Troubled by her memories, Marty went to the cabinet and pulled out the vodka. Unchecked tears streamed down her cheeks. She collapsed into a chair and lifted the bottle to her lips. Glancing around her little bungalow, she closed her eyes in shame.
* * * *
Angie didn't leave the Weber's until nine thirty. She hadn't intended to stay so long, but Sandy wanted to talk and Ken had stayed late at work.
She pulled into the garage next to Bud's white Porsche and hit the button to close the big door. Entering the kitchen, it surprised her to find dirty dinner dishes on the table. Marty never left things untidy. She glanced out the window toward the bungalow and caught the glow of lights through the curtains. Maybe she should go talk to her. On second thought, she decided against it. Marty had a tendency to hit the sauce in the evening, and she didn't want to embarrass her.
Angie glanced down the hallway. All the rooms were dark. Bud must have already gone upstairs. He'd worked late all week and hadn't been in a good mood. She felt guilty for neglecting him so much these past few days. Most likely, he'd sent Marty home, not wanting to listen to her chatter.
Not ready to retire yet, she decided to clean the kitchen. While stacking the dishwasher, her mind strayed to Melinda. If she didn't work at the company, who was she? And where'd she come from? What did this young beautiful woman want with her husband? There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation, but Bud's reaction and silence bothered her. Although she dreaded it, she'd confront him tomorrow after his golf game.
Saturday morning, Angie gave Marty the day off, planning her confrontation with Bud, in private.
Mid-morning, Angie went into the kitchen to prepare lunch for herself and Bud, but instead found a note on the bar from Marty. She'd prepared potato salad and two beef sandwiches on French rolls for them. Angie peeked into the refrigerator and seeing them through the clear plastic wrap made her mouth water. Marty must have prepared the food at home and brought it over to surprise them. Bud would be pleased. He loved Marty's potato salad. Humming, she set the table.
She always looked forward to Saturday afternoons. Bud reserved this time so they could be together. They might go shopping or take in a movie. But today, she wouldn't be able to enjoy it until she found out about Melinda. She shivered. Why did she get that odd feeling whenever she thought of that woman? Nothing in Bud's recent behavior indicated unfaithfulness.
She sat down at the kitchen bar and thought back over their life. Sure, they'd had their moments. After the miscarriages and her withdrawal, Bud might have been tempted to be unfaithful. But, she knew then, if she didn't climb out of that hole of depression, she'd lose him for sure. They'd survived that bleak period and had grown closer than ever.
Glancing at the clock, she crossed over to the kitchen window and stared down the long winding driveway. Where was he? He's usually home by now, she thought. They must have been detained on the course. She picked up a magazine and sank down into the overstuffed couch behind the kitchen bar.
Waking with a start, she glanced at her watch and gasped. “Two o'clock!” Jumping up, she called Bud's name. When she didn't get an answer, she looked out the window toward the garage. No car. How odd, she thought. She checked the phone messages in case he'd called while she slept. Nothing. Worry churned inside her. He'd never been this late.
Had he told her he had a Saturday appointment? With so much confusion this past week, she couldn't remember. Figuring Ken Weber would know, she called, but got no answer.
She went out the front door and headed for Marty's place. Maybe Bud had mentioned his plans to her. But when she reached the edge of the garage, she realized Marty's car wasn't in the carport, so returned to the house. She hesitated to call Bud's office, but he never seemed to mind, so she keyed in his private number. No answer there either. Now what? Almost three o'clock and still no word from him.
Trying to keep busy, she did odd jobs around the house. When five o'clock arrived and still no word, she threw the dust cloth into the corner and called Ken's house again. This time Sandy answered.
“Sandy, this is Angie. How are the twins?"
“They're doing great. I took them to the mall this afternoon."
“That's good. By the way, have you seen Bud today?"
“No, I haven't. Let me ask Ken."
She must have covered the mouthpiece with her hand, as all Angie could hear were muffled voices.
