by Kate White
I jotted notes as I read, including the name of one of Amy’s friends, Kayla Underwood, who was quoted as saying that Amy would never have simply taken off. She was someone I needed to talk to. And when I had time tomorrow, I was going to hoof it over to the campsite and take a look. And check out Muller’s while I was at it.
If the remains in the two extra bags were indeed those of the campers, the police would be looking for someone who had been in the region ten years ago. And at first glance, at least, that seemed to rule out Cody Blaine.
I returned to the desk, picked up my composition book, and thumbed through the timeline I’d jotted down for Shannon. She and Cody had moved to the area from the Caribbean just over eight years ago, shortly after they married and a few months before their son was born.
Next, I brought up Cody’s bio on the Baker Beverage website in order to confirm that info. He’d apparently joined the company as a salesperson soon after his arrival here, was promoted to sales director and VP, and finally assumed his current position as president. His LinkedIn profile didn’t tell me much more, other than the fact that his job at the Anguilla resort—as a food and beverage manager—had kicked off nine years ago. Prior to that he’d been in Afghanistan for two tours of duty.
Okay, that would have to be checked out. Though it was unlikely that Cody was a serial killer who’d also knocked off his wife—he hadn’t even met Shannon ten years ago and therefore probably wasn’t even familiar with the area back then—I needed to be absolutely certain he was out of the country that fateful July.
As I considered where to find the info—probably by calling army headquarters first thing Monday—my phone buzzed and I saw that Beau was trying to FaceTime me.
“Hey, you,” I said as I beheld his face on-screen. It felt really good to finally be connecting with him.
“Hey, you, too,” he said. His hair looked a little matted, like it might have been raining in Bogotá. “Great to be staring into those blue eyes of yours, even from this far away.”
“How is it?”
“Totally fascinating. And the art scene is thriving.”
“I was a little worried when I didn’t hear from you yesterday.”
“Sorry about that. Besides the fact that we’re trying to cram in so much, my cell service has been less than ideal. I finally had a chance to read your posts today. Sounds pretty intriguing up there.”
“Well, it’s a lot more intriguing now.”
I took him quickly through the high points of what had happened since my last post—from the mystery call yesterday evening to my minutes-old theory that the other remains might belong to Amy and Page.
“That’s shocking,” he said. “This could be huge.”
“For sure.”
“Well, that’s good for you then. This is the kind of story you’ve been hoping for, right?”
His reaction relieved me, meaning he seemed to be taking my current situation—phone buddy to a killer and finder of dead bodies—in stride. We’d had several long, hard conversations this past summer regarding his growing anxiety about my work and the danger he believed it entailed.
In all fairness to Beau, I had landed in more than a couple precarious situations over the years, not only while covering crime stories but also while helping out a few friends in serious dilemmas. But I loved what I did, and I’d bristled at the notion that maybe I should be stepping back or choosing milder crime stories to cover. I was hardly going to start focusing on people who lied on their résumés or refused to recycle.
I did my best to help Beau see my point of view. And I’d seen things from his perspective, too. The tension had finally dissipated.
“Yeah, it’s a good story,” I admitted. “Though of course I feel horrible about these women.”
“Why do you think the killer called you?” he asked.
“I assume he’d seen me around, asking questions, and managed to get his hand on my phone number.”
“No, I mean, why would he want the bodies found?”
“I was pondering that with Alice—the reporter I was with. Some of these killers like to show off, even crave being caught. Maybe he realized he’d hidden Shannon’s body too well and wanted to be sure it was discovered.”
But even as I sent that last idea up the flagpole, I could see there was a sizable hole in it. If the killer hadn’t cared that the first two bodies had remained undetected for years, why the need to showboat about Shannon’s?
“I can see your wheels spinning even from two thousand miles away,” Beau said.
“One thing suddenly isn’t making sense, but I’ll mull it over some more. . . . Beau, just so you know, I’m going to be super cautious. As long as the motel has other guests around, I feel safe here, but if that changes I’m going to switch.”
“Good to know, Bailey.”
Before we hung up, he offered his initial impressions of Bogotá and told me that his Spanish was proving better than he thought. We said goodbye, and he promised to call me the next chance he had.
In the hour before I needed to leave for the press conference, I perused additional local coverage of Page and Amy’s disappearance on the Albany-area TV station websites—nothing there that I didn’t know already—and tracked down a number for Amy’s friend Kayla, which turned out to be easy enough. On LinkedIn, there was a Kayla Underwood working as an assistant manager at a car dealership in the town of Queensbury, just north of Glens Falls. It had to be the same woman. When I called and asked for her, I was told she was off that day but would be working tomorrow, starting at ten.
“Can I get a cell number for her?” I asked. That’s one of the things I loved about tracking down people in sales. They never minded having their cell numbers disclosed because they didn’t want to miss out on any opportunities. Two seconds later the guy read it off.
When I tried the number, it went straight to voice mail. “Hey, Kayla, my name’s Bailey Weggins,” I said in my best chick-eager-to-purchase-a-new-vehicle tone. “The dealership gave me your number. Can you call me? I’d love to connect today.”
