TWELVE

      

       Jarvis and Wilson stood in the long hallway between security doors, watching an officer lead Trynne McCoy to the cell area. The look she gave him just about brought tears to his eyes.

Wilson shook his head. “I can’t figure this thing out. I never woulda pegged her for the spying type. And I sure as hell can’t take her as a murderer.”

Jarvis hated to admit it but neither could he. Not that he was close to either she or Blake, but they spoke a lot during rehearsals. You get a feel for people in basic conversation. And something about all this stunk. Know Trynne McCoy or not, through the years he’d gotten to know human nature pretty well. He could press his imagination to believe she was desperate enough about her career, to set the cameras, but like Wilson, couldn’t wrap his mind around her as a murderer.

The captain’s office door opened and the short, middle-aged man strode into the hallway. He crossed his arms over an ample stomach and cast his gaze from Trynne and the officer disappearing through the back security door, to Jarvis, hand on the knob of the front security door. Jarvis didn’t stop his forward motion. Even after the door swung shut behind him, he still felt the buzz of the captain’s glare.

He took a few steps into the lobby, hoping his face didn’t portray the apprehension swirling inside him. Angelina rose from the bucket chair and hurried forward. He tried to gauge her mood but could get nothing more than concern for her friend.

“Can I see her?”

“You’ll have to ask Wilson,” Jarvis replied, one eye on the security door. Any second the all-powerful captain could just choose to invoke some of that power and have Jarvis heaved bodily from the premises. The fact that he’d uncovered the McCoy cameras and tracked them to Trynne wouldn’t count for anything.

Angie knocked on the bulletproof glass and asked the dispatcher to summon Sergeant Wilson. Then she returned to Jarvis. “I have a couple of photos to show you,” she said. “One is of Sondergaard, the—”

“Where in hell did you get a picture of him?”

“The iris society president sent it. I took one of Donna that I’m sending to her. I want to know if Donna’s been as prominent in the events as she insinuated.”

“What would that tell you?”

Angie shrugged. Just then the security door opened and Wilson appeared. Angie finished her thought, “I want to know just how interested Donna is in the red iris. The greater her interest in iris genetics, the stronger her motive to murder John.”

Wilson, in his sharply pressed uniform and shiny badge, stepped toward them. He smoothed a hand through perfectly neat hair and looked at Angie. “You talking about Trynne McCoy?” Wilson asked.

“No. Donna Marks.”

“You might have a good point,” Wilson said, “I was just at her place. Wanted to have a little chat. See if she’d give me a looksee in the greenhouse. But Ms. Marks seems to have left town. Closed sign on the door. Nobody answers the apartment door.” He paused a second, then added, “I looked in the window. There’s a heaping bowl of cat food on the floor. The ironing board is set up in the kitchen and empty coat hangers hanging from it.”

Apprehension wiggled itself up Jarvis’s spine. He reached around and attempted to scratch the sensation away.

“She is gone,” Angelina offered, “but only to Philadelphia.”

Jarvis’s anxiety smoothed itself out and he felt himself heaving a sigh of relief. Why hadn’t he thought of it?

“Do we have enough to get a warrant to search the Marks place?” Wilson asked.

“Doubt it. All we have is that she breeds irises and somebody—we assume her—in a small blue car, visited John now and again. We have more evidence against Ms. McCoy.”

In his peripheral vision, Jarvis saw Angie shaking her head in a dubious manner. She wouldn’t let herself accept Trynne’s guilt, even with the evidence staring right at her. He almost smiled—finally, a flaw in the pretty amateur detective’s personality.

“Can I post Trynne’s bail?” Angelina asked.

“Of course,” Wilson said, “I need an hour or so to prepare the paperwork.”

“Has she called her husband yet?”

“Yes, and her lawyer.”

Angelina jiggled her car keys, an unconscious habit. She found the desired key, then said, “I’ll be back in an hour. Oh, by the way, I have some pictures you might be interested in: Pedar Sondergaard and Donna Marks.”

Wilson’s eyebrows lifted. “Together?”

“That sure would bring things into focus, wouldn’t it?” She told Wilson about the pictures.

Jarvis was impressed, especially when she said, “I made some phone calls this morning. I called every motel within a fifteen mile radius.”

“We’ve already done that,” Wilson said.

“I know, but Jarvis said you were asking about Sondergaard and that guy Lawson. I asked for someone who brought an excess amount of baggage. Think about it. There had to be a lot of containers, boxes and boxes. Some of what they stole would be very breakable. It would need to be wrapped and packed carefully for shipping to wherever.

Wilson shook his head, but Jarvis wasn’t surprised. She did this to him all the time.

