Before He Finds Her

by Michael Kardos

  Melanie wasn’t sure how they’d gotten to talking about Eric’s wife. This was what happened when you eased into a conversation.

  “How long did Ramsey Miller work here?”

  “For the power company? Just a few weeks.”

  “Why’d he stop?”

  Eric paused before answering, as if choosing his words carefully. “He hurt his leg on a climb.”

  He seemed to have no more to say on the subject, so Melanie asked, “Do you have any guess as to why he threw the party at his house on the night of the murder?”

  “You stay on point, don’t you?” His smile was friendly enough, but tired. Who could blame him? This place would sap the energy out of anyone. “No guesswork needed,” he said. “But I’m not gonna tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I won’t make him sound crazier than the press has already made him out to be.”

  “Mr. Pace, he was crazy.”

  Eric shook his head. “He lost his way. He believed something with all his might, and when it didn’t come to pass... well, we all know what happened. But he loved his wife and daughter.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Realizing that she sounded personally affronted, she added, “How could he have?”

  “Ramsey Miller battled to be a good man. He just lost the battle. And I get it. I lost more than my share.”

  “You never killed anyone.”

  Eric looked into her eyes, and she felt reprimanded for her flip comment. “I found the lord Jesus Christ and put my faith in him before it was too late.”

  “Are you saying that religion would have stopped him from doing what he did?”

  “I’m saying he insisted on walking alone, and nobody can do that. But it’s too easy, calling him a monster, or crazy. He was neither.”

  “What did he believe with all his might?”

  Eric shifted in his chair. “Forget I said that. Ramsey was hardly the first man to worship a false prophet.”

  “Sir?”

  He scratched his face again. “He spent too much time alone. His job as a trucker demanded it, but it wasn’t good for him. He got to thinking in ways that worked against him. I tried to help, but I should’ve tried harder.”

  “What could you have done?”

  “Now there’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. All I know for sure is that I should’ve been my brother’s keeper, like the good book says. Only I wasn’t. All that time in church and I failed the most basic test. On the night when my friend was crying out for help, I wasn’t listening.” He bit his lip. “I sat in that God-forsaken bar, and then he...” His breath had a wheeze to it. “Well, that’s my cross to bear.”

  “What bar?” Her eyes were adjusting to the dim lighting, but the warehouse smelled of mildew and rust. What a horrible place to spend every day.

  “It really doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “It does to me. Please.”

  He watched her a moment. “When we all left Ramsey’s house that night, the guys and I went for a drink. Me and Paul and Wayne. At the old Jackrabbits—”

  “Wayne?”

  “Wayne and Ramsey played guitar. I played bass. My brother played drums.”

  She knew she shouldn’t be so surprised—her uncle had been friends with her father, and he played guitar. But Uncle Wayne never talked about that night, and she knew better than to ask.

  “The bar was less than a mile from the house,” Eric was saying. “It wasn’t very late, and I don’t drink. It would’ve been easy for me to check up on them. We even discussed it, the guys and me. But Wayne and Paul were already three sheets to the wind, and I was dog tired, and Paul started saying that the best thing we could do was give Ramsey and Allie time to cool off. I let myself be convinced. We paid our tabs and went home. But I was sober, and I should’ve known better. I should’ve checked on them.”

  “You aren’t to blame, Mr. Pace.” As soon as it was out of her mouth, she realized it probably wasn’t a very journalistic thing to say.

  More face scratching. “That’s kind of you,” he said. “But the fact is, Ramsey was having a time of it, and I knew it, and I was his friend. I should’ve gone. If I had gone back to that house, I think maybe I could’ve stopped it.”

  Melanie felt suddenly woozy. What if Eric—or Uncle Wayne or Paul—had dropped by? Might that have changed everything? Would her mother be alive today? Would her father be someone who’d merely gone through a rough period in his life, rather than becoming a murderer on the run, or—worse—on the hunt?

