Chapter 91
NINETY-ONE
Elm Street
Ellie phoned Derrick on her way to Mabel’s house. “Mabel Putnam was not at the counseling center when I arrived. Her receptionist said she received an upsetting phone call, then said she had an emergency and didn’t know when she’d be back.”
“I’ll start digging into her background.”
“Thanks. Hopefully I can catch her at her house. If she’s not there, I’ll issue an APB for her car and a BOLO for her.”
“I’ll meet you at her place and if she’s gone, search the inside. I’ll request a subpoena for the records at her office.”
“Great.”
“Be careful, Ellie. If she’s involved, she could be armed.”
Ellie cursed herself. She’d definitely misjudged Mabel when she’d first met her, had thought she cared about her vulnerable clients. Young girls who needed her.
Had she been deceived by the woman?
“See you at the house. It’s 334 Elm Street outside Mystic.”
“Got it. Leaving now.”
Ellie hung up, then swung her Jeep onto Main Street, drove through the small town then made another turn onto Elm. Snow fell faster now in thick waves and was starting to build up on the trees, the power lines shaking in the force of the heavy winds.
She flipped her defroster and wipers on high speed to clear her vision, grateful there were very few cars on the road. A black sedan pulled into the driveway of a brick ranch and a family piled out, hurrying inside with groceries.
Mabel’s house was two doors down, a small cottage-style house that looked homey with its blue paint and yellow door. Flowerbeds were covered in a blanket of white and ice crystals were beginning to form on the windows.
Images could be deceiving, she reminded herself. The Bentons’ house had been beautiful but an angry, heartless man lived inside.
She didn’t want to believe Mabel was part of a kidnapping scheme involving murder, but she had to follow the evidence, and it was stacking up against the counselor.
At first glance Mabel’s car was not in the driveway, but it could be in the garage with the door shut.
Not willing to take any chances, Ellie checked her gun, buttoned her coat and climbed out.
The chill of the snow and wind bit at her cheeks, but she walked up to the door and rang the doorbell, planning her strategy.
She’d play it cool and not show her hand, simply act as if she needed information from the counselor.
Plan intact, she knocked on the yellow door. Seconds ticked by. No sound from inside.
Wind battered the trees and bushes, and a branch tore off from a mountain elm near the house and slammed into the front window.
Ellie jumped at the sound, then knocked on the door again. Except for the howl of the wind, the house was silent. She touched the doorknob with gloved hands and it turned and the door squeaked open.
It hadn’t been locked. Inside, the house was dark, no lights illuminating the entryway or beyond.
Instincts warned her that Mabel wasn’t here and that something was wrong.
Pulling her flashlight, she aimed it at the interior, then stepped into the entry, listening for sounds of anyone inside. The furnace rumbled, the wind from outside whining through the front door and blowing snow inside.
Glad she’d worn boots, she shined her flashlight around and noted an antique hall tree/bench being used as a drop zone, a picture of the mountains on the opposite wall. The kitchen and living room lay ahead.
Papers, mail and file folders were strewn across the oak wood floor.
Homey décor, but Mabel definitely wasn’t home. Either she’d rushed in and grabbed things, creating a mess or someone else had been inside and ransacked the house.
Questions mounted in Ellie’s mind.
The killer? What was he looking for? Evidence he needed to cover up?
Had the intruder found what he needed and taken it to protect himself? Or had Mabel grabbed records of the adoptions to keep them from the police?
Ellie eased through the room. The lamp on the sofa table had been tipped over. A coffee cup had fallen to the floor and shattered.
A quick glance at the kitchen revealed nothing abnormal. Except the knife block on the quartz counter drew her eye. A knife was missing. The largest one.
She clenched her flashlight with one hand, pulling her gun with the other. Her gaze skated over the room, looking for blood.
Or a body.