14

AS SUSAN SWITCHED on the kitchen light, she braced herself for the latest kitten destruction, and looked around in surprise. The kitchen was no more of a mess than it had been when she’d left. Only so long could you tell yourself your mind was on higher things, then you had to start wondering if you weren’t simply a slob.

The whole house was just as she’d left it, except the damn cat was gone. She searched from one end to the other. Could it have sneaked out when she left that morning? The poor little thing would freeze. In the bedroom, she pulled open a drawer for a flashlight to check outside and a furry little brown face stuck itself around the lamp to peer into the drawer.

“Where the hell have you been?” The amount of relief sluicing over her exposed a worrisome sense of ownership. She changed into jeans and sweatshirt, then devoted thirty minutes to the kitchen; clearing the table, stacking dishes in the dishwasher and wiping countertops. With a great sense of virtue she enjoyed a long hot bath, then took herself off to bed and snuggled under the down comforter.

Sleep eluded her. While her mind chewed over the possibility of Keith and weekends of illicit romance, errant thoughts flitted around the idea of Fran and Oliver Charles Pickett, affectionately known as Osey. Pretty brave of Keith, if he was dillydallying someone. Audrey was not a woman to quietly look the other way. She was more apt to be enraged and start handing out punishment. The thought of Mrs. Vice-chancellor enraged was awe-inspiring. Was any of this connected with Lynnelle’s murder?

Outside, the wind blew and tree branches rubbed against the house with a dry creak. Ask Parkhurst, maybe he’d come across some grapevine hearsay. When she drifted off, she dreamed a black panther with glowing yellow eyes was chasing her with loud eerie screams through thick trees.

She woke sticky with sweat. Hair-raising panther cries came from downstairs. Leaping out of bed, she headed for the door, smacked a toe on her way through and stumbled downstairs. In the living room, the kitten yelling its head off, clung like a burr to the top of the drapes. Jesus. How could anything so small make so much noise? It didn’t want to let go either and once free dug all its needle-sharp claws into her shoulder.

Nothing like a jolt of adrenaline to ruin a night’s sleep. She stacked pillows behind her head and groped for the lamp switch, squinted at the sudden light. Three-thirty. She read Keith’s book Sins of the Fathers until her body stopped jangling. The wind died down and she finally felt sleep creep over her. Just before her mind shut down, she thought somebody had said something she should remember.

She didn’t wake until eight, feeling logy and irritable. She pulled on sweatpants and sweatshirt, did a few desultory stretching exercises and kicked herself out for a run, telling herself how good all this was for her, how much it was going to clear out the mental cobwebs. The sky was a pearl gray, making it seem earlier than it was and not improving her mood. She pounded heavy-footed for three blocks, puffing like a steam kettle, frigid air biting into her lungs. Screw it. It was too cold. She headed for home at a fast walk.

Jen, in jeans and red ski jacket with the hood up, came clattering down her front steps, textbooks clutched in her arms. “Hi,” she said in a disgruntled fashion.

“Anything wrong?”

“Mom won’t let me do anything.”

Oh oh, this could be sticky. Susan didn’t want to make any critical comments about Mom.

“I have to come straight home from school all the time. I can’t do anything. I can’t go to the library, or feed the ducks. I can’t even go over to Judy’s. All because of some stupid old killer.”

“She worries about you.”

“I guess.” Jen kicked at dead grass with the toe of her Reeboks. “You going to catch this guy?”

“Sure.”

Jen didn’t seem satisfied.

“Are you scared, Jen?”

“Nah, what would a stupid old killer want with me?” She shifted her books to the other arm. “Is it dangerous being a cop?”

“Sometimes maybe, but not very often.”

“What if something happens to you?”

Oh, that’s what this was about. “I’m very careful so that nothing will happen to me.”

Jen scowled. “Like look both ways and don’t talk to strangers?”

“You got it.”

“Was Dan careful?”

Tread very softly here. “Yes, Jen, yes he was. But sometimes things do happen. Not very often though.”

Jen’s yellow-green eyes showed the scorn she thought that was worth. “Why can’t you let somebody else do it?”

