Such a Perfect Wife

by Kate White

  Perhaps, after making the pie and setting the table, Alice had taken a short break, treating herself to some white wine and a contemplation of the lake from the patio before darkness descended. She’d been wearing that heavy sweater, after all. Someone could have come through the house and caught her unawares. And then shoved her down the stairs.

  Something about that scenario didn’t fit, though. If a stranger had snuck up behind her, catching her off guard, she would have jumped up in fear and the glass would have probably dropped and shattered. Or it would have flown from her hand when she was trying to fight the person off. It seemed to me that she’d had time to look up, rise, take a few steps, and set the glass carefully on the ledge.

  Perhaps she’d heard a sound emanating from the house before she’d set eyes on anyone.

  Or perhaps she knew the person and assumed she had nothing to worry about. Or she might have known she had something to worry about but urged herself to remain calm.

  Yes, I told myself with no real proof other than what my gut was telling me. She knew whoever it was.

  Maybe I was getting too far ahead of things. The fall could have been an accident, though right now the chances of that seemed slim, especially if the laptop was missing. Regardless, Alice had found a detail online that had alarmed her, a clue about the case, and I needed to know what it was. If I had any hope of figuring it out—and then determining who had murdered her—I was going to have to follow her digital footprints as best as I could.

  The soup arrived, and I managed only a couple of bites. It tasted weirdly smoky to me, like it had been flavored with bits of charred firewood. Even the wine seemed off.

  I ordered the bill and a coffee to go. As I dug out my wallet, I overheard someone at the far end of the bar utter the name “Alice.” I jerked my head in that direction. A middle-aged man, his expression stricken, was speaking to the bartender as she clasped her hands to her face in unhappy surprise.

  It looked like word of Alice’s death might be starting to spread. Had her son been informed yet? I wondered. The thought of him hearing the news was unbearably sad.

  I had little interest in being alone at the Breezy Point with my thoughts, but I was eager to start my own online search. The four-mile drive seemed even more forlorn tonight, with so many darkened motels and shops along the route. The office light was burning when I pulled into the motel lot, and so was a lamp in the jogger’s unit, though her Camry was without its BMW sidekick tonight.

  As soon as I was inside, I tore off my jacket, grabbed my laptop, and set to work at the desk. My plan was to use the same approach Alice had—starting not far from the area and working my way out. I found state police sites listing missing persons in New York State and Vermont and began making note of any cases involving young and youngish women within a radius of two hundred miles. I turned up ten or so, and though I knew most were probably runaways, I tracked down local news coverage of each case just to be sure. None of the cases seemed to bear any relation to the ones here.

  Around midnight, I peeled off my clothes, set the alarm on my phone for six thirty, and crawled into bed, torn up inside. Part of me wanted to keep working, but tomorrow was going to require all the energy I could muster. I briefly wondered if I should email Jessie, canceling lunch—it would take time from my research—but I decided not to. I was in desperate need of a friend right now.

  I dozed off quickly from sheer exhaustion, but moments later my ringtone roused me with a start. I shot a hand out in the darkness and fumbled for the phone on the bedside table. My heart skipped as I brought it close enough to read the screen.

  Sheriff Killian.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked as I used my free elbow to help me scoot up in bed.

  “Um, yeah, but that’s okay.”

  “There’s no sign of Alice’s laptop. She definitely told you she was working at home?”

  “Yes. God, somebody’s taken it then.”

  “We didn’t come across any notes or files about the case, either, so those must have been grabbed as well. And though I can’t go into detail at this time—and this has to stay between you and me—there were indications at the scene that Alice’s death was not an accident.”

  “Have you managed to reach her son yet?”

  “Yes, he’s been notified. He’s planning to arrive tomorrow.”

  “Would it be possible for me to get his cell number from you?”

  “You know I can’t give out that kind of information.”

  “Okay.”

