“Anything I can do for you, you just let me know.”
I assured Detective Underwood—“Call me George”—that I certainly would, and for starters had him point me toward the elevator.
Mary Kay was just bringing a fresh carafe of coffee when I got to Judge Rawlings’s office. I still had about fifteen minutes before court convened, and I used it to call Dwight.
There was a time when learning he’d phoned someone like Underwood would have annoyed the hell out of me. Today, for some reason, it only amused me. Amused me, but also gave me an strange sensation I couldn’t quite identify. It wasn’t like feeling protected, exactly … more like cherished.
Cherished?
I’ve been loved a time or two, and guys have brought me flowers and candy and even an occasional piece of jewelry, but cherished? I found myself remembering something Minnie once told me when we were talking about romantic gestures.
“Your brother Seth’s not one for mushy talk,” she said, “and he might forget my birthday or our anniversary, but I’ve never once left the yard to drive somewhere overnight that he hasn’t checked the oil and fluid levels in my car. In all these years we’ve been married, I’ve never had a radiator belt break on me or had to change the wipers or pushed the washer lever and found it empty. And you know something, Deborah? I must not be very romantic either, because that means more to me than any big bunch of roses.”
The phone rang twice.
“Bryant here.”
“Hey,” I said.
“Deb’rah? Well, hey yourself, shug. I got your e-mail and just sat down to write you back. How’s it going?”
“I met your friend George a few minutes ago.”
“Oh?” From the wary tone of that one syllable, I knew he thought I was fixing to chew his hide.
“You checking up on me?”
He heard the laughter in my voice and relaxed with a warm chuckle of his own. “The eyes of a lawman are everywhere.”
“No escape?”
“No point in even trying.”
“So how are things down in the flatlands?”
“Same as when you left. Let’s see now … Mama and I had Sunday dinner with Rob and Kate, then your dad and I aggravated some bass right before dark. Let ’em all go, though. And yesterday we set a few roadblocks around Widdington.”
“Because of the increased drug activity they’ve had lately?”
“Yeah. It was the usual DWIs and expired licenses, but we did pick up a few ounces of this and that. Caught one guy with eighty thousand dollars in his trunk.”
“And of course he didn’t have the least little clue as to how it got there, right?”
“And since he said it wasn’t his, we took it off his hands,” Dwight agreed. “Maybe it’ll buy a new school bus or two on down the line. Everything going okay up yonder in the hills? Seen much of your cousins?”
“Late and soon,” I said and told him about yesterday’s probable cause hearing, the twins’ partisan defense of Danny Freeman, his unexpected presence at breakfast this morning, and how they hoped to uncover other suspects.
“You’re not getting involved, are you?” he asked with a touch of his old bossiness.
“Don’t worry. It’s absolutely nothing to do with me.”
An attorney from yesterday’s court appeared in the doorway with an order that needed a judge’s signature, so I told Dwight I’d see him Saturday morning and reached for the document.
Lucius Burke was passing in the hallway and stopped to say hello.
“Norman Osborne get home okay last night?” I asked, sliding my arms into the sleeves of my long black robe.
He shook his head. “And Sunny’s already called me twice because the sheriff doesn’t want to put out a missing persons report on him yet. I’m going down now to talk to him about it.”
I zipped up my robe. “Could I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you have the whole file on the Ledwig investigation?”
He nodded.
“I was wondering about the older daughter’s alibi.”
“Carla Ledwig? What about it?”
“She has one, right?”
“I guess. I couldn’t tell you what it is off the top of my head, but I’m sure someone checked or I’d remember since it was her boyfriend who did it. Why?”
“No real reason.” I explained about the twins and how they’d said Carla Ledwig had been with them all afternoon. “I was wondering if I could read their statement since they’re my cousins.”
If my explanation sounded lame, he was kind enough not to call me on it.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll have my secretary pull it for you.”
