“I don’t suppose Diane Simmonds filled you in on what Raquel’s been up to since or why she found herself back in Rudolph only to end up dead in a cellar on Broad Street?”

  “She did not.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dad and I found Mrs. D’Angelo awake and propped up on a pile of pillows. An IV was in her left hand, both wrists heavily bandaged, her eyes sunken pools in a stark-white face. A small cut, rapidly healing over, marked her chin, and blue and black bruises were on her right cheekbone and beneath the eye, likely where she’d bumped her head when dragged into the pantry. She gave us a weak smile when we came in and thanked me for the flowers.

  The curtain around the bed next to hers was pulled closed, and steady snoring came from behind.

  I searched for a place to put the flowers. The narrow windowsill overlooking the parking garage and every other available surface was covered in cards and vases overflowing with blooms.

  “Looks like you’ve had a lot of company already, Mabel.” Dad settled into one of the visitors’ chairs, and I took the other.

  She shook her head. Her neatly coiffed gray hair was no longer neatly coiffed but plastered to her head in greasy strands. She clutched the bedsheets to her chest. “I don’t want to see anyone. I told people not to come.”

  Dad half rose. “I’m sorry. We should have called ahead.”

  “Sit down, sit down.” She struggled to sit upright. “You and Merry are welcome. Detective Simmonds tells me it was Merry and Vicky Casey who saved me.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that,” I said.

  “I would. Heaven knows how long I might have been down there before I was found. Or”—she shuddered—“not found.”

  “No need to think about that anymore, Mabel,” Dad said cheerfully. “You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

  A phone, not in a pink case, sat on the table behind me. It rang, and I half turned to reach for it, intending to hand it to her. “Leave it,” Mrs. D’Angelo said sharply. “If it’s important, it will go to voice mail.”

  “Yesterday when I tried to get you, the voice mailbox was full.”

  She shrugged, not much caring. “The police took my phone into evidence and brought me a temporary one. Doesn’t matter. I don’t feel like talking to anyone. All they’re after is the salacious details.” She sighed and closed her eyes.

  Dad and I exchanged worried glances.

  “When you’re released, do you have someone who can stay with you for a few days?” Dad asked. “In case you need help?”

  “Iris, my sister, is coming.”

  “That’s good.”

  “As long as she doesn’t plan on staying too long. A couple of days of Iris is quite enough for me.”

  “Rather than thanking Vicky and me,” I said. “You should be thanking George Mann. He noticed you were missing first, and it was only then he alerted me.”

  A small smile touched the edges of her pale lips. “Dear George. A truly good man. If only we’d met many long years ago.” She opened her eyes. “No doubt you’re wondering what happened?”

  “Yes, but if you’re not up to talking about it, that’s okay,” I said.

  “I told Detective Simmonds everything I could remember, and she didn’t tell me to keep it to myself. As you know, Merry, I was getting concerned when the new neighbors didn’t respond to my many overtures of friendship. I had another batch of my molasses spice cookies ready to go when I saw her in front of the house. A bunch of advertising material had been stuffed into everyone’s mailbox that morning. Darn nuisance all that rubbish is, and even worse when the carrier doesn’t put it properly into the mailbox but leaves it to scatter to the winds. Which is what happened across the street. I was considering going out myself and picking the unsightly mess up from their yard when her car drove up. It went into the garage, as usual, but instead of going directly into the house from the garage entrance, a woman got out and collected the papers. She tucked them under her arm and went into the garage, and the doors shut behind her. I realized it was the perfect opportunity to deliver my cookies, so I hurried over as soon as I could. Unfortunately, I wasn’t yet dressed for the day, so I had to take time to do that, and then I couldn’t find my boots, so I was delayed once again.” She paused and took a breath. “Merry, would you be a dear and pass me that glass of water.”

  I hurried to do so and held it while she sipped through the straw provided.

