Marianna Ruiz arrived at Myles Vollmer’s house at 7:05 a.m. It didn’t matter that she was a few minutes late—Mr. Vollmer never woke up before nine, but the agency wanted her there early. She had to make sure his medications were ready, go over his meals with Nora, the cook, record all of the previous day’s vitals, and whatever light housekeeping was needed. When that was done, she could work on her Sudoku until 1:00, when the next nurse came, and Mariana left for her next assignment.
Marianna unlocked the front door. Nora was already in the kitchen, planning today’s meals. Mr. Vollmer was a light eater, but picky, and they had to make sure he got the right mix of good food. They chatted, drank some coffee, watched a few minutes of Good Morning America, and then Marianna headed upstairs to check on Mr. Vollmer.
The staircase was wide, with a soft runner in the middle, solid wood on either side. Twenty-one steps, but it was equipped with a lift so Mr. Vollmer could ride up and down. The house kept wheelchairs on both floors for him.
Marianna knocked softly on Mr. Vollmer’s door. Hearing nothing, she opened it just enough to peer in and see that Mr. Vollmer was still in bed, sleeping restlessly. He was supposed to wear oxygen at night, but he almost always pulled the mask off at some point. Marianna tiptoed to the bed and carefully slipped the mask over his nose and mouth again. If he woke up he’d be mad, but she’d learned to do it without disturbing him—most of the time.
That done, she left the bedroom, closing the door silently, and walked to the stairs. More coffee, maybe a sweet roll if Nora had any to spare, then a little Sudoku, then—
On the third step something pushed her. Hard.
Marianna sailed forward. She wheeled her arms, grasping for the rail, but another push sent her tumbling. She hit the steps with her face. She felt blood gushing from her nose as she skidded down the steps, kicking and grabbing for something to stop her, but then a third push beneath her body sent her tumbling, rolling out of control, the world flying around her—no up, no down, just a dizzying fall toward nowhere. Her chest pounded inside her, and a scream she barely heard ripped from her throat until—
Marianna felt the snap in her neck s she hit the floor at the bottom. She closed her eyes, biting her lip until she felt blood dripped down her chin, and then she felt nothing. Darkness spread around her and inside her as her body stopped moving.
“So I’ve got a line on a job,” Rachel told me as she came into the office the next morning.
“Great! Where?” I lifted my coffee mug, and she clinked her Wonder Woman mug in a toast.
“There was this guest lecturer last semester, and he really liked my paper on psychological explanations for psychic phenomena.” Rachel sat down at her desk. “Becky told me he’s looking to hire someone from the school at his clinic. He asked her, but she’s getting married and moving to California right after graduation.” Rachel grimaced. “But she said he asked about me and wanted me to give him a call. So I’m calling him right now. After my coffee. Maybe before my coffee. I’m not sure I can wait, but I don’t want to seem too anxious. Damn it, this is too much like dating.”
“Good thing you don’t have to worry about that anymore. Right? Right?”
Rachel smirked. “A girl has to keep her options open.” She turned away and switched on her computer.
I got a text from Hopcroft. Can you meet me at 11:30? He gave me the address of a coffee shop on the north side. It was 9:30 right now. I texted in the affirmative, then called my client.
He sounded frantic when he answered. “Hello? Jurgen? Are you getting anywhere? This is a nightmare—”
“Hold on, hold on—what’s going on?” His daughter? I hoped not.
“My nurse. This morning. She somehow just—she fell down the stairs and broke her neck.” Vollmer paused for breath. “It was her. I know it was her. She’s killing everyone close to me. Marianna was—perfect.”
Oh God. I didn’t know what to say. Or what I could do. I had one bare lead that could shrivel up and dry away the minute I talked to Hopcroft.
I told him what I knew. Vollmer had trouble focusing, but after the second time he seemed to process it. “I don’t know about any Catherine Randel. Or any son. I thought—that doesn’t matter. She’d get mad if anyone called her Carla, not Carrie. I remember that.” He groaned. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Where is your daughter now?”
“She works downtown. Finance. She doesn’t know—I never told her anything about Carrie. She’s never seen the painting. I don’t know what to tell her. I can’t tell her. I have to tell her. I can’t—” He started sobbing.
I waited for Vollmer to recover. Rachel was watching me. She could only hear my half of the conversation, but it was enough. My face and my voice told her something was very wrong.
“What will you do?” Vollmer asked finally. “When you see this young man?”
“Ask him about Carrie.” I knew it sounded lame. “It’s all I can do.”
“Yes.” He swallowed. “Let me know what he says. Immediately. Right away, you understand?”
“I’ll call you.”
We hung up. Rachel crossed her arms expectantly.
I told her about Vollmer’s nurse. “I feel like—I know I couldn’t have stopped this, but I can’t help thinking somehow I should have done something different.”
“Yeah.” She walked over to put a hand on my shoulder. “Can’t save everyone.”
I knew that all too well. I patted her hand. “Let me see if I can find anything about this Hopcroft guy before I go meet him.”
“You want me to come?”
That would be nice, but—“That’s okay. What about your job?”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Guess I’ll call him right now.”
Jonathan Hopcroft was my age—middle 40s—but his hair was grayer and he was a little thicker than me. But his sweater was alpaca and his slacks were sharply creased, so I couldn’t feel superior to him.
