Two Little Girls in Blue (32 page)

Before the woman could speak, Carlson had his FBI identification in his hand and was extending it to her to examine. “I am Agent Walter Carlson,” he said briskly. “This is Margaret Frawley, the mother of the twins who were kidnapped. Your daughter Lila sold her the twins' birthday dresses. We have just left Abby's Discount. Ms. Howell told us that Lila left early because she didn't feel well. We
must
speak with her.”

The chain slipped off, and Lila's flustered mother stammered her apologies. “I am so sorry. In this day and age you just can't be too careful. Come in. Please come in. Lila is on the couch in the den. Come in.”

She has got to be able to tell us something that will help, Margaret thought. Dear God, please, please, please. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror opposite the door in the tiny foyer. Earlier that day she had twisted her hair into a bun, but the wind had blown strands loose, and they were hanging on her neck. Dark shadows under her eyes contrasted with her pasty-white complexion, and her eyes looked dull and fatigued. A nerve on the side of her mouth was causing her face to quiver. She had bitten her bottom lip so often that it was swollen and cracked.

No wonder the sight of me made this woman lock the door, she thought, but then forgot any consideration of her appearance as she went into the study and saw the bundled-up figure sitting on the couch.

Lila was wearing her favorite fleece-lined bathrobe and had a blanket tucked around her. Her feet were stretched out on an ottoman, and she was sipping hot tea. She looked up and recognized Margaret immediately. “Mrs. Frawley!” She leaned over to put the cup she was holding on the coffee table.

“Please, don't get up,” Margaret said. “I'm sorry to burst in like this, but I have to talk to you. It's about something you said when I was buying the birthday dresses for my twins.”

“Lila talked about that,” Mrs. Jackson exclaimed.
“In fact she wanted to go to the police about it, but my friend Jim Gilbert, who knows what he's talking about, told her to forget it.”

“Ms. Jackson, what did you want to tell the police?” Walter Carlson's tone demanded an instant, straightforward answer.

Lila looked from him to Margaret. She recognized the hungry hope in Margaret's eyes. Knowing she was about to disappoint her, she answered directly to Carlson. “As I told Mrs. Frawley that night, I had just sold some outfits to a woman who wanted them for her three-year-old twins, but she said she didn't know what size to buy. After the kidnapping, I looked up her name, but then, as my mother just said, Jim, who is a retired detective here in Danbury, didn't think it was worth reporting.” She looked at Margaret. “This morning, when I heard that you had come to the store looking for me yesterday, I decided I would go talk to that woman on my lunch hour.”

“You know where she is?” Margaret asked, gasping.

The manager of the store told us Lila said she had been on a fool's errand, Carlson remembered grimly.

“Her name is Angie. She lives with the caretaker of the country club in a cottage on the club grounds. I made up a story to tell her—I said that two of the polo shirts I sold her were damaged. But the caretaker told me what happened. Angie babysits and was hired to drive to Wisconsin with a mother and her two children. He told me they're not really twins, just close in age. The mother was on her way to pick up Angie when she
realized she had forgotten one of the suitcases and phoned ahead to have Angie run out and buy some of the things they'd need. That's why she wasn't that sure of the size, you see.”

Margaret had been standing. Her knees suddenly weak, she sank down onto the chair opposite the couch. A dead end, she thought. Our only chance. She closed her eyes, and, for the first time, began to give up hope that she was going to find Kathy before it was too late.

Walter Carlson, however, was not yet satisfied. “Was there any indication that children had been staying in that house, Ms. Jackson?” he asked.

Lila shook her head. “It's a really small place; living room, dining area to the left that's separated from the kitchen by a divider. The door to the bedroom was open. I'm sure that Clint guy was alone there. I got the impression that the woman Angie was babysitting for had picked her up and kept going.”

“Did this guy Clint seem nervous to you in any way?” Carlson asked.

“Jim Gilbert knows the caretaker and his girlfriend,” Lila's mother chimed in. “That's why he said to forget it.”

This is useless, Margaret thought. Useless and hopeless. She felt the tension in her body being replaced by a dull ache. I want to go home, she thought. I want to be with Kelly.

Lila then answered Carlson's question. “No, I wouldn't say that Clint, or whatever his name is, was nervous exactly. I mean, he was sweating a lot, but I assumed
that he was the kind of heavyset guy who naturally sweats a lot.” An expression of distaste came over her face. “His girlfriend should treat him to a case of deodorant. He stank like a locker room.”

Margaret stared at her. “What did you say?”

Lila looked uncomfortable. “Mrs. Frawley, I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound flippant. I only wish to God I could have helped you.”

“You did!” Margaret cried, her face suddenly alive. “You did!” She jumped up from the chair, turned to Carlson and saw at once that he, too, had recognized the importance of Lila's offhand remark.

The only impression Trish Logan, the babysitter, had of the man who had grabbed her was that he was heavyset and stank of perspiration.

E
ven though he was frantic to get to Cape Cod, the Pied Piper had taken the time to dig out a hooded sweater to wear under his jacket, as well as an old pair of dark glasses that covered half his face. He drove his car to the airport, parked, and went inside the small terminal where he found the pilot waiting for him. Their exchange was brief. He was told that the plane was waiting on the tarmac. As he had requested, a car with a map of the area would be ready for him at the Chatham airport. The pilot would wait to fly him back later tonight.

