Chapter 32
CHAPTER 32
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 18
I sat up in bed, temples throbbing relentlessly. Dreams of a bleeding woman had woven through my sleep again. I’d awakened countless times during the night, my heart beating a tattoo of fear against my chest.
I tumbled out of bed and shuffled toward the kitchen, thinking only of my morning coffee, but when my eyes settled on the stack of mail on the kitchen counter I paused. I’d been too frightened to even turn on a light in my place after I’d returned home the previous night. If Matt had recognized me—a big if since I doubted he’d been able to make out my face in the dark with my cell phone light blasting in his eyes—he might swing by my house to confront me. I was sure he knew where I lived. His lover, Jane, would have told him.
I’d sat like a sentinel on my sofa in the dark living room for hours, watching the front yard in the bright moonlight, trying to wrap my head around Jane and Matt as the illicit couple I’d been observing for weeks. Was Matt actually Ray? Was Melanie really Annie? I wondered again how long Jane had been having a fling with another woman’s husband. Had Jane and her mystery man—whatever his name was—plotted to get rid of his wife? I thought about the strange conversation I’d overheard between them less than two weeks earlier on the dark street. Talking about a situation that was “getting serious.” Something they had to “figure out.” My head swam with the unanswered questions, and my stomach cramped, banishing the idea of coffee.
I snatched the mail bundle and slid into a kitchen chair. Could Matt/Ray have killed Melanie/Annie to free himself for Jane? That theory had a few holes. First of all, I didn’t know if the woman I’d seen was dead or just harmed. Second, what good would it do him to be free of a spouse if Jane still had hers? Third—and most important—Matt/Ray must realize if his wife went missing, he’d be suspect number one. On nearly every crime show I’d ever seen it was the husband who offed his wife.
Feeling like Mary, stealing other people’s documents, I leafed through the stack of flyers and other junk mail addressed to Occupant or Current Resident, seeing nothing that would clue me into the family that had lived at 21 Pine Hill Road. Standing, I bundled the papers between my palms and deposited them in my recycling bin next to the back door. As I turned back to the table, my eye caught a small envelope resting on the white tile floor. I bent down and scooped it up, ready to toss it in with the other discards, when I noticed the addressee: Ms. S. Connolly. The return address in the upper left corner was the local hospital, the one Dr. Ellison practiced out of. Probably a fundraising appeal, I thought as I tore open the end. Whoever addressed the envelope hadn’t even gotten Annie’s first initial right. I remembered the S on a keyboard was right next to the A.
I opened the letter and began reading:
Dear Ms. Connolly,
I hope this letter finds you well. Please note that there is an outstanding balance due immediately on your account #44953 in the amount of $500.00 for emergency services rendered on July 18 of this year. If you have already paid this bill, please disregard this notice. If you have questions or concerns, please call 518-343-2200 and ask for the billing department.
Sincerely,
Carla Beddington,
Billing & Payments Supervisor
Emergency services? Annie—if that’s who I saw dancing in the living room and hugging in the foyer of 21 Pine Hill—had appeared perfectly fine a few weeks after the supposed emergency service. Could this bill have been a mistake? I studied the contact number embedded in the letter, reaching for my cell phone.
The woman who answered was named Natalie something-or-other. Reading the signature at the bottom of the missive, I asked to speak with Carla Beddington. I was put on hold for so long, I thought I’d been disconnected, but a friendly voice eventually filled the dead air space.
“Carla Beddington,” she said, managing to sound both efficient and cheerful. “How may I help you?”
“Hello,” I began, squaring my shoulders and pushing air from my diaphragm in a feeble attempt to sound annoyed. “My name’s Annie Connolly. I just received a bill for your hospital’s emergency services on July 18 of this year, and I believe there’s been a mistake. I’m perfectly healthy and?—”
“Hold on,” Carla cut in. She also kept me stranded on hold, but this time Muzak trickled through the phone line. A Lawrence Welky version of a Rolling Stones tune, like Dr. Gleason used to subject his patients to every damn day. As a kid in his reception area waiting for my mother’s shift to end, I’d hated the canned background music, which distorted my favorite songs so much. I was tempted to hang up and try the hospital’s billing department at a later time.
“Thanks for holding,” Carla chirped. “I found records for an S. Connolly for that date. Is Annie your nickname?”
“Yes,” I said, the word sounding more like a question than an affirmation.
