Chapter Two, Part 4

An Accidental Woman
by Barbara Delinsky

(Page 7 of 7)

"Police office," came a grumble on the other end.

"Willie Jake, it's me. What do you know about Heather?"

There was a pause, then a testy, "What do you know?"

"Only that she was arrested. How could you let that happen?"

"I didn't 'let' it happen," came the indignant reply. "I'm local. I can't control the Feds."

"Do they have evidence that Heather was someone else?"

"You know I can't tell you that. But would I have let them arrest her if they didn't?"

"What kind of evidence?"

There was a sigh. "I can't tell you that, lest I bias the case. But I'll tell you this — it was all circumstantial. A bunch of old photos of someone who might'a looked like Heather, reports of a scar, handwriting comparisons — all real iffy. But I say it again, these were Feds. I tried my best to change their minds, but in the end they did what they wanted to do. There's no messing with these guys when they set their minds to something, and when they have the paper to back it up ..." He sputtered a drawn-out, "Whelllll ..."

Poppy's private line blinked and John's number appeared. "Okay, Willie Jake. I get your point. Gotta run now." She ended the call and punched in the blinking button. "Any luck?"

"She's at the federal courthouse in Concord. A hearing's going on right now."

"What kind of hearing?"

"On the warrant. I don't know anything more. I got this from my buddy who covers the courthouse for the Monitor. He couldn't talk. He wanted to get into the hearing."

"Did you ask him to keep it quiet?"

"Oh yeah," John said, sounding dryly resigned. "He shot that idea down fast."

"Why? Heather's a nobody!"

"Well, the guy Lisa Matlock allegedly killed is a somebody. Was a somebody. His father was a United States senator from California at the time, earmarked for his party's vice presidential nomination, which he got three weeks after his son's death, in part thanks to the sympathy vote. The ticket lost, and DiCenza didn't run for the Senate again, but he's still a force in the state, and he keeps the torch alive."

Poppy thought fast. "And you picture our Heather as the type who would mingle with political movers? I don't. She's too private, too shy, too down to earth. Sorry, John, but something doesn't jibe."

"Hey, I'm just telling you what my buddy told me. This was a high-profile case at the time. My guess is it'll get lots of attention now. I'm driving down there myself. Armand will want a story in the paper, and the best way to get it right is to see what's happening firsthand."

"Find out why it's happening," Poppy pleaded, "why it's happening to Heather."

"I'll try. I'll call you when I get back."

Poppy didn't want to hold him up. If anyone would give Heather a fair shake, it was John. So she simply added, "Please," and disconnected the call.

Slipping off the headset, she took up her coffee and looked out at the lake. She tried to imagine what Heather was feeling — wondered if it was confusion or numbness or fear, or something else entirely. She tried to imagine Heather sitting in a cell in Concord, but couldn't give the image a face that fit. Heather always looked too ... gentle. The scar did that. It was small, not more than half an inch long and curved gently upward from the corner of her mouth, the eternal optimist's smile.

Scars like that gave a person distinction. Many people had them.

Another button lit on the console, Poppy's private line again. This time, the number was that of Marianne Hersey's bookstore. Putting one end of the headset to her ear, she pressed the button. "Hey."

"What is going on?" Marianne asked. She was one of five women who had dinner at Poppy's every Tuesday. Formally, they were the Lake Henry Hospitality Committee. Informally, they were good friends sharing news, laughter, and gripes. Heather had been with them the evening before, as she was every week. "I just got to work and was sitting down with my coffee and doughnut, thinking that maybe I'd catch an author on the morning talk shows, and suddenly there's breaking news from Concord. Do you know what they're saying about Heather?"

"On television? Oh God. What are they saying?"

"That she deliberately ran down former Senator DiCenza's son, then fled from the scene of the accident and wasn't spotted again until a member of the cold case squad got a lead from someone who was here last fall. What do you know?"

"Not as much as you do. I'm going to go watch. I'll call you back." Poppy swiveled her chair, aimed the remote at the television, and turned on the set. No more than a second or two into channel surfing, she spotted a "Breaking News" banner. Since the story was just beginning, she suspected she had hit a different channel from the one Marianne had seen. This was not a good sign.

The reporter had barely begun to talk when Poppy's private line lit again.

"It's Sigrid," came the voice on the other end. "Are you watching this?" Sigrid Dunn was another of the Tuesday-night group. By day, she did large-loom weaving. The television was often on while she worked.

"Just tuned in," Poppy said.

"What are they talking about?"

"Let me listen." She raised the volume.

"... a major break in the investigation of the murder of Robert DiCenza fifteen years ago in Sacramento. DiCenza, who was twenty-five at the time, was run down as he was leaving a political fundraiser for his father, then a United States senator from that state. The car that hit him was driven by an eighteen-year-old named Lisa Matlock, whom, sources say, had threatened him earlier that evening. The FBI alleges that Lisa Matlock has been living in New Hampshire for the last fourteen years under the name Heather Malone. She was apprehended early this morning at her home in Lake Henry. She surrendered quietly and was transported to federal court here in Concord. A hearing has just concluded, during which Ms. Malone's lawyer formally contested the proceedings. That means that she will be fighting extradition. Since extradition is a state issue, the federal proceedings were dropped, and she has been turned over to the Office of the Attorney General of New Hampshire. She will be transported to the superior court in West Eames for a hearing there later today. This is Brian Anderson for Channel Nine, with breaking news in Concord."

"Do you remember hearing about this murder?" Poppy asked Sigrid.

"No, but fifteen years ago I was in the Peace Corps in Africa, so I wouldn't have seen the news. Is this our Heather they're talking about?" she asked in disbelief.

Poppy was just as befuddled. "Well, it's our Heather who's in custody, but it can't be our Heather who did that." She paused, thinking of the rapport she and Heather had, the sense that they felt things other people didn't. "Can it?"

"No. Absolutely not. We know Heather. I mean, we don't spend Tuesday nights talking about the weather. We talk about private things. We talk about intimate things. She couldn't hide something like that from us."

Poppy was trying to remember stories Heather had told about her childhood, but she could think of none. Heather was always more of a listener on Tuesday nights. She listened and asked questions — insightful questions that always got the others to talk more.

"We don't really know all that much about her," Poppy said quietly. "It's just that Heather's not a violent sort."

"It's just," Sigrid echoed archly, "that someone's up to no good. Someone in the press must have been pissed at us last fall. This is tit for tat."

"John says no."

"The news said that someone who was here last fall tipped off the cold case squad. Okay, so maybe John's right. Maybe it isn't revenge. But someone was looking at things he wasn't supposed to be looking at."

"Come on, Sigrid. They look at the crowd. Heather was in the crowd."

"Actually, not," Sigrid pointed out. "She wasn't milling around when the cameras were here. Missy had chicken pox. Remember?"

Now that she mentioned it, Poppy did remember. Heather hadn't ventured any farther from home that week than the pediatrician's office and the general store. Poppy herself had given Heather a blow-by-blow of all that she'd missed.

Except someone hadn't missed as much as Heather had. Someone had seen a face, imagined a similarity, and thrown a wonderful woman's life in limbo. Poppy wanted to know who that person was.

Copyright © 2002 by Barbara Delinsky

About the Author

Barbara Delinsky is the author of many novels, including, most recently, Looking for Peyton Place and The Summer I Dared, which is now available as a premium mass market paperback. Published in twenty-five languages worldwide, her books regularly appear on bestseller lists. She lives with her family in New England.