“Ken said they had a short meeting after their game. He just assumed Bud went straight home afterwards. You haven't heard from him?"
Angie's words caught in her throat. “Something's wrong.” She paced the kitchen with the portable phone to her ear. “I'm worried, Sandy. This isn't like Bud. He always calls when he's going to be late. Ask Ken if he mentioned meeting with a client."
She waited patiently, biting her lower lip while Sandy relayed the question.
“No. Ken said he doesn't recall anything about an appointment, but that doesn't mean Bud didn't have one. Why don't you give him a little more time. It's just after five. You know how a business meeting can go on and on."
“That's true. Thanks, Sandy."
Angie dropped the phone on the cradle and drummed her nails on the plastic receiver. She'd quit smoking ten years ago, but right about now she'd trade her Cadillac for a cigarette.
* * *
Chapter Three
Angie kept glancing out the kitchen window, scanning the driveway, praying she'd see Bud's white Porsche come over the top of the slight incline. The clock ticked its way past six o'clock and her anxiety mounted. Several scenarios crossed her mind: a car wreck, a mugging, or maybe someone had stolen the car and left him tied up in some ungodly place.
Pacing from the kitchen to the television room and back down the hall, she kept coming back to the kitchen where the clock ticked loudly amid the silence. Or, had he left her? She'd certainly neglected him lately. And then came the visit from that woman.
She stared out the kitchen window, her gaze fixed on the driveway. Since the party, Bud had been curt and distracted. She'd been preoccupied helping Sandy with the twins and hadn't pressed Bud for answers about Melinda.
When the phone rang at a quarter of eight, she jumped, knocking over a vase of flowers on the counter. She uprighted the dripping vessel and snatched the phone, clutching the receiver to her ear. “Bud."
“No, it's just me. Obviously, he hasn't called?"
Angie slumped limply on a kitchen stool. “Oh, God, Sandy, I'm worried sick."
“Take it easy. Ken and I are taking the girls to a movie. I'll call when we get back if it isn't too late."
Angie calculated that would be after eleven. “I'll be up. If Bud gets home, I'll leave a message on your machine."
“Okay. Now Angie, stay calm. I'm sure there's an explanation."
Angie felt her shoulders tense. There better be, she thought. “Thanks, Sandy."
Trying to relieve her apprehension, she meandered from room to room, but kept ending up back in the kitchen, staring out the window into the empty darkness. She picked up the dishcloth and automatically wiped off the clean stove and kitchen counter.
Finally, at nine-thirty, she sat down in a chair at her small desk in the corner of the kitchen. Her gaze fell on the Rolodex. She pulled it toward her and thumbed through the H's, stopping at Tom Hoffman, a friend of theirs who worked as a police detective. The two men had known each other since high school. She remembered meeting Tom shortly after he'd lost his young wife to cancer. He had never remarried, but devoted his life to the police force, working his way up to Detective in the homicide division. Angie liked Tom and thought of him as a close friend.
She lifted the receiver, then let it fall back on the cradle, feeling foolish. The police couldn't take any action; Bud hadn't been gone long enough. She dropped her head on her arms and wept in frustration.
Her tears spent, she went to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water on her face, then wandered into the study, where she flipped on th
e television for background noise in the silent house.
Sandy called a little after eleven. “Have you heard from him?"
Angie gazed out the kitchen window into the darkness and wiped her hand across her forehead. “Not a word."
“Did you two have a fight?"
“No. I wish it were that simple."
“Maybe you should call the police."
Angie fiddled with a tea towel, rolling the fringed edge between her fingers. “I thought about calling Tom, but what can he do? Bud's only been gone for hours, not days."
“Call him anyway, he'll understand. After all, this is out of character for Bud. That might mean something."
She felt relieved that Sandy had suggested the very thing that had crossed her mind. “You're right. I'll call him."
“I'll talk to you in the morning. Try not to worry."
