Nothing. They had nothing. The state troopers had found nothing at the Wayside Country Store to shed light on Dana Clark’s disappearance. They’d found no tire tracks in the parking lot because the lot was under five inches of water that was steadily rising.
They’d found no evidence of struggle.
They’d found nothing to indicate that Dana Clark had ever been on the porch, though it was assumed she was, unless she’d lied to her daughter.
They’d found no sign of Dana’s car along the roadside for fifteen miles in either direction of the Wayside; however, the fog remained the chief hindrance to knowing outright if Dana’s car was in the trees or a field near the road, whether due to an accident or foul play. Dana herself, her body, might be out there, too, along the road, in a ditch or in the trees or a shallow grave.
The fog put it all into question. It obscured the world. Test felt as though a fungus or a degenerative disease had left a film over her eyes, blurring her vision, and if she just put in enough eyedrops or wiped her eyes well enough, she’d see clearly again. Except, there was no seeing clearly again. She’d blink back the moist air, wipe at her eyes, and still the world remained milky. She was helpless against it; there was not a thing she, or anyone else, could do to see more clearly. It grated on her, the lack of vision that impeded her job, and her lack of control over it.
If the temperature was just a few degrees colder as it normally was in early November, there would be no fog, and perhaps Dana, or at least her car, would have been found by now.
The state troopers, driving ATVs, had reached the deer camp where Tammy Clark’s husband and father were hunting. The two men had been shocked to learn Dana was missing and headed home without delay. Neither was a suspect.
Test sighed, the case stalled before it had begun.
She opened her laptop on the kitchen counter, which despite her having to prep dinner soon remained strewn with cereal boxes, dirty bowls, and scummed orange juice glasses from the kids’ breakfast in the morning. Claude would see to cleaning up. Sonja could hear the floorboards above her head creak under Claude’s feet now as he made his way to the bathroom to shower off a day of oil paints and thinner. The kids were miraculously playing peacefully in the living room.
Test browsed her laptop for Thanksgiving recipes. She needed to prepare ahead to find a fresh take on her staid, dry turkey that no one ate without drowning in her gravy, which was no great shakes, either. Claude claimed Test’s turkey was delicious, the liar. Her turkey was sawdust. Did anyone even like turkey? Or green bean casserole or canned cranberry? On her laptop, a sweet potato casserole with condensed milk and a brown sugar topping caught her eye. Maybe she’d just serve a colossal sweet potato casserole on paper plates with plastic spoons. Call it a day.
Claude entered the kitchen, barefoot in jeans and a flannel shirt, wrapped his arms around her from behind. He felt good. Strong. Warm. Smelled good. Of soap. She wondered what he wanted to tell her. He always wrapped her arms around her like this, held her in a slightly less affectionate way when he needed to tell her something rather than be amorous.
“What is it?” she said.
“Giving my wife a hug.”
“Mmm hmm. What is it?”
She could tell something weighed on his mind. She’d hardly seen him in two days as she’d worked the Clark case till past dinner. When she had come home, Claude seemed preoccupied and sequestered himself to tend to his portfolio in his studio until all hours of the night.
“It’s been two days. You’re still not curious?” he said.
“Oh, shit. Your interview.” She’d forgotten his interview with UVM. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want to mention until we had time to get into it.”
“So it went well? You think they’ll offer the post?”
“The question is, do you think I should accept it?”
“You got it? Of course you did.” She smiled. Breathed him in. Claude did not smile. At times, the more pleased he was by his success, the less he smiled, as if it would jinx the very reason he had to smile. His superstition was subtle, but there for his wife to notice. His detective wife. While he kept his mouth tight, he could not keep his eyes from smiling. He’d wanted this visiting artist post more than Sonja had realized.
“You didn’t tell them yes?” she said.
“It has to work for both of us.”
