She looked up at him, met his gaze.
No, there was no danger in him. One of her assets as a journalist was the ability to see into people through their eyes. And what she saw within Matt Lindstrom was what she felt within herself: fear of what he might find there.
She said, “Let’s go.”
The spacious blue-and-white room was much as she’d last seen it that morning: bed linens rumpled, comforter askew, yesterday’s cast-off clothing tossed over the armchairs by the fireplace. Ard, a late riser, usually tidied up, but today she hadn’t. The Sacramento Bee, which she liked to read in front of the fireplace with her morning coffee, sat unopened in plastic wrap on the big table between the chairs, her Mr. Peanut mug—a birthday gift from Nat—resting beside it. She’d apparently relighted last night’s fire; the smell of wood smoke was strong. On the padded window seat overlooking the meadow lay Gracie, the little white cat that had wandered in during a rainstorm eleven years ago—a flighty but endearing creature they’d named after the comedienne Gracie Allen.
Surely nothing horrible could have happened in this room.
Carly crossed to Ard’s bathroom. All was in order there. The same was true of the room containing the shower and oversize tub that connected Ard’s bath with hers. Her bath was in its usual state—one that frequently made the cleaning woman roll her eyes in despair.
Lindstrom was holding Gracie when she returned to the bedroom. He set her down, said apologetically, “She crawled up my leg, yowling.”
“It’s her only trick.”
“So what happened here, McGuire?”
“…I don’t know.”
But an unpleasant suspicion was forming in her mind, and much as she tried to push it away, it took hold and grew.
Lindstrom said, “We ought to call the sheriff’s department.”
“Not just yet.”
“Why not? It looks as if they’ve been attacked and abducted. Every minute you hesitate in calling the sheriff puts them at greater risk. I read someplace that the first two hours are critical to recovering kidnap victims alive.”
“There’s something I need to check first.” Something she’d earlier glimpsed, but not fully registered, in the kitchen. She turned and hurried down there.
In the brushed-chrome sink sat a freezer bag containing a steak. Its top was open, but there was none of the blood that usually drained out of defrosted meat. A mixing bowl, stained red, sat beside it.
A horrible certainty took hold of her as she crossed to the refrigerator, looked into the freezer. A few bags of vegetables and fruit, some fish, but no meat. She went back to the sink and opened the cabinet beside it, where two trash receptacles were mounted on a pullout rack. Empty. With Lindstrom’s voice at her back she went outside to the garbage and recycle bins in their enclosure next to the kitchen door. They were full of freezer bags containing spoiling steaks and roasts and ground beef and chicken parts—but no blood.
Ard had planned this in advance, then. Carly pictured her coming downstairs this morning, in such a hurry that she hadn’t put the bedroom to rights. She’d removed all the meat from the freezer, left it to defrost, and later, maybe after she’d picked Nat up from the school where Carly had dropped her in the morning, she’d poured the blood into the bowl and created the scene in the hallway. Created the scene in the kitchen, too.
Where had Natalie been while Ard was doing that? In her room or outside, Carly hoped. Still, she must’ve known something was wrong…
And then Ard hadn’t even hidden the evidence of what she’d done. The bowl and bag in the sink, the meat in the garbage—they were a tip-off to one who knew her well.
Or did she want me to know what she’d done? Did she want to hurt me yet another time?
“Carly?” Lindstrom had come up behind her. “Do you want to check around out here before we call the sheriff?”
“There’s no need to make a call. The blood is animal, not human.” She swept her hand at the garbage bins.
“I don’t understand.”
“Ard did this. She set up a violent disappearance. She staged the whole thing.”
Of course Lindstrom couldn’t understand, not without knowing the history of their relationship. He didn’t press for an explanation, though, just followed along silently as she checked Natalie’s room and the master suite for items Ard might have taken with them. There were telling gaps in the clothing in both closets, and Nat’s prescription medication for asthma was gone. The largest travel bag in Ard’s matched set was also missing, as were Natalie’s duffel and backpack.
Carly picked up the bedside phone and called the town’s taxi service: Had Ardis Coleman been picked up on time that afternoon? No, the dispatcher said, she hadn’t called them. A similar inquiry of the local car rental agency produced the same result: Ms. Coleman had not reserved a vehicle with them.
Of course not; her partner was clever—and devious. Most likely she’d rented a vehicle in another town, or even bought one. Long-range planning, then.
As she hung up the receiver, she saw that Lindstrom had grown impatient. He said, “Will you please tell me what’s going on here?”
Could she trust him with this? Could she trust him at all? But who else could she turn to?
“We need to talk,” she said.
They returned to the living room. As Lindstrom sat on the sofa, she studied him. He didn’t look like the man whom Ard had described as “handsome in a pretty-boy way. A typical Minnesota Swede.” This man’s face was weathered, with lines etched by hard experience; his hands were work-roughened, his body lean and muscular; he’d dyed his blond hair an unbecoming shade of brown. No more pretty boy, but character and presence made him attractive in a rough-hewn way.
“Tell me,” she said, “what is it you actually do up there in British Columbia? You’re not a newspaper photographer, are you?”
