Ellie watched the SUV drive away up Fogarty Street, leaving her standing with Meg on the front stoop of number 348. The triple-decker was a fading carbon copy of its neighbor, with weary lace curtains in some of its shutterless windows. Scraggly thick shrubs divided the lots, an almost successful attempt at privacy. The downside of ride shares, she thought as she surveyed the unfamiliar neighborhood, was that she and Meg couldn’t depart here until another one was summoned and arrived. Seemed efficient in the downtown bustle of Boston, but not so much in whatever town this was—Braintree, Ellie gathered from the signs. She’d never been here before.
Meg was heading up a half-shoveled front walk, just enough snow pushed aside for a single-file approach or departure. A row of saucered terra-cotta pots, each one coned with snow, lined the shoveled half.
“Think we’ll be okay getting back?” Ellie asked.
“Oh, sure.” Meg turned to her as she walked. “I asked the driver. You saw me talking to him, right? I had to change our destination. Like I said. Yay.”
“Okay.” Ellie faced a panel of black-buttoned doorbells, its upper left screw missing, with mottled paper squares hand-numbered 1, 2 and 3. No names. “Which bell is it?”
“No bell.” Meg lifted one of the terra-cotta pots, then set it back into place. “Damn.”
“What?”
Ellie scouted up the street, then down, fearing Neighborhood Watch, or maybe nosy residents who’d be wondering what two women were doing messing with the flowerpots in someone else’s yard. But not a curtain fluttered. And driveways were empty of cars, each one with a dark asphalt rectangle showing where the vehicle had protected it from the snow.
“We got here faster than I thought,” said Meg. “She’s not home yet. She said she’d leave a key.”
Ellie frowned, confused.
“Hang on, though.” Meg used a forefinger to count the pots, then pivoted, looked toward the street, counted again. “Three from the street, maybe she meant.”
She picked up another pot and held up a key from underneath it, triumphant.
Two minutes and a single-bulbed stairway later, they were inside the third-floor apartment, a pristine rectangle, living room–dining room–kitchen all in one, and a white-walled corridor where Ellie saw three closed doors. Two bedrooms, she guessed, and a bathroom. The place smelled like lemon furniture spray and something pungently clean, maybe bleach. In the front windows, pulled-down blinds backed the drawn lace curtains. A center light in the ceiling, frosted white glass with a gold knob in the middle, had been left on. The room had an edgy chill, as if someone was scrimping on the heat bill.
“She just texted,” Meg announced. “She’s on the way. She’s nervous. We can use the dining room chairs to set up—in front of the windows? You might have to stay in here while we do the interview in the bedroom. Aren’t you so happy this all worked? Won’t Warren be so happy?”
Meg planted her hands on her hips, assessing, then unbuttoned her coat.
“Okay, you sit,” she instructed Ellie, “and I’ll go down the hall and check, make sure it’ll work. I know the place from when I was here before. All good?”
“Not much of a choice,” Ellie muttered as Meg trotted down the hallway. Ellie undid her coat. Deposited her tote bag. Checked her watch: 10:45. Sat in the middle of the two-cushioned beige canvas couch, annoyed. Things were not always easy, she reassured herself. It’d be worth it. She needed this. Her phone buzzed.
Text message. From Gabe.
Call Monteiro.
Now? W/M at interview, she texted back. Hoping he’d understand her “with Meg” shorthand.
Do it.
“You okay in there?” Ellie called out.
“All good!”
She scrolled through her phone to find Monteiro’s number. She poised her thumbs over the text box. Did Monteiro know Gabe had told her to call? Was she responding to his request for her to contact him? Or was Gabe giving her info on the down-low, letting her know something was up? This is Ellie, she finally typed.
Three dots instantly appeared.
Lacey Vanderwald? The name appeared on her screen. As if Monteiro had typed out Ellie’s own thoughts.
?? she texted back.
You know her?
Of her. That was true enough.
Seen her? Recently?
Don’t think so. You?
She is now wanted for murder. Monteiro’s texted words were chillingly formal. Let me know if you see her. Instantly. BTW: Your lawyer buddy checks out.
Gabe was not “her” lawyer, and not her “buddy,” but good to know that Monteiro deemed him a reliable guy. But that was not the key now.
Murder of who? she typed.
“Ellie!” Meg called from down the hall. “She’s on the way. Just texted me.”
The three dots on Ellie’s cell phone had vanished. Monteiro had stopped typing.
Ellie stared at the screen. Would she recognize Lacey Vanderwald if she saw her? She’d seen wedding photos from, what, fifteen years ago now? And the veiled memorial service photo after that. But that woman had never been on her radar, a widow who’d faded from significance after her ticket to power drowned in Chesapeake Bay. And now Lieutenant Monteiro seemed to believe she was a murderer. Murder of who?
“She wants you to go get coffee or something.” Meg was walking toward her, holding her phone. “She says go to Wally’s down the block. That little store. We’ll text you when she’s ready.”
“Kidding me?”
“You want this or not?” Meg held up her phone as if Abigail were inside. “She’s jittery as hell. Now that you’re here, she won’t come in. She doesn’t want to meet you until she’s sure.”
“Why?”
Meg lowered the phone. “I can only speculate, and it doesn’t matter because she’s not gonna change her mind. Her way or the highway. So to speak. Sorry.”
Ellie put her coat on again, trying to think. What if Abigail was Lacey Vanderwald, murder suspect? Ellie couldn’t leave her alone with Meg. If Ellie followed Abigail’s orders, it was Meg’s safety she’d be risking. In fact, maybe they should both get the hell out of here.
She shook her head, deciding.
“Why are you shaking your head? Go.” Meg lifted one of the front window blinds, peered out for a beat. “If she sees you—”
“Okay.” Ellie pretended to agree. “Wally’s. The store on the corner.”
“She wants coffee, black. But we’ll call or text you. In about fifteen. When she’s here. And I’ll leave the door open so you can get back in.”
“Sure.” Ellie picked up her bag and her phone. “All good.”