On Turpentine Lane(40)

“What’s wrong?” I asked, hoarse with sleep and alarm, having opened the door a half inch. “Is Joel okay?”

“Joel? Haven’t seen him since the playoffs. I’m here on another matter. Mind if I look around your basement?”

“My basement? What for?”

“Just a look-see.”

“Out of the blue you want to inspect my basement? And I do mind—I’m only in my nightgown.”

“I can wait.”

I told him that my mother was sleeping in my bedroom, and if I went upstairs for some clothes, I’d wake her. Could he come back in an hour?

“How about throwing on a coat? It won’t take me long.”

“Okay. Give me a minute.” Upon returning, parka zipped, I said, “Should I be asking if you have a search warrant?”

“A search warrant is your right,” he said. “Of course, being Sunday, I’d have to wait till tomorrow for a judge, so I couldn’t come back for a few days. Aren’t you at work weekdays?”

I said, “In that case, I’ll let you in, but I need to know why you want to look in my basement”—my lack of hospitality due to nervous knowledge of Nick’s Ziploc bag of pot, probably in plain sight upstairs.

His sigh suggested that this was harder work than anticipated. “I can tell you this much: we got a phone call . . .”

“From?”

He took out a small notepad, and without leafing very far back, announced, “It was anonymous.”

“About me?”

“Not you. The house. The caller was very specific: 10 Turpentine Lane.”

“And what was the tip?”

“It concerned things that might have transpired . . . in the past.”

“In my cellar?”

“Possibly. Which is why I’d like to take a look.”

“No clue as to what you’d be looking for down there?”

Brian said, “I think you can guess there might have been criminal activity.”

I asked, “Are you a detective?”

He stood a little taller. “Since August.”

I said, “Here’s the deal, Detective Brian. I’ll let you go downstairs without a search warrant, but first you tell me what the tipster said.”

“Faith,” he said. “You know me. You know my sisters. It’s freakin’ cold out here.”

I opened the door immediately. “Sorry. I’m a little foggy—wasn’t expecting the police at my door at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. Come in.” Then: “What did you say the tipster left on the tip line?”

“Good try. I haven’t said.”

“C’mon. I’m not asking for the who of it. Just the what of it. That must be for public consumption. Or at least owner-of-the property-in-question consumption.”

“It might be nothing. Or it might be more than you want to know.”

“?‘More than I want to know’? That’s a little patronizing, don’t you think?”

That proved to be an excellent gender-sensitivity strategy because he said, “Sorry. Okay . . . the caller said that some events that transpired in the ’60s and ’70s, deaths actually . . . might not have been from natural causes. That was basically it, plus this address.”

“Nothing to do with babies?”

“Babies? Nope. Men. Two of them. Husbands of a previous owner.”

Of course, that was the moment my mother, fully dressed, a lip gloss of mine applied, sweater over leggings, was descending the stairs. Where another mother might ask, at the sight of a uniformed policeman in her daughter’s foyer, “What’s wrong?” mine was saying, “Hello, Brian. When did you come by?”

“Five minutes ago,” I said.

“How are the roads?” she asked.

“Ma! He’s following up on an anonymous tip.”

Her initial perplexed expression turned into the hopeful question “About Faith?”

I was tempted to joke about my recently alleged embezzling at Everton but didn’t in case Brian missed the irony. “He wants to check out the basement,” I said.

“Is he telling us why?”

“Police business,” he said.

“Should one of us accompany you?” she asked.

“It’s your property,” Brian said. “Your decision.”

I said, “She doesn’t live here. It was just a weather-related sleepover.” I pointed toward the kitchen. “Cellar door’s that way. Light switch is on the right. Use the railing. The stairs are ridiculously steep.”

“Are you thinking there are bodies buried down there?” my mother asked.

Detective Dolan smiled. “Highly unlikely.”

“So what are you looking for?”

I had started my ascent to the second floor, but stopped halfway, torn between waiting for his answer and hustling upstairs to warn Nick that we had a detective on the premises.

“I’m just going to take a few pictures,” he said.

“Are you married?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let him get on with it,” I scolded, and in case I looked like someone in a rush to hide evidence, added, “Must get dressed.”