by Kate White
“Yes, more and more thanks to conservation efforts. And bald eagles now, too. . . . Why don’t we grab a seat?”
A waiter emerged from inside and said that though they weren’t officially open, he’d be happy to bring us coffee. His manner toward Alice suggested he was familiar with her.
“Do you generally cover this area for the paper?” I asked.
“No, I’m assigned stories pretty much as they arise, though seniority guarantees I land the good ones when they turn up. But I actually live a couple of miles down the lake in a winterized cabin, so I have the advantage of knowing people in this neck of the woods.”
“I can see why you’d want to live up here,” I said, nodding toward the lake. “It’s pretty special.”
“Well, at least during parts of the year. Winter’s a bitch. They can organize all the polar bear plunges they want, but it still doesn’t make it any fun to be here in January.”
She pulled off her beret and made a futile attempt to unflatten a severe case of hat hair.
“Do you have family here?”
“Not anymore. Husband died five years ago. Son’s in Chicago. . . . Look, let me say it again. Sorry about being rude last night. I’ve actually read your book and really liked it. I guess I was just in a pissy mood.”
“Because of something to do with the story?”
“In a sense. As bad as I feel for the Blaine kids, this is a super-compelling case. As you can imagine, we can go for a while with nothing much to cover up here, when all we have for news is the health department’s annual ‘Be tick smart’ campaign. Finally, there’s something I can sink my teeth into, but I’ve got a crowd to contend with.”
“You mean the other reporters?”
“Yeah. They’re just doing their jobs, but some of them are working my last nerve. Did you see the one from Channel Six today? Gina Tesco? At the presser on Tuesday, she nearly mowed down a couple of people on her way to the front. She looked like an inebriated bridesmaid trying to make sure she caught the bouquet.”
I laughed out loud. “And then to add insult to injury, a reporter from some website shows up in a flippy skirt and mules.”
It was her turn to laugh, a full-throated one that showed she really meant it. “If you want to freeze your butt off, that’s your business. But after you and a few others arrived, I realized the story was definitely going national. Dateline is probably packing up their vans at this very moment, and you can bet they’ll try to muscle anyone local out of the way.”
The manager slipped back out onto the deck, toting two mugs of coffee along with sweeteners and a little pitcher of milk. It wasn’t even seventy degrees, but I found it invigorating to be outside with a warm mug in my hand, watching a few motorboats crisscross that lovely, limpid lake water.
We both took a moment to sip our coffee, and I studied Alice without being too obvious. I was sticking to my guess of her age as late fifties. She wasn’t an unattractive woman, but she’d done little to enhance her appearance. Her hair was frizzed on the ends, her bushy dark brows were in serious need of grooming, and she didn’t appear committed to the final step in the directions for foundation and blush—the one that said, “Now blend.”
“You mentioned something back at the volunteer center that intrigued me,” I said. “About local people not wanting to suggest that Cody Blaine could be behind his wife’s disappearance. Could they be thinking it but not saying it out loud?”
“Not sure. I’ve crossed paths with the guy a couple of times socially, though I only know him to nod to, but I hear he’s a good boss, generous with bonuses, that sort of thing. And reportedly a good family man, too. So people may actually be reluctant to even entertain the idea.”
“Should they be less reluctant?”
“We’re talking off the record, aren’t we?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The stats are in favor of the husband being guilty as sin, right? And Cody’s got only a partial alibi. So yeah, suspicion is warranted.”
“Have the cops been able to get their hands on any security-camera footage from homes along her jogging route?”
“Motels and restaurants have cameras but not so many private homes do, and from what I hear, the police came up empty. So there’s no proof she left the house alive after returning from the school drop-off. And as you suggested, the earbuds could have been planted, to confuse the authorities.”
“By the way, how’d Cody end up with the Baker family business?” I’d heard one version from J.J. but was curious if there was another.
