The Swap Page 3

  Her shoulders and legs had started to ache. She decided that this, like her anxiety, was a symptom of jet lag. Even so, she was determined to start dinner.

  She trudged back downstairs and seasoned the free-range chicken with garlic and fresh herbs. Then she cut up vegetables—onions, potatoes, carrots, and some miniature ears of corn she’d found at Sainsbury’s. They were the sort that only came canned and packed in brine at home. But these were fresh, imported from Thailand.

  She put the chicken and vegetables in a bright-orange enameled casserole and slid it into the oven then studied the temperature control. Whatever numbers had once surrounded the dial were now too faded to read. After a moment’s consternation, she twisted it to the left and waited for the burner to ignite. Then she turned the temperature down about a third of the way, to a point she guessed should be about 350 degrees. She set the table and made a salad. When she was done straightening the kitchen, she decided to do the sensible thing and take a nap.

  Her travel alarm went off with a rasping buzz, and she sat up with a start. For a long, panicky moment she couldn’t remember where she was. Outside it was daylight, and her travel alarm—gold, with BABY BEN painted on its face in curly letters—said 6:00. Then she remembered. She was in London. She’d set the alarm to go off in an hour so she could check on dinner and get dressed.

  She took another look at the clock. Brad would probably arrive around 7:00 with Brenda in tow. She perched at the edge of the bed, stretching, trying to shake the thick fog that filled her head. It felt like 3:00 in the morning. She did a quick calculation. Since L.A. was eight hours earlier, that meant it was 10:00 a.m. Except for her hour-long nap, she’d been up all night. No wonder she felt so groggy.

  Forcing herself up, she pulled a green knit dress from the suitcase and put it on a hanger. In the bathroom, she hung her dress on the shower curtain rod and turned on the hot water to steam out the wrinkles.

  She ran downstairs for a peek at the chicken. It hadn’t begun to brown. The oven was barely warm. She turned the dial to what appeared to be the highest temperature.

  When she got back to the bathroom, she discovered that a shower was out of the question. The “shower bath” Mrs. Lowry had mentioned consisted of a hand-held rubber hose with a nozzle. Even turned up full blast, it leaked rather than sprayed.

  She settled for a bath, which turned out to be exactly what she needed. As she relaxed into it, she let go of her anxieties and considered the three months ahead, the opportunity to live in London. One of the things that had drawn her to the swap had been the chance to see how people lived in a foreign country. She imagined herself rethinking all her old assumptions from the ground up. The visit to Sainsbury’s had confirmed this—the array of unfamiliar household products, bins of bulk candy in dazzling variety, exotic fruits and vegetables, some prepackaged like cuts of meat.

  The nitty gritty of daily life was just one aspect of the discoveries to be made. Above all, London was famous for its cultural life—theaters, museums, bookstores. As she considered all of this, she found herself wondering if three months would be enough.

  She must have dozed off for a moment, for she was startled awake by the creaking of floorboards, the sound of someone creeping up the stairs.

  “Brad?” she called. “Is that you?” The creaking stopped but there was no response. Then she remembered the tenant and called out, “Is someone there?’ As the words left her mouth, she recalled Mrs. Lowry mentioning that the tenant always used the back stairs, which led directly to the rented room. The sounds she’d just heard had come from the front of the house.

  As she raised herself out of the bath water and reached for the towel, she heard several clicks, as if someone was trying to open the bathroom door. She froze, heart pounding wildly and cursed herself for not locking the door. Only then did she notice that there was no key in the lock.

  The noise stopped. She waited, holding her breath, listening intently, but the house remained still. After what seemed like a long time, several minutes perhaps, she got out of the tub, wrapped herself in the towel, and slowly crept to the door. As quietly as she could, she turned the knob. It was locked.

  Then she heard sounds down the hall. Someone was walking around in the bedroom. She tiptoed to the window and looked down at the yard. It was too far to jump.