Angie hung up and drummed her fingers on the table. She still hesitated to call Tom, but her fears had heightened. Bud could be lying in his Porsche at the bottom of a ravine, bleeding to death.
She dialed Tom's home first, but got no answer, so she flipped open the phonebook to the non-emergency police number and asked for Detective Tom Hoffman. While on hold, she closed her eyes and whispered. “Please Tom, be there.” When the familiar voice came over the line, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Detective Hoffman here."
“Tom, Angie Nevers. I'm so glad I reached you."
“What can I do for you?"
“I'm concerned about Bud.” She explained her husband's uncharacteristic absence. “Tom, I'm really worried."
“It definitely doesn't sound like Bud. Are you home right now?"
She gripped the phone. “Yes."
“Call me if you hear from him. I'm off duty at twelve. I'll drop by if you haven't heard from him by then."
“Thanks Tom, I'd appreciate it."
Sweeping wisps of hair out of her face, Angie went into the television room. She sat rigidly on the couch, staring at the flickering screen.
* * * *
After hanging up from Angie, Tom Hoffman leaned back and stared at the phone. He'd known Bud for years. The behavior Angie had just described definitely seemed out of character for Bud Nevers. It concerned him. He hoped it was only a miscommunication that had occurred between a man and wife.
He made some notations on the file atop his desk, rolled his chair backward, and deposited the folder into the filing cabinet. Standing up, he stretched his arms and flexed his shoulders, hoping to relax the tight muscles across his back. He shrugged on his jacket and pulled a cigar from his inside pocket. Placing the unlit stogie between his lips, he left the station, waving at the officer in charge as the door swung shut behind him. On the way down the steps, he lit his cigar, savoring the long awaited flavor.
He pulled to a stop at the large iron gates that protected the Nevers’ property, pushed the button on the call box and identified himself to Angie. Within a few seconds, the big iron gates swung open. He drove through, glanced in his rearview mirror and watched the tall shadowy forms close.
Driving over the small hill that separated the house from the front gates, he saw the warm welcoming glow from the porch light. He parked in front, snuffed out his cigar in the ashtray and brushed the stray ashes from his coat. He took the dozen or so stairs that led up to the large entry veranda two at a time and had just raised his fist to knock when Angie opened the door.
“Oh, Tom, I'm so glad you're here,” she sobbed.
Startled by her tears, he pulled her into his arms and held her for a moment, then pushed her back at arm's length. Putting his finger under her chin, he tilted her head upward and looked into her eyes. “There's probably a simple explanation for Bud's absence, but I can see you are imagining the worst."
“I'm worried sick and don't know what to do.” She dabbed at her eyes, then locked her arm into his and led him into the study.
Tom had been a visitor in the home so many times that he felt comfortable going to the wet bar and mixing himself a scotch and water. He then made Angie her favorite, gin and tonic, before sitting down on the leather couch opposite her.
She took a sip and closed her eyes. “I needed this."
Tom studied her oval face. Long wisps of hair had strayed out of the silver barrette at the nape of her neck and twined around the collar of her blue denim shirt. He looked into her crystal-blue eyes and noticed the tear-stained makeup on her cheeks. She sat stiffly and rubbed the rim of the glass with her finger.
“Okay, Angie,” he said, scooting forward to the edge of the couch. “Tell me what's going on. You told me a little on the phone, but start at the beginning and tell me the whole thing."
Clutching her glass with both hands, she leaned back in the chair. “As you know, Bud plays golf every Saturday morning."
“Yes, I've even joined him on occasion."
“He left before I woke up, but I really didn't get concerned until about two this afternoon. I called Ken and he told me they'd had a short meeting after their golf game, but he assumed Bud had headed home as usual. That's the last any of us has seen or heard from him."
“Where'd they have this meeting?"
Angie shrugged. “They could have talked at the clubhouse or over at the office. I didn't ask."
“Maybe Bud had an unexpected call from a client and had to meet him someplace. Did you try calling him on his cell phone?"
