As it happens the watchful neighbor is a retired school bus driver, Toni Jo Nadeau, recently widowed, and she couldnt be nicer. Pleasantly pear-shaped in velour loungewear, big hair and with the keen eyes of a nosey parker-in other words, exactly the person I was hoping to find.
Excuse me, she begins, having come out to her own little porch, right next door. Are you looking for the professor?
Oh dear, I say, clutching my handbag, acting a bit frazzled, which isnt difficult. No, no, I know hes gone. Murdered, I should say, but thats such an ugly word. Awful! No, Im looking for his son? His five-year-old boy?
Mrs. Nadeau gives me the once-over, decides Im okay and introduces herself, including the part about her late husband. Then she glances up and down the street, as if to check if were being observed. You mean the Chinese kid? Come around the back, she says, gesturing down the narrow driveway. My cats own the front rooms, we can talk in the kitchen.
Unlike some of the other homes in the neighborhood, Toni Jos house has not been upgraded in the last few decades, and the kitchen still has the feel-and smell-of a place where cooking happens. Most recently, roast lamb with a few cloves of fresh garlic, if my nose hasnt failed me. She urges me to have a seat at her little counter, offers coffee, which I decline, having already topped up on caffeine, courtesy of Mrs. Beasley. Im good, thank you. Alice Crane, I say, offering my hand. I work in the physics department. As a secretary slash office manager, I wouldnt know an electron if it bit me on the ankle! This is so nice of you. Im at my wits end. Did you say Chinese boy? Ive been so worried.
Oh yeah? she says cautiously, attempting to suss me out.
Couldnt sleep a wink last night, worrying about that poor little guy.
Wait, she says, her eyes hooding slightly. You know the kid?
No, no, I say, shaking my head and keeping up the frazzled bit. Never met him myself, and nobody in the department seems to know where he is, or who has legal custody. But everybody says Joe had a little boy, so he must be somewhere, mustnt he?
Everybody, huh?
You know how it is. People talk.
And they say the kid is Professor Keeners son, do they?
Its easy enough to look befuddled. Do I have it wrong? Oh dear, maybe Im worried about nothing. But you said-what was it you said?
Havent yet, she says, going all cagey. Joe, is that what his friends called him? Really? He was always Professor Keener to me. Very formal man, very private about himself. First time I went over there and introduced myself he looked at the ground and said, Professor Keener, and thats how it stayed. It fit him, too. He was the perfect neighbor, really. Anyhow, he used to have a little kid that came around on a regular basis, but that stopped a couple of years ago. Not every day, but like on weekends. A toddler, couldnt have been more than three years old, the last time I noticed. Played in the backyard a few times, but mostly they kept him inside.
They? I ask, genuinely surprised.
The Chinese lady I assumed to be his wife. Or ex-wife, or whatever. She was always here with the boy and she was obviously his mother. Shes a real beauty, an exotic type, wears those formal Chinese dresses, doesnt speak a word of English. At least not to me.
But you havent seen her or the boy for the last two years?
Something like that. At first I thought maybe she was just a friend of his. They didnt look like a couple, if you know what I mean. Not even a divorced couple. But one day one of my ninjas got out.
Excuse me?
My kitty cats. Ninjas, I call em. Im owned by four cats, shelter cats, and they like to hide under the furniture, whack your ankles as you go by. Anyhow, Jeepers got out and bolted over to Professor Keeners yard, and the little boy was sitting in the sandbox, playing with a scoop, and wouldnt you know, Jeepers was interested in the sandbox, or thats what I thought. I go running out, afraid the kid might get scratched, but the cat was sitting there, perfectly well behaved, letting the little boy pet her. Very cute, I wish Id had my camera. The professor came out at the same time, and I retrieved Jeepers and he retrieved the boy, and we had ourselves a little conversation. Which is all you ever got with the professor. I said, what an adorable child, I can see he takes after his father, and he smiled and said, Hes my keyboard kid, and that was all. Not another word. I mean, what does that mean, keyboard kid? I asked, but the conversation was obviously over. He never even told me the boys name.
But you took him to mean the boy was his son.
Absolutely. You could tell, the way he was holding him, the pride in his eyes. He actually looked me in the eye that one time, just for a second, and I could tell how much he loved the boy. And close-up like that you could see the resemblance, I wasnt kidding about that.
You havent seen the child in at least two years. Did you ever ask Professor Keener where his son was? Why he didnt come around anymore? What happened to the boys mother? Anything like that?
