She's Not Coming Home (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

By nine the
next morning Matt was speeding down to Cape Cod, taking the same route he had taken two days ago. A rather bemused Nathan was sitting in the back seat, clutching the Velociraptor and an overnight bag. Matt had woken him that morning, told him he would not be going to Bambinos for the next couple of days; instead he would be having a short vacation with Grandma and Grandpa. Nathan made no objection to this.

The call to work was easier than anticipated, probably because Debra Grant Barber was still off with the flu. Matt decided to call Larry Mason’s cell phone direct.

‘Hey Matt; what’s up?’ came Larry’s cheerful voice.

‘Larry, there’ve been some developments about Ruth.’

‘What’s happened? Have the police found her or something?’

‘Not exactly.  Look, I’m going to need to take a few days’ personal time. There’s something I have to do. I take it Queen Bitch is still off sick?’

‘Yep, she sure is. Great, isn’t it?’

‘Wish I was there to enjoy it. I should be back in say, Thursday.’

‘Okay, I’ll let everybody know. What are you up to?’

‘Can’t say right now. Too many questions, not enough answers. Fill you in when I get back. I think I had only two appointments today -’

‘Quit worrying. José and I can take care of them. And tomorrow’s.’

‘Thanks Larry. You’re a real pal.’

‘I know,’ Larry joked. ‘Just remember me on payday.’

‘I will. See you, then.’

‘Sure thing, buddy. Take care now.’

As he pulled in to a gas station for fuel and food he quickly called his parents’ number. His mother answered.

‘Hey Mom, it’s me. Are you and Dad around the next couple of days?’

‘Why, yes of course; where would we be going?’

‘Would you mind looking after Nathan for a couple of days?’

‘Why, of course not. What’s happening?’

‘Long story, Mom. I’ll fill you in when I arrive. We’re just outside Plymouth right now, so we shan’t be too long.’

‘Right you are dear. Your father’s out with that damned boat again, so it’ll be a nice surprise for him.’

*****

‘Are you sure you’re not clutching at straws, dear?’ his mother asked him an hour later. ‘You know, that’s a hell of a long way to drive on a hunch.’

‘It’s more than a hunch, Mom; look at this.’ Matt double checked that Nathan was playing upstairs, and then showed her the birth certificate.

Estelle put her hand to her mouth as she read the certificate. ‘My gosh,’ she exclaimed, ‘it could almost be Ruth’s. Apart from the name.’

‘Even the date of birth’s the same,’ Matt said. ‘And look at these.’ He showed her the photographs. She took a glance, then sat down at the kitchen table and studied them again. Took her glasses off and wiped her eyes.

‘It
is
her,’ she said. ‘I can tell; it’s Ruth.’

‘And I’m assuming,’ Matt said sitting down opposite his mother, ‘that they are her parents. Ira and Elisabeth.’

‘But you told me her parents are dead. Right from when you and Ruth first got together.’

‘That’s right. Of course, they both could be. These photos are at least twenty years old. But I did an online directory search -’

Estelle looked puzzled. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s something I can do on the internet. I used AT&T but other companies provide the service. It’s the same as going to the library and browsing through telephone directories. Same thing, only much much quicker.’

‘I see. So what did you find on this search?’

‘Well, I figured like this: you and Dad are in your sixties – well, just about. Ruth is more or less the same age as me, so it’s logical to assume her parents are – or would have been – the same age as you two. In those pictures they both look in their forties, wouldn’t you say?’

She looked again and nodded.

‘Now,’ Matt continued. ‘The Elisabeth Dubois who lives in Rochester is sixty-five.’

‘Which is a reasonable age for Ruth’s mother to be. I see. What about her father?’

Matt shook his head. ‘No record of him. There was an Ira Dubois in Rochester, but it was a different address, and he was in his eighties.’

‘Could be him. They could have split up. She could have had an older father.’

‘But look at the photo. He looks about the same age as the woman.’

Estelle looked at the picture again, shaking her head slowly. ‘I can’t believe it. She looks so much like Ruth. It has to be.’

‘Well, I’m hoping to find out today, or tomorrow.’

‘Why would Ruth keep these hidden away?’ she asked.

‘No idea, Mom. No idea. Maybe I’ll find out when I get there.’

‘Why not just telephone her?’ asked his mother.

‘I thought about that. But there’s a reason Ruth kept everything hidden away. This woman might be part of it. She might know something anyway. So I want to see her face to face.’

Estelle nodded thoughtfully. ‘Do you think Ruth might be there?’

Matt shrugged and shook his head, as if to say
I don’t know
.

‘Does Nathan know?’ she asked looking up at Matt as he got up from the table.