  She thought of Reinhardt, the man on the porch, and felt chilled. But if he was going to rape and murder her, why would he lock her in the bathroom while he rummaged through the house? One by one, possibilities occurred to her, none of them reassuring.

  Looking around for something to protect herself, she spotted a metal towel bar next to the sink. She tugged and pulled, struggling to wrench it from its brackets, but it was solidly attached. Finally, she reached under the sink and pulled out an ancient blow dryer that felt pathetically light in her hand.

  She flattened herself against the wall by the door so she’d be behind it when it opened. After an interminable wait, the footsteps started toward the bathroom again. She stood, gripping the hair dryer, not daring to breathe. As the sounds got louder, it was hard to separate them from the pounding of her heart.

  Then the noise grew fainter. The intruder had passed the bathroom and was now running lightly down the stairs. In the distance, she heard a door close, then silence.

  She tried the door again, then rattled the knob and yanked it hard. She’d just begun to beat on it when she could hear the distinctive chime of her cell phone. She knew immediately who it was. Brad was calling to say he’d be late. Damn it, he was out there somewhere with Brenda. She counted while the phone chimed a dozen times, then stopped.

  That was when she smelled it—smoke. Her heart began to thump in her throat. Stepping back from the door, she could see a wispy veil of smoke leaking under the door.

  She hurried to the window and tried to open it, but it was stuck. As she struggled with it, she saw that it was painted shut. Looking around for something to pry the window open, she noticed something else. The smoke smelled a lot less like a house on fire than barbecued chicken. Only then did she realize it wasn’t the house that was burning. It was the casserole she’d left in the oven, the chicken and the tiny ears of corn.

  As the phone started up again, Nicole put every ounce of her strength into beating on the door. Once in a while, she made a run at it, slamming into it with her shoulder. But the only damage she managed to inflict was to herself.

  She pounded on the door until her fists ached and tears of frustration ran down her face. But it was useless. There was no one to hear.

  Three

  The smoke grew thicker, stinging her eyes and making her throat and nasal passages burn. She renewed her battle with the window, bracing her feet against the floor and pushing with all her might. Still, it wouldn’t budge.

  She struggled to calm herself. She had to stay focused on one simple goal — opening the window. First, she picked up the hairdryer and gave the window frame three or four sharp whacks. Jerkily, in stops and starts, the window allowed itself to be raised. But as soon as she took her hand away, it slammed shut, and she had to start over.

  She held it open until she figured out the problem. The sash—the pulley of rope that held the window up—was frayed through. Looking around for something to prop it open, she grabbed the hair dryer from its resting place on the sink and jammed it into the gap. As the weight of the window settled on it, a big chunk of the dryer’s plastic case broke off and clattered to the floor.

  With a grunt of disgust, she kicked it into the corner. Her eyes were running and sweat was trickling down her face. She leaned out the window to take a deep breath of fresh air. One look reaffirmed her earlier judgment; jumping was out of the question. Directly below—about fifteen feet beneath the bathroom window—a concrete slab was set up for use as a patio in warm weather. White wrought-iron furniture, covered with clear plastic, was stacked against the house.

  Her cell phone had just stopped chiming when the Lowrys’ hous
e phone started in. It wasn’t exactly a ring but a muted double rasping sound that reminded her of a hiccup. As it rang, she wondered how long she’d have to wait before Brad got home. She knew from experience that if he was calling, it meant he wouldn’t be leaving the office for a while, perhaps not for hours.

  She leaned a little further out and called a tentative, “Help!” To her ears, her voice sounded thin and shrill, verging on hysteria. She waited perhaps a full minute and tried again, this time louder. “Help me! Help!”

  The silence persisted, and the knot in her stomach grew. “Help!” she screamed. “Fire!”

  She shouted until her throat was raw, her voice frayed and reedy. The only response was the distant cawing of a bird.

  The house directly behind the Lowrys’—another grim-looking brick crackerbox—appeared deserted. Trees obscured the houses on either side. She wondered if it was possible for all the neighbors to be out at the same time. She thought about Mr. McGiever and his eagerness to be of help. Where was he?