“’Preciate it,” I told him and headed for the courtroom to try and dispense a little justice.
The first case was being called before I realized I hadn’t noticed his green eyes at all.
Lucius Burke was as good as his word. A few minutes before the morning break, a woman handed the file to Mary Kay and I took it back to chambers with me to see if I could figure out why the twins had lied about where they were.
“In the library,” May had said.
“In Carla Ledwig’s dorm room,” June had said.
I read it through twice and was even more puzzled. According to the officer who took their statement, Carla and the twins had worked in the same restaurant that afternoon. Carla was a hostess there, and her unbroken presence was confirmed not only by the twins but by several prominent-sounding customers.
Now why would they lie to me about that?
I was halfway through the pre-lunch session before the answer hit me square in the face.
CHAPTER 13
TUESDAY, 9:30 A.M.
In the house at the top of Old Needham Road, Sunny Osborne paced the stone terrace outside her bedroom like a restless golden tiger.
A golden tiger tethered by a telephonic chain.
She wished that she could call Tina Ledwig or Carolyn Gimpel or any of the others whom she regularly met for tennis at the club. See if Tina was sober enough to play. Waiting had never been easy for her. She had always been a woman of impulsive physical action. She needed to be chasing after a ball, slamming it back across the net, working off the tension that had her keyed tighter than a guitar string.
From this height, she could see the tree-covered hills of three counties. All the colors of autumn blazed around her as far as any eye could see, but she had no thought for their beauty because her whole being was focused on Norman, willing him to call, willing him to come home safely. How could he have vanished so utterly and completely in the half-mile between the two houses? She had already called all the neighbors again this morning. Still nothing.
Anxiety kept her circling back and forth where the phone sat on a table just inside the open French doors. She knew she was spooking the hell out of Nellie but she couldn’t help herself. Every few minutes the housekeeper would peer anxiously around the corner, and here she was again, asking if there were anything she could bring. Tea? Coffee? A big glass of cold milk?
“Maybe you should call Miss Laura?”
“No!” she exploded. “Dammit, Nellie, go do your work and leave me alone!”
Calling their daughter would mean accepting that something dreadful, something unthinkable, something final had happened to Norman. He had always been bad for not checking in immediately when business required him to wine and dine someone unexpectedly. It was part of his good ol’ boy self-image.
“Now, darlin’, no real man calls his wife and gets permission to go out,” he would say. “Clients don’t wanna deal with a pussy-whipped jellyfish.”
Normally she didn’t mind. She loved being married to a man’s man, and his cheerful machismo didn’t bother her. Let him tell himself and the world that he was the good-timing man married to a good-hearted woman, and let them both believe it—she knew who held the narrow edge of power in this house. Besides, even on those late nights, he was usually home b
y midnight and he damn well did manage a discreet call every time.
Twice before in their marriage, however, there had been nights like the one she’d just endured. The first time began on a Saturday afternoon when Laura was a toddler, about a year before he finally hit it big. He had run out to pick up a gallon of milk and hadn’t come home until after seven the next morning—without the milk, and sporting a massive hangover. At the dairy case, he had run into an old Army buddy and had gone back to the buddy’s vacation condo, where they proceeded to empty every bottle in the house as they relived boot camp.
She had been terrified out of her mind and at two that morning had called the highway patrol and the local hospital to ask if there had been a wreck or if he’d been brought in half-dead.
He had acted embarrassed and repentant and swore on his mother’s memory that it would never happen again. Except that twelve years later, it did.
That time she had forced herself to wait it out, and when he came dragging in at midmorning the next day, she didn’t say a single angry word—nothing of how frightened she’d been, the tears she’d cried, the rage she’d felt when she saw his car pull into the drive and he emerged from it unscathed. She had smiled sweet acceptance of his explanation and shamefaced apology, had made him breakfast, then insisted he go sleep off his headache in an upstairs guestroom, well away from the sound of vacuum cleaners, telephones, and Laura’s stereo.