“The motels didn’t pan out. But then I started wondering if maybe the thieves rented a storage facility.”

“Big job, there are dozens of them,” Wilson said.

“Yes, but there aren’t that many heated ones.” She pulled in a breath and let it out in a long whoosh between her lips. Beautiful lips. Lips that just a few hours ago—

“Too bad it was a dead end,” Wilson was saying.

“Maybe not completely dead. When you search of Donna and Trynne’s places—I assume you’re going to search them—keep your eyes open for possible disguises they might’ve worn,” Angelina said, then added, “I’ll get the photos from the car.”

Both men watched her leave. Wilson’s sharp laugh made him jump. “Does she know how bad you got it for her?”

For several seconds, Jarvis didn’t speak. Then he said, “We have some things to work through.”

“Your decision or hers?”

“Both…I guess.”

Angelina returned with the iris society bulletin and a digital camera, which she handed to Wilson. She punched a few buttons and Donna’s image came on the small, flat screen. The florist holding a push broom and staring at the camera with a look of disdain. Jarvis had to grin. Where did you take this?”

“Will’s shop.”

What had she been doing visiting her soon-to-be ex? For months Will had made a nuisance of himself, insinuating himself into her life whenever he could. Once. that Jarvis knew of, he’d begged for reconciliation. Did Angelina’s presence at his office signal her consideration of the idea? An ember of jealousy flickered. He swallowed it down. But she’d noticed. Damn. Her smile of pride straightened out. Her lips twitched and she turned off the camera with a severe wrench of the thumb on the tiny button.

Wilson took the camera and passed it through the hole in the bulletproof glass. He bent forward and spoke to the dispatcher, “Can you make several copies of the cover of this, and download the last picture and make some copies of it for me? Thanks.” Wilson turned to Jarvis and Angelina.

“I’ll pick up the camera and newsletter when I come to bail Trynne out.” She turned and walked to the door. Jarvis didn’t move. She was angry; it was better to let her cool down a while. She stopped at the door and addressed him, “You should try and convince your father to go into the hospital. He looks awful.”

“I tried. Last night and again this morning. He’s completely against the idea.” He shrugged. “Except for picking him up and taking him there bodily, I don’t know what to do.”

Angelina left. Jarvis watched her through the window in the door as she climbed into her Lexus and drove away.

“What’s she pissed off about?” Wilson’s question made him flinch. He’d forgotten the sergeant stood next to him.

“Damned if I know,” he lied.

* * * *

 

Angie drove home at speeds well over the speed limit, part of her wishing a cop would stop her.

Who broke into the theater? Why couldn’t the note just be sent through the mail? Or slid under her windshield wiper? Obvious. They were making a point. They could do anything they wanted, when they wanted.

Three suspects: Trynne, Sondergaard and Donna. The only one with access to the theater was Trynne. Her good friend. Maybe best friend. It just couldn’t be her. Angie entered her condo with all the caution of a pit bull on sentry duty.

Everything looked all right. The vacuum lines in the carpet were unmarred. The furniture gleamed. No breeze rippled the curtains. Most of all, she had no sense of intrusion. Of course, her sense wasn’t infallible, but it had warned her at the theater…

Even so, Angie inspected the five rooms with tedious care.

Who felt threatened enough by Angie’s simplistic investigation to leave that note? Far as she knew, none of the clues pointed anywhere. Except Trynne.

All afternoon Angie asserted to Jarvis, you have no real evidence pointing toward her being the thief. That was until Angie drove her friend home from the police station because, in the driveway, looking proud and shiny as a new penny: Trynne’s car. Back from the brake shop—the Honda Sport—a hatchback. Blue.

Angie dialed Tyson’s cell phone. He answered on the first ring. Loud music shook the background. She raised her voice, “Where are you?” He named a club in Meredith. “Should I ask who you’re with?”

He laughed. “No.”

“What time did you leave the theater?”

“I don’t know what time it was but it wasn’t five minutes after you left. Why?”

“I went back to get the manuscript I left on my desk. I found a note inside.”

“Do I need to ask what it said?”

“No. What I wanted to know was whether anyone came in after I left.”

“Nobody.” He went quiet a moment. Angie felt the boom of the bass through the phone. “I’ll have the locks changed tomorrow.”

“I doubt if it’ll matter.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“No thanks. I’m fine. Have a good time, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Angie shut the phone before he could insist on coming. She dropped the phone into her purse, then tucked the menacing note in too.

Angie had left the theater around one-thirty. And returned between three-thirty and four. Time enough for anyone to go in and leave the note. Just as someone had sneaked into Jarvis’s house and switched guns.

