be preferable to dig out the tail of her car than the full length of it, she pulled into the tiny driveway.
The doorbell of the hillside house was labeled with three names: Winters, Smythe, and Jacobson. It was just a one-in-three chance that Veronica’s aftercare provider was at home. But Liz was in luck. Although another young woman answered the door, she invited Liz inside and called for Laura. The bungalow was fragrant with the smell of Indian food. To a reporter who had dined on nothing but granola bars all day, it smelled heavenly.
“Have some,” Laura said, leading Liz into a kitchen fitted with a breakfast nook. “We’ve got plenty,” she added, taking down an extra dish.
Laura introduced Liz to her two twenty-something roommates, Sue Smythe, a student nurse at Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital, and Becca Jacobson, who had answered the door. An aspiring actress, Becca said she was supporting herself by walking dogs. Clearly excited to be talking with a reporter, the young women needed no nudging to talk about the Johansson case.
“It’s totally shocking,” said Sue, spooning raita and chutney onto her plate. “Laura says Veronica is a mess.”
“I gather you helped out with Veronica today,” Liz said to Laura.
“Not for long. Her grandmother was coming in from Wellesley. I just kept Veronica occupied while her father took phone calls. Veronica would have been much better off following her normal routine and attending aftercare, but Mr. Johansson didn’t want to let her out of his sight. I guess I can understand that.”
“Was he screening his phone calls?”
“Yeah, that’s what the police told him to do. He had to keep the volume up on the answering machine so he could hear who was calling in. We kept hearing Mrs. Johansson’s voice on the answering machine message. Over and over again. It was eerie, I can tell you, and I know it upset Veronica. I was glad when Mrs. Swenson arrived.”
“Is that the grandmother? Do you know where she lives?”
“Yes. And no. Mrs. Swenson is the grandmother but I don’t have her address.”
“What about at work?” Becca offered. “I bet you have it on Veronica’s emergency card.”
“It’s possible. I could look tomorrow.”
“What was it like at the Johansson house?” Liz asked.
“Weird. Mr. Johansson was totally tense. I could see he was really upset about it, but he did bring in the Christmas tree and set it up when Veronica asked him to. She said she wanted to decorate it and surprise her mommy when she comes back. I could see he was having trouble staying cheerful, so I offered to put the lights on the tree. I didn’t get very far before Mrs. Swenson arrived.”
“Tell her about the weird calls,” Becca urged.
“Some woman called sounding like she thought she was some kind of hero. ‘I’ll find you, Ellen,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring you home.’ Go figure!”
Liz used her napkin to hide a sheepish expression.
“Tell her about the other call,” Becca put in.
“Some guy with an accent called saying she forgot to pick up some book. Mrs. Johansson’s a librarian, you know. Imagine a library patron calling someone’s home at a time like this! And some foreign woman called in saying, “Ellen, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault, but I will make it up to you.”
“I’m surprised the husband wasn’t instructed to keep callers on the phone so the calls could be traced,” Liz said.
“I think he was supposed to do that if the call seemed suspicious. The idea was to screen the calls, I think, and pick up ASAP when one seemed significant.”
“It sounds like he didn’t see these calls as significant.”
“I think he might have tried to pick up that foreign woman’s call but she hung up too quick. At least, I heard him curse when, I guess, the call ended. I wasn’t in the room with him, so it’s hard to be sure. I know he picked up real quick on the call after that one and talked to someone. That seemed odd because you could hardly tell who it was before he picked up.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“It was hard to hear. Remember, I was putting lights on the tree and trying to talk to Veronica so she wouldn’t get upset hearing her mom’s voice again and again. I did think it was strange when one caller on the answering machine started humming, though. Weird time to be singing, huh?”
A loud scraping noise sounded from outdoors.
“Must be the plow,” Sue volunteered. “If you’re parked on the street, your car’ll be buried.”
“Fortunately, I’m in the driveway, but I’ll still need to borrow a shovel to get out. I’d better get digging,” she said, looking at the clock. It was 6:50.
“I’ll help you,” Sue said. “I’ve got to get over to the hospital.”
Liz offered Sue a ride, thanked the young women for sharing their dinner, got assurances from Laura that she’d check on Mrs. Swenson’s address, and hurried to the door. In her haste, she dropped the envelope of Rene’s photos from her purse. Sue picked them up.
“Omigod!” Sue cried. “How awful! Is that the Johanssons’ kitchen? We knew from news reports the kitchen was bloody, but it’s a different matter to see it.” Sue paused. “You know, an expert can tell a lot from blood like that.”
“Like what, Sue?”
“Well, there are genetic tests, of course, to prove whose blood it is. But you can also tell if the person was anemic, for instance.”
“I’m on my way to meet a forensics man now.”
“Cool!”
With Sue’s help, Liz cleared boulder-like hunks of snow that had been pushed and compacted by the plow and then she backed the Tracer onto Summit Street. With Sue in the passenger seat, she rode the brake down the hill and turned toward Brighton Center. Now the snow was coming down so hard that the lights of Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital seemed veiled. Sue pointed out a parking lot and urged Liz to let her out there to avoid struggling along the sloping hospital driveway. Located next to a police station, the parking lot across the street from the Green Briar seemed to have priority on plowing. It was cleared of snow for the moment at least. Liz parked there and crossed the street to the bar, full of doubt that Kinnaird would show up.
The Green Briar’s unremarkable exterior offered little hint of the atmosphere within. And the latter arose less from the decor than from the sound of some thirty musicians who filled the place with traditional Irish music. Liz passed through a barroom to a brick-walled room hung here and there with photos of Irish scenes. Under a weathered pub sign from Dublin, the players were clustered around a large table. It was difficult at first for Liz to tell whether it was the fiddler or the pennywhistle player who served as leader here, but it was clear that the rest of the musicians were taking their cues from one or both of them. It was immediately obvious that the more confident players were seated closest to this pair while those who sat farther from this inner circle included some who seemed to lean in toward their instruments while playing lightly on them, as if they were trying to learn the music by ear.
The players were remarkably mixed. Septuagenarians and teens, working men and yuppies, ruddy-faced Irish-Americans, and a twenty-something Asian Indian all lost themselves in the music that went on and on, gaining momentum and spirit along the way. Liz marveled to think this world existed a few miles from Gravesend Street without her having enjoyed it until now.
She scanned the group more than once before picking out Dr. Kinnaird. He was sitting behind a man who was playing an instrument Liz had never seen before, which required squeezing a bagpipe-type inflated bag repeatedly with his elbow. There was no doubt the unusual instrument was enough to distract Liz’s attention. But there were other reasons she did not recognize Kinnaird at first. He was dressed far more casually than he’d been during his bite-marks presentation. Along with his suit, tie, and cuff links, he’d left behind his know-it-all demeanor. The expression on his face as he bent over his banjo was positively boyish.
Liz noticed he was seated far from the leader. Here, he was not the top of the heap. And he didn’t seem to care.
The tune went on and on. To Liz’s untutored ear, it was repetitious, but highly pleasing. While the musicians played on, she took off her coat, and removed from its pocket the crumpled front page she had taken from the
