A Part of the Pattern Page 3

  “I made some mini quiche appetizers. Let me go get them.”

  She set her drink down on the coffee table and headed for the kitchen.

  I looked down at Holly. “What do you think of the news, girl?”

  Holly let out a muffled kind of whine.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  Chapter Four

  Richard and I kind of made a pact not to talk about our new business at home—unless, of course, we needed guidance from our moral compass, Brenda. But I didn’t want to wait until Monday to tell him what I’d learned on Saturday, so around ten the next morning I sought him out in his study, first stopping at his coffee pot to pour myself a cup of the brew.

  His one-year-old daughter, Betsy, was happily playing with toys at the side of Richard’s desk, and I figured Brenda had probably disappeared into the dungeon of the basement to do laundry. I needed to do mine, too.

  “What’s up?” he asked as I crossed the room to take one of the wing chairs in front of his desk.

  “It feels like book report day.”

  “Oh?”

  “I wanted to let you know that I scouted Amy Stoddard’s neighborhood last night.”

  “And?”

  I relayed what the guy who lived across the street from Amy’s home had said.

  Richard let out a breath. “And you believe what a child said?”

  “Would he have a reason to lie?”

  “It’s nothing you could take to court. And where does it get you?”

  “I don’t know. But … I have a feeling.”

  He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. “Now you’ve got my attention.”

  “When I went to the neighborhood, I was hoping to find a ghost. I didn’t … but the idea of a ghost wouldn’t leave me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What if instead of a ghost, Amy is ghosting.”

  “What? You mean identity theft.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s not a leap of logic—it’s pure conjecture.”

  “Maybe. But what if what James Blakely said was right. What if Amy was hit by a car? Panicked, the driver—supposedly a woman—might have picked up the body and shoved it in her car and gotten the hell out of that neighborhood pretty damn fast. But what if the child was still alive.”

  “I can think of a lot of holes in this scenario. Like what was the woman doing driving down that particular street? Was she a friend or relative of one of the residents? Why would she grab the girl and put her in her car, and if she found she was alive, why didn’t she dump her and let her die?”

  “There’s a word that keeps recirculating through my mind; replacement.”

  “Even if that was true, how on earth would you ever figure out where she went and what name she lives under now?”

  “That’s the thing.”

  “And it’s not the kind of thing you could tell Bonnie Wilder. She wants answers, not fiction.”

  I nodded. “I’ve got Blakely’s cell number. I thought I’d give him a call tomorrow just to see what else he remembers—if he remembers anything at all.”

  “It can’t hurt,” Richard agreed as Betsy squealed with delight and pulled herself up, and tottled over to his desk, her little arms reaching to be picked up and, of course, he obliged. She then reached for his pen, which he moved aside, and then the papers on top of his desk, which were also moved out of reach. I got up and grabbed one of the stuffed animals that littered the floor and handed it to her. She commenced to chew on its ear.

  “How did your dinner with Maggie go?” Richard asked.

  “She had some good news to share.”

  “Uh, I’ve already heard it.”

  “When did she tell Brenda?”

  “Yesterday morning. She told me when I came home for lunch yesterday.”

  “So, I’m the last to know.”

  “I guess she wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “Oh, I was surprised all right.”

  “And not pleased, by the tone of your voice.”

  “No. Funny, though, I’m more worried about her dog than anything else.”

  “Holly? Why?”

  “The poor thing is stuck in doggy day care all day, and now she’ll either have to go to a home where she isn’t exactly welcome, or a kennel on the weeks Maggie’s out of town.”

  “It’s a dog’s life,” Richard commented dryly, and then his eyes widened in what seemed like disbelief. “No. We’re not taking in a dog.”

  “I’d do it, but you know Herschel and Holly don’t get along. You enjoyed her when she stayed with you two years ago.”

  “That was for less than a week.”

  “And that’s probably all she’d need.”

  “A dog that size could knock Betsy off her feet by just wagging its tail.”

  “Betsy’s already shown us how much she likes cats. I’ll bet she’d be a great dog person, too.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  Oh, yeah? We both knew who really had the power in that regard. I’d talk to Brenda about it later.

  “You didn’t mention that woman you went to see yesterday.”

  “I told her we couldn’t offer her anything now, but it sounds like she’d leave her current job in a heartbeat if something better came along.”

  “I don’t see us hiring anyone for quite some time,” Richard reiterated.

  “I know.” Betsy was now chewing the toy’s foot. “Emily has a daughter—Hannah. She’s six. Emily’s a single mom. She could use a job with flexible hours that pays well.”

  “Why are you so interested in her?”

  “I’m not interested in her. I just.…”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that question.

  Richard moved on. “What are you going to do today?”

  “I was going to call James Blakely tomorrow, but as he works for a congressman, maybe today would be better.”

  “Do guys like that even have days off?”

  “That’s what I’ll find out.” I rose from my chair.

  “Are you going into the office?”

  “I thought I might.”

  Richard looked like he’d love to join me, but there was his promise to Brenda….

