adolescent years here until she left for good to go to the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. Yet this city had never felt like home. At that point in her life, no place on earth would have felt like home. No place, that is, without her father.
After his death, Maggie had never understood why her mother insisted they move from Green Bay to Richmond. Why wouldn’t they want to stay in their home surrounded by people who knew and loved them, comforted by the memories? Unless, of course, there had been an affair and gossip, rumors…No, it had to be a lie. She wouldn’t allow the thought, wouldn’t dignify it with…Except
Kathleen O’Dell had plopped them down in the middle of a strange and unfamiliar place, a place she had never visited nor even heard of before. And her mother’s only explanation…What? What had it been? Something about a fresh start, a new beginning. Right. A fresh start after every failed suicide attempt. So many of them Maggie had stopped counting.
But here she was again, trying to rescue her mother once more.
She pulled up in front of her mother’s apartment building, driving around the huge white paneled truck that took up five prime parking spaces. Several men were loading the truck with furniture while a small gray-haired man propped open the apartment building’s security door. So much for security.
It wasn’t until Maggie walked up the front sidewalk and past the truck that she recognized the flowered love seat the men were shoving into the back. Immediately, she glanced up at her mother’s second-floor apartment and noticed all the curtains gone from the windows. The stab of panic caught her off guard.
“Excuse me.” She stopped the small gray-haired man who seemed to be supervising the move. “I recognize some of these items. What’s going on?”
“Mrs. O’Dell is selling out.”
“You mean moving out?”
“Well, I’m sure she’s moving someplace else, but no, I meant selling out.”
The confusion must have shown on her face, because he went on to explain, “I’m Frank Bartle.” He dug into his jacket pocket and handed her a business card. “Al and Frank’s Antiques and Secondhand Treasures. We’re down on Kirby. If you see something here you like, we’ll have it ready to sell next week.”
“But I don’t understand why she would sell everything. I guess I should go up and ask her myself, rather than bother you.”
“’Fraid you won’t be able to do that.”
“I promise I won’t get in your men’s way.” She smiled and started for the door.
“No, I just meant that she’s not there.”
Now Maggie felt a clammy chill. “Where is she?”
“Don’t know. I was gonna buy a few of her antiques. You know some trinkets, a few figurines and things like that. She gave me a call early this morning and asked if I wanted the whole lot.”
Maggie leaned against the doorjamb. “Where did she go?”
“Don’t know.”
“But she must have left you a forwarding address.”
“Nope.”
“What about payment?”
“I came over this morning. Gave her an estimate and then a check. She gave me a key. Said to hand it in to the landlady when we’re through.”
How could all this happen in less than twenty-four hours? And what had happened to make her mother do this? Or had she planned it and just didn’t tell Maggie? Yesterday there had been quite a few boxes packed and stacked. But why make a production of Thanksgiving dinner if she hadn’t planned on being here? What the hell was going on?
“I have a receipt, if you don’t believe me.” Frank Bartle was digging in his jacket pocket again.
“No, that’s fine.” She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “I believe you. It’s just very strange. I saw her yesterday.”
“Sorry, but that’s all I know,” he said, but his attention wandered to one of the moving men who was coming out of the apartment building. “Be careful with that one, Emile. Put it someplace safe, okay?”
On the side of the carton the man carried Maggie could see scrawled in black marker the single word, Figurines. Her grandmother’s figurines, the one prize possession her mother owned. Suddenly, Maggie felt sick to her stomach. Wherever her mother had gone, she didn’t intend on coming back.
CHAPTER 62
Ben Garrison kicked the unlocked door open. He wanted to strangle Mrs. Fowler. How dare she come into his apartment without letting him know. In the past, the old lady had usually been good about locking up after herself and her string of handymen, almost compulsive about it, in fact. Maybe she had developed a few loose screws in her old age.
He set down his duffel bag on the kitchen counter and out of the corner of his eye he could see them. Quietly, slowly, he picked up the closest thing he could find, pulled back his arm and flung the old tennis shoe at the moving row of black skittering up his living room wall.
Shit! He was sick of these things. Would he ever be rid of them? Is that why Mrs. Fowler let herself in? Maybe the simple solution would be to move to a new apartment. He could certainly afford it now that his lucky streak had returned. He’d need to wait and decide. Right now he barely had enough time to take a quick shower, repack his bags, load up on more film and head to the airport.
He dumped his duffel bag onto the counter, sifting through the contents, tossing empty film canisters and doing a quick inventory. It still pissed him off that he had left all the Boston negatives with Racine. But he couldn’t afford to have her trip him up. Not now. Not when he was on a roll.
As he sorted through everything he realized he must have left his collapsible tripod at the police station. Damn it! How could he have been so careless? It happened every time he got a little too cocky. Now he wondered what else he may have left behind. The T-shirts and sweatpants he could do without, but the tripod he couldn’t. He’d need to stop and pick up another. No way would he go back to the police station.
He checked his phone messages, jotting down the names of editors and phone numbers he had never heard of or from before. Suddenly everyone wanted a Garrison exclusive. In no time, he’d be back to shooting whatever he wanted, although it would be difficult to beat the rush of adrenaline this little project was producing. Maybe he could find a gallery that would display his outtakes. Those, after all, were the true rush, his true genuine works of art.
There were five hangups on his answering machine, definite hangups with a pause and then a click. Probably Everett’s little warriors checking up on him. But why the hangups and no more clever messages? Were they running out of intimidation ammunition?
Poor Everett. He’d finally get what he deserved, what he had coming to him. Perhaps Racine and that FBI chick would be smart enough to put the puzzle pieces together. Hopefully, that wouldn’t happen before Cleveland. Ben needed this one last trip, one last rally.
He headed for the bathroom, peeling off his clothes and leaving a trail, not caring whether the cockroaches took up residence in his old worn jeans. Maybe he’d burn them when he got back. Yeah, he’d wrap them all up in a plastic bag, so he could watch the fucking roaches squirm while he set the jeans on fire. He wondered if cockroaches made any kind of noise. Did they scream?
When he stepped into the bathroom, he immediately noticed that the smudged glass door to his shower was closed. He never left it closed. The trapped fog and steam ended up producing a crop of mildew, so he always left it open. He couldn’t see through the milky glass, but surely there would be a shadow or silhouette if someone was hiding inside. Maybe Mrs. Fowler’s handyman had been screwing around with the plumbing. That had to be it.
He pulled a towel from the rack and shook it out, making sure it was cockroach-free. He opened the shower door and reached in to turn on the water. One glance inside the tub made him jerk backward hard and fast, tangling his feet and sending him crashing to the bathroom floor. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed the shower door and
