Sunday, March 29

Maggie unpacked the last of the boxes labeled Kitchen, carefully washing, drying and placing the crystal goblets on the top cupboard shelf. It still surprised her that Greg had allowed her the set of eight. He claimed they had been a wedding gift from one of her relatives, though Maggie didn’t know anyone remotely related to her who could afford such an expensive gift or have such elegant taste. Her own mother had given them a toaster oven, a practical gift void of sentiment, which more likely reflected the characteristics of the O’Dells she knew.

The goblets reminded her that she needed to call her mother and give her the new phone number. Immediately, she felt the familiar tightness in her chest. Of course, there would be no need for the new address. Her mother rarely left Richmond and wouldn’t be visiting any time soon. Maggie cringed at the mere thought of her mother invading this new sanctuary. Even the obligatory phone call felt obtrusive to her quiet Sunday. But she should call before leaving for the airport. After years, flying still unhinged her, so why not take her mind off being out of control at thirty thousand feet with a conversation that was sure to clench her teeth?

Her fingers moved reluctantly over the numbers. How could this woman still make her feel like a twelve-year-old caretaker, vulnerable and anxious? Yet, Maggie had been more mature and competent at twelve than her mother ever was.

The phone rang six, seven times, and Maggie was ready to hang up when a low, raspy voice muttered something incomprehensible.

“Mom? It’s Maggie,” she said in place of a greeting.

“Mag-pie, I was just going to call you.”

Maggie grimaced, hearing her mother use the nickname her father had given her. The only time her mother called her Mag-pie was when she was drunk. Now Maggie wished she could just hang up. Her mother couldn’t call her without the new number. Maybe she wouldn’t even remember this call.

“You wouldn’t have gotten me, Mom. I just moved.”

“Mag-pie, I want you to tell your father to stop calling me.”

Maggie’s knees buckled. She leaned against the counter.

“What are you talking about, Mom?”

“Your father keeps calling me, saying stuff and then just hanging up.”

The counter wasn’t good enough. Maggie made it to the step stool and sat down. The sudden nausea and chill surprised and annoyed her. She placed her palm against her stomach as if that would calm it.

“Mom, Dad’s gone. He’s been dead for over twenty years.” She gripped a kitchen towel, the nearest thing she could lay her hands on. My God, could this be some new dementia brought on by the drinking?

“Oh, I know that, sweetie.” Her mother giggled.

Maggie couldn’t ever remember her mother giggling. Was this a sick joke? She closed her eyes and waited, not sure there would be an explanation, but certain she had no idea how to continue this conversation.

“Reverend Everett says it’s because your father still has something he needs to tell me. But hell, he keeps hanging up. Oh, I shouldn’t swear,” and she giggled, again.

“Mom, who’s Reverend Everett?”

“Reverend Joseph Everett. I told you about him, Mag-pie.”

“No, you haven’t told me anything about him.”

“I’m sure I have. Oh, Emily and Steven are here. I’ve got to go.”

“Mom, wait. Mom…” But it was too late. Her mother had already hung up.

Maggie dragged her fingers through her short hair, resisting the urge to yank. It had only been a week…okay, maybe two weeks, since she had talked to her last. How could she be making so little sense? She thought about calling her back. She hadn’t even given her the new phone number. But then her mother wasn’t in any condition to remember it. Maybe Emily and Steven or Reverend Everett—whoever the hell these people were—maybe they could take care of her. Maggie had been taking care of her mother for far too long. Maybe it was finally someone else’s turn.

The fact her mother was drinking again didn’t surprise Maggie. Years ago, she had accepted the compromise. At least when her mother was drinking she wasn’t attempting suicide. But that her mother thought she was talking to her dead husband disturbed Maggie. Plus, she hated the reminder that the one person who had truly loved her, loved her unconditionally, had been dead for more than twenty years.

Maggie tugged the chain around her neck and brought out the medallion from under her shirt collar. Her father had given her the silver cross for her First Holy Communion, claiming it would protect her from evil. Yet, Maggie couldn’t help remembering that his own identical cross had not saved him when he ran into that burning building. She often wondered if he had honestly believed it would protect him.