  “See ya,” I called over my shoulder as I left the room.

  * * *

  I passed Brenda in the kitchen, a laundry basket full of folded clothes tucked under one arm. I mentioned my suggestion about Maggie’s dog but, like Richard, she wasn’t all that warm to the idea.

  Oh well.

  I rinsed my empty cup and put it in the dishwasher before I left the house and retrieved my car. I decided to try another route to the office, back streets that kept me away from Main Street and the bar where I used to work.

  By the time I arrived, it was after eleven. I used the landline to try James Blakely’s number, but got voice mail. I didn’t leave a message.

  I read through the case notes again and then noticed I was getting hungry.

  I wandered into the receptionist’s area. We needed a fridge. Nothing fancy—just one of those suited for a dorm room. That way we could have bottled water and pop on hand for clients, and I could bring my lunch to work.

  Going to work. I was warming to the idea. I don’t know how often Richard planned to show up to the office, but I figured I’d try to make it a five-day a week thing, even if I just sat at my computer and did the Jumble and read the comics online. I wouldn’t get crazy and show up at eight—but nine or ten would work for me. I didn’t miss the insurance business, but having a place to go every day did give one’s life structure.

  When working at the bar, sometimes I’d forget the day of the week because my schedule was so erratic. My hours had been determined by my co-worker’s personal schedule and the whims of my boss, but for the most part I had liked bartending. Still, I didn’t want to go back to that life ever again.

  I tried James Blakely’s number, and this time was rewarded with a “Hello.”

  I
sat up straighter in my office chair. “Hi, my name is Jeff Resnick. I spoke to your father last night about—”

  “Yeah, he called and left a message. And you’re working to find out what happened to the girl across the street from us who went missing.”

  “Yeah. He said you’d witnessed it.”

  James let out a breath. “Yeah. But I was a little kid.”

  “Do you still remember the incident?”

  “It must have made an impression on me, because I do. I was always careful about crossing the street. Not so much about getting hit, but being taken away by a stranger.”

  “Do you remember anything about the car?”

  “It was a white station wagon.”

  “And the person who grabbed the little girl?”

  “A woman with blonde hair. I couldn’t tell you how old she was. I knew it was a woman because she wore a dress or a skirt.”

  It wasn’t much to go on, but the fact that he could come up with that much detail was surprising, considering his age when he witnessed the accident.

  “I’m sorry I can’t remember anything else.”

  “Would you mind talking to the Amherst Police Department about this?”

  “I guess, but I don’t see what good it can do after all these years.”

  “You never know.” I thanked him for speaking with me and then hung up the phone and sat back in my chair. I swiveled my chair around and gazed out the window. Mine was the only car in the small lot. I focused on nothing, not concentrating on anything, just woolgathering.

  I wondered how much Hannah Farrell had grown since I’d last seen her. She was a cutie-pie all right. I’d offered to take Emily’s and Hannah’s portraits, but Emily hadn’t taken me up on—probably because we hadn’t seen each other after that last time in her kitchen. All hell had broken loose, and I’d just forgotten about her. Well, not completely, but we had different views and I’m sure Maggie wouldn’t have been pleased if I’d forged a friendship with a much younger woman. Although, after Maggie cheated on me, I’d have been much better off if I’d called Emily instead of Krista Marsh. Boy, my life would have been much better if I had.

  I shook that thought away. It was too dark a place to go.

  Instead, I clicked on the icon for my cloud storage and then to my scanned photos. I knew I’d taken a few candids of Emily and her daughter when they’d been on the protest line outside the Williamsville women’s clinic two years before. I’d made prints and given the best ones to Emily.

  I’d sorted my photos by date and easily found the file I was looking for. I clicked on the contact sheet, but the images were too small and closed it out, opening the first of ten or twelve shots and did a classic double take. My hand tightened around the mouse and I clicked on the zoom icon, blowing the photo up until little Hannah’s face filled the screen. Next, I grabbed the file folder for our cold case, flipping through the pages until I came to the scanned photo of Amy Stoddard.

  Hannah and Amy looked like they could be identical twins.

  They say everyone has a doppelganger, but these little girls were a generation apart in age.

  And then I remembered what Emily had told me the day before; she’d been hit by a car and suffered a fractured skull.

  “No, it can’t be. It’s too coincidental,” I told myself.

  Could Emily Ferrell actually be Amy Stoddard?

  Chapter Five

  I didn’t call Richard about my big discovery. He’s already poo-poo’d my idea that Amy had survived and had been living under another identity—calling it pure conjecture, but I was as sure as I knew my own name that I was right. Who was Emily Farrell—the real Emily Farrell?

  I wracked my brain to try to remember what Emily had told me about her family situation two years before. He parents had been ashamed when, as a college sophomore, she’d found herself pregnant. Her father had thrown her out of the house to fend for herself. The fact that she was staunchly pro-life told me she must have come from a deeply religious family.