“He went to work in sales for Baker when he moved here with Shannon. The father apparently thought he walked on water and asked him to take over the whole company when he became ill. Congestive heart failure, if I remember correctly. Shannon, Kelly, and the mother share in the profits, too. I haven’t found out yet if there’s a stipulation that he’d be out of a job if he and Shannon divorced.”
“So what do you think? Has he killed her?”
Alice tugged one side of her mouth up in a half smile, and I caught a twinkle in her eye.
“You know, just because you’re from the big city doesn’t mean you’re the only one who gets to ask the questions.”
“Okay, I’ll go first with that one. Yes, there’s a good chance Cody offed his wife. But it’s also not uncommon for women to be abducted by predators. So we can’t rule that out.”
Alice nodded.
“Plus,” I added, “I’m struck by Cody’s demeanor. In cases where the husband’s guilty, he often gives himself away. Cody Blaine looks distraught, and he also seems fully engaged in the search for his wife.”
I didn’t mention the incident last night, which I was keeping to myself for now, waiting to measure it against what emerged over the next few days.
“Maybe,” Alice said, “he watched those other dudes on YouTube, saw what they did wrong, and decided he didn’t want to end up on America’s Dumbest Criminals.”
“Is that what you think?”
She smiled slyly. “You said you’d go first, I didn’t say I’d go second. . . . Kidding, kidding. The jury’s still out for me. There’s something about the guy I don’t like. He seems a little slick to me, someone who’s more sizzle than steak—like one of those Texas guys who people describe as all hat and no cattle. It’s not hard for me to imagine that he more or less charmed his way into the family business.”
“I know what you mean about him. I guess we’ll have to see if a motive emerges over the next day or so. A girlfriend. A big insurance policy for Shannon. If the police have any leads on either, they’re not giving them away.”
I watched Alice’s face closely to see if she had knowledge on either of these points, but it betrayed nothing. She glanced at her watch. “Unfortunately, I need to skedaddle,” she said. “There’s another story I’m covering this week.”
Skedaddle. I hadn’t heard that word in ages. While Alice was clearly a pro, a sharp, dogged reporter who didn’t want to be muscled out of a scoop, she also had a folksy, homespun quality. Like maybe she’d crocheted that black beret herself. The brisk manner, I suspected, was partly for show, part of her professional persona, and not reflective of the kind of woman she was after five—or whenever it was she called it a day.
She signaled for the check through the window, and as I started to insist on paying for my own coffee, the manager gave us a wave that indicated there’d be no charge.
We walked down to our cars, exchanged cell numbers, and said goodbye.
“See you around campus,” she said as I unlocked my Jeep. “And, look, in the interest of playing fair, there’s something I should tell you. A post of mine is going on the paper’s website in about ten minutes reporting on the family’s life insurance situation, compliments of a source of mine. Cody had a policy on himself for $500,000 and a supplementary policy for Shannon for $50,000. That wouldn’t give him much of a payday for killing her.”
Alice didn’t wait for a reply, simply offered a fast
wave, jumped into her MINI Cooper, and took off. I smiled to myself. A little voice told me to be vigilant with her. She might be folksy and salt of the earth, but I suspected she could also be as wily as a Lake George trout.
Sitting in my Jeep, I mulled over what she’d told me about the insurance policy. That removed only one of Cody’s potential motives. There was still, however, the possibility of an affair. If Cody had a girlfriend, killing Shannon would prevent a messy divorce that might impact his life with his kids and his stake in Baker Beverage.
It was time for a chat with Tom Nolan. Before setting off, I did a quick search on my phone about what the role of a deacon entailed. While growing up in the Boston area, I had a bunch of Catholic friends, but I hadn’t been super familiar with all the customs of the religion. Deacons, it turned out, were ordained by the church, worked on a volunteer basis, and could officiate at services such as baptisms, wakes, and funerals, though they weren’t allowed to say mass. Unlike priests, they were free to marry.
I returned to the main road, swung left, and headed south to the village. The sky was a perfect blue and the sun bright. From inside the car, it would have been easy to think it was a balmy summer day.
