“Where?”
Charlotte blinked several times, trying to recall. “It was on Laurelton Court. A two-story, three baths, double-car garage. I didn’t have the listing, but I drove by, you know, because I like to be aware of the houses in Milford that are on the market, and they were having this sale. I saw that typewriter and knew instantly that you’d like it.” She paused. “I sure called that wrong.”
“Could you find the house again?”
Charlotte gave him a “ seriously?” look.
“We need to talk to those people,” Paul said.
“Why? Why does it matter where it came from? It’s just a fucking typewriter! Paul, honestly, you’re scaring me.”
“I need to know who else has used it. I need to know who has used this machine.”
“Hundreds of people could have used it,” Charlotte said. “Please, tell me what you’re thinking?”
“Read it again.”
“What?”
“Go on. Read it again.”
He led her back to the small room, grabbed the sheet of paper by the top, and ripped it out of the typewriter. “Just read it.”
“I’ve read it.”
Paul read it aloud: “‘We typed our apologies like we were asked but it didn’t make any difference.’ That doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“Paul, I swear.”
“That’s what Kenneth made them do. Before he killed them. Before he killed those two women.”
Charlotte stared at him blankly for several seconds, then back to the page in his hand. “This is insane.”
“No kidding. You think I don’t feel nuts even suggesting it?”
“And what the hell are you suggesting?”
He shot her “ seriously?” look right back at her.
Charlotte said, “Hang on, let me try to get my head around what I think you’re saying. You believe those women are sending you a message? Through this typewriter? Paul, listen to yourself.”
Paul hesitated. “Look, I know it sounds ridiculous. But what if this . . . what if this is the very same typewriter those apologies were written on?”
“But how could that typewriter end up in a yard sale? Wouldn’t the police have it? Wouldn’t it be in evidence?”
Paul thought about that. “That’s a good question. You’d think it would be. I honestly don’t know. It was days later that I remembered Kenneth putting something in that Dumpster. The police might never have found it. Maybe someone else did.”
“Okay, so maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t the actual typewriter. Regardless, how do you explain this?” She took the sheet of paper from his hand and waved it in front of his face.
“I don’t know.” He thought a moment. “I’m going to call that woman.”
“What woman?”
Paul edged around her, sat in his cheap office chair, and fired up his laptop. “The reporter who wrote the story. I can’t remember her name. She wrote a feature with lots of details about the case. It was the first thing I read when I decided to throw myself back into this.”
He tapped away on the keyboard, scrolled down through the results of a search. “Here it is. Here’s the story. Gwen Stainton. She’s the one. At the New Haven Star. She seemed to know more about this case than anyone else.”
Paul executed a few more keystrokes. “Okay, here’s the Star staff list . . . hang on. Yeah, Stainton. I’ll send her an email.” As he typed, he read his message aloud. “Dear Ms. Stainton, I have read with interest all your stories about the Kenneth Hoffman case, and I have one question. What happened to the typewriter on which the apologies were written? Do the police have it? If you know the answer, I’d be most grateful if you could tell me. If not, please pass along the name of someone who might know.”
He turned and looked at Charlotte. “How does that sound?”
Hesitantly, she said, “Fine, I guess.”
“What? You don’t sound like you mean it.”
“I’m worried about you.”
He pointed to the typewriter. “I have to know more. You get that, right?”
Charlotte glanced down at the typewritten sheet she was still holding, dropped it on the desk, and looked back at her husband. “Go ahead and send it, I don’t care. I’ve got to get ready for work.”
She slipped out of the room as Paul turned his attention back to the laptop. He moved the cursor over the SEND button and clicked.
The email to Gwen Stainton vanished from the screen with a whoosh.
“Okay,” he said to himself.
His eyes moved to the antique Underwood. He stared at it for several seconds, then took a fresh, blank sheet from the nearby printer and rolled it into the typewriter, positioning it just as he had the other piece.
“Just in case you have anything else you want to say,” he whispered.
Twenty-Four
I’ll drive you to work,” Paul said when Charlotte had returned to the kitchen to make herself some breakfast. He had already run upstairs and quickly dressed so that he’d be ready to leave when she was.
“I need a car in case—”
“No, listen, I want to see if we can find the house where you got the typewriter.”
Charlotte appeared to wilt. “Paul, listen to yourself.”
“I just want to talk to them. The people who had the yard sale. Ask them where it came from, how they got it. Look, if they’ve had it for fifty years, fine. But if they got in the last eight months, then there’s a chance—”
“I need my car,” she repeated.
“Okay, fine. We’ll take your car, and I’ll grab a cab home from your office.”
“You think we could get a coffee along the way?”
Paul sighed. “Fine.”
Before she descended the stairs, she looked into his study. “You rolled in another sheet of paper.”
“Yes.”
She began to move in that direction. “You really think—”
He took her arm. “Come on, let’s go.”
As Charlotte got behind the wheel, she dug her phone from her purse. “I don’t know how this is going to go, so let me call the office and tell them I might be a bit late.”
“Good idea,” Paul said, getting in on the passenger side.
She tapped a number, put the phone to her ear. “Yeah, hi, it’s Charlotte. Look, uh, Paul and I are running a couple of errands this morning so it’s probably going to be around nine-thirty before I get in.” She nodded to whomever was on the other end, then said, “Yeah, sure, the file’s on my desk. See you in a bit.” She returned the phone to her purse. “Okay, let’s do this. And don’t forget, you promised me coffee.”
Charlotte headed out of the neighborhood, and when she reached New Haven Avenue, she hung a right. Up ahead was a Dunkin’ Donuts. She wheeled into the parking lot and said, “You’re buying.”
Paul went into the store and returned with two paper cups of coffee. She took a sip of hers, then put it into the cup holder between the seats. She keyed the ignition, backed out of the parking spot, and they were off.
She drove confidently back through the downtown Common, then a series of rights and lefts until they had reached Laurelton Court.
“It’s a dead-end street,” she said. “An attractive feature if you’re selling or buying. Minimum traffic. No one uses your street as a shortcut.”
She brought the car to a stop out front of a house with a SOLD real estate sign out front.
“This is it,” she said.
Paul had the door open before she had the car in park.
“God, slow down—”
He was already out of the car, heading for the front door. He rapped on it hard before he’d even looked for a doorbell button. When he spotted that, he jammed it with his index finger.
Charlotte wore a worried expression as she watched from the car. She reached for the coffee and took another sip.
Paul knocked on the door again. And for a second time, he rang the bell. No one came to the door. Charlotte watched as he peered through the window in the door, using his hands as a visor to get a better look. His shoulders slumped. He turned and walked slowly back to the car.
“What?” Charlotte asked as he settled into the passenger seat.
“I looked inside. The house is empty. Cleared out. Not a stick of furniture. They’re gone.”
Charlotte gave him a sympathetic look. “Sorry.”
“You could find out, right?” he said.