God, the night John died, had they taken her keys too? Copies could be made fast enough at any hardware store. There was one in town…on the way to John’s house. If they had her theater keys, they also had her house keys! She hurried around double-checking locks and windows. At least Gloria and Bud were out of town; two less things to worry about.

Angie put the unanswered questions aside. Best to let her brain work on the problem during the night. She took the manuscript from the hall table and settled into her chair to read. A knock on the front door nearly knocked her off the cushion. She remained there, still as a stone. Another knock, and a youthful voice. “Ms. Deacon? It’s Arnold. I came to collect your newspaper money.”

“Be right there, Arnold.” She counted money from her purse, unlocked the door and paid the boy. He handed her a paper. “Thanks,” they said at the same time.

She shut the door and leaned back against it. What a day. Except for the meeting with the playwright, it had been a total and complete mess, topped off with her admitting to Jarvis she’d been with Will. What had she been thinking? Damn Jarvis and his jealousy. He said he was working on it. How long did it take to purge negative emotions from your psyche? Years probably. Was Jarvis worth waiting years for?

Without a satisfactory answer to the question, she returned to her chair and opened the manuscript. The first words she read were: but Richie spotted Daisy going up the walk. Angie put down the pages. Was Trynne the woman Frank Chute saw? If so, that would mean Trynne not only betrayed Blake, but Angie too. Best friends didn’t do that to each other. They huddled in corners sharing secrets, trusting each other. What a mess. Two relationships in one day shot to hell.

A car drew up outside, and stopped near the front door. Not again.

The chime peeled through the condo. Angie remained in the chair until a familiar voice called out, “Are you there?” Angie opened the door to Trynne—wearing a totally out of character outfit: jeans and NY Jets sweatshirt—standing there holding a white handkerchief to her nose. Angie opened her arms. Trynne came into the embrace. They stood for a long time, Trynne several inches taller, slouching to lay her head on Angie’s shoulder.

They broke the awkward embrace. Angie took her arm and helped her to the living room where they settled side by side on the sofa. Trynne’s eyes were red, her knuckles white. As Angie traced a circle with her palm on Trynne’s back, a multitude of questions peppered her brain, the biggest and most troubling: how could Trynne cheat on Blake? How could she have so little faith in her own talents that she had to steal John’s work?

As if reading Angie’s mind, Trynne spoke. “I’ve made a terrible mess of things. No, terrible is too mild a word. It’s important that you believe I didn’t intend any harm. Honestly, I only wanted to further my own career. Selfish. Unthinkably selfish. But that’s all, I swear.”

“One of John’s neighbors told me about a blue car and a woman who came around once in a while.”

Trynne shook her head. “Not me. I was at John’s house three times. Just three. Each time I parked down the road and walked there.”

The words squeezed between Angie’s lips before she could stop them: “Carrying boxes of video equipment?”

“Three cameras and a roll of wire fits in a backpack. I dressed like a hiker.” She shrugged. “I didn’t think anyone would notice a hiker. Once, I went in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Where was John at that time?”

“In the driveway, checking in a truckload of trees. It took only twenty minutes. In and out before he finished.”

“You were very brazen.” Trynne had always seemed so down to earth, so logical. Scientists were supposed to be logical, weren’t they? Not brazen and bold.

“Not really. I planned to string wires out back of the furthest greenhouse. There wasn’t much chance he’d go there to mow or anything. As you saw, he didn’t care much for esthetics.”

“You still were very bold,” Angie repeated.

“Very un-Trynne-like, you mean.” A smile remained on her lips only a second, and was replaced by the same sad expression she’d worn most of the day. “That’s what Blake said. ‘I don’t know you at all,’ he kept repeating. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. It’s important to me, if you believe nothing else of all this, believe that.”

“I do,” Angie said, meaning it.

“How do you think I feel knowing John might be dead because of my actions?”

“Not sure I follow you.”

“I can’t help feeling like, if I’d minded my own business, stayed the predictable Trynne everyone knew—”

“And loved.”

A trace of a smile creased her face. “If I had, maybe the thieves wouldn’t have…” Her voice trailed off. Angie waited for her to finish the thought. After a minute, she did. “Wouldn’t have found out about the red.”

“Who did you tell?”

“My boss.”

“He knew what you were up to with the cameras?”

“She. Yes, I told her.”

“Was she in favor of it?”

“She brought up the idea.” Trynne blew her nose into the big hanky.

“You think she’s involved in all this?” The notion opened a whole new kettle of fish. “Don’t worry over it any more, I’ll tell Wilson and Jarvis and set them to work on it. Relax. Okay?”

