by Lisa Jackson
It was all Hale could do to keep from blurting that he owned a black TrailBlazer, like they didn’t know already, like that would save him from further scrutiny. Instead, he said, “Maybe she changed her mind about coming home because she was meeting someone there.”
“Any particular reason you think that?” Hamett asked.
“Just the note she left.”
“You don’t have anyone in mind? Anyone you can think of?” Hamett asked.
Hale slowly shook his head. He had no idea what his wife did in her spare time, he realized.
Do you believe in sorcery? What had she meant by that? Did it have anything to do with this? “Most of our conversations were about the baby,” was all he said.
Soon after, the detectives gathered up their things and headed toward the door. Relieved, Hale followed after them, unable to keep from asking, “You’ll let me know if you find something in her phone?”
“We’ll keep you informed, Mr. St. Cloud,” Evinrud assured him, but something about his tone didn’t inspire Hale with confidence.
As they reached the porch, Hale’s cell rang. He glanced back toward the kitchen, where he’d left it, but he just wanted to get the detectives out of his house.
“You wanna get that?” Evinrud asked when it was clear Hale was ignoring the ringing. The detective’s expression was bland, but he had a knack for making Hale feel like he was deliberately subverting the law. Man, he was getting tired of him!
“I can call ’em back,” Hale said.
Evinrud nodded, and he and Hamett stepped off the porch and trudged back through the thick snow. They got into either side of a dark blue Ford Explorer and backed down Hale’s driveway, snow crunching beneath the tires.
Hale locked the front door behind them and was heading to his phone when it rang again. Scooping it up, he saw it was his grandfather calling. Hale tried to keep the exhaustion out of his voice as he said, “I was just going to call you. I’ve got a lot of things to tell you.”
Declan said, “I think someone’s been in the house. Can you come by? I don’t know what’s going on.”
He sounded rattled, and Hale exhaled his breath, looked at the clock and said, “It might be better if I saw you in person, anyway. I’ll be there soon. . . .”
Savannah was standing in her hospital room, wondering if she could leave today, rather than tomorrow, but she’d tied herself to the baby with the breast-feeding. She realized belatedly that she hadn’t thought that through, unusual for her, but then what was usual about the events of the past twenty-four hours?
She’d learned that Hale had left the hospital, and it had left her feeling slightly untethered. She wanted a shower—her own shower—and her own clothes, and something other than hospital food. She could go down to the cafeteria and pick something of her own choosing; she had her wallet. She knew she was running on empty sleep-wise, but she did not feel tired.
“Hey,” a voice said behind her. She turned to find Lang standing in the doorway with a brown grocery bag. “Claire helped me, but we didn’t see a bag, so . . .” He placed the grocery bag on her bed a bit apologetically. “Claire headed to work. They’re short-staffed because of the weather, but she’s chained up.”
Savvy smiled at him, then was horrified to feel her smile start to tremble on her lips. She was a hormonal mess! She wanted to throw herself into Lang’s arms like he was the long-lost big brother she sometimes thought of him as. It was with an effort that she held her composure.
“The phone charger’s there,” he added, pointing to the bag.
“Thank you,” Savvy said with feeling.
He eyed her pink blouse. “That doesn’t look hospital issue.”
“Yeah . . .” Savvy quickly brought him up to date about the harrowing events of the past hours, finishing with the fact that Hale had brought her Kristina’s overnight bag, which had been in his car.
Lang just stared at her when she finished. “I don’t want to be a bastard, but what the hell were you doing driving back in the worst storm we’ve had in years?”
“Kristina.” Savvy said her sister’s name and nothing else. She couldn’t.
“I know, but . . .”
“You don’t know, Lang. You don’t.”
“I know a little bit about losing a sister,” he said.
Savvy drew herself up short. Lang’s sister, Melody, had been killed by her psychotic boyfriend a number of years earlier. “I’m sorry,” she said, heartfelt, her eyes burning.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up. Never mind. You’re here. Safe. The baby’s safe.”