  “For a long time after,” he was saying, “I was certain that the whole reason I became an alcoholic was so that years later, on one particular September night, I’d be guaranteed to be stone sober and would be my brother’s keeper and save a couple of lives.” He sighed. “I’m a humbler servant these days. I’m less certain about what the Lord wants out of me, and I’m less certain He wants me introducing other people to His word. May I ask if you’re a believer?”

  “Mr. Pace, I don’t think my beliefs are relevant.” She wondered if it was really Eric’s knees that had relegated him to the warehouse, or if maybe he had been preaching a little too fervently to the apprentices.

  He smiled. “No, I suppose not. But I do know that the Lord forgives us for our sins, and if He can do that, then we should be able to forgive ourselves. So that’s what I’ve been trying to do all these years. Forgive myself.”

  Melanie nodded. Although the two of them were alone in this warehouse with the workday ending, she couldn’t help feeling safe around Eric, and sympathetic toward him. She knew how it felt to be stuck inside a place for years on end, wondering what if, what if.

  “Where do you think Ramsey Miller might be now?” she asked.

  Eric closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, and Melanie found herself looking at the irritation on his cheek and wondering if the rawness made him scratch or if the scratching had caused the rawness. When he opened his eyes again, he said, “For a long time I would dream about him coming to me. I dreamed I convinced him to turn himself in and accept man’s punishment and God’s judgment.” He shrugged. “He could be anywhere. He could be dead.”

  “Do you really think?”

  “No, not really. Ramsey’s a survivor.” His smile widened to reveal a missing tooth. “The man’s too stubborn to die.”

  She arrived back at the Sandpiper Hotel with a sandwich and a Coke, feeling ready for a meal, more cable TV, and an early night’s sleep. Thirty minutes in that twilight of a warehouse had worn her down. No wonder Eric had accepted her invitation to talk. And unless he was lying, he believed he knew why her father had thrown his party. It couldn’t just be a birthday celebration, could it? But what then? Tomorrow, she’d see whether Arthur thought it might be important, or just some habitual teaser that led nowhere.

  Walking toward the hotel lobby, she gave only passing notice to the black Lincoln Town Car parked in the fire lane. When she heard the name “Ms. Adams?” being called out the car window, the name she’d invented didn’t register at first.

  Then the driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. “Excuse me.” Melanie stopped walking. “Are you Alice Adams?”

  The man was dressed in dark blue jeans and a gray blazer. Black shoes with a fresh polish. He was very tall and his hair looked mussed in a purposeful way.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  The man nodded, as if he knew all along. “David Magruder wants you at his home.”

  14

  It took all the nerve she could summon to get into that car. She had no clue how Magruder had found out where she was staying or why he might seek her out after the way he’d chased her away the day before. Remember why you’ve come all this way, she kept telling herself, looking out the tinted window as the car rolled away from the hotel. You’re here for answers. You’re here to be brave.

  They drove toward the ocean, went over several marshes, then turned onto a winding road where on either side the homes became larger. After so
me more driving she saw the bay through the trees and knew they had to be close. She’d never seen anything like it—homes that could be museums, each landscaped with its own small forest, it seemed, hand-tapered so that every branch of every tree hung just so. Some of the houses were obstructed from the road by hedges or trees or fences, so that you only caught them in glimpses—and in addition to being awestruck by these estates, Melanie couldn’t help feeling bewildered by these people for whom privacy was merely an aesthetic choice.

  Magruder’s house was almost completely hidden, first by a row of hedges and, behind it, a wrought-iron fence. From the road, only the roof of the house was visible, set far back on the property. The driver pressed a button on his remote device clipped to the sun visor, and twin gates slowly opened.

  “Here we are,” he said—his first words the entire trip—and pulled into the pebbled driveway.

  Inside the gate, the driveway curved around a grove of trees and then cut like a moat through several acres of lawn toward the stone house. When the car approached the house, she could see clear through one of the downstairs rooms to the dock out back, a sailboat tied up there, the wide expanse of the bay.

