Once upon a hill, we sat beneath a willow tree
Counting all the stars, and waiting for the dawn . . .
—Charles Strouse and Lee Adams
Willow’s day (and night) was full.
He planned to leave work after lunch and drop in on Adelaide before driving down to New Baltimore to keep his appointment with Roy Eakins. Then, in the evening, he would pick up Annie and attend his first Meeting, at the Cross of Glory Lutheran Church in Detroit. (After Honeychile had trespassed, the circumspect Annie moved it from the Divine Child Parish.) Willow had mixed emotions about that.
But mostly, he was scared shitless.
A nagging sense of folie à deux made him shudder—that he was entering into an irreversible pact with a deranged woman. He pictured himself back in AA (he hadn’t been to a meeting since moving to Macomb) and imagined his share before the packed room: “I started drinking again because I got stressed over a new job. I couldn’t handle being the scout leader of a troop of dead kids whose mission was to hunt down and kill their own murderers.” The macabre fantasy made him laugh, and he was glad he still could. He sensed that his laughing days were coming to an end.
He knew that Owen wouldn’t be home when he stopped over, which was best. He wanted to talk to Adelaide before his appointment with Roy, though the detective wasn’t even sure what it was that he wanted from her. He was flying by the seat of his pants—or maybe Roy Eakins’s pants—and none of it seemed particularly promising. What else was an over-the-hill, in-over-his-head cold case fuck-up to do? At least Roy was affable when they talked on the phone. It sounded counterintuitive but if the man had been closemouthed or even nasty, Willow may not have had the energy to further pursue. But Roy had always been affable. Like Ronnie Rummer, he actually sounded excited that Willow had called.
From Adelaide’s, he would pick Annie up at the SRO in Detroit. She was getting weaker and the bus ride to the Meeting had become too challenging. She told him to come at 7:00 P.M. He got nauseous just thinking about it.
Since he’d ripped them new assholes, the Cold Case Kids had gotten down to brass tacks. Lydia even approached him with a few rape kits, breaking her monomaniacal focus on the Rummers. When the detective told them about his visit with Elaine and Ronnie Rummer, they listened attentively, not in that weird way they tended to whenever Willow began talking about Troy and Maya’s parents. In general, they played their emotions close to the vest. Only once did Lydia betray an inner turmoil—when he shared that Elaine tried to kill herself on multiple occasions, the last effort ending in a disfiguring shotgun wound to the face. Willow thought that might have triggered something about Lydia’s own mother, but didn’t want to pry.
Before he left to see Adelaide, they met in the conference room so he could hear a plan of action. He could see they needed a kick in the pants. (The detective was starting to worry that he hadn’t properly been doing his job.) It haunted him that he had always failed as a mentor, from his daughter on down—which begged the surreal yet pressing question: How the fuck am I going to be of any use to Annie?
He scrutinized the corkboard as the rookies spoke of the leads they had chased, admitting with some chagrin that there wasn’t anything that looked intuitively promising.
“Then stop looking for intuitive,” Willow said sagely. “Intuitive can be overrated. Look for the real—connections that are real. Let ‘intuitive’ take care of itself.”
They nodded gravely, like freshmen in Wizard School.
“Here’s something obvious,” said Willow. “Maybe too obvious but I’d have been on it six ways from Sunday.” He touched the fingertips of both hands, as if encircling a crystal ball. “The serial killer in Jacobs Prairie . . . that’s not too far from here, right? Are there any dots to connect?”
Lydia brightened—finally, they could please their teacher.
“We looked into it,” said Daniel drily.
“And?” said Willow.
“Timeline doesn’t work.”
“He was in jail that summer,” said Lydia. “Failure to pay child support.”
“You could have told me about that.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Lydia.
“Cold case folks from all around the country have gotten their knickers wet over that little shootout,” added Willow.