She nodded, unable to find her voice immediately. Buying time, she turned to the grocery bag, pulled out her charger, and plugged her cell phone into it.
“Maybe I should leave,” he said.
“No, wait. Please. I’m okay. I just want to talk about something else, think about something else.”
“Okay.”
Savvy inhaled and quietly exhaled, then asked, “Anything new on the Donatella homicides? I know we just met with Hillary Enders on Friday.”
“This snowstorm’s kinda decimated any momentum we had going, but Kyle Furstenberg did finally call me back. Apparently Hillary got through to him.”
“Anything there?”
“Doesn’t look like it. Furstenberg denied everything, even started waffling on whether Hillary was really involved with Marcus Donatella. Maybe that Bancroft employee who told us about Hillary Enders . . . Ella . . . something . . .”
“Blessert.”
“Yeah, her. It’s starting to seem like she might be one of those women who want to involve themselves in their friends’ affairs. Live vicariously, or whatever. She said she thought Hillary was having an affair with Marcus Donatella, and she thought Furstenberg could be the killer, but it’s starting to seem like a lot of hot air. ’Course, Furstenberg got on the news and made it all a big story, and he’s pretty sorry about that now.”
“You think this angle’s a dead end.”
“Kinda do,” he admitted. “We all just wanted to kick-start the investigation again.”
“I know.” Savvy had felt that way, too. Eager for closure.
“Toonie called from the shelter. Your friend Mickey showed up once the snow started falling. He’s asking for you.”
“Great.”
Lang smiled.
“Before the storm hit, I interviewed all the Bancroft employees again,” Savvy told him. “Starting with the Seaside office, and then everyone I could reach at the Portland office, and some ex-employees, too.”
“How’d that go?”
“Kind of as you’d expect.” She told him briefly about meeting Sean Ingles, the architect, at the main offices; connecting with Clark Russo and Neil Vledich at the Lake Chinook home construction site, then with Henry Woodworth at the RiverEast apartment building; talking by phone to Nadine Gretz, who was apparently Henry’s girlfriend; and finally meeting up with Owen DeWitt at the Rib-I steak house and bar. Her mind tripped on her conversations with Nadine Gretz and Owen DeWitt, both of whom had accused Kristina of having an affair, but she didn’t say anything to Lang about their comments. Not yet. Not until she had a little more time to think about it.
But she did say, “I’d like to see the physical evidence from the Donatella crime scene again.”
Lang’s brows lifted. “Care to share?”
“I want to see where they found blood traces, or anything else.” Like semen, maybe, on the wall. Owen DeWitt’s smirking voice echoed in her ears. “He had her up against the wall. Banging her like crazy, and she was . . . man . . . in ecstasy. Head thrown back and first making these little kittenlike sounds and then screamin’! She was riding him and lovin’ it.”
Kristina’s dead.
The thought hit her again like a bullet. Aching pain in her soul. While she was thinking and talking about the case, she could almost forget. That was what she needed to do. Keep her mind busy.
“I can get you the report,” Lang sai
d, bringing her back to the present.
“No. I’ll come in tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I can’t just sit around and think, Lang.”
“Okay,” he said slowly.
“Okay,” she agreed. Then, before he could come up with some further reason for her to stay away from the station, she steered him out of the room and said, “I was just heading to the cafeteria. Do you know that you need even more calories when you’re breast-feeding than when you’re pregnant? It takes a lot of energy to manufacture milk.”
“You’re breast-feeding?”
“For the moment,” she said, pushing the niggling worry about how Hale would react to the back of her mind.
“You want a wheelchair?” he asked, seeing the careful way she moved.
“Not on your life.”
His grandfather wasn’t in the kitchen when Hale let himself into his house, and he yelled loudly, “Hello!”
“I’m at my desk!” Declan called back, and when Hale walked down the hall and entered the office, he found him busily writing on a yellow notepad.
Declan looked up and blinked rapidly. “What happened to you?”