“And what’s your first name?”
“If I told you that I’d have to kill you,” I joked, trying to stall. Could Annie be short for Suzanne? I couldn’t risk it. Not knowing my own first name would raise a red flag the size of Rhode Island.
Carla didn’t laugh.
I quickly backtracked, going for a phony emotional appeal. “Look, Ms. Beddington. I hate my first name. Could we just stick with the first initial?”
“I guess so. That’s what you did on the eighteenth.”
“Ummm, yeah, right.”
There was a pause on the line. “Wait, you just said you weren’t here on that date.”
I tried not to sigh. Cheerful Carla wasn’t a complete idiot.
“What date?” I tried for a genuinely confused tone.
“July 18.”
“I wasn’t.”
“But you just confirmed the use of only your first initial on the eighteenth?—”
“I always go by just the first initial.” I gnawed on my lower lip. There was an excellent chance Carla was going to ask me my birth date next. I’d have to cut her off at the pass. “Look, I’m on my lunch hour and your office has kept me waiting on the phone so long that I won’t have time to eat. Can you just tell me what I was supposedly treated for this past July 18?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Carla’s voice sounded genuine. “It looks like... hmm... would you mind if I put you on a very short hold?”
“Yes, I would. I have no more time to wait,” I snapped. “Why can’t you just tell me what you see in my records?”
“I see that you already paid in cash. There’s a notation in the lower right corner. The data-entry person probably didn’t notice it. I wanted to point this out to her.”
“Feel free to do that when I’m no longer on the phone.” My tone dripped nastiness. I’d have to dial it back if I wanted to get any more information out of Carla. “Meanwhile, I was treated for...?”
But Carla refused to detour from her sworn duty as head of the hospital’s billing staff. “You can disregard the bill, with my deepest regrets for any inconven?—”
“That’s fine,” I talked over her. “And what did I supposedly pay for?”
“I’m in billing, not treatment, Ms. Connolly.”
“Yes, of course.” I injected sweetness into my voice I was far from feeling. “But bills are itemized, right?”
“Well, yeah, there are codes, but I’m not at liberty to discuss?—”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
She laughed as though I were joking, but then her tone turned serious. “Would you like to talk with a nurse in our ER unit, Ms. Connolly?”
“About what? I don’t know what my ailment is.” I was thankful I wasn’t standing in front of the woman. My fingers itched to reach through the phone and gouge her eyes. Counseling myself to keep my cool, I added, “Could you please just tell me what the codes indicate?”
There was a long pause. Carla was deciding how helpful she wanted to be.
“Look, from one woman to another...” I began, in a last-ditch effort to win her over.
“From one woman to another,” she repeated, her voice low but urgent, “the records reveal contusions and lacerations. The only reason I’m telling you this is so you can get help—the same help my sister needed and didn’t get.” Her voice was so low I could barely hear her. “She’s in a wheelchair now.”
Contusions and lacerations? That was a helluva lot of bruises and cuts if it landed Annie in the ER. Perhaps she’d had a car accident. But what did Carla mean when she mentioned her sister and advised Annie get help? I said nothing, hoping she would elaborate. She did.
“There was also a concussion, and all your injuries are consistent with”—she lowered her voice—“domestic abuse. Are you sure you don’t need to speak with someone on the emergency staff?”
My mouth dropped open. Someone had beaten the shit out of Annie Connolly.
* * *
My phone conversation only reaffirmed my determination to help the mystery woman I now suspected was Annie Connolly. I knew where to start: Woodmint Lane. Jeffrey Trembly ignored me before, but this recent information changed everything. I needed to talk with him about it. If he arrived home from work in the early-morning hours, he wouldn’t go back on shift until four or five in the afternoon. I drove to Deer Crossing just after three.
Making my way down Woodmint Lane, my gaze was riveted on Jane Brockton and her little dog on their front lawn as I passed her house. She was bent over, patting the adorable fluffy head, a dog bone in her other hand. As I passed by, both she and the dog looked up and watched. I gave a quick wave and noticed her frown before I looked back at the road in front of me. Bitch. Someone needed to inform her she lived on a public street, not a private road. But Jane Brockton probably knew all about me. Seems like everyone else in town did. Guess I’d frown too, if I saw a monster pass by. I felt my insides sag, and a tightening in my shoulders as though I’d been yoked, like an ox, to a heavy load.
