A Family of Strangers

by Emilie Richards

  Each of the three names were some variation of Milton Kerns. Someone named Milten Cairns, a man in his seventies, had been arrested for breaking into a Philadelphia ATM, but never charged. I realized Wendy hadn’t said how old the man she’d met in New Mexico was, but this didn’t feel right.

  The second name was Milton Kernbauer, eighteen, who’d been arrested for drunk and disorderly at a fraternity party in South Carolina.

  The third was a man named Alexander Milton Kearns—I noted the a in the middle—called Alex or sometimes “Ex” on the street, who had been arrested for assault after a confrontation at a ski resort in Vermont. There were other minor offenses.

  I stared at the name of the resort. It was all too familiar. The Autumn Mountain Club belonged to Gracey Group, or at least it had years before. I rarely kept up with my father’s business dealings, but I remembered this one because we’d traveled there when I was a teenager. I’d had my first skiing lesson with an instructor who’d been a hunk to boot.

  At the time of his arrest, I noted that Kearns had been an employee at the club. There wasn’t a lot more information, except his birth date—he was forty-six—and birthplace.

  “Costa Rica.” I looked at Teo. “This third name just might be the guy. In our first phone call Wendy said he was from Costa Rica.” I didn’t mention Kearns’s connection to Gracey Group, and I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I just needed to process the possibilities and do that alone.

  “So there you go.”

  “I really appreciate this. I can do some targeted sleuthing now.”

  “If this is the right guy, he may be a murderer. You’re not going after him alone, are you? If you find him?”

  I could see from his expression that this might be the question that moved our relationship along or destroyed it before it even began.

  “I don’t plan to risk my life or anybody else’s. I don’t plan to underestimate Kearns or overestimate my ability to stay safe the way I did before.” Then I addressed the most important part of his question, even though it hadn’t been voiced. “I’ll let you know whatever I plan to do. I promise.”

  He gave a short nod. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

  As we prepared to jog back to Confidence, I had a thousand things to think about. But one was paramount.

  Alexander Milton Kearns had worked at what was, or had once been, a Gracey Group resort. Had we owned the club when he was arrested? And if we still owned it when Wendy began her job as the Gracey Group concierge, had my sister come in contact with Kearns during visits to the resort?

  Was Kearns really a stranger, as she had claimed, or had Wendy known him for years? If so, what were they doing together at the Golden Aspen Resort and Spa on the night that Vítor Calvo was killed?

  I knew they hadn’t bumped into each other while waiting for massages or mounting their horses for a trail ride. But I sure hoped something similarly coincidental was true. Because if not, maybe Wendy had gone to the resort to meet Kearns in the first place. And if so, what had happened?

  Sophie or I would be able to dig up a photo of the guy on the internet, quite possibly his mug shot. We had a name and, soon, a face. I hoped she could use what I’d found and give me some answers. But I was afraid we’d just have far more questions now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Convincing Holly and Noelle that a weekend at my parents’ house would be fun was surprisingly easy. Wednesday evening Mom had called and asked their opinions on what kinds of Christmas cookies they should make together. When she promised they might have to climb a ladder to help decorate the top of her tree, she had them in the palm of her hand. The smaller tree and simpler decorations we bought and set up on Thursday felt like a warm-up. With all the fun at my parents’ house, I might never be able to wrestle them back to Wendy’s town house again.

  I debated whether to bring Bismarck to Delray Beach with me, but on Friday after school, I dropped him off with the girls. Since the shopping trip, Bismarck sported a red bow on his collar complete with jingle bells. Luckily, he’s a good sport. Despite the humiliation, he still carried his head high.

  “This will do your father good,” Mom said, as I lingered on her doorstep before heading to my car. The girls were somewhere in the house giggling loudly, and I could hear Dad’s booming baritone followed by a recording of “Jingle Bells.” “He’s worried about your sister.”

  My father has good sense. He also has a heart that’s healing from major surgery. The two don’t mix well. “Maybe she’ll call him soon,” I said.