  “But I’m very appreciative of your cooperation. Is there anything more you can tell us? Any hint that Ms. Hatfield might have dropped about what she’d been researching?”

  I wondered if I should reveal what Alice knew about the stigmata, but I’d given my word that I’d protect her source, and it didn’t seem to be the line of inquiry she’d been pursuing over the weekend, anyway.

  “No, nothing more. I’ve started to search myself. If I find anything at all, I’ll let you know.”

  A pause. Hard to tell if he was weighing my words or winding up for a comment.

  “Ms. Weggins,” Killian said finally. “The person who called you the other day was most likely the killer. And it’s possible he thinks Alice shared what she knew with you. You need to be extremely cautious.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “I will be.”

  After hanging up, I considered Killian’s warning. I knew he was right, that I might indeed be in danger now. The killer was surely reading my Crime Beat posts, keeping tabs, and so he knew that Alice was with me at Sunset Bay, that I must have told her about the phone call before bringing her along to the retreat center. And he might assume we’d swapped additional information over the next few days. In his eyes, therefore, I was no longer a harmless messenger for him. I was a potential threat.

  Would he call me again? Killian probably hoped he would, because it might prove fruitful. Yet I was growing doubtful. He’d wanted his handiwork discovered, that much was clear, but Alice’s murder proved he had no interest in being apprehended. It seemed unlikely he’d take the risk of phoning me another time.

  I realized suddenly how utterly silent the room was. There weren’t any sounds from outside either, no cars whizzing down Route 9N, not even the muted whoosh of the wind.

  I threw back the duvet, jumped from the bed, and dragged the old wooden dresser against the door. It would hardly offer much protection, but it made me feel better.

  First thing tomorrow, I decided, I was going to find a new place to stay, a motel where I’d feel less exposed, or perhaps a hotel instead.

  After slipping back between the sheets, I flicked off the light and lay with my eyes wide open, summoning the killer in my mind.

  You think you’re so smart, don’t you? I thought. Spreading out your murders over the years. Using a voice adapter. Silencing a reporter who was on to you. But I’m going to find the clue that Alice came across. And then I’m going to know who you are.

  Chapter 17

  I STIRRED AWAKE JUST BEFORE SIX THE NEXT MORNING AT the sound of voices directly outside my door.

  “You can’t put anyone in fourteen,” a male voice murmured. “The drain’s still clogged in there.”

  “Okay, okay,” a female replied. “It’s not like we don’t have space.”

  I unstuck my eyes to half-mast. The first thing my gaze landed on was the dresser shoved up against the door, and in a split second everything came crashing back—Alice’s death, Killian’s call, the missing laptop. I moaned, my stomach churning from the memory.

  After dragging myself out of bed, I checked the Post Star online. There was a short news item on the home page announcing Alice’s death. Though the piece offered scant details, it pointed out that the police were considering foul play. No mention of me. It looked like Killian was trying to protect me, hiding the fact that I’d been on the premises.

  The article included a link to an obit of Alice, which detailed her long career a
s a reporter, first in Massachusetts and then here for many years. She was survived, it said, by a son, Ben Hatfield of Chicago. Was he already at O’Hare by now, I wondered, beginning his sad journey here?

  With a heavy heart, I made a reservation online for a room at the Courtyard by Marriott in the center of Lake George village, which had a check-in time of three. I’d feel safer there than at the Breezy Point, and hopefully more people would be hanging around. If Dodson flinched at springing for the upgrade, I’d cover the difference myself.

  After a quick run to a nearby general store for take-out coffee—checking more than once over my shoulder—I settled back at the desk in the room. I composed a short update to last night’s post, announcing Alice’s death. For now, I included nothing about my role in finding her, though I shot an email to Dodson filling him in, confidentially, about the situation.