His two-week absence would make for an exhausting, acrobatic, but joyful two weeks alone with the kids. In some ways, when she was alone with the kids, it was easier to let go, spread out, and not worry about the dishes or state of the house, or scheduling that normally stressed her. It was as if she were on minivacation. She went with the flow. One less adult in the picture, accommodating and loving as Claude was, meant one less perspective or schedule or mood to accommodate when making meals or decisions on how to entertain the kids. She wondered what Claude would say if, upon returning home after being away, he asked how it had gone, and she told the truth: “It was so much easier.” It was a matter of practicality, not lack of appreciation. He’d probably laugh and confess he felt the same way when she was gone. Of course, if she had a case come up when he was gone, it would be a nightmare. Their babysitter was reserved for rare and random date nights, their anniversary, and Valentine’s Day. Even if she and Claude could afford it, the sitter could not cover during the day or through the night, and Test, if she held the senior position by then, could not punt her work to an underling such as Larkin and expect to hold the position for long.
“It’s good money,” Claude said. “It would take me three months to finish a painting I could sell for as much, if I even sold the painting.”
“Your paintings sell.”
“Some.”
“No one bats a hundred.”
“A thousand. No one bats a thousand.”
“How can you bat a thousand percent?” Test said.
“It’s not a percentage thing.”
“That’s crazy. Look. Call UVM. Tell them yes.”
Claude paused. There was something he wasn’t telling her.
“It would probably lead to a full-time gig, next fall,” he said.
“What? How long have you known this?” A two-week visiting artist gig was one thing. A full-time position was another. UVM was in Burlington, two and a half hours away. That meant moving. That meant it was impossible.
“They just told me. Don’t get upset.”
If there was one thing that upset Test, it was being told not to get upset. “You don’t want a full-time gig. You always said teaching is a time suck from your painting.”
“It would pay well. Plus free tuition. Especially if we have a third.”
As if on cue, George piped up from the other room to call into question the sanity of a third child: “Where’d you hide it!” George shrieked.
“Get off!” Elizabeth screamed.
“Stop it in there.” Claude deepened his voice instead of shouting, trying for authoritative instead of pleading.
“She won’t tell where she hid my race car!” George railed.
“And torturing her helps? Lizzy. Tell him where it is. Now.” Claude looked at Sonja. “Still want a third?”
She did. Or thought she did. The past several months she and Claude had been “trying,” a term she disliked more than don’t get upset. But the process was, well, trying. Monitoring her ovulation and having to try even when her and Claude’s moods or bodies or schedules weren’t in sync. She wondered if a third child would allow her to perform her current job, let alone act as senior detective. She and Claude were already strained to their limits of time, energy, and money.
“I just wonder how practical it is,” she said.
“Practical? Having kids? It’s insane.”
“We can’t just move to Burlington.”
“Of course we can. Burlington has a big police department.”
“I want more bureaucracy like you want the ivory tower. That’s why we live here.”
“We’d be more stable.”
“We are stable.”
“Not if we have a third.”
Then maybe we shouldn’t, Test thought.
“If I got the full-time gig, I’d have time with the kids,” Claude said, “and summers and breaks to paint. And a steady income. Not the sporadic one I have now. And free tuition.”
“You’ve really thought about this.”
“It’s a long drive back from Burlington in the fog.”
“You’re in a fog. I can’t just quit. Move. We can’t.”
“We can do anything we want.”
“I won’t,” Test said.
Claude bristled.
“We love this house,” Test said. “It’s home. The fields, the sledding, cutting our own Christmas tree. The kids have friends. Teach some classes locally. At Lyndon or Johnson, or—”
“Let’s scrap it, for now. The position wouldn’t start for nearly a year anyway. Nothing would be ‘just’ move. And if Barrons passes you up for—”
“Don’t even say that, it—”
Test’s cell phone rang on the counter.
Barrons. This late in the day, it had to be about Dana Clark. “Chief,” Test said as Elizabeth screamed. Claude wandered out of the kitchen, shouting, “Stop torturing your sister!”
“I need you at the end of Pisgah Wilderness Road,” Barrons said.
“What’s this about?”
Barrons filled her in.
“Shit,” Test said as she hurried for her coat and keys.