by Beverly Long
* * *
They drove back to the office, where they had easy access to several databases. They found evidence of Tess in multiple places. She’d been dutifully paying property taxes for 519 Landberry Lane for six years. She paid for city sewer and water, and she’d recently registered for a city parking sticker citing the same address. Everything was in her name. No mention of a spouse.
A.L. did a quick check on the address in their system to make sure that there wasn’t any additional information there. Nothing showed.
He put her name and address into one of the free online searches. “According to this, she’s between the ages of thirty-five and forty and has a known association with Marnee Lyons, of the same address.”
“Marnee,” Rena repeated. “Child, you think?”
“That’s my guess.”
A.L. plugged the address into the GPS on his phone. “She doesn’t live that far from my old house. Let’s take a drive by,” he said.
It took them fifteen minutes. The houses on the street had likely been built in the 1970s. Midsize ranches, most with a brick front and then aluminum siding around the rest of the house. The yards were small, but the trees were big, their branches hanging over the cars parked along one side of the street. Tulips and daffodils bloomed in most yards, and a few early gardeners already had pots of pansies on their porches.
Tess Lyons’s house was at the end of the block. “Check out the parked cars,” he said as they cruised by, not slowing or stopping. The garage door was down, and there was no car in the driveway or parked in front or on the side of her house.
“See anything?” he asked once they were past.
“No. All the vehicles look empty.”
He kept going, turning at the next block. There was no alley behind the houses. Yards backed up to one another. A couple more turns had him back on the street running in front. This time, he slid the car into an open spot six houses away. He lowered their windows a couple inches and turned off the engine.
“This could take a while,” Rena said.
A.L. didn’t bother to answer. He was staring at the house. “Her yard needs to be mowed,” he said. They’d had a lot of spring rain, and the grass had been growing fast. Tess’s lawn wasn’t horribly overgrown, but substantially longer than her neighbors’, as if she had missed a week of mowing.
“Her garbage cans aren’t out,” Rena said, getting a bad feeling in her stomach. “Please tell me that you don’t think we’re too late, that there’s not a dead woman in that house.”
“I checked. No emergency or nonemergency calls to this address in the past year.”
“So if she’s dead, she’s not starting to smell yet,” Rena said.
“Exactly,” A.L. said.
He could wait with the best of them. And that trait had served him well many times when patience was rewarded. But today, there was an itch between his shoulder blades telling him that sitting in the car this time was the wrong thing to do.
“I think we need to knock on her door,” he said.
“We’re to gather intelligence. Not make contact,” Rena said.
“Something isn’t right here,” he said. “I can feel it.”
“Agree. Let’s try something else. I’ll knock on the neighbor’s door. Tell them that I’m looking for Tess Lyons to invite her to a class reunion. See what they say.”
There was some risk. If she was fine, just not paying attention to her grass, her neighbors might mention to Tess that somebody had been looking for her. Might make her suspicious, especially if she wasn’t due for a reunion. But he did not believe in paralysis by analysis. “Do it,” he said. “And her garage has a window on the street side. Looked like there were curtains or blinds or something, but see if there’s a way to look inside. I want to know if her vehicle is there.”
* * *
Rena started at the house across the street because, in general, the people across the street had a better view of what was going on at a house than the neighbors next door. Nobody answered. No surprise. In this middle-class neighborhood, people were likely working during the day. She walked back across the street to the house next to Tess’s. She rang the doorbell, saw a curtain in a nearby window move and waited to see if somebody would answer the door.
It was a man, maybe midthirties, wearing a dingy gray T-shirt and faded jeans. No shoes. “Yes?” he said.
“Mr. Lyons?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Oh, I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she said, offering up a smile. “I’ve accepted the rather unenviable task of contacting graduates of Baywood High for our next reunion. I’m looking for Tess Lyons. I thought this was the address they gave me.”
Now he smiled back. “No problem. Tess lives next door.” He used his thumb to point at her house. “But I don’t think she’s home.”
“Really?” she said.
“Yeah. She’s got a Yorkie that she walks twice a day like clockwork—before work and after. But I haven’t seen her for at least three or four days.”
“Heard the dog?” she asked, keeping her voice light.
“No, thank God. And he’s a barker, too.”
That was a good sign. Of course, somebody could have offed the dog, but that wasn’t as likely a scenario as Tess and her dog had taken off for a few days.
“I’m kind of running out of time,” she said. “Any idea of where she might have gone?”
“No. We’re neighbors but not really friends. You might want to talk to the woman in that house.” He pointed across the street, at a house two down from them. “She also has a dog, and sometimes the two of them walk together.”
“Great. I’ll do that. Where’s Tess working these days?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “But that woman,” he said, again pointing across the street at the same house, “drives one of those little yellow school buses. It’s parked at her house at night.”
It wasn’t there now. “I’ll knock on her door just in case,” Rena said. “But if I miss her, I’m sure I’ll get a chance to catch up with Tess at the reunion. I think I’ll just put a note in her doorway,” Rena said. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem. I do accounting work at home, and sometimes a little interruption is a good thing.”