  With the update out of the way, I plotted my moves for the morning. My top priority was continuing my online research in the hope of lighting on Alice’s discovery. I also wanted to track down her son. I’d suggested to Killian that Alice might have shared the information with a colleague at the paper, but I’d also begun to wonder if she’d run it by Ben since they were clearly close. If he were taking a morning flight from Chicago, he’d arrive at the Albany airport by midday and in Lake George about an hour later.

  In addition, I wanted to talk to Cody. My gut was still telling me that Alice had been familiar with her killer, and I wondered if Cody might have any theories. He knew who’d been hanging around the volunteer center and might have seen Alice interacting with people. It was a long shot, but long shots were all I had at the moment.

  There was another subject matter I wanted to raise with him—the question of drugs—and though I knew he wouldn’t like it, I was going to go there anyway.

  I spent the next two hours glued to my laptop, widening the radius of my search even further. People were missing, that was for sure, all over the state and New England, too, many more than I would have imagined, and the stories made you ache for the relatives, lovers, and friends who’d been left searching and yearning. But I found no cases of missing women that seemed relevant.

  My phone rang. I wasn’t surprised to see Matt Wong’s name on the screen. He would have caught wind of Alice’s death by now and would be on the prowl for details.

  “You know, I assume?” he said, barely giving me time to mutter hello.

  “About Alice Hatfield? Yes.”

  “They’re hinting at foul play. Do you think it has anything to do with the case? Or was it just some spat that got out of hand?”

  “Spat?”

  “You know, a personal issue—with a kid or neighbor. I doubt it’s a lover’s quarrel gone wrong. She wasn’t what you’d call a looker.”

  “I don’t think Alice cared about being a looker,” I said, wishing he’d just shut the fuck up. “She was too busy being a good journalist.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude. I know Alice was good. I’ve followed some of her stuff since I’ve been up here.”

  “Matt, can I call you back?” I wasn’t in the mood for him.

  “Yeah, okay, but we talked about having a drink. Does tonight work for you?”

  “Maybe. Let me see how the day goes, okay?”

  After I’d signed off, I double-checked my phone for texts in case Beau had tried to make contact and I hadn’t heard the ping. Nothing. I knew his cell service was spotty, but I felt a burning need to talk to him, to share about Alice. It would have to wait. At least I was going to see Jessie.

  Checkout at the Breezy Point was at eleven, so at ten minutes before the hour I stuffed my clothes and boots into my duffel bag and work gear into my tote and then lugged everything outside. The white Camry, which had been parked in the lot when I’d made my coffee run earlier, was now gone. I hoped the jogger hadn’t checked out. Killian had said he’d follow up with her, and the easier she was to locate, the better.

  A woman I didn’t recognize, middle-aged with a friendly, open face, was at the front desk of the motel. After paying my bill, I gushed disingenuously about my stay.

  “Glad you enjoyed it, sweetheart,” she said. “You should come back when the pool’s open next summer. We keep it heated.”

  “I definitely will. By the way, I noticed my new friend in unit eleven isn’t here at the moment. She didn’t check out yet, did she?”

  “No, they’re still around. Guess they must have gone for food. You gotta eat, as they say.”

  It was spoken with more of a chuckle than a snicker, but her tone definitely suggested that the jogger and the owner of the Beemer had been keeping carnal company over the past couple of days. Clearly they hadn’t come to the area simply to relish the limpid blue lake water and scent of wood smoke in the air. But why travel in separate cars? I wondered. Maybe they resided in different areas and met up here periodically. Maybe one of them—or both—was married, and they were here for a clandestine fling, which would explain why the jogger had been trying to keep a low profile.

  At least she was still here and Killian would have a shot at speaking with her soon.

  Two minutes later I pulled out of the lot and aimed my Jeep north toward the Lake Shore Motel rather than south toward town. I knew Killian would be speaking to Terry Dobbs today, and I was sure he wouldn’t like me tramping on this turf and possibly eliminating his element-of-surprise card with the motel owner. But the morning had left me so frustrated that I felt the need to do something. I’d decided on the spur of the moment to take a crack at him myself.

