The One I Left Behind (18 page)

“Which one?” Reggie asked.

He looked taken aback.

“There are three Ms. Dufranes here at the moment, Detective.” She smiled when she said it, wanting to show him she wasn’t being a smart-ass.

“Yes, of course,” he said, rocking forward slightly to make himself look taller. “Vera. I’d like to speak with Vera Dufrane.”

“I’m afraid she’s asleep.”

“And you are?” He took out a notebook.

“Her daughter. Reggie Dufrane.” She watched him write down her name, misspelling it—
Redgie
. He held the pen so tight his fingers went pale. He fumbled in his blazer pocket and took out a business card, passing it to Reggie.

“Maybe you could call me later? When she wakes up?”

“Detective Levi,” Reggie said, looking down at the card with the embossed Brighton Falls Police Department seal. “I’m not sure you’re aware of my mother’s condition? She’s very sick, both physically and . . . otherwise. And the Worcester police and FBI already questioned her in the hospital.”

He nodded. “I understand. But no one from our department has met with her, and the crimes took place here in Brighton Falls. It’s procedure.”

Reggie smiled again, wondering why on earth they’d sent this young, bumbling detective. Then a sinking thought occurred to her—maybe this was the best Brighton Falls had to offer.

“Of course. You can see for yourself. I’ll call you later to set up a time to meet with her.”

“I appreciate it,” he said, backing up and nearly losing his balance on the steps.

“D
ID
I
HEAR SOMEONE
at the door?” Lorraine asked, coming into the kitchen once Reggie had settled back down at the table.

“Brighton Falls’ finest, looking to talk to Mom,” Reggie said, holding the business card out to Lorraine, who glanced down at it, scowling.

Lorraine made a little clucking noise. “He was here yesterday, before you arrived. It seems he’s been assigned the Neptune case.”

Reggie laughed. “Well, it’s comforting to know they’ve put their very best cop on the case. The kid looks like he’s in high school, for God’s sake.”

Lorraine shook her head. “I know his parents. He graduated at the top of his class from Yale. He could have gone anywhere to work, but he chose to come back home and join the Brighton Falls Police Department. He’s their brightest star these days, rising right through the ranks. His mother’s very proud.”

“I’m sure she is,” Reggie said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

Lorraine shuffled to the stove and put on the kettle.

Reggie looked back down at her list. “I don’t suppose you have wireless here?”

“Wireless what?”

“Um, Internet access? Wait—do you even have a computer?”

Lorraine shook her head. Reggie wasn’t sure if she imagined a certain smugness in Lorraine’s expression.

“I’ve been looking around—the place could stand some repairs, Lorraine,” Reggie said as she stood up, went to the counter, and poured herself a cup of coffee. It tasted like sludge, but she forced it down. “You need someone to come out and do some work on the roof. The slate shingles are in rough shape. It’s leaking in places. The boards underneath are probably rotted out, maybe even the rafters, too. Get one heavy load of snow and you’re in trouble.”

Monique’s Wish wasn’t in great shape, but at this point, it was still fixable. God knew Reggie had seen worse. Last year, she had done a passive solar retrofit she’d designed for a Quonset hut an old hippie couple had turned into their full-time home outside of Bennington—the
Boston Globe
did an article on it. It was an original hut that had been on the property since it was purchased as a surplus military building in 1948. When Reggie first saw it, she didn’t have much hope. But then she’d drawn up plans, gutted the building, reangled it, added insulation, put in masonry walls and floor for thermal mass, and covered the south side with windows. It ended up a light, cheerful place that the couple heated with only one cord of wood all winter. The
Globe
had quoted the owners as saying, “Dufrane is a magician. She makes the impossible possible.”

Lorraine pursed her lips as she fished a tea bag out of the box.

“Look,” Reggie said, “if it’s a question of money—”

Lorraine scowled. “It’s a good strong house. Father built it to last.”

“All houses need upkeep, Lorraine.”

The phone rang and Lorraine practically leapt for the old black rotary dial on the kitchen wall. Reggie couldn’t believe the phone still worked—it was probably old enough to be considered an antique.

“Hello? Yes, this is she.” Lorraine listened for a minute, then scrunched her face up as though she had smelled something hideous. “No! No comment. No. Absolutely not.” Lorraine slammed the phone down.