  Snores continued from the next bed, increasing in intensity. People came and went in the corridor outside. A woman laughed and a man yelled. A nurse spoke to another. A porter pushed an empty stretcher down the hall.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. D’Angelo said when she’d had a sip of water. “Finally, I was ready to go, and so I went across the street with my tin of cookies and rang the bell. No one answered. I knew she was at home: I’d seen her moments before. I thought maybe she was in the back. It was cold, but the sun was out, so perhaps she was relaxing on the deck.”

  Dad and I said nothing. Anyone else would call that snooping.

  “I scarcely can credit what happened next. The gate to the backyard was unlocked, so I went in and onto the deck. The blinds were open, and I could see her in the kitchen. Her back was to me. She was at the sink, pouring beer into a glass. I rapped on the door and put on my brightest, most welcoming smile. She turned, and the look she gave me, Merry, would send chills up your spine. It certainly did mine, but before I could make my escape, she opened the door and invited me in. I should have turned and run, but you know me, Noel. Always thinking the best of everyone.”

  Dad didn’t laugh, which I thought showed enormous restraint on his part.

  “I held out my cookies, stepped into the house, and …” She closed her eyes.

  I waited.

  “Next thing I knew, I had the most awful headache. I couldn’t see a thing, and I was unable to move. It was like something out of a horror movie.” She shuddered.

  “It’s over,” Dad said, his voice calm and comforting. “You’re safe now, Mabel.”

  “I don’t know how long I was in there. Detective Simmonds said two days. Two days! I might never have been found. If not for Merry. I can’t bear to imagine what might have happened to me!”

  “And George,” I said. “Don’t forget George Mann, who first raised the alarm.”

  The phone rang again. I left it where it was.

  “What did she look like?” I asked. “The woman who, presumably, bashed you over the head and stuffed you into the pantry?”

  “Young. Quite young. She had exceptionally nice hair. Very long, halfway down her back. Shiny and blond. That’s all I had time to notice.”

  “Had you ever seen her before that day? Before she picked up the flyers?”

  “Detective Simmonds asked me that. I’m certain I did not. It was two men who were moving furniture and boxes in the day they arrived. I suppose it might have been her in the car those times I saw someone pulling into the garage, or in the car leaving, if her hair was concealed, but I can’t say.”

  Dad and I sat quietly, letting her gather her thoughts.

  “I’m having trouble putting everything in sequence,” she said. “I suppose I dozed on and off, although I was so dreadfully uncomfortable, I don’t know how I managed that. Some light leaked in under the door, enough that I could see I was in a small room with empty shelves. I tried yelling for help, but she’d put something into my mouth. I knew she was there, she or someone else. I heard footsteps moving about in the kitchen. And then, for a long time, it was very quiet. The light had changed when I heard voices.”

  “Changed how?” Dad asked. “Lamps turned on or time passing?”

  “Time passing, I believe. Natural light, from the daytime, had gone, and the kitchen lights were on.”

  “Voices?” I said. “Was it the same woman talking to someone?”

  “A young woman, at any rate. She hadn’t said a word to me when I showed her my cookies. Not that I can remember. I just don’t know what happened … then. She was talking to a man. A man, and her, the same young woman, or another. They were in the kitchen, standing close to where I was, arguing.”

  “Arguing about what?” Dad asked.

  “I don’t know. She said this, whatever this was, was a bad idea. They needed to cut their losses and get out of here. He refused. Said they’d gone to all this trouble and they weren’t leaving now because of a bunch of neighborhood”—she flushed and looked away—“busybodies. She said it wouldn’t work without Lou, and he said he’d sort out things with Lou and get everything back on track in no time. But first”—she swallowed heavily—“they had to get rid of the temporary inconvenience she’d caused.”

  “What do you think that meant?” I asked.

  “I took it to mean he wanted to … get rid of me. I was the inconvenience.”

  “Obviously, that did not happen,” Dad said. “No need to dwell on it, Mabel. They will not be back.”

  “Who’s Lou?” I asked.

  “I’ve no idea. She said what’s done was done, and she was finished. She wanted what she was owed, and he told her not to be in such a rush. They could still make it work.”