  I would be careful, though. I’d avoid any mention of Alice, and would instead chat with Dobbs about Shannon again to see how he responded.

  The parking lot of the Lake Shore looked as forlorn as the Breezy Point’s. Though the temperature had warmed up again, a light breeze was blowing, snapping the tarp that protected the heating unit of the pool.

  Dobbs was on duty, as I’d expected. Through the window I saw him glance up curiously from the counter as soon as I’d emerged from the Jeep, and then drop his gaze back to a newspaper until I stepped into the office. His steel-gray tufts of hair were now combed into submission, proof perhaps that he’d been roused from a nap the last time I was here.

  “Morning,” he said. It was a few seconds before he recognized me, and I watched his guard go up an inch.

  “I’m Bailey Weggins. We met the other day.”

  “Sure. I remember.” Friendly enough.

  “I wondered if you had a couple more minutes.”

  “I can spare a few, but I’m afraid that’s about all,” he said, which was funny. Based on the apparent activity level at the motel, he seemed as busy as a bee in the Arctic tundra.

  “I appreciate that. I have a few follow-up questions about Shannon Blaine.”

  “I reckon you heard they already found that poor young lady.”

  “Yes, and now I’m actually doing a profile of her. I’m interested in anything else you can share about her.”

  “Don’t know what more I could tell you than what I said the other day. I saw her run by every morning, but I didn’t know her enough to say boo to.”

  “But you knew she went to church each week.”

  He twisted his chubby lips. “Wouldn’t take a genius to figure that out. She stopped running on Sundays and I saw her drive by instead—around ten to ten each time. Figured she was heading to St. Tim’s.”

  “How’d you guess that? I mean the St. Tim’s part.”

  “St. Tim’s is the only church with a ten o’clock service. When you run a motel, you gotta have that kind of stuff at your disposal. Guests ask you for it.”

  Was I supposed to believe that Dobbs was the kind of considerate motel owner who rounded up details like this for his customers? Or had he simply been way too curious about Shannon’s comings and goings?

  “Do you go to St. Tim’s yourself?”

  “Nope, not my thing. But I never fault anyone else for travelin’ that road if it
makes them feel good.” He glanced down at the counter at something out of my view. “Now since there’s really nothing more for me to contribute, would you mind letting me attend to some business?”

  “Of course, thanks for your help.”

  Driving south afterward, I assessed Dobbs as a suspect. He gave off a creepy vibe for sure, and it was clear he’d seemed a bit fixated on Shannon and her routines. I’d seen him hanging out at the volunteer center, including on the day I’d chatted with Nolan. He was familiar with Alice because she’d interviewed him for the paper following Shannon’s disappearance. And last, but hardly least, I’d given him my cell number on the day I’d arrived.

  But if he was the killer and Alice had figured it out, I had no clue what she could have possibly found online to point her in his direction. I would have to be on the alert for anything else I came across about him or the motel.

  I didn’t expect to check in to the Courtyard until at least three, but they ended up having a room ready. It was spare, done mostly in grays and beiges, a far cry from the funky decor of the Breezy Point, but I already felt safer. I set up shop at the desk in the room and resumed my Internet search, but again without any luck. “Alice,” I pleaded out loud. “What did you find?” Was the clue so subtle that I was missing it? It couldn’t be if it had alarmed her that much.

  Of course, Alice had been very familiar with the area and knew a ton of people, so it was entirely possible that a piece of info that had spelled clue to her seemed utterly insignificant to me.

  It was time for my lunch with Jessie. I was not only dying to see her but also eager for a break from the Internet. I hoped that an hour or so away would allow me to return to the research with a fresh eye.

  The restaurant was only a short distance from the hotel so I set out on foot, checking a couple of times over my shoulder. All I noticed were people who appeared to be off-season tourists or locals in a hurry, dashing out to lunch themselves or running errands during the workday.