Chapter 47

Alison’s parents lived in a restored Victorian on Washington Avenue. Rebecca Wales invited Chief Black and Bruno into a room she called the parlor, which was furnished with overstuffed chairs, Oriental rugs, ornate lamps with poufy shades, and other Victorian-style bric-a-brac.

Her physical resemblance to Alison was striking. Rebecca’s jet-black hair had turned white but she wore it in a loose ponytail that hung halfway down her back. She was plump, but her face was unlined and she had a steady, confident gaze.

“I’m so proud of Alison,” she announced, her voice quivering slightly, looking up at the grandfather clock. “She’s her own person. Passionate. Determined. She marches to the beat of her own drummer.”

“Er, Mrs. Wales.” The Chief was growing impatient. “Do you know where she might be right now?”

“Heavens no. I’m not that kind of parent. I never intrude. Herbert, my husband, teaches over at the university. His office is right around the corner from her dormitory. But he never, never pries. How she lives her life is her business. We’re so proud of her.”

“You know, Mrs. Wales, her boyfriend …”

“Yes of course I know about Icky. The poor boy.”

“Alison could have easily been with him when the fire started. We assume she’s alive because of the absence of evidence otherwise … It would be nice to confirm it with positive evidence. We would like to speak with her. Have you spoken with her?”

“No. Not for a week or so. No, I haven’t.”

“You’re not worried about her?”

“Of course I’m upset by the situation. What kind of mother, what kind of person wouldn’t be? But I know Alison’s fine. She wouldn’t get caught in a fire like that. It’s not in her character. You see, she’s not into drugs. She always left the room when that kind of thing was happening. She’s very committed to her studies and other causes. She loved Icky, but they are very different in many ways. Their relationship didn’t stop her from going away to college.”

“So you have no idea where she is right now?”

“I assume she’s at school, where she’s supposed to be. It’s not unusual for her to spend days on end in the library and for me not to be able to get a hold of her in her dorm room.”

“You read my mind. We haven’t had any luck tracking her down at school. What about your husband? When is he due home this evening?”

“Perhaps not until late. He’s involved in a very demanding project. Interdisciplinary research with tremendous potential …”

The Chief had to interrupt her again. “Please, Mrs. Wales. If you don’t mind, it would help us tremendously if you could provide a good, recent photograph of Alison.”

She scurried off and they could hear the sound of her rummaging through drawers. Finally she returned with a framed photograph that she handed to the Chief. “I thought I had something more recent, but you couldn’t really see her in any of those. This is a very good photo, however, and it’s my favorite. It’s from her performance in The Miracle Worker in the school play, junior year. Please take good care of it. I’ll need it back when you’re done with it.”

“We’ll take a scan of it and send it back right away,” the Chief promised. “And Mrs. Wales?” He caught her eye to make sure she was paying attention. “Be sure to call us if you hear anything.”

They remained silent until they were back in the police car. Then Chief Black sighed and shook his head. “Denial.”

“What?”

“Denial,” the Chief repeated. “It’s one of the stages of grieving.”

“I’ve heard of that, but I can never remember what they are.”

“Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. We’re trained to go through this process every time when dealing with the families of victims.”

“Really? It goes that way every time?”

“Hard to say. Take Mrs. Wales. Far as I can tell, she’s in a permanent state of denial. It’s not just Icky. Or Alison. She’s in denial about everything. The world. People. Reality. Evil. Whatever you want to call it, she’s not aware of it. That’s why her face is so pure and unlined.”

Bruno thought about it for a while. “You know those stages? I just realized those are just like my bar mitzvah, except backwards.”

The Chief stared at Bruno, wondering if Rebecca Wales’ goofiness might be contagious. “When we were sending out the invitations,” Bruno continued, “my parents were fighting about whether or not we should invite my Uncle Dave and his family. Everyone hated them, but my father felt we better invite them anyway. He said he was worried about what his mother would have said, if she had still been alive and found out he didn’t invite his own brother to his son’s bar mitzvah.

“None of that made any difference to my mother, but he convinced her by saying, ‘We should go ahead and invite them; they probably won’t come, they live so far away.’ But he was wrong. We invited them and they came, all the way from Schenectady. So that was acceptance.”

Bruno was picking up momentum. “Naturally, we were all depressed. That’s when the bargaining started. My mother figured we could put them at a table in the corner, where they wouldn’t bother anyone. My father had to relent, since he’d been wrong about them coming in the first place. But when they saw where we’d put them, they made a big stink. Everybody was angry. They left early and took all the cold cuts. Even before the rest of the guests had finished eating.

“My parents are still fighting about it to this day. My father says it’s my mother’s fault. She denies it. She says it’s all his fault. He denies it.”

The Chief shook his head. Maybe everyone was on crank. Maybe the whole town had inhaled it via the fumes from the explosion. “That’s amazing,” he commented. “Your family sounds really messed up. Or did you just make all that up? I hope you did.”

“It’s mostly true, I guess,” Bruno replied. “I never really thought of us as messed up before, but now that you mention it …” He lapsed into a visible pout and then, suddenly, brightened: “I wonder if Dora’s family is like that?”

“What does Dora have to do with anything?”

“Dora Goldstein? Has to be Jewish. Have you asked her?”

“No.”

“You better find out right away. Have you ever dated a Jewish woman before?”

“No. And Dora’s been busy. The EPA’s threatening to sue her for draining the pond. They’re giving her 30 days to restore the habitat, which is no big deal, but then there’s the paperwork.”

“No way she’s a shiksa. I need to explain a few things to you as soon as possible …”

—“No time for that right now,” the Chief said. He handed Bruno the photograph that Rebecca Wales had supplied. “Whoever we’re up against is smart, resourceful, and ruthless. We need to focus, and you need to be at the top of your game.”

The Chief put the cruiser in gear, and Bruno began a careful study of the picture. “They’ve been one step ahead of us the entire time,” the Chief continued. “I think that bomb was meant for Alison. Somehow she escaped. Hopefully she’s still OK. We have to find her right away. What do you think? Can you get anything from this picture?”

Bruno frowned. “She has her eyes closed. I guess if you’re playing Helen Keller, you might do it with your eyes closed. I can accept that. But for her mother to say it’s her favorite picture—that’s just ridiculous. Pathetic, really. I need something straightforward where she’s looking right into the camera.”

“I was afraid of that.” The Chief turned the Crown Vic up the hill onto Tavistock Lane. “Maybe we’ll have better luck at Icky’s. Besides, I’m curious to talk to Dr. Murphy.”