Matt picked up the memo and studied it. It was computer-generated, printed on the back of what looked to be copy for a story, which had a big black X through it. McGuire clearly didn’t waste paper—or type very well, either.
John, I called your former editor this a.m.and she gave you a glowing recommendation. I hope youcan live up to it. Here’s the schedule of your assignments fortoday. I want to meetwith you at 4:30 after you’ve completed them.11:30a--meet Vera Craig at the newKinkade gallery, MainSt.next to the Book nook. Vera will tell you what shots she needs.1:30p--Gundersons silver wedding anniversaryshoot, their home,111 Estes St. I assume youhave a map, if not purchase one.2:15p--Pooh’s Corner, next toAram’s, need shots of new line of anatomically correct dolls that are causing thecurrent flap. Avoid private parts, the parents are up in arms and we don’t want to further incitethem. Thanks, Carly.
It was now a little after ten; since his first assignment wasn’t until eleven-thirty, he had time to slip away and check out Gwen’s home more closely. Grabbing his camera bag, he left the office and drove off toward Drinkwater Road.
The expensive SUV sat in the paved area by the footbridge but in a different place than on the previous afternoon; probably Gwen had driven her little girl to school. Matt drove past, turned, and zoomed in on it, snapping a photo showing its license plate number. Then he drove to where he’d parked before and moved along the road, taking random shots to either side. A casual observer would probably have assumed he was documenting the regional plants and trees, but the true objects of his shots were Gwen’s mailbox, the footbridge, and the extent of her property. When he finished the roll, he drove back toward town and his first appointment, wondering whether he could persuade Vera Craig to have lunch with him. The arts editor seemed open and friendly, exactly the sort of person who might be willing to answer his questions about the paper’s prizewinning former reporter.
“Hell, honey,” Vera Craig said, “none of us see much of Ard these days.” She speared a lobster ravioli from the plate she and Matt were sharing at Mamma Mia’s, bit into it with her eyes closed, and made a sound of pure sensual delight.
Matt tasted one. It was good, but not enough to nearly induce an orgasm. “Why not?”
“I guess she’s just holed up at home, working on her book. It’s giving her trouble. At least that’s what Carly says.”
“You know her well?”
“Nobody knows Ard well, except for Carly, and sometimes I wonder about that. I’ve been acquainted with her since she came to town, and after fourteen or fifteen years, I still don’t know what makes her tick.”
“She worked for the paper right from the first?”
“Yeah, as a gofer, then general assignment reporter. Good one, willing to take on anything. She just got better and better, till Carly finally promoted her to roving-reporter status, meaning she basically covered any story in the county that she found controversial or interesting. Then came the murders.”
“I understand she was the one who found the bodies.”
Vera Craig’s face grew somber, and she set her fork tines on the edge of the plate. “Yeah. Bad for her in a couple of ways. Finding two men slaughtered in their bed was pretty horrific. And they weren’t strangers; they were her friends. But besides her grief she had to deal with community reaction.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Cyanide Wells and the county as a whole are pretty conservative. You’ve got your rich people, mostly retirees; you’ve got your religious people, your young families, your working-class people, and your assholes who like to drink and shoot their guns and would consider a good evening’s fun burning a cross on somebody’s front lawn—or blowing away a couple of ‘faggots’ in their own bed. And, like anyplace else, you’ve got your gays who mainly keep a low profile. Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford didn’t, and Ronnie compounded the general dislike by selling off the mill. When it came out that Ard was their friend, the dislike was transferred to her.”
“That must’ve changed when the paper won the Pulitzer.”
“It changed when people started reading her stories. They were so powerful, they made the readers understand—or at least think about—the problems of gays who live in this type of environment.”
“So now she’s writing a book.”
“Has been for over two years. It’s contracted for and is due to be turned in pretty soon, but like I said, she’s having problems with it.”
“It can’t be easy, dealing with that kind of material.”
