Voices Carry (27 page)

Genna checked her watch. It was almost noon. She’d been at the Nelson home for almost three
hours, looking at photo albums, asking questions, getting to know Barbie Nelson. She probably would have liked her, Genna thought as she started the car, had their paths ever crossed. She seemed to be a decent woman. Her house was warmly furnished and simply decorated, pleasant but without pretension, and Barbie’s touch was everywhere, from what Genna could see, from the drapes she’d made for the dining room to the stenciling in the downstairs powder room to the cheery flower beds that overflowed with late summer blooms. Even after having been missing for several weeks, Barbie’s presence was still strong. But though Genna had learned about the woman, she’d learned nothing about the crime that had been committed against her.

John’s instincts are one hundred percent right on, she told herself as she drove to her next appointment. Barbie Nelson was not a woman to have walked away from the life she had so carefully, so lovingly, made for herself and her family.

At the next stoplight, she pulled the hand-printed note from her purse on the seat next to her and double-checked the directions. Was it left at the next light, or the one after it? Confirming that it was, in fact, the next light, Genna stayed in the far lane in preparation of the turn. It would be interesting to see just what, if anything, Barbie’s mother could add to the story. Surely, there had to be something. . .

Five minutes later, Genna stood on the front steps of the weathered shingled house and rang the doorbell. Seconds later the door opened and a trim, neatly dressed woman in her early sixties invited her in.

“Mrs. Benson, I appreciate your agreeing to meet with me. I know this is a very difficult time for you,”
Genna said as she was led through the house out onto a screened porch that ran across half of the back of the house.

“One of the worst times of my life. But, if there’s anything I can do that could help you find my daughter. . .” Sarah Benson held out both hands, palms up, a gesture as much to indicate her willingness to assist as her own helplessness. “Though I have told the police everything I know. Everything they asked.”

“I’m sure you have, Mrs. Benson,” Genna assured the woman calmly as she seated herself on a white wicker settee and opened her briefcase, preparing to take notes, not for her reference but to preserve what she learned for others. “I’m sure you know that we suspect that Barbie fell victim to the same person who may be responsible for a series of abductions of other women. Right now, what we’re concentrating on is what might connect these women to each other, and therefore to their abductor. So we’re trying to learn as much about these women as possible.”

Genna rummaged around in her handbag for a pen.

“Before we start, could I get you something to drink? I’ve just made a pitcher of iced tea.” Mrs. Benson stood in the doorway, her hands folded in front of her, her bearing somewhat stiff and formal. She wore a dark denim skirt and a white cotton twin set, a haunted look and an air of weariness.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Genna smiled, accepting the offer to give Mrs. Benson one last opportunity to collect herself as well as to give Genna a few moments to observe her surroundings.

The screened porch overlooked a backyard that
sloped down just ever so slightly three hundred or so feet to a wooden dock that overlooked a tiny slice of an inlet. No boats were tied to the dock, however, though the house next door boasted three. The porch itself was comfortably, if not artistically furnished, with a drop-leaf table painted with birdhouses holding a lamp of clear glass filled with colored stones. A painted basket held magazines, and the latest hardback book by a popular woman writer sat on the wicker coffee table next to a bowl of bright summer flowers.

“You have quite a view here,” Genna said as her hostess returned with a tray on which sat two glasses of ice and a blue pitcher.

“Yes, don’t we?” Mrs. Benson moved the book to the floor and replaced it with the tray, then proceeded to carefully pour tea into the glasses. “I never get tired of it.”

“Then you’ve lived here for a long time?”

“I grew up here. This house has been in my family for generations.”

“Did Barbie grow up here, as well?”

“No.” Sarah Benson sipped slowly at her tea. “We were living in Allen’s Springs—that’s in New York State, dear—when Barbie was born. Her father—my first husband, Bob—had grown up there. We met at college, and after we were married, we settled there. Bob went to work for an accounting firm owned by his father and uncle.”

“And Barbie is an only child?”

“Yes.”

“And you moved back here when?”

Mrs. Benson paused, as if trying to recall. “Seventeen, eighteen years ago. My father had died,
and my mother wanted to move to Arizona to live with her sister. As I said, the house has been in the family for years—I couldn’t bear the thought of selling it—so Barbie and I moved back.”