I got some coffee, sat down in the booth, and showed him my card. “You’re Catherine Randel’s son?”
“That’s right.” He looked at the card but left it on the table between us. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s about Carrie Ransom.” I waited.
He looked puzzled. “I thought it was about my mother.”
“Isn’t—” Something lurched inside my head. “I was told that Carrie Ransom changed her professional name to Carrie Randel.”
“No, that’s her sister. Catherine Randel is my mother.”
I spent a moment revising my theories. I’d assumed Hopcroft was Carrie’s son, but—“Do you know where Carrie Ransom is now?”
He stared at me as if I was an idiot. “Carrie’s dead.”
“When did she die?”
Hopcroft frowned, annoyed. “In Mexico. Cancer. 2012 or 2013, something like that.”
“And your mother?”
“I talked to her yesterday. After I saw your message. What is this all about?” He was growing impatient.
“I was—I thought they were the same person. I was told—”
“They’re sisters. What’s going on?”
I wasn’t sure how to explain it to him, so I took out my phone and showed him the painting. “Have you ever seen this before? Does it mean anything to you?”
He peered at my phone. “That’s—Myles Vollmer, isn’t it?”
“You know him?”
“Carrie did.” He sat back. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
I put my phone down. “Myles Vollmer is my client. He hired me to find Carrie Ransom.”
Hopcroft snorted. “Why would he do that?”
“He believes that . . .” I took a deep breath. I didn’t want Hopcroft to think I was crazy, but I had to convince him to take me seriously. “Several members of his family—and household, for that matter—have died recently. And suddenly. Mr. Vollmer believes it’s somehow connected to Carrie—something to do with their relationship 30 years ago.”
His eyes went wide. “He thinks—what? That she’s killing people to get back at him?”
“He wanted to talk to her.” I sipped my coffee.
“Well, he missed his chance a long time ago.” Hopcroft shoved his card back at me and slid his chair back. “Sorry to waste your time.”
“Wait—what about your mother? Catherine Randel.”
Hopcroft frowned impatiently. “What about her?”
I scrolled through my pictures and found Gersen’s photo of the box. “Did she make this?”
He peered at my phone. “Maybe. It looks like some of her work. Mostly she paints traditional stuff, trees and still lifes and portraits. But for a while she was doing, what do they call it, found art? I don’t know every piece she ever made.”
“Could I talk to your mother?”
He paused half out of his seat. “Why?”
“More information about Carrie. How she died, where she died—where is she buried? Did she keep a grudge against Vollmer?” I couldn’t ask Hopcroft if his aunt had supernatural powers. At least not yet.
I half expected him to walk away and leave me with nothing. Instead he frowned, picked up my card, and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll call you. If she’s willing to talk to you. I don’t know.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
Hopcroft sighed, shook his head, and walked away. I finished my coffee and let him leave.
Rachel was gone when I got home. I figured—hoped—she was still at the job interview with the guy she’d called. I wrote up some notes and did some internet research on Catherine Randel, but I found nothing connecting her to Carrie Ransom. I couldn’t find any trace of Catherine before her site had appeared on the Web, but not everyone had a social media profile or internet presence in 2012. I decided to wait and hope Hopcroft would let me talk to her.
Rachel came back a few hours later. “I think I got the job.”
I stood up. “That was quick.” I went to give her a hug, but she pushed me away. “What?”
“I don’t know. I’m not ready. Maybe.” She went to her desk.
I’d never seen Rachel back down from anything. “Why not?”
“Counseling people? I can barely manage my own life.” She sat down. “I feel like I’m 25 again, trying to convince an agency to hire me for my first job, and I got hired I was sure I was going to get fired in a week.”
“Did you?”
She grimaced. “No. I quit when one of the partners hit on me. It took me months to find another job.”
“Is this guy going to hit on you?”
Rachel chuckled. “No. He’s cool. Wife and kids in pictures on his desk, and I can sense he’s only interested in my mind.”
“That’s good.” Rachel can take care of herself, but I’m oversensitive to other guys checking her out. “It’s scary, though. Change. A new career—”
“Gee, you should be a shrink too.” She sat back in her chair. “I suppose I should be happy.”
“You don’t have to take it. You can keep on doing design work and being junior assistant detective—”
My phone buzzed. I saw Hopcroft’s name. “Sorry, hang on. —Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Yeah, Jurgen.” Hopcroft sounded annoyed. “My mother will talk to you. Be there at 6:30. Here’s the address. I’ll be there too.”
I took down the address—in town, on the north side. He hung up before I could ask him anything more.
“What’s up?” Rachel leaned forward, as if looking for a distraction from her career dilemma.
I told her everything I’d gotten from Hopcroft. “So do you want to go visit Catherine Randel with me? Might take your mind off things.”
“Absolutely.” She jumped up. “Let’s go!”
“Relax, we’ve got a few hours. He said 6:30.” I turned to back to my desk.
“Okay.” Rachel leaned over my shoulder as I reached for my mouse. I felt her breath on my ear. “You, uh, real busy?”
“Uhh . . .” I hesitated, then decided corporate fraud would still be a thing tomorrow. “Nothing urgent.” I turned my face. “What about you?”
“Well, not exactly urgent, but . . .” She grinned and started on my buttons. “I deserve to celebrate a little, right?”
I smiled. “Absolutely.”
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