Over breakfast the following day, Paul and I agreed on a game plan for Peter’s stay. ‘Not one word about Elizabeth Stefano’s so-called suicide,’ I insisted. ‘Not until we solve the Mystery of the Vanishing Neighbors.’
Just after ten o’clock, Peter texted that Trish’s condition had stabilized: Swelling gone down! He’d even mastered the art of using emoticons – the message was punctuated by a big thumbs up.
Peter telephoned at lunchtime to report that doctors had cut back on the drugs in order to test his wife’s responses. Even though her eyes weren’t tracking and she couldn’t speak, Trish responded to commands by wiggling her toes and squeezing a nurse’s hand. ‘She’s able to communicate!’ If he had won the Mega-Million Lottery, Peter couldn’t have sounded more excited.
‘The police delivered me here on Tuesday, so I’m carless,’ Peter explained. ‘I sure would appreciate a pickup.’
Paul, who had been listening in on speakerphone, volunteered. ‘Tell you what. I’ll grab your car keys and fetch you in the Honda. It’s been sitting in front of Paca House for a week. It could probably use the exercise.’
‘Thanks, buddy. Text me when you get here, and I’ll come down to meet you.’ He sighed slowly, deeply, in apparent relief. ‘I’ve been cat-napping in the chair in Trish’s room for two days. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to horizontal sleeping.’
‘Is there any news from the police?’ I asked. ‘Do they have any idea who shot her?’
‘If they do, they’re not sharing it with me,’ Peter said, sounding bitter.
‘The detective who interviewed me in the ER, Fogarty? She gave me her card. Maybe it’s time I gave her a call.’
‘I’d appreciate that, Hannah. None of this makes a damn bit of sense.’
Paul nudged my arm. It was time to wrap up.
‘Well, plenty of time to talk about that later,’ I told Peter. ‘See you soon.’
I’d promised Peter a home cooked meal, so I dug one of my famous turkey tetrazzini casseroles out of the freezer and left it on the counter to thaw while I drove down Route 2 to Fresh Market to pick up some broccoli. I visited the dessert bar, too. Who could resist?
When Paul straggled in with Peter around six, they both looked like they’d slept in their clothes. ‘Rush hour,’ Paul explained when I greeted them in the entrance hall. ‘I’d forgotten what it was like.’
Me? I remembered it well. There were things I missed about my job as records manager at Whitworth and Sullivan, but the one-hour commute to Washington, DC – each way – wasn’t one of them.
I gave my husband a peck on the cheek. ‘A miracle you survived.’ Then I turned my attention to our guest. ‘Let me show you to your room.’
Peter’s pale face suddenly pinked. ‘Hannah, are you sure? I can always—’
‘Of course! I wouldn’t have invited you otherwise.’ I made a shooing motion in the direction of the staircase. ‘You shouldn’t have to worry about anything right now except getting up and going to bed. First left at the top of the stairs,’ I added, as Peter trudged up the steps ahead of me carrying nothing but a rolled up, hanging toiletry bag. ‘You’ll have your own bathroom. You can bring the rest of your stuff over later.’
I grabbed some fresh towels from the linen closet and caught up with him.
‘This is Emily’s old room,’ I explained as I delivered the towels. ‘We redecorated after she graduated from Bryn Mawr and moved away.’
I’d aimed for a light, airy, beach house vibe, inspired by years of subscribing to Coastal Living. With the exception of an antique brass bed, the furniture was no-frills. A quilt in the Honeycomb pattern, hand-pieced in the early 1930s by my grandmother, Lois Mary Smith, added pops of color to the simple blue and white décor.
‘This is soothing,’ Peter said. ‘Don’t let me lie down or I may never get up.’
I grinned. ‘I’ll give you some time to settle in, then we’ll see you downstairs where the beer is cold, and the wine comes in both flavors.’
‘Thank you, Hannah.’
‘Dinner’s at seven thirty, so don’t be late.’
It seemed odd that we knew so little about Trish’s life before she married Peter. I was eager to find out more about Peter’s background that evening.
Promptly at seven, Peter appeared, requesting an ice-cold Dogfish Head IPA. He’d tamed his unruly curls by slicking them back with water, but by the time we sat down to eat, a tendril had escaped, trembling adorably over his forehead as he talked, filling us in on his early life.
The son of an unknown father by an alcoholic mother who died when Peter was eight, Peter had been shuffled from one foster home to another before earning a place at Berea College, a tuition-free liberal arts college in eastern Kentucky where he’d majored in history. In lieu of tuition, Berea students work at least ten hours a week. Peter’s stint in the college ceramics shop led to a full-time job managing the warehouse of a high-end ceramic art gallery in Santa Fe after graduation.
