Moonlight on Butternut Lake

by Mary McNear

  That was true enough, Brandon thought, his hand going reflexively to the envelope in his pocket. He’d already spent a small fortune on Mr. Tuck’s services, and he hadn’t even given him this last installment yet.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Brandon said. “I had to make up an excuse to get out of work.”

  The waitress came over then with a pot of coffee and filled Brandon’s cup. She took out her check pad, but he shook his head. “Just coffee,” he said, barely glancing at her. Funny how uninterested he’d been in women—even attractive women—since Mila had left. It was almost as if he didn’t even see them anymore.

  The waitress started to leave the table, but Mr. Tuck stopped her. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, I’ll have a slice of the pie.”

  “For breakfast?” Brandon asked, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  “Why not? You only live once, right?”

  Brandon sighed inwardly. Another charge on the tab. And he didn’t believe the part about only living once. Judging from his waistline, Mr. Tuck looked like he’d already lived plenty, at least when it came to pie. And then he remembered something from Mila’s days working at this place.

  “I hate to tell you this, but the pie here is lousy.”

  “I’m not picky.”

  And that was a good thing, Brandon thought, when he saw the disgusting-looking wedge of pie the waitress set down in front of Mr. Tuck. But he seemed to like it just fine. So Brandon seethed, silently, alternately sipping his too-hot coffee and watching Mr. Tuck eat his pie. This man, Brandon thought with disappointment, had none of the style and panache he’d expected a private investigator to have. Instead, he had a bad comb-over, a puffy face, and watery eyes that made him look like he had a permanent cold.

  When he was done with his pie, he wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and pushed his plate away. “Where’s the money?” he asked Brandon.

  “The money?” Brandon said, surprised, and then irritated at his directness. “Where’s the information, Mr. Tuck?”

  “I have it. But I want to see the money first.” He reached into the briefcase sitting on the booth beside him and pulled out a sheet of paper, which he slid across the table to Brandon. “Here’s my hours, and my expense report. I’ve deducted them from the retainer you gave me, but as you can see, Mr. Stewart, you still owe me two thousand dollars.”

  Two thousand dollars? Who the hell was this guy kidding? That was highway robbery. But Brandon said nothing. He didn’t want to alienate Mr. Tuck yet. There’d be plenty of time for him to do that later, after he’d told Brandon where Mila was. So Brandon folded up the sheet of paper and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll look at it later,” he mumbled, taking an envelope out of his other pocket. Then he opened it up, counted out twenty one-hundred-dollar bills, and handed them over to Mr. Tuck.

  Mr. Tuck glanced quickly around the coffee shop, recounted the money, and pocketed it.

  “So,” Brandon said, leaning forward. “What have you got for me?” His heart was jumping in his chest, and it wasn’t just the caffeine that was making it do that either. He’d spent seven weeks not knowing where Mila was, and today, he was finally going to find out.

  “Well, first, why don’t I tell you what I haven’t got for you,” Mr. Tuck said, settling back against the leather backing of the booth. “I don’t have a record of a Mila Jones making an airline reservation or a rental car reservation. I also don’t have a record of her opening a bank account, applying for a credit card, applying for government aid, getting arrested, or checking into a hospital. Nobody’s run a credit check on her. And she doesn’t have a job, either. Or, I should say, she doesn’t have a job that’s on the books. More than that, I can’t say, Mr. Jones.”

  “But what exactly can you say?” Brandon asked, confused. “I mean, you found her, didn’t you?”

  Mr. Tuck shook his head. “No, what I’m saying is that I didn’t find her. Not a trace of her.”

  “And you went . . . you went to Florida? And Nebraska?”

  Mr. Tuck nodded and took another manila envelope out of his briefcase. He handed it to Brandon. “My assistant and I went to both places. It’s all in this report. As discussed, we did twenty-four hours of surveillance on each residence. The apartment in Fort Lauderdale and the house outside Red Cloud, Nebraska. And let me tell you, Mr. Jones, it is not easy doing surveillance on a farmhouse in rural Nebraska without attracting attention. That’s one of the harder jobs I’ve done.”