  “We have every kind of resource to help her. Whatever is going on. Please be sure to remind her.”

  Wendy had been missing in action for almost two weeks, but it probably seemed longer to my parents. There wasn’t a darned thing I could do about that except continue trying to find her.

  On the way back to the town house, I thought about the other parties who should be crumbling under the weight of Wendy’s disappearance. But while Noelle often asked about her mother, Holly never did. And when I explained that Wendy would be home as soon as possible, Holly’s expression seesawed between skeptical and furious.

  Holly did ask about her father, though, so when I got home and checked voice mail, I was sorry the girls had missed a call from their dad. I wasn’t sorry when I listened to it.

  Bryce’s message hadn’t been meant for them. His voice was scratchy and distorted, and while I knew he wasn’t calling from under the water, he might as well have been. I had to listen twice. But I finally pieced words together. First he complained that my sister wasn’t answering her cell phone. Then he continued.

  “Wendy, why haven’t you signed the papers the way we agreed? This has to be settled.”

  After that there was so much distortion that I wasn’t positive, but I thought he said that she wouldn’t be able to reach him. In the meantime she was to move forward and soon.

  I was sorry I hadn’t been here. Except what would I have said? Sorry, Bryce, but Wendy’s off God knows where, and I’m taking care of your daughters, who I hardly know. In the meantime I’m lying to everybody to cover your wife’s you-know-what?

  Had Bryce been purposely obscure because he didn’t want the girls to know what he was talking about, in case they heard? Were he and Wendy selling their house in Connecticut? Were they drawing up a will, and afraid that talk of death might frighten their children?

  Like any journalist I’m the queen of possibilities. So the worst one popped right up. Did Bryce want a divorce? Was it possible that Wendy had moved herself and the girls to Florida to make the legalities more difficult?

  One thing was clear. Bryce didn’t know his wife was hiding from the law. For the first time I wondered if Wendy was arrested for murder, what might happen to Bryce’s security clearance and job? Was that part of her decision to hide out until the coast was clear? Was Wendy trying to protect her husband? If so, her disappearance might be admirable, but I’d heard Bryce’s voice. Bubbling through the long-distance distortion, I’d heard anger. If Bryce was already upset with Wendy, what, if anything, had she done? If he was divorcing her, why? Was everything that had happened in New Mexico just part of a longer chain of events?

  Normal people considered one, possibly two scenarios when confronted by a problem. People like me? We fell asleep at night adding possibilities to lists as long as Rip van Winkle’s beard. I filed this particular list away for later. Tonight I just needed to find any connection between Craig, Kim, my sister and Against the Wind.

  Just.

  Never having visited a biker bar, I debated what to wear. I didn’t want to look like a biker chick or a wannabe, either of which might create a whole new set of problems. I was planning to present myself as a friend of Kim’s. The Craig I’d seen ripping apart a motorcycle struck me as a guy who wasn’t looking for the All-American girl. So even mere acquaintances of Kim’s were probably a little glit
tery, a little sexy. I called my fashion consultant, who picked up right away.

  “I found a photo of this Kearns character,” she said instead of hello. “A mug shot, so it’s not the best quality. I sent you the link. Close-cropped reddish-blond hair. Freckled complexion. His ears stick out, but he’s good-looking.”

  I thanked her and promised I’d check him out. “I’m going to do some research at the biker bar tonight. Tell me what to wear.”

  She asked for the possibilities, so I went to the closet and listed what was hanging there. She made a noise not unlike a teenager’s dad when his daughter presents her first boyfriend for his approval.

  I tried to cheer her up. “We can do this.”

  “Doesn’t your sister have anything you can wear?”

  “She’s a head taller. Plus she’s an officer’s wife and a lady.” The words weren’t out of my mouth before I remembered Wendy’s stash of sexy undies.