He stared at the pinned bag with the birthday card inside. Adorned with a sequined unicorn, it had been found in Maya’s bicycle basket, the one Elaine helped decorate with red plastic roses. The police surmised it had been picked up from the ground where it fell, then fastidiously replaced. It bore two prints: a tire track from the bike itself, and that of a human hand. In a show of solidarity and love, the community offered up their palms—hundreds of them. Willow had already returned to New York when he heard about the voluntary effort, and while it touched him (a three-page feature, “Palm Sunday,” ran in People), the cynical cop knew better. He thought it was a colossal waste of money and manpower. He tended to agree with Ronnie Rummer. Whoever grabbed those kids was likely transient, and long gone by the time Saggerty Falls staged its compassionate act of theater.
“I keep seeing that card. What’s it still doing here?” he said gruffly. The deputies were perplexed. “Send it to the lab. See if they can get some DNA off the print.”
It had never been swabbed. In 2000, DNA was only something in the air.
“Yes, sir,” said Lydia.
“Seems unlikely, though, doesn’t it, sir?” said Daniel.
“I’d like a dollar for every time ‘unlikely’ turned out to be a grand slam.”
“Yes, sir.”
Since having their backsides spanked, they’d been sir-ing him to death like child actors out of Oliver! It amused more than it annoyed. He returned his gaze to the Ouija board of clues.
“Have either of you come across the name Roy Eakins? Or Grundy Eakins?”
“The teacher and his son?” said Lydia. “Sure. I read his interview—the father’s.”
“The boy was developmentally disabled,” said Daniel.
“That’s right,” said Willow.
“He was ruled out,” said Lydia. “He was at the barbecue all day.”
“They both were—they never left. Why do you ask, sir?”
“I’m interviewing Roy this afternoon.”
“Really,” said Daniel.
“Like us to come along?” said Lydia.
“No, I think you can sit this one out. I’m not even sure why I’m going. Definitely no need to show up with the whole cavalry.”
“He was cleared,” said Daniel. “He submitted a palm print. They both did—to my knowledge.”
“What do you hope to learn?” said Lydia.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “It’s just one of those intuitive things.”
“‘Intuitive’ can be overrated,” she said impishly.
Though he had no reason to, Willow parked around the corner from the Caplans’ driveway, so his car wouldn’t be visible—old stalk-and-skulk habits die hard.
But there was something else to his skullduggery; when it came to Adelaide, being surreptitious gave him an erotic charge. He’d been fantasizing about her again. He couldn’t have been happier about his sex life with Dixie Rose, but the idea of seducing his ex-wife (with the twofer of cuckolding Owen) set his heart aflutter. Some of it was sore loser’s payback—it would cut the sheriff to the quick—but mostly, it was the pure, verboten kick, the Blueberry Thrill of it all. Addie was great in bed, one of the few women he’d met who could come on a dime. So many of his lovers after the marriage (and during) seemed to have trouble in that department. It was practically an epidemic. After a while, a man couldn’t help thinking he was the problem.
As he walked the half block to Adelaide’s, his cell phone rang. It was Owen. Jesus, the man’s telepathic. He informed Willow that he was having his first interview with Honeychile in the morning. Then he dropped something that righteously pissed Willow off. The sheriff said he’d learned that Lydia and Daniel were in uniform when they stopped by lockdown “to have tea and crackers with my suspect. Do you make them wear deputy uniforms to work, Dubya?” Of course he didn’t and Owen knew it. Willow could tell that his boss was more irritated than anything else—there were too many things on his plate just now—but the Cold Case rookies’ costume party had been enough to warrant a mention. “You might look into that,” he reprimanded. “You bet I will,” said Willow.
He hung there on the sidewalk a moment, wrestling with the impulse to call the Devonshires, which probably wasn’t a good idea. Then he said fuck it and dialed them anyway.
Harold picked up.
Willow hadn’t thought it through—not his specialty—and had to do some tap dancing. He introduced himself as a detective, omitting that he worked Cold Case. He apologized for interrupting Harold’s day.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t get you folks in to see your daughter that afternoon.”
“Well, someone finally made that happen,” said Harold. “But I appreciate it.”
“We had a couple of deputies who were upset that the hospital was being—well, going a little too ‘by the book.’ You may even have run into them while you were there.”
“Oh yes. They came to see us while we were waiting. They were very kind.”