For the rest of dinner, we’d kept the conversation light, if you call deconstructing the Oriole’s dismal 54-108 win-loss record ‘light’. I attempted to steer the conversation away from sports – the scientific instrument has yet to be invented that can measure how little I care about football – but, when those dudes got together, it inevitably wandered back in the sports direction. Eventually Peter began waxing eloquent about the pros and cons of playing with juiced balls, so I decided to excuse myself.
‘Just going for dessert,’ I said as I circled the table, gathering and stacking the dinner plates. ‘Hold on to your forks.’
Less than three minutes later, I was back carrying a key lime cheesecake in one hand, three dessert plates in the other and a can of aerosol whipped cream tucked under my arm.
‘I like the way your Honda performs,’ Paul commented to Peter as I began to cut the pie. ‘We may have to replace our Volvo. It’s old, and … well, Hannah’s not sure she wants it back, even after the police are finished with it.’
‘I think we should keep the Mercedes,’ I said, easing a wedge of pie from the server onto a plate.
‘How ya gonna keep ’em down on the farm after they’ve seen Pay-ree?’ Peter quipped.
I stuck my tongue out at him, then grinned. ‘Whipped cream?’ After he nodded, I decorated his serving with a generous, high-topped squirt, then prepared identical slices for Paul and me.
Paul looked up from his plate and caught my eye.
I nodded.
‘So, Peter …’ Paul began. ‘This is what really threw us off. Both you and Trish disappeared, yet your car was still parked on the street.’
‘Glory thought you’d been raptured up,’ I cut in.
That made Peter laugh. ‘Oh, I wish. Better than what actually happened, as it turns out.’
‘Tell us about it,’ I urged.
‘I guess I should start at the beginning, or at least what’s the beginning for me.’ Peter plucked the wine bottle out of the ice bucket. ‘I think this is a two-glasses-of-wine story. May I?’
‘Of course,’ I said, holding up my glass.
After topping off our glasses, Peter continued. ‘Wednesday night, late, Trish gets a call on the landline. I don’t know who it’s from, but she’s upset. Her best friend from high school is dying, she says. Only a few days left to live, she says. She has to go see her right away. So, I say, sure, of course you have to go. Take the car. And Trish says, no, she’s too upset to drive. So, I say I’ll drive, but she says, no, she’s going to take the train.’
‘Where was she going?’ I asked, although I thought I already knew the answer.
‘Syracuse, New York,’ Peter said. ‘Amtrak actually goes there. Can you believe it?’
‘So you drove her to BWI train station?’ Paul asked.
Peter nodded. ‘At three thirty-six Thursday morning. I thought she was crazy.
‘Anyway, around two o’clock that afternoon she calls and says she got in OK and plans to stay for three or four days. I ask about her friend and Trish says she’s in a home hospice, weak but not suffering. Trish is staying in the friend’s guest room and they’re having a nice, quiet visit. Reminiscing.’
‘What’s the friend’s name?’ I asked.
Peter screwed up his face. ‘Mary something? I’m not sure. Trish had never mentioned her before.’ He frowned. ‘But then, there seem to be a lot of things Trish never mentioned to me before.’
‘Goodrich?’ I supplied. ‘Mary Goodrich?’
‘Yes, that’s the name. How the hell did you know?’
I confessed to finding a rental car receipt in the pocket of Trish’s hoodie.
‘That’s odd,’ Peter said. ‘Trish could certainly rent her own car. Maybe it was an old receipt, something Trish picked up at Mary’s during her visit.’
‘Maybe,’ I said without conviction. ‘But why did Trish rent a car in the first place, Peter? Why not come back the way she’d gone up, on the train?’
‘We talked about booking a round-trip ticket, but she didn’t know how long she’d be staying, so she bought a one-way just to keep flexible.’
‘All that last-minute rushing around. I think I understand why your kitchen was such a mess,’ Paul mused. ‘Not Trish’s usual MO, is it?’
‘Busted!’ Peter said good-naturedly. ‘But with Trish out of town, who would be around to complain?’
‘Hobie, for one,’ I said. ‘With you gone, who’d feed him?’
‘I topped up his bowl,’ Peter said, ‘and besides, Glory’d be there.’ His face flushed.
‘There’s one other thing that puzzled me,’ I said, rising from my chair. ‘I’ll be right back.’ When I returned to the table, I was carrying Trish’s iPhone. I set it on the table next to Peter’s placemat. ‘Why did Trish leave home without her cell phone?’