  “But, but how do you know she wasn’t inside her mom’s apartment? Or her friend’s house?” Brandon persisted, something close to panic setting in. “How do you know she just didn’t go outside during those twenty-four hours?”

  But Mr. Tuck shook his head. “No, we got inside the residences. Or my assistant did, anyway. In Fort Lauderdale, she was a pizza delivery girl who’d gotten the wrong address. When your mother-in-law told her she’d made a mistake, my assistant said her cell phone had died and asked if she could use her phone to call the pizza place. Then she had a quick look around. She didn’t see any sign of your wife. Your mother-in-law, by the way, was dead drunk, and this was at three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “Yeah, she’s got a problem,” Brandon said impatiently. “Now, what about the other place, in Nebraska?”

  “In Nebraska, my assistant posed as a driver who’d gotten lost. She stopped at the farmhouse to ask directions and then asked if she could use the bathroom and have a glass of water. It was hotter than hell there, as it turned out. But they were glad to give her something cold to drink. Nice family, by the way. Anyway, there was no one there fitting your wife’s description.”

  “But, I mean, just because she didn’t leave those places while you had them under surveillance, and just because your assistant didn’t see her inside of them, how can you be positive that she’s not still hiding out in one of them?”

  “We can’t,” Mr. Tuck said simply. “Not without breaking the law. And that’s what we’d be doing if we waited for everyone to leave a residence and then let ourselves in and searched it. That’s called ‘breaking and entering,’ and I won’t do it. It’s not worth risking my P.I. license for.”

  “But, Mr. Stewart,” he continued, using his fork now to scrape the remains of the gelatinous pie filling off his plate, “if you think your wife is at one of those residences, holed up in an attic or a basement, I can tell you right now it’s very unlikely. People can’t live that way. Not for long, anyway. Eventually, they let their guard down. Your wife, for instance, has had several weeks now to get comfortable wherever she’s living. Trust me. She’s not hiding in a closet. She’s falling into some kind of routine. Grocery shopping. Picking up a cup of coffee. Maybe even socializing.”

  Socializing? The word made Brandon flinch. The very thought of Mila meeting new people, especially people of the male persuasion, was nauseating to him. She belonged here. At home. With him. Not off gallivanting somewhere, meeting men, flirting with them, maybe even . . . but here he stopped. He couldn’t take that idea any further.

  He gulped down some coffee and tried to clear his mind. He could let his guard down later, in the privacy of his apartment. He’d already punched several holes in the wall there since Mila had left at the beginning of the summer. “So,” he said, running his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “Where do we go from here, Mr. Tuck?”

  Mr. Tuck raised his eyebrows. “From here?”

  “I mean, what do we do next?”

  “We don’t do anything next.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that my work is done. I looked for your wife. I couldn’t find her.”

  “You’re giving up?” Brandon asked, not bothering to keep the disgust out of his voice.

  But Mr. Tuck only shrugged. “I told you the day you came to my office that there was no guarantee I’d find your wife. I told you I’d use every reasonable means at my disposal to find her. And I’ve done that.”


  “But isn’t there anything more you can do?”

  Mr. Tuck sighed, and, finally, having satisfied himself that not a single smear of pie filling was left on his plate, he put his fork down. “Look,” he said, “if money is no object for you, I could do a little more legwork. Go to the bus station, maybe. Unlike airport ticket counters, they don’t check IDs that carefully. Someone could easily use a fake one. Plus, it’s easy to pay cash for a bus ticket. So, yeah, it would be a good way to travel if you were trying to run away from someone. I could show her picture around the station. Ask if anyone’s seen her. I might get a hit that way.”

  Brandon nodded eagerly. “Do it.”

  “Okay, but I’m going to need another retainer.”

  “Another one?”

  “I spent the first one.”

  Brandon seethed. He’d already cleaned out his savings account to pay Mr. Tuck. “I might be able to get an advance on my salary,” he muttered, draining the last of his coffee.

  But after giving him a long, shrewd look, Mr. Tuck shook his head. “I think that would be a mistake. I think we both know you’ve already spent more money than you can afford to spend.”