  Somehow the driver was out of the car and opening her door before she could even grab the handle. Once she’d exited the car, he shut the door behind her and dialed his cell phone.

  “We’re out front, David,” the man said, and put the phone into the inside pocket of his blazer.

  She looked up at the driver and said, “Thank you,” as if this had been her idea all along.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said.

  Before they reached the front steps, the door opened and David Magruder stepped outside wearing black pants and a maroon cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He was all smiles, a replication of his greeting the day before. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Thanks for getting her, Bill.”

  The man nodded. “My pleasure,” he said, and returned to the car.

  When the two were inside the house, Magruder said, “You look very pretty today.” Maybe he meant it to be nice, or ice-breaking, but considering how he had behaved in his office the day before, the compliment came off as super creepy. And either he didn’t know it, which made him dense, or he did know it, which was worse. Regardless, she was feeling extremely aware of the fact that the two of them were alone in the house.

  “This is a big house,” she said.

  He laughed. “I suppose it’s a little much for a bachelor pad.” The room they were in—the one she saw from outside—could comfortably seat thirty. “But you can’t beat the view.”

  No, you couldn’t. Beyond the house, beyond the dock and the sailboat, Silver Bay shimmered. Across the water, maybe a half mile away, another line of mansions mirrored those on this side of the water. Toward the north, the bay opened up so wide she couldn’t see the other side.

  “Listen,” he said, “I want to apologize for yesterday. The way I treated you was... well, it’s unforgiveable. There were problems with the show we were working on. My anger had nothing to do with you.”

  Almost certainly a lie, but at least they were talking.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Magruder,” she said.

  “You’re in my home. Please—I’m begging you to call me David.”

  She nodded. “All right, David.”

  “Good. And it’s definitely not all right,” he said.

  What’s going on? she wanted to ask. Why am I here? But she’d learned her lesson about getting to the point too fast. “Is that the ocean over there?”

  “That’s New York Harbor,” he said. “From the roof deck you can see the Manhattan skyline.” He took her hand. The gesture was too intimate, and she almost pulled away but relented. “Come on—I want to show you my office.”

  His office was out back. The yard was private and absolutely serene, the only noise coming from the engine of a distant motorboat. They passed the pool, with its own pool house (It’s really a guesthouse, he explained. I didn’t ask for it, but it came with the property) and they passed the garage (I was going to have Bill pick you up in the Ferrari, but then I thought you might be more comfortable in the Town Car) and they passed a clover-shaped pond (Would you believe the osprey have been swooping down and stealing my koi!), and finally they entered a smaller structure, built beside the dock, that made her feel as if she were on a yacht, everything wooden and polished and uncluttered. There was a sitting room and office adjacent to a full kitchen and what looked like a fully stocked bar. On the walls hung various medals, plaques, and framed letters both typed and handwritten.

  “In the main house,” he said, “the walls are full of original artwork. George Rodrigue, William Baziotes... would you believe I recently acquired a Warhol? But here”—he motioned to the wall—“is where I keep what really matters. Gifts from soldiers, students, husbands, wives... ordinary folks whose lives I’ve helped in some way over the years. They mean a lot more to me than my Emmys.”

  He was showing off, but only when he opened a half-empty bottle of Scotch and poured himself a not-small glass did it occur to her that he might also be drunk, or at least on his way. Other than on TV, she’d never seen a drunk person before. Wayne and Kendra rarely drank alcohol. Being drunk was less obvious than she would have thought—or maybe Magruder was a subtler drunk than most.

  “What’s your poison?” he asked, and smiled.

  “No, thank you—I’m okay,” she said.

  “I know you’re okay,” he said, “but I want you to be comfortable.”

  He couldn’t keep still. A tap of the foot. A slight bite of the lip when he thought she wasn’t watching. It reminded her of Phillip, screwing up the courage to kiss her that first time.