“I guess not.” Craig picked up her fork and attacked the ravioli with renewed vigor. “But enough about Ard. Tell me about yourself, honey. What brought you to our little village, anyway?”
Lying, Matt reflected as he packed up his gear and said goodbye to the proprietor of Pooh’s Corner, could be an exhausting business. Today he’d given various versions of the life and times of John Crowe to at least five people. He was glad that his final encounter would be with Carly McGuire, Severin Quill having canceled their tentative plans for drinks—he had to go someplace called Signal Port on a story. McGuire, Matt assumed, knew everything about him that she wanted to know, and would be more interested in his work than his personal history.
He had roughly an hour and a half before their meeting, so he headed back to the darkroom to develop his films. The contact sheets showed he hadn’t lost his eye, although there were certain technical skills that weren’t as sharp as they’d once been. He particularly liked the last batch of photos: the inanely smiling girl and boy dolls that were causing such controversy among local parents. Innocence, if not downright stupidity, radiated from their faces, and the private parts—which he’d shot for his own amusement—were no more threatening and much less realistic than those that the children of Cyanide Wells surely witnessed while playing the time-honored game of “doctor.”
Four-thirty on the dot. Armed with his contact sheets, Matt went to McGuire’s office. The door was slightly ajar, and before he could knock, he heard Carly’s raised voice.
“Don’t you threaten me, Gar!”
“That was a mere statement of fact, not a threat.” The man’s voice was deep and full-bodied—and vaguely familiar.
“Facts, I’m afraid, are open to personal interpretation.”
“Perhaps, but you should realize that there are complex issues at work here, which you can’t possibly begin to understand.”
“Complex issues. Which I can’t understand. I don’t think so.”
“You’re not infallible, Carly. If you don’t believe me, look to your own life.”
There was a silence, and then McGuire spoke, her voice low and dangerous. “Get the fuck out of my office, Gar.”
“You’re being unreasonable—”
With a shock, Matt remembered where he’d heard that voice.
“Out. Now!”
The door opened, grazing Matt’s shoulder. The man who pushed through was tall and lean, with a thick mane of gray hair. The cut of his suit, and his even hothouse tan, spoke of money; an old, jagged scar on his right cheek and the iciness of his eyes were at odds with his gentlemanly appearance. His gaze barely registered Matt’s presence as he strode from the building.
McGuire came to the door, her face pale, mouth rigid. She started when she saw Matt. “I suppose you heard that,” she said.
“I heard you telling him”—he jerked his thumb at the door—“to get the fuck out of your office. Good for you. I don’t like the look of him.”
“What’s to like?”
“Who is he?”
“Our mayor, the esteemed Garson Payne. An asshole who, in four years, hopes to be our district’s representative to the state legislature.”
At least now Matt had a name for the man who had made the anonymous call to him in Port Regis. But why would an elected official do such a thing? And how had he found him?
He tried to ask more questions about Payne; McGuire declined to discuss him further. Instead she invited Matt into her
office and went over the contact sheets intently, staring at them through her half-glasses, circling the shots she wanted him to print. When she came to the doll series, she said, “Oh, my God! This is what all the commotion’s about?”
“Maybe you’d like to run one of them as your arty shot of the week?”
She grinned. “I’ve half a mind to. No, instead I think I’ll run one with Sev’s article. He said the same things you’ve captured here. This one.” She circled it. “And also this, where their faces look like they’re flirting with each other. The smug mommies and daddies of this county can use a shaking up.”
“You like messing with people’s heads.”
“If it serves a purpose. That’s what a good newspaper should do: Challenge the readership’s opinions; make them think. I’ll need these by tomorrow at one. Nice first day on the job, John.”
“Thanks, I enjoyed it. The people I talked with really like and respect the paper. Of course, not every town of this size can boast of a Pulitzer-winning publication.”
“True.” She handed the sheets back to him and stood.
“I’ve read the series, and I liked it a lot, particularly the stories written by Ardis Coleman.”
“Ard’s a terrific writer. We’ll never see the likes of her again.”