When he awoke, she and Laura were gone, along with a sizable withdrawal from their joint savings. No note, no nothing.
He called her family and his; he called all their friends, all of Laura’s friends; but she’d covered her tracks too well. She stayed away eight days, and when he came home from the office that ninth day, he found a drink waiting by his chair, their dinner in the oven, Laura upstairs talking to her friends on the phone, everything normal.
“Oh God, thank you, Jesus!” he’d said, holding her tightly as if he never meant to let her get beyond his fingertips ever again. “I was so damned scared you weren’t coming back.”
“Were you?” she’d asked. “How’d it feel, darlin’?”
From that night forward, despite his continued pronouncements about what a real man did or didn’t do, if he was going to be more than an hour late, he always found a way to call her.
Yet here it was, almost fourteen hours since anyone had seen him and not a peep. Joyce Ashe had driven her home and offered to stay the night, but Sunny had sent her off to search the house one more time. Sometime before dawn, she changed clothes and lay down on the bed. She hadn’t expected to sleep, yet she did eventually drift off for an hour or two.
Now she circled back to the portable phone there on the table and willed it to ring.
When it continued silent, she pulled the cellular from her pocket and hit the redial button.
“District Attorney’s office,” said a perky voice.
“It’s me again, Suanna. Put me through to Lucius?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Osborne, but he’s down talking to Sheriff Horton about doing something now instead of waiting the whole twenty-four hours.”
“About fricking time,” said Sunny.
“Yes, ma’am. I know you must be just about worried to death. How ’bout I have him call you soon as he comes back?”
“Thanks, Suanna.”
When the house phone finally rang about twenty minutes later, she snatched it up eagerly. “Norman? Lucius?”
“Sorry, sweetie,” said Joyce Ashe. “Just wanted to see if you’d heard anything since we talked.”
“Nothing except that Lucius is trying to get Tom Horton off his fat ass and go do something. Are you at the office?”
“Yes. Norman and Bobby were supposed to show the Big Bear property this morning, so I came in to hold down the fort. You doing okay?”
“I guess so. Just going crazy with the waiting.”
“You want to come wait down here at the office? I could order in. I bet you haven’t eaten a thing since last night.”
“That’s okay, thanks. I keep thinking maybe he did try to walk home with the moon so bright last night. He’s always been a fool for moonlight. And maybe he took a tumble. He could come walking in any minute, all banged up and cussing the state for not having guardrails on this road. Right?”
“I’ll bet that’s it,” Joyce said sturdily. “Probably twisted his ankle or something. The sooner they start really looking for him, the quicker they’ll find him.”
“Thanks, Joyce. I’ll call you soon as I hear anything, okay?”
“Sure, sweetie.”
Sunny was glad to ring off. She’d always liked Joyce, liked her, that is, in that slightly condescending way of someone higher up the pecking order. The Ashes had built a good business, but Norman’s father had been buying and selling land in these hills before Bobby Ashe was a cinder in his daddy’s eye. When the big boom started, Norman had seen the opportunities first and had jumped in fast enough to get a lock on the prime pieces of Lafayette real estate. No one else came close to matching his volume of sales, although the Ashes were head and shoulders above their lesser competitors. Until recently, it had been easy to socialize with Joyce. Since the merger, though, she felt so much apprehension that it was hard to act natural around her.
“Don’t worry about it, darlin’,” Norman kept telling her. “Bobby and Joyce, it’s not like they’re going to drown. He’s a big boy, and anytime you want to swim in the big pond, you can’t whine if you get a little wet.”
TUESDAY, 10:05 A.M.
Joyce Ashe sighed as she hung up her phone. The longer Norman Osborne stayed missing, the harder it was not to expect the worst. With so many out looking for him last night, if he had indeed taken the tumble Sunny was now hoping for, he must have been knocked out pretty bad not to have heard them. She couldn’t say that to Sunny, of course, not in the state she was in. Best to keep it positive and upbeat.