“It’s my job, Jen.”

“Have you ever been hurt?”

Oh shit. Don’t lie to a kid. Don’t scare the hell out of her either. “Once.”

“Bad hurt?”

“Pretty bad. But, hey, I’m still here.”

“Well, you just better watch out, that’s all.” Jen stomped off.

It’s hard when you’re eleven. And maybe it never gets easy; if you care for someone, you’re at risk.

She showered, brushed her hair and applied some makeup to cover the ravages of too little sleep, then dressed in a charcoal suit and pale blue blouse. As she munched through a bowl of Cheerios, she glanced over the newspaper. Headline:

DEATH SPREADS FEAR.

Fearful that a killer may strike again, business people are hiring security guards and residents are staying home and talk of carrying guns for protection.

“Just what we need,” she muttered, shoved the paper aside and picked up Keith’s book to read while she finished her coffee. The thought she’d had just before falling asleep poked around in the back of her consciousness and finally surfaced. Casey. Jen had said Mom was talking on the phone with Casey.

Susan closed the book over one finger and looked at the cover. Keith C. Kalazar. K. C. Casey? Drink some more coffee, your mind’s still asleep.

The thought stuck with her while she brushed her teeth, wouldn’t let go. It’s ridiculous. Not possible. A wild hare. Comes from not enough sleep, making some nonsensical jump between O.C. and K.C.

All right. It’s nonsense. Go talk with the woman and rule it out.

Drawing in an irritated breath, she slipped on her trenchcoat, grabbed her shoulder bag, told the cat not to have any wild parties and paced up the street to the next block.

The house was a white woodframe with a steeply pitched roof, a porch that ran the length of the front and a large many-paned window that looked out over the porch.

“Oh, Susan,” Terry Bryant, Jen’s mom, said with a start of surprise. Her usual twinkly smile was a little brittle around the edges. She’d been a high school cheerleader and never quite got out of the habit. She blinked her mascaraed lashes.

“May I come in for a minute?”

“Oh well, yes, I guess so.” Terry flipped back the fluffy brown hair that curled down around her shoulders. “I’d offer you some coffee, but I really need to get to work.”

Susan didn’t know her very well; their acquaintance mainly consisted of a hello and a nod when they happened to run into each other. Terry was the sort that always tried to please; thirty-three, a couple years younger than Susan, dressed smartly in green skirt and sweater that matched her green eyeshadow. She worked part time at Rieff’s bookstore.

“It’ll only take a minute.” Without waiting for an invitation, Susan sat on the couch. Keith’s book lay on the coffee table; his picture on the back cover smiled out at her. She glanced at Terry who inched uneasily onto a chair. Maybe this wasn’t so farfetched.

“If it’s Jen, I’ll tell her to stop bothering you.”

“Jen never bothers me. If I had a daughter, I’d like her to be just like Jen.” Terry didn’t seem too pleased about that; the little hero-worship on Jen’s part stirred up jealousy. “What do you know about Audrey’s disappearance?”

Terry gave a nervous little laugh. “Me? Why would you think I’d know anything?”

Susan eyed her steadily; Terry started to fidget. Hit her with it and see what happens. “Because you’re having an affair with her husband.”

Terry’s face flamed red. Right on, Susan thought.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh Terry, that isn’t something you can keep secret.” Susan tried for a calm voice of omniscience.

“It isn’t what you think.” Terry looked down at her black high-heeled shoes.

Susan kept quiet.

“We were in love.” Terry’s chin rose defiantly, or defensively.

Susan nodded, wondered if Terry realized she’d used the past tense. She suspected Terry repetitiously picked at the situation in those four A.M. moments when the mind perversely chooses imagined dialogue instead of sleep.

“We didn’t mean for it to happen. He’s a wonderful man, a wonderful writer. He’s warm and sensitive and—”

“How long have you been seeing each other?”

“About eight weeks. It just happened. We would chat when he’d come into the store. I told him I was trying to write and he asked me about it, and he offered to look at my work. He helped me, gave me encouragement. And then—” Terry plucked at the pleats in her skirt.

