by Traci DePree
“What diagnosis did the doctor give, then?” Kate asked, her curiosity growing.
“He said she was depressed.” Judy met Kate’s gaze. “But she didn’t want to believe that.”
“But isn’t depression at least treatable? I don’t understand why Sonja would reject that diagnosis when the alternative isn’t curable,” she said.
“That’s true,” Judy admitted. “But she didn’t feel her symptoms lined up with depression. Listen, I don’t know if Sonja was right...or if the doctor was. But I knew my friend.”
She took a deep breath and splayed a hand across her chest. “Ever since we were kids,” Judy went on, “Sonja and I were close. She and Brad moved to Copper Mill because of our friendship. She’d been so lonely before, and she was finally coming home to Tennessee. But when Brad lost his job, it was hard on them. I know that they fought, and there were times she was sad, but I don’t believe she was depressed.”
“In spite of the doctor’s diagnosis?”
Judy shook her head.
“Did she go through the whole regimen of tests?” Kate asked, recalling the article she and Livvy had read on the Internet.
“I think so,” Judy said.
A deep sense of dread began to settle in Kate’s chest. If Sonja had indeed gone through the battery of tests, the likelihood that the doctor’s diagnosis was right grew exponentially. How could the two women have rejected that conclusion out of hand? And if Sonja was depressed and not afflicted with Alzheimer’s, what did that mean as far as her disappearance went? Surely she wouldn’t have been so confused that she couldn’t have found her way home after all these days.
Unless someone had kept her from coming home.
Judy’s comments echoed in Kate’s head as she made her way home. Why would Sonja lie about her diagnosis to her own family? Or had she? Had Brad known of the diagnosis and misled the authorities in an attempt to cover up something? But why? He loved his wife. Didn’t he?
As soon as Kate arrived home, she made a beeline for the phone and dialed Brad’s number to ask him about it, then she thought better of it. She needed to see him face-to-face. So much was missed in a phone call.
Kate grabbed her car keys and headed back out the door. Minutes later, she parked in the Weavers’ driveway and made her way up the walk. Brad met her at the front door before she had a chance to ring the bell.
“Kate,” he said, a genuine-looking smile on his face.
Kate didn’t know whether to trust it, but she wanted to. He led her to the family room, where he had a newspaper spread out, with want ads circled in black Sharpie.
“Job hunting?” she said.
“Still looking,” he said, following her gaze. “I have a couple of promising leads, though.”
Kate took a seat across from him.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Brad offered. “I have some sodas in the refrigerator.”
“No, thanks,” Kate said. She met his eyes with a smile. He looked so alone, and in spite of her suspicions, her heart went out to him.
“I’m glad you came by,” he said. “Life has changed so much without Sonja here, and we’re so blessed to have such great friends. I didn’t realize how much she handled in a day!”
Kate patted his hand.
“This house used to be spotless,” he added with a halfhearted laugh as he pointed to the piles of paperwork, unwashed dishes, and clothing scattered about the upscale home. “If Judy didn’t stop by once in a while and pick up after us...”
“This is part of grieving,” Kate offered.
Brad inhaled through his nose and seemed to think that comment through. “I guess you’re right. Does it get easier?”
“I hope so,” Kate said.
He leaned back in his chair. “It’s not fair, Kate,” he finally said. “Not fair at all. Why would God give my wife Alzheimer’s?”
“Are you blaming him for all of this?” she asked honestly, making sure there was no hint of judgment in her tone.
“I suppose I am,” he admitted. “I don’t want to, but I am.”
Kate tried to gently steer the conversation toward Sonja’s diagnosis. “You know that early-onset Alzheimer’s can be genetic,” she said.
“Her mother had it,” he said, confirming what Judy had told her. “It wasn’t good. In some ways, Sonja’s passing is a mercy when I think about what her family went through back then.”
“All this has led me to be very curious about Alzheimer’s, and I’ve been doing some research on it,” Kate went on casually. “Did you know that Alzheimer’s is often misdiagnosed as depression?”