Just over an hour later, the Pied Piper was getting off the plane. It was seven o'clock. The unexpectedly crisp, dry air on the Cape and the star-filled sky made him uneasy. Somehow he'd been expecting to find the same overcast sky and steady rainfall that was blanketing the New York area. But at least when he got to the car it was exactly the kind he wanted, a black midsized sedan, a look-alike for half the vehicles on the road. A study of the map showed him that he could not be very far from the Shell and Dune Motel on Route 28.

I've got at least an hour to kill, maybe more, he thought. Clint might have made the Delta Shuttle at five thirty. Otherwise he'd be on the US Air Flight at six.
Right now, he's probably in Boston, renting a car. The pilot said the drive to Chatham from Boston should take about an hour and a half. I'll park somewhere around the motel and wait for him.

On the phone call with Clint, he had wanted to ask the license number of the van, but he knew that would have made Clint suspicious. Lucas had described it as old and beat-up. Of course it had Connecticut license plates. It shouldn't be that hard to find in the motel parking lot, he reasoned.

Even though Lucas had somewhat derisively described Clint and Angie to him, he had never met either one of them. Was he taking an unnecessary risk by coming up here and not just letting Clint finish Angie and the kid off? So what if he got to keep the million dollars? But if all of them are dead, I can sleep at night, he thought. Lucas knew who I am. They don't. But how do I know that he didn't tell Clint? I don't need to have him looking me up after he's run through his share of the ransom. He just might start to think he should share the other seven million with me.

The traffic on Route 28 was heavier than he had expected. I guess the Cape is like a lot of other summer vacation places, he thought. More and more people are living here year-round now.

Who cares?

He spotted the large Shell and Dune Motel sign with the flashing
VACANCY
beneath it. The exterior was white clapboard with green shutters. It looked to be a cut above the run-of-the-mill motels situated along
most major highways. He saw that after the entrance sign, the driveway split. One side went under the overhang at the office, the other around it. He turned right off Route 28 and followed the lane that avoided the office. Not wanting to attract attention, he drove at what he hoped was a normal pace, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for the van. He was almost certain it was not in front of the motel facing Route 28. He drove around to the back. A lot more cars were parked in that area, most likely the ones belonging to people who had rooms on the second floor. In a way, that was good, he decided. When he found the van, he could look for a spot near it.

If Angie had any brains, she wouldn't park too near the building. Because of the lights near the entrance, the license plates on the cars parked there were clearly visible. The Pied Piper slowed to a crawl as he studied the vehicles he was passing.

Finally he spotted the one that almost certainly was hers, a dark brown van, at least ten or twelve years old, with a dent on the side and Connecticut license plates. There was an empty space about five cars away in the next row. The Pied Piper parked there, got out of the sedan, and walked over to inspect the van. The light was sufficient to see the car seat in the back.

He checked his watch. He had plenty of time, and he was hungry. He could see the diner next door. Why not? he asked himself as he took out the dark glasses, slipped them on, and began to walk across the parking lot. When he got to the diner, he saw that it was
crowded. All to the good, he thought. The only seat at the counter was next to the take-out section. He sat down, and as he reached for the menu, the woman standing next to him began placing her order for a hamburger, black coffee, and a dish of orange sherbet to go.

The Pied Piper turned his head abruptly, but even before he saw the thin woman with the stringy brown hair, he recognized her harsh, aggressive voice.

He buried his face in the menu. He knew he was not mistaken.

It was Angie.

T
he office of A-One Reliable Cleaning Service was located in the basement of Stan Shafter's home. An hour after his exchange with Jed Gunther, Marty Martinson decided to have another talk with Shafter. He had reviewed the statements given by Stan's two sons and by the longtime women employees who had done the actual work of washing and dusting and scrubbing and polishing the Frawley home the day before the family moved in. They had all stated that no one other than they had been in the house when they were there.

When Marty reread the statements from Shafter's employees, he had been struck by one omission. Not one of them had mentioned that Stan himself had stopped in while they were cleaning, yet he had said that he had made his usual inspection. If they hadn't thought to mention him, was it possible they had inadvertently missed someone else? It was certainly worth a person-to-person talk, Marty decided.

Stan Shafter answered the door himself. A short but powerful-looking man in his late fifties, with a full head of carrot-red hair and lively brown eyes, and it was said of him that he always gave the impression of being in a hurry. Marty noticed that he was wearing his heavy outside
jacket. Either he was on his way out or had just returned home.

His eyebrows lifted when he saw his visitor. “Come on in, Marty, or should I say Captain?”

“Marty's fine, Stan. I need just a couple of minutes of your time, unless you have to be somewhere.”

“I just got back three minutes ago; I'm in for the rest of the day. Sonya left me a note saying that the business phone has been ringing all afternoon, so I've got to call the answering service and collect the messages.”

As Marty followed him down the stairs, he thanked his stars that Stan's wife was out. A nonstop talker and world-class gossip, she would have peppered him with questions about the investigation.