“Everything okay?” Reggie asked.

“It was a reporter from the
Hartford Examiner
.” Lorraine’s voice was shaky. “It seems they know your mother is alive.”

“Shit.” Reggie breathed. She’d expected it, but not this fast. But then again, she hadn’t expected the welcoming committee of firemen.

“No need for profanity,” Lorraine said.

“Okay,” Reggie said after taking another gulp of horrid coffee. “I’m going to run out and get some food and supplies. Stay here and lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone. Not even Detective Boy Wonder.”

The phone rang again.

“And don’t answer the phone,” Reggie advised, grabbing her bag and keys, hurrying from the kitchen.

R
EGGIE RETURNED TO
M
ONIQUE’S
Wish nearly three hours later, after a high-stress trip to the Super Stop & Shop (why, Reggie wondered, did everything have to be Super?), Starbucks, and Home Depot. She opened the back of the truck, and as she was grabbing several bags of groceries she heard tires crunching on the gravel behind her. She turned and saw a blond woman behind the wheel of white sedan. Reggie froze, bags in hands, as the woman jumped out of the car, a friendly grin on her face.

“Regina Dufrane? My God, is that really you?”

Reggie squinted at the woman with frosted blond hair. She was wearing a smart little business suit and pumps. Her face was heavily lined with wrinkles covered in pale foundation. There was something very familiar about her. A friend of Lorraine’s, maybe? Or a distant relative?

Reggie set the bags back down in her truck and walked around the car to study the woman face-to-face. “I’m sorry. You are—”

“Martha Paquette,” the frosted-haired woman answered with a smile that locked her face in a frightening grimace. She held out her hand to Reggie. “It’s so good to see you again, Regina.”

Reggie stepped back.

“How is she? Your mother? Has she said anything about her captivity?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Reggie said, hating how her voice shook. “This is private property. I’d like you to leave.”

Neptune’s Hands
was Martha Paquette’s only big success. She’d written other books, but none of them worked. Reggie had seen the horrible reviews and couldn’t help but feel strangely satisfied.

Continuing to smile, Martha reached into her leather handbag and pulled out a photo. “I know she’s alive. And she’s here.” It was a picture of Reggie pulling her mother away from the group of firemen in the yard yesterday. Shit. The young firefighter with the cell phone must have snapped it. It was probably all over the Internet by now.

“You can’t just keep her hidden away,” Martha said. “There are questions that need answering. Now I know your mother turned up in a homeless shelter up in Worcester two years ago. And I also know that with her diagnosis, we don’t have much time. So what I think we need to focus on is—”

“Where did you hear that?” Reggie hissed, taking a menacing step toward Martha.

“If I could just talk to Vera, ask her a couple of questions, then I’m sure—”

“You’re not going anywhere near my mother! Now get the hell off our property before I call the police.”

Martha nodded, turned to open the door of her car. Then she looked back at Reggie. “He’s still out there, you know. I think we owe it to his victims, to Vera, to do all we can to bring him to justice.”

“And selling a few more books in the process wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

Martha ducked down and sat herself in the driver’s seat, shutting the door. She rolled down the window. “I’d invest in a security system. Some decent dead bolts at least.”

Reggie sighed deeply. “Why are you still here?” She pulled out her cell phone.

“You think that Neptune just let her go, Regina? You think that whoever he is, he’s going to just sit back and let her tell the world everything she knows?”

Chapter 16

June 18 and 19, 1985

Brighton Falls, Connecticut

“I
’VE GOT SOMETHING FOR
you, Reg,” George announced when she came into the kitchen. “It’s there on the table.”

George was sprinkling cheese on the top of the lasagna he’d just made. Lorraine was in front of the sink, washing lettuce for a salad. Vera sat at the table, legs crossed, sipping a gin and tonic. George came over and ate with them once a week or so, and sometimes he’d cook. Lorraine’s meals were a consistent rotation of fish, cube steak, and scalloped potatoes from a box. Vera didn’t make anything at all beyond coffee and cocktails. Reggie wasn’t even sure Vera knew how to turn on the oven. When George cooked, it was usually something Italian: meatballs, manicotti, stuffed shells—he made sauce from scratch and claimed it was his Sicilian grandmother’s secret recipe.