Hale made a strangled sound that was meant to be a laugh. “I hardly know where to start.”
“Well, then, let me go first. Somebody’s been around here. I keep hearing them in the house.”
Hale nodded. He wasn’t going to argue with Declan; he just didn’t have the energy. But his grandfather wasn’t as sharp as he used to be, and this wasn’t the first time he’d been certain there was someone in his house. Hale had made the distinct error of suggesting that maybe Declan should move to assisted living and had been told clearly and colorfully where he could stick that idea. Declan, for being a gentleman around women, was salty enough when there were just men around.
“He says he’s my son,” Declan said, at which Hale, who had been feeling dozy and unfocused, snapped to attention.
“Someone actually talked to you?”
“Felt more like a dream, actually.” He waved a hand, as if hearing how that sounded. “Ach. I’m getting the two things confused. Someone’s definitely been walking around the house. Sneaking around.”
“I’ll take a look.” Hale pushed himself to his feet with the arms of the chair.
“Be careful.” Declan suddenly looked concerned.
Hale did a cursory inspection of the house, but there was no one inside. Then he walked around the home’s perimeter, but there were no footsteps in the snow apart from his own. He came back inside, stamping snow from his boots.
“I don’t see any signs of trespass,” he said, retaking the chair across from Declan’s desk, practically falling into it.
“You think I’m making it up,” Declan declared.
“I don’t really know.”
“Someone’s been here.”
“I know. Your son.” Hale regarded him soberly. “You keep saying things about having another child.”
“I said it was a dream,” he said quickly.
“Yeah, but it’s not the first time you’ve said it, or something like it. I’m starting to think you’re trying to tell me something.”
“I have a daughter,” Declan stated firmly. “I don’t have a son. I’m not crazy, Hale. But someone’s been here. He’s trying to send me a message. He’s the one that’s out of his mind, but I swear, he’s gaslightin’ me.”
“Dreams’ll do that.”
Declan stubbornly pressed his lips together and glared at him.
Hale closed his eyes. Lack of sleep was playing tricks with his mind as well. He had to cut through his grandfather’s paranoia. “I’ve got some things I need to tell you. Then I’m going home, and I’m going to bed. I haven’t slept since Friday night, and that wasn’t the greatest night’s sleep, either.”
“Well, get on with it,” Declan said irritably, glancing around again, as if he didn’t quite believe someone wasn’t there.
Hale took a breath, thought about how to tell Declan everything that had transpired, then launched into the tale of the past few days with, “Kristina didn’t come home at all on Friday night. . . .”
As soon as Savannah and Lang entered the cafeteria, a voice called, “Detective?” and they both swung around.
It took a moment for Savvy to recognize the blond-haired young woman staring at her. Seeing her in a pair of pants, a shirt, and a jacket and so out of context had Savannah reaching through her memory to the people she’d recently seen in Portland and the hospital before the connection was made.
“I’m Ravinia,” the girl said, seeing her struggle.
“Ravinia,” Savannah repeated.
“What are you doing here?” Lang asked before she could say anything else. “Where’s Catherine?”
“She’s here. Aunt Catherine had an accident, and Earl brought us.”
“Us? Who else is with you?” Lang asked.
“Earl went back for Ophelia . . . well, Isadora, but Ophelia came.”
“What kind of accident?” Savvy asked.
“I guess she slipped in the snow and smacked her head on something.”
“How serious is it?” Lang demanded, cutting to the chase.
“I don’t really know.” Ravinia’s face clouded. “They don’t tell me much, but they act like she’ll go home soon.”
“Good,” Lang said.
“She should be just fine,” Ravinia added, sounding strained.
Savvy couldn’t tell if that was wishful thinking on her part or the truth. Lang looked past her, toward the cafeteria doors, and Ravinia, reading his mind, put in swiftly, “Oh, she wouldn’t want a man coming to see her, believe me.”
Lang nodded and rubbed his jaw. He had known Catherine before Savvy had, and knew the truth of that.
