A Matter of Mercy (26 page)

“I’ll get ’em,” she called back. “Lizzie wants out anyway.”

She ran out without zipping her jacket or bothering with gloves, Lizzie bounding ahead as soon as she’d squatted, circling the truck several times for the exultation of running in the snow. “Glad
you’re
so happy,” Caroline muttered, since snow was getting into her shoes. She climbed into the passenger side of the truck, leaving the door ajar, and got into the glove box. Rid appeared to have guessed right. There were multiple receipts in there. Caroline pulled them out and started checking them. December gas. December gas. December coffee but no gas—she crumpled that one and stuck it in the litter bag Rid had hanging from the lighter. December gas. A receipt-sized piece of paper with
what
? Terry DiPaulo, 290 Bradford Street, Provincetown. Caroline hadn’t even known that much.

Her body didn’t feel right. She’d forgotten to breathe. Her head was either too full of blood, or it had all drained. She felt as if she’d been punched. What was Rid doing with Terry’s name and address? Were they colluding? Noelle’s questioning look when Caroline mentioned that nothing had happened to her since she’d moved to Rid’s came back to her suddenly.

Caroline felt the baby move, and this time she knew it was the baby moving, and she also knew she was going to be sick. She put her head between her legs to try to fight off the nausea.
Calm down
, she told herself.
Calm down. Breathe. Think.

She put everything but the December gas slips back in the glove box. Fear, fear and the earth shifting from beneath her feet. She wouldn’t let Rid know what she’d discovered. She’d been safer here than she’d been at home.

“Come on, Lizzie,” she called when she’d formulated the first step of a plan. “Let’s get on in.”

* * * * 

Caroline waited until the next day when Rid left the house to make the call to the library. She’d stayed away since before Christmas, when Terry had fortuitously not been there, and now that she was at Rid’s, she’d been plain busier, which helped. She was fairly sure she’d recognize Terry’s voice, but it was library practice for personnel to identify themselves when answering the phone, so she wouldn’t have to rely on her discernment ability. It was a volunteer who answered anyway, which made things much easier.

“Is Terry DiPaulo working today?” she inquired. She was perched on the arm of Rid’s recliner, using the phone in the living room so she could keep watch out the window in case Rid’s truck unexpectedly pulled back in the driveway. She’d given him a fifteen minute head start, though, and usually when he’d forgotten something he was back within two or three minutes.

“No, she won’t be in until tomorrow at ten,” the volunteer answered. “Can someone else help you?”

“Oh, no, thank you. Terry has been helping me with some research, so I’ll just come in tomorrow. Thanks so much.”

“May I tell her who called?”

“No thanks, it’s not necessary. I’ll come by tomorrow to see her. Thanks again.” And then Caroline quickly hung up, before the library volunteer could persist in her efficiency. Frustrated, she went back to work on the books. She hadn’t wanted to wait another day. It would wear her out later to make small talk and dinner, do dishes and the all other chores
with
Rid, and then to plan who would do what the rest of the evening and tomorrow, all as if she trusted him.

* * * * 

“I’ll be takin’ a couple hours off this mornin’, Mr. Slave Driver,” Caroline said at breakfast. “And I don’t expect my paycheck to be no different, y’hear?”

Rid put down the
Cape Cod Times
, took a long draw of coffee and answered in a manufactured drawl. A pale winter sun buttered a swath of the kitchen table and they’d sat an extra fifteen minutes over breakfast enjoying this light that ended a tunnel of gray days. “Why I reckon I shore do, Miss CiCi. I’ll be deductin’ nuttin from nuttin and you’ll continue to draw nuttin. I trust that’ll be acceptable.”

“Perfectly.”

“So where ya be goin’?”

“The Truro library, then to finally get myself a cell phone and get it activated—a revolutionary idea, I realize. I thought I’d look in the thrift shop for some extra maternity clothes—junkier than what Noelle and I got—just for getting dirty, I guess. And lastly, I thought I’d see if I could get a haircut. Or at least find out when I can, if she can’t do it today.” What she really intended to do was go to the library and to get a cell phone. But she wanted time she didn’t have to account for. Just in case. Not that she thought Terry would tell her outright, but she might say
something
, or it would show on her face: a blush, averted eyes, guilt. Something to give it away that she and Rid were conspiring.

When she was leaving, Rid followed her down the hall to embrace her from behind, saying, “Hey, drive safe, OK?” Rather than turning around, she responded by nuzzling her cheek into the nook of his shoulder and arm and caressing the arm that crossed beneath her breasts. “Hurry back,” he said.

“I’ll be awhile,” she said, “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.” She tilted her head up to answer him, an oblique angle that avoided his eyes.