“No,” he said. She watched his face for any hint that he understood the nuance of her question, but there was nothing. No twitch or shifting of the eyes to indicate that he knew about the depression diagnosis or that he’d been keeping Sonja’s secret. If Sonja had lied to Brad about having Alzheimer’s, perhaps she hadn’t been so innocent either. But if the doctor’s diagnosis of depression was correct, and Brad and Sonja knew about it, how could they lead their own children to believe she had Alzheimer’s? How could a loving mother and father do something so horrendous?
Chapter Twelve
Kate decided to go see Livvy after leaving Brad. First, she called the bait and tackle shop as she had every day since the discovery of the photos to see if Willy was finally back.
“Yep, he’s here,” Kip said. “Do you want me to get him?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll drop by later.” She turned off her cell phone and made her way up the library steps.
Kate found the librarian upstairs shelving books in the cookbook section of the nonfiction area and sidled up to her. “Sonja was never diagnosed with Alzheimer’s,” she whispered.
Livvy stopped what she was doing. “What are you talking about?”
Kate pulled her friend to the side so any patrons browsing the stacks wouldn’t hear what she had to say. “I just found out that it’s possible Sonja didn’t have Alzheimer’s at all. Her doctor told her it was more likely depression.”
Livvy’s eyes widened in shock. “So...I don’t get it. Depression wouldn’t have caused her to forget where she lived.”
“I know. So she might have been lying,” Kate supplied. “The only question is why?”
A mother with her toddler son ambled past, paying no mind to them. Kate waited until they were out of earshot. “Judy said that Sonja told Brad she had Alzheimer’s because she didn’t believe the doctor’s depression diagnosis. Her mother had early-onset Alzheimer’s too, so the genetic predisposition was there.”
Livvy’s brow furrowed. “Sonja worked here with me. She didn’t act depressed. She seemed normal, aside from the occasional forgetfulness.” She sighed. “So now what?” She looked Kate in the eye.
“Somehow, we need to find the truth,” Kate said, tapping her fingers on the bookshelf. “I’m wondering if Willy Bergen can shed some light on any of this. If she was behaving oddly out in the woods that day...”
“He told police he didn’t see her,” Livvy reminded Kate.
“But with the photos putting her near the creek at the same time Willy was fishing, along with the footprints by the creek and Sonja’s jacket...” Kate shook her head. “How could he not have seen something?”
Livvy nodded agreement.
“I called the bait and tackle shop on the way over,” Kate went on. “Willy’s back in town, so I’m going to pay a little visit. Is there anything you can remember from that day that might spark some questions?”
Livvy was silent as she thought. “Well, I think the most important question is why Sonja had been at the same exact spot by the creek where Willy was fishing. I wonder if he has some logical explanation for not seeing her or hearing the shout in the woods. He was closer to the source than we were.”
Kate agreed that that detail had been niggling at her as well.
After a few more minutes of discussion, Kate headed to Willy’s Bait and Tackle. The sky had grown dark w
hile she’d been in the library. Lightning flashed, and rain began to fall.
Kate parked her black Honda Accord on Ashland Street in front of Creekside Books, then made her way inside the small, cramped shop. She brushed the raindrops from her skin and gave her head a shake.
The bait shop was filled to the brim with fishing equipment—fishing poles; live bait in tanks, as well as artificial bait; every kind of minnow bucket and worm container; fish attractants; and kits for beginning anglers.
Two men clad in flannel plaid, with bellies that hung over their low-hanging, faded jeans, argued about which type of bobber worked best. Kate made her way past them to the counter at one side of the establishment. The bitter scent of coffee stung Kate’s nose. Willy sat behind the counter. His face was buried in a copy of American Angler magazine, and he held a doughnut in one hand.
The portly man glanced over the top of the magazine, saw Kate, and waggled his bushy eyebrows as a grin spread over his face. “Well, Kate, funny seeing you here!”
“You’re a hard man to get ahold of, Willy.”