“She quit to write a book on the murders?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You still see her?”
McGuire had been gathering papers and putting them in her briefcase, but now her hands stilled. “Look, John, we’d better get one thing straight right off the bat. This is a small paper, and a small community. When you live at close quarters with your coworkers and fellow citizens, you’ve got to draw boundaries. The one I insist on is the separation of one’s professional and personal life.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. The only reason I asked about Ms. Coleman is that I’d like to meet her, talk with her about the articles.”
“That’s not possible. Ard’s at a difficult place in her work right now, and she doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Maybe later, when the book’s finished?”
“Maybe, if you haven’t moved on by then.”
“Why would I move on?”
She busied herself with the papers again, avoiding his eyes. “You moved on after eighteen years with your former paper.”
“Eighteen years is a long time.”
“You’re what—thirty-eight?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“Well, in my experience, that’s an age when men tend to get antsy. Move from woman to woman, job to job, place to place. Right now you could be at the beginning of a long journey.”
As he worked on the leaky faucet in Sam’s small bathroom early that evening—didn’t the woman know that washers eventually wore out?—Matt thought about McGuire’s comments. She’d sensed his restlessness but interpreted it in conventional terms—and wrongly. His was a condition born of a desire to wrap up old business rather than to seek out the new. And the long journey he’d undertaken was not geographical, but one that would take him deep inside himself to confront things that now were only shadowy and unsettling. The prospect of that confrontation made him turn such a vigorous hand to tightening the pipes under the sink that one joint began to spit water.
Just what he needed. Sam had no plumbing supplies on hand, and although he’d noticed an Ace Hardware in one of the strip malls near the freeway interchange, he hadn’t planned to spend all his evening performing handyman’s duties. He went to the kitchen, rummaged in the drawer where Sam kept her tools, and found a roll of duct tape. In his opinion, duct tape was one of the greatest inventions of the past century, a quick fix for everything; he’d used it for such diverse purposes as temporarily repairing a camera and hemming a pair of jeans. After he taped the pipe joint, he left a warning note for Sam, who was working till ten, and set out for Drinkwater Creek.
Gwen’s house was wrapped in shadow when he arrived, its lighted windows a pale glow through the surrounding trees. He freed the Nikon from its bag, reattached the telephoto, adjusted the settings. It wasn’t till he looked up that he noticed there were two vehicles in the paved area by the footbridge: Gwen’s luxury SUV and a red Ford Ranger with a Save the Redwoods sticker on its rear bumper. Carly McGuire’s truck.
Paranoia seized him. His explanation for his interest in Ardis Coleman hadn’t rung true to McGuire, and she’d come here to discuss him with her friend. Somehow Gwen would figure out who he was, and…
Don’t get ahead of yourself. McGuire’s probably here for a perfectly normal visit.
He turned off the switch on the truck’s dome light, slipped out, and ran lightly across the pavement. The footbridge was easily visible from the house, so he walked downstream until he found a narrow place where he could cross on stepping-stones. After scrambling up the opposite bank, he stopped to get his bearings. The house was on a forty-five-degree angle to his right, screened by a windbreak of eucalyptus. He moved toward them and stood in their shelter, sighting on one of the lighted windows with the telephoto.
Kitchen: granite tiles, wood cabinets, lots of stainless steel. Table with remains of a meal for three set in a cozy nook.
He moved to the next window. Living room: hearth with fire burning, white cat sleeping on the area rug in front of it, black leather furniture. Gwen sat at the end of the sofa, her feet propped on a coffee table, her head bowed as she went over some papers, probably manuscript pages. A half-full wineglass sat on the table beside her; she reached for it and sipped, looking up at the window. Involuntarily Matt stepped back, even though he knew she couldn’t possibly see him. She set the glass down, turned her head, and spoke to someone outside his range of vision. Appeared to be waiting for an answer.
Still pretty, Gwennie, even after fourteen years. You’ve taken good care of yourself. Of course, with money, that’s easy.
