They piled into Henry’s car with renewed determination, but still no clues on Merle’s whereabouts.
“Should we tell the police?” Anna asked.
“Tell them what? That some day laborer whose name might be Merle drugged your brother and made him do it? They’d laugh us out the door. Politely, of course, since they seem to like you.”
“You know, until a few minutes ago I was almost ready to throw in the towel. I mean, so what if some friend of my Mom’s saw them hunting off in the woods? Even if that was Merle, the moment he heard his hunting buddy had just blown away his parents—and with his trusty deer rifle, no less—if that’s me, then I’m heading for the hills. But this shit with the medical file and the Zolexa?”
“He’d have had to forge a lot of signatures, fake all those letterheads, the UPS stuff, everything.”
“You said the lock might have been forced on my mom’s files. Maybe that’s where he started.”
“If all this is true, then we’re dealing with a professional.”
“Which can only mean it’s got something to do with Mom. Or with what she used to be—the spy with the fake passport.”
“Plus a nice severance package to keep her quiet.”
“You’re right. The cops would have us committed. I’m almost ready to have us committed. Should we check with UPS?”
“For what? We don’t even have a name. The uniform would be easy enough to fake, and you can pick up shipping waybills at all their storefronts.”
Henry slapped the steering wheel.
“Shit!” he said. “UPS!”
“What?”
“Your mom’s key. UPS has a mailbox service. What’s their closest location?”
She checked on her phone. Five minutes later they pulled into the lot of a UPS Store only two miles away. There was a row of mailboxes along the left wall, and they marched straight to the one with a number corresponding to the one on the key.
It didn’t fit.
“What’s the next closest?” Henry asked.
“Stevensville, just off Route 50, right after the Kent Narrows Bridge.”
“We could make it by six-thirty if the traffic isn’t bad. What time do they close?”
“Seven.”
“Call them. Use your mom’s name, tell them you’re checking to see if your account is up to date.”
“Sounds like fraud.”
“It’s not the U.S. Postal Service, so we’re not breaking federal law.”
Anna called the number, introduced herself as Helen Shoat, and asked the scripted question while Henry watched.
“Okay,” she said, frowning. “Thank you.”
She sighed and disconnected.
“Strike two,” she said. “This is hopeless. We’re never going to figure out where this key goes.”
“Unless…Hand me your phone.”
He waited a few beats for the sake of decorum, and then punched in the same number.
“Hi, my name is Henry Mattick, and I’m the executor for the estate of the late Elizabeth Waring Hart. I’m calling because my records show that she had a mailbox account with your store. Is that correct?” Then, a few seconds later. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary, I have the key with me. Very good. See you soon.”
He smiled.
“Jackpot. Paid up through November in the name from her Canadian passport. For whatever reason, your mom must have decided she needed a cryptonym again.”