  “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?” Brandon asked angrily, bringing his fist down on the table with more force than he’d intended. Mr. Tuck sucked in a little breath, and several diners turned to stare.

  “What you’re supposed to do, Mr. Stewart,” Mr. Tuck said, recovering from his surprise, “is to accept the fact that your wife has left you and move on with your own life.”

  “Move on? Are you kidding?”

  “No, I’m not kidding. Because if the last several weeks have taught me anything, it’s that your wife doesn’t want to be found.”

  “My wife doesn’t know what she wants.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But here’s something else you may want to consider. Even if you do find her, you may not be able to persuade her to return with you. It’s a free country, Mr. Stewart. You can’t compel her to come home if she doesn’t want to.”

  “Compel her? She’s my wife, Mr. Tuck.”

  “That’s true. But under the laws of this country, being your wife is not the same thing as being your personal property. She’s a free agent. She can return home with you. Or she can choose not to.”

  “It’s not a question of choice.”

  Mr. Tuck looked at him sharply. “Actually, it is. If you force her to go with you against her will, that’s kidnapping. And it’s a felony. You could do serious time for that.”

  Brandon tried to shrug that off. Though in truth he’d had a few brushes with the law already, and it had left its mark on him. Still, he was confident that once he found Mila, she’d come back with him. She’d have to. She was his wife.

  Brandon signaled for more coffee, even though the cup he’d already drunk felt like it was burning a hole in his stomach. The waitress came over, but she looked nervous. She filled Brandon’s cup and left immediately. Mr. Tuck didn’t look too eager to stick around either. He glanced at his watch and reached for his briefcase. But Brandon wasn’t letting him off that easily. He’d taken Brandon’s money. Now he could damn well listen to him.

  “Mr. Tuck,” he said quietly, leaning in close. “I know how most people see marriage today. They see it as disposable. If you hit a little rough patch, the way my wife and I did, it’s over. You’re supposed to just call it a day. Pack up and move out. Find somebody else. Maybe marry them, too. If that doesn’t work out, you can always try again, right. But me? I’m old-fashioned that way. I believe marriage is forever. Until death do us part. And when I find my wife—and I will find her—I intend to remind her of that.”

  Mr. Tuck frowned then, as if Brandon had said something offensive. Or disturbing. Which, of course, he hadn’t. He’d spoken the truth as he saw it. Nothing more and nothing less.

  “Well, good luck with that,” Mr. Tuck said quickly. He slid out of the booth, without shaking Brandon’s hand, and he started to leave, but then he turned around and came back. “Mr. Stewart? My job for you is done,” he said brusquely. “Don’t call my office again.” And then he was gone.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t call your office again,” Brandon said mockingly. “You’ve wasted enough of my time. Not to mention my money.” He sat hunched over in the booth for a while, his coffee getting cold, the ebb and flow of the other diners swirling around him.

  Finally, he glanced at the check, threw some money on the table, and got up to go. He had a plan. He’d take over where Mr. Tuck, that two-bit P.I., had left off. How hard could it be? He’d start by taking Mila’s picture to the bus station. He’d come up with some story about why he was looking for her. Maybe he’d even say she was crazy, he decided, heading out of the coffee shop and down the street. Yeah, crazy was good. And not that far from the truth, either. After all, she would have to have been crazy to throw away everything they’d had together.

  CHAPTER 15

  We just got those in,” the salesgirl said, sidling over to Mila, who was standing in front of a rack of sundresses at the Butternut Variety Store. “What do you think?”

  “I think they’re . . . really cute,” Mila said honestly. She had come into the store to buy a pair of flip-flops, but the sundresses, with their colorful floral prints, had caught her eye.

  “They are really cute,” the salesgirl agreed. She was a young woman who’d been restocking the sunscreen display and looking desperately bored when Mila had walked in, but now that she had some company she’d perked up considerably. “Ordering these dresses was my idea,” she told Mila, in a confidential tone. “We already sold clothes here, if you call things like tube socks and trucker caps clothes. But last spring, I said to the owner, Mr. Rasmussen, ‘Would it kill us to sell something that women actually want to wear?’”