“Do you work with veterans, Mr. Devonshire?”
“Excuse me?”
“Have you ever done any work with PTSD veteran groups?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Sorry for asking,” said Willow, milking his acting chops. “One of the deputies is a vet and he said that you reminded him of a fellow in his group.”
“Why were you calling again?”
The query sounded borderline tetchy; the last thing Willow needed was for Mr. Devonshire to call in some kind of complaint, as far-fetched as that might seem.
“I really just wanted to see how y’all were doing and wish you my best. Have a good evening and sorry to have bothered.”
“No bother at all.”
Hey there, mystery man,” said Adelaide, inviting him in.
God, she was gorgeous. For the first time, he noticed a melancholy to the observation, though not over what he’d lost. No, the sadness came because Dixie had stealthily put a yurt up on the precious, long-barren land where he and his ex once lived. Willow hadn’t built on the property for years and Addie had the feeling he never would. She took comfort as well in knowing he’d converted the acreage into a memorial park—and Willow drew comfort in knowing that she knew.
It was complicated.
“Wassup, Dubya?”
“Not a helluva lot. Just doing the Cold Case deal.”
“Owen said that you went to see the Rummers.”
“Yup. That’ll put a dent in your mood.”
“Poor things,” she said. “God.”
“Speak of the devil—I think Ronnie found Christ.”
“Well, I guess if you can’t find your kids, you have to find somebody.” She winced. “Forgive me, that was awful.”
“You’re dark, Addie. It’s what I miss about you.”
“You don’t miss me, Dub. You might think you do but you don’t. Which is probably a good thing.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You might miss the ‘me’ you had before things went south . . . but things went south a long-ass time before we busted up.” She grew thoughtful. “I’m sorry for all the hurt, Willow. I’m sorry for my share.”
“We’re still standing.”
“That’s right. We didn’t take each other down—not that we didn’t try.” Oh! That gorgeous, crooked mouth when it smiled! “And we have a beautiful daughter to show for our troubles.”
“Yes we do. And a beautiful grandson.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she said. “Note I said I’ll drink, not you.”
It was so easy with her, but he needed to focus.
“I’ve really been traveling down memory lane with this Rummer case. Hey, remember Roy Eakins?”
“Roy? ’Course I do.”
“Whatever happened to him?” he said.
“No idea,” she said. “He moved away—not for a while, though. It must have been about a year after the kids disappeared. I heard he was teaching at some fancy school somewhere . . .”
“They were at the barbecue, weren’t they? I mean, Roy and his kid.”
“Well, I came late, remember? I declined the invitation—I wasn’t too thrilled when I learned you were riding back into town from New York on that surprise birthday puppy. Turned out to be a pretty good gift though, huh. Anyway, I only went over when I heard the kids were missing. When Pace and I got there, it was already after dark.”
Of course Adelaide hadn’t come till later; he’d blocked that out completely. He thought he was being so crafty with his little fishing expedition, but suddenly he felt old, senile, inept.
“It’s funny, though,” she said. “On the way to the Rummers’, we passed them on the road—Roy and Grundy. I’m just now remembering . . . You know that dirt road, how slow you had to go? There were cop cars coming and going, just—craziness. Folks with flashlights running in the fields . . . Do you remember the chaos, Dubya? Truly, truly horrible. And a car came toward us with two people fighting inside, like literally punching each other in the front seat! And I kind of pulled over—I’m just remembering this now—I thought it might be a couple of drunk kids but it was Roy. He slowed down—I think he probably must have seen it was me and felt he needed to explain. Gave us that big smile of his, which was weird considering the circumstances. Said something about Grundy having a nosebleed and how he had to get him home. You remember that boy. He was way off. Roy should have put him in one of those places they seem to have everywhere now, but I guess back then the choices were limited. I mean, he either had to keep him at the house or throw him in some county snake pit—anyway, he was trying to be a good dad, which I think he was. Grundy was always acting out, hittin’ his head against walls, remember? He was a ‘helmet’ kid. And I think that’s probably why—well, I know that’s why it didn’t work out in the romance department. It was too much work. Not so sexy when it came to the dating game. Poor, poor Roy. He had to concoct a whole system just to deal with that kid, it was seriously a full-time job. Quiet time for bad behavior, rewards for good . . . Grundy just sat in the car staring out the windshield with his bloody nose. It was a good thing he got him out of there, because his behavior was unpredictable. I don’t think he was ever embarrassed—that’s what I loved about Roy—but he knew that Elaine and Ronnie had enough to handle. That’s the understatement of the century.”