Trynne pushed her damp platinum hair from her face. “I love—loved John. I didn’t realize it till I saw him at the town hall that day. Something inside me snapped then.” She sighed. “I never should have gone off with Blake. Never should have broken with my family.”

“John only asked once for you to get back together?”

“I swear Angie, just once. I guess I figured he was happy loving me from afar. Sounds dopey being put in words, but that’s what I thought. I should have stayed around and become Mrs. Jan Van Blozend Bloem.”

Angie nearly fell off the couch. “What?”

“That I should have stayed around and become Mrs. Jan Van Blozend Bloem. Funny name, isn’t it? I always thought it was poetic. He hated his name.”

As Trynne rolled the syllables off her tongue once more, Angie lowered her head into her hands. Jan=John. Van Blozend Bloem=Bloom. How stupid of her not to have noticed the similarities. No wonder John Bloom’s history didn’t begin till he moved to Alton Bay. Prior to that he was someone else.

“Are you all right?” Trynne asked.

Angie raised her head, rubbed her eyes and peered at Trynne. “Yes. Fine.”

“So, you think John followed you to New Hampshire?”

A small nod.

“How did he find you?”

“That wouldn’t be hard. My name’s all over the world of genetics. Shouldn’t be that hard to get my address.” Trynne stood up. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. See how self-centered I am lately? I didn’t even ask about your mother. Is she doing all right?”

“She and Jarvis’s father have gone to Boston for the night.”

“I heard he’s got cancer. Terrible thing.” She buttoned her coat all the way to her chin. “By the way, Blake left me. He said he had thinking to do.”

Angie hugged her friend and voiced sincere apologies. Then she followed her friend outside. “You aren’t going to do anything foolish, are you?”

Trynne shook her head. “I’m done doing stupid things. I have some making up to do, to a lot of people.”

Angie remained in the driveway, arms folded. The sun had set. Dusk had fallen. She waved until Trynne’s car was out of sight then went inside to pour a gallon or so of brandy. Did she have a large enough glass in the house? Angie ridiculously searched a moment before settling in her chair with a tumbler and the bottle of Disaronno.

An hour passed, during which she thought about everything, and nothing. And came to not one new conclusion. The brandy made her woozy. She threw on her coat and boots, and after locking the door and inspecting the parking lot, walked to the park. She stepped carefully over the lumpy sidewalk avoiding tree roots protruding through the old tar along the promenade. She chose the bench closest to the water and farthest from the street. Wind was brisk here except in the most humid days of summer—the Dog Days. Other than that, even the smallest of breezes picked up velocity as it funneled down the long narrow bay from Meredith to Alton. If it collected enough momentum, it slammed against the Downings Landing buildings and rebounded back on itself; in winter, lifting whirlwinds of snow off the ice; in fall, stealing leaves from nooks and crannies and turning them into spinning rainbow kaleidoscopes. Today, there was nothing to be picked up and moved except for a Coca Cola cup that skittered across the grass and dropped onto the still-frozen bay.

Trynne had said: “Something inside me snapped then.” She spoke about seeing John at the town hall and realizing how much of herself she’d left back in Oregon. Trynne’s main focus had been herself, the same as most people. When Angie discovered Will cheating, something inside her snapped too. She kept telling herself she wouldn’t go back to him because she couldn’t trust him, but that wasn’t the absolute truth. It was she who couldn’t be trusted—to feel secure about her looks, her job, her relationships. Feelings of inadequacy lay deep inside, waiting someday to resurface. Eventually she’d return to the one-upsman-ship she’d had with herself. So long as depending on herself for a living was a priority, that eventuality would remain in remission. She hoped.

“Penny for your thoughts,” came a voice from behind that nearly had Angie leaping over the embankment.

She swung around, wrenching her back on the hard bench. Donna smiled. This was a good thing. Angie stole a glance behind her then patted the bench. “It’s nice to see you. Sit.”

“I was on the way past and saw you walking.” She wrapped her arms around herself, and sat, giving an exaggerated shiver. “How you can enjoy being out in this weather…I came to apologize…for yesterday.”

“I thought you were feeling sorry for bringing me into your secret garden. I’m sorry if I stepped on your toes.”

“You didn’t. You’re welcome to visit my kids any time.” Donna wore a bulky sweater with a big turtleneck that almost swallowed the entire lower half of her face. The yarn was mottled shades of green that, in the waning light, set off the color in her eyes to perfection. Her cheeks were flushed from her unaccustomed trek. “Paul had just left.”

Paul Zimmerman, Donna’s ex-husband.