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Chapter Forty-three
Tracy called mefirst thing that morning. “So, what are we going to do?”
Seriously?I wondered. I knew the question she was really asking wasWhat areyougoing to do?“I don’t know about you,” I answered, tired from lack of sleep and in no mood to deal with her. “But I’m going to drive the kids to school and then head to the office.” I decided not to tell her about my plans to recheck Elyse’s references. “I’ll talk to you later,” I said, hanging up before she could protest.
As soon as I got to the office, I closed the door, sat down at my desk, my coat still on, and pulled the lavender piece of paper listing Elyse’s references from my purse. There were only two contacts: Ken Billings, whose father had died of cancer the previous year, and the Robertsons, Susan and Jack, the daughter and son-in-law of Elyse’s former neighbor, Alice Kernohan. I’d spoken to both Ken and Susan before and received references that were nothing short of ecstatic. There was no reason to suspect I’d hear anything different this time around.
Still…
I took a deep breath and called Ken Billings. The call was answered almost immediately. “I’m sorry,” announced afamiliar recording. “The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again.”
Okay, I thought. Maybe I dialed the wrong number. I hung up and dialed the number again.
“I’m sorry. The number you have reached…”
Okay. So, Ken Billings got a new number. It was possible.
I tried the number for Jack and Susan Robertson.
“I’m sorry. The number you have reached is no longer in service.”
What the hell was going on?
While it was conceivable that one of Elyse’s references had changed their number, it seemed highly unlikely that both had.
What did it mean?
According to Elyse’s reference letter, she’d served as a housekeeper/caregiver for two years to a Mr. Thomas Billings, who’d lived with his son and his family at 1163 Old Forest Hill Road up until his death. Before that she’d been employed by the Robertsons to care for Susan’s mother, Alice Kernohan, Elyse’s onetime neighbor, in an apartment building at Yonge and St. Clair.
I picked up my phone, pressed in the extension for our receptionist. “Hey, Vicki,” I told her. “Listen. Something’s come up and I have to be out of the office for a few hours. Can you see if you can reschedule my ten o’clock? Thanks.”
Then I stuffed the lavender piece of paper back in my purse and left the office.
—
Lower Forest Hill Village is, along with Rosedale and the Bridle Path, one of Toronto’s toniest neighborhoods, its wide, tree-lined streets filled with gorgeous, multimillion-dollar homes. It lies right in the heart of the city and is only a short drive from my office, so it took me only minutes to get there.
“Now what?” I said as I pulled my car to a stop in front of the old stone house that was 1163 Old Forest Hill Road, watchingmy breath fog the windshield.Now you get out of the car, go knock on the door, and find out what the hell is going on.
Of course, the Billings family might have moved, in which case my amateur sleuthing would be all for naught, but what the hell, I was here already, I reasoned, ringing the bell.
The front door opened just as I was about to give up and return to my car. “Can I help you?” a woman asked.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said to the uniformed housekeeper before realizing I had no follow-up question. Some detective I was!
“Who is it, Mary?” a woman called from inside the house.
“My name is Jodi Bishop,” I called back. “I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“We only vote Conservative,” the woman responded, coming into view. She was mid-fifties, with jet-black hair and elegant cheekbones.
“I’m not a pollster,” I said. “And I’m not selling anything,” I added before the housekeeper could close the door in my face. “Are you Mrs. Billings?”
“Yes?”
“I tried to phone but I was told the number had been disconnected.”
“That’s strange. We’ve had the same number for more than twenty years,” Mrs. Billings replied. “What number were you calling?”