It was getting late and Willow needed to leave if he wanted to get to Roy’s on time.
“Is that why you came to see me, Willow? To noodle around about Roy?”
“Maybe a little bit. Maybe I got a little nostalgic, in general.”
“I guess we’re a cold case that can never be solved.”
“It’s always tougher when there isn’t a body.”
She laughed out loud at the innuendo. Willow flashed on shoving her against the living room wall and sticking his tongue down her throat. He wondered if she’d submit. How long would it take for her to push him away? Would it be a push? Or a kick in the balls? Maybe she’d do that thing ex-wives in the movies do and go limp in his arms while breathlessly muttering, We can’t—we can’t—it’s not fair—to Owen—please stop—don’t stop! . . .
“Like I said, Dubya: you don’t miss me. You miss the idea of me, the idea of us. Now go home, take a cold shower, and call your daughter. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”
He smiled, kissed her cheek and left.
The drive to New Baltimore took half an hour. He could have taken Armada Ridge to County Line Road but chose the southernmost route instead—29 Mile Road, then left on Avenue of the Waters—so he could pass directly through Saggerty Falls. (Visiting Adelaide had awakened something.) Since his return to Macomb he hadn’t made an expedition to the place where he and Addie once lived—let alone to the Rummers, a fact Willow found both understandable and strange, in light of the fateful decision on the part of his deputies to reopen the case. In New York, it was always his habit and instinct to visit the scene of a cold case crime, under the aegis of a ritualized mystical reconnoitering that for him was mandatory. But he’d stayed away from Ronnie and Elaine’s (even the path where Maya’s bicycle was found), a fact that suddenly seemed worse than disrespectful. It felt like some sort of sacrilege, some sort of travesty.
Willow shivered as he crossed the border of the village. He made the five-minute detour to Creekview Street, where the Rummers had that barbecue on the day the Earth stood still. He put on Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E Minor for dramatic effect and it worked: as he entered the cul-de-sac, the large, Windsor-style home, painted in brighter hues than he remembered, hove outlandishly into view like the star of a movie doomed never to be released. The neighborhood hadn’t changed all that much. It looked like people were making more money now, which didn’t really make sense—making it how?—shiny new muscle cars and ATVs grandstanded in the driveways, and even the decorative accoutrements on the faces of the houses looked added on, as if for a promotional brochure.
A redheaded little girl in pigtails stopped to take in the stranger, straddling her bike as she eyed him. For a moment, he wondered if she were a hallucination but rejected the thought because he saw no blue mist, no Blue Death. He wondered who lived in the Rummers’ house now. He turned his car around in the bulb of the dead end and got back on Avenue of the Waters for the short ride to Roy’s.
He watched the girl in his rearview. She stared after him like an admonishment, and the old shame returned, the shame of leaving Pace behind.
Roy came to the door in a three-piece tweed suit and bare feet.
He gave Willow a bear hug and then, with comic swagger, ostentatiously waved an arm toward the dining table, where humble sandwiches and chips had been laid.
“You’ve won everything behind Door Number Three! And those, m’lord”—he showcased a bowl of gummy bears—“are for dessert: my favorites, may I add, the green ones, in honor of your visit. Took me an hour to do the sorting.”
He’d actually lit one of those fat fragrant candles, and that cracked Willow up.
It’s like a date!
Maybe Roy turned fag.
The detective acknowledged the brief bluish steam that rose from Roy’s chest before dismissing it as an aberration. Hadn’t the same kind of misperception occurred when he first took Lydia and Daniel to the Spirit Room?
