Eight Perfect Murders(33)

“I can make some calls, sure,” Marty said, sounding a little confused. “It’s probably nothing, Mal. Periodically someone will be handed a cold case, and they find some avenue that wasn’t fully investigated—like where he got his books from—and they decide to check it out. It’s grasping at straws. You said it was the FBI came to see you?”

“Yeah. That’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll make some calls. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Thanks so much, Marty.”

“What else is going on with you?”

“Not too much. Buying books, selling books.”

“Let’s grab a beer soon. I’ll call you when I get information on this Donald Chaney, and we can meet.”

“Norman Chaney.”

“Right, right. Norman Chaney.”

“Yeah, let’s do that,” I said. “Grab a drink.”

I hung up the phone, realizing only after I’d done so that my shoulders were rigid, and my jaw ached. Norman Chaney had been a name I’d been trying to forget for years. Just saying it out loud had physically changed me. Again, I wondered if I’d made a mistake by bringing Marty into this, but I needed to know who wanted Chaney dead. I rolled my shoulders, loosening them, just as Emily came through the door, unwinding a long scarf from around her neck. It was opening time, and I turned all the lights on in the store, went and put the Open sign in the front door. There was a stack of new arrivals in the back that needed to be shelved, and after Emily had shed all her outerwear, the two of us got to work, mostly in silence. When we did talk, I noticed that her voice was slightly hoarse, as though she were coming down with a cold, or else she’d talked too much the night before. I remembered that she had plans. Still, it was hard to imagine Emily talking too much to anyone. It was hard to imagine Emily having plans.

“What’s new with you these days?” I asked her.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Nothing, really. I was curious if anything had changed in your life. You still living in Cambridge? You seeing anyone?”

“Uh,” she said, and I waited for more.

“Seen any good movies?” I said, just to give her an out after the silence lasted an uncomfortable level of time.

“I saw Under the Skin,” she said.

“Oh, yeah. Was that the one with Scarlett Johannson as the alien?”

“Exactly.”

“How was it?”

“Really great.”

“Good to know,” I said and decided to not ask her any more questions. I never had children, so I’ll never know what it’s like to have a suddenly silent teenager, but sometimes I felt like that was my relationship with Emily.

We went back to shelving books, and I found myself thinking about my conversation with Marty. Maybe it had been a mistake to ask him to look at Norman Chaney, but it felt like something I had to do. Chaney was my link to Charlie. Well, also Elaine Johnson, I suppose, but he must have picked her because he knew I knew her. And if I assumed that the other murders were more or less random, then the murder that would lead me to his identity was Norman Chaney. He wanted Chaney dead, and if I found out why, I’d find Charlie.

Around noon my phone buzzed. It was Gwen, texting to let me know she was on her way. I told Emily that I was leaving early that day, but Brandon was closing up, and I also told her that there was a possibility she would have to open up the store herself the following morning. Both Brandon and Emily had their own keys to Old Devils. If she was curious about where I was going, she didn’t show it.

Around one I began to keep an eye on the front door, with its view out to Bury Street. My bag was packed, with enough clothes and toiletries for a possible overnight stay. Despite the anxiety I was feeling about the situation, and about what Gwen might discover, I was looking forward to the trip. I’d been feeling confined by Boston this winter. I was looking forward to the highway, to snowy vistas, to visiting a place I’d never been before.

At one thirty I poked my head out the front door and spotted Gwen pulling up in front of a hydrant in a beige Chevy Equinox. I said good-bye to Emily and headed out just as my cell phone began to ring. I saw Gwen’s number on the screen, ignored it, and walked across the street to the passenger-side door, knocking on the glass. She glanced in my direction, turned off her phone, and I got inside the car. It smelled new, and I wondered if it was a company car. I buckled up and put my small bag on the floor between my feet.

“Hi,” she said. “I did book us two rooms in Rockland, just in case. You have everything you need?”

“I do,” I said.

She continued down Bury Street toward Storrow Drive. We were both quiet, and I decided to not speak first, not knowing if she was trying to concentrate on getting out of Boston. Once we hit 93 North, however, she thanked me for coming.

“It’ll be nice to get out of the city,” I said. I turned and looked at her for the first time since I’d gotten into the car. She’d taken her coat off to drive and was wearing a cable-knit sweater and a pair of dark jeans. Her hands were correctly positioned on the steering wheel (ten and two) and she was studying the road as though she needed glasses. She was so intent that I was able to study her face a little; it was easier for me to see in profile, more distinctive, with her slightly upturned nose, her dominant forehead, and smooth, pale skin, dusted here and there with a flush of red. Whenever I really look at people, I can’t stop myself from picturing them as either very young or very old. With Gwen I saw her as a five-year-old, wide eyed, chewing at her bottom lip, tucked in behind a parent’s leg. Then I pictured her as an old woman, gray hair knotted down her back, her skin with that papery quality some old people get, but pretty with her large, intelligent eyes. There was something familiar about her, as well, about the pale oval of her face, but I couldn’t quite place it.