“When I saw Molly get out of the car, it was a natural instinct to come over and help her.”
Sergeant French called over one of his officers and told him to check out the accelerator. Then he turned his attention back to me. “Okay, now why would someone not want you to make it back, and from where?”
He had his friendly face on, but I knew he was probably thinking “Humor the crazy amateur sleuth.” Mason nodded. “Molly, I’m curious, too. What’s going on?”
We were interrupted by the officer Sergeant French had sent to look over Adele’s car.
“Hey, Sarge, you aren’t going to believe this.” The uniform gave me an odd look. Sergeant French followed him. The car door was open and the officer pointed to something. Then they both knelt down. I was trying to see what they were doing and overhear their conversation. Mason reached out and touched my arm. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”
“You and me both,” I said, remembering how I’d thought it was the end. I was sure Charlie wouldn’t mind waiting a little longer.
A few moments later, Sergeant French and the other officer came back to us, both of them wearing odd expressions, and took us to the car.
“Show her what you found,” the sergeant said. The officer used a stick to fold back the floor mat, which I now saw had covered part of the accelerator. A melange of yarn with something pink and sticky mixed in was stuck on the mat. I knelt down and leaned in to get a closer look. The smell gave it away.
“Bubble gum?” I said with surprise.
“Yes, somehow the bubble gum and that yarn mess got caught under there. The mat must have moved when you were driving and held the pedal down. The gum and yarn obviously came from the backseat. There are balls of yarn all over the place and an open bag of bubble gum.
“But don’t you see? That didn’t just happen. Someone did it to the floor mat,” I protested.
Mason was all business now. “What my client is trying to say is that she has good reason to think that someone deliberately placed that glob so the floor mat would stick to the pedal.”
“Thanks for your input, counselor, but I’d really like to hear why Ms. Pink is so sure someone wants to harm her.”
Was there any way I could explain what I’d been trying to do so it didn’t sound ridiculous? I took a deep breath and decided to give it my best shot. I said I thought Sergeant French was right that Izabelle had been meeting somebody on the beach. I explained the e-mails from the Identical Twins Anonymous sponsor. “It seems the whole point of the group is for identical twins who are having problems with being identical twins. Izabelle changed her appearance so she wouldn’t be identical anymore. She never even mentioned her sister was her twin in the memoir piece she wrote in one of the workshops. The e-mail made it sound like there was something she was going to do this weekend that involved her twin,” I said.
“So, you’re saying you think her twin was on the beach with her?” Sergeant French said. To my surprise, he was actually paying attention to what I was saying.
I nodded. “Her twin would know about her peanut allergy and probably that she had an EpiPen with her. And since Izabelle didn’t like her twin, there’s a good chance the feeling was mutual. Who better to feed her sister the peanut butter-laced s’more?” Sergeant French put up his hand.
“Sorry, Ms. Pink, I still don’t buy it that the woman was killed with a s’more. But them meeting on the beach, one way or the other, seems reasonable.”
I shrugged off his critique of my murder plan and continued. “Because of the e-mail from the Twins Anonymous guy, I began to think her twin might be here. But how to figure out who was her twin?” I asked if I could retrieve the crochet book and the manila envelope, and he gave his okay. I opened to the page with the doll model and repeated what the gray-haired woman had told me about the doll probably being made from a photo of a real little girl.
“I thought there was a good chance the doll was made from a photograph of Izabelle when she was around five years old.” I mentioned remembering the photo of the missing child I’d seen on the milk carton and how it had gotten me thinking. I swallowed, then told him about my plan to get the photo in the book age-progressed. I went over my phone search to find the photo studio. To my surprise, Sergeant French’s face lit up with interest.
“What an interesting idea,” he said. He noticed the manila envelope in my hand, and before I could react, he’d taken it and was pulling out the photo. He might have been actually taking me seriously until then, but when he saw the picture, he seemed as if he didn’t know how to react. Finally he tried to speak, but choked on a laugh.
“Okay, maybe the execution didn’t work out quite right,” I said, wincing at the print that clearly just looked like a freaky doll head. Mason had his hand over his mouth, no doubt to hide his grin.
“But the idea could work,” Sergeant French said, taking the book from my arm. He studied the photograph of the doll. “The features and head shape do seem as though they were based on a real child. With the right software it could be very interesting. I have access to the real deal,” he said. “I’ll have to try to pull some strings, seeing it’s Sunday afternoon, but I know somebody who owes me a favor.”
“You mean you’re really going to try to do age progression on the doll?”
His face took on a wary expression. “But if my picture turns out like yours, then it never happened, got it?” I nodded in agreement and he glanced toward the car. “I’m not saying someone did that to the mat. People don’t use bubble gum and yarn to sabotage a car. They use bombs and cut brake lines.” Sergeant French measured his words. “But I’ll acknowledge someone could have. I’m going to err on the side of caution and assume someone did try to sabotage the car, and suggest that you stay low until I get back. The twin could have heard what you were doing and realized the altered photo could identify her.” He turned to Mason. Do you think you can keep her hidden? Let them think she’s over a cliff somewhere and they’re home free.”
“I think that can be arranged,” Mason said. “There’s a chapel just inside the grounds. No one would see us in there. They’re all still tied up with the workshops.”
“Then you really believe me about the s’mores and the twin and-?” I said in surprise.
Sergeant French put up his hand, interrupting me. “Don’t get too carried away. I’m limiting what I believe to the fact somebody might have put the gum and yarn together and stuck them to the floor mat, but that’s it.”
A cop carrying a roll of yellow tape came toward the car as Mason and I walked quickly toward the boardwalk. A few people on the beach had stopped when I’d first landed there, but by now they’d realized there was nothing going on and had drifted off. The path into the conference grounds was empty. I had passed the chapel building numerous times, but never noticed it until now. We slipped in the door and found a pew and sat down.
I thanked Mason for all his help. He was concerned that I was still shaky from my afternoon almost-disaster. I insisted I was fine, but then, out of nowhere, the strain of everything hit and I started to cry. I have to say Mason has always come through in a crisis, whether it’s getting me a frozen lemonade to soothe my injuries after I confronted a murderer for the first time, or rescuing me when my mother turned my living room into a rehearsal hall when she was getting ready for her big audition. He came through again and put his arm around me in a reassuring manner and reminded me I was safe. Now that Sergeant French had taken over, I could just relax.
It might have worked if my cell phone hadn’t started to play its musical flourish. I tried to swallow my tears as I answered in a whisper.
“Why are you talking so softly?” Barry asked. Without waiting for me to answer, he said, “Okay, what’s wrong, babe?”
“Duck,” Mason said suddenly, pointing toward the window. Two people were going by, and I recognized Spenser and his lady companion. Mason and I both slid onto the floor, and I held my breath while we waited to see if they came into the chapel.
“Was that Mason?” Barry said, his voice changing from concern to irritation. “How is it every time I call, you’re with him? And why is he telling you to duck?”
“I guarantee we aren’t having fun,” I said.
“And you’ve been crying.” Barry’s voice changed back to concern. “What’s wrong?”
I had been hoping to avoid talking to him until everything was settled, but no such luck. I told him the whole story. Almost the whole story. I left out the out-of-control car ride. I didn’t think I could talk about it yet without falling apart. I could practically hear Barry hitting his forehead with the heel of his hand when I got to the part about the doll’s head. I knew he was about to say something about me being really around the bend this time, so I got it in that we were hiding while Sergeant French tried to get the doll’s face aged.