“No, I run a small charter business—one boat, one deck-hand. Tourists, mostly wanting excursion cruises. Some fishermen. Now, what do we need to talk about?”
She sat on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking one foot under her. “Ardis. I don’t know if she was this way while she was married to you, but as long as I’ve known her she’s exhibited a pattern of behavior that I call cut-and-run. Whenever things get unpleasant or she’s overwhelmed by a situation, she just takes off.”
“Has she done this often?”
“Often enough. The first time was when we’d been together less than a year.”
“And you’ve been together how long?”
“Nearly fourteen years.”
“Since right after she disappeared, then. D’you mind if I ask how you met?”
“She was hitchhiking in a dangerous place outside of Thousand Springs, Nevada. I picked her up.”
She remembered Ard, standing bedraggled by the side of a two-lane highway in northeastern Nevada. She was wearing dirty jeans and a tee with a ripped-out shoulder seam and was sitting on a big blue duffel bag. Her face was sunburned and peeling, her long dark hair straggling down from a ponytail.
Normally Carly wouldn’t have stopped for any hitchhiker without the sense to wear a hat in the glaring sun, or one too lazy to stand up when a vehicle approached. In fact, she seldom picked up hitchhikers at all. But the way Ard’s face had suddenly filled with hope made her put her foot to the brake pedal…
“Did she tell you her true name?” Lindstrom asked. “Or why she left home?”
“Not at first. She just said she was going west and asked if Soledad County was a good place to live. I brought her here, gave her a job as a gofer, found her a cheap place to live. It wasn’t till months later, after we became lovers, that she told me her story.”
Lindstrom flinched at the word “lovers” but quickly recovered. Was he homophobic? Disgusted at the images that came to mind? Or was he simply wounded, even at fourteen years’ remove, that his wife could so easily make a new life for herself?
“Why did she up and disappear from Saugatuck?”
he asked.
“Her business,” she said. Then, more gently, “It had nothing to do with you—at least, not directly. She loved you.”
“I wish I could believe that.” He was silent for a moment. “Okay, the first time she took off…?”
“I’d promoted her to general assignment reporter. She’d covered the trial of a woman who had killed her abusive boyfriend, and I criticized her stories for lack of objectivity. She insisted that we owed it to our readers to take a firm stance against abuse of any sort, and I said that was what the editorial page was for, and if anybody took a stance it would be me. We fought, and the next morning she was gone. Two weeks later she showed up, contrite, saying she’d gone away to get her head together.”
“And you took her back.”
“Yes. She disappeared a few other times for varying periods over the next couple of years. Then, in the fall of ninety-one, she left and stayed away for fifteen months.”
“What precipitated that?”
I’m not going there—not with you.
“That’s private. Anyway, she returned with Natalie, who was under a year old. Seems Ard had gone to San Francisco, taken up with a black musician who played at a jazz club where she was waitressing. Nat is the result of their union.” A familiar bitterness welled up, clogging her throat.
“But you still took her back.”
“You criticizing me, Lindstrom?”
He shook his head. “I’d’ve probably done the same. There’s a quality to Gwen—Ardis—that makes you want to help her no matter what she’s done.”
Yes, she knew that quality well—had for years tried to analyze it. Often she’d thought that if she could pin it down, she would become immune to it, gain control over her situation, but its exact essence remained elusive.
“Well, then you know,” she said. “I not only took her back but welcomed her. I’d never wanted children and was concerned about what kind of mother Ard would make, but I thought Natalie might settle her down, bring stability to our relationship. And by and large she’s done that. Ard’s a good mother, and I’ve found I enjoy having a kid around.”
Lindstrom eyed her keenly. “But?”
“Did I say ‘but’?”
“You didn’t have to.”
“All right!” Her irritation gave way to relief. It felt good to unburden herself, even though the recipient of her confidences couldn’t have been more unlikely. “I love Natalie, but sometimes she’s a reminder of how much Ard has hurt me.”
“I understand. This running off—has it stopped since she had Natalie?”
“No. But it’s not as frequent, and of shorter duration—usually only a day or two.”
“It’s enough of a pattern, though, that you think this”—he nodded toward the hallway—“might be more of the same.”
“I’m sure it is. Ard’s been under a lot of pressure lately. I think I told you the book she’s writing is due at the publisher soon, but it’s not going well.” She hesitated. “And we haven’t been getting along.”
“Why not?”
“My business, Lindstrom.”
He held up his hands, palms toward her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Has she ever done anything like this in the past? Staged a violent scene?”
“No, and she’s never taken Natalie along, either. Frankly, I’m worried about her mental health. She claims somebody’s been watching her, that somebody’s been in the house while we were gone.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“No. There’s no evidence of forced entry, and I haven’t noticed any prowlers. Besides, she’s always been a little paranoid.”
“When did she first mention this?”
“Yesterday.”
“Well, that explains it. I was out here then, and today, taking pictures with a telephoto lens. Maybe she sensed my presence. But I never got any closer than that grove of trees to the south. Tonight’s the first time I’ve been in the house.”
She studied him thoughtfully. He was either an honest man or an adept con artist.
He added, “If you’re worried about her mental health, you really ought to call the sheriff’s department.”
