Death of the Family Recipe (A Scotti Fitzgerald Murder Mystery Book 3) (31 page)

While Eric remotely connected to my computer and poked around, I walked through the house, checking the locks on the doors and windows. The alarm was set and the house was secure. I peered through the windows to the rainy night outside, but everything seemed quiet.

Eric sighed over the phone. "Crap."

"What is it?"

"The IP address tracks back to an Internet café."

"So, you can’t get a name?"

"Right."

"What about the instant message handle? Nothing that way?"

I heard him tapping keys on the other end of the line. "Account is closed. Opened it about two hours ago and closed it just before you called me."

"I was afraid you’d say that." Anybody who had a few weeks of experience on the Internet knew the tricks of lurking behind hidden identities. And if they didn’t, there were thousands of websites happy to provide the information for free. "Did you check the handle for other accounts?"

"Yeah, I did, Scotti."

I sighed. "How could she just get into my chat like that?"

Eric tapped more keys. "It’s getting easier and easier. And I don’t want to freak you out, but we don’t know if it’s a woman."

My stomach dropped to my toes. "Thanks, that’s reassuring."

Eric grunted. "It’s probably some pimply teenager screwing around."

I stared at the screen. "I might agree with you, if she didn’t know I was pregnant and getting fatter every day. Or my husband’s name."

I heard Eric breathing deeply, which meant he was thinking. "You want us to come over? We could hang until Ted gets home."

I chuckled. "Ted won’t be home until tomorrow."

Zelda grabbed the phone. "We’re coming over."

"No, don’t. I’m okay. The house is locked up tight, and if I get really scared, Ted can send somebody from the shop. Besides, it’s New Year’s and I thought you were going to party."

"Meh, just me and Eric in our underwear."

In the background Eric yelled, "Zee!"

To him she said, "Pipe down lover boy." To me she said, "I don’t want you by yourself with some psycho cyber bitch hassling you."

"I’ve got Boomer and lots of kitchen knives. I’ll be fine."

"Scotti."

"You guys enjoy your New Year’s Eve underwear party, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow."

She blew out a dramatic sigh. "You’ll call if anything else happens?"

"I promise. Happy New Year, Zee."

For a while I stared at the conversation on my computer screen, feeling pretty sure it was Ingrid. But without proof, there was nothing I could do. Disgusted, I turned off the computer, then walked the house one more time, with Boomer on my heels. After I double and triple checked the locks and the alarm we settled on the sofa to watch some New Year’s Eve television.

Newscasts warned about drunk driving and DUI checkpoints throughout the city. On the broadcast and cable stations, several retrospectives on dead musicians ran, along with reruns of sitcoms, and a couple of Christmas movies. On the local stations, old movies that never should’ve been made ran. The DIY and cooking shows were all doing New Year’s Eve episodes, which only made me feel lonely. I switched off the set and tossed the remote on the coffee table.

Ted texted again saying he’d be home before midnight and to please wait up for him. That brightened my evening — but according to the clock on the mantle that was four hours away.

I wanted to call Ted about Bgirl257 but it would only worry him. And he was out on the road dodging drunk drivers and fender benders already. I’d tell him when he came home — maybe one of his IT guys could get further than Eric.

The wind kicked up outside, pounding the rain on the roof. Sounds that usually comforted me seemed threatening and scary. I either had to distract myself or call Zelda back to ask her to come over and babysit. I got off the sofa and went to the back room. I flipped on the overhead light and stood in the open doorway. The box of Rose’s things sat on the bed like a complacent lover — waiting.

"Here goes." I lifted the lid and peered inside, and caught the scent of old memories. I dumped the contents onto the bed. A small legacy for a person’s life — even a short life. A few photographs, a diary, a small book, a spiral notebook, postcards, a manila envelope, a pink silk scarf, and a video cassette tape.

I shuffled through the photographs. The first, a picture of Rose and my father Rory. He was quite handsome and reminded me of Ted — tall and lean with black hair and expressive eyes. Rose and I had similar tastes in men and that made me smile. But I couldn’t see Ted going for the rocker boy hair cut, or the leather jeans and vest. I put the photo aside for framing. Now, I had a photograph of both my parents.

The next photo was of Rose with a freckle-faced redhead — Kathy Morrissey, I assumed — laughing it up. Kathy had an interesting face, but beauty escaped her, especially next to Rose who seemed to shine from within. A couple more photos of Rose and Kathy followed: one of them in waitress uniforms, standing in front of a diner; the other of them dressed in tees and cutoffs, sitting on a porch stoop. Kind of like me and Zelda. It warmed my heart to know Rose had at least one good friend.

The last photo was a black and white shot of two little girls, blowing out candles on a birthday cake with a brunette woman behind them and smiling for the camera. I flipped it over and in cursive was written: Rose and Jennifer, 5
th
birthday. Jennifer and Rose were twins? "I’ll be damned." I rubbed my belly and chuckled. "I guess curly hair isn’t the only thing that runs in the family, huh kids?"

Rose and Jennifer were adorable as little girls, and I saw my two little ones bent over a birthday cake looking just as adorable. The woman behind them must’ve been my grandmother, Marsha. Jennifer favored her mother.

In the manila envelope I found: A birth certificate and two newspaper clippings. The name on the birth certificate was Kristine Anne McClellan, born on October 23, 1985, weighing six pounds, three ounces. The newspaper clippings were articles about my abduction — one I’d already read and another shorter follow-up article by the same writer. It was all so surreal — like I was watching a different me paw through Rose’s things. Kristine McClellan, aka Scotti Fitzgerald, was a week older than her official birth certificate stated. But Kristine McClellan didn’t exist anymore.

