after-Christmas sales ads,” Liz said, telling Esther she had an exclusive opportunity for a Christmas Day conversation with Mrs. Swenson.
“Go for it,” Esther said.
Liz realized Esther must not yet have read the
With more than an hour of free time before she would have to set out for the Wellesley rendezvous, Liz looked about for a way to enjoy the unexpected at-home stretch of Christmas morning. It was time to give Prudence her gift, a carpet-covered little cave that looked just the right size for the cat to cuddle up in. Hoping it would help attract the cat, Liz put the catnip mouse from Tom inside the structure. Standing up and stretching her front legs luxuriously, Prudence approached the gift as though it was the Trojan horse. After examining it for a good few minutes, she decided to ignore both the cozy interior and catnip mouse. Instead, purring loudly, she climbed on top of the structure and perched herself on it proudly, like a sentry.
Liz was laughing when she picked up the ringing phone.
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Tom said, sounding piqued. “You didn’t even leave your name when you called.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure if you’d want your lady friend to know about me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The gal on your answering machine.”
“I can explain that.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“But—hey listen. I thought you said you’d be working today.”
“I will be, in a little over an hour.”
“Are you busy until then?”
“Very! Drinking coffee and playing with Prudence.”
“Can I come over and play with you two, too?”
“Oh, all right. But make it snappy!”
“Bah, humbug! See you soon.”
Liz applied a touch of make-up and lipstick and dressed in flannel-lined jeans, a heavy Irish-knit sweater, and thick wool socks. This time, she would be prepared to walk in wintry Wellesley. She was about to pull on her insulated boots when Tom arrived at her door. Still in stocking feet, she stood aside as he entered bearing two Styrofoam containers of coffee and a battered cookie tin.
“From my ‘lady friend,’” Tom grinned, handing Liz the cookie tin. When she said nothing, he said, “Well, aren’t you gonna open it?”
The tin contained two circular pastries, filled with currants.
“Eccles cakes,” Tom said. “Mind if I sit down?”
Liz swept her hand in the direction of her armchair. “Be my guest,” she said. But she remained standing.
“I gather you’ve never had Eccles cakes before. Well, they’re always a treat, but these are better than most. My cousin Caroline makes them every year. Most of the time, my relatives in Swanage—that’s on the south coast of England—get to eat them. But this year, she’s with us for the holidays. I’d have brought her to meet you, but she’s home with my folks.”
“Is she living with you?”
“Just for a few weeks. She’s a student at BU, lives in the dorms. She’s with me while the dorm’s closed for Christmas vacation.”
Liz bit into the pastry and smiled. “Delicious,” she said.
But Tom was quiet, looking at the ice bucket full of flowers.
“I guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other,” he said.
“That’s for sure. But, oh my God, I’ve got to run! I’m supposed to be in Wellesley in under a half-hour,” Liz said pulling on her boots and grabbing her reporter’s notebook. She was glad the car keys were stowed in her jacket pocket, for once.
“That’s cutting it close,” Tom said, wrapping up her Eccles cake in a napkin and carrying it and the coffee containers to the door. Following Liz to her car, he handed a coffee and pastry to her before she slammed the door shut. Rolling down the window, Liz leaned out and said, “Thank you, Tom, for the treats. Merry Christmas!”
As she drove away, Liz took a sip from the coffee container and grimaced. It was loaded with sugar. Tom had handed her the wrong one.
By the time she reached the Wellesley College faculty club parking lot, it was almost twenty minutes later than the appointment time. And there was no sign of Olga Swenson. Cursing the cold and sickeningly sweet coffee, Liz got out of her car and scanned the scene. With the snow washed away by the rain, it was pointless to look for footprints. And, she reasoned, if she walked around the faculty club building to look for Mrs. Swenson and Hershey coming or going along the campus path to the lakeshore, she might miss their approach on foot—or by car if Mrs. Swenson was also late and had chosen to drive to the meeting place.
Deciding it was worth a quick look at the campus path in any case, Liz ran as fast as she could in her heavy boots and rounded the building. Olga Swenson could be seen, back bowed, returning along the path towards the lake. When Liz called out, Hershey bounded in her direction.
“I’m so sorry to be late, Mrs. Swenson,” Liz shouted.
Turning to face Liz, Ellen Johansson’s mother lifted her shoulders and straightened her posture, but her facial expression remained crestfallen.
“Still no word,” Liz spoke for her.
“And it’s Christmas,” the older woman said.
She didn’t have to say more. Both women shared the same thought. If Ellen Johansson were alive and well, she would not fail to be in touch on the holiday. The two women walked in step, side-by-side, along the campus path.
“It’s not much, but I think I’ve got a piece of somewhat heartening news for you,” Liz said, taking DeZona’s photograph of the living room from her handbag.
The older woman scrutinized it, perplexed.
“Do you see the teacup there?” Liz asked.
“Of course.”
“Look at the china pattern, please, Mrs. Swenson. Am I correct in concluding the pattern is called ‘Forget- me-not?’”
“Yes. It is. Of course! ‘Forget-me-not!’”
“When I first met your daughter and Veronica, Ellen served us tea. Veronica dropped her teacup. I think the cup must have cracked or chipped and Ellen wrote herself a blackboard memo noting the china pattern.”
Olga Swenson’s eyes brimmed with tears as, without a word, she embraced Liz. Then the two walked in tandem, with the older woman holding her companion’s elbow. Perhaps, once again, the pair shared the same thought: At least Ellen did not choose to desert her family.
But if this was not a case of suicide, what was the truth of the matter?
Olga Swenson seemed to collect herself. Noticing another dog walker approaching, she called Hershey to her side and attached his leash. But as he pulled in excitement at seeing the other dog, she grimaced.
“Blister,” she said. “It’s nothing, just from the dog pulling.”
“No, perhaps it’s not nothing,” Liz said, recalling the repeated e-mail messages.
“Hmm?” Olga Swenson said, pulling on her gloves.
“Do you have any idea what your daughter has been reading recently?” Liz asked.
“Why should I?”
“I must tell you this in strictest confidence.”
“It seems I owe you that, at least.”
“One of Ellen’s library colleagues seemed to be worried about your daughter’s choice of reading matter, which, I gather, she could see listed in the library’s circulation records.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if she refused to say what those records contain. Ellen’s talked to me about it. She and her colleagues regard themselves as a kind of last bastion protecting readers’ privacy. That seems reasonable to me when it’s a question of one scholar repeating or getting a hop on another’s research, but what could there be
