‘What about the woman who lives across the road – Dakota?’ he said. ‘Would it be okay if she entered the house with me?’
Howard was happy enough to go along with Parker’s suggestion, as long as either Dakota or Parker called her as soon as they’d taken a look inside. So Parker returned to Orchard Road, where Dakota was waiting in Lombardi’s yard, Janette Howard having called her in the interim to let her know that Parker had permission to enter the house. He wasn’t concerned as yet about contaminating a possible crime scene; Lombardi might well have gone away for a day or two, but equally she could have fallen, or been taken ill. Neither was he trespassing on private property, as he had the niece’s consent to enter. He pulled on a pair of gloves, just in case, and used Dakota’s key to open the front door.
The alarm didn’t sound: that was the first unusual thing Dakota noticed.
‘Maela always sets the alarm when she leaves,’ she said. ‘Shit.’
Dakota called Maela’s name, but there was no reply. Parker told her to stay by the door while he searched the house, and not to touch anything.
It didn’t take long to establish that it was empty. The beds were made, and the kitchen and bathroom were spotless. The bookshelves contained a lot of poetry and alternative lifestyle books, along with some feminist writing and various semi-mystical works – Carlos Castaneda, Robert Pirsig, Kahlil Gibran – but not much fiction. More books of a similar stripe stood piled on a packing chest that functioned as a coffee table in the living-cum-dining room, along with the most recent copy of the Maine Sunday Telegram, folded open to a puzzle page. Beside the newspaper were a pen and a pair of bifocals.
Dakota had not moved from her post by the door, but Parker could see her from where she stood, and she him. Her hands were deep in the pockets of her jeans, and she was hunched with anxiety.
‘Does her home always look this tidy?’ he asked.
‘Maela’s that kind of person.’
Parker looked at the spectacles again. Given her age, it wasn’t a surprise that Lombardi might require bifocals, and it indicated she wore spectacles when she drove.
‘I don’t suppose you’d know if Maela keeps a spare pair in her car for driving?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t. I guess, now that you mention it, she does wear them to drive, but I couldn’t say if she has a pair just for the car.’
Parker went back outside and checked the mailbox. It contained some junk mail, but nothing more. He returned to the house and went through it again, this time examining each room more closely. He wasn’t any wiser by the end of the process. Finally, he tried the answering machine on the home phone and listened to the voice messages. He heard two from Molly Bow, and a few hang-ups, which were his own earlier attempts to contact Lombardi, but that was all.
Dakota’s cell phone rang. She looked at the screen.
‘It’s her niece,’ she said.
‘You’d better answer it.’
‘What should I say?’
‘Tell her that her aunt’s not here, and I’ll come by to talk with her as soon as I can.’
Dakota did as Parker asked while he stood between the dining table and the kitchen arch, trying to find something, anything, that might give him cause for anxiety, but he didn’t know Maela Lombardi and so was unfamiliar with her ways. He could only take Dakota’s word that Lombardi maintained a pristine household, and he was wary about raising the alarm over nothing. Dakota claimed that she hadn’t seen Lombardi for a few days, but how often did such a period of time go by without one neighbor seeing another? It was hardly shocking. Likewise, the fact that Lombardi hadn’t informed her niece she was leaving town might just be because she hadn’t gone anywhere in particular. It wasn’t against the law for an elderly woman to head out for a time without alerting the army, navy, and National Guard. The alarm hadn’t been set, but maybe Lombardi was in a hurry when she left, and forgot to activate it.
And yet there was something off, because he could smell it: an odor, faint but unpleasant. It was strongest over by a big armchair that faced the television. Parker knelt, noticing a faint stain on the fabric of the chair, and another on the floor. He leaned closer. He sniffed. Someone had thrown up here, and recently. He touched a finger to one of the stains. It came back slightly damp.
So: older people were sometimes ill, just like younger ones. It didn’t mean much. Except Maela Lombardi kept a very neat home, and struck Parker as the kind of person who would have cleaned up better than this if she’d puked. It wasn’t enough to justify hitting the panic button, but it remained odd.
There appeared to be nothing more he could do. He thanked Dakota for her help, watched while she locked up – noting that she took the time to set the alarm – and returned to Janette Howard’s house. He sat at her kitchen table while her kids played computer games, and asked how often she spoke to her aunt.
‘Well, not every day,’ said Howard.
She sounded slightly guilty about this.
‘But you get on with her?’ said Parker.
‘Yes, mostly.’
Parker stepped carefully. He didn’t want to alienate the young woman.
‘I don’t mean to pry,’ he said.
‘Maela and I differ on certain issues,’ said Howard.
‘What kind of issues?’
‘Uh, she’s pretty liberal.’
‘On?’
‘Everything. Gay marriage, abortion. You know, social stuff.’
‘And you’re not.’
‘Nobody’s as liberal as Maela.’
‘So how often would the two of you speak?’
‘I call her once a week, or a little less than that, to make sure she’s doing okay.’
Parker realized he was back where he’d started: with no idea if Maela Lombardi was actually missing or not.
‘Has your aunt been ill lately?’
‘Maela?’ Howard laughed. ‘She’s healthy as a horse. Why?’
‘It smelled like someone might have been sick in the house – not very much, but enough to leave an odor and a couple of stains.’
‘That’s not like Maela, although I’m not sure she’d even admit if she was feeling unwell. She’ll probably still be trying to make out everything’s fine when they’re putting her in a pine box.’
Howard realized what she’d said and looked ashamed.
‘God,’ she said. ‘Now should I call the police?’
‘She’s an elderly woman. It can’t hurt.’
Howard didn’t look enthused at the prospect, but then few people ever did.
‘Maela has a poor opinion of the police,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘She’s countercultural. If I call the cops, then she’d better be missing. If she’s just left for the movies and dinner, she’s going to be seriously pissed when she gets back.’
61
Daniel Weaver crouched by his bedroom door, listening to his mom and Grandpa Owen arguing. Since they often argued, mostly about small stuff, Daniel had grown used to their raised voices as a kind of background noise to his existence. Both his mother and Grandpa Owen lived their lives with the volume turned up. His mother claimed that a lifetime spent in trucks had made Grandpa Owen deaf to reason, so she had no choice but to shout at him. Grandpa Owen liked to respond that at least he had an excuse.
On this occasion, their back-and-forth had a different tone, which was what had drawn Daniel to eavesdrop. He had already learned that if adults were trying to keep their voices down, there might be something worth hearing.
‘I did as you said.’ It was Grandpa Owen speaking. ‘I gave you time to think, but this isn’t going away. The longer it continues, the less likely we are to get a fair hearing.’
‘They’ll take him from me.’ Daniel had to strain to pick up his mother’s words.
‘We’ll hire a good attorney.’
‘With what? Are lawyers accepting coupons now?’
‘I got a little left in the bank. And there’s the rig.’
Silence.
‘You can’t sell the rig.’
‘I’m tired. I can’t handle the long hauls anymore. There’s still money in her – not as much as I’d like, but some.’
Dishes being stored away, the jangle of the silverware drawer.
‘We should have been honest from the start.’