Identity (50 page)

“Can I help you?” she asked sweetly.

“I’m here to see Marnie Frasier. I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment. My name’s Fina Ludlow.”

“One moment.” She dialed the phone and had a brief conversation. “She’s available.”

Fina followed her through a succession of narrow hallways, but rather than feeling cramped, the space felt cozy. Marnie’s office was on the first floor, with large windows overlooking the Cambridge Common. Wood was stacked in the unlit fireplace, and the floor was covered by an Oriental rug. Marnie sat behind a large desk, but directed Fina to a seating area next to the fireplace. The office was tidy but lived-in, with plants on various surfaces and framed prints showing Cambridge in the good old days.

“I’m sorry for dropping in unannounced,” Fina said.

Marnie sat down in a club chair next to her and rotated her wrists. “No, it’s good. I’m working on some budget stuff, and I could use the break.” She plucked a piece of lint off her black pants.

“I’m interested in getting your nonscientific opinion on something.”

“All of my opinions are nonscientific,” Marnie said, smiling. “What’s on your mind?”

“You’ve always been pretty involved with the SMC group, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you have any sense that the offspring have a lot of allergies or incidences of asthma?”

“Well, Jess has allergies, as you know, and Alexa has them.” Marnie gazed out the window, thinking. “I know of a few others, but I don’t think the occurrence is any more frequent than the general population. Why?”

Fina shook her head. “I’m not sure. Since you don’t suffer from allergies, did you assume when she first developed them that Jess’s donor did?”

“That’s what her doctor thought.” Her fingers played with a small button at the neck of her lilac cardigan sweater. “There isn’t a definitive genetic link between parents and kids when it comes to allergies, but my understanding is that there is some predisposition if one of your parents suffers from them.”

“But Rosie and Tyler don’t.”

“No, but that doesn’t mean that Hank didn’t.”

“No, in fact, I know he had seasonal allergies. But that wasn’t disclosed in the donor history, right?”

“No. Even nowadays I don’t think they run allergy tests.”

“When you selected your donor you got a medical history from the cryobank that included test results?”

“That’s right.”

Fina rubbed her temple. The discomfort from the attack had subsided, but she felt like something else was brewing in her brain.

“How did you know it was accurate?” she asked after a minute.

“What do you mean?” Marnie asked, looking puzzled. She brushed a stray hair from her face.

“The report and the history.”

Marnie considered that for a moment. “I didn’t. No more than you know the tests from your doctor’s office are accurate. When you get your cholesterol tested, do you ask for a retest?”

“No, but that sounds like something my father would do. Send any unacceptable results back for reconsideration.”

“I did have a friend who was a doctor review the report for me at the time. He thought everything looked straightforward.”

Fina didn’t say anything.

“Should I be worried about something?” Marnie asked.

“No. It’s all good. It’s all history, anyway.”

“Okay.” Marnie didn’t sound convinced.

“Seriously.” Fina stood and walked to the door. “I bet this office is really cozy in the winter.”

“It is. I build a fire. Have some cocoa. Watch the snow fall on the Common.”

“It must make winter more palatable.”

“It does.” Marnie took a seat behind her desk. “You’ll let me know if you learn something relevant?”

“Of course. Thanks for seeing me.”

Outside, Fina walked over the uneven brick sidewalk back to her car.

She felt like a kid the week before Christmas, full of excitement and energy without a clear sense of what was really coming.

•   •   •

Fina had missed the appointed dinner hour at Frank and Peg’s, but she had no trouble pulling together her version of dinner in their kitchen.

“I don’t think Peg would approve,” Frank commented. He was sitting in his chair in the living room, the local cable news station on in the background.

Fina dipped a spoon into a bowl of Brigham’s chocolate chip ice cream, which she’d smothered in hot fudge sauce and whipped cream from a can.

“Well,
I’m
not going to tell her. Are you?” she asked. Peg volunteered a few nights a month at a low-income health clinic a couple of towns over, which explained her absence.

