True Blend (30 page)

“I didn’t even hear you come in. Am I safe? Is that a gun?”

“What do you think it is? Why didn’t you just wait for me downstairs? And where’s Dad? I didn’t see his car.”

Ellen walks carefully to Amy’s side, still catching her breath. “We decided to come early. With the stalking going on, I didn’t want you to be alone anymore.” Her words sound fragmented, responding to facing down a gun barrel. “When you weren’t home, we let—” She gasps. “Oh God. We came in. You sent me a new key, remember? And I came upstairs to unpack while Dad went to gas up the car.” She reaches over and tentatively raises Amy’s hand to take a look at the gun. “I wanted to be done packing so I could spend time with Grace.”

“Grace.” Amy pushes herself up off the floor and runs into the bedroom. She shakes the gun out of her hand onto the dresser top and yanks the closet door open. It’s empty, the black dress hanging alone. She pulls the chain for the light and swipes hangers randomly to the side. Her hand tangles in airy fabrics meant to be worn on carefree summer days, not meant to hide a child. Grace is pressed far against the back wall behind a long bathrobe, her thumb in her mouth, her head tipped down. “Mumumum,” she says softly around her thumb without looking up.

“Oh, Grace.” Amy scoops her into her arms and takes a shaking breath. “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay. Mommy found you,” she says, the back of her fingers caressing Grace’s soft face. “And look who’s here,” she whispers excitedly, turning to Ellen. Seeing her mother standing there brings it all back. “I’m so, so sorry, Mom,” she cries. “I didn’t know it was you. If I only knew.”

Ellen sits on the bed, still visibly shaken. “What is going on here today? I don’t understand.”

“I aimed a gun at you, Mom. God, I don’t believe it.”

Her mother looks from Grace’s face to hers and Amy knows she looks like a madwoman. Tears streak her perspiration; circles rim her eyes; she’s lost weight. “Mom. I have so much to tell you. About our therapy. And the gun. And the stalking. And George.”

“Amy. Amy, slow down. Take a deep breath.”

“Grandma,” Grace says, leaning toward Ellen with outstretched arms. “Swing me now?”

“What?” Ellen asks.

“I had to tell you that, too. She’s better, Mom. Grace is talking again.” Grace squirms out of Amy’s arms and scrambles to the bed. Amy follows behind her, crying at what almost happened out in the hallway moments ago. “I am so glad you’re here.”

*  *  *

“Do you want to sit inside or take Grace out to the swing?” Amy asks the following evening. The heat of the day lingers after supper. It is that perfect hour when colors have cooled, the greens of the maples, the blue of the sky. Robins sing clear falsettos in the lengthening shadows. She presses a scoop of cookie dough ice cream into a cone. The ache in her arms throbs from the tension of holding her gun the day before.

“Wherever you want,” Ellen answers. She dabs a paper napkin to her forehead. They sit at the kitchen table, having just washed the dinner dishes. George’s white vase with the rose in it sits in the center of the blue wooden table.

Amy looks over her shoulder toward the window. “I don’t know. There’s nowhere to sit at the swing. But it’ll be nice and cool beneath the tree.”

“We can bring a blanket.”

“Maybe. You’re not tired of pushing her in the swing?”

“No.” Ellen takes the cone Amy holds out.

“We could sit on the Adirondack chairs on the patio if you want.” Amy starts to fill a second cone. In between scoops, she samples a spoonful loaded with chunks of cookie dough.

“That would be fine, too. Whatever you want to do.”

The cone in her hand cracks as she presses in more ice cream. Amy furrows her brow and digs in for another scoop. “We could bring the lawn chairs out to the swing. I don’t know, though, because Grace likes to sit on the blanket with Angel and Bear.”

“Well, Amy. Where do
you
want to have the ice cream?”

“I can’t decide. Okay?” She presses the scoop on top of the loaded cone and it splits open in her hand, blossoming like the petals of a flower. “God damn it.”

Ellen sets her cone in the sink and grabs a handful of paper towels. “What do you mean you can’t decide?” She leans past Amy and swipes up the mess, dumping it in the sink and returning with a damp cloth to wipe the table. “You can’t decide where to
sit
?”

“That’s right, okay? Look what happens when I make decisions. I almost killed you, Mom.”

Ellen stops wiping and sits beside her. “I know.”