Since then Maggie had witnessed enough evil to know that a body armor of silver crosses would never be enough to protect her. Instead, she wore the medallion out of remembrance for her brave father. The medal against her chest dangled between her breasts and often felt as cool and hard as a knife blade. She let it remind her that there was a fine line between good and evil.

In the last nine years she had learned plenty about evil, its power to destroy completely, to leave behind empty shells that once were warm, breathing individuals. All those lessons were meant to train her to fight it, to control it, to eventually annihilate it. But in doing so, it was necessary to follow evil, to live as evil lives, to think as evil thinks. Was it possible that somewhere along the way evil had invaded her without her realizing it? Was that why she felt so much hatred, so much need for vengeance? Was that why she felt so hollow?

The doorbell rang, and again Maggie had her Smith & Wesson in her hand before she realized it. She tucked the revolver into what was becoming its regular spot, the back waistband of her jeans. Absentmindedly, she pulled down her T-shirt to conceal it.

She didn’t recognize the petite brunette standing on her front portico. Maggie’s eyes searched the street, the expanse between houses, the shadows created by trees and bushes before she moved to disarm the security system. She wasn’t sure what she expected. Did she honestly believe Albert Stucky would have followed her to her new house?

“Yes?” she asked, opening the door only wide enough to place her body in the space.

“Hi!” the woman said with a false cheerfulness.

Dressed in a black-and-white knit cardigan and matching skirt, she looked ready for an evening out. Her dark shoulder-length hair didn’t dare move in the breeze. Her makeup enhanced thin lips and concealed laugh lines. The diamond necklace, earrings and wedding ring were modest and tasteful, but Maggie recognized how expensive they were. Okay, so at least the woman wasn’t trying to sell anything. Still, Maggie waited while the woman’s eyes darted around her, hoping for a glimpse beyond the front door.

“I’m Susan Lyndell. I live next door.” She pointed to the split-timber house, only a corner of its front roof visible from Maggie’s portico.

“Hello, Ms. Lyndell.”

“Oh, please call me Susan.”

“I’m Maggie O’Dell.”

Maggie opened the door a few inches more and offered her hand, but stayed solidly in the doorway. Surely the woman didn’t expect an invitation inside. Then she caught her new neighbor glance toward her own house and back at the street. It was a nervous, anxious look, as though she was afraid of being seen.

“I saw you on Friday.” She sounded uncomfortable, and it was obvious she wasn’t here to welcome Maggie to the neighborhood. There was something else on her mind.

“Yes, I moved in on Friday.”

“Actually I didn’t see you move in,” she said, quick to make the distinction. “I mean at Rachel’s. I saw you at Rachel Endicott’s house.” The woman stepped closer and kept her voice soft and calm even though her hands were now gripping the hem of her cardigan.

“Oh.”

“I’m a friend of Rachel’s. I know that the police…” She stopped and glanced this time in both directions. “I know they’re saying Rachel may have just left on her own, but I don’t think she would do that.”

“Did you tell Detective Manx that?”

“Detective Manx?”

“He’s in charge of the investigation, Ms. Lyndell. I was simply there trying to lend a hand as a concerned neighbor.”

“But you’re with the FBI, right? I thought I heard someone say that.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t there in an official capacity. If you have any information, I suggest you talk to Detective Manx.”

All Maggie needed was to step on Manx’s toes again. Cunningham had already questioned her competency, her judgment. She wouldn’t let some prick like Manx make matters worse. However, Susan Lyndell didn’t seem pleased with Maggie’s advice. Instead, she stalled, fidgeting, her eyes darting around while she seemed to become more and more agitated.

“I know this is an awkward introduction, and I certainly apologize, but if I could just talk to you for a few minutes. May I come in?”

Her gut told her to send Susan Lyndell home, to insist she call the police and talk to Manx. Yet, for some reason she found herself letting the woman into her foyer, but no farther.

“I have a flight to catch later this afternoon,” Maggie allowed impatience to show in her voice. “As you can see I haven’t had time to unpack, let alone pack for a business trip.”

“Yes, I understand. It’s quite possible I’m simply being paranoid.”

“You don’t believe Ms. Endicott just left town for a couple of days? Maybe to get away?

Susan Lyndell’s eyes met Maggie’s and held her.

“I know there was something…something in the house that suggests Rachel didn’t do that.”