Mrs. Nadeau shakes her head, gives me a flinty, dismissive look, almost scornful. Who are you really? she wants to know. If you worked with Professor Keener, youd know what he was like. Youd know not to ask him personal questions like that. What are you, some kind of reporter?
Boss lady always says that when youre engaged on a case, its best to season your prevarication with just enough truth to make it edible-and be ready to alter the recipe on the fly. Not a reporter, no, absolutely not, I say, backpedaling in place. And to be totally truthful with you-Im so sorry I fibbed-I never actually worked in the physics department and I never met Professor Keener personally. But before he died, before he got killed, Keener hired a friend of mine to help him find his missing five-year-old son. It was my friend-hes a former FBI agent who specializes in child recovery-it was my friend who found the body, okay? And my friend who is now a suspect in the murder.
To my surprise, Toni Jo Nadeau grins at me. This is a much better story, sugar, she says, eyes bright with interest. Some of it might even be true.
Please dont tell the police. Theyll think Im meddling.
Describe this friend of yours and Ill think about it.
You want to know what he looks like?
She shakes her head. I know what he looks like. I want to know if you know what he looks like.
You know Oh, I get it. You happened to notice when he visited Professor Keener, is that it?
Im waiting, sugar.
Okay, what he looks like. Here goes. Well, for starters, hes a hunk, big and lean and tall. Way over six foot-I mean, I barely come up to his shoulders, you know? Soulful eyes. And a cute little salt-and-pepper chin beard.
Mrs. Nadeau nods along with the description. You had me at hunk, sugar. Thats our boy. I saw him ringing the bell over there last week and my first thought, I wish he was ringing the bell over here, you know what I mean? No offense, but your man is tasty.
As you may have noticed, Im rarely at a loss for words, but that pretty much stops my tongue. Mrs. Nadeau notices my discomfort and reaches out to pat my hand. Wispy little thing like you, Im guessing he really is just a friend. Dont look so worried, these things take time.
Wispy? Im wearing what I call my librarian glasses, Target clothing and a cloth handbag, going for the non-threatening mousy look. But wispy? Really?
Man like that, hed want a woman with some meat on her bones, Mrs. Nadeau says. Somebody with a little bounce in her jounce. But he may come around. You just hang in there.
When my power of speech finally resumes, I say, Yesterday morning, when it happened, did you notice anything wrong?
Mrs. Nadeau explains that because of her allergies-shes allergic to cats, why is that no surprise? she takes an antihistamine before bed and sleeps, in her words, like a dead dodo bird. Therefore she has no awareness of what happened in the early hours, or who might have murdered Joseph Keener.
The sirens woke me. Thats the first I knew something was wrong. The cops wouldnt tell me what happened, but when I saw that body bag coming out I knew it was bad. The worst. The poor, poor man. I wonder wholl get the house.
On my way out the narrow driveway, I stop to take a gander at the dead mans backyard. And there, partially obscured by fallen leaves, is a childs sandbox, covered with a plastic turtle lid. Looks like it hasnt been used in a while, but that fits with what the cat lady said, and as far as Im concerned proves beyond doubt that a child once played here.
A little boy, missing.
Chapter Ten
Kidder loops the big brass padlock over his index finger and shows it to the woman he thinks of as New Mommy.
Youll be safe, he says in his teasing, wheedling way. Its a finished basement with a kitchenette, full bath, a nice pool table and a big-screen TV. Plenty of room for the kids keyboard. Its not like youll be locked up in a dungeon.
The basement is fine, but why do we have to be locked in? she says. Seated on a divan, the little brat clinging to her side.
Because your boyfriend said so, thats why.
Hes not my boyfriend.
Whatever you say.
Shane saved my life once. I owe him.
Thats sweet. Down you go.
The boy has tucked his head into her hip, averting his face. She strokes his hair, tries to calm him, but the kid picks up on her nervous tension and avoids making eye contact with Kidder. Nothing new there, the brat has never liked him.
I need to speak to Shane, the woman pleads. I want Shane to tell me why we have to be locked into the basement whenever you go out. Its not like Im going to run away.
I told you, its for your own protection. You and the kid. Im a bodyguard, Im guarding, and thats really all you need to know. Those were his instructions and I intend to follow them to the letter.
This isnt right, she mutters.
Kidder squats so that hes at eye level. His predatory grin has all the warmth and welcome of a chilled ice pick. This is not a topic for discussion, he says softly. The word comes down from the big guy, we obey. End of story.