“No.” she shook her head. “I can’t do that to Ard. The department didn’t like her coverage of the ‘faggot murders,’ as they privately called them. God knows how they’d handle this, what they’d say to the media. And I’ll admit to more than a little self-interest—my newspaper is the one voice of reason in this county, and I don’t want it discredited because its editor couldn’t control her personal life.”
He nodded in understanding. “That detective who gave me a lift last night—Rhoda Swift—she seems nice, a sympathetic person. Nonjudgmental, too. Maybe you could ask for her.”
“No, I couldn’t. Rho only works cases in the coastal area.”
“But as a favor?”
“Rho’s all the things you say she is, but she’s also a by-the-book cop. She’d have to bring the local deputies in on it. I know how she operates because I did a special interview with her a couple of years back about an old murder case that she cracked. Besides, she’s romantically involved with a bestselling journalist; if he got wind of this, Ard and I might end up as the subjects of his next book.”
“Which neither of you needs.” Lindstrom frowned. “Me, either.”
For the first time she considered how the situation might affect him. “Let me ask you this,” she said. “What did you plan to do about Ard? Obviously you came here with an agenda.”
He looked away from her. “I guess you could say so.”
“And that was…?”
“To take pictures.”
“Pictures of her?”
“Right. I wanted to make an identification. Document her new life. Then I was going to take the photographs to the Sweetwater County, Wyoming, Sheriff’s Department—where there’s still an open file on her disappearance naming me as the prime suspect—and vindicate myself. Vindicate myself in the eyes of my family and former friends. Vindicate myself in the national media as well.”
He paused, gaze turned inward. “And,” he added, “I wanted a confrontation with her. Wanted to wring out of her the reason she disappeared and left me to face a possible murder charge. Wanted to make sure she knew what a despicable human being I think she is.”
Despicable? Carly turned the word over in her mind. From his point of view, she supposed it was appropriate. But from hers, damaged was the better choice.
“If it’s any consolation,” she said, “she abandoned her car and purse hoping you’d think she’d been killed and not look for her. She had no idea you’d be suspected—or that you had been, until long after you’d left Saugatuck. When she found out, she tried to call you, but you’d vanished as completely as she had.”
“She could’ve set the record straight with the authorities.”
“Maybe, but by then the case had received major publicity. She was afraid of more.”
“Why?”
“…She had her reasons.”
“And again, they’re none of my business.”
Carly was silent, thinking bitterly of those reasons. Had she cut Ard entirely too much slack all these years? Probably. But wasn’t that what you did when you loved someone?
Lindstrom said, “Well, never mind. That’s long past, and what’s happened today changes the situation. I’ve got my photographs, and if I can get a statement from you—”
“You’re not thinking of leaving?”
“Of course I am. There’s nothing to hold me here.”
“Oh, yeah? You can’t just walk away from this mess. After all, you admitted she probably took off because of your sneaking around here.”
“So what am I supposed to do about that?”
“Help me find her. You and I are in this thing together, Lindstrom, and together we are going to see it through.”
Once Lindstrom’s astonishment at her pronouncement had faded, he smiled mockingly. “Ready to take her back again, are
you?”
She glared at him.
“My advice is to embrace her philosophy: Cut your losses and run.”
“You forget, there’s another factor in the equation: Natalie. She’s a delicate child, has asthma. If Ard’s become unbalanced, she may neglect Nat’s health. I need to find them, bring them home, or at least to someplace safe. Afterwards I’ll decide about the relationship.”
“And you think I can help you find her?”
“Maybe. You could have some knowledge about her that I don’t. Something that will suggest what she might’ve done.”
But do I really believe that, or do I just want him here so I won’t feel alone?
He smiled, gently this time, as if he intuited her thoughts. “Okay, I’ll stay and try to help you—for a while. Where do we start?”
“Well, the major problem in Ard’s life recently—except for you showing up—is the trouble she’s having with the book. I think we should both go over the manuscript and her notes.”
He looked at his watch. “How long will that take?”
“Hours, probably.”
“Then I’d better make a phone call.”
Carly showed him to the cordless unit in the kitchen, listened as she ground beans and brewed a pot of coffee.
“Hi it’s—Yeah, I should’ve called. Don’t be upset. Something—No, not someone. I spent last night in Santa Carla—What d’you mean, the duct tape’s not holding? It’s a miracle fix…Well, just slap some more on, then. I’ll buy the joint I need on the way home tomorrow…No, I’m working on a major assignment and likely to be out all night…Assignment, not assignment! I’ll see you in the morning, and don’t forget about that tape.”
As he replaced the receiver, Carly folded her arms and regarded him with mock severity. “You don’t waste any time when you hit a new town, Lindstrom.”
“That was my landlady. I fix things in exchange for cheap rent.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, it was.”
“And just what did you put the duct tape on?”
“The pipe under the bathroom sink. It leaks, and I didn’t have the right—What’s so funny?”
“You. And believe me, Lindstrom, right about now I could use a laugh, however feeble.” She paused. “By the way, I think I should continue to call you John Crowe in public. People here know you as that. A change could complicate things.”
Cyanide Wells Page 8
