Such a Perfect Wife

by Kate White

  My heart skipped. Alice had theorized that the killer could be a trucker.

  “Just out of curiosity, how far away do you end up delivering?”

  “We cover three counties right now, though we plan to expand eventually.”

  Not enough to fit with Alice’s long-haul trucker theory. So maybe my revised timeline wasn’t going to tell me a freaking thing.

  A call came through on the other line and I was about to send it to voice mail when I saw that it was a Chicago number.

  “I need to take this, Cody, but thanks for your time.”

  I clicked to the other call.

  “Bailey Weggins.”

  “It’s Ben, Alice Hatfield’s son. I found your note.”

  My heart squeezed at the sound of his voice.

  “Thanks very much for calling, Ben. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “I appreciate that. Look, I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  “Yes, I’m eager to speak with you as well.” I glanced at my watch. It was now after eight. “I could meet you first thing tomorrow, even for breakfast.”

  “No, this can’t wait. Can you meet me right now?”

  Chapter 20

  HIS VOICE SOUNDED TINGED WITH URGENCY AS MUCH AS grief. Maybe Alice had told him something.

  I said yes, of course, I could meet tonight. He asked where I was staying and after hearing my location, he said he’d meet me in the hotel bar in twenty minutes.

  I used the little bit of time I had to freshen up. According to the mirror, I looked drained and fish-belly pale, possibly the aftereffects of staring down the barrel of a Glock. The mascara and lip gloss I swiped on barely helped.

  Before dashing from the room, I placed one more call to Lisa Mannix, still perturbed that I hadn’t heard back from her. Based on my read of J.J. when we parted, I was betting Lisa was okay and was probably stonewalling me, regretful for having dragged me into her sordid little drama. And yet I wanted to be sure. Once again, the call went to voice mail.

  I also sent another text to Beau. I knew he was having cell service issues, but it had now been two days since I’d heard from him and I was starting to fret.

  When I arrived at the bar, it was bursting at the seams with reporters, producers, and crew members, and ripe with the smell of people hyped up and ready for action. Luckily I was able to snag a fairly private table tucked in a corner and kept my eye trained on the entrance for Ben, whom I was pretty sure I’d recognize from his photo.

  And I did. He appeared two minutes later, dressed in dark jeans, a blue button-down shirt open at the collar, and a brown tweed sports jacket, looking the part of the college professor Alice had been so proud of. I waved him over to the table and rose as he approached.

  “Ben, so good to meet you,” I said as he settled into a seat across from me. He was a nice-looking guy, most likely in his early thirties, bearded, and possessing the same thick, coarse hair as his mother. His hazel eyes were just like hers as well, and I found myself wincing inside at the resemblance. “I had the chance to get to know your mother a little and I liked her so much. This must be such a horrible time for you.”

  He sighed, visibly distressed. “Thanks . . . to be honest, it hasn’t totally sunk in yet. I feel like I’m operating more or less on autopilot.”

  “I can only imagine. Have you had a chance to speak to Sheriff Killian?”

  “Yes, a little while ago. They haven’t done an autopsy yet, but he told me that, based on some evidence at the scene, they think she was strangled and shoved down the stairs.” He pressed the tips of his fingers into his forehead and rubbed back and forth. “How could someone do that to her? My mother never hurt anyone in her life.”

  The waitress sidled over, interrupting us for our order, and we quickly requested drinks—beer for Ben, another glass of wine for me.

  “Ben,” I said once we were alone again. “I don’t have any proof yet, but I think your mother was murdered because she’d figured out an important clue about the Shannon Blaine case. Have you been following that story at all?”

  He nodded dully. “Yes, I’ve been reading my mom’s coverage online. And Killian asked me if my mom had told me anything about the case.”

  “Did she?”

  To my dismay, he shook his head.

  “The last time I spoke to her was Saturday, in the early evening, like we always do—did—and though the murders came up, she didn’t mention any leads she was following or anything like that.”

