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When Paul Sharpe has left, even unhappier than when he came in, Webb turns to Moen; she raises both eyebrows at him.
‘Lots of people probably have cabins out that way,’ Moen says.
‘I’m sure they do,’ Webb agrees, ‘but I want to get a look at this one.’
Moen nods.
Webb says, ‘He has squat for an alibi. Maybe he’d arranged to meet her at his cabin. The family wasn’t going up that weekend. He had the story for his wife – the aunt called him, begging for a visit. If it’s true, why did he go this time? He usually didn’t. Why did he turn off his phone?’ He adds, ‘And that cabin isn’t very far from where she was found. He knows the area. He would know where to dump the car.’
‘He would,’ Moen agrees.
Webb ponders. ‘In the meantime, let’s get Larry Harris in here and confront him with this surveillance footage.’
Chapter Twenty-five
OLIVIA GRIPS THE steering wheel tightly as she drives over the bridge, out of the city. She’s going to visit her husband’s aunt Margaret. She knows where she lives. And she hasn’t seen her in a long time.
Raleigh saunters up to the door of the Bean, trying to look like a techie on the way to see a client. But he feels like a teenager meeting somebody else’s mother. He doesn’t feel confident at all. He’s only sixteen. He reminds himself that he can probably fix her computer and get out of there within fifteen minutes. Then he can tell his mom and she’ll be happy that he did something useful and maybe he can broach the subject of getting his phone back.
He steps inside and immediately sees an older, blonde woman in a red jacket waving at him. Ugh. Embarrassing. He quickly walks over and sits down across from her. He takes in the laptop – it’s a Dell Inspiron, pretty basic.
‘Hi, Raleigh,’ she says. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
He nods awkwardly and says, ‘Hi.’
‘I’m Mrs Torres,’ she says.
Looking at her more closely, he can see that she’s older than his mom. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asks, gesturing at the laptop.
‘I can’t get it to connect to the internet any more.’ She flicks her hand at the machine in frustration.
He pulls the laptop closer to him and looks at it. He quickly sees that it is in airplane mode. He hits the key with the little airplane on it. The internet connects to the wi-fi of the coffee shop automatically. ‘You had it on airplane mode,’ he says, stifling a smirk. Jesus, Raleigh thinks, it’s like taking candy from a baby.
‘Oh, my goodness, is that all it was?’ the woman says.
‘That’s that, then,’ Raleigh says, feeling both relieved and disappointed there wasn’t more wrong with the laptop. He can hardly expect to be paid for that.
‘Hang on a minute, Raleigh,’ she says.
He notes a sudden change in her tone of voice and is momentarily confused. She’s holding a twenty in her hand, but she’s not offering it to him. Now she leans closer. Her smile is still there, but it’s changed, it’s not genuine. She lowers her voice and says, ‘You broke into my house.’
Raleigh’s face feels hot. His mouth has gone dry. It can’t be the woman with the baby. This woman is too old. He doesn’t know what to do. A long moment passes and then he realizes that he must deny it. ‘What?’ His voice is a dry croak. He clears his throat. ‘No, I didn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But he knows he’s not convincing. He looks guilty as hell. Because he is guilty as hell.
‘Yes, you did. You snuck in and snooped around my house, and in my computer, and I don’t like it.’
‘Why would I do that? Why do you think it was me? I never broke into your stupid house,’ he says, like a terrified child. He is a terrified child.
‘I have no idea. You tell me. What were you looking for, exactly?’
He shakes his head. ‘It wasn’t me. I don’t do that kind of stuff.’
‘You can deny it all you want, but I’m onto you, Raleigh.’
He has to know how big a problem he’s got here. ‘Maybe somebody broke into your house, lady. But what makes you think it was me?’ Raleigh sputters, trying to keep his voice low.
‘Because I know your mother wrote those letters.’
‘What letters?’ He’s thinking fast.
‘The letters of apology your mom wrote about you breaking into our houses. I got one of them. So I know it was you.’
Raleigh feels a growing terror. She must be the one who spoke to his mom. His fingerprints are all over her house. And he’s just handled her laptop. Fuck. With a sudden, desperate bravado, he leans over the table toward her and speaks very clearly. ‘I was never in your house. Ever. You can’t prove it. So back off and stay out of my way.’ He can’t believe he just spoke that way to an adult. He stands up. ‘I’m going.’
She calls out after him, ‘This isn’t over!’
He can feel other people’s startled eyes on him as he strides out of the coffee shop, his face burning.
It’s about an hour’s drive to Aunt Margaret’s place, worse in traffic. But it’s Sunday afternoon, and the traffic is light. As she drives, Olivia thinks about how pointless this trip probably is. Margaret won’t remember if Paul visited her that night. She almost turns around and goes back home.
But something keeps her driving forward along the highway and into the Catskills, and soon she arrives in Berwick. Margaret’s house is a small bungalow, not as tidy as it used to be, but Margaret can’t do much any more. Olivia parks in the empty driveway – Margaret had given up her car a couple of years earlier – notices the fading paint, and knocks firmly on the front door. She wonders if anyone else will be there.
For a long time, nothing happens. She rings the doorbell and knocks again. She has a terrible vision of Margaret perhaps lying on the floor with a broken hip, unable to get to the door. She feels a sudden shame that she’s taken so little interest in Paul’s aunt’s well-being, so busy with her own life. How often do people come to help her? Does she even have an alarm to use if she falls down?
Finally the door opens, and Margaret stands there blinking at her in the sunlight. ‘Olivia,’ she says, in a weak, wavering voice. Her face breaks into a slow, surprised smile. ‘I … wasn’t … expecting … you …’ she says, out of breath after the effort of getting to the door.
It must be a good day, Olivia thinks. She knows the dementia comes and goes, that some days her head is clearer than others. ‘I thought you might like a nice visit,’ Olivia says, entering the house. ‘Paul wanted to come, but he couldn’t today,’ she says.
The old woman totters into the living room and sinks slowly into her rocking chair. She has the TV on low, with captions running along the bottom of the screen. She reaches laboriously for the remote and turns it off. Now that she’s here, Olivia is engulfed with sadness. That life comes down to this. This loneliness, this waiting – for suppertime, for a visitor, for death. Olivia sits down on the sofa, turned toward Margaret. The air is stuffy and she longs to open the windows, but thinks Margaret probably wouldn’t like the draught. ‘Can I make you some tea?’ she asks.