‘She didn’t,’ Peter explained. ‘That’s her old one.’ He raised up on one hip, dug into a back pocket and produced his own iPhone, the one he’d showed me at the hospital. ‘Earlier this week, we decided to switch carriers. When we went to buy a phone for me, Verizon was having a two-for-the-price-of-one special, too good to pass up, so we upgraded Trish’s phone at the same time.’
‘But this phone still works,’ I said. ‘I must have called it a million times. Didn’t she want to keep her old number?’
Peter shrugged. ‘The salesman said it might take up to twenty-four hours to activate, so she decided to think about it. Frankly, I kinda liked the idea that our phone numbers are just one digit apart. Makes it easier for me to remember.’ He picked up Trish’s old phone, sandwiched it against his own and slipped them into his hip pocket together. ‘She didn’t have time to transfer her data before catching the train, either. Now that will have to wait until …’ He swallowed the words.
‘How about her thyroid pills, Peter? Glory found the prescription bottle in the bathroom.’
Peter quirked an eyebrow. ‘She’s got this little silver pill box, enameled top with flowers? I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t leave home without it.’
I was an idiot. Of course.
Paul stabbed the last morsel of cheesecake with his fork, popped it in his mouth, then asked cheerfully, ‘So, tell us. How come you didn’t show up for the Italian dinner?’
Peter squirmed; even the tips of his ears flushed. ‘I forgot.’
As I sat there, slack-jawed, he raised a defensive hand. ‘I know, I know. And the last thing Trish said before stepping on the train was “be sure to call Hannah.” I can’t believe I forgot to let you know.’
‘I can’t believe it either,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a pan of tiramisu big enough to feed the Green Bay Packers taking up half of the refrigerator, and you forgot? Where were you, and what the hell were you doing that was so important that you simply forgot?’
Paul gave me the evil eye. ‘Hannah!’
‘Leave it, Paul,’ Peter said. ‘Hannah’s got every right to be annoyed.’
‘Sorry I lost my cool,’ I said, smiling sweetly. ‘More pie?’
Looking contrite, Peter held out his plate. ‘I’ll tell you why it slipped my mind. No excuse, just an explanation. Shortly after Trish called from Syracuse, I got an email from a dealer I know in West Virginia. I’d put out word that I was looking for a vintage stove for a client in Epping Forest, and he’d come across a 1930s’ Windsor gas range in perfect working condition, no chips in the porcelain, a real beaut. With Trish out of town …’ He shrugged. ‘I decided to drive to West Virginia and take a look.’
‘But the car—?’
‘Oh, I didn’t take the car, Hannah. I took the company van.’
I felt seven kinds of stupid for not remembering the company van, a white, late-model Ford Transit with the appliance store logo painted on the side.
‘Did you buy it?’ Paul wanted to know.
‘What? The stove? You bet. As they say, it’d been previously owned by a little old lady who only drove it to church on Sundays.’ He chuckled at his own joke. ‘Then I spent most of the weekend poking around Old Central City. Ever been there?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s part of Huntington now but retains a lot of its old, turn-of-the-last-century charm. A dozen antique stores, give or take. Trish’s taste runs more to ultra-modern, so I don’t go antiquing as much as I used to. Trish was away, so …’
‘The mouse decided to play?’ Paul quipped.
‘Coffee, anyone?’ I asked, standing up. ‘Regular, decaf, mocha, hazelnut, vanilla – we’ve got all kinds.’
While I put the Keurig through its paces, Paul and Peter migrated to the living room where gas logs blazed cheerfully in the fireplace.
I decided to wait until Peter finished his Green Mountain Southern Pecan before ruining his evening.
Earlier, I’d slipped the printouts about Elizabeth Stefano’s unsolved ‘suicide’ into a manila folder. Now, I fetched it from the bookshelf where I’d stashed it before dinner. ‘I’ve got something important to show you,’ I said, handing it over.
I watched Peter’s face as he flipped open the folder and read, his expression changing from curiosity, to surprise and then to disbelief. ‘But how do we know it’s the same Elizabeth Stefano?’
‘Check out the next article,’ I said.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Peter flipped to the following page. He stared at the memorial notice and at Liz’s picture for what seemed like an eternity, exploring the image thoughtfully with his finger. ‘My God, it is Trish. Younger, of course, and oh my God the hairdo, but it’s definitely Trish.’
He looked up, his gray eyes wide. ‘Twenty years we’ve been together. Twenty years. And it turns out I don’t know this woman at all.’ He blinked rapidly, fighting off tears. ‘What the hell do I do now?’