At four thirty I slipped on a jacket, locked the room, and headed south to Dot’s. I was on the early side, but I wanted to meander through the crowd before Killian took the podium and eyeball who had congregated at the scene. If the killer had indeed observed me talking to Tom Nolan at the volunteer center, he might show up again here today.
It turned out things were already buzzing when I pulled into the lot, and I managed to snag a decent parking spot. The TV vans from the Albany area had been joined by ones from Syracuse, Rochester, and Binghamton.
I made my way toward the front of the ice cream shop. There had to be at least forty people outside, a mix of local residents and members of the press. I could feel the change in vibe from the previous two days. Though the earlier mood had been sober, it had been tinged nonetheless with a can-do spirit, as if the volunteers truly believed that if they looked hard enough and tacked up a zillion flyers, they could bring Shannon home safely. Today, a pall hung over the scene.
Once I was closer, I was able to see into Dot’s. Hank Coulter was there, huddled with a small group that included Kelly and Doug, as well as Tom Nolan. No sign of Cody. Of course, if Shannon was indeed one of the victims, Cody had probably chosen to stay home with his kids.
“My, my, haven’t we been busy,” a voice said behind me. I turned to find Matt Wong, with a natty red scarf knotted around his neck.
“What do you mean?” I said, deciding to play it neutral.
“Well, if you’re going to be coy, I guess I’ll have to be, too.”
“Suit yourself, Matt.” I started to move off.
“Off to meet your buddy Cagney?”
“Huh?”
“The Cagney to your Lacey.”
“Ha-ha.” I gave him my back and walked away. Clearly one of his local sources had alerted him to the fact that Alice and I had played a role in the morning’s discovery.
For the next few minutes I wo
ve through the quickly expanding crowd, keeping an eye out for anyone who seemed weirdly entranced with the goings-on, or, on the other hand, too detached. No one fit the bill, but a couple of times I had the fiercest sense that someone’s eyes were on my back. Each time I’d turn, though, I didn’t catch a soul looking my way.
Finally I neared the front and caught sight of Alice, again in her car coat and crocheted hat. She shot me a wry smile that seemed to say, “You doing okay?” “Can you believe this zoo?” and “Let’s talk later,” all in unison. I flashed her back a look that I hope translated as, “Yes, yes, and yes.”
After locating a decent spot to stand in, I pulled a pen and notebook from my bag. The sky was overcast, and a gusty breeze whipped people’s hair into their faces and sent papers scurrying across the parking lot.
At four minutes to five, the sheriff’s SUV arrived. Killian stepped out with a deputy, headed into Dot’s, and emerged a few minutes later with Kelly, her husband, and Tom Nolan. All of them were bleak faced, and Doug was gripping Kelly’s elbow. I had little doubt what that signified.
Killian strode toward the podium, where a dozen microphones were bunched together today. Before he could speak, the wind sent one of the Missing flyers skittering across the pavement of the parking lot until it plastered itself ominously against the podium’s wood base. My phone buzzed in my purse, and I saw to my dismay that it was Kayla Underwood. I had no choice but to send the call to voice mail.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for your attention,” Killian said, his voice as somber as a graveyard. “I have some significant developments to share with you today.
“Earlier this morning, the sheriff’s office was called to a building on the banks of Lake George, near the hamlet of Sunset Bay. The building was once part of a complex called the Sunset Bay Retreat Center but was abandoned for use eleven years ago. Shannon Blaine’s remains were found in the basement of that building.”
The crowd let out a collective gasp, and I felt my stomach clutch. As sure as I’d felt that it was Shannon we’d found, it didn’t make the truth any easier to digest.
“The remains were located, by the way, thanks to the efforts of two reporters, one of whom received an anonymous tip. We are, of course, investigating.”
More gasping, this time accompanied by lots of head swiveling. I stared straight ahead toward the podium, avoiding eye contact with other reporters. I didn’t want anyone to guess it was me until I could send off my post this evening.
“At this point, neither the cause nor time of death have been determined,” Killian continued, ignoring the hands shooting up everywhere. “This is early stages still, and the investigation is unfolding. We wish to offer our heartfelt condolences to Shannon Blaine’s family . . . and before I continue, I want to give Kelly Claiborne the chance to say a few words.”
Kelly unhitched herself from her husband’s grip and exchanged spots with Killian.
“On behalf of Shannon’s entire family,” she said, clearly doing her best to keep her voice steady. “I want to thank everyone for their efforts this week. The reward we were offering will now go to anyone with information that leads to the arrest of the monster who killed my sister.”
That was it. She returned to her husband’s side, and Killian took over the podium again. As a reporter shouted a question, Killian held up a hand to say, “Not now.”
“I have another significant development to report today,” he said. “In the same location where we discovered the body of Shannon Blaine, we found the remains of two other individuals, which appear to have been there for a considerable period of time.”
All around me, people exclaimed in shock and disbelief.
“As of yet, we have not identified those bodies,” Killian added, tapping the air with his hands to shush the crowd, “and I don’t intend to waste my time or yours speculating. We will keep you informed as the investigation progresses. Since the volunteer center will be closing, all future press conferences on this case will be held at the municipal center.”