He chuckled. “Took a little fishin’ trip,” he said. “Part of runnin’ a bait store, you know...Research.”
Kate laughed.
“So, what can I do you for?” he said. He pushed off from the stool. “Are you in the market for fishing accoutrements? Maybe getting a little surprise present for Paul?”
Kate laughed. “Not today.”
“I’ve got a pot of coffee on.” Willy tilted his head toward the counter behind him. “Want some?” Then he reached under the counter and pulled out a clear plastic container of doughnuts. “Goes good with a cruller.”
“I’ve had your coffee, Willy,” Kate said with a smirk. “Too strong for me, and that cruller will go straight to my hips.”
They chuckled together.
“So, you didn’t come to shop, and you aren’t interested in the coffee or the doughnuts,” Willy said, raising one of his bushy eyebrows. “Just here for the company?” The sparkle in his eye complemented the teasing tone.
“Actually,” Kate replied, keeping her tone light and even, “I was wondering if I could chat with you about Sonja Weaver.”
His expression changed almost instantly. A look of suspicion lit his eyes. “Sonja Weaver?” he repeated.
Kate nodded, adding, “There was a memorial service for her last Friday.”
“I heard that.” His expression grew grim.
He glanced at Kip, the new employee Kate had talked to on the phone. He was stocking shelves in a far corner of the small store. Kip was probably in his late twenties, with a thin body that seemed slightly out of proportion to his round head.
“Kip,” Willy said, drawing the young man’s attention. “I’m goin’ in the back. Can you watch the register?”
Kip nodded and set down the box of fishing line to move to the counter as Willy led Kate to the back. They took seats at a grungy table in the small room. Piles of boxes surrounded them, some empty and overflowing with packing peanuts, and others yet to be opened. Willy turned to her.
“You know I already talked to the police about Sonja Weaver, don’t you?” Willy said.
“I realize that,” Kate said, smiling kindly, “and I don’t want to take too much of your time.” She paused. “There are a few things about that day that didn’t seem quite right to me, and I was hoping you could clear them up.”
Willy’s face looked stoic. “I said pretty much all I have to say,” he replied with an exaggerated shrug. It struck Kate as odd, almost as if he was overacting. “But I’ve got no problem tellin’ you what I told the police,” he added. “I didn’t see Sonja Weaver,” he went on. He shrugged again in an exaggerated manner, but Kate saw a flicker of hesitation. “She was a nice lady and all. I mean, what I knew of her.” He cleared his throat and slicked his hair away from his face. “She must’ve come to the creek after I left.” Willy’s eyes darted from her face, down and to the right. Clearly he was lying.
“I noticed that there were two sets of footprints along the shore where you were fishing,” Kate explained, “one presumably yours, and the other prints were smaller, like a woman’s.”
Willy sat up, and his face grew red. “It’s not impossible that she could have come to the creek after I left, is it?” His tone rose slightly in irritation, which was rare for the usually jovial man. “It is an easy spot to get at the creek, fairly flat there. A lot of folks go there to fish and enjoy nature.”
He didn’t look at her when he spoke—he looked at the floor or over her shoulder—yet as soon as he was done answering her questions, he met her eyes.
“That’s true,” Kate conceded. She offered a smile before pressing forward. “But when Livvy and I came by the first time, I noticed that your waders were clean, and yet when we came back, they had mud and leaves on them. That was maybe thirty minutes later. Did you slip in the mud or go somewhere in between—”
“What’s your point?” Willy interrupted, his volume rising.
Kate was so surprised by the outburst that she forgot what she was going to say. Finally she said simply, “I’m not trying to upset you, Willy.”
His eyes darted away. “I didn’t see or hear anything, Kate,” he said simply. He lifted his cup of coffee and took a long, nervous drink.
She pulled from her handbag the three photographs she’d taken that day and held them out for Willy to look at.
Willy took them and glanced at each in turn.
“I’m hoping something new will stand out to you,” Kate explained. “Anything. Maybe you saw the man in the purple shirt?” She pointed to that shot.