“Ms. Lyndell, I don’t know what you’ve heard—”

“It’s okay.” She stopped Maggie with a wave of a small hand, long slender fingers that reminded Maggie of a bird’s wing. “I know you can’t divulge anything you may have seen.” She fidgeted again, shifting her weight from one foot to another as though her high-heeled pumps were the cause of her discomfort. “Look, I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that it’s not routine for three police cruisers and the county medical examiner to come rescue an injured dog. Even if it belongs to the wife of Sidney Endicott.”

Maggie didn’t recognize the man’s name nor did she care. The less she knew about the Endicotts, the easier it would be to keep out of this case. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited. Susan Lyndell seemed to interpret it as having Maggie’s full attention.

“I think Rachel was meeting someone. I think this someone may have taken her against her will.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Rachel met a man last week.”

“What do you mean she met a man?”

“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. It’s not something she’s in the habit of doing.” She said this quickly, as if needing to justify her friend’s actions. “It just sort of happened. You know how that is.” She waited for some sign of agreement from Maggie. When there was none, she hurried on. “Rachel said there was this…well, she described the guy as wild and exciting. It was strictly a physical attraction. I’m sure she had no intention of ever leaving Sidney,” she added as though needing to convince herself.

“Ms. Endicott was having an affair?”

“Oh God, no, but I think she was tempted. As far as I know, it was just some heavy-duty flirting.”

“How do you know all this?”

Susan avoided Maggie’s eyes, pretending to watch outside the window.

“Rachel and I were friends.”

Maggie didn’t point out that Susan had suddenly switched to past tense. “How did she meet him?” she asked, instead.

“He’s been working in the area for the last week or so. On the phone lines. Something to do with new cable that’s going to be laid. I haven’t heard much about it. It seems like they’re constantly putting in something new and different in this area.”

“Why do think this man may have taken Rachel against her will?”

“It sounded like he was getting serious, trying to escalate their flirting. You know how guys like that can be. They really just want one thing. And for some reason they always seem to think us lonely, rich wives are more than ready to let them—” She stopped herself, realizing she may have revealed more than she intended. Immediately, she looked away, her face a bit flushed, and Maggie knew Susan Lyndell was no longer talking about her friend, but speaking from experience. “Well, let’s just say,” she continued, “that I have a hunch this guy wanted more from Rachel than she meant to give him.”

The image of the bedroom came to Maggie. Had Rachel Endicott invited a telephone repairman to her bedroom and then changed her mind?

“So you think she may have invited him in and that things got carried away?”

“Isn’t there something in the house that makes it look that way?”

Maggie hesitated. Were Susan Lyndell and Rachel Endicott really friends, or was Susan simply looking for some juicy gossip to share with the other neighbors?

Finally Maggie said, “Yes, there is something that makes it look like Rachel was taken from the house. That’s all I can tell you.”

Susan paled beneath the carefully applied makeup and leaned against the wall as though needing the support. This time, her response seemed genuine.

“I think you need to tell the police,” Maggie told her again.

“No,” she said quickly, and immediately her face grew scarlet. “I mean, I…I’m not even sure she met him. I wouldn’t want Rachel to get in trouble with Sid.”

“Then you need to at least tell them about the telephone repairman so they can question him. Have you seen him in the area?”

“Actually, I’ve never seen him. Just his van once—Northeastern Bell Telephone Company. I’d hate to have him lose his job because of my hunch.”

Maggie studied the woman who clutched and wrung the hem of her cardigan. Susan Lyndell didn’t care about some nameless repairman’s job.

“Then why are you telling me all this, Ms. Lyndell? What do you expect me to do?”

“I just thought…well…” She leaned against the wall again, and seemed flustered that she had no clue what she expected. Yet, she made a weak effort to continue. “You’re with the FBI. I thought maybe you could find out or do a check…you know, discreetly without…well, I guess I don’t know.”

Maggie let the silence hang between them as she examined the woman’s discomfort, her embarrassment.

“Rachel’s not the only one who’s flirted with a repairman, is she, Ms. Lyndell? Are you afraid of your husband finding out? Is that it?”

She didn’t need to answer. The anguished look in Susan Lyn-dell’s eyes told Maggie she was right. And she wondered if Ms. Lyndell would even call Detective Manx, though she promised to as she turned and left, hurrying away, her head pivoting with worried glances.