  I hadn’t paid much attention to the clothes in my sister’s closet, except for the pockets, but now I pulled my own additions closer to the door and started sorting through Wendy’s.

  “Wow,” I said in the middle of whatever Sophie was telling me about colors that would suit me.

  “I gather you’re not complimenting my fashion brilliance,” she said.

  I held up a camisole that was heavy with silver sequins. On the same padded hanger hung lipstick-red satin pants so narrow that if Wendy had worn them, some willing assistant had poured her into them.

  “I didn’t really notice before. There’s a whole new Wendy hanging in this closet.” I described my finds.

  “Put down the phone and see what else you come up with.”

  By the time I returned, Sophie was humming Ravel’s “Bolero.” She was just getting to the part where I always have to turn down the volume. I wasn’t sorry to interrupt. “She’s got a little treasure trove of sexy clothes in here. Everything interesting is hidden under suit jackets and smashed between mommy dresses.”

  Ever practical, Sophie moved on. “Can you wear any of it?”

  “Way too long and way, way too glitzy. But I bet my big sis makes a real splash when she’s out on the town.”

  “And the question is where she goes and with whom.”

  “I’ve got to get moving.”

  “Black’s never a bad idea,” she said in parting.

  I settled on black pants and camisole, and a red shawl of Wendy’s that made me look like a flamenco dancer. But I rolled the shawl and flung the ends over one shoulder and that helped. Even though my knowledge of biker bar dress codes was sadly lacking, I would neither stand out nor blend in. And Kim, whoever she was, would be proud to say she knew me. I troweled on twice as much makeup as usual, slipped a couple of photos in my handbag, and I was ready.

  On the drive over I gave myself one more chance to tell Teo what I was up to. He wanted to help, and I wanted him to. But Craig wouldn’t talk to me with Teo in tow. A man and a woman approaching a stranger in a bar would look like a setup. I would tell Teo whatever I discovered the next time we were together. Meantime I would park on a busy street and be surrounded by people inside the bar. Finally I would drive some crazy route on the way home to be sure nobody followed me. I would be safe.

  Against the Wind was hopping. Still two blocks away, I could hear the strains of Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” along with hoots and hollers. I wondered how many times the song played every hour. I bet I’d hear it again before my snooping ended.

  When a car pulled out right across the street from the bar, I did a quick U-turn and pulled in before somebody else nailed the space. Double good luck? My car was directly under a streetlight. The sleuthing gods were with me.

  Tonight, motorcycles were lined up neatly along the parking strip at the front of the bar. Careful parking probably prevented a lot of fights. Two old guys with gray beards and ponytails were working on a monster chopper at the end. Two younger guys with a blonde in a not-so-artfully torn tank top were lounging against the side of the building. Her bleached hair was scrub-brush short, and her earrings were shoulder-length chains. My earlobes ached in protest.

  Inside I made my way to the bar under a shower of colored light. I wasn’t sure Christmas had provoked this seasonal display, or whether the owner thought his world needed color year-round. But lights were strung from every rafter, and a life-size Santa sat at the end of the bar, on the bar, with a beer mug in his robotic hand. Every so often he lifted the mug to his lips and chortled. I was surprised no one had ripped Santa open and torn out his mechanical heart.

  I grabbed the only empty seat, swinging myself up to a metal stool. My legs could no longer reach the floor. Neighbors on both sides seemed harmless enough. On my right, a guy with a crew cut and an eye patch was reading email on his cell phone. On my left a woman with hair confined in a million long braids was conversing with a man in a tweed jacket who looked like an Oxford don.

  By the time the middle-aged bartender finally got to me, “Born to be Wild” was playing again. “Haven’t seen you here before.” He swiped the space in front of me with a rag that had seen a lifetime of duty. I’m not a psychologist, but one look told me this guy probably thought drinking hemlock was just one short step below working here.

  I ordered a beer on tap. I wasn’t planning to drink it anyway. “First time here,” I said. “I’m looking for somebody. Kim.”