‘No. I’ve just told him I have to go away for work for a couple of days. I wasn’t sure how he’d react, seeing as I told him something similar about Ruth, but he was okay about it. He liked the idea of staying with you two.’

‘And we like having him. Look - you’d better get off now. You’ve got a long drive ahead of you.’

‘Yeah. I’ll just say goodbye to Nathan. Tell Dad I’m sorry I missed him.’

‘I will. I’ll also tell him the same thing you told Nathan. For now, at any rate.’

Matt paused, then nodded.

He met Nathan at the foot of the stairs.

‘Well, I’m off now, sport,’ he said, picking him up for a bear hug. ‘Be a good boy for Grandma and Grandpa.’

‘He always is,’ smiled Estelle from behind.

‘I will, Daddy.’

‘I’ll call you all tonight. Love you all.’

‘Love you too, Daddy.’

Estelle nodded and smiled as Matt closed the screen door behind. She and Nathan waved through the screen and watched as Matt took the Hyundai onto the main road and back to the mainland.

*****

Matt took his normal route away from his parents’ place, turning west onto the I-90 Massachusetts Turnpike as he reached the city. He did consider turning off any paying another visit to Cambridge Pharmaceuticals, but decided against it. Time was not on his side today – it was almost one-thirty – and he could not see how it could serve any useful purpose.

As he went through the third toll booth of the journey, he realised it would be pushing nine o’clock; too late to drop in on a sixty-five year-old woman. He would find a Holiday Inn or something similar when he arrived at Rochester and see her in the morning. Deciding this, he set the cruise control for sixty and turned on the radio. It was now almost three: it had been a crisp but dry day today, with not a cloud in the sky. So hopefully another couple of hours of daylight. He surfed the radio stations until he found a programme playing hits from the 1980s – just my station, he thought as he settled down in his seat.

After three numbers, the music gave way to a half hourly news, weather and travel bulletin. The news section led with a speech made by the President about a healthcare initiative, then reports about two murders in Boston that day: one outside a night club in the early hours which the police felt was racially motivated, the other was a young woman found drowned in suspicious circumstances in her bath in her apartment in Winchester. Matt glanced down at the radio at this item: the name seemed slightly familiar to him, though he couldn’t place it. Overseas news consisted of a report of a car bombing in the Middle East and a report from the East Anglia part of England where three people, a woman and two men had been found in the grounds of a country house dead from shotgun wounds. The report had a graphic description of how the woman had had half her head blown away. Matt shuddered and reached over to change channels, paused for the travel update which said traffic was slow on the I-90 west at Albany and east approaching Boston. The night was due to be cold and clear.

He passed Worcester, then Springfield, approaching Albany around six. The middle of rush hour. Sure enough, the 90 got down to a crawl for around ten miles as they passed the city, then traffic began to speed up again.

Delayed because of the Albany traffic, it was almost ten when Matt approached the town of Victor.
Known as the gateway to the Finger Lakes region, the town of Victor is located in upstate New York, just outside of Rochester. It was just a few minutes off the I-90, so convenient for Matt; he just hoped they had some vacancies.

Which there were. $165 got Matt a large room with one king sized bed. The restaurant was closed, so he ordered a hamburger and fries from room service. While he waited for the food to arrive he lay on the bed and called his parents’ house.

‘Daddy!’ came the greeting.

‘Hey, what are you doing still up?’ he asked.

‘Grandma said I could stay up till you rang,’ Nathan said.

‘Well, I’ve rung now, so you can go to bed. Call you in the morning. Put Grandma on, will you?’

‘Night, Daddy.’ Then there was the patter of feet and in the distance: ‘Grandma! Daddy wants to talk to you.’

‘He insisted on waiting for you,’ Estelle said as she came to the phone. ‘Dozed off a couple of times on the couch.’

‘He must be bushed. Anyway, I’ve stopped at a Holiday Inn just outside Rochester. I’ll go see her tomorrow.’

‘All right. Well, good luck, anyway.’

‘I said I’d call Nathan breakfast time.’

‘All right. Talk to you in the morning.’

Matt hung up and put his cell phone on the room desk. There was a knock on the door: his food. He took the tray and gave the porter a $5 tip. Slouched on the bed and attacked his burger and fries: he had not eaten since he left Cape Cod. His plan was to take a shower after he had eaten, then go to bed for an early start. Although he wanted answers here, ideally he would like to get back home tomorrow night. Thursday at the latest.

As he leaned back eating he flicked the TV remote and switched on. It came on to NBC and the eleven o’clock news. The item about the Damascus car bombing was just finishing and next was the suspicious death in Winchester, MA. The reported gave the name as Ms Akira Watanabe; Matt looked up from his fries as again the name seemed familiar. Then her picture showed on the screen, one the authorities had released from her drivers licence. Matt leaned forward and peered at the screen. Her face seemed familiar as well as the name. But where had he seen her before?

