Julie, driving a Camaro?
“Speeding?”
Craig’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. “That probably seems as weird to you as ‘Baby On Board’ did to me.”
She didn’t know if she believed him or not. “Um… Have you told the police all of this? They could confirm the speeding tickets, and that she owned a Camaro…”
He laughed, the sound ugly. “And then she got pregnant and reformed her ways. Women do. I can’t describe to people who didn’t know her how strange this transformation was.”
“But…you must have had friends…”
“We’d just moved here from Chicago. We didn’t see much of old friends, not as a couple. She didn’t—doesn’t—have any family, and all I have is my father.”
“So you don’t have anybody to back you up.” How terribly lonely that sounded.
She saw in his eyes that it was—or that he was a superb con artist. How could she be sure what he was?
Wasn’t it amazingly convenient that he and Julie had moved here right at the moment she supposedly made her sea change? That she had no family, no lifelong friends, who could disprove his claim that she was…what? Somebody with a split personality? Or just a woman without a sure sense of self?
His face twisted and he blundered to his feet. “You think I’m making all this up.”
“No. I…”
He gave a half laugh that hurt to hear. “I don’t even blame you. It’s crap. None of it explains a woman walking out on her kids without even saying goodbye.”
Robin felt a thrill of fear. “But…didn’t she?”
His expression changed. A mask seemed to close over his face. “Yeah. If you can call what she told Brett saying goodbye.”
Robin didn’t know what Julie was supposed to have said. She’d heard rumors that Craig would have been arrested except for his son’s story.
He’d pulled back and now stood waiting, remote. “Will you call for Brett?”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” She passed him, but paused in the living room doorway. Her back to him, Robin said, “Craig, I…”
“Don’t lie. Don’t say you’re sorry.” His voice sounded heavy, slow, weary. “Don’t say anything.”
Robin took a deep breath, nodded and went to summon the boys.
By the time Brett came in, Craig had hidden whatever it was he felt—anguish, frustration because he’d failed to convince her, satisfaction because he might have driven in a wedge of doubt. She didn’t know, couldn’t guess. She was only glad for Brett’s sake that he left her house with his dad’s arm lying across his shoulders.
As for herself… She locked the front door after them, although she rarely bothered in the daytime, checked it again and realized that her hand shook. She balled it into a fist, then turned and smiled at her son.
“Homework?”
“Ah, jeez.” His shoulders slumped. “I wish there was no school tomorrow.”
“If wishes were…” She paused. This was a game they had always played. One or the other of them would make up something. The other had to finish.
“Tickets to the World Cup Soccer finals…” Malcolm supplied.
“We wouldn’t be able to see a thing,” she pointed out, “because the stadium would be so big.”
He grinned at her. “You’re supposed to say something good.”
“Like, none of us would need TVs?”
“That’s not good!”
She laughed with him, even though she still felt a chill inside. “I could argue about that.”
Rolling his eyes, he said, “All right, I’ll do my homework.”
She went to the computer, turned it on, checked her e-mail—nothing worth getting—and then called up Chapter Seven.
But all she did was stare at the screen, the written words a gray blur. She heard again a man’s deep, exhausted voice, as if she was replaying a tape.
…like she’d been possessed. Same body, same face, but even her expressions had changed.
And then she got pregnant and changed her ways. Women do.
We’d just moved here from Chicago.
No family, no old friends. Nobody who bridged before and after.
How could she believe him?
Closing her eyes, she thought, Poor Brett.
EVEN SHE HEARD the whispers. The police had talked to so-and-so’s parents. What did they know about the Lofgren marriage? they were asked. Had Brett’s mom ever complained of her husband becoming violent? Did she talk of wanting a divorce?
Brett went from cheerful on Monday to withdrawn and bristling with anger on Wednesday. Robin knew he’d gone to his first counseling session the night before. She’d hoped talking to a professional would help, not hurt.
When the class stood to crowd out the door of the portable for lunch on Wednesday, Robin said, “Brett, can you stay for a minute?”
He cast her a look as sullen as any he’d produced his first week of school, but shrugged and hung back.
She waited until everyone had gone, then strolled over to where he stood with a brown paper lunch bag in his hand. Half sitting on a desk, she said, “Tough week, huh?”
He hung his head and shrugged again.
“You’ve lived through this kind of talk before. You can do it again.”
Brett lifted his head, eyes hot. “They don’t know anything!”
“They know police officers have come to their homes and to them, that’s exciting. They’re not thinking about how this makes you and Abby feel.”
“Abby cried on the school bus yesterday.”
Robin winced. “Did you tell your father?”
“He’s gone. Grandad’s staying with us.”
“Can you talk to him?”
“What can he do?” her student sneered.
“Listen?” She paused. “Your dad told me you were going to start seeing a counselor. That’s what they’re for, too, you know. They listen.”
He bent his head again.
“Brett, don’t play into the hands of gossips by picking a fight again. Promise me.”
He didn’t respond.
“Promise,” Robin said more insistently.
Desperation twisted the face he lifted to her. “I’ll try.”
“Okay.” She touched his arm. “Hang in there, kiddo.”