  As she extracted her head from the window, she noticed that the smoke seemed to be growing denser. She took off the towel she was using as a sarong and plugged the crack at the bottom of the door. This seemed to staunch the leak, at least for the moment.

  She pulled her dress on, then looked around for something to use in the keyhole. She had no idea how to pick a lock. But if those delinquents who regularly broke into the condo complex could do it, how hard could it be?

  There was nothing useful on the countertop or the back of the toilet. She began working her way through the medicine cabinet and the drawers next to the sink.

  Here, when she was in no mood to appreciate it, was a treasure trove of information about the Lowrys: four different brands of laxatives, a bottle of diet pills, and several types of over-the-counter uppers—so-called “energy boosters” with mega-doses of caffeine. A jar of petroleum jelly was almost empty, as was a container of thick pink lotion labeled “Itch-No-More.” She also found some peroxide, strawberry-blond hair coloring, and an assortment of nail polish in shades of crimson. An image of Muriel Lowry flashed through her mind: a nervous blonde, given to constipation and a habit of scratching herself with her long scarlet fingernails.

  The phone, which had been quiet for a while, started in again. She tried to ignore it, focusing her attention on the cupboard under the sink. At the far back, pushed to one side of the pipes was a shoebox. She lifted it out and took off the lid. It was filled with pill bottles. She stared at them for a moment, puzzled by the fact that none of them bore labels or any sort of identification. Then she put the cover on, shoved them under the sink again, and stood up.

  The smoke, temporarily stemmed by the towel at the bottom of the door, was now leaking in at the sides. She went back to the window and leaned out, hoping to spot a trellis or drainpipe that might support her weight. It was a straight drop, without even an awning or overhang to break a fall. As she pulled her head in, something gouged the palm of her hand. She drew her hand away, and there was the answer to her prayers—a jumbo bobby pin.

  She separated the prongs and unbent the pin into a straight piece of wire. Then she went to work on the lock. After a half dozen failed attempts, she dropped to her knees and peered into the keyhole. It was completely dark, as if something were blocking the view. She sat back on her heels and, after a moment’s thought, realized it must be the key. He must have left the key in the lock. She could use the bobby pin to dislodge it. Then, when it dropped to the floor, all she had to do was pull it under the door.

  She shook out the towel and tried to feed it through the gap at the bottom of the door so it would catch the key when it fell. But the towel, limp and damp, kept bunching up no matter how carefully she guided it. Finally, she gave up.

  Knocking the key out of the lock was a little easier. She poked this way and that, and at last, the key gave way and tumbled to the floor. She reached her fingers into the crack under the door—smoke was too thick to risk a look—but there was no key within reach. She repositioned the towel over the crack at the bottom of the door and went back to the window. Since her first cries for help, several birds had appeared in the Lowrys’ tree and seemed to be watching with great interest.

  Wearily, she renewed her cries. “Fire!” she croaked. “The house is burning down!”

  “Who’s doing all that shouting?” someone called back. “And what’s this about a house burning down?” The voice was female, the accent Irish. At that moment, a woman with bright red hair appeared in the yard below.

  Nicole was so happy to see her she almost cried. “The house isn’t on fire.” Her voice was gravelly, unrecognizable from the strain of shouting. “My dinner’s burning, and I’m locked in the bathroom. I’m Nicole Graves. Are you the Lowrys’ tenant?”

  “Aye,” the woman said. “McConnehy’s the name—Alice. Hang on up there, Nicole. I’ll switch the oven off and be right along to let you out.” She disappeared into the back of the house.

  It seemed a long time before Nicole heard heels clicking up the stairs. “Jesus, what a reek,” the woman called out. “Like the whole house is going up.” When she reached the door, she turned the doorknob, then shook it, rattling the door. “It is locked,” she said, “Now Nicole, tell me how it happened.”

  Nicole quickly explained about the intruder, how he’d locked her in the bathroom.