One thing led to another. “Did Audrey know?”

Terry shook her head. “He was going to tell her. He really was. It’s just that—”

Waiting for the right time, no doubt. “Do you think he got—angry with her?”

Terry looked horrified. “Did something to her, you mean? No!”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just am. He’s not that kind of man. He’d never do anything like that.”

“Who knew about you and Keith?”

“Nobody.”

“Jen?”

“Of course not. It’s not— I always call him K.C. She doesn’t— Nobody knows.”

“Terry.” Susan came down heavy to keep up the I-know-it-all act.

“We were very careful.” Obviously Terry’s conscience was bothering her to the point where she wanted the relief of confession; maybe even a little part of her wanted to punish Keith for not telling Audrey.

“Where did you meet?”

Terry scrunched further back in the chair. “Different places. Topeka mostly. Sometimes in Kansas City. When Jen was at school or staying with her father. We’d go to dinner, sometimes a movie and—”

Check into a motel. Susan felt sorry for her. “You did see each other here on occasion.”

“We never did.”

Susan looked her disbelief.

“Only once. By the creek.” Terry studied the bright red nail polish on the hands in her lap. “We didn’t know anybody was living there,” she murmured.

“Where?”

Terry looked up, then away. “The old Creighton place.”

Oh shit. “Lynnelle saw you.”

Reluctantly, Terry nodded.

*   *   *

Damn, Susan thought, I wanted a connection between Lynnelle’s murder and Audrey’s disappearance. Now I’ve got it. Jen’s mom. Beware what you wish for.

“There you are,” Hazel said when she walked into the department. “The mayor’s on the phone.”

“What does he want?”

“The latest on Audrey Kalazar, and where is the budget.”

“Tell him I’m not in yet.” Susan turned around and marched back out. She hadn’t done anything with the budget except haul it around with good intentions. She also hadn’t talked with David since the body was found; with Parkhurst throwing out dark suspicions, that was something she’d better do.

*   *   *

David McKinnon’s office was on a side street three blocks from the center of town, in a square red-brick two-story building. She’d met him the year before when she needed an attorney to help her release her rights to the farmland her husband had owned jointly with his sister. At that time David had only been in Hampstead a little over a year and was still picking through the emotional baggage of divorce. She was trying to survive the loss of her husband. After Daniel’s death, she resigned from the whole male-female thing; the risk was too great and the cost too dear; cold showers were always available and hardly cost anything.

The elevator in David’s building was carpeted—floor, walls, ceiling—in a tweedy brown. Certainly was quiet. Maybe better to concentrate on the horrors that awaited at your doctor, dentist or attorney.

The reception area was one of hushed prosperity, with comfortable chairs and Impressionist prints on the walls. A capable, middle-aged woman with the unlikely name of Gwyneth guarded the door to the inner sanctum; she took her responsibilities seriously. Formidable lady. Brought to mind the woman who’d taught Susan’s eighth-grade geometry class.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wren. May I help you?”

Never once had the woman called her “Chief” Wren. The feminists still had a long way to go in Hampstead. “Would you ask David if he would see me for a minute?”

“Have you an appointment?”

Gwyneth knew full well she didn’t. “No.”

“He’s awfully busy,” Gwyneth said with a smile that managed both doubt and regret. “Could it wait?”

“No.”

With a sniff, Gwyneth pushed a button on the phone and murmured into the receiver. “Go on in,” she said when she hung up, her tone just short of “and don’t waste too much of his time.”

David rose from behind his desk. At nine-thirty, he’d already shed his blue suitcoat, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Pale sunshine from the window at his back leant a saintly aura to his blond curly hair and sculptured features. He looked tense with the slightly weary distraction of unhappiness. “Would you like some coffee?”

“The dragon lady doesn’t want me to stay too long.”

“We’ll drink fast. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

She waded through gray carpeting and sank into a black leather armchair that creaked like a ship under sail. His office—two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with impressive leather-bound tomes, desk stacked with legal papers and files—brought back feelings of her childhood. It had the same air of expensive success as her father’s, the same odd mixture of reassurance and intimidation.

