Such a Perfect Wife

by Kate White

She had her phone out, too, I realized, and was now studying it, seemingly oblivious to my presence. I considered calling out to her, but then she darted into the unit so swiftly that I didn’t have the chance. Her license plate, I noticed, was from New York State. I discreetly snapped a photo of it with my cell phone, in case it might come in handy.

  As I unlocked the door to my unit, my curiosity still piqued, my phone rang. Alice.

  “So what do you think?” she said in lieu of hello.

  “Hey, there. About what?”

  “The news. The bodies.”

  “Oh jeez, I checked my freaking phone ten minutes ago, and didn’t see anything.”

  “Just came in.”

  I put Alice on speaker and found the alert in my email, but she began reading out loud before I could scan it.

  “‘We now have reason to believe that the remains discovered with Shannon Blaine’s are those of two local women who disappeared while camping on the eastern shore of Lake George ten years ago. This will have to be confirmed by DNA testing in the weeks ahead.’ You want me to keep going? There’s not much, just their names and stuff.”

  “So we guessed right.”

  “People in town are going to freak. Because three dead young women confirms the serial killer angle.”

  “And one who’s living right in their midst.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. Things keep pointing to him being a local.”

  “If they don’t find this guy, it could take a big bite out of the tourist business up here.”

  “Do you think that’s why Coulter and the others were so quick to conclude the campers had taken off? I spoke to a friend of Amy Hunt’s today and she claims she never thought for a second that the girls had simply blown town.”

  “Coulter’s not everybody’s favorite, but it’s hard to believe he’d put the tourist business above trying to find those girls, dead or alive. The friend say anything else interesting?”

  Knowing Alice, she was probably kicking herself for not having thought to quiz Kayla.

  “Claims the skipping-town rumor was started by an ex-boyfriend of Page’s with a chip on his shoulder. By the way, what can you tell me about Fort Ann?”

  “Fort Ann?”

  “Yeah, the campers stopped there the day they disappeared.”

  “You know that line in ‘Hello’ when Adele asks if the guy ever made it out of the town where nothing ever happens? I think she was singing about Fort Ann.”

  “That was my impression. I drove over there today, and even went to Muller’s, the bar where they had a drink, which frankly was like the ninth circle of hell. It’s hard to fathom why they’d choose a place like that—and one so far from the campsite.”

  “Maybe they headed along Route 149 thinking they’d find a spot close by and when they didn’t, they kept driving, waiting to stumble onto something. The only time I ever go over that way myself is when I’m aiming for Vermont. It’s right on the border.”

  Vermont. Could that be where they were headed? But why go to the trouble of setting up a campsite if your plan is to split? None of it made any sense.

  “You think the cops are ever going to drop any hints to the public about the stigmata marks?” I asked, grabbing hold of the conversation again.

  “Probably not until they find the killer. I think my pal regrets spilling the beans in the heat of the moment. I told him I had the information under lockdown.”

  “You can count on me.”

  “I know. So what are your plans from here? Are you going to stick around for a while?”

  Good question. On the phone, Dodson had agreed that we should see how the story played out, but there might not be enough action to warrant Crime Beat having me up here full-time for much longer. If Cody had killed Shannon and the police found enough evidence to arrest him, my job would have entailed filing at least another week’s worth of stories as more details emerged. Then I probably would have headed back to the city, possibly returning later if there were any new developments.

  But since there was an unknown killer at large, it could take days, weeks, even forever, for the authorities to find him. There would be no point in running posts when I hadn’t any news to share.

  “For sure, I’ll be here into the first part of next week,” I told Alice, “but if the case runs cold, my editor will probably tell me to split. I can always drive back up if there’s a break in the case.”

  “I’ve got more research to do tonight, but what if I made you dinner at my place tomorrow? I’m right on the lake, and if the weather cooperates, we could eat on the screened porch.”