The kitchen smelled amazing—garlic and tomatoes and fresh basil all mingling together and making Reggie’s mouth water. She went to the table and saw a paper bag with her name on it. She opened it up and found a headlight and taillight for her bike, along with a pack of batteries.

“Thanks, Uncle George,” she said, and he gave her a you’re-welcome nod. She held the lights out for Vera to inspect. Vera gave an approving smile and lit a cigarette.

“We’re all a lot safer with George in the world, aren’t we?” Vera asked, hissing out a curl of smoke in his direction. He had his back to them, but Reggie could see his body stiffen.

“I brought some tools over, Reg. You and I can put the lights on after dinner,” George said, opening the oven and easing the heavy Pyrex dish of lasagna in. “I’ve got something for you too, Vera,” he said, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

“I’ve heard of Christmas in July, Georgie, but isn’t this still June?” she asked, smiling slyly. She held up her glass, rattled her ice cubes in his direction. “Be a love and fix me another drink, will you? Or is that against the AA code of conduct or something?”

George gave her a look Reggie couldn’t read—worry? Maybe even pity?

Lorraine was slicing tomatoes now but stopped and gave Vera an icy glare. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Never mind, I’ll get it myself,” she said, pushing herself up, doing a swaying stagger-walk to the counter, where she mixed herself another drink that was heavy on the gin, light on the tonic.

“The lights really are great, Uncle George,” Reggie said again, voice as chipper and bright as she could make it. She loaded the batteries in and turned on the red flashing taillight. It blinked like an ambulance.

“Ready for your gift?” George asked once Vera was settled back at the table, fresh drink in her hand. He crossed the kitchen and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. From the right pocket, he pulled out a small present wrapped in tissue paper.

“For you,” he said, handing it over to Vera.

She put down her cigarette and accepted the gift. George watched, expectant and nervous, while Vera unwrapped the tissue paper, revealing a tiny, beautiful carved wooden bird.

“This isn’t like any duck I’ve ever seen,” she told him, turning it in her hand. Reggie leaned in to see that it had a long, gracefully curved neck, the feathers of the wings carved in perfect detail.

“Yes it is,” he said, smiling and adjusting his glasses. “It’s the ugly duckling,” he told her. “All her life she compares herself to others, thinks she doesn’t fit in; then she grows up and realizes she’s really a beautiful swan.” He stared at Vera, who kept her eyes on the carved bird in her hand.

Reggie held her breath, expecting her mother to come out with some mocking comeback line—
Who are you calling an ugly duckling, Georgie
?—but Vera was silent as she studied the swan, her head dropped down. Only when she raised it, Reggie saw that Vera’s eyes didn’t look mischievous or even angry—only sad.

Lorraine made a disapproving clucking sound and went back to cutting the tomato. “Damn!” she yelped, dropping the knife and clutching at her finger. Blood dripped onto the cutting board, mingling with the tomato juice.

George jumped up and went to her. “Let me see,” he said.

“It’s nothing,” Lorraine snapped.

George gently unwrapped her fingers from the cut hand. “You got yourself good,” he said, grabbing a paper towel from the roll and folding it up. He held the towel against her hand, said, “Let’s go clean it up and get a bandage and ointment on. The last thing you want is an infection.” Together they moved down the hall toward the bathroom, George’s hand on Lorraine’s.

Reggie and her mother sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the oven, the water coming on in the bathroom sink. George said something and Lorraine laughed.

Vera turned the swan over, running her fingers over the feathers of its belly.

After a minute, she stood up, swaying, steadying herself on the table.

“You okay, Mom?”

Vera offered Reggie a forced smile and said, “I’ll be right back.” Her voice sounded shaky and strange.

Vera went across the kitchen and down the hall. Reggie heard the front door open, then close. In a minute, her mother’s car started.

Reggie leaned forward and put out her mother’s cigarette, which had burned down to the filter, giving off a poisonous chemical smell. The swan was perched at the edge of the table, like it was thinking about taking flight.

“Where’s your mother?” Lorraine asked when she reappeared in the kitchen, Band-Aid on her finger.