Every conversation they had today wound its way back to her holding a loaded gun on her mother. Amy holds up her hand in front of her face. “I couldn’t
force
my finger to shake right now, the way it did yesterday, even if I wanted to. I was at the mercy of my nerves. Control is such an illusion.”

“No it isn’t. Don’t ever believe that. I’m still here, aren’t I? You have more control than you realize. So don’t be afraid to trust yourself and just live, Amy. And always remember that sometimes … How does that saying go?”

“What saying?”

“I saw it on a bumper sticker. Shit happens?”

“
Mom
.” Amy stares at her mother. “Your language.”

“Well sugar happens doesn’t quite say the same thing.”

“Mom.” Amy pauses, then whispers, “Seriously.”

“What?”

She gets up and goes to the kitchen window, looking out at the yard. “I get so afraid sometimes.”

“Of what?”

“Of what’s happening. It’s like that armored truck came right at
me
and knocked me off my feet. My life’s unraveling. This isn’t me, this worried, indecisive woman. I can’t focus anymore, I’m nervous, I’m losing sleep.”

Ellen finishes wiping the ice cream off the blue table without comment. “Where’s George?” She comes up behind Amy at the window.

“George? What’s George got to do with this?”

They both look out at the yard, Amy leaning her hands on the countertop, Ellen holding soggy paper towels. “Maybe everything.” Amy throws her a glance. “Come on, dear,” Ellen explains. “It’s been almost two months since that day at the bank. Grace is talking again, the police are still investigating the crime. You’ve got new deadbolts, a gun, a self-defense class and therapy. I’m staying as long as I can so you’re not alone with the stalking issue. You’ve gotten back to your bridal shop, part-time. You’re handling the effects of the kidnapping just fine. Better than fine.” She steps beside Amy, watching her face. “Maybe something else is careening right at you. Maybe some
one
is knocking you off your feet.”

“George?”

Ellen raises an eyebrow.

Amy turns around, leaning against the sink. “He wanted me to have time alone with you. Which I almost effectively ended, I might add. I still don’t want to believe it, Mom. But I can’t get it out of my head. What if I pulled that trigger? I came so close.”

“You’re changing the subject. Why don’t you call him?”

Amy sits at the table again, lightly touching a petal of the pink rose. “He’s got a Chamber of Commerce meeting tonight.”

Ellen watches her for a moment. “You miss him.”

“He’s the best thing that’s come out of all this. It’s so strange to think that if that horrible morning hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t know him. I can’t even imagine that.” Angel jumps onto the kitchen table and sniffs at the ice cream. A melting dot clings to one of her whiskers, drooping it down. “I’ll see him tomorrow. He’s coming over for dinner.”

“But call him later.”

“Why the sudden interest?” Amy asks while lifting the cat off the table.

“Listen,” Ellen begins. “It took a whole year for you to get back on your feet after Mark died. Then, you’re right, another terrible day came through your life. But when the dust finally settled, who was left there? George.”

Amy watches her mother, waiting for her to finish the thought she knows is coming.

“The kidnapping is behind you, but you’re telling me you’re afraid of what’s happening.”

“So?”

“Maybe it’s a man you’re afraid of.”

“Oh, come on. You’re saying my falling apart isn’t post-traumatic stress?”

“Not anymore.” Ellen looks straight into her eyes. “You’ve got that ordeal under control. I think you’re afraid of what’s next.”

“Afraid? Of George?”

“No, of course not. But of loving him.” An easy smile comes to her face. “Being unable to decide where to eat your ice cream is not post-trauma stuff. It’s jitters, dear. Because I believe you’ve gone and fallen in love.”

Twenty-five

MRS. TREWIST, PLEASE HAVE A seat,” Detective Hayes says as he leads her through his office door. “Can I get you a coffee? Water?”

“No, thank you.” Amy sets her straw tote on the floor beside the chair. The office is cramped and the detective seems to fill all the space. A computer monitor hums on his desk, ringing telephones and muffled voices leach in through the closed door.

“Is everything okay?” he asks as he pulls in his chair. “Any more stalking incidents?”

She tells him about the porch light. “So was it stalking or just a fickle light bulb? Either way, it scared me just the same.”

“I understand. We’ll definitely keep the patrols coming around.”

“And I really appreciate it.” She presses a wrinkle from her black tank dress and folds her hands in her lap. “But the reason I’m here is that I haven’t heard anything about the investigation and I wanted to touch base.”