David returned with two mugs, handed her one and sat behind the desk. “Weighty thoughts on your mind?”

“Tell me about Lynnelle.”

“You getting anywhere?”

“What did she tell you about her background?”

“Typical cop. Never answer a question. I’ve already told you everything I know.”

“She had a notebook, loose-leaf binder, you ever see it?”

“No.”

“When she called you Saturday evening, did she sound frightened?”

“Leading question,” he said with a dry smile. “She sounded—” He thought a moment. “—a little breathless.”

“And what did you think that meant?”

“Now you’re sounding like a shrink. I’m not sure I thought about it at all.”

“Think now.” Despite the underlying sexual pull, they’d always been easy with each other. Now he seemed stiff; it worried her, made her determined to find out what was going on.

He picked up his coffee, leaned back and took a sip. “Come on, Susan, what’s all this about?”

“It’s about finding a killer.”

He waited, polite attentive look on his face.

“Indulge me a little,” she said. “Throw caution to the winds and speculate.”

“It won’t help you any.”

“You never know. What was your impression of her?”

“A young lady with a lot of demons. I felt sorry for her, somewhat responsible. And before you ask, my feelings were strictly paternal.”

“How paternal?” No matter what Parkhurst thought, the likelihood that David was Lynnelle’s father was practically nil. Twenty-one, twenty-two years ago, he’d lived in Boston; very unlikely he could have known Carena Egersund.

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. You said she called you Saturday night about seven.”

He nodded. “She sounded tense, determined.” He paused. “Maybe a little nervous, maybe a little frightened. It was a brief conversation. She said the furnace had conked out. I told her I’d come by and take a look. She asked if I’d come in the morning. She’d be fine until then, she had the Franklin stove and she had something planned for the evening.”

“What was it?”

“She didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”

Going to see Egersund, Susan thought, and was personally betting the young lady had said, Hi, Mom. I’m your daughter. “Did she tell you she was an adopted child?”

“No, Susan. I really know nothing about her.”

“You said she had demons.”

“You asked for impressions.”

“What gave you that impression?”

He sipped coffee. “I saw her maybe half a dozen times. She seemed young for her age.” He glanced at a framed photo of his own daughter sitting on the corner of his desk, a lovely young woman with long blond hair and David’s blue eyes. “Laura at sixteen is more mature, more sophisticated.”

Laura lived in Boston, Susan thought, with a moneyed background; that may have something to do with it.

“Lynnelle was closed in. When she came to me about living in that ramshackle house, I asked a few questions and barriers went up all over the place. She had a lost look, hurt—angry.”

“Did she ever mention her stepfather?”

“She never mentioned anything about herself or her family.”

“Didn’t you find that a little odd?”

“You’re pumping a dry well, Susan. I’ve told you everything I know.”

No, she thought, you haven’t. Why not? Parkhurst was sharp. Had he picked up something she’d missed because of friendship? She sipped coffee and let seconds tick by. Traffic sounds came from the street outside, and one impatient toot of a horn.

“All right, David. What is it? What do you know you’re not telling me?”

His blue eyes sharpened; he leaned forward and picked up a pen, tapped it against his thumb. “What are you, a witch?”

“Just a cop with experience.”

He looked at her for a moment. “I can see you’re reading in things that are not there and jumping to conclusions. Saturday was not the best night of my life.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips and leaned back. “My wife was getting married Sunday afternoon.”

“Ah, that’s a hard one.”

He gave her a sour smile. “We’ve been divorced for over two years. But on Saturday night, she didn’t seem ex- at all. I was digging up bones.”

“Oh, David, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

“I was programmed for success, sailed along through school, everything happened at the right time. Good law school. Partnership track with a good law firm. Met the right people. Made the right moves. Married the right woman, had the right child. Made partner. Worked sixteen-, eighteen-hour days. Typical success story.”

“No time for your family.”

“Hey, I was providing. It wasn’t my job to have time for my family. One day I woke up and I was forty-one years old and my wife was gone.”

“You loved her?”