  He could clearly read the disappointment in my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was mostly a catch-up on personal stuff.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” I told him, though I felt like kicking the table in frustration. “Since you asked to meet right away, I was hoping that you might know something.”

  “I wanted to hear what you knew. Killian said that you were the one who discovered her.”

  “Yes, she’d invited me for dinner, and when she didn’t answer the door, I checked outside.”

  “Did you see anything? Anything that might tell you what happened?”

  I let my eyes briefly roam the bar area, making sure no one at the other tables was close enough to hear me.

  “Nothing that would point to the identity of the killer. But as Killian probably told you, her laptop is missing. Over the weekend your mom told me she was doing online research and on Sunday morning she said she’d found a scary piece of information that she wanted to confirm before telling me. I think she somehow tipped off the killer and he came after her.”

  “God,” he muttered, through fingers clasped to his mouth. His cuticles were ragged like Alice’s.

  Our drinks arrived and Ben took a big slug of beer directly from the bottle.

  “Are you going to be staying at the house?” I asked.

  “No. I went by with a friend to pick up my mom’s car, but I can’t bear the idea of sleeping there. I’m staying with an old high school friend of mine.”

  So Ben still kept up with people in the area. This wasn’t the right moment to dig, but he might prove to be a good source as I continued my research.

  “I’m glad you have a friend to be with. I’m going to do everything I can to find the killer, but if I can help in any other way, will you let me know?”

  “Thanks, Bailey. Just so you know, my mom mentioned you on the phone when she called on Saturday.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Yeah, she laughed and said that I wasn’t the only one with hip, feisty thirtysomething female friends. She seemed to really like you.”

  “I appreciate you sharing that. As I said, the feeling was mutual.”

  He shot the cuff of his sports jacket and checked his watch.

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay long. My girlfriend’s flying in tomorrow, and I need to make arrangements for her to be picked up at the airport.”

  He reached in his back pocket for a wallet.

  “I’ve got this,” I said. “I’m going to be meeting another reporter for a drink in a few minutes, and I’ll add it to the tab.”

  “I wish I had something of value to offer. When my mom called me, it was a bit earlier than we usually talked and I had a few papers to finish grading. I feel awful about it now, but I kind of rushed her off the phone.”

  My brain, always a sucker for discrepancies, zeroed in.

  “Did she explain why she was calling earlier than usual? Was she on her way somewhere later, perhaps?”

  “She didn’t say,” he said glumly.

  “Please don’t beat yourself up about the call. From what your mom told me, she made her discovery on Sunday morning, so even if you’d had more time to talk on Saturday, she wouldn’t have had anything to share. But do me a favor. If you think of anything else that’s odd, will you let me know? Even something that seems inconsequential.”

  “Will do.” He rose from the table.

  “And when you finalize plans for her service, would you mind letting me know the d
etails?”

  “Yes, of course. Good night, Bailey.”

  As he trudged through the bar, his head lowered, my heart ached. Because of my father’s death, I knew something about the kind of loss he was experiencing, the feeling of being thrown overboard and trying desperately to keep your head above the waves. But Ben had now lost both parents, and one of them under horrible circumstances.

  As I waited for Matt Wong to show, I nursed my wine and wasn’t surprised when he ended up being ten minutes late. After spotting me, he strode toward the table like a guy who owned the room. He was wearing a tight cotton plaid shirt half-tucked—intentionally—over a pair of slim-fit rust-colored chinos, the kind that were sold broken-in.

  “Good, you started without me,” he said, nodding toward my wineglass. “Something important came up and I had to deal with it.”

  He let it hang there, hoping perhaps that I’d assume he was following a red-hot lead or had been short-listed for a Pulitzer.

  “Who’s been in tonight?” he asked once he’d ordered a Heineken.

  “Who’s been in? I don’t know what you mean, Matt.”