Willy paused to study it more closely. She noticed that his hands were shaking.
“No. Sorry.” He handed the pictures back.
“Do you know where that bush was?” She pointed to the shot where the yellow jacket had been found.
“I have no idea.”
His gaze lifted to meet hers. “If you think I had something to do with Sonja’s disappearance, you’re wrong.”
Kate had made no such assertion, so for Willy to bring it up was somewhat telling. Where exactly had he been during the past week?
“She was a nice lady,” he repeated, “and I’m sorry that something happened to her, but I had nothin’ to do with it.” He rose, clearly to excuse himself from any more questions.
The sincerity of his final speech combined with the nervous tension he exuded and the obvious falsity of his prior statements left Kate utterly confused.
She stood and offered a hand to shake. “Thanks for your time, Willy,” she said.
He looked surprised but relieved that she wasn’t going to question him anymore. They left the back room and headed through the cramped aisles to the checkout counter.
Willy cleared his throat and then spoke loudly, as if talking for the benefit of the others in the store. “You tell Paul I have those spinners he likes so much, okay?”
Kate smiled at him curiously and replied, “I’ll let him know.”
They reached Kip, who was seated on the same stool Willy had vacated, looking at the magazine Willy had been perusing earlier.
“Oh, you’re back,” the younger man said to his boss.
He glanced at Kate ever so briefly as a nervous expression flickered across his face. His nostrils flared, and his eyes returned immediately to Willy. Kate turned to look at him again, but he quickly turned away from her.
“You can get back to stockin’ that fishin’ line, if you like, Kip,” Willy said. Then to Kate, “Sorry I can’t be of more help to you.”
“Thanks,” Kate said, but before heading out to her car, she paused to take note of the closing time on the front door. She hadn’t gotten anywhere with Willy, but she wondered if his employee could offer up anything of use.
She’d seen the look on his face. He knew something.
Chapter Thirteen
Paul gazed through his office window as the rain came down that Monday. Occasionally a lightning bolt w
ould flash in the distance. His thoughts turned to Bobby Evans. It had been a week since Caitlin had come to share her concerns about the hardworking pastor. Paul had tried to call him on three occasions, only to get busy signals. Maybe, he realized, he needed to meet face-to-face with his good friend.
Rising from his desk, Paul reached for his umbrella and his keys and went to the outer office, where his secretary, Millie Lovelace, was reading a magazine. She quickly shoved it aside and looked up at Paul, a question in her eyes.
“I’m heading out for a bit,” he informed her.
“Where to?” she said, glancing at the paper calendar she kept for him on her desk. “You don’t have any appointments.”
“I’m going to visit a friend,” he said without offering any more details.
Millie shrugged and said, “Fine with me. I have to skedaddle to my job at SuperMart pretty quick anyway.”
Paul walked outside, opening his umbrella as he went. Dark clouds rumbled overhead, and a flash of lightning lit the sky as he climbed into his pickup. He’d been thinking of the Weavers that morning too, and praying for them as they learned to reconfigure life without their wife and mother. Turning on the motor, Paul made his way into town, to the Baptist church. It was a plain-looking building in tan brick. The asphalt parking lot circled it like a moat around a castle.
Paul parked near the main entrance. When he arrived at Bobby’s office door, a mound of books and papers on top of the desk shielded the younger pastor from view. Bobby’s secretary, a plump, exuberant young woman named Libby, had let Paul in. She stood next to Paul and cleared her throat to get Bobby’s attention. Bobby peeked above the wall of concordances and Bible helps.
Paul was momentarily surprised as he met Bobby’s eyes, underscored by shadows that were as dark as tattoos. His face was indeed thinner than the last time Paul had seen him, and even his cheeks were sunken beneath a hollow expression.
“Paul.” Bobby got up and came around to shake his hand. “What brings you by?”
“I haven’t seen you in a while and thought I’d stop in and say hello.” He glanced around the messy office, then moved to one of the wooden chairs across from Bobby’s desk. “How’ve you been?”