“And your husband?”

“He. . . wasn’t inclined to make the move. He had his business, you see, and, well, it was one of those things.” She took another sip of her tea. “We divorced shortly after the move.”

“And you remarried?”

“Twelve years ago, yes. Unfortunately, my husband—Joe Benson, my second husband—died three years ago. Oddly enough,” she cleared her throat, “he died almost two years to the day after my first husband. Both of heart attacks, by the way.”

“I’m sorry.” Genna said gently.

“Yes, well, I still consider myself to be a lucky woman. I have my daughter, a wonderful son-in-law, three adorable grandchildren.” Mrs. Benson paused, adding quietly. “I hope I still have my daughter. . .”

“We’re all hoping for that, Mrs. Benson.” Genna couldn’t help but lean over and pat the woman’s hand. “Mrs. Benson, can you think of anything—especially something from your daughter’s past—that might lead us in another direction? Maybe an old boyfriend who remained in touch perhaps too persistently, someone from school she may have had problems with, a coworker who bothered her. . .”

“No, no,” Mrs. Benson shook her head adamantly. “Nothing like that. Barbie didn’t date very much in high school, she never really had a steady boyfriend until she met Rich, and they married right out of college. She was a good student, and, really, a very good kid. She never gave me a moment’s trouble, really,
when she was in school. And if there was something. . . well, she would have told me, I feel certain. Barbie and I are very close, Miss Snow. If there had been anything, I would have known about it.”

“And she never mentioned that she felt she was being watched, or that she noticed a strange car or a van?”

“No. Though a month or so ago, she did say that she’d been bothered by someone calling the house and then hanging up. The police know about that, though. They’d never gotten a lead on that.”

“Did she say if the caller said anything at all?”

“No. I asked her about that specifically, and she said that he—or she—never said a word.”

“Can you think of anything out of the ordinary that Barbie may have mentioned over the past few weeks or months?”

“No, I’m sorry, but no. There’s nothing. I’ve laid awake every night since she’s been gone, trying to remember something, anything, that might help, but there’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry to have made you go through this all again, Mrs. Benson.” Genna closed her notebook and slipped it into her briefcase, and taking a card from her pocket, handed it to the woman and said, “If you think of anything—anything, however remote you might think it could be—please call me. You can always reach me at the cell phone number.”

“I will. Yes, of course, I will.” Mrs. Benson nodded briskly and rose to walk Genna to the front door.

“Oh. One thing I meant to ask you earlier. Did your first husband remarry?”

“Yes. Shortly before I did. Why?”

“Is his second wife still living?”

“I believe so.” Mrs. Benson stood in the half-opened doorway. “Why?”

“Because I don’t recall seeing a statement from her in the police file, and I would have expected them to have interviewed Barbie’s stepmother.”

“Barbie barely knew her. She didn’t care for her, and Doris—that’s the second Mrs. Wright—didn’t care for Barbie, either.” Sarah Benson stepped aside, a clear indication that she expected Genna to step on out. “So I’m not at all surprised that they didn’t call her. I’m sure she’d have had nothing to say.”

“I see,” Genna said thoughtfully.

“Miss Snow, do you think that she. . . that Barbie is. . . that she’s still. . .” The woman could not bring herself to finish the sentence.

“Still alive?” Genna spoke the words the anguished mother could not. “I sincerely hope so, Mrs. Benson. We all sincerely hope so.”

Genna walked to her car, feeling the woman’s eyes on her back even though the door had been closed behind her before she had reached the street. She sat in her rental car, checking the directions to her next appointment and wondering why there’d been no mention of Barbie’s stepmother in the original police reports. Surely the woman would have been contacted, wouldn’t she?

Genna was still thinking about it as she pulled up in front of the rambling old colonial style structure that served as the home of the Frog Hollow Day School, where summer camp was in session and Carol Stoddard, Barbie Nelson’s best friend, coached tennis. Parking in the narrow lot, Genna made her way to the courts that lay just beyond the swimming pool. As she approached, a woman in her early thirties,
dressed in tennis whites, spotted her and waved.