“I don’t like having to hear about your escapades from a third party,” Frank said, looking at her head.

“I knew you wouldn’t be pleased. I was trying to avoid your disapproval.”

“That’s a very mature approach.”

“Who told you about it, anyway?” She ate a spoonful.

“Scotty. He called me to ask about an old case.”

Fina sighed. “Well, Frank, I don’t know what to tell you.”

They turned their attention to the news and a story about a drunk driver who killed two people while driving the wrong way on the highway. The driver had walked away without a scratch.

“Why do the drunks always survive?” Fina wondered.

“I’ve heard it’s because they’re relaxed. They don’t tense up before the moment of impact, but don’t quote me on that.”

They watched stories about a fire in an ice-cream parlor, and then one about a local boy trying to break the Guinness World Record for the largest ball of plastic wrap, and then Danielle Reardon’s face popped up on the screen.

“Can you turn it up a notch?” Fina asked.

“Is that the widow?” Frank asked.

“Yup.” The story described Hank’s tragic death and the charity that he and Danielle had been working to establish for almost a year. According to Danielle, it would now serve as a tribute to Hank’s commitment to the community, aptly called Hank’s House. Danielle didn’t seem completely at ease during the segment, but she did a good job of pitching the cause and certainly appeared sympathetic.

Fina finished her ice cream, brought the bowl out to the kitchen, and stacked it in the dishwasher. Back in the living room, she perused the family photos proudly displayed on the wall. There were photos of
Frank and Peg and their two sons in a variety of settings, as well as snaps with members of the extended Gillis family.

“Have I seen this one before?” Fina asked Frank, pointing at an eight-by-ten photo of a new baby nestled on a blanket. He—she guessed it was a he—looked like a tiny old man: wizened skin, sparse hair, grumpy expression.

“That’s our niece’s new baby, Oliver.”

“He looks adorable but angry.”

“He’s two weeks old. He has a lot on his mind.”

“Apparently.”

Fina stayed through the end of the newscast and gave Peg a quick hug when they passed at the front door, taking a rain check on a longer visit.

Fina needed to go home, stare out the window, and think.

•   •   •

Back at Nanny’s, she checked her messages and e-mail before going to bed. Theresa McGovern had left another message, which Fina returned, but the game of phone tag continued. A quick scroll through her e-mail didn’t produce much of interest until she got to one from Greta Samuels. She wanted Fina to pass it on to Risa, and it rivaled
War and Peace
in its length and drama. By the end she was skimming it, irked by Greta’s bid for kinship and a close familial relationship. Wasn’t this exactly what she’d told her not to do? Did the woman ever listen?

Fina pulled up a map program and entered Greta’s address. It estimated a one-hour-and-seven-minute drive to Rockford, Maine. If it were another client, Fina would be willing to let things play out, but Risa wasn’t just any client. She was a friend, and there was something fishy about Greta Samuels even if her DNA matched.

Fina slept most of the weekend and climbed into her car on Monday morning with renewed energy. After grabbing a hot chocolate and chocolate croissant from the café around the corner, she set off at seven. She had forgotten how great it felt to get in the car and just drive. Confident that Haley was being looked after, Fina could relax and watch the scenery go by. She had the radio turned low and let her thoughts drift from one place to the next. This was often how cases got solved, by allowing her subconscious to take over. People didn’t generally think of detectives—private or police—as being creative thinkers, but they were and had to be. Wearing a rut in the same thought processes and being unwilling to let your mind roam free were guaranteed to get you nowhere fast in an investigation.

