5 -- Where Fear Lives

Charlene peeked out of the office in time to see two women pass. One was tall, with long blonde curls. The other was smaller, an undeniable beauty, even to a child’s eyes.

“Sharlee, get back in here, honey,” her mother said. Her mother always called her Sharlee when she was happy and Char-lene when she was not.

“Coming, Mom.” The little girl ducked back into the office, leaving the door open.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” her mother said. “You’ve got school tomorrow.”

“Will you pick me up tomorrow, Mommy?”

Bessie sighed. She was on the 4-12 evening shift this week. Picking Sharlee up from school meant bringing her to work – again. So far no one had complained, but it was only a matter of time.

“Yes, dear, I’ll pick you up,” she said. “Now get your stuff together. I’ve got two more bathrooms to clean, then we can go home.”

“I wish…” Charlene said, not bothering to finish.

“I told you before, Charlene, we can’t stay here. This is where I work.”
***

“I still don’t get it,” Helen said. “Why would anyone break into your room just to steal a book?”

Leda shook her head.

The book in question was a copy of Larsson’s The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo that she’d borrowed from her agent and friend Maggie Landers to read on the plane. It had been turned over to Boston police as evidence. There were no notes in the margins, no inscription on the front page – to all appearances it was just a book.

In fact, the only thing of note was something that was no longer there – something Leda remembered had been inside the book when she’d picked it up from the table before leaving for the airport. She hadn’t paid much attention at the time. After all, what was unusual about a bookmark inside of a book?

She was sure Maggie wouldn’t mind her borrowing the book. The two women often shared reading material.

“Is it possible the thief took something else?” Helen asked.

Helen Strachan was a private investigator and ‘bodyguard’. Recently hired, this was her first time travelling with Leda Maguire.

“Nothing else was missing, as far as I could tell.”

“It’s possible he happened to pick up the book at the moment we interrupted him.”

“Maybe he’s a b-and-e-reader,” Leda said.

“Very amusing.” Helen smiled despite herself. The hour was late, and both women were feeling punchy from lack of sleep.

“Our rooms should be ready soon,” Leda said.

Just then, a girl of about eight tore down the hallway. She was slightly overweight, with a long sand-brown ponytail that was coming loose. She was carrying a black satin ladies’ purse, the kind that would go with a fancy dress. The high quality clasp and handle made it clear it was not a child’s toy.

She was fully clothed, except for the fact she was in sock-feet. Without looking up, she crashed into Leda. Only Helen’s quick reflexes kept Leda from flying head over tea-kettle onto the carpet.

The girl stepped back, realising what she’d done. Her face betrayed her with an expression of guilt – obviously she’d been caught at some kind of mischief.

“Are you all right?” Leda asked.

“What are you doing?” Helen asked.

“Sorry.” The girl’s voice was hardly above a whisper. She tried to scoot past the women, but Helen put an arm out to stop her.

“Whoa, there, hang on a minute,” Helen said. “Where’s your mom or dad?”

“My mom works here.” Defiance flickered in her eyes. “She’ll be finished working in a few minutes.”

“Is that her purse?” Helen asked.

The girl started to hide the purse behind her back, then thought better of it.

“It’s mine,” she said, lifting her head.

“No, it isn’t,” Helen said. “Give it here.”

The girl threw the purse at Helen and ran down the hallway, disappearing around a corner.

“I’ve had enough action for one day,” Helen said. “Let her go.” She opened the purse, one of those small bags, the kind that would hold a compact, a tube of lipstick, keys and a small comb. A silk pocket inside held a folded stack of twenty-dollar-bills. There was also a driver’s licence. At least they would be able to identify the owner.

“I want to make sure she’s OK,” Leda said, starting down the hallway. “She shouldn’t be wandering around alone.”

“Oh, all right,” Helen grumbled. “I’m coming.”

They turned the corner and had gone half-way down the corridor when a door on the right marked Maintenance opened and out stepped a woman in her mid-thirties wearing a beige winter coat.

From inside the office a child’s voice whined, “I don’t want to go home. Please, Mommy. Let’s stay here.”

“Charlene, get your backpack. It’s time to go.”

Charlene pulled on her boots and dragged her heavy backpack into the hallway. When she saw Leda and Helen, she stopped. She looked like she might duck back into the office, but her mother quickly pulled the door shut behind her.

“Excuse me,” Leda said, “is this your daughter?”

The woman was startled. She was off duty. All she wanted was to get Sharlee home and to bed. The girl was going to be hell to wake up in the morning.

“Yes, she’s my daughter,” she finally answered. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m Leda Maguire. Is this your purse?”

Bessie looked at the black clutch in Leda’s hand. She shook her head. A purse like that was for other women, women who wore nice dresses, not for her.