“Now there’s an interesting thing. The day she told me she was leaving was the first time I noticed her in over a year. Being true to my kind, only after she stopped loving me did I realize how much I loved her.”

“Did you tell her you loved her?”

“I was a husband. Of course, I didn’t tell my wife I loved her.”

“You always make jokes at serious questions?”

“Absolutely. For a long time I couldn’t breathe when I thought about her. Bad jokes were the only thing that held me together.”

“You ever try tears?”

“I only cry at cheap moments. Marching bands and graduations. My daughter’s boyfriends.”

She smiled.

“As Saturday evening wore on, I developed an attack of the grues. I hadn’t made any right choices in my life, it had all gone sour, nothing was ever going to go right again.” He made a dismissive sound of disgust as he shook his head.

“I started worrying about that damn Franklin stove. No telling how long since it’s been used, what kind of shape it was in. I imaged the fucking thing blowing up, setting fire to the house and Lynnelle burned to a crisp.”

He fiddled with the pen, drawing small circles on the desk blotter. “I had to go out there.”

“What? What time?”

“About eleven-thirty.”

“Goddamn it, I should arrest you for withholding.”

“Actually, I didn’t. You asked where I was from eight to eleven. I answered. Truthfully.”

“What about helpfully? Now we’re finally discussing all this, maybe you wouldn’t mind telling me what happened when you drove out there, to a house that you own, on the night when the young lady who was living there got struck on the head and left to drown in the creek.”

“Nothing happened. I drove out. The house was still standing, not engulfed in flames. I knocked on the door, got no response and left.”

“Was her car there?”

“I didn’t see it. It may have been in back. I only went to the front door.”

“You didn’t see anything?”

“Not a thing. Oh, a car going in the opposite direction.”

“Did it come from Lynnelle’s?”

“Not that I know.”

“What kind was it?”

“‘Sixty-five Mustang.” He smiled tiredly. “I owned one once. Sweet little car. I totaled it. Felt like I’d lost my best friend.”

“Only the driver? No passengers?”

“Only the driver, and I can’t give you a description. Male, female, young, old, I don’t know. It was too dark and raining too hard. My guess would be a young male, but only because that’s the kind of car a kid might have.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

He took a breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry, Susan. I don’t know. I went a little nuts. It was embarrassing. If you want to know the truth, it scared me a little. I simply didn’t want you to know.”

*   *   *

At her desk, Susan read reports while Parkhurst paced. A fluorescent bulb in the ceiling fixture flickered periodically, driving her nuts. Three calls during the night from an elderly widow reporting suspicious noises. Responding officers found nothing.

A man heard someone in his kitchen and fired a revolver at his teenage son who’d come down in the middle of the night for a snack. Fortunately, the guy was a bad shot. Shit. They better get this cleared up before the next idiot killed his kid.

“Nick is peddling weed.” Parkhurst tapped a knuckle on the desk, paced to the window and rested his rear on the ledge. “I think he has his warehouse out there.”

“Why didn’t we find it?”

“Smart kid. Way too smart for dumb cops. The little shit. He has an opportunity, and he’s going to blow it. He could have killed Lynnelle because she found out what he was up to.”

“Does Julie know about the drugs?”

“Might not bother her. The old line about it’s no worse than alcohol and their elders and betters guzzle that.”

“How does Dr. Kalazar’s disappearance fit in?”

“Maybe through daughter Julie,” he said.

A shade reluctantly, Susan told him of Terry Bryant’s affair with Keith and Lynnelle seeing them by the creek.

“Either one or both together may have whacked Lynnelle.”

She didn’t like that scenario; Jen had enough problems. “Then got rid of Audrey? And did what with the body? And if they’d removed the problem why do anything to Audrey?”

“Leaving the path clear for true love.”

She tensed her shoulders. “I don’t know. I keep feeling there’s something here we’re not seeing.” She scattered through the reports looking for her notebook and flipped pages. “Egersund had an argument with Audrey. Find out what that was about.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Ask Egersund what kind of car her son drives.”

Parkhurst raised an eyebrow.

She told him what she’d learned from David.

Parkhurst grinned. “So your friend the attorney has been lying to us.”