“Of course,” Hayes answers, pulling a thick manila folder from his desk drawer. He opens it flat in front of him. “Let’s look at the developments and see where we’re going with this.”

Words, words, words. Nothing to hold on to, to clench, to celebrate. To quell her fear. He reviews the psychological profiles, explains how they tracked George’s movements that day in an effort to duplicate the perpetrators’ trail, how no suspects could be deciphered on the casino surveillance videos, how the fingerprints on Grace’s shoe have been definitively identified as hers and George’s.

“George did rescue Grace at Litner’s Market,” Hayes adds. “And from the few prints lifted, we could only match yours and his.” He folds his hands over the open folder and looks at her. “A few leads also came in when the updates made the headlines. Our next move is to up the reward money.”

“Money talks?”

“It’s amazing how much. We’re also cross-referencing the evidence with similar crimes nationwide to flesh out our leads.”

“But what you’re telling me is that right now, you have nothing.”

“No. We do. But only up to a point. Then everything seems to drop off the map.”

“Great.”

“
Seems to
, Amy. Trails don’t evaporate like that. We just haven’t sniffed it out yet. I know it’s discouraging, but keep in mind that there is good to be found here. In many crimes of this nature, some sort of critical injury is inflicted. We’re thankful that you and your daughter, as well as the armored truck employees, came out of it unscathed.”

Amy stands and walks to the window. Waves of heat rise from the street outside. “Have you seen Grace’s medical records? Would you like to see the therapy appointments blocked off on my calendar? Or how about my prescription tranquilizers? And what about flashbacks, Detective? Have you ever had one and nearly fainted afterward? Have you?”

Hayes shakes his head. “No, I haven’t, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that you haven’t suffered. I just meant that no guns were fired. I meant you’re all lucky to be alive, and I’m not just saying that. You really are.”

Amy takes her seat with a deep breath, scanning the papers in the folder. “Listen. I brought my sketch pad.” She leans over for her tote and pulls it out. “I’ve been coming back again and again to the one incident when Grace lost her shoe.”

The detective opens the pad to the latest sketches.

“I’m not sure why, but there’s something about that part of the ordeal I seem to be missing and my mind won’t let go of it. Most of my flashbacks center around it.” She points out the last two sketches, the curve of the cross-hatched hand covering hers, the shadow of a scar, the gritty pavement penciled beneath. “Something’s missing, I just know it. Some detail that I feel could help the investigation.”

“The details in these are very astute, especially the gun sketches, and as accurate as could be expected, so I’m not sure what it might be. Something with his hand, maybe? Or a detail on his sleeve?” When he glances at her, she shrugs in frustration. “Well definitely let me know if it comes to you.” He slides the pad back her way. “I’m expecting an update from the FBI. We do this weekly conference call thing. I’m sure they’ll have something more.”

It must be hard to admit that all your efforts are ineffective. That your professional training, your investigative techniques, your psychological analyses, they all come up empty. That the evidence, the vehicles, the fingerprints, the eyewitnesses, the victims, they all amount to nothing unless you put a spin on it. These thieves are smooth. Amy reaches into her tote and pulls out a candy wrapper. “I was moving the outfit Grace wore when they kidnapped her and found this in her jeans’ pocket.” She hands him a green plastic wrapper covered by white snowflakes, knowing full well it once covered a chocolate truffle, the same chocolates George carries in his shop. “Is it possible that the men who did this are local?”

Hayes takes the wrapper. “Doubtful.”

“But I see this type of chocolate in different shops around town.” Could the kidnappers have bought some while George wrapped two pounds of pork chops for them, Sinatra crooning on the stereo? “I know it’s only a candy wrapper, but can’t this mean there’s a chance they’re from around here?”

Hayes toys with the paper wrapper, turning it over. “If they were, their absence would be noted. See, they wouldn’t be expected to stick around with that type of bankroll. They’d hit the islands or set up brand new lives somewhere else. Family members, employers, neighbors, someone would notice their sudden absence. It’s more likely that they were pros moving in and out of the area just for the duration.”

*  *  *

Still, Amy can’t help but wonder. In the grocery store, she watches the produce stocker with renewed interest. What did a man who spends his Tuesday afternoon stacking hundreds of one-pound bags of carrots, being careful not to start a carrot landslide, have to lose? Isn’t picking bruised peaches from a summer display shelf, or sweeping spilled blueberries off the floor, enough motivation to consider another way?