What followed was a blizzard of questions, reporters wanting to know who owned the building, whether the killer could have worked there at some point, if there was any possible connection between Shannon and the other bodies, and so on. It wouldn’t take long for people to link the news to the disappearance of the two campers years ago.
Though Killian disclosed that the property was owned by the Catholic church, he blunted most of the other questions with an “I’m not at liberty to discuss at this time.”
So far, no one was picking up fully on the religious angle, but why would they? They hadn’t heard what the caller had said to me, and as far as they knew, the retreat center had been selected as a dump site simply because the killer had known it was abandoned.
As Killian prepared to finish, I scanned the parking lot for the Claibornes. They’d slipped away from the front and were making a beeline for an SUV. I snaked my way out of the crowd and hurried in their direction.
“Kelly, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said softly, as our paths intersected.
“Thank you,” she muttered. She seemed to be holding it together, but her face was as white as candle wax.
“I’m not sure the police have told you this yet, but I was one of the two journalists who found Shannon’s body.”
“You? Are you the one who got the tip?”
“Yes, that was me. Kelly, do you recall giving my business card to anyone, or seeing someone pick it up from the table where you were sitting?”
She squinted, clearly trying to focus.
“I did leave it on the table but—I don’t recall anyone picking it up.”
So one of the volunteers or someone posing as a volunteer could have easily grabbed it.
“I know you need to get home to your family, but is there anything you can tell me about the retreat center? Did—did Shannon ever go on retreat there when it was in operation?”
“Look, my wife’s in no shape to be answering questions at the moment,” Doug said. With his tanned skin, sandy hair, and light brown eyes, he vaguely resembled a pair of chinos. He ushered Kelly into the car and then slid into the driver’s seat.
I spun around, hoping I still had time to catch Nolan, but he was already in his own vehicle, nosing out of the lot. I’d have to pay him a follow-up visit at the parish house. I wanted to learn what he knew about the Sunset Bay Retreat Center, and also pump him for more details about Shannon’s return to the church.
I glanced over to where I’d been standing earlier. The sheriff had backed away from the podium and the crowd was breaking apart, some people appearing shell-shocked, others looking fearful as they whispered frantically to each other. Alice spotted me and held up her hand, fingers splayed, suggesting we should talk in five minutes. I used the time to listen to the message from Kayla. She clearly thought I was a prospective buyer because she couldn’t have sounded friendlier, and when I returned the phone call two seconds later, she answered with the same pep in her voice. I introduced myself and said I wanted to talk to her about Amy Hunt.
“I don’t get it,” she said, her tone suddenly cool. “Why now, after all this time?”
“I’d like to learn more about the case for another story I’m doing,” I said. “I don’t know a lot about Amy’s situation, but it sounds as if the authorities didn’t pay enough attention to her disappearance.”
“Enough? Try zilch.”
“I’d love to meet you and discuss it.”
“Uh, sure, okay. I’ll be at work by ten tomorrow, so I could meet you at the dealership then. It’s not super busy in the morning.”
She provided the address and signed off. I spotted Alice heading toward me, zigzagging through departing cars.
“You wanna grab a bite at Jake’s after we both file?” she asked, reaching me. It was the restaurant where we’d had our first, very stilted conversation.
“Absolutely, but could you give me an hour and a half?”
/> “You bet.”
I drove back to the Breezy Point and quickly updated the draft of my post with details from the press conference. I forwarded it to Dodson and asked if there was anything else he needed from me, since the story up here had exploded.
When I arrived at the restaurant, Alice was already seated at a table by the window, still in her coat and studying her phone. It was too dark at this point to see the lake through the glass behind us, but at least we’d be away from the bar noise.
“This is the kind of day when I really miss my husband,” she said, once I’d flopped into a chair. “He’d be giving me a foot rub right now.”
“Want me to make an attempt?”
She snorted and shrugged off her coat. “You’d probably cut your hands on my calluses. Besides, you’ve had an equally tough day, my friend.”
We ordered wine and food at the same time, and as soon as the waitress moved off, I divulged my theory about the other two victims being Amy and Page.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” she said. “Of course, that would mean their bodies have been there for a decade.”
“If you do the math, it works out. Though they stopped doing retreats eleven years ago, the guy in the diner told me they kept the site functional for a while longer, hoping to start back up again. Amy and Page went missing ten years ago. The killer could have left the bodies in the basement at that time, figuring there was little chance of anyone besides him going into the storage space. The furnace must have been turned on that next winter, and the bodies mummified.”
“Those poor things. I didn’t cover that story myself—I think I had a bad case of Lyme disease then—but from what I recall, the cops really bought into the idea that the girls had simply taken off.”
“I bet you they’re not so dismissive now. How fast do autopsies happen in this neck of the woods?”
“The bodies will be sent to Albany Med and that place is pretty efficient. But as you know, these things take a lot more time in real life than they do on TV, so it’s not like we’ll be hearing tomorrow. My police source has promised to call me with anything he hears, though.”