  “Then what happened?” Dad asked.

  “The voices moved away. I couldn’t hear any more. I … I didn’t know what to do. I considered trying to make a noise, to attract his attention. Maybe they weren’t talking about me, maybe he didn’t know I was in there. But I didn’t like the sound of that man’s voice. He used a lot of bad words when talking to her, and I didn’t like that. I decided to trust the woman, to trust she’d eventually realize she’d made a mistake and come back and free me. I mean … she could have killed me, Noel, instead of putting me in that room. But then …” Her voice trailed off.

  Dad patted her hand.

  “Detective Simmonds showed me a picture. A picture of a dead woman. It was her, the woman from the kitchen. The one with the blond hair.”

  “Did you recognize her only from the picture? Had you seen her previously?”

  “No. Not that I remember. I can’t say what happened after the argument I overhead. The voices left. I heard no more footsteps. Time passed. I must have slept on and off. The light changed; it got fully dark. And then daylight again. I managed to work the rag out of my mouth and call for help. I couldn’t get the rope off my hands, though.” Her eyes drifted closed.

  Dad stood up. “We’ll leave you to get some rest, Mabel. Call me, anytime, if you need anything.”

  “Mabel D’Angelo, there you are.” Two women burst into the room. They were of late middle age, carrying spindly bunches of red-and-white carnations. “You are the talk of the town, you are. I’ve been calling and calling all morning, but your mailbox says it’s full. You really should listen to your messages and delete the old ones. Suppose someone’s trying to get you in an emergency? I phoned Ellen here, and we decided to pop in for a visit. Did the police confiscate your phone? Do they need it for evidence? Oh, Noel, hello. Don’t let us keep you.”

  “I believe Mabel’s ready for a nap,” Dad said.

  “Nonsense.” Ellen gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. “The nurse at the desk told us she’s up to accepting visitors. Now, tell us everything.” They plonked themselves down on the recently vacated visitors’ chairs and assumed the position. Chins in hands, eyes bright, expressions expectant.

  Mrs. D’Angelo’s neighbor snored on.

  “Mabel?” Dad said.

  “Thank you for coming, Noel. Merry. I am rather tired, June. I don’t feel up to talking.”

  “Nonsense,” June repeated. “I heard from Donalda that she knew something was amiss in that house but no one would believe her.”

  “I’ll ask a nurse to pop in,” Dad said. “To help you settle.”

  “It’s worrying,” I said as my father and I walked down the long corridor after having a word with the nurses. “She’s not on her phone taking advantage of all the attention. Never mind actually discouraging visitors.”

  “She’s had a shock, honeybunch. A bad one. She needs to rest, but I fear her so-called network won’t let her. Still, she’s capable of telling the nurses no visitors, if that’s what she wants.” He pushed the button for the elevator. The doors swished open, and none other than Detective Diane Simmonds stepped out.

  The doors shut behind her, and the elevator departed without Dad and me.

  “Noel, Merry. Not surprised to see you two here,” the detective said. “Can I assume you were visiting Mabel D’Angelo?”

  “Briefly,” Dad said. “She has a couple of friends with her now.”

  She smiled. “Not a problem. I can chase them away. Before that, if you have a few minutes, I have some information to share with you.”

  “That’s a first,” I said.

  “By share, I mean inform you of some details of what we’ve learned in the last fourteen hours so you can in return provide me with further information. Coffee?”

  “Sure,” I said. Dad pushed the elevator button once again.

  Simmonds and I settled ourselves at a big table by the window in the largely empty hospital cafeteria while Dad went for the drinks. It was ten in the morning. Staff grabbing coffee and muffins for breakfast had been and gone, and visitors and mobile patients wanting to chat over lunch had yet to arrive.

  “World’s worst coffee,” Simmonds said to me. “Every hospital is equally bad.”

  “I suppose you’ve been in a lot of hospitals.”