Helen stepped forward.

“We saw your daughter running down the hall a moment ago,” Helen said. “She was carrying this purse. She said it was hers. When we questioned her, she threw it at us and ran away.”

It took a moment for these facts to register with Bessie. When they did, she turned to her daughter.

“What’s going on, Charlene?” she said. “Where did you get that purse?”

“I found it,” the girl said.

“What do you mean, you found it? You were supposed to wait in this office for me.”

There was a silence as the girl struggled to manufacture a plausible story. At last she said, “I found it in the ladies’ room.”

It was an obvious lie. Even Bessie couldn’t pretend to believe her daughter. Her shoulders sagged and she turned to the women, not really daring to hope, but needing to make the plea.

“She’s never taken anything before. It won’t happen again. I can’t afford to lose this job.”

Charlene stepped out from behind her mother.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I took it from the big party room earlier. I was just looking around at everyone. It was sitting on a table.”

Bessie put her hands up in a gesture of surrender. She tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.

“Can we help?” Leda asked, putting her arm around the woman.

Leda’s touch was all it took to break down the last of Bessie’s resistance. Her face collapsed and her shoulders heaved.

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” Charlene wailed, trying to grab onto her mother’s hand. “I’ll never do it again. I promise.”

“I can’t do this alone anymore,” Bessie said.

“Whatever it is,” Leda said, “we can help. Just tell us.”

“It’s my son.”
***

Leda guided the woman back inside the office, where they all sat down. The words, so long repressed, began to rush out.

Bessie had first noticed her son’s odd behaviour when he was only three. At that age, a child couldn’t be expected to have empathy. When she caught him throwing goldfish onto the floor and watching them die she was alarmed, but she convinced herself a five-year-old couldn’t possibly understand matters of life and death. She emptied the aquarium and refused to buy any more pets.

She kept a watchful eye on her baby daughter, Charlene, just to make sure. When she caught Matthew prowling in his sister’s room at night, she immediately set up a small bed in her own room for Charlene.

Still, she couldn’t watch Matthew every minute. Soon Charlene began complaining about small abuses – an unwarranted smack, a pull of the hair. One morning her toothpaste tasted “funny”. And there were other things… food and drinks that were ‘off’, dead bugs on Charlene’s pillow. The behaviour escalated to punches, pinches and threats, name-calling, always out of Bessie’s earshot. Always denied…

Most recently, Charlene found a dead mouse under her blanket. The girl was terrified. She’d started acting out, something she’d never done before. Her teachers complained. And now, apparently, she’d stolen a lady’s purse.

Bessie didn’t know what to do. How long would it be before Matthew crossed the line and stopped trying to hide his behaviour, even from her? Once he realised his mother was no physical threat, there would be no controlling him.

“Sometimes,” Leda said, “we have to admit things are out of our hands. It’s time to ask for help.”

Helen reached for the phone. “Let’s start with the police,” she said. “They’ll know what to do. Meanwhile, you’ll need a safe place to stay. Would the hotel put you up for a couple of days?”

“I’ve been afraid to ask my managers,” Bessie said.

“We’ll talk to them with you,” Leda said.
***

“The world really is full of problems, isn’t it?” Helen said, helping Leda get settled into her room.

“I seem to have an aura that attracts this sort of thing.” Leda smiled wryly, but Helen got the feeling she might be at least partly serious.

“We’d better get some sleep. We promised to stop by the hospital in the morning.”

“I hope Hamish is all right,” Leda said.
***

Rhonda Copps finally fell asleep, but woke in the early hours from an unremembered dream that left her filled with rage. She couldn’t explain the feeling, but somehow she had the sense she was losing something.

Professor Copps was not a person who accepted loss without a fight.
***

In another time zone, Toronto Inspector Jack Brown studied the book shelf in his living room. His wife, Jessica, was the reader. She loved books, but kept most of them on a stand near her bed.

He thought about the late Robert Lowry, who’d been found dead in his apartment downtown. He thought about the clean spot surrounded by dust where a half-dozen or so books had been removed from Lowry’s shelf. There was no way to be certain the books had been taken by the killer. Still, Brown’s people had gone through Lowry’s apartment carefully. They did not find any stray books that would fit into the dust-perimeters on that shelf.

What was even more strange was that, judging from the line of dust, the missing books were all more or less the same size and shape. That was unusual, from anything Jack knew about books. He looked at his own shelf, where Jess had carefully arranged her books. Each spine was unique – no two were the same thickness or height.

It probably didn’t mean anything. Still, he’d like to find those missing books.

“Are you coming to bed?” Jess called from upstairs.

“I’ll be right there."
_______________________________

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 6 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery!

Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.

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