It’d been eighteen years since they’d last seen each other, and nearly that long since Willow had even thought of him. Eakins looked remarkably young and vital—far healthier, thought Willow, than himself. (And Roy was much older.) Roy farcically snatched away the beer he’d set down when Willow informed that he was sober, replacing it with a Dr. Brown’s Diet Cream. His eccentric, guileless amiability was endearing; there was something so childlike about him that Willow felt like he’d stepped into Pee-wee’s Playhouse. He had always liked the man but the reality was they’d never had much contact, apart from the few open houses he attended at his daughter’s school.
“Man, I was jazzed to hear from you!” said Roy.
His ardent demeanor recalled Ronnie Rummer’s, and made Willow think loneliness must be going around. “It’s good to see you, Roy. And thanks for the awesome spread.”
“I had a marching band but I think they must’ve got stuck in traffic,” said Roy with an exaggerated frown.
“I’ll bet you did. It’s very welcoming and I appreciate it.”
They chitchatted awhile—it was a little tricky because Willow didn’t want to show his cards. (Not yet and maybe never.) Roy asked if Willow was still living in New York and he said no, he’d “moved back to the area,” to be closer to Pace. “I’ve already missed too much time with her.” He shifted things over to his host. “And what have you been up to all these years, my friend?”
“No good, I’m afraid,” said Roy, before growing serious. “After what happened with those kids—the bottom kind of fell out. You know what I mean. The Falls lost its charm. The media practically moved in! Too much attention, and all of it negative. I knew I didn’t want to be there anymore. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to teach. Not there, anyway. Not in the Falls. Bloom was off the rose. The rose was dead, quite literally, I’m afraid. Oh, I didn’t want to be the party pooper—that wouldn’t have been fair to the parents or my students—so I hung in for about a year. That year was a bummer. But it wasn’t about me. I had an obligation. As a quasi-educator, I had a duty, a responsibility to the community. I really felt that and still do. Did a lot of hand-holding, something that comes naturally to teachers, if they’re worth their salt. And then I moved on. Took me awhile to find my footing. I taught for a few years in public schools, in Flint, then Grosse Pointe—did a little private tutoring on the Gold Coast. Hedge-fund guys who took a shine to Amercan history! You know, rich captains of industry who wanted to add a little scholarly sex appeal to their fund-raiser dinner conversations. They paid very well, by the way. Oh, I was the go-to guy for a while! Socked away a lot of money. I’m still living off those savings.”
Roy was curious about Adelaide and, without being mean-spirited, made a passing reference to the cause célèbre of her remarriage. He asked after Pace as well, recalling what a wonderful student she was. “The best and the brightest,” he said.
“How’d you wind up here?” said Willow, friendly and open-faced. “In New Baltimore?”
“Sweet little community,” said Roy. “I like being close to the lake.” Willow was about to bring up the matter of the Collins boy being found in the local marsh when Roy beat him to it. “And now that poor kid gets dredged up off Anchor Bay. It just never stops, does it, Willow?”
“Doesn’t seem to.”
“The madness of the human species . . . makes you want to burn your membership card, doesn’t it? But I don’t feel like moving, not this time. It was different with Troy and Maya. I guess that’s because they were my students. My kids. It was personal.”
Suddenly Roy’s face grew rigid and cold, like an effigy of stone. Willow thought he must have been experiencing a wave of unanticipated grief, but it was something else that would remain unknown to the detective: for the first time, saying their names aloud, Roy Eakins realized with a shock that the Rummer children had returned, embodied in the eponymous landlords from the Meeting—and they had visited his very home! How was it possible he hadn’t realized who they were from the moment they appeared, by name, at the Meeting? But there were so many elisions . . . so many things he was only just beginning to remember. He was becoming awake, ever since he managed to become dominant over Dabba Doo.
A conundrum asserted itself, and he wondered: Do they know who I am?
“Hey,” said Willow, breaking into his reverie. “How’s your boy? How’s Grundy?”
“Doing remarkably well—the kid up and got married.”
“Is that right?” said Willow with genuine surprise and a measure of relief on Roy’s behalf.