  “I’d love that, Alice.” And I meant it. Nothing like finding bodies in trash bags together to turn you into soul sisters—and I suspected she was feeling the same way.

  “Just a warning, though. Most of us haven’t learned how to make a meal up here without massive amounts of carbs. You don’t look like you eat many of those.”

  “Oh, actually, that’s exactly what I’m in the mood for. . . . You following a hot lead tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know? Nah, just sitting at my dining table going through stuff online, seeing if there are pretty young women missing farther afield. I figure the cops will be able to use their database to track down any relevant cases that involve actual murders, but there might be victims who disappeared under similar circumstances and whose bodies haven’t turned up yet.”

  “You still think the guy might be from out of town?”

  “I’m not wedded to the concept, but the ten-year gap keeps bugging me. I want to see what I find.”

  “How far away are you searching?”

  “I started with surrounding counties and now I’m working my way outward.”

  “The old reverse-onion strategy.”

  “Yeah, but if I don’t turn up anything in the next few hours, I may bag it. . . . Shall we say seven tomorrow? I’ll text you my address.”

  “Great. I’ll pick up a bottle of wine.”

  After signing off, I took a minute to toss Alice’s latest strategy around in my mind. I’d told her on Friday that serial killers often felt most comfortable having their own killing field, but there were certainly exceptions. I recalled reading about one who had worked along miles and miles of an interstate highway on the Eastern Seaboard, leaving each body not far from the road. It took law enforcement a long time to realize the connections because the killer had struck in four or five different states. But that was years ago. If there were similar victims elsewhere in this case, the police surely would find them through database searches.

  And yet I couldn’t warm to the notion that such a crime spree had happened around Lake George. To me, at least, it still felt like the killer was from here, was here now, watching the action, taking in everything that was going on. And most likely reading my posts.

  As I started to toss my phone on the desk, I realized Nolan had still not returned my call, so I phoned over to the parish center and reached Emma.

  “I did give him your message,” she said, “and he promised to be in touch. I know today has been very busy for him.”

  “Will he be at the parish center tomorrow?”

  “I assume he’ll drop in. He’ll be participating in the ten o’clock mass with Father Jim.”

  “Thanks.” I would have to catch up with him there.

  I needed to scramble now and churn out my post. I texted Beau saying I hoped we could FaceTime later, and for the next hour I devoted my attention to writing the story, focusing mostly on the news about Amy and Page.

  By the time I’d sent it off, my stomach was growling but I didn’t have the psychic energy to go trolling for another take-out spot. I wolfed down a handful of cheese-filled Ritz Bits I’d brought from New York as emergency rations and used the next hour to sketch out notes for what I wanted to say in the video tomorrow, and then I managed to reach two of the reporters who’d asked me for quotes about finding the bodies, spending a couple of minutes on
the phone with each of them.

  Finally, I returned Matt Wong’s call.

  “Sorry I haven’t stayed in touch since you got here,” he said. “You know what it’s like when you’re in a new job and under an insane amount of pressure.”

  “No problem. What can I do for you?”

  “Just wanted to say congrats. Pretty amazing, you getting a call like that.”

  “A totally lucky break.”

  “So what was the scene in that basement like? It must have been pretty grisly.”

  There was a small piece of information I wanted from Wong, and the only chance of securing it would be to cough up a morsel from my end first. But I had to be careful about what I divulged. Killian had demanded I keep pertinent details about the crime scene under wraps, and I had my journalistic turf to protect as well. Just because Wong was suddenly acting all nicey-nice didn’t mean I wanted to swap info with him in the same way I had with Alice.

  “Unfortunately, that’s one area I can’t discuss, Matt. The cops insisted. I take it you heard that they think the two other bodies are the missing campers?”

  “Yeah, that’s already old news.”

  “I could pass along an interesting nugget in that department if you like.” I thought fast, ransacking my brain for a slim bone I could toss him without it costing me anything.

  “Let’s hear it then.”

  “Can I ask you a question in return?”

