A gusty April wind rose from the hills and buffeted my journey home under dark scudding clouds. Nothing is ever easy, Mother Nature explained. Or simple. The big rigs swerved and fought the wind coming over Afton Mountain, and the rest of us stayed clear of their fishtailing trailers. And Alec Ward remained missing.
Dr. Stevenson hadn’t provided any significant help. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to find, but it hadn’t been empathy. Yet that’s what I returned with—a deeper understanding of Louis’s pain.
I’d already done my homework on Louis’s wife, Celia. She was born into the illustrious Simon family, a name mentioned in reverential tones in Virginia. Celia’s father and grandfather before him owned factories and fields in Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, and North Carolina, and they sold millions worth of feed to cattle ranchers in the south and midwest. I’d found archived photos of Celia Simon riding horses in her youth, going to church with her sisters, and attending formals at Chatham Hall. Her wedding ceremony had taken up half a page in a Richmond newspaper. It was easy to discern that the Simons were Virginia royalty, and it was only slightly less easy to note Celia had dropped out of favor with her family. The black sheep, fallen from grace.
I parked near her house after lunch, after learning from Manny that Louis was at a luncheon. Before I could exit my car, Celia left her home in a little white Mercedes. I dropped into drive and followed. She didn’t go far; she parked on Crystal Spring and walked into Tinnell’s Fine Foods, the breeze momentarily wrapping her knee-length skirt tight against her thighs.
Celia was younger than Louis but not by much. I knew from prior research that she attended yoga and aerobic classes at the Y, gaining the trim shape of women who ate little but exercised and drank red wine, both to excess. Her posture was good, her chin tilted up.
She came out of Tinnell’s with a bag and stepped next door into The Second Yard.
I ground my teeth and gripped the steering wheel. This was not helping Alec Ward or Jeremy Cameron, and my anxiety collected at the base of my neck. However, I waited.
Celia Lindsey came out of The Second Yard with a larger bag. She stopped and her head swiveled my direction. She wore oversized Prada sunglasses but I knew we were staring at each other.
Did I squirm and fidget?
Not I, man of steel with aureate intentions.
But I did sweat a little. I hated coming off as a stalker.
She turned my way. I got out of the car. Without speaking we met at the rear and she raised her bags to me. I popped the trunk and set the bags inside. Closed the lid and held open my passenger door. She slid gracefully in and smoothed her skirt. I closed the door, went around, and got behind the wheel.
“Where to?”
“Here is adequate,” she said. She didn’t remove the sunglasses and she stared straight ahead. Her perfume smelled expensive. “I am not staying with you long.”
“You know who I am and what I’m doing,” I said.
“I do. Louis told me not to speak with you.”
“I’m not trying to ruin your life.”
“My husband is a homosexual and I married him anyway. I ruined my life a long time ago, Mr. August. But you are, from my point of view, causing more damage than necessary.”
“It might get worse, too.”
“Because of you he’s retiring early. He’s losing his prominent position in the community. How much worse can it get? I was told the vestry cut ties with you,” she said.
“They did.”
“Then why are you following me?”
“I am stubborn. And I have an affection for the truth.”
She opened the clasp of her purse and withdrew a small crystal vial. The silver top unscrewed off, and she used the attached micro spoon to scoop a tiny amount of white powder from the vial. She raised the micro spoon to her nose and inhaled, the powder disappearing into her nostril. She continued the inhalation with her eyes closed. All of it done as a dainty and classy woman should.
“You know it’s strange. I’m not even angry with you.” She finally turned to face me. Sniffed once. “You’re a big man. Strong. Attractive, in a blue collar sort of way. Not usually my husband’s type. Nor mine.” She replaced the lid and offered me the vial of cocaine. “Indulge.”
“No thanks. I get my kicks and the ensuing crash from watching baseball now.”
“And sex?”
“Thank you but I’m trying to quit.”
“I wasn’t offering,” she said. Then a pause. Her features had softened, even her posture, the cocaine wiping away some harsh realities. “You are trying to quit sex?”
“If I tell myself that, it’s easier to cope with the lack thereof.”