Then it hit him. It was in that Irish pub on Washington last week. When he challenged that jerk Danny Clark. He introduced her as his girlfriend Aki. Akira. From a distance Matt had mistaken her for Ruth.

Now she turns up drowned in her bath.

Coincidence or what?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Matt woke just
after seven. He showered, dressed and, knowing that Nathan and therefore his parents would have been awake some time, decided to make the promised phone call before he had breakfast.

‘Morning, son,’ said his father as he answered. ‘I’ll just get your mother.’

Matt laughed and shook his head while he waited for her to come to the phone. In the background he could hear Nathan crying ‘It’s Daddy! Daddy!’ and little footsteps getting louder.

‘Hello Daddy, I was a good boy last night.’

‘Well done. What did you do?’

‘After my supper Grandma let me watch Sesame Street, then I had a bath, then Grandpa read me a story.’

‘Oh, what was the story?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘Never mind. You just be a good boy for them today, and I’ll be back tomorrow. Okay?’

‘Okay, Daddy.’

‘Now is Grandma there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, give her the phone, can you?’

‘Okay, Daddy.’

Nathan passed the phone to Estelle.

‘How are you this morning, Matt? Did you sleep well?’

‘Kept waking up. Look, I’m going over to see her after breakfast. Depending on what I find, I may or may not be back tonight. If I need to, I’ll stop here another night and drive back tomorrow.’

‘All right. What about work?’

‘Work’s sorted, but I’ll need to drive back tomorrow at the latest.’

‘Well, good luck. Call after you’ve seen her. Let us know what she said, and when you’re coming home.’

‘I will. Let me say good-bye to Nathan.’

‘He’s gone. He’s in the kitchen with your father. They’re making pancakes.’

‘All right. Call you later. Bye.’

Matt hung up and sat back on the bed yawning. He had slept fitfully the night before, trying to figure out where Elisabeth Dubois fitted in with everything. At the end of the day, this could be one big wild goose chase. Trying to figure out what was with the birth certificate, the nativity thing; why it was all hidden away. When they met, he knew her as Ruth Levene: why did she change from Ruth Dubois?  Was Elisabeth Dubois her mother? If she was, why tell him she was dead?

Then there was that news item last night about the murder back in Winchester. Was she the same person as the girl he saw with Danny Clark? He couldn’t be sure, but maybe he would speak to Lieutenant Weber when he got back to Boston. He may have news for him about this visit also. Other fish to fry today.

He had finally gotten off to sleep around 12:30; he began to stir a couple of hours later, aware of noises. He lifted his head off the pillow and cocked his ears. Through the wall he could hear the regular rhythm of a bed squeaking.

‘Jesus, no.’ He pulled the duvet over his head to shut out the noise. No use. The squeaking got faster and faster and he heard a faint cry through the walls. Then everything went silent.

‘Thank God for that,’ he muttered, and curled up tighter. Then, half asleep, he recalled the last time he and Ruth had made love. It must have been two or three weeks ago, but it had not even crossed his mind since she disappeared. Momentarily, the anger he had been feeling turned to concern; he found he was missing her again.

‘Thanks guys,’ he mumbled, addressing the couple in the next room. Hardly surprising: he saw quite a few people staying on business as he checked in; it was probably somebody banging his secretary.

He checked the clock: 2:50AM. By 2:52 he was asleep again.

*****

As he took the elevator down to the hotel restaurant, he thought about his conversation with his mother, and had a craving for pancakes for breakfast. This he duly ordered, and had a meal of pancakes, bacon, maple syrup and three cups of strong black coffee. As he ate, he looked around the restaurant, trying to identify the couple from the next room. He could not; they were probably still in bed, he reflected.

As he checked out, he asked the receptionist if they were fully booked that night, just in case his business kept him in Rochester an extra day. She assured him that so far they were only sixty percent full, so there was a good chance that he could book a room later. No guarantee, she added, that it would be the same room. Matt replied that would not be a problem.

*****

Matt’s rental car had GPS, so all he needed to do when he set off was key in Elisabeth Dubois’ zip code and follow instructions. It did occur to him that he would have to phone the car rental office that day, to extend the rental period, as there was still the matter of the insurance claim for the Toyota to attend to.

It was rush hour as he made his way into Rochester. He reflected that it wouldn’t have hurt to wait a while longer at the hotel to avoid the traffic. He did regret not checking when he returned to his room after breakfast if his neighbours had put a Do Not Disturb sign on their door. Over breakfast, he had made a mental note to check and if they had, turn the sign round to Please Make Up Room.  But he forgot.