  “Did you know that presidents vacationed here, once?” he asked. “In Silver Bay, I mean. Woodrow Wilson, Teddy Roosevelt. And movie stars: Jayne Mansfield, Buster Keaton. A train used to run right up to the bay. The boardwalk—have you seen it?”

  She said that she had.

  “It’s nothing, now,” he said. “But at one time it was jam-packed with the rich and famous. You wouldn’t know it, but there’s history in these five square miles.” Another sip from his drink. “It’s a lot quieter now, but that’s how I like it. Silver Bay is my antidote to the New York office. I don’t know if I could face the insanity every day without a serene place to come home to.” He smiled. “And that, by the way, is my answer to you from yesterday—why I still live in Silver Bay.” Another sip. “You should sit at the desk for a minute.” The wooden desk had nothing on it and was right up against a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the bay. She sat down and placed her hands on the desk’s cool, smooth surface. “So what do you think?”

  When seated, she couldn’t see the dock—only the water. “It’s like being on a ship,” she said, though she’d never been on a ship.

  “That’s because it’s how I designed it. See across the water? That pinkish house?”

  It was one of the largest on the bay. “Yes.”

  “That’s my ex-wife’s house. I know—it’s all very Gatsby. But she bought it after the divorce, and I wasn’t going to be the one to move.”

  Melanie had no idea what he was talking about. And before she could stop herself, she made a mental apology to Arthur and asked, “Why am I here?”

  “Why, indeed.” David looked out over the water. “You’re here because I treated you badly yesterday and wanted to make up for it.”

  “That’s nice of you,” she said. “But you don’t have to ingratiate—”

  “Also, I was hoping you might answer something for me.”

  Ah. “I can try.”

  “I’m really glad to hear you say that,” he said, finishing the drink and setting the glass down on the desktop. Looking out at the water, he said almost offhandedly, “Who are you?”

  “What do you mean?” She kept her breathing steady. “You already know. I’m Alice Adams.”

  He sighed. “
You’re a lovely young woman—beautiful, in fact—but you’ll notice that I haven’t called you Alice since you’ve arrived. That’s because there is no Alice Adams enrolled at Gaston College. Which makes sense, given that your name is Melanie Denison.” Hearing her name said aloud gave her body a physical jolt. “Except, there’s no Melanie Denison enrolled at Gaston College, either. So I was hoping you’d be willing to explain that for me.”

  “No,” she said, all of her muscles tightening. “I’m not willing to.”

  He took a long breath and looked at her. “You need to understand that I do this for a living. Even if the Sandpiper Hotel hadn’t given us your real name, we’d have found it out. I have a very capable staff. Compared to the kind of investigatory research we do every day, this is nothing.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Look, Melanie, if you’re working for one of the rags, that’s your business. I’ll even keep it a secret.” She continued to stare out the window. “I’m not angry about yesterday, anymore. Honest.” He gave her a smile that was probably meant to seem reassuring, but she couldn’t help thinking that the person he was reassuring was himself. “In fact”—he reached out and took her hand—“I’d like to become better acquainted.”

  If she were better at this—if she were Nancy Drew—she would pull her hand away and fearlessly continue her line of questioning from the day before. She’d get what she came for. Instead, she quietly said, “I should go. This isn’t a good idea.”

  Magruder’s eyes widened. At first, she thought he had become angry, but no. There was fear in his eyes, or something like it. He couldn’t stop looking at her. At last, he said, “Let down your hair.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your hair. I’ll have Bill return you to your hotel in just a minute. I swear it. But do this for me first.”

  She felt very alone in this man’s bachelor pad. “Mr. Magruder, I don’t know what you think I’m here for, but—”

  “I’m not making a pass at you. But please.” His voice was suddenly desperate. “Put your hair down, and I’ll answer whatever questions you came to New York to ask me.”