Chapter 32

I took the highway back into Waterford, navigating the familiar streets to the historic district. Despite the late summer humidity, there were a lot of residents outside, pruning small trees, weeding gardens, mowing grass. I waved to Andy Casey, holding the hose to her roses in the front yard of her butterscotch Victorian, and then found a space on the street near Ramona’s Attic.

It was too nice outside for many people to be shopping, so Ramona was on her hands and knees in the front window, changing the design. When I’d been there Monday, she’d had a window full of summer motifs: giant picnic table umbrellas, a lump of white sand and a bucket, a watering can, and an old Adirondack chair in need of a paint job.

I paused to enjoy the new scene. It was an explosion of fall: a cute little wrought iron table and two chairs, a vintage bottle of wine and giant fishbowl wine glasses, twinkling lights shaped like bunches of grapes, and a carpet of fake autumn leaves. Ramona waved, and I gave her a thumbs-up. It looked great.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I extracted the flimsy piece of plastic and slid a thumb across the screen to access the text.

Tierney: Too busy to leave. Rita paying me OT to stay.

I huffed a stray strand of hair from my face, bummed. I texted back: K. Leftovers will be waiting.

I slid my phone back in my shorts and took the two steps to Ramona’s porch, noticing movement down the street out of the corner of my eye.

A sleek Mercedes pulled up in front of the abandoned house, and a couple of well-dressed business women got out. I watched, intrigued, as they opened the trunk and removed a sign, then walked into the overgrown grass at the supposedly haunted house.

“What on earth are they doing?” Ramona asked, appearing in the doorway.

“It’s a ‘For Sale’ sign.”

Ramona clucked. “Well, I’ll be. Last I heard, they were going to condemn the place and tear it down.”

I gestured to the women as they hammered the heavy sign into the ground. “I’m glad they aren’t. Ruin or not, it’s a historic building.”

“As are all of our gorgeous houses.” Ramona leaned to hug me. “I just saw you Monday! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“More like ‘to whom’,” I said seriously. “Molly Swanson.”

Ramona’s face fell like a gathering of storm clouds. “That poor, sweet girl. I was heartbroken to hear. I mean, can you even imagine? And to one of the nicest women I’ve ever met.”

I nodded my agreement. “Was she in here that day?”

Ramona shook her head. “No, she sure wasn’t. I’d already closed for the day. I saw her as I locked up. Soon as I heard she was missing, I went right down to the police station.”

“Was she alone?”

Ramona clasped her hands and regarded me seriously. “Dear, I don’t mind answering your questions, but I can’t help but wonder why on earth you’re asking.”

I followed her to the counter, where we sat down on shiny, fifties-style stools, facing each other.

“I’m doing some digging. For Sarah.”

Ramona nodded sagely. “She’s taking it hard?”

The bell dinged, indicating Ramona had a customer, so I lowered my voice. “These women were in her pregnancy group.”

“I heard the killer was targeting expectant mothers.” Ramona shook her head. “What a monster.”

“Was Molly alone when you saw her?”

“She was. Just Molly and Millie, her daughter. They both said hi, but by the time I got the door locked, they’d rounded the corner down by Andy’s.” Ramona brushed a hand down her cheek, her eyes haunted. “Dear God, Mena, I can’t help but wonder if I’d stopped to talk to them rather than fighting with that damn lock…”

I laid a hand upon hers and squeezed. “What ifs can drive us crazy if we let them.”

We chatted a few minutes longer, steering clear of difficult topics. I’d lived in Waterford for three years, three blissfully happy, uneventful years. All of a sudden, it no longer felt safe and happy.

I said my goodbyes and left a pensive Ramona at her front counter to return to the sunlight.

*

I was no detective. I hadn’t even gone to college, choosing instead to marry a man who ended up beating me for three years before I realized life didn’t have to be like that — wasn’t supposed to be like that. So what did I think I would accomplish nosing around? Nothing, really. Peace of mind, possibly, or the idea that fresh, non-judgmental eyes could see something the cops could not. It was a long shot, sure, but it wasn’t like we had any answers to begin with.

Not any that the police had released, anyway.

I strolled the narrow sidewalk in front of Ramona’s Attic, taking in everything. The Historic District was tucked in downtown Waterford, the entire area of which could hardly be considered five blocks in radius. Ramona’s street was fairly short, with only Andy’s store to the right, and three other residential Victorians to the left, including the one now “For Sale.” Across the street, there was another row of Victorians: a ritzy consignment shop advertising evening gowns in the lit front window, a hardware store owned by one of Larsen’s buddies, two more residences, and a pet store painted bright pink. Lovely, as always. The houses pristine, colorful, full of activity and life.

Peaceful.

Which was probably why Molly Swanson had felt the desire to take her daughter for a walk down this street on the day she was kidnapped.

Andy had already gone back inside, her luminescent green garden hose rolled on its intricate iron stand. Water dripped from her delphiniums and lilies, steam rising from the delicate blooms. It was way too hot to be watering flowers; they were gonna boil alive. Bless her heart, Andy had never had much of a green thumb.

I went left at the corner, passing the emerald side yard of Andy’s store as I crossed into downtown proper. Main Street could have given Disney’s Main Street USA a run for its money: pristine store fronts in varying shades of red, white, and blue, all bearing welcome mats and quaint signs advertising “Barber,” “Art Gallery,” or “Gift Shop.” The street itself was narrow, barely two lanes wide, but the sidewalks were meant for walking, often shaded by columned store fronts.

The alley where two-year-old Millie Swanson climbed from her stroller was on the left between the barber shop and a Thai restaurant. It was roped off with yellow “Caution” tape, which I was sure the restaurant owner loved, seeing as his dumpster was back there. I stood on the proper side of the tape and eyed the dim interior. There was no way out that I could see. So how had a stroller-bound toddler ended up in an alley, but not a single soul had seen Molly Swanson emerge?