Chapter 25

Terry was three times warned. Once by the library volunteer (dying to be hired on) who mentioned that a woman had called for her yesterday “about the research you’ve been helping her with. I told her you’d be in today.” It had been a couple of weeks since CiCi had been flying her “journalist” kite around the library, just long enough that Terry actually had to take a couple of seconds to figure out what Miss Efficient Volunteer was talking about.

“That’s fine,” she said, covering smoothly. “I’m aware of exactly what she wants,” she said, although she wasn’t at all. She’d hoped it would be as easy as Cousin Whacko bragged. She’d taken two days off after she discovered Caroline’s identity, called Boo, gathered her composure and gone back to work, steeled. The steel turned out to be unnecessary. It seemed Boo
had
taken care of it already when Terry didn’t see Caroline again. But Boo said no, CiCi was just laying low, still Terry shouldn’t worry at all; he had a good bead on the woman who’d killed her son, and he didn’t aim to let her out of his sight.

She’d been informed that CiCi was pregnant. Boo had learned that from the phone tap, and then he’d found a stuffed animal on CiCi’s porch with a tag that said “For Baby’s First Christmas.” He’d gone to fetch material to disfigure it, which he thought poetically perfect. A knife and matches were in his truck, hidden a fair hike away. When he crept back up on the house, CiCi—or someone—had left enough evidence to tell Boo the house had been entered, the bag taken, and the house abandoned again. He’d had to content himself with the notes and toast thing he’d planned all along. Still, knowledge of the ongoing pregnancy allowed Terry to plan a greeting that would give her the edge.

Her third warning was easy. Terry literally watched for her. It was simple to manipulate Rhonda into letting her work the front desk, and from there she had a clear view of the parking lot from the windows behind it. She wasn’t going to be caught in any heart-pounding unpreparedness. She touched the gold angel on the collar of her blouse. By chance, she’d worn a severe outfit that day, a starched white blouse tucked into a belted charcoal black skirt, off-black stockings, black heels. A black boiled wool jacket. When she looked in the full-length mirror before she left the house, she’d considered adding a colorful scarf, but shrugged and let the clothes match her mood.

Now, as she saw Caroline’s profile emerge from a salt-grayed Honda, her own crisp all-business attire pleased her. Caroline was wearing jeans, oversize boots, and a puffy jacket that was managing to look too big and too small at once. Not exactly a powerful look. Rather a pathetic one, in fact, and faintly ridiculous. If you knew she was pregnant, you could tell now, too. Otherwise she might have passed herself off as big-boobed, thick-waisted, out-of shape, that awkward stage of pregnancy when no one dares ask if you are. CiCi crossed the heavily treated parking lot. The ice beneath the plowed-off snow had turned to slush, and she, like everyone, picked her way. The day was bone-cold, dank, silted-over.

Terry gave the angel pin a furtive caress, straightened her shoulders, and neatened her hair with her hands. She asked Miss Efficient Volunteer to cover the check-out counter for her “long enough for me to get this order finished,” moistened her lips with her tongue, and pretended to busy herself at a corner desk with some
Library Journal
and
Booklist
reviews she’d been checking against
Publisher’s Weekly
to help her decide on the month’s acquisitions, yet another task Rhonda had delegated to her. She didn’t allow herself to look up when Caroline entered the building, looked around and failed to notice her (as Terry had hoped) and been forced to ask for her at the front desk.

Miss E. V. was even better than Terry expected. Like a little sergeant, she’d even refused to point Terry out to Caroline, but had taken her name and asked her to wait. She herself had come over to Terry, something Rhonda would never have respected Terry enough to do, stood there in her denim jumper, white Oxford cloth button down shirt—the woman absolutely must have gone to Mount Holyoke—clog shoes and ponytail, and said, “There’s someone here to see you named CiCi Marcum. She says she’s a journalist and you’ve been helping her with research, but she doesn’t have an appointment. I told her you were working on an acquisitions order and were busy right now. Would you like to see her, or would you like her to make an appointment for another time?” It occurred to Terry right then to hope that Susan’s degree in
something
wasn’t in Library Science. Rhonda could be waiting for Terry herself (who hadn’t yet started on the degree!) to slip up so she had an excuse to give Susan the staff job. On the other hand, if Miss E. V. had a degree in Library Science and was on the payroll, how long would it be until she was escorting Rhonda herself out the door?
Never mind, no danger of Susan collecting any paychecks here unless she tore it out of Rhonda’s cold dead hand
. Rhonda only encouraged Terry because she knew Terry was without ambition or design on Rhonda’s job. Anyone paying the smallest attention could smell both on Miss E.V., like cologne applied with a heavy hand.

“Susan, I really appreciate how you handled that. It was perfect. In this case, I’ll go ahead and talk to her briefly now. You can bring her over.”