“Oh yes he did, to an angel. And there’s wonderful news from the heavenly quarters.”
“Oh?”
“Mrs. Angel is gravid with young. She’s expecting.”
“Isn’t that something!” said Willow, masking dismay with delight. “Just fantastic. Congratulations.” He couldn’t process Grundy as a functioning human being, let alone a dad, but supposed the two weren’t mutually exclusive. “You know, I recently became a grandfather myself.”
“Did you now?” said Roy, beaming.
“He’ll be five in a few months. That’s another reason I wanted to move back.”
“It’s funny,” said Roy. “We worry and worry, and in the end they seem to turn out all right.”
He knocked on the wood table and then got up and did a slapstick jig, knocking any wood he could find.
“Does Grundy live nearby? Here in New Baltimore?”
“He lives up in Wolcott Mills—used some of that hedge-fund tutor money to buy him and Mrs. Angel a foreclosed farm. Now, Grundy, you’ll recall, had his share of problems. Did he ever! Thought I was going to lose him. For many, many years I thought that. Then he straightened up and flew right. Oh, he still crashes into windows now and then but he never broke his wings, and that took courage. I respect that. The kid hung in and came out the other side. We both did.”
“Here’s to coming out the other side,” said Willow, raising his Dr. Brown’s. “Well, I’d love to see him. And meet the wife and mom-to-be. I’m in Sterling Heights—that’s twenty minutes from Wolcott Mills.”
“Would that be an official visit?” said Roy hostilely. “Police business, Sergeant Friday?”
Willow’s gut flipped and his mouth went slack.
Roy clocked the reaction and burst out laughing. “What I’m saying is that there may still be a few open warrants on the boy from the bad old days—desecration of public property, public masturbation and the like. Oh, he was a handful!” Willow smiled in relief. “I’m afraid before I could make that visit happen, I might need a promise of full immunity.”
“Request granted.”
“Now, mind you, these were youthful crimes.”
“I’m sure the statute of limitations has run out.”
“Then a visit shall be duly granted, m’lord!”
When Roy asked if he’d retired, it appeared that he wasn’t aware of the recent task force hire. At the same time, he thought the query was likely a ploy, because the creation of the Cold Case unit had been all over the local news. Still, he couldn’t be sure. He decided it was best to play a game of his own, even though it could backfire.
“Almost there,” said Willow. “I’m counting the days.”
“Well, come over and count ’em with me. Anytime.”
“I just might do that.”
“Tell you one thing I was counting—the number of green gummy bears you ingested, which was nil. Which means there’s more for me. Which makes you my new best friend.”
He wrote down Grundy’s cell phone and handed it to Willow, nodding at the empty can of Dr. Brown’s. “One for the road?”
“I’m good. I would like to take a whiz before getting into traffic.”
“Always a good idea to drain the snake. Down the hall and hang a left.”
As Willow walked away, Roy took a step forward and yelled, “Hey!” He drew the detective’s attention to his bare foot and, like a magician doing a trick, slowly moved it aside to reveal the scrap of paper with his son’s number that Willow had somehow already managed to lose. Roy picked it up and put it in his hand.
“I don’t have athlete’s foot. I promise.”
Willow was about to enter the toilet when Roy sprinted forward, vigorously blocking his way. “Oops, forgot! Powder room’s out of commission—been waitin’ on a plumber for three days. Use the one by the washer.” Sarabeth’s bloody panties were in the sink, which wouldn’t necessarily have been a good thing for Roy.
Or Willow either.
Annie had bad dreams.
To ban the nightmarish images, she dried her face and said the new mantra while looking in the mirror—the slogan that had involuntarily supplanted “More shall be revealed.” It reminded her of something in a Victorian children’s book:
“All will be most very well.”
And all would be most very well—for she had found her man, her Porter, and the children would be protected now, which was all that mattered. The tradition would be unbroken. More turbulence was expected, of course, more thunderclaps, marvels and wrinkles, but even with “haywire” factored in Annie knew in her depths that the Great Mystery compassed them and held them close. Considering the current messy state of affairs, such knowledge was grandly counterintuitive, but she’d long since learned to trust the unchallengeable feeling of serenity that thankfully had returned to engulf her. It was an old feeling and she was glad it’d come back again; she’d been without it for months now.