“Yeah.” He tried to smile. “Thanks.”
“Now, go eat.”
Brett nodded and left, walking so slowly Robin knew how little he wanted to rejoin his schoolmates.
Just after the last bell rang Wednesday afternoon, her classroom intercom screeched. The secretary said, “Ms. McKinnon, Detective Diaz and Officer Caldwell are here to see you, if you have time.”
Why did they want to see her? Nobody had interviewed her after Julie disappeared; they weren’t that close.
Her pulse hammered, but she kept her voice calm. “Send them to my classroom, please.”
She’d left the door open in hopes of acquiring some cross-ventilation. These portables froze in winter and roasted in hot weather. She had to raise her voice above the whir of two fans she kept running all day. Now she sat down behind her desk and closed her gradebook.
Were they here because Brett was in her class, or because of her casual friendship with Julie?
Footsteps sounded on the wheelchair ramp leading to her door. “Ms. McKinnon?”
“Come in.” She stood, assessing the pair who entered.
Neither wore a uniform. The man, dark-haired, dark-eyed and strongly built, perhaps in his thirties, wore a short-sleeved white dress shirt and tie, pulled loose at the throat. The woman was young, younger than Robin, for sure. Her brown hair pulled tight in a bun, she wore blue slacks and a plain cotton blouse that tried to disguise a voluptuous figure. No makeup. Perhaps as a woman in a man’s field, she tried to downplay her femininity.
They held out badges and introduced themselves. She waved them to chairs and sat again herself.
“How can I help you?”
The wo
man officer spoke first, her voice quick and aggressive. “We’re investigating the disappearance of Julie Lofgren. We understand you and she were friends.”
“That may be putting it too strongly.” Robin felt an urge to distance herself from Julie, which dismayed her. Had Craig actually driven a sliver of doubt into her mind? “Our sons played on the same sports teams, became casual friends. We often sat together to watch practices and games. We didn’t socialize otherwise.”
“I see. Did you discuss personal matters at all?”
“Well, of course!” Robin gave a little laugh. “Haven’t you ever been to a Little League game? They go on for hours. We had plenty of time to talk.”
“Do you mind telling us whether she raised the subject of her marriage?”
“We…touched on almost every subject you could think of.” Noticing her gradebook sat crooked on her desk blotter, she aligned it. “I went through a divorce several years ago, and Julie listened to some of my troubles. We particularly talked about the impact on my son.”
The male detective sat silent, watchful, letting his partner ask the questions. Because a woman might succeed better with another woman? Robin wondered.
“Did she confide in turn any problems with her own marriage?” Officer Caldwell asked.
Dismayed to discover how torn she was, how little she wanted to participate in this investigation, Robin made herself say, “The last year—especially the last six months before she disappeared—Julie did talk about…strain in her marriage. She complained about Craig’s long absences.”
“Do you know whether she planned to ask her husband for a divorce?”
“Yes.” Robin cleared her throat. “Yes, I believe she did.”
“Did she ever suggest that he was abusive or had threatened violence toward her?”
Robin shook her head.
“Did you know Mr. Lofgren?”
“Distantly. He came to games, of course.”
“And your impression of him?”
“He, um, seemed very nice. Supportive of Brett. He often spent the entire game with Abby riding on his shoulders. To be honest, I wondered if Julie wasn’t magnifying small problems out of proportion. Compared to my husband—”
The police officer’s smile struck Robin as condescending.
“In other words, in public, he presented himself as a devoted father.”
“And husband.” Why did she feel compelled to say this? “He never let Julie carry anything heavy, he took care of Abby whenever he was there, and he—” Again, she stopped. Wetting her lips, she said without expression, “He touched Julie. Smiled at her. He did the little things that keep a marriage happy.”
Oh, how jealous she’d been! Just pangs. Cramps of longing, but powerful enough that she’d been ashamed. Don’t covet thy neighbor’s husband, she had reproved herself, but it wasn’t him she was coveting, not really. It was the glint in his eyes, the sexy, crooked smile he gave his wife, his gentleness and humor toward his small daughter. Okay, it was also his broad shoulders and clear eyes and easy, athletic way of moving, but mostly she felt the way she did because he seemed to represent an ideal to her.
“Were you surprised to hear about Mrs. Lofgren’s disappearance?”
“Yes.” If she sounded clipped, she couldn’t help it. “Very surprised.”
The officer closed her notebook. “If you think of anything that might shed light on what happened to Mrs. Lofgren, please call.”
“Yes, of course.” Robin rose with them, shook hands, then watched from the doorway as they went back through the breezeway and into the school building proper.
Her stomach churned as she wondered whether she’d helped or hurt Craig. She hated feeling like a snitch, when she’d done nothing but tell the truth. If he hadn’t had anything to do with Julie’s disappearance, wouldn’t Craig want her to help the police?
Uncomfortably, she remembered how hostile he had sounded about them. The stress of being a suspect for a year and a half must be enormous—but shouldn’t he be glad these two police officers seemed to be starting all over?