  “More than I like. The deceased woman has been identified, as you suspected, as one Raquel Marie Torrone. She lives in New York City, where she is, as they say, not unknown to the police.”

  Dad put three mugs on the table. The coffee was a muddy color, not at all appealing. “Not unknown for what?”

  “Minor embezzlement, for which she did six months in jail. A couple of fraud cases thrown out of court when the complainants failed to appear. All small-scale stuff, but the NYPD tells me she had some acquaintances they don’t consider to be small scale. Also of interest, she has a file with us.”

  “Us?”

  “Rudolph PD. Sealed, as she was a juvenile at the time. The house in question, by way of considerable interest, is owned by Beth and Richard Torrone, previously of Rudolph, currently of Rochester, New York.”

  “Raquel’s parents,” Dad said. “I believe they inherited the house from Dorothy Johannesen, Beth’s aunt. That was some years ago, and as far as I know, they never attempted to live in it.”

  “You’re right. The Rochester police paid a call on them to deliver the news of their daughter’s death. They weren’t at home. Fortunately, a neighbor was, and that neighbor has their phone number. I have spoken to them. They’re in North Carolina on vacation and will be traveling back today. I have an appointment with them later this afternoon. They tell me they haven’t had any personal contact with their daughter in thirteen years. Her choice, not theirs. She walked out of the house one day with a suitcase, when she was a high school senior, and cut them out of her life almost completely. They knew she wasn’t dead, because once or twice a year she would send an email asking them for money. They always gave it, always sent it by bank transfer, and then didn’t hear until the next request came in. They don’t know why she would be in that house, or even in Rudolph. Obviously, we couldn’t get into a detailed discussion over the reasons for the estrangement or about the money they sent her over the phone. I hope to learn more when I speak to them in person.”

  “Sad,” Dad said. He looked at me with eyes overflowing with love. “To lose a child, no matter how rarely you see them.” I stretched my arm across the table toward him, and he took my hand. He cleared his throat, reclaimed his hand, and said, “The house itself is interesting. Did Raquel rent it under her own name?”

  “No. The lease is under the name of Scott McNamara. Do you know anyone by that name?”

  “No,” Dad and I chorused.

  “Seems strange she’d be in a house her own parents own without telling them a friend of hers, if we assume Scott McNamara is at least an acquaintance, is renting it.”

  “Are the Torrone parents, as you put it, also ‘known to the police’?” Dad asked.

  “Nothing more than the occasional parking ticket. He’s a technician for a phone company; she’s a teller in a bank. The family never lived in that house. Beth inherited it from her aunt Dorothy Johannesen, who lived in it for more than forty years before her death.”

  “Dorothy Johannesen. I remember her,” Dad said. “And, in the interest of full honesty, not at all fondly. She was what we at town council call a pest. Garbage wasn’t picked up on time. Sidewalk not cleared in a timely manner. Squirrels running rampant through the neighborhood. Racoons overturning her trash cans. Cars parked on the street. Dog complaints, noise complaints. She died, as I recall, about twelve or thirteen years ago.”

  “Ten,” Detective Simmonds said.

  “I won’t say the town hall staff celebrated at the news, that wouldn’t be correct, but they did let out a sigh of relief.”

  “She left the house to her niece, her sister’s daughter, Beth Torrone. When I spoke to the Torrones earlier, Beth told me they hadn’t wanted to return to Rudoph to live in the house and it wasn’t a good time to be selling, so they decided to keep it as a rental property. The most recent tenants lived there for eight years. They moved, and the house became available about a month ago, and this Scott McNamara took it. I should mention, by the way, that so far I have not been able to locate Scott McNamara. Might be an alias.”

  “Which,” Dad said, “brings us to the question of why one needs an alias to rent a house, and why a daughter of the town took steps not to be seen.”

  I’d abandoned my coffee after my first sip, as had Dad. Simmonds was almost finished with hers. I guess, as a busy cop, one takes one’s coffee when one can get it. And how one gets it. “That, I assume, has to do with the stuff I saw in the cellar.”