“Agent Snow?” The woman called from the gate that led into the courts.

“Yes.” Genna nodded and quickened her step. “I’m sorry I’m late. My last appointment ran a little longer than I’d expected it to.”

“Maybe, with any luck, my next student will be a little late as well.” Carol Stoddard extended a hand and shook Genna’s with a firm grip. “As I told you when we spoke, I have a pretty full schedule today, but if there’s anything I can do to help. . .”

The woman’s blue eyes filled with tears.

“Damn, it just doesn’t seem possible, you know? That anyone would want to hurt Barbie. She’s one of the kindest, most gentle people I’ve ever known.”

“That’s pretty much been the consensus of everyone who knows her.” Genna took a few steps back into the shade. “Everyone who’s been interviewed has had nothing but the best to say of her.”

“It’s all true. She’s just an ace, all around. I just can’t think of any reason for this to have happened.”

“How long have you known Barbie Nelson, Ms. Stoddard?”

“Since she moved here. What’s that, sixteen years or something? We were best friends in high school, we stayed close through college. I was her maid of honor. Her oldest is my godchild.”

“Then you know her pretty well.”

“Better than anyone, except maybe Rich, her husband. And before you ask, no, he couldn’t have anything to do with this. He adores her. Surprises her with dinner reservations and flowers at least once a week. He genuinely loves her, very much. There’s
no way in hell he’d have harmed a hair on her head.”

“You say you went to school together. . . perhaps someone. . .”

“Not a chance. Barbie was very well liked—not especially popular, in that sense—but well liked all around. I honestly can’t think of anyone who didn’t like her.”

“Except, apparently, her stepmother,” Genna said.

Carol Stoddard’s eyebrows raised. “Where did you hear that? Oh. Let me guess. You’ve been to see Barbie’s mom.”

Genna nodded.

“And Mrs. Benson told you that Barbie and Doris didn’t care for each other?”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s bull. Barbie loves Doris. And next to me, Mindy is her best friend.”

“Who’s Mindy?” Genna frowned.

“Barbie’s stepsister.” The tennis coach grinned. “I take it Sarah didn’t bother to mention her.”

“That name doesn’t appear anywhere in the police file.”

“I’m not at all surprised. Barbie’s mom would be just as happy if that whole other crew out there just upped and disappeared.” Realizing what she had said, Carol Stoddard blushed furiously. “I can’t believe I just said that, after Barbie. . . after. . .”

“Do you know how I could get in touch with Mindy?”

“No. But Doris would be easy enough to find. She still lives out in. . . the name of the town will come to me. . .”

“Allen’s Springs?”

“Right. New York State, someplace around Lake Erie.”

“Really?” Genna raised an interested eyebrow.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a phone number.”

“I suppose Barbie’s husband might, though.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Carol hesitated. “For some reason, Barbie never tried to mesh those two parts of her life.”

“What do you mean?”

“When she went to visit Doris, she went alone. Never took Rich, never took the kids.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. She said once that Rich wasn’t really interested, and the kids were too small to cart around on the plane, some silly thing like that. I always just thought that maybe, well, maybe Rich didn’t want to go because he’d feel disloyal to Sarah somehow.”

Both women turned at the sound of a car door slamming behind them. A man in khaki shorts walked toward them holding the hand of a skipping girl of about seven.

“I’m sorry, my one o’clock lesson is here.” The coach waved to the newcomers. “Was there anything else?”

“No. You’ve been helpful. And if you think of anything at all—regardless of how insignificant you might think it sounds—please call me.” Genna pressed a card into her hands.

“I will.” Carol smiled at the child and her father, and held the gate open for them to pass into the court area, then turned back to Genna and said, “The thought of anyone hurting Barbie makes me physically ill. Please find her before. . .”

“We’re all doing our best,” Genna assured her.

Genna stood beneath the broad canopy of the maple tree and watched the tennis lesson for a few minutes, pondering this bit of information she’d gleaned from the victim’s friend. Perhaps Mrs. Benson was unaware of just how close her daughter was to her stepmother. Or perhaps she didn’t want to know. Maybe she just resented her and chose to believe that Barbie did as well.