Humility. That, Russ decided, was the lesson the universe wanted to teach him. Certainly, the value he placed on his wife and marriage first. He would never, as long as he lived, forget the horrible pithed feeling of hearing Linda was dead and the soul-lifting experience of having her resurrected by Sergeant Morin’s fingerprint kit. It was almost—not quite, but almost—enough to make him believe in God.
Which is where the humility came in. He had spent the morning visiting all Linda’s most recent job sites: a second home for skiing, a mother-in-law apartment, a charming farmhouse trying desperately to be a stately home with curtains swagged and draped and pelmeted up to the not-high-enough ceiling.
In each location, he had to explain that he had lost his wife. That she had left without word and had not contacted him in close to a week. Had anyone heard her mention a man? Or seen her with anyone other than one of her freelance seamstresses?
Humility. Clare would probably say it was good for him. He might have swallowed it with more grace if he had gotten anything other than embarrassed, sympathetic looks and “Sorry, I don’t know anything that can help you.”
He tightened his hands on the wheel of his truck and flicked on his wipers to rid the windshield of its steadily accumulating snow. Noon. The forecaster hit it dead on. He ought to call Harlene, make sure she got Duane and Tim, the part-timers, suited up for emergency response. If what the weatherman predicted was to be believed, they’d be coming up deep snow and whiteout conditions. He should also—
He caught himself short. He couldn’t do a damn thing. He was an acting civilian until Jensen decided to give him back his badge. It was up to Lyle to make sure the department was ready for the Blizzard of the Century or the Killer Storm or whatever theme name the television stations would come up with to describe it. His job was to make it to his last stop. Linda’s most recent work site. The Algonquin Waters Spa and Resort. He didn’t hold out high hopes. It seemed like every time he came near the place, it was a disaster. The summer it was being built, he had taken off from its helipad in a chopper—the first one he had ridden in in decades—and promptly crashed. This past fall, he had the worst dinner of his life there, seated next to his wife and across the table from Clare. Christ, he was still suffering indigestion from that one. The ballroom and most of the ground floor going up in flames was sort of an anticlimax.
He knew what he was doing, recounting his past miseries at the Algonquin. He was avoiding thinking about what he was going to do if he didn’t turn up any trace of Linda. He had no other leads. He had nothing. And the thought of returning to his freezing cold house, with its bloodstained kitchen and the fluttering