  “You can ask. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to answer.”

  “Okay, when the two campers disappeared ten years ago, one reason the cops believed they’d simply taken off was because an ex-boyfriend of Page’s claimed she’d talked to him about doing that. But he apparently held a grudge against Page and may have made that stuff up. It seems the cops were too quick to buy into the theory.”

  “That’s it?”

  “To me, it’s certainly worth checking out.”

  “All right, all right. What’s your question?”

  “On my first day here, you said that even the sweetest-looking sisters might secretly hate each other’s guts. What did you mean by that, exactly?”

  “You’re still noodling over that?”

  “Well, it’s a pretty loaded comment. Were there problems between Kelly and Shannon?”

  “Maybe. But what does it matter now anyway? It’s not like Kelly’s a serial killer.”

  “No, but I’m curious.”

  “Okay, I heard Kelly say something kind of nasty. About Shannon.”

  I waited silently, knowing he couldn’t be prodded.

  “It was an hour or so before you showed up,” he said. “I was coming from behind the building—nature called and they wouldn’t let anyone use the head in the ice cream place—and I overheard Kelly talking to her husband. She said, ‘It’s too bad Shannon can’t be here to enjoy this. She would be loving all the attention.’”

  That was nasty.

  “Any chance it was only a bit of gallows humor, a way to try to cope with the nightmare?”

  “Her tone was pretty snide. But like I said, it hardly matters now.”

  He was right, but I was still curious, particularly in light of a possible Doug–J.J. affair. I wanted, simply for my own sake, to get the right bead on the family dynamics.

  “Well, thanks for sharing,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  “You up here for much longer?”

  “Probably for a bit. Not sure at the moment.”

  “Why don’t we grab a drink? I’m sure we can both be of service to each other.”

  “Uh, sure. Let’s touch base later about that.” I’d rather spend a night cleaning out my wallet, but Wong had provided an interesting nugget, and it would be smart for me to stay on his good side.

  As I hung up, his comment about Kelly stayed with me, and I decided I needed more time with her. Even if she and Shannon had actively disliked each other, she might be aware of who her sister had come into contact with during her last weeks.

  I texted Alice, asking if she had Kelly’s cell number and would be willing to pass it along. She offered it up two minutes later, adding, It better be a really GREAT bottle of vino.

  Before the phone was even out of my hand, I saw that Beau was trying to FaceTime me.

  “Hey, you,” I said, answering. His hair was mussed in a cute, sexy way, as if he hadn’t had a chance to comb it all day. “So good to see your face again.”

  “Likewise. Sorry not to have called earlier. I’ve been a bit crazed.”

  “No problem, I’ve been racing around, too. Is it cool there?”

  I could see that he was wearing his beige cowl-necked wool sweater.

  “Yeah, and rainy, too, but that fortunately hasn’t stopped us from covering a lot of ground.”

  “Have you managed to interview most of the painters you hoped to?”

  “Yeah, and I have some good news. Remember that reclusive painter I mentioned? He finally agreed to let me shoot him. We’re heading out to his finca tomorrow. That’s what they call a country house here.”

  “Oh wow, that should be fascinating.”

  “How about you? Your posts have been great, but the case is sounding stranger than ever.”

  “Yeah, really disturbing. It’s been nice for me to hang with that other reporter, Alice. Her company is keeping me sane.”

  “Is Dodson happy with your posts? He certainly should be.”

  “Yes, though speaking of him, I could use your help. He’s making me do a video tomorrow, giving an update, and I’m dreading it a little.”

  “You’ll be great, Bailey. You handle TV really well.”

  “But I’ve never had to do anything straight to the camera. Any advice?”

  “Up your energy to about fifty percent more than feels natural, otherwise it can seem flat. And don’t worry about memorizing anything. It’s fine to glance at your note cards or iPad when you’re talking. If you own the fact that you’re using them, it’ll end up looking more authentic.”