Robin frowned at the nearly empty playground. Or were they starting over? Every single question they’d asked had had to do with Craig. They hadn’t probed a single other possibility. What if Julie had been having an affair, for example? What if she was depressed about something that had nothing to do with her husband? Robin would have had to volunteer that kind of information. She didn’t actually know anything—but they hadn’t asked.
And that bothered her. Somebody else might know something and might not think to volunteer it.
Sick to her stomach now, she wished Julie hadn’t told her she wanted a divorce. Robin hated her awareness that she’d confirmed what the newspapers had hinted was Craig Lofgren’s motivation: he’d kill rather than see his wife leave him.
The last stragglers abandoned the slides and climbers and wandered out open gates in the chain-link fence. Robin still stood in the doorway, fans blowing behind her, the late afternoon air hot and still out in the schoolyard, and thought, I don’t believe it.
She’d seen him friendly and relaxed, and she’d seen him guarded and even hostile. But she simply could not imagine the man who cared so much about his children murdering his wife. Murdering anyone.
But she didn’t let relief wash over her. Because wasn’t that what the neighbors and coworkers always said? He’s always been so pleasant. I can’t imagine…
She didn’t believe he was a murderer. But she didn’t dare trust her instincts.
What must it be like? Robin wondered with a painful twist in her chest. To know that no one at all believed unreservedly in you?
Not even your son?
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY WERE BACK AGAIN, not because they had any new questions, but because they intended to push, push, push until he cracked. What Craig hadn’t figured out was what they expected him to do. Start sobbing and admit he’d done it, saying his wife’s body was under the patio?
Or start shooting?
“We’ve received confirmation from several friends of your wife that she intended to ask for a divorce.”
Craig gripped the back of an armchair and repeated in a monotone. “She didn’t ask for a divorce.”
“A separation?”
“Not even that.” Tension squeezed his temples. “Who told you that?”
“I’m not sure I should…” Detective Ann Caldwell, his nemesis, looked down at her notes with what he took to be uncertainty. Or maybe she was just stringing him along.
This time he’d made note of her first name. Ann. It sounded gentle, girl-next-door. Deceptive.
“I have a right to know who is making accusations.” He fought to keep his voice level, unemotional.
She lifted her head and met his eyes, hers chilly with disbelief. “I wouldn’t describe that as an accusation, Mr. Lofgren. Your wife spoke freely to half a dozen people. Abby’s second grade teacher, Mrs. Cathey. A neighbor of yours with whom she apparently had coffee on occasion.” She glanced down. “Sue Colvin. A couple of mothers who often sat with her at Little League games. Barb Nownes and Robin McKinnon.”
Shock held him immobile for a long moment. “Robin McKinnon?” He sounded hoarse.
“That surprises you?”
Don’t let her see weakness. He swallowed, relaxed his grip on the back of the chair and straightened. “I wasn’t aware you’d spoken to her. Brett’s in her class this year.”
A flicker of something showed in Ann Caldwell’s eyes. “She didn’t mention that.”
Good. He was glad to have unsettled her, if only briefly.
“Robin McKinnon said that Julie intended to ask me for a divorce?”
“That’s right.” Caldwell closed her notebook and stood. “Apparently a good part of the community knew she wanted to leave you. And yet you claim not to have had any idea.”
His jaws ached. Relaxing them, he said, “It doesn’t occur to you that she might have simply left me?”
> Her nostrils flared. “Without the children?”
Therein lay the rub, as the saying went. He didn’t blame her for her doubt. Despite his uneasy awareness that his wife wasn’t quite what she seemed, that she could shed identities the way other people abandoned a golf swing that didn’t work, Craig still had trouble imagining Julie taking off with no intention of ever seeing Abby and Brett again. She had to have loved them.
“What if she was leaving with someone? Maybe a married man who had no intention of breaking up his marriage?”
Ann Caldwell raised her brows. “Was she having an affair?”
Defeat washed through him. “If she was, I wasn’t aware of it. But then—” bitterness lending acid to his voice “—I don’t seem to have had a clue what she was thinking, and possibly doing.”
“To this point, there has been no indication that Mrs. Lofgren had an affair.” She nodded and left, her silent partner following.
Craig braced his arms on the chair again and let his head fall. With his eyes closed, he took slow, deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The kids would be home any minute. He didn’t want them to see him like this.
Would he never have peace again? Had he appreciated the days when he could mow his front lawn on Sunday afternoon and wave at the neighbors? When he drove home from SeaTac eager to see his wife and kids? Or had he taken them for granted, thinking his family would last forever despite Julie’s increasing unhappiness?
The rumble of the school bus and the screech of its brakes brought his head up. Thank God the two police officers hadn’t repeated their threat to interview the kids again. He dreaded seeing Abby with a pinched face and huge, bewildered eyes, Brett with simmering anger and a fierce need to defend his father.
Craig couldn’t forget much of that horrific couple of weeks after he came home to find Julie’s van in the garage, her purse on the kitchen counter, but no Julie. But one of the worst moments had involved Brett.
About a week into the nightmare, Craig had thought the cops were about to handcuff him when his son burst into the living room. His hands knotted into fists, his eyes wet, he’d confronted Sergeant Caldwell.
Mommy Said Goodbye Page 9