The town of Rockford, Maine, wasn’t especially memorable. There was a small town center that consisted of a gas station, a mom-and-pop grocery store, a volunteer fire station, and a smattering of small businesses in renovated houses. The streets didn’t have sidewalks, just pavement that crumbled into gravel and dirt and overgrown bushes. Fina crossed a small river where two men dangled fishing rods into the water. The people out weren’t in any hurry; Rockford seemed to run on its own time, and Fina wondered how the residents spent that time. She got a clue as she drove farther out from the center and spotted large
satellite dishes on the smattering of houses. A mile out, the houses sparsely dotted the landscape and the driveways were longer. Most of them were small, with piles of stacked wood in yards sheltered by towering trees.

After a couple of wrong turns, Fina drove up to 37 Beech Creek Drive and turned off the engine. It was eight thirty, and there were no signs of life. The house was painted a light minty green with white shutters and front porch. It was two stories, but the upper story was topped with a slanted roof and no dormers; it looked more like an attic with windows than inhabitable space. The front grass was yellowing, and tall pine trees lined the property. Uneven pavers created a path to the porch, and upon closer inspection, Fina could see that the white paint on the shutters and porch was flaking and peeling. The house didn’t look run-down, but it could use a little TLC.

Fina rang the doorbell and tried to peek through the glass panel in the door, which was covered with a lacy curtain. She could see movement and shadows and was about to ring the bell again when the door was pulled open. A woman looked at her blankly. She was short, and not overweight, but bloated-looking. Her hair was gray and reminded Fina of Nanny’s hair, which she had set once a week at the hair salon. She was wearing pants and a shirt with a flowered pattern, topped with a gray cardigan. Her most striking feature was the slightly yellow tinge of her dry skin. Fina studied her with a growing sense of unease.

“Yes?” the woman asked.

“Greta?”

The woman looked behind Fina as if looking for some kind of backup.

“Yes. Didn’t you see the sign?” She pointed at a
NO SOLICITORS
sign hanging in a window near the door.

“I’m not selling anything.”

“This isn’t a good time. I’m on my way out,” Greta said, and stepped back into the house.

“I’m Fina Ludlow. Risa’s friend.”

Greta’s mouth formed a silent O, and she stared at her shoes. She started to close the door on Fina.

What the hell was going on?

•   •   •

Juliana stared at the racks of designer clothes in her closet. She always took care with her appearance, but today felt different. One of the lessons she’d gleaned from her triathlon training was the importance of focus and stamina. It wasn’t always the fastest athlete who won the race but the one who wouldn’t give up, who moved through the pain—embraced it, even—to triumph on the other side. She was adopting this approach in her training, and it occurred to her that she needed to do the same in her life.

Danielle was making a play, but Juliana had time on her side. Her long marriage to Hank and her charitable activities would stand the test of time, whereas Danielle would soon be written off as a footnote, the young wife Hank would have divorced eventually. She’d remarry, find some other old sap to use, and in a few years, she might not even be Danielle Reardon anymore.

Juliana could wait. She could persevere. She had to keep her head down and focus on the work, which was why she was moving forward with the center’s expansion plans. Jules had hinted that the money was there, and if it wasn’t, Juliana would find it somewhere else.

She chose a fitted black dress, high heels, a butter-soft leather jacket, and a voluminous designer purse. Examining herself in the mirror, Juliana was pleased. She looked strong and powerful, like a woman with a plan. Her vision would come to fruition. There was no other possible outcome.

•   •   •

“Greta!” Fina pressed her palm against the door. “What is going on?”

“I told you, Fina. I’m on my way out. It’s not a good time.”

“Uh-uh. I drove up here to talk to you, and I’m not leaving until I do.”

Greta’s shoulders slumped, and she released the door. She walked slowly through the modest house to a kitchen at the back. The floor was covered in yellow speckled linoleum, and the white wooden cabinets had forged-iron knobs and pulls. The appliances were dated, and even the microwave looked like it hailed from the 1980s. Beneath the wall-mounted mustard yellow phone, a calendar was held up by a thumbtack. It advertised a local insurance company and featured a photo of a covered bridge surrounded by glorious foliage. The front of the refrigerator was bare except for a schedule from the local Methodist church and a flyer announcing lawn and leaf services.