How he even got out of the room without Sunny noticing was the biggest mystery. It was like they were joined at the hip these last two or three months. Sunny had been Norman’s secretary in the early years, even had her own real estate license, which she’d kept updated so she could step in when he was shorthanded; but ever since her hot flashes began, she’d started showing up with Norman every time he dropped by the office here in Cedar Gap, taking notes on her steno pad almost like she was suspicious that things were going too much her and Bobby’s way during this transition period.
“Just getting my hand back in,” she’d said. “You and Bobby seem to have so much fun working together, it makes me see what I’ve missed out there on the tennis courts and ski slopes.”
Joyce sure hoped this was just a passing phase and that Sunny would go back to the tennis courts once her hormones settled down and Norman settled in here. Right now, she was such a distraction that Bobby was complaining that Norman couldn’t seem to keep his mind on the business. “She’s always butting in, running her mouth so hard we can’t hear ourselves think.”
Lord help Bobby and me both if menopause ever turns me into such a clinging vine, she told herself. He’d probably lop me off at the root.
She turned back to the architect’s plans for remodeling two of their properties a few doors down Main Street to make one large modern office interior that could house both aspects of their newly combined businesses. Their sales office would still front onto Main Street. The architect proposed a facelift that blended a recognition of old-fashioned virtues with modern efficiency yet kept within the guidelines drafted by the planning board. New windows would allow them to display pictures of their most enticing properties as if they were jewels. The management aspects would be handled from the adjoining rear building, which they wanted to raise so as to provide a well-designed and suitably camouflaged parking deck underneath.
Once the leaves had fallen and the seasonal people were gone back to Florida or wherever, finding men in the building trades was never a problem. With a little luck and the promise of a completion
bonus, the work might actually be finished by the first of the year so that Norman could move his records and his staff up from his Howards Ford office. And damned if Sunny hadn’t come along for every meeting with the architect as well, claiming she was too nervous to stay home alone, even though the Osbornes had a live-in housekeeper in their garage apartment.
She should take a page out of Tina Ledwig’s book and get herself a dog. Tina had always joked that if Carlyle died before her, she’d buy a little yippy dog the next day and sell that big house on Old Needham Road the next week.
True to her word, Tina had been in last week with her new King Charles spaniel and had asked them to list the house.
Her speed had startled Joyce. Weird to realize that it was only two weeks ago Sunday that she and Bobby had stopped by for a quick drink. She remembered how they had rolled their eyes at each other as Carlyle stomped around snorting so much fire over little Carla getting herself knocked up by some colored boy—as if that was the worst thing a kid could do to her parents—that Bobby’d told him about the merger just to take his mind off the baby. Next day, she and Bobby had driven down to Asheville to see about Bob Junior, and when they got back and heard that Carlyle was dead, it was hard to take in.
Yet, a week later, there was Tina sitting in her office, telling Joyce to sell the house.
“You sure you want to do something this serious this fast?” Joyce had asked her. “Most grief counselors advise waiting a year.”
“A year? Hell, no! I’ve hated that damn house from the beginning. Like living in a stone barn. Carla’s in a dorm at Tanser-Mac, Trish’ll be there or someplace else next year. What am I going to do with five bedrooms? I want y’all to find me a cozy little three-bedroom condo right next to the fairway at Rabbit Hollow, not an inch over twenty-five hundred square feet, you hear?”
“I don’t know if they come that small in Rabbit Hollow,” Joyce had said dryly, “but we’ll certainly find out.”
Like Bobby, she had grown up on White Fox Creek in a cold-water cabin with an outhouse out back. Five kids in a house whose entire four rooms would fit in the one room she’d used for the party last night, with space to spare. Even with all they’d spent on their children, the two of them sometimes looked around at how far they’d come, how much they’d acquired, and could hardly believe it.
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