Her own apprenticeship had taken over a year, and was devoted to learning Jasper’s methods of preparing her for the profoundly disorienting things that Annie would encounter—now she had only weeks, if that, to tutor Willow Millard Wylde. At first, she feared he would never agree to come to the Meeting. Part of him was so distant and unbelieving, and there was an angry part too, that seemed, unthinkably, to be courting his own death. They were so different that way! There was much about him Annie didn’t understand nor felt it her business to. So when he accepted her invitation, she said to herself, We’re halfway there. We’re more than halfway . . .
She primped and got ready for her visitor.
Again, Annie looked in the mirror (the one beside the Murphy bed was full-length) at the doomed, blessed woman who stared back: hard-set, timelessly feminine features, bluish porcelain skin, delicate chain of the necklace that her mentor gave her subtly rising and falling to the artery’s faint pulse—then a rap on the door startled her.
She looked at her watch: only 6:30 P.M. . . . He’s half an hour early! Poor thing’s probably shaking in his boots. Lord, how terrified I was when Jasper brought me to my first Meeting. She remembered actually soiling her underwear when a landlord requested a hug, knowing it was a dead thing—and a dead child!—who’d been asking. It was funny now but it wasn’t then. She opened the door and her face froze.
It was Owen Caplan.
“Hello, Annie” was all he said.
She smiled back with warmth and confusion. They’d met a number of times because he was Nurse Adelaide’s husband but she didn’t really know him. He was the county sheriff, she knew that much.
“Owen, hello! What—what brings—?”
“Sorry to bust in on you like this but I couldn’t find a phone number.”
“Well, that might be because I haven’t a phone!” she said jovially. With flustered concern she asked, “Is something wrong? Is Adelaide all right?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “And forgive me again, but it’s a little urgent and I wasn’t sure when I’d see you.”
She was mindful that Willow was on his way but it was still early enough. “Come in!”
The SRO building was ramshackle but he noted the elegance she’d brought to the tiny, immaculate room. A lovely kilim carpet spanned most of the floor. Atop a low table was a dark stone vase of white roses.
“I don’t have a sitting room,” she said humbly. “Though I should say all I have is a sitting room—as you can see.”
“The reason I’m here is to ask about Renée Devonshire.”
Annie looked at him quizzically. “Who is that?”
“A student at Mount Clemens High. She killed a boy there on Thursday. You may have heard what happened.”
“Oh Lord. I didn’t—I haven’t. I’m afraid I’m not much of a newshound. But how awful, how terribly awful.”
“I came because we learned that Renée dropped in on some sort of meeting, in Detroit. At the Divine Child Parish on Lafayette Circle. Do you know it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Your name is listed as the person who rents that space for an AA meeting at the hour Renée visited.”
“I did rent that space, but had to give it up.”
Annie already knew what she’d tell him. She had rehearsed the probability of such an encounter in her head for years. “It’s not AA, Owen. That must be some sort of clerical error. It’s where I teach—or taught—my class.”
“What sort of class, Annie? Do you mind me asking?”
“Not at all! You see—I’ve never even told Adelaide this—I teach creative writing. It’s a bit embarrassing,” she said, charmingly contrite. “But, well, I always wanted to write. And I did write—tried to, anyway. I think it’s safe to say that, over time, I became painfully aware that the public, not to mention the publishers, weren’t beating a pathway to my door. In fact, they were beating a pathway away from it! If it said ‘by Annie Ballendine,’ well, people just seemed to become . . . allergic. And I couldn’t blame them. I didn’t have the talent. But I found that I might have the talent to teach.”
“I’m sure you’re a wonderful teacher.”
“I’m not licensed, Owen. I don’t even have a degree, so I hope you’re not here to arrest me.”
He knew she was kidding but still wanted to allay any concern. “Of course not. What kind of writing is it, Annie?” he asked, more curious now than interrogatory.