  “Are you serious?” Alice said. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “I’m fine,” Nicole said. “I didn’t even get a look at him.” Then she explained about the key and told Alice to look around on the floor for it.

  There was a silence, punctuated by the creaking of floorboards. Then the key sounded in the lock, the door swung open, and there she was, a woman with red hair pulled into a careless topknot. She was small, not much taller than Nicole, and rather pretty, with wide-spaced blue eyes.

  “That’s a powerful bad thing to happen your first day here, Nicole,” she said. “But you say you didn’t actually see the man?”

  Nicole explained the earlier encounter with Reinhardt and her hunch that he was the intruder.

  Alice was quiet, considering this. Then she said, “But you don’t know it was him, now do you?”

  “I didn’t actually see him in the house,” Nicole said, after pausing to reflect. “But there was something odd about the way he peered in the windows when he thought no one was looking, and he’d been snooping around in back.”

  Just then the phone started ringing again. Alice moved aside as Nicole bolted into the bedroom to get it. Only as she reached the desk did she decide that she wasn’t going to answer. Any other husband would have been worried enough by now to leave the office and rush home. If he called again, she’d let it ring. She’d let it ring all night.

  Alice appeared in the doorway just as the phone stopped ringing. “I’ll open some windows,” she said. “You’d better check your valuables.”

  Nicole looked in her purse. Her credit cards were still there. She went over to the desk and opened the drawer where Brad had put the passports, credit cards, and some £20 notes. It was all there.

  “How weird,” Nicole said. “He didn’t take anything.” She looked around at Alice. “Don’t you want to check your room?”

  The woman shook her head. “My door was locked, and no one would bother with my things.” She paused and seemed to consider this. “I’m not in the habit of keeping valuables in my room. I like to keep my life as simple as what I can fit in a suitcase.”

  “You know, now that I think about it, I didn’t hear him go into the back of the house at all,” Nicole said. “I don’t get it. He wasn’t interested in our passports or credit cards or even the cash we left in here. It’s like he was looking for something else in this room, something he expected to find here.”

  “The police should be able to sort it out for you.” Alice shrugged. “We’ll have to give them a ring, you know.”

  “First I want to look downstairs,” Nicole said.


  In the kitchen, where Alice had already turned off the oven and opened a window, the smoke was thinning. Nicole located some potholders and opened the oven door. Smoke billowed out, and she shut it. The two of them opened the rest of the windows and the door leading to the yard. Then Nicole went back to the oven and, braving the smoke, pulled out the blackened casserole. The heat seeped through the pads as she darted into the yard. She set the casserole down in one of the rear flowerbeds. Using the potholder, she lifted the lid.

  The chicken was a crusty black mass and now seemed to be a permanent part of the pot. The little ears of corn had completely disappeared.

  She left the casserole sitting in the dirt and went back into the kitchen. Alice was standing at the sink, filling the electric kettle. She turned around and gave Nicole a distracted smile. For the first time, Nicole had a chance to study her. Aside from her pretty eyes, she had a slightly turned-up nose, and lots of freckles. She didn’t appear to be wearing any make-up, but her cheeks and lips were rosy with natural color. Although she wasn’t as slender as current fashion dictated, she was well proportioned and looked fit. She was wearing white nylon slacks, a pink T-shirt and sensible, white lace-up shoes with crepe soles.

  The most striking thing about her was her relaxed, friendly manner and sensible, down-to-earth way of expressing herself. Nicole had the feeling that given time, the two of them would become good friends.

  “I’m just thinking of what’s happened to you, Nicole. And I don’t want to speak out of turn, but… ”

  Nicole nodded, mystified.

  Alice studied her a bit longer. Then she said, “It wasn’t your husband who locked you in, was it?”

  “Brad?” Nicole gave an incredulous laugh. “He’d never do a thing like that. Besides, I’m certain someone broke in.”

  “Broke in,” Alice repeated, almost to herself. “Here,” she handed Nicole a box of tea and pointed at the kettle. “I wonder if you’d mind starting the tea while I take a look round.”