He began to snap photographs.
Gwen said something else, set down the papers, and curled her legs beneath her. She was wearing a long blue robe, and she pulled its hem over her bare feet—a gesture he remembered.
Now Carly McGuire came into view, moving around the sofa and setting a glass of wine on the coffee table before she sat. Gwen spoke again, and Carly shrugged, her mouth set. Gwen frowned, said something else to Carly. Even though he couldn’t hear her words, Matt remembered that look and the tone that accompanied it. McGuire closed her eyes, shook her head.
God, it was like witnessing a scene from his marriage: Gwen angry, himself on the defensive.
Gwen’s lips tightened, and she looked away from Carly. Matt could now see her face-on, and this, too, was familiar. For a moment her mouth remained in a firm line, but then it began to crumble at the corners; her teeth nipped at her lower lip as her eyes filled. She squeezed them shut, and the tears overflowed, coursing down her cheeks as she remained perfectly still. She was, he knew, making no sound. Her silent weeping had always unnerved him, made him want to flee.
Apparently it had the same effect on McGuire. As Matt moved the lens to her face, he saw panic. But just as his own panic had quickly dissolved, so did Carly’s. She closed the space between them and took Gwen into her arms.
How many times had he done just that? He watched, fascinated, as a part of his first life was reenacted before the powerful lens of his camera.
Carly stroked Gwen’s hair. Her lips murmured words that had belonged to him in years past: “It’s going to be all right. You’ll see. It will be all right.”
Gwen’s face was pressed into Carly’s shoulder. Soon she would raise her head and ask in a little girl’s voice, “Do you mean that? Do you really mean it?”
And Carly, like Matt, would be forced to lie: “Yes, of course I do.”
As he watched the scene through his lens, a chill touched Matt’s shoulders, took hold of his spine. He was years in the past, comforting his wife. He was here in the present, a voyeur. He was about to step into a future he wasn’t sure he cared to visit�
��
Gwen raised her head, asked her question. Carly gave her response. Gwen’s face became suffused with hope.
Then, forcefully, the women’s lips met and held.
And with a jolt, Matt realized the nature of the relationship between them.
Friday, May 10, 2002
He was halfway to Santa Carla, the county seat, driving blindly while trying to absorb what he’d learned about Gwen and Carly McGuire, when the Jeep ran out of gas. He coasted onto the shoulder, set the brake, and leaned forward, his arms resting on top of the steering wheel. The dashboard clock showed it was twelve-seventeen in the morning, and he hadn’t seen another car for at least ten minutes.
Briefly he debated leaving the Jeep and walking south to find a service station, but decided against it. Some miles back the highway had narrowed to two sharply curving lanes, dangerous to walk along in the darkness. Besides, stations were practically nonexistent between towns, and the last sign he’d noticed said he was thirty-five miles from the county seat. Instead he set out an emergency flare, shut off the Jeep’s headlights, and settled in to wait for a Good Samaritan.
His thoughts kept turning to Gwen, picturing the look of hope on her face before she and Carly kissed. So his former wife had formed an intimate relationship with another woman after leaving him. A long-term, stable one from the looks of it. There was a child. Gwen’s? Carly’s? Natural? Adopted? Who had fathered her?
Had Gwen been involved with women before and during his marriage to her? He knew about the men she’d been with earlier, and up to now had felt reasonably certain she’d remained faithful to him until she disappeared. Surely he’d have known had it been otherwise. Or would he? The possibility of his wife having a lesbian affair is not the first to occur to a man, even when his marriage begins to deteriorate.
Did the trouble that had arisen so quickly in the marriage stem from Gwen’s confusion about her sexual orientation? From her inability to discuss it with him? From her guilt over an affair?
How long after she left Saugatuck had she met Carly? Where and how? Did Carly know that Gwen’s former husband had been suspected of murdering her? Gwen had known, according to his anonymous caller, now identified as Mayor Garson Payne.
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