The diary was an old pink leather book with a lock that required one of those tiny keys. The flap that attached the lock had been sawed through, probably because the key had been lost. When I opened the book a folded, yellowed piece of paper fell out. I unfolded it carefully. A poem from Rory to Rose:

If I Were…

To write you a poem

I would write it

in a cerulean sky

I would send it

from the shadowed moon

I would hide it

among scattered stars

Shelter it in

sea-green eyes

And it would

spiral

toward the Sun

broadcast

as fractured

Light

and prism

in your

Dreams

Love always
,

Rory

The words made me cry — they must’ve wrecked Rose. I hated that I never knew them, but knowing how much in love they were comforted me.

The diary entries told me that Rose’s secret thoughts were just like other girls her age. Love, self image, work complaints, and distress over life in general. The last pages rambled about Rory. New love. Excitement. Infatuation. Hearts with initials inside. And then the entries ended.

There were a few postcards from Rory to Rose; quick I love you’s and I’ll be home soon, sent while on the road.

The spiral notebook was filled with scribbled recipes. I smiled at yet another link to Rose. There were a few I could add to my repertoire. Without knowing it, I’d carried forward a family tradition gifted to me by my mother. Her recipe for sour cream chocolate cupcakes included my secret ingredients. "I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh Mom?"

The video cassette tape wasn’t labeled, but I’d ask Eric to transfer it over to DVD. Chances were it was nothing, but we could try.

Inside the silk scarf I found an opal pendant on a gold chain, three tiny porcelain angels and a best friend’s necklace — the type with half-hearts that fit together. The angels I’d put in the nursery for my kids. The pendant and best friend necklace were now family heirlooms, and I put them on, vowing never to take them off.

The last item turned out to be a baby book. Letters glued to the front cover spelled Kristine. Just looking at it, hurt.

On the first page was a picture of an infant. Kristine Anne, October 23,1985, six pounds, three ounces. I was a pink, wrinkly thing, gnawing on my fist.

The next page held my hospital I.D. bracelet and one yellow baby bootie.

Six more pages held as many photographs — Rose holding me in the hospital, Rose and me being wheeled out of the hospital, Kathy Morrissey holding me while Rose looked on, Jennifer and me in a rocking chair, me asleep in a crib and last, a stern-faced blonde man burping me.

The rest of the pages were blank because Rose never had the chance to fill them. I didn’t realize I was crying until tears soaked into the blank page. I’d managed to get through everything else without losing it, but the unfinished baby book found that terrified little girl inside me and ripped her to shreds.

"Scotti?" Ted knelt in front of me. "Baby, what’s wrong?"

I held out the sad little baby book as though it would answer his question. He took me in his arms and held me as I sobbed. "It’s all right babe. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise."

But some things would never be all right — no matter how much he loved me.

While we waited out a rain storm, so Zelda could safely drive the food truck home, we gorged on grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken soup. Our clothes tumbled in the dryer and Zelda frowned at the baggy sweats I’d loaned her. "Don’t you have something that isn’t maternity clothes?"

I swatted her. "Those are pre-maternity clothes, wise-ass." I looked out the window to my under water backyard. "This storm isn’t letting up." I glanced back at her. "Better plan on staying for dinner — if not a sleep over."

Zelda hopped off her stool and came to the window. She looked out. "It’s not so bad." Then a giant finger of lightning arced across the sky followed by punch of thunder. Zelda jumped back. "Okay, dinner it is."

She helped me put together a pot of spaghetti sauce while informing me she expected a full platter of mozzarella sticks with dinner. After everything was prepped and simmering, we took a pot of hot chocolate back to my room.

Zelda paused in the doorway. "Whoa, this is so déjà vu."

"I know. Cool, huh?."

Zelda put the hot chocolate and cups on the table. "So what is this, your pouting room? Lock Teddy boy out when you have a fight?"

I pulled the box out of the closet and carried it to the table. "Mostly it’s where I do my Rose stuff." I elbowed her. "But you probably don’t want to sit on the bed."

Zelda rolled her eyes. "Yeah, thanks for that image." She stared at the box. "This everything?"

I nodded. "Yeah, the stuff from Jason and the files Joe gave me."

Zelda pulled everything out of the box and dove in. For a while, I watched her, then I went to the kitchen to check on the sauce and our clothes in the dryer. I reorganized the pantry and the walk-in. Made a list of everything we’d need to stock for the next day. Then I went back to the room and sat down again.

Zelda closed the files. "Didn’t you say the cop gave you his files too?"

"They’re at Joe’s."

Zelda frowned. "Why?"

"It made sense at the time."

Zelda slung her arm over the back of the chair. "Have you gone back to see your aunt?"

I shook my head. "Going through Rose’s things wrecked me." I blew out a sigh. "I don’t know what to do. I want to see Jennifer again, but I want to talk about this, and she doesn’t." I shrugged. "She said she’d call me."

Zelda nodded. "Maybe Jason will be a go-between. He’s a good guy, right?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, he is. But is it fair to get him tangled up in this? I can’t ask him to force Jennifer to tell me what I want to know. It’ll just screw things up for him and still not get me anywhere."

Zelda sighed, consulted her notes then frowned at me. "Can you talk about this without getting all weepy?"

I shrugged. "I can try."

She opened the file. "Did you look at the crime scene photos?"

I stared at the file and shook my head. "No. Do I need to?"

Zelda slid the file to the side. "No, I’ll just tell you what you need to know. If it gets to be too much, just stop me." I nodded. She blew out a reluctant breath. "Okay, what’s bugging me is the position of the body. According to the autopsy, Rose fell and hit her head on the dumpster? And that was the injury that killed her?"

I bit my lip. "Right."

She tapped her finger on the closed file. "But in the photos she’s about two feet away from the dumpster." Zelda furrowed her brow. "So, how does that work? Did she bounce off the damn thing?"