  Mila nodded politely and slipped one of the dresses off the rack, wondering if it was the kind of thing she should wear to the party tonight. She held it up to herself, a little self-consciously, and looked around for a mirror.

  “Do you want to try that on?” the salesgirl asked.

  “Could I?”

  “Of course. There’s a little dressing room in back. But there’s no mirror in it. Go figure, right? There’s one right outside it, though.”

  Mila followed her to a tiny dressing room and, pulling the canvas curtain closed behind her, wriggled out of her clothes and into the sundress, as the salesgirl—her name was Darla, she told Mila—chattered away outside of it.

  “Oh, it fits you perfectly,” she said to Mila when she came out of the dressing room, pointing her in the direction of a full-length mirror.

  But as soon as Mila looked in the mirror, she looked away. It was almost as if she didn’t recognize herself in this dress. It had been so long since she’d worn something so . . . so feminine. And so pretty. After she’d gotten married to Brandon, she’d stopped wearing clothes like this. Fun, flirty clothes. Because while he might have liked to see her in them, he didn’t want anyone else to see her in them, and that was a problem if she ever wanted to leave their apartment. Then, when she’d finally left Brandon, she’d packed only the most functional clothing she owned. Functional, of course, meaning boring.

  “What do you think?” Darla prompted.

  Mila looked back in the mirror. “I think maybe it’s a little tight on me,” she said, tugging at one of the sundress’s straps.

  “No, it’s not. It fits you the way it’s supposed to. Trust me.”

  “Maybe if I went up a size—”

  “If you went up a size, it would be too big,” Darla said firmly. “In fact, if I were you, I’d not only wear that dress out of here, but I’d throw away the clothes I wore in here, too.”

  “Why?”

  Darla shrugged. “You have way too nice a figure to be wearing things that hide it,” she said. And then she looked in the mirror at Mila and sighed. “If I looked like that in a dress,” she said, “my boyfriend would probably have a heart arrhythmia or so
mething.” And then she laughed. “So maybe it’s a good thing I don’t look like that in a dress. Anyway, I have to get back to stocking, but I think you’d be crazy not to buy it.” She left Mila alone to stare uncertainly at her reflection in the mirror. The dress wasn’t exactly revealing, she decided, but it showed a little more skin than she was used to showing. She bit her lip then and looked abruptly away. She was acting like a teenager. Staring at herself in the mirror, agonizing over what to wear that night, and impulsively trying on the first article of clothing she’d seen in the store. And that was strange, because even when she’d been a teenager, she hadn’t acted like one. She hadn’t had the luxury of acting like one. She’d been too busy holding their little family together. Which begged the question, really, of why she was acting like a teenager now.

  She took one more look in the mirror, then frowned impatiently and went back into the dressing room, yanking the curtain closed behind her. But by the time she’d changed and emerged with the sundress a few minutes later, she felt something other than impatience with herself. She felt something she’d been feeling, off and on, all day. Fidgety. Restless. Wound up. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Not exactly. But it was the reason she’d done something today she’d never done before; after Walker and Reid had left for Reid’s doctor’s appointment that afternoon; she’d asked Lonnie if she could borrow her car and she’d driven into town. The cabin, she’d decided, was too quiet, and too staid to contain her nervous energy. She needed to be where things were happening, and while there didn’t seem to be a lot happening in Butternut, and what was happening seemed to be happening at its own leisurely pace, it was something, anyway. It was enough to distract her, and to keep her from thinking too hard about that little pulse of anticipation she felt, even now, as she left the dressing room.

  She took the dress up to the register, but not before she picked up a pair of flip-flops, a couple of cotton nightgowns, and a cover-up to wear over her bathing suit. She felt guilty watching Darla ring up her purchases. She’d promised herself she’d save all the money she was paid this summer. But when Darla gave her the total, she felt a little better. It was very reasonable, much more reasonable than it would have been in Minneapolis, and when all was said and done, it would barely put a dent in the money that she’d earned so far.