Losing sight of the Brocktons’ house in my rearview mirror as I pulled into Jeffrey’s driveway, I steadied my breathing. I had to convince Jeffrey I wanted to help him find Annie Connolly—that even though my mental state was compromised, my intent wasn’t. I stepped out of the car and hurried toward his front stoop.
Movement inside the house after I pressed the doorbell, and a few seconds later his door opened. Jeffrey stood there, paralyzed like a rabbit caught in headlights.
“Hey, Caroline. I can’t talk now, I’m in the middle of something.”
“I know you know about me,” I said. “You’re a reporter. Of course you know my story. That’s why you ran from me that day at the food store. You were running from crazy.”
“Look, I?—”
“Annie Connolly was admitted to Mercy General’s ER in late July,” I blurted out. He met my gaze. “We can talk out here if you like.”
He opened the door wide enough to see the yards and street beyond. Apparently satisfied by what he saw—or didn’t—he opened it wider and ushered me in. I supposed having the neighbors witness him talking with the town loon was riskier than being alone with me inside his house.
I stepped into the sparse foyer and paused as he closed the door behind me. “I don’t blame you for avoiding me, you know.” I took a deep breath. “I wasn’t doing well, but I’m better now. I spent more than a week at the hospital.”
“I’m glad,” he said, looking everywhere but at me.
“Annie was admitted to the ER exactly two months ago.”
“I checked the hospitals.” His eyes locked with mine. “They told me she wasn’t there.”
“That makes sense, you’re not a relative. They don’t just hand out information to anyone who waltzes in and asks.”
“You’re not her relative.” Jeffrey tilted his head, looking skeptical. “So how did you find out?”
“I got my hands on a bill from Mercy General.” I held his gaze. “And before you ask, yes, I rifled through her mailbox. Just last night. I called the hospital pretending to be her.”
Jeffrey ran a hand through his hair. “Did you discover why Annie was at the ER?”
“Domestic abuse.”
His eyes widened. “That prick! I knew it. Stupid professional bodybuilder. More like pro wife beater...” He looked at me, his face bright red.
“What’s Ray Connolly like?” I thought again about the man I’d called Matt.
“I don’t know.” His voice notched up as his fury grew. “Like I told you, I never met him. Only saw him in the yard when I drove past their house.”
“Could bodybuilding be a hobby?” I asked. “And maybe he had another job, like... um... an engineer?”
“An engineer?” Jeffrey’s laugh echoed around me. “I doubt the guy even knows what an engineer is. When Annie met him, they were teens. According to her, the attraction was purely physical. But then she grew into an adult. And he didn’t. He honestly thinks he’s going to make a living off of endorsements, but the only deals he’s been able to get are for free supplements and sports clothes. Meanwhile, she’s been supporting him for years. She’s sick of it.”
“Oh, okay. I was just wondering.” I didn’t want to press my luck with Jeffrey’s patience. I’d let him process the news I’d just shared. “I’ll be going, but I thought you’d want to know about Annie. It might be useful.”
He nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”
I turned away and let myself out. Jeffrey had treated me as an oddity, like the barely tolerated neighbor living with seventeen cats and smelling of tuna. As I walked back to my car, I realized my story was far worse than that. To be relegated to the status of a cliché seemed almost mundane. An outcast others avoided rather than a monster everyone feared. I recalled the gossiping girls at the drugstore weeks earlier. Now I knew they were talking about me, the woman who killed her own baby.
Mustn’t think about that.
I thought instead about what Tim had told me about Ray Connolly. I got into my car and pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I quickly called the main phone number for Kinney and McKean Engineering. When their longtime receptionist, Gloria, answered, I hoped she wouldn’t recognize my voice.
“Ray Connolly, please,” I asked, adopting a lower pitch.
“Excuse me?” Gloria asked. When I repeated the name, she didn’t even pause before saying, “I’m afraid we don’t have an employee by that name.”
“Oh,” I feigned surprise. “When did he leave the firm?”
“I... think you have the wrong number. I’ve been with this firm for eight years, and I’ve never heard of Ray Connolly.”
“So sorry,” I mumbled, clicking off. Why was I even surprised that Tim had lied to me? I’d suspected he hadn’t been truthful about a lot of things during the course of our marriage, but why lie about Ray? Did Tim even know the guy? Uneasiness slid through my chest and churned my stomach. What else had Tim lied about?