  I had a photo of Wendy ready, and I laid it on the not-quite-clean counter. “Do you happen to know her?”

  “Why?”

  That wasn’t quite as good as “no way,” but I was encouraged. “I told her I’d meet her here.”

  “Pretty crowded.” And with that, he took off.

  A minute later my beer was in front of me, but before I could ask him anything else, he’d scooped up my five-dollar bill and left again.

  The woman beside me turned. She had smooth skin the color of chestnuts. “Isn’t he a sweetie?”

  “I bet he’s on his way to pick a fight with somebody, so he can put an end to all this.”

  She laughed. “Picking a fight’s easy here. So you’re looking for somebody?”

  I slid Wendy’s photo toward her. “Are you here often? I told Kim I’d meet her tonight, but I’m either early or late.”

  “You never been here before?”

  “Kim’s thing, not mine.”

  She lifted the photo and held it closer. I made a guess she was nearsighted and no fan of glasses. She handed it back. “She looks kind of familiar.”

  I told my heart to stop skipping. “I don’t know how often she comes.”

  “It’s not the best place to look for guys. I’ve already got one, so I’m safe.” She nodded behind her. “Shooting pool. He makes enough in an hour here to take me somewhere nicer on Saturday.”

  “American enterprise. Gotta love it.”

  We chatted awhile and eventually she showed “Kim’s” photo to the tweedy guy, who seemed to know everybody. As it turned out he owned a national chain of cycle shops, and nobody here was going to mess with him.

  My new friend translated whatever tweedy guy mumbled after looking at the photo. “He said he’s seen her here, but not tonight.”

  I didn’t know what to feel. After all, I was here to find answers. But I had hoped that nobody would recognize my sister.

  Immersed in thought I hadn’t realized my seatmate had finished, but now I saw she was waiting for a response to something she’d said. “I missed that last part.” I moved a little closer, as if the noise around us was the problem.

  “He said that guy who just came in might be able to help.” She swiveled and pointed to her right.

  The news was getting worse, along with the crowd. Craig Leone himself was pushing his way through to take a newly vacant seat not far away.

  Craig Leone might be able to help. Leone himself
, who seemed to think the woman in my photo was named Kim.

  I thanked her, wished her well and before I lost my courage, I grabbed my beer and gave up my seat. I wandered over to the pool tables first, to give Leone time to settle in. I assessed the players and hoped the guy in a black leather jacket and faded jeans was the boyfriend. Because as I watched, he cleared the table.

  The music changed to something by the Rolling Stones that everybody but me seemed to know. A guy with bad teeth and hair edged by and pinched my butt before I could move away. “Start me up!” He winked, but he was so drunk his eyelid only made it to half-mast.

  I shoved him away. “Pinch me again, and I’ll start you on your way to Seabank General.” I punctuated with a word I rarely say. The guy beside him jerked him toward the other side of the room. I had a feeling he had to do that often.

  I reached Craig without further incident. The seats around him were taken, but there was a space just large enough for me to squeeze into. “Hi, you Craig?”

  He turned and looked me up and down. Up close he was even more intimidating than he’d been in his yard. “Yeah.”

  “Somebody over there told me you might know where Kim is tonight.”

  He didn’t answer, so I pulled out the photo I’d shown the others and held it out. “This Kim.”

  His gaze dropped momentarily. “Who are you?”

  “A friend.” I pulled out the second photo as evidence. Wendy and I were arm in arm, the sun shining brightly all around us. My father had snapped it the last time we were all together. I held it up for him to see. “I’m supposed to meet her here, but I don’t see her. I hate to wait if she’s not coming. Know anything?”

  So much time passed before he spoke that I nearly walked away. But finally a darker expression crept over his face. “I haven’t seen her. But if you happen to? Tell her no more games. She can go—”

  I didn’t blink at the stream of profanity that revolved around an anatomically impossible act. I waited until he finished. “Apparently if you two were together, you aren’t anymore?”