I found St. Timothy’s Roman Catholic Church easily, but as I darted up the steps of the parish center, I nearly collided with Tom Nolan rushing out of the building. He held the door and smiled distractedly in my direction. It was clear he didn’t recognize me.
“Hi, it’s Bailey Weggins,” I said. “You told me to drop by.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, focusing now. “I’m so sorry, but I forgot about a meeting I had for my regular job.”
“Can I walk you to your car at least?” I said. He might be having second thoughts about agreeing to speak to me, and I needed to snag whatever comments I could.
“Um, sure,” he said as I fell into step with him in the parking lot.
“What can you tell me about Shannon? Do you know her well?”
“Not very well, no. I’m more acquainted with her mother and sister, though Shannon and I have chatted a few times after the ten o’clock mass. She’s a terrific person. Very thoughtful.”
“What about her husband? People have told me they have a good relationship. Is that your sense—?”
“Now, now.” He shot me a warning look. “I said I wasn’t going to engage in any gossip.”
“Has there been gossip?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. And besides, I don’t really know them as a couple. Cody isn’t a member of the congregation.”
“Oh, only Shannon then? Does she come alone to services?”
“For the most part, yes, though she was here with her mother a few weeks ago.”
He had plucked the car key from a pocket of his crisp black slacks and was obviously eager to bolt.
“Has she been doing volunteer work with the parish? I’m wondering about an activity that could have put her in proximity with someone who developed a fixation on her.”
“No volunteer work yet. That would probably come in time.”
“In time?” I wasn’t following.
“Shannon only joined the parish a couple of months ago. Or I should say rejoined.”
“She was a lapsed Catholic?” I asked, my curiosity aroused.
“That’s right. But very committed now.”
“So it was around the middle of summer when she rejoined?”
Nolan sighed. “I don’t see how her religious convictions are relevant. It’s really a very personal matter.”
“Off the record then.” We were at his car now, and he chirped the key. “Please, this could be important to the case.”
“That Shannon’s a Catholic? I certainly don’t see—”
“If Shannon was searching for meaning recently, it could point to the fact that something was troubling her. And that she may have eventually felt a need to escape.”
“Yes, it was in the middle of the summer,” he said. “I’d say mid-July.”
“Have you shared that with the sheriff’s department? It might prove valuable.”
“I haven’t, no.” He swept a hand through that thick brown hair of his. “But I’ll address it.”
Back in my car, I jotted down a couple of notes in my composition book and took a minute to sketch out a timeline of Shannon’s recent months. Around March, according to J.J., she started working at Baker Beverage; in mid-July, she became a churchgoer again. And in late September, she vanished. Why the sudden return to Catholicism? I wondered. J.J. had sworn Shannon wasn’t stressed, but perhaps something had been eating at her, a concern that eventually led to leaving her life behind.
It was after noon by this point. After picking up take-out tacos and returning to the Breezy Point, I tore off my jacket and composed my next post, naturally including the earbud news but not revealing what I’d learned about Shannon and the church. It seemed smart to keep that to myself for now.
The moment I hit send, I felt overtaken by a wave of fatigue. I’d hardly been working my ass off, but the day had been mentally draining. I flopped on the bed and closed my eyes, promising myself no more than a ten-minute catnap.
It must have been far longer than that because when I woke with a start, the room was dim and utterly silent. I pushed myself up on an elbow, taking a few seconds to recall where the hell I was. Right, the Breezy Point Motel in Lake George.
I fumbled for the bedside lamp and switched it on, casting a small pool of light around the room. My head hurt, a result of napping too long.
From the desk, my phone suddenly rang. Beau? I wondered. He’d promised to call when he was settled, but I hadn’t heard from him today. I stumbled toward the desk and grabbed my phone. Not Beau. Number blocked. I answered, wondering if the caller might be one of the locals I’d given my card to.