  And yet … if this family had stolen little Amy Stoddard and made her believe she was their own child, a punishable offense, shouldn’t they have done everything in their power to hold onto her? Of course, it had been a woman who’d hit the little girl with her car. A woman who had gotten out, picked up the girl, and stashed her in the back seat of her station wagon. What if the woman had wanted the child and the man hadn’t, or at least hadn’t bonded to the replacement child?

  I could almost hear Richard again say, “Pure conjecture!”

  Yes, but all the pieces fit. Or was I cramming them together until they fit my warped ideas?

  I glanced at the clock. It was just past noon. My psychic mentor was never available to me until at least midnight. Worse yet, she’d been angry with me the last time we’d spoken. The idea of me charging clients by using my psychic gift had absolutely appalled her. She’d threatened to never be available for me ever again—and so far that threat was reality, since I’d been to the bakery where she held court at least a dozen times in the past few months and she’d never been there.

  Sophie had always said, “I am here for you. I am only here for you.”

  I hadn’t needed her since June, I’d only wanted to see her, talk with her. Would she be there if I showed up at the bakery at midnight?

  I had twelve hours to ponder the question.

  * * *

  I spent the afternoon searching for a fridge for the office and decided to get a four-cubic-foot model—like you find in motel rooms. I figured Richard wouldn’t be satisfied with the smaller model, and since he was paying for it via my corporate credit card, I decided to get the best. I also stopped at the grocery store and bought a couple of six packs of water and pop, and then the liquor store. Who knew if we would need to offer our clients a libation. Since I bought our favorite brands, I figured we’d probably be the ones drinking most of the hooch. Still, I bought a nice assortment of gin, vodka, and rye. Now to figure out where we’d hide—er, store—the stuff. I left that in the box, but set up the fridge and ditched the packaging in the Dumpster out back.

  It was dinnertime by the time I returned to Richard’s property. I wasn’t going to intrude on their family time, but then Brenda called and said dinner was on and that my place had already been set.

  I entered through the back door and the butler’s pantry, hung up my coat and indeed found my family already seated at the table. I slipped into my usual chair and got passed a platter filled with crispy-coated chicken. The house didn’t smell greasy, so I figured Brenda baked it.

  “What have you been up to all day?” Richard asked as he passed a bowl of homemade mashed potatoes, complete with lumps—just the way I like it.

  “I got a fridge for the office, filled it with water and pop, and thought about our case.”

  “Come to any conclusions?” Brenda asked. She’d read the case notes, too.

  “Maybe, but I’m not ready to talk about it quite yet.”

  “Did you get hold of the witness?” Richard asked, and spooned some peas into a small bowl, placing it on Betsy’s highchair tray.

  “Yeah.” I relayed the information James Blakely had given me, but Richard didn’t seem too impressed.

  “Why would a woman grab an injured child from the street?” Brenda asked.

  “To avoid prosecution—why else?” Richard replied.

  “But if the girl ran out in front of her, that wouldn’t happen.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “You don’t have to be guilty of a crime to be sued in a civil court. I worked with a woman who hit a kid on a bike. The boy died. She faced no charges, but the parents were determined she would pay for their loss. The court garnished her wages to the extent that she couldn’t afford to live, and the parents harassed her. After a couple of years she couldn’t take it, so she killed herself.”

  “Oh my god!” Brenda cried.

  “They got their pound of flesh,” I said, and scooped up a forkful of potatoes.
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  We didn’t speak for a few minutes, but the three of us kept glancing back to Betsy in her highchair, who was having a hell of a good time smashing and eating her peas.

  Finally Richard cleared his throat. “What are the odds we can actually solve this case?”

  I pondered the question thoughtfully as I chewed a piece of chicken. “Yesterday I would have said not good; today—fifty-fifty.”

  “That good?” Brenda asked.

  “I’ve got an idea, but I don’t want to talk about it until I think it through some more.”

  Richard eyed me, but said nothing, and that was the end of that subject.

  I helped Brenda out by washing the pots and pans while she trundled upstairs to give the baby a bath. Afterward, I headed for my place across the driveway. I still had five hours to wait until I could head out to visit Sophie.

  Chapter Six

  A light snow started to fall as I backed my car out of the garage and steered toward Main Street. The traffic was light to the point of almost non-existent. I parked on the side street nearest the bakery, grabbed a manila envelope, and hoofed it back to Main Street. There wasn’t a car in sight, and of course no lights on inside the shop, but I pressed the bell a few times, stamping my feet on the concrete walk outside the heavy plate glass door.

  I wondered how long I should stand there, freezing my ass off, when the lights in the back in the shop finally flashed on.

  About time, too.

  The silhouette of a woman remained motionless for a long time. I pressed the bell impatiently. Was she trying to decide if she should grace me with her presence or just teasing me and would disappear into darkness once again?

  Finally she moved forward and entered the shop, unlocking the door, but she didn’t wait for her usual kiss and pivoted, heading for the back room once again.

  “Hello,” I called.

  No answer.

  Sophie usually filled a battered old saucepan with water to make instant coffee, tea, or cocoa, but that night she merely stood close to the sink with her sweatered arms across her chest looking baleful.