She turned and walked down the sidewalk. Knew that A.L. would be watching her. Knew that he’d realize that she had a good reason for walking up to Tess’s door. She knocked and waited. No barking dog. No curtains moving. No sign of forced entry. No flies buzzing the house and no smell. She opened the portfolio she was carrying and pulled out a piece of paper. She wrote: Hi, Tess. Stopped by to talk about the next class reunion. Call me when you get home. She didn’t sign it, but she did jot down her cell number.
If the guy next door came over to check, the story would match. If Tess came home, maybe she’d be curious enough to at least make the call. If that happened, Rena could either ignore the call or answer it, depending on where they were in their investigation. Faster had said not to engage now, but that could change quickly.
She cut across the front yard and looked through the garage window. The accounting guy might still be watching, but it would be hard to see her from his house. Somebody across the street might also be looking, but that was a chance she was taking. A.L. had been right. There were curtains, open just an inch in the middle.
The garage was empty. She crossed the street and knocked on the door of the other dog walker. Nobody answered. She knocked again. She lifted the lid on the black mailbox attached to the house. Quickly looked at the three pieces of mail inside of it. All addressed to Regina Heller.
She walked back to the car. A.L. barely waited until she got the door shut. “Well?” he asked.
“Neighbor said that she regularly walks her dog. He hasn’t seen her or the dog for three or four days. Doesn’t know where sh
e went or where she works. I left a note, with the reunion story, and my cell phone number, in case she comes back. No car in the garage.”
“What was with the house across the street?”
“He said the woman there sometimes walks her dog with Tess. Mail is all addressed to Regina Heller. I thought we might check back tonight, when Regina might be home from work.”
“Okay. Did the neighbor think it was odd that Tess and the dog are gone? Like it’s unusual?”
“He didn’t say, and there was no way to ask without making him suspicious.”
“Let’s go back to the office and check her credit card activity.” A.L. started the car and pulled out of the space. “I really wish we knew where Tess Lyons was.”
“I know. I mean, people go away for a few days all the time. It doesn’t mean anything, right?”
A.L. didn’t answer. She wasn’t offended. They’d been communicating like this for years. Maybe that’s why Gabe had been such a welcome relief. He liked conversing, and it was always easy with him. They could talk about most anything.
Although last night, once his brother had come to pick up the boys and she and Gabe had once again been alone in the house, there’d been little conversation. He’d taken a shower and then read a book in bed. She’d watched television on the couch in the living room.
She hadn’t asked about the woman. Not then and not this morning, when they’d been bustling past each other in the routine that couples established when they got ready for work at the same time. Gabe left twenty minutes before she did, and on her way to work, like some crazy person, she’d driven by the coffee shop where she’d seen them. Had parked her car and gone inside. But neither of them were there. She hadn’t been able to decide if it was relief or disappointment in her gut, and she assuaged the churning with a cherry Danish and a vanilla latte. If she kept this up, she wouldn’t be able to button her pants by next week.
When she and A.L. reached their desks, she made a call to initiate the search for activity on Tess Lyons’s credit cards. Within minutes, her phone rang. Once she hung up, she shook her head at A.L. “Last activity was on Tuesday. At a hotel in Madison. No activity after that.”
“We need to call the hotel,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, they knew that Tess Lyons had checked into a room at the Madison Marriott on Saturday, stayed for three nights and checked out on Tuesday. There were no other names on the reservation. “So she uses a credit card for that hotel stay, but now she’s somewhere else, because she’s clearly not at home, yet there’s no other activity,” A.L. said.
“Doesn’t sound great, but she could be paying cash. Like you.” A.L. rarely used a credit card, claiming it was easier to pay cash. She thought it was his inherent dislike of anybody knowing his business.
“Even I use a credit card at a hotel when I travel. They don’t like cash.”
“Maybe she’s staying with a friend,” Rena said. “Or visiting her family.”
“We’ll see what the neighbor has to say later. Right now, we need to circle back to why somebody feels passionately about people who sign a petition to save an old hotel. And what would have made them skip Mia?”
A.L. was right. But they would need to continue to operate carefully, to not let too many people know about their interest. “I think we need to go talk to our history buff, Matt Connell.”
“Good place to start,” A.L. said. He stood up just as his cell phone rang. He looked at the display. “I need to take this,” he said, already walking for the door.
Nine
“Hey, Liz,” he said, his chest feeling tight. “How’s it going?”
“You’re going to get a call,” his sister said. “I checked myself out, AMA. Against medical advice,” she added.
Her voice was bright. Too bright. And dread spread through him, making his legs feel heavy, his head too big for his neck.
“But, honey, you’re only halfway done,” he said. Not even. Day thirteen. At one of the best inpatient treatment facilities in Chicago.
“But I’m good. I’m not drinking. I’m done with that.”
He didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times he’d heard that. The first time had been when she’d been seventeen and he’d been nineteen. He’d found her on the porch as he left for work. She’d made it home, had no recollection of how, but hadn’t had the strength or ability to navigate the door or the stairs up to her bedroom.
He’d gotten her inside. He hadn’t told their parents. Had believed her when she’d said she knew she’d been stupid. After all, he’d had a few benders under his own belt by then.
And he’d sort of forgotten about it until it happened again. The circumstances were a bit different the second time. Then, she’d been passed out alongside the road, and a friend had seen her car and called him. But basically, it was the same thing. Apologies and forgiveness. A pact of silence.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“On a bus. On my way back to Madison. Should arrive in about ninety minutes.”
If he left right now, he could be there when she got off. Talk some sense into her. Drive her back to the clinic.
“Tom is picking me up,” she said.
Tom was the idiot she’d started dating six months ago. He wasn’t convinced that Liz had a problem. That’s what he’d said when A.L. had advocated for the inpatient stint.
He’d wanted to break the fucker’s jaw.
“Can I take you out to breakfast tomorrow?” he asked. He could get up very early and make the drive to Madison.
“Tom has to work,” she said.
Thank God. “Just you and me is good.” Maybe he could get her back to Chicago before Tom took his lunch break.
“It’ll be good to see you,” she said. “Don’t be disappointed in me, A.L.”
Her voice had cracked on the last bit. He swallowed hard. “Never,” he said. “I love you, Liz.”
“I know you do,” she said. The forced brightness had faded, and now she sounded so weary. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He hung up, knowing that there was going to be a day, probably sooner than later if she kept drinking, when she was going to say that and it wasn’t going to happen. Because she was going to be dead.
He took a couple deep breaths to clear his head and went back to meet Rena, who was tapping her keyboard and staring at her screen. She looked up when he approached. “Everything okay?” she asked quietly.
A.L. wasn’t prone to sharing details about his private life. He was closed off, according to his ex-wife. She’d thought it was a failure to communicate. He knew that, most of the time, he just wasn’t that interested in the advice others felt compelled to spew out. “Liz, on day thirteen of a twenty-eight-day program, checked herself out and she’s on her way back to Madison.”
“I see. How—”
“Please do not fucking ask me how I feel about this.” Or any other stupid-ass question, he added silently.
“I was going to ask how she’s getting home.”
“On a bus.”
“Go,” she said. “I can cover this.”
He shook his head. “Tom is picking her up. That’s what she wants.” He picked up a file on his desk. Then put it back down. “I thought I might drive down early tomorrow. Get there right after he leaves for work. That is one good thing about the guy. He does work.”
“Are you going to try to convince her to go back?”
“Of course,” he said. He rubbed his head where a hell of a headache was brewing. “It was easier when she was a little kid and I could make her do stuff.”
Rena smiled. “Let’s go to Siesta Charm.”
“Those places are never that charming,” A.L. said, already headed for the door.
“Of course not,” Rena said.
* * *
The Siesta Charm vil
lage had sprung up over ten years ago. It offered multiple options ranging from separate condos where inhabitants lived independently and availed themselves of the clubhouse perks, to 24/7 care in the nursing home where there weren’t a whole lot of perks.
She knew this to be true because Gabe’s grandmother had started in a condo and ended up in the nursing home eight years later. A rather precipitous downhill slide.
It was a little slice of Florida in the upper Midwest. Condos were one-story wood structures painted in bright tropical colors, and they all had screened porches. This was where they found Matt Connell.
They knocked and watched the man get out of his chair and come to the door. What little hair he had was gray. He was thin but still had a little belly and walked as if his right hip might hurt. He had to be in his eighties.
“Detectives McKittridge and Morgan,” A.L. said once Matt had opened the door. They both held their badges steady.
“Am I being arrested?” he asked, his voice sounding amused.
“No, sir. If you have a minute, we’d like to talk to you about the Gizer Hotel. We understand that you’ve had an interest in the preservation of the property.”
“Preservation and renovation,” he said. “Come in, please.” He led them through the porch into his small living space and waved them toward the couch. But there was no place for them to sit.
“Let me just get this out of the way,” he said, reaching for piles of magazines, books and newspapers. “I’m doing a little last-minute research for a presentation next week.” It took him a few minutes, and Rena was afraid one of the piles he created on the side table might topple.
“The Gizer Hotel was a beauty in her day,” Matt said fondly, motioning them to sit. “Six stories. First stone laid in 1878 and finished two years later. Biggest and most lavish hotel for seventy-five miles. You know there were four presidents who visited.”
She suspected Gavin Rice had gotten his information from Matt, versus the other way around.
“But all things change,” Matt said. “And during the Depression, the place fell on hard times. The whole town did. Most of our manufacturing survived, but the Gizer Hotel closed in 1932.” He leaned back in his chair. “Can I get you two something to drink? I could make some coffee.”