“Oh, all sorts. Mostly poems and short stories but my kids have been doing a lot of memoir work, which is still very much in vogue. It’s actually a wonderful tool for self-discovery. But I encourage my students in whatever they feel drawn toward. They do write a disproportionate amount of stuff about childhood . . . People don’t seem to want to grow up!”
“Sounds pretty great. And as far as I know, you can hang up a shingle without legal repercussions.” He winked. “Oh: the girl Renée was also known as Honeychile. Does that ring a bell?”
“‘Honeychile,’ yes!” She made a split-second decision to be candid, or as candid as she could, because she didn’t want to get tripped up if Owen had something else up his sleeve. “I do remember, it was such a cute and unusual name. She came—when was it, a few weeks ago?—and I’m afraid it didn’t turn out very well.” Her nose wrinkled when she said the last, as if hinting at bad behavior. “She’s quite young, no?”
“Fourteen.”
“Well, I have no idea how she found my little workshop. I’m prone to bursts of enthusiasm—I go around town putting up flyers and they wind up being read by all sorts of people . . .”
“Do you remember if she came alone?”
“I don’t believe she did,” said Annie, cocking her head in recollection. “I’m pretty sure she came with a friend.”
“And what happened?”
“May I be frank?”
“Please.”
“I thought she was . . . unstable. You know, I’m a pretty good, quick read on folks, especially children—though I never had any of my own. And this girl wanted to just barge in. Since the class was already in session—well, I thought it would be disruptive, and unfair to the others. And . . . she didn’t have the tuition.” An anxious look mottled her features. “I only charge ten dollars, Owen, I hope that’s all right?”
“That’s fine,” he said, smiling.
“It’s really just to cover rent at the church and pay for cookies and lemonade. And coffee!” she amended, to make things sound more adult.
“You should raise your prices! The sheriff gives you full authority.”
“I hate turning away anyone who wants to write.” She literally wrung her hands. “I felt sorry for that child . . . but from what you told me, I’m rather glad I didn’t let her in. God knows what might have happened.”
“Well, thank you, Annie. And sorry again to bust in on you.”
“Don’t be silly. And please give my love to your better half.”
“One more thing,” he said, fishing something from his pocket. “We found this in Renée’s room. Have you seen it before?”
She took it from his hands and blanched. It was the Guide.
“She doodled on it—your name’s right there, see? ‘Annie Ballendine.’ And another name—there. It says ‘Dabba Doo.’ Maybe she’s a Flintstones fan.”
“Might it be her diary?” she said, playing the naïf.
“I don’t think so. As you can see, it’s printed out. Which would be unusual for a diary.”
“Well, it is a puzzle, isn’t it . . . Maybe it’s some writing that she was planning to share at my class? A fantasy story or something? Oh dear. Now I feel worse for not letting her in.”
“What’s strange is that she wrote ‘Winston’ on the cover. Though it seems to be in a different handwriting . . .”
“Winston?”
“The name of a boy who was murdered a few weeks ago.” There was, of course, no reason for him to discuss Honeychile’s connection to the discovery of Winston’s body.
“Another murder? Lord, Owen! What’s happening to the world? You’re not saying she had anything to do with—”
“I’m not saying that at all. But she did kill a boy at school. There’s no question about that.”
She looked at the Guide and read “Winston” out loud. “It is odd. It is very, very odd.”
“Thank you for your time, Annie. And good luck with your students.”
Zelda, not Honeychile, was mostly responsible for Annie’s decision to change venues—it never bode well for an outsider to know the location of a Meeting. And in the end, she’d been correct; it was Zelda who made it possible for the sheriff to connect the dots that led him to the Porter. If he had actually shown up while a Meeting was in session, the consequences could have been catastrophic.
Ten minutes after Owen departed, at seven on the dot, Willow Wylde knocked on the door. Because he was in law enforcement, she assumed that he knew the sheriff, but had no idea of their long history and close ties. She was going to tell him about the unexpected visit, then thought better of it when she saw his face.
She’d been telling him that the Meeting would be a “great adventure”—but he looked scared to death.