“You’re too young to start down that road, Mr. August. Find someone you love and who loves you. Trust me.”
“Why’d you marry Louis?” I said.
She laughed without humor. Awful sound. “That’s a story I’ve never told anyone. Not once.”
“Letting it out will be cathartic. And my lips are sealed.”
Another sniff. And a cruel smile. “Louis was in the right place at the right time during my…rebellion. I let a sweaty fraternity brother at UVA impregnate me in ’82. His name was Carl. Carl. I panicked. I’d met Louis the year prior, through friends. I knew he was queer and that he was destined for money and a mildly prestigious career as a physician. I also knew he needed a wife. My mother and father, on the cusp of disowning me, approved of the union. Especially after I told them Louis knocked me up. He did his best. He still does. Treats me with respect. Raised our son like he’s his own. Or he tried.”
“Would you do it over again?”
Her mouth pressed into a grim line. Her face was without blemish, the beneficiary of botox injections and dermaplaning and fillers. She had fewer wrinkles than I did.
“My lifestyle is comfortable.”
“Are you—”
“But my son moved away. He refuses to talk to his father. Louis, I mean. I have few friends. My husband is not in love with me. I think his career is ludicrous. My family disowned me anyway. But…it’s all I have, Mr. August. And you’re trying to take it away. What would we…would I do? You don’t understand. I’m invisible. You’re male and young and beautiful, so you can’t… Who am I? I’m nothing other than the wife of Dr. Louis Lindsey. People don’t even see me. When I was younger I was beautiful. I was noticed. I had lovers. And now? Do you know what I am? Nothing other than the wife of a homosexual. Not even worth speaking to at the grocer.”
I watched and listened and felt a little like Hugh Pratt. Hugh Pratt, the senior warden of his church’s vestry, telling me on the phone that he wished he could solve everyone’s problems but he didn’t know how. To do his job, his focus had to remain narrow.
I had no succor to provide for Celia Lindsey.
She said, “Why are you doing this? He’s gay, so what. Louis is causing no harm.”
“The men accusing him of assault and battery have been harmed.”
“Louis has lovers. He’s human—I can’t blame him, even if I hate him for it. That doesn’t mean he assaults them,” she said.
“You’ve been with him a long time, Celia. You’ve seen this before. Haven’t you. This is not new behavior. You know the accusations are true.”
“You’re trying to take away everything from me.”
“Did you know Jeremy Cameron spent a day in the hospital? At Louis’s orders, Jeremy was jumped and beaten senseless. Because Jeremy stood up to him.”
“You have no proof.” She said it rote, as though she’d heard her husband use the line before. She knew to play defense.
“He’s going to become invisible, Celia.”
“Who?”
“Jeremy. Louis has the power to crush his career. No one will hire him ever again. He’ll have to move and switch professions. You know how that feels, to become invisible. Jeremy will be destroyed. Disowned. But he did nothing wrong,” I said.
“Then he…” She stopped to collect herself. To avoid showing any emotion. “Then he should stop telling lies. How can I not take it personally?”
“There’s someone else who’ll become invisible. Alec Ward. Do you know him?” I said.
“No.”
“He’s missing.”
“I heard. I don’t know him. But I know the story.”
“Did Louis take him?”
“Of course not. The missing boy isn’t at our house, don’t be stupid,” she said.
“I didn’t say he was. Do you remember Jon Young? He was murdered a few years ago.”
“Yes. I remember.” Her voice had grown soft. The world reflected in her sunglasses.
“Do you think your husband, to maintain his secrets, to maintain his lifestyle, to keep his grip on everything, could kill someone?”
She opened her mouth but the words didn’t come out. She paused a long time, staring straight ahead, watching through the sunglasses.
“No.” A whisper. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
“Loneliness, collected over the years, maybe even decades, is a powerful thing. An awful thing,” she said. “Sometimes I feel insane. And later I feel numb. Loneliness and hurt make us do things and feel things we never imagined when we were young and beautiful. So I don’t know the answer to your question, Mr. August. Maybe he could. And that should worry you.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Louis is an obsessive man. And right now, one of his obsessions is you.”