  “Great tips. Are you almost ready for bed? Though, wait, it’s an hour earlier there, right?”

  “Yeah, but I’m beat. By the way, I’d love to come back to Bogotá with you on vacation one day, and then head up to the beach in Cartagena for a few more days.”

  It wasn’t unusual for the two of us to brainstorm travel plans for the future, but we were still sorting out how our relationship would be defined down the road. This past summer Beau had been pretty clear that he wanted us to make things official before too much more time passed. I loved him in a still-giddy way, and from the day we met, I’d sometimes imagined us married. But I was divorced, from a guy who had turned out to have a secret, disastrous gambling issue (read: bookies calling our apartment in the dead of night and threatening him with tire irons), and though I really trusted Beau and wanted to be with him, the idea of marrying again had begun to make me skittish.

  “That would be awesome,” I said. “I’d love to go back with you.”

  He smiled so broadly at the response, I felt a pang of guilt over the part of me that had grown mysteriously commitment-shy.

  “Have a good night, Bails. And stay safe.”

  “You too, babe.”

  After signing off, I inhaled another handful of crackers and reviewed my notes for the video tomorrow. Though I probably would never feel totally at ease in front of a camera, I was at least less terrified than I used to be. I could still recall the excruciating morning of my first appearance on the Today show, when my body seemed weighted down with dread. Friends had advised me to just be myself, which seemed ridiculous. I mean, it wasn’t as if I planned to go on the air impersonating someone else. The irony was that by the time the show’s stylist finished with my short, flat, blond hair that morning, wielding a curling iron and a silo-size can of extra-firm-hold spray, I actually did resemble another person, someone with a do so high I could have been hiding a litter of kittens in there and no one would have guessed.

  I’d simply have to suck it
up tomorrow and do the best job I could. And it was only a web video, I reminded myself.

  Though it was still fairly early, I stripped to a T-shirt, ready for bed. Before slipping between the covers, I poked open the curtain and peered across the parking lot. Besides the Camry, I could see two other cars, both of those parked in front of units in the butt end of the L-shaped building. No one skulking around tonight, at least as far as I could see.

  I let the curtain drop, grabbed my laptop and notebook, and climbed into bed. I checked my email one last time for any alerts from the sheriff’s department, but if there was news, they weren’t sharing.

  Law enforcement could very well be closing in on the killer without dropping hints, but the direct opposite could be true too. There was more than an outside possibility that the person who’d slain the three women would never be apprehended, that the crime scene wouldn’t cough up the kind of forensic evidence that would point anywhere.

  And though the killer might murder again down the road, there was a chance he’d lie low for a while again, living what appeared from the outside to be a normal, ordinary life.

  If there were no developments, I would probably be back in the city by midweek. It would be tough, I realized, to leave without seeing any resolution or justice for the three dead women—and knowing there might never be.

  Before I switched off the bedside lamp, I thumbed through my composition book, rereading the day’s notes. Elements continued to unsettle me. How had a girl like Amy, who reportedly wasn’t an outdoorsy type, ended up pitching a tent in a remote campsite? And why had she and Page later chosen a place as skanky as Muller’s for a drink? Perhaps the camping had been an experiment, and the two had wandered into the bar after not finding anything else. But it all felt off to me.

  I dragged my laptop across the comforter and typed the words Fort Ann into the search bar, in case I’d missed something on my last search, but nothing struck me as relevant.

  Just for the hell of it, I also googled Route 149, the rural road I’d been traveling on today. And suddenly, things turned interesting.

  According to reports in both the Post Star and a Vermont newspaper, there had been a slew of drug busts along the road over the past dozen years, most of which occurred after the police pulled over vehicles for routine traffic violations. It turned out that sleepy Route 149, as well as Route 4, where Muller’s was located, were thoroughfares for transporting heroin, fentanyl, cocaine, and prescription painkillers from New York City and downstate regions to Vermont, a state that had been ravaged by an addiction crisis.