The GPS took him off the 390 North at Jefferson.  After a dozen or so blocks he turned into the street where Elisabeth Dubois lived. Her house number was 916; he had turned into the street at the 1600 block, so continued down the street until he reached the 900 block, and pulled up across the road from 916.

He remained in the Hyundai, looking across the street at her house.  It was a modest looking single storey family home - three bedrooms, Matt estimated.  A small but neatly maintained yard out front: grass mown, colourful flower beds, surrounded by a small white picket fence.  There was a driveway leading to a garage, but no sign of a car. All of the windows were shut.

Matt stepped out of the car, and crossed the road. He walked up the neat path and knocked on the wooden screen door.  Knocked again after a while. Still no answer.  Guessing nobody was in, he returned to his car.  It was 9:25, and he had not expected her to be out.  He had assumed that a lady in her sixties would not be going out until later, so would be in this early in the morning. He slapped the dashboard in frustration.  He would have to wait; hopefully she wasn’t away on vacation.

He decided to take a walk. Checking the car was okay where he had parked, he wandered up the road. In the distance he could see a busier cross street: maybe he could get a coffee somewhere there. Two blocks later, he found a busy road, the other side of which was a small shopping center. He crossed over and found a diner. It appeared to be privately owned, not a franchise. He bought a
USA Today
and a coffee and sat down in a window booth. He spent the next half hour watching the traffic go by and reading the newspaper while he slowly drank his coffee. Paid his bill and wandered back across the street and down to where he had left the car. He sat back in the car and resumed his vigil.

It was just after ten when he saw a figure walk up the path and let herself into the house. He sat up: it had to be her. She was slight, had grey hair and wore a grey overcoat. She was carrying a bag of shopping in each hand. He waited five minutes, and then crossed over.  Knocked again on the screen door. Waited a few moments, then knocked again.

He was about to knock a third time when he heard coughing from inside the house. Through the screen and the glass of the internal door, he could see a figure, that of the old lady, approaching. The inner door opened, and she stepped out.

‘Yes, can I help you?’   She had taken off her overcoat and was wearing a woollen jumper and a pleated skirt. She still wore outside shoes. Her hair was grey, and her face was lined. He reflected that she looked ten years older than someone in their sixties.

‘I am very sorry to bother you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I am looking for an Elisabeth Dubois.’

She appeared surprised at first. ‘I am she,’ she replied. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Well, I – I am calling about – about your daughter.’

She tensed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a daughter.’

‘I’m so sorry to have troubled you then,’ said Matt. ‘I must have the wrong person and address. I am looking for an Elisabeth Dubois who has a daughter Ruth.’

She gasped slightly and put her hand to her mouth.

Matt continued, ‘I am her husband, you see.’

‘I am very sorry. You must have the wrong house.’

‘I must have. Sorry to have troubled you.’

Matt smiled and stepped away, back down the path.

‘Please, wait,’ she called out as he reached the sidewalk. He spun round, then slowly walked back up to the door.

‘Why were you calling here about your wife?’ she asked. Matt noticed her knuckles were white as she clung onto the door.

‘She’s disappeared,’ Matt answered. ‘Just never came home from work the other day. It’s a long story, but her birth certificate shows her being born in Rochester to an Ira and Elisabeth Dubois. Is Ira your husband?’

‘I’m a widow,’ she said. ‘But my late husband was named Ira.’

Matt nodded. ‘I see.’

‘Do you have any ID?’ she asked.

‘Surely,’ Matt said. He was rather taken aback, but showed her his drivers licence.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come in?’

Matt nodded, as she unlocked the outer door and let him in. She led him through to her lounge. The inside of the house was just as neat and tidy as outside. There were floral pictures on the wall as he followed her, and two vases of flowers, one on a lace mat on the dining table, the other also on a lace mat, but on a bureau.  She turned round to him.

‘Do – do you have a picture of your wife?’ she asked, somewhat hesitantly. Matt nodded and took out his wallet. He showed her a small picture he kept in there.

She swallowed. Looked around the room, then said, ‘Wait here, please.’

Matt nodded again while she left the room. She returned a few moments later with a picture. It had a flap on the back, so must have been standing on something. She showed it to Matt. It was a black and white photograph of a dark haired woman sitting at a round glass table, the sort one found outside a bar or a restaurant. She was holding a glass of wine. Matt felt his face flush and a nervous feeling in his stomach as he stared at the woman in the photograph: it was a younger version of Ruth. He turned to Elisabeth Dubois.

‘But…  I don’t understand… Who…?’

‘That’s my daughter, Mr Gibbons. That photograph was taken three years ago. Her name was Ruth too.’

‘Three…? I still don’t understand. This is – this is…’

‘My daughter and your wife can’t be the same person. Two weeks after that photograph was taken, my daughter was killed in a car crash.’