  “What other reporters?”

  I told him I had no idea, and from there he launched back into his theory from earlier—the fact that video was everything now and he needed a sizzle reel that could totally showcase his talents. I briefly humored him and then directed the conversation back toward the case.

  “How long do you think all these reporters are going to be buzzing around?” I asked.

  “Not much longer. From what I hear, the cops have squat from the retreat center, and you know as well as I do that these kinds of cases can go for years without being solved. If there’s nothing to report, the press will go on to the next big thing.”

  “Who told you the cops had squat?”

  “Now, now, Bailey, you can’t expect me to share my sources. That would be unprofessional of me.”

  “I’m not asking for the nuclear codes, Matt.”

  “Well, if you were less stingy with your own info, I might be more willing to share.”

  “I gave you that tip yesterday—about Page’s boyfriend lying when he said she wanted to split.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Please, that didn’t lead anywhere. Maybe the dude did embellish the truth, but the cops had other reasons for thinking those girls had left of their own accord. For one, they never found Amy’s car. Plus, Page had taken two grand out of her savings account the day before.”

  Okay, how had he managed to unearth that nugget?

  “Is that so?” I said, trying to keep my tone light. Matt was the kind of guy who could pick up the scent of a too-eager beaver from waaay across the pond. “Why wasn’t that mentioned in the papers?”

  “Who knows? Bad local reporting? But trust me, it’s true.”

  Two thousand dollars. Since it now seemed pretty clear Page and Amy hadn’t intended to blow town, what was the money for? Buying drugs? As much as I’d been brooding over Alice’s death, I hadn’t lost track of the idea that if Amy and Page had begun dabbling in the drug world—despite Kayla’s protests to the contrary—they might have intersected with the killer there.

  And that raised the question again about Shannon. Had she taken a step into that world?

  If so, it didn’t mean she’d been a user. She’d been haunted by her cousin’s death and it was possible, I suddenly realized, that she wanted to learn who his dealer was. She could have started asking questions, maybe of the wrong person. She might have even stumbled on unknown details about Amy’s and Page’s deaths.

  Before I followed this thread any further, though, I needed to confirm Page’s two-thousand-dollar withdrawal.

  When I disentangled myself from my thoughts, I discovered that Matt was droning on once again about his TV prospects. Please, I thought, spare me. There were a lot of things I could say about the guy, but “He could be the next Anderson Cooper” wasn’t one of them. I glanced at my watch, faked surprise, and told him I needed to take a call from my editor at Crime Beat. I tossed more than enough cash on the table to cover my drink and Ben’s and said good night.

  As soon as I was in my room, I dug out the business card Hank Coulter had given me, and despite the fact that it was nearly ten o’clock, dialed his number. I still didn’t have a read on how sincere he’d been about me reaching out anytime, but he was probably my best shot at confirming Wong’s revelation.

  He answered on the third ring, his voice husky, as if he’d been quiet for a stretch.

  “Chief Coulter, hi, it’s Bailey Weggins. I’m sorry to call so late, but I had a couple of questions. Do you have a minute now?”

  He paused before answering. “How can I help?”

  “I’m interested in learning more about the initial investigation into the disappearance of Amy Hunt and Page Cramer. Can you—?”

  “Let me stop you right there, Ms. Weggins. I can understand your interest, and I was involved in that investigation, but as I’ve stressed previously, it’s not appropriate for me to be taking questions on law enforcement issues. The case has been reopened and there are other people in charge now.”

  “What if I rely on you only as a deep background source? Meaning I won’t even quote you anonymously. I’ll simply use what you say to help me clarify my thinking.”

  “Is this going to be about the authorities not trying hard enough to find those young women?”

  “No, it isn’t. Because I know you had your reasons for believing they’d simply left town.”

  Another pause.

  “All right, deep background only.”

  “Thank you. I learned from a source tonight that Page had withdrawn a fairly substantial amount of cash—two grand—before the camping trip. Is that true?”