“Bailey Weggins?” The voice was deep and weirdly quivering, and I couldn’t tell if it belonged to a man or a woman. The speaker, I suddenly realized, was using a voice-altering device. My pulse quickened.
“Who is this?” I demanded. Super-dumb question—as if a person using a vocal disguise was going to tell me who they were.
“Do you want to know what kind of Catholic girl Shannon is?”
“What kind?” Could it be Tom Nolan on the other end?
“You’d be surprised if you knew.”
My heart was racing by this point. “Do you know where Shannon is?”
“Go to Sunset Bay.”
“Wait, what?”
“Sunset Bay.”
“But where in Sunset Bay? Please—please tell me.”
“You’ll find it. And you’ll see the kind of Catholic girl she really is.”
And then the call disconnected.
Chapter 5
I FROZE IN PLACE, STARING AT THE PHONE. FINALLY, I jerked my head toward the door, relieved to see the chain link was in place.
Had I just been pranked? Was Matt Wong or another reporter trying to divert my attention and have a cheap laugh at my expense?
It didn’t feel that way, though. The call had seemed too sinister.
I grabbed my composition book and a pen and quickly jotted down what I’d heard. Where was Sunset Bay and why was it important for me to know what kind of Catholic Shannon was? Was it possible that something weird was going on with St. Tim’s, which had led to her disappearance, and the caller wanted the word out? The tone of voice had been taunting, though, hardly reflecting a desire to help.
And no one besides Tom Nolan had known I’d been probing on that subject.
But hold on. People had seen me talking to Nolan in the parking lot after the press conference, and anyone observing us could have easily guessed I was asking about Shannon’s role in the parish. And I’d given out business cards to a horde of people in the past two days, even to some of the canvassers I’d interviewed.
I scribbled down a few names: Cody, Kelly, Hank, J.J. They’d all been at the press conference this morning. Perhaps it actually had been Nolan himself cal
ling, wanting to pass along additional info about Shannon without me knowing it was from him. And yet wouldn’t he have realized it would be suspicious coming so soon after our conversation?
And what, he just happened to have a voice adapter in the glove box of his car?
I tossed the notebook aside. There was no way at the moment to determine who the caller was, or if it was even someone I knew. What I needed to do was figure out what he or she was talking about.
I grabbed my laptop next and typed in “Sunset Bay.” It turned out to be a hamlet by a small bay of Lake George and near the town of Bolton, only a fifteen-minute drive north from my motel. Back in the 1920s the location had featured a tony hotel known as the Sunset Bay Inn, but it had burned to the ground in the 1950s and had never been rebuilt.
I searched next for “Sunset Bay, Catholics” but nothing popped up, other than a mention of a Catholic church in Bolton—St. Mary’s, which, from its website, looked to be more of a chapel. It was possible that Shannon had attended mass in Hague when its schedule lined up with hers on a given Sunday, though from the little I knew from old friends, people generally didn’t jump from one parish to another. They stayed put, unless they moved or were traveling.
Another thought: Since Shannon’s home was roughly equidistant from the Bolton church and St. Tim’s, there was a chance that St. Mary’s had been her original parish but that she decided to switch churches once she’d recommitted. Except Kelly and Shannon’s mother belonged to St. Tim’s, so it was likely her childhood parish.
And if St. Mary’s was relevant, anyway, why hadn’t the caller mentioned Bolton rather than Sunset Bay?
Next, I searched the Internet for everything I could find about lapsed Catholics, even reading a few blogs by people who’d reclaimed their faith. Age sometimes was a factor. There was nothing like a fear of dying to make someone rethink the way he or she was approaching life. Shannon was only thirty-four, though, so it was hard to believe that was the reason.
One of the blogs had been written by a man who had lost his sister and had rekindled his faith in order to help him make sense of her death and ease the despair it had caused. Shannon’s father had passed away a few years ago, but if grief were her primary motivation, she probably would have turned to the church sooner than this past July.