“I already thought of that, but it's upstairs on the dresser. He never takes it golfing. That's the one place he doesn't want to be disturbed."
Tom nodded and stared into his glass. “Is there a favorite bar where he might have stopped off?"
“Not that I know of. He's never been one to do that."
Tom set his glass on the coffee table, rested his arms on his knees and clasped his hands together. “What about Marty? Did she see him before he left?"
“I don't know. I gave her Saturday off, so I haven't talked to her."
He remained silent for a moment, then with a serious expression looked into her eyes. “I'm going to ask you some personal questions, Angie. But as a police officer, I need to know. Did you and Bud have a fight in the past week or so?"
She shook her head.
“Does Bud have a mistress?"
She stared at him silently, then lowered her eyes. “I have no reason to believe he has one. But, of course, the wife would be the last to know."
Tom cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Do you have a boyfriend?"
A slight twinkle showed in her eyes. “Bud's all I can handle."
He managed a strained grin. “I hope you realize these are routine questions. I just need to know where we stand at the moment. Has he mentioned anything about problems at work or with his health?"
Angie furrowed her brow. “Strange you'd ask. Last week, he mentioned there were problems at work.” She glanced up at the ceiling. “But with Ken's girls hurt in that school bus wreck and all, we never had the chance to discuss it. But talk to Ken, he might know."
“I'll do that.” He picked up his glass and stared at the melting ice cubes. Her answers puzzled him. He'd always thought she and Bud were so close, yet she seemed to know so little about the company. And he didn't know how to put her fears to rest. Taking a business card from the inside pocket of his jacket, he wrote a number on the back and stood, handing it to her. “You can't always reach me at home or the office, but that's my cell phone number. It's always with me. If you haven't heard from Bud by morning, call me and I'll start checking."
Reaching for the card, she looked up at him, her eyes pleading for some assurance.
He solemnly shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine, Angie. I don't know what to tell you.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin and headed for the front door. Angie followed. Before he stepped out on the porch, he gently grasped her shoulder. “Hang in there. I'll keep in touch."
He winced at the sight of her pinched face and hastened down the steps, but before
climbing into his car, he glanced back toward the house. Angie's silhouette, outlined by the foyer light shining through the door, appeared to be frozen to the spot.
* * *
Chapter Four
Tom's eyes flew open when the loud jingle jarred him awake. He kept the phone on the far side of the room so he'd have to get up to answer it. But last night, he'd placed his cell phone on the bedside table just in case Angie might call. Half awake, he fumbled with it until he realized the constant ringing came from the other one. He groaned, yanked off the covers and rolled out of bed. “Coming, coming."
“Yeah, Tom Hoffman here.” After a few moments of listening, he frowned. “I'll be right there."
He threw on some clothes, grabbed his jacket off the chair and charged out of the house. The sun's rays were just beginning to peek over the surrounding hills. He drove fast and knew he didn't have far to go when the odor of metallic smoke and burnt flesh scorched his nostrils.
Parking behind one of the fire trucks, he leapt out of the car and dashed around the large yellow vehicle, but came to a sudden halt behind the yellow tape separating the street from the accident scene. Glaring spotlights lit the area like daylight. He blinked and stared at the rear end of a charred Porsche. It appeared that the car had missed the sharp turn and careened over the embankment, hitting a huge oak tree head-on. The exploding gas tank had ravaged anyone or anything inside the car. He stepped over the tape and walked slowly toward the wreckage. The two technicians glanced up momentarily from their meticulous work, removing what remained.
His eyes watered from the lingering smoke, but he managed to write down as much of the curled license plate as he could make out. After tucking his notebook back into his pocket, he walked back up to the road and studied the surrounding terrain. Odd there weren't any skid marks. He glanced back at the Porsche and made a mental note of its position. The fumes made breathing painful as he stumbled back over the rough ground toward his own car.
He gripped the steering wheel and muttered. “Get hold of yourself. Just because that car is a Porsche, doesn't mean it's Bud's."
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