  “Yes, it’s true. And that factor contributed to our theory.”

  “Okay, so we know now that they weren’t necessarily planning to leave town. What are the chances, do you think, that Amy and Page were using or dealing drugs?”

  “There were definitely rumors on that front. Not so much about Amy but Page. The Oxy epidemic had kicked off with a bang around here, and we thought she might be trying to score a piece of the action. She had made a number of calls to a burner phone, one we couldn’t trace.”

  “Drugs could explain how they ended up in Fort Ann.”

  “Could.”

  “So my next question is whether you think Shannon might have stumbled into that world, too.”

  “No way,” he said, having barely let me spit out the full question. “Shannon was a total straight arrow.”

  “I know this is crazy, but—but what if she was snooping around in order to figure out what happened to her cousin Destin, the one who overdosed? She might have heard rumors about the dealer, someone possibly right here in Lake George. And then ended up intersecting with the killer that way.”

  “Shannon wouldn’t have intentionally exposed herself to drug dealers. She was too devoted a mother to have put herself at that kind of risk.”

  “I—”

  “Look, Ms. Weggins, you seem like a smart lady, and I can see why you’d want to explore different theories. And it could be that Page withdrew that money exactly as you suggest—to buy drugs and begin selling them. But I’m sure you’ve read enough about serial killers—in fact, probably covered a few in your day—to know that they generally pick their victims at random. The average victim is someone they see walking along a street at night or crossing a deserted parking lot on her way to her car. It often comes down to being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Yes, I thought, but as I’d already reminded myself, there was often a pattern with serial killers. The women were all prostitutes or all brunettes. It made sense that Alice’s death didn’t resemble the others, though. The killer had wanted nothing more than to silence her and might have even hoped her death might appear to be an accident. As for the other three women, there had to be something linking them. I simply wasn’t seeing it.

>   “I appreciate your input,” I told him. Clearly I’d be beating a dead horse if I tried to pursue it with him any further. “I’d love to circle back if anything else crosses my mind.”

  “Please do. Good night.”

  I was desperate for a bath, but I was afraid I’d pass out from fatigue in the tub, so I opted for a shower instead. I tried to savor the sensation of the hot water on my weary limbs, hoping it would relax me, but my jangled nerves refused to calm. I felt dogged by so many questions I couldn’t find answers to, including why the hell Lisa Mannix wasn’t calling me back.

  Toweling off, I heard my phone ring, and I scrambled for it, hoping first and foremost that it was Beau.

  But the caller turned out to be the elusive Lisa.

  “You’re safe?” I asked.

  “Safe? Yes. I’m back in Rochester, thank God. That’s why I didn’t have the chance to call you until now. I appreciate what you did. Doug told me that you came to the motel and helped defuse things.”

  Ha-ha. I bet he hadn’t told her that he’d acted like a complete weenie and had left me behind to fend for myself.

  “Why did you take off after pleading with me to help you?”

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t wait for you, but I was really freaking out, and when the coast looked clear, I jumped in my car and just drove. By the time Doug heard my message and showed up at the motel, I was already gone. My car wasn’t there, of course, but he found some of my toiletries still in the room and got scared, so he started looking for me behind the building. And that woman followed him.”

  “Did he tell you about her?”

  “She’s apparently someone he used to see, who became obsessed with him. Like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.”

  Oh, J.J. would love hearing herself pegged as a bunny boiler. She’d have the Glock back out in no time.

  “You live in Rochester? How did you and Doug meet?”

  “At a conference for chiropractors about four months ago. It was nothing more than a fling, the kind of thing they make conferences for, but the sex was good and Doug convinced me to come to the area for a week so he could sneak over every day to see me. It was supposed to be a nice diversion, but the next thing I know women start turning up dead. And then I end up being stalked by a crazy chick. You couldn’t pay me to go near Lake George again.”