“I’d like to check on her,” Savvy said.
Ravinia looked uncertain about that idea, but Savvy didn’t much care. Catherine, and her issues, would be another distraction from her own tortured thoughts. Nailing her request home, Savvy added, “She came to the TCSD for help, and I’d like to tell her I’m following up.”
Ravinia’s gaze skated over Savannah from head to toe, and she said, “I saw them bring you in last night. You had your baby.”
“Yes.”
“But the man you were with.” Ravinia’s gaze flicked to Lang and then away. “He wasn’t the man you were with.”
“I’m Detective Stone,” Lang said. “I’m a friend of your aunt’s.”
“I was with the baby’s father last night, Hale St. Cloud,” Savvy told her.
Ravinia reacted as if stung.
“You know Hale?” Lang asked.
“No . . . no . . .” Ravinia looked away for a moment, and Savvy could almost see the calculations going on inside her head.
Lang said to Savannah, “Fill me in later.”
“Will do,” she answered. To Ravinia, Savvy asked, “Can you tell me which room Catherine’s in?”
“I can do better than that. I’ll take you there,” she answered woodenly.
CHAPTER 22
Ravinia led Detective Dunbar into her aunt’s room and locked eyes with Ophelia, who was sitting in a chair, her hands folded on her lap. Ophelia had been looking out the window to the west, but as soon as she turned her head and saw them, she straightened into a stiff line. Good. Ravinia was pissed at her older sister. Earl had dropped her off after mumbling something about being unable to get her to come any earlier, and then he’d picked up Rand and left the hospital. Aunt Catherine had fallen into a deep sleep, and Ophelia had held her finger to her lips, so Ravinia had been unable to talk to her. Chafing at the unfairness of it all, she’d headed for the bathroom first, where she’d finger-combed her hair and gazed into her darkly clouded eyes in the mirror and wondered how, if ever, she was going to get any serious information beyond what Catherine had already told her.
It felt important that she know everything. Imperative. Who was out on Echo Island? The man from the bones
?
She’d wondered if she should find a way home and question Cassandra, or Maggie or whatever the hell she wanted to be called. Maybe she had something more than her dire woo-woo predictions. Like some actual facts. Sure, Aunt Catherine clearly knew more, but the way she gave out little tidbits of information, then just clammed up, set Ravinia’s teeth on edge.
Maybe it was time to leave, she’d determined as she headed down to the cafeteria. It looked like Aunt Catherine was going to be okay, and Ophelia was in charge—and Isadora, of course, was back at the house—so the urgency that had driven Ravinia since the night before had dissipated. What the hell. She didn’t belong with them, all shut up in that drafty old monster of a house. It was probably time to get the hell out of Deception Bay and find out what her life was really supposed to be about.
And then she’d run into Detective Dunbar and the man, that other detective. Stone. So, here they were.
Ophelia rose and held up her hand to both Ravinia and Detective Dunbar, silently asking them to back right out the door. The detective nodded and complied, and Ravinia, feeling rebellious, opened her mouth to protest. She wanted to scream, “I was here first!” but it didn’t really matter, anyway, so she followed Detective Dunbar into the hall, and Ophelia followed and closed the door to Catherine’s room behind her.
“I’m Savannah Dunbar,” the detective said, introducing herself. “I heard Catherine was in an accident.”
“I told her,” Ravinia put in.
Ophelia said, “She’s sleeping. I just didn’t want to disturb her. I’m Ophelia Beeman.” She held out her hand, which the detective shook.
“Catherine went to the police and asked for help,” Ravinia said.
“Help?” Ophelia repeated.
“Catherine asked me to come to Siren Song last week,” Detective Dunbar explained.
And you weren’t around, Ravinia thought smugly, meeting Ophelia’s surprised eyes.
“Oh.” Ophelia didn’t seem to know what to say.
Ravinia took the bull by the horns. “So, maybe the detective should talk to Aunt Catherine. I mean, if something bad happened to her out there. If she didn’t just slip or something . . .”
