted to ask about Jemima and Mac’s relationship but couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“Do you think you’ll be able to find him?” Christa seemed more curious than desperate.
Sean picked up the chicken, tossed it. Rufus scaled the leather sofa, slid across the wooden floor, and collided with an end table. A lamp teetered, then fell over with a crash.
“Not again,” Christa mumbled, rushing to pick up the pieces. I went to help.
Rufus grabbed the chicken and brought it back to Sean.
Jemima ran downstairs. “What happened now?”
“It was my fault,” Sean said, holding up the chicken. Rufus took it out of Sean’s hand, brought it over to Jemima, and dropped it on her bare feet.
She shuddered.
“I’ll gladly replace the lamp,” Sean said.
“I thought we threw this thing away?” Jemima held the chicken by one rubber leg. “After the last lamp incident?”
Christa had found a paper bag and was putting chunks of broken porcelain into it. I opened a closet, looking for a broom. Next to the broom was a recycling bin no one had emptied in the last month. Mixed in with empty water bottles, a mayonnaise container, and a plastic strawberry container was a brown prescription bottle. I picked it up. The label had been torn to remove the patient’s name, but the medication and strength remained. I quickly pocketed it.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Jemima said, shaking the chicken. Rufus jumped around, following each jerk of the chicken with an eager eye.
I quickly swept little shards into a pile.
“It won’t happen again,” Christa said. “I promise.”
“You promised the last time, too,” Jemima said. She sighed. “It’s time Rufus found a new home.”
Christa slowly stood up. I paused mid-sweep.
“It was my fault,” Sean said again. “Not Rufus’s.”
Jemima’s eyes flashed. “It’s time you left, too. Your five minutes are long up.”
“Where will Rufus go?” Christa asked in an even tone, as though she’d been preparing for this day a long time now.
“The shelter for now.” Jemima finally dropped the chicken and Rufus pounced on it. “Someone will adopt him.”
I didn’t think twice. “I’ll take him.”
A slow smile spread across Sean’s face.
Christa looked at me, her eyes watery.
Jemima shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She turned toward the stairs. “You can see yourselves out. Be sure to take the rubber chicken. Christa, dinner is ready.”
“But I should get Rufus’s things together. His food…”
“Now,” Jemima said softly.
“You can come visit him,” I whispered. “Whenever you want.”
Christa nodded once, sharply. “His leash is by the door. The chicken one is his favorite—Granddad special-ordered it. His dog bed is in the bedroom, and his brush and comb are in a basket by his bed.” She gave Rufus a big hug and ran upstairs.
Rufus dropped the chicken at Sean’s feet. He picked it up, tossed it, and looked at me. “Grendel’s going to be pissed.”
I cringed at the thought of my cat having a hissy fit. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”
* * *
My plan included my grandmother.
“No. No way,” she said, tossing the rubber chicken.
She didn’t mean it. I could tell. “But just look at those eyes.”
“What do you think this is? A halfway house?”
“Hey!” Em cried. She was searching Dovie’s fridge for something to eat.
“No offense,” Dovie said to her. She made kissing noises in Em’s direction.
Emerson Baumbach, one of my two best friends, had been living here since breaking off her engagement and moving out of the condo she shared with her ex shortly before Christmas. She would have moved home to her parents’ house, just down the road, but there had been a big fight about the wedding and the ex and there was a lot of puffed-up pride stuff still going on.
Em kissed back.
“You two are making me queasy,” I said.
Sean had headed back to Sam’s place to pick up Thoreau and a change of clothes, then was coming back here. It was like Sean already lived with me, but making it permanent seemed to be tempting the fates a little too much for my liking.
Em, apple in hand, laughed as she sat next to me in Dovie’s morning room, which was my favorite room in the house. It was dark now, but in the morning, sunlight flooded this room, filling it with happiness and life as it bounced off the blue walls, the overstuffed furniture, the knickknacks Dovie had collected over the years. This was the room where Dovie spent most of her time, and it showed in everything—the indent in the seat of her favorite chair, the teacup on the table, and the crossword puzzle folded, unfinished, on the floor near the fireplace.
Rufus trotted over, sat in front of Em, then dropped his chicken on the floor and his head in her lap. She rubbed the underside of his chin.
“He likes Em,” Dovie said. “Give him to her.”
“Okay,” I said. “Congrats! It’s a boy!”
Em, wild-eyed, looked between us. “Dovie, you do realize I live here, right? Don’t you remember the halfway-house comment?”
Dovie snapped her fingers. “Marisol.”
Marisol Valerius was my other best friend. She and Em had been part of my life since we were little things, running amok on the beach as topless toddlers. The topless thing hadn’t lasted (except in Marisol’s case), but the friendship, after a rocky start, had.
Marisol was
a veterinarian who often left her unadoptable charges at my place, which explained my three-legged cat, Grendel, and my one-eyed hamster, Odysseus. Turnabout would be fair play. “I’ll call her.”
“He is sweet,” Em said. Rufus looked up at her with adoration. “And when I find a place of my own, it would be good to have some company.”
“I was kidding about the halfway house!” Dovie quickly said. “Don’t go thinking about moving out because of that.”
Em bit into her apple, chewed. “It’s about time I start looking, don’t you think?”
The conversation brought me back to Sean and his apartment hunt. He was due at my place in less than an hour. How easy it would be if he just stayed … forever.
“No,” Dovie said. “Tea, anyone?”
My nerves were jumping. “I’ll have some.”
Em’s red hair had been pulled into a sloppy bun atop her head. Her full cheeks glowed with happiness. She’d put on some weight since the breakup, but she was happier than I’d seen her in a long, long time. “How’s school?” She’d recently quit her job as a pediatric intern to go back to school for a degree in elementary education.
Em smiled. “Really good. Spring break starts in a couple of days.”
“Are you going anywhere?”
“I’m a little old for spring break, don’t you think? I’m going to rest, relax, and catch up on my reading.”
“Exciting.”
She bit into her apple, ignoring me.
“You should go somewhere, not mope around here.”
“I’m not moping.”
She was totally moping.
“Besides, where would I go?”
“Anywhere you want.”
“Not Paris.” Rufus lifted his eyebrow as she took another bite of apple. She broke off a chunk and gave it to him.
“Definitely not,” I agreed. She was supposed to go to Paris on her honeymoon—which would have been this week if the wedding hadn’t been canceled. No wonder she was moping. “But anywhere else.”
“By myself?”
I hated the thought of her going alone, but it was better than the alternative—moping here alone. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I have a lot of reading to catch up on.”