A moment later, Susan reappeared with a sheepish-looking CiCi two steps behind. Terry kept her head down, writing a title into the distributor’s order form (something she’d have to redo on the computer). She kept them both standing there waiting, then looked up as if slightly startled. She gave Susan a professional nod. “Thanks, Susan,” she said warmly, so she could cool her tone down a noticeable notch when she spoke to CiCi.

“I’ll keep the front covered,” Susan said, and left. Terry sat, surrounded by papers, letting CiCi continue to stand a couple of feet back from the table.

Terry had scripted her part. She looked at CiCi quizzically with a small hint of ambiguous smile on her face, and said nothing.

CiCi broke easily. “Hi Terry, how have you been? I hope you don’t mind my coming by—I didn’t realize I should have an appointment now. Things—or you—must have gotten a lot busier.” Terry thought CiCi had a flush starting on her neck. She needed a haircut, and her highlights were grown out a good two inches, which finished the disheveled look started by the coat and boots.

Here Terry inserted a noncommittal noise that would have sounded like “hmmm,” only she altered it toward “mmmm” making it suggest an affirmative.

“I’m, ah, I’m still working on that piece for
Cape Cod Life
on aquaculture. The reason I haven’t been in here is so long is that I’ve been working with one particular aquaculturist who’s involved in the law suit brought by the upland owner on Indian Neck. You know, Pissario?”

Terry gave her another “mmmm.” Now she literally saw CiCi break a sweat. At least there was sheen on her face. She deliberately warmed her tone a bit more. “How about taking off your coat—it’s warm in here—sit down, and tell me what you’re interested in.”

Hook, line, sinker. CiCi unzipped the jacked and slipped it off almost simultaneously with sliding into the chair catty-corner to Terry’s.

“I see those books were for you after all.” She kept her tone absolutely neutral, giving no clue.

It was a sucker punch, no doubt. CiCi either had no idea or pretended not to know what she was talking about. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure…?” she stammered.

“The books on pregnancy that you said were for a friend.” Five long seconds of silence left to purposely give the lie to what she’ll say next: “Congratulations.”

“Terry, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, that’s why I—”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s none of my business. Now, what was your research question?”

“I just feel badly that I misled….”

Terry was glad that CiCi was wading in deeper now. It was as good as holy water washing away any guilt she might have felt.

CiCi swallowed and, Terry saw her struggle to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Terry,” she said.
For what you’ve done, or for what you’re trying to do?
Terry wondered if her thoughts could wave across the table, like laps of incoming tide in an onshore wind.

“So, you were saying, you’ve been working with…?”

“Uh, yes, an aquaculturist from Indian Neck. I’ve interviewed him, observed, you know, actually gotten to see him work his grant, even gotten a bit of hands-on experience rather than all library research. You know, primary research of a different sort?”

She was stammering, over-explaining, and Terry knew the blank Caroline left was for her to insert some words of agreement or at least interest, but she left the blank empty, forcing her to plunge on awkwardly.

“So, ah, now I’m wondering if you can help me get some background on him from other sources. For one, do you know him personally? I mean you know most everyone, I’ve found. His name is Ridley Neal. Rid, people call him.”

“I don’t believe I know anyone from the Indian Neck area. The name’s not familiar to me. But if you say he’s befriended you, does it seem a bit ungrateful to go behind his back like this?”

CiCi blinked and put up her hand to signal
stop
. “Oh no, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Why can’t you just ask him what you want to know?” Putting it to her hard, staring her down.

“I thought you might know him, and give me a, you know, different perspective. Journalists always try to get multiple perspectives.”

“I guess you’re right. I really have no idea what you
journalists
do to get a story.” The faintest emphasis on ’journalists,’ tossing back CiCi’s flaming lie. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. I guess you could try one of the search engines. I presume you already tried the local paper archives and such. All the obvious places, I mean.”

“I’ll do that.” Caroline stood, picked up her jacket, settled her purse over her arm and was backing away from the table. “Thanks, Terry. I can see you’re busy today. I hope I didn’t distract you too much.” She brushed her hair off her forehead. She still looked overheated and uncomfortable.

“No problem. Oh, and good luck with your pregnancy!” Her parting salvo, shot after an extra five second pause during which Terry faked renewed involvement with her paperwork, making a show that her raised head and response were an afterthought.

Surreptitiously, she watched Caroline use a computer for all of four or five minutes, take a few notes, and leave the building. Later, she checked the history and found she’d been looking up hatcheries in Maine on the Internet. Terry had accomplished exactly what she’d wanted—she’d made CiCi feel terribly uncomfortable, even guilty without having any notion as to how or why it was happening or any way to guess that Terry was on to her, so it made no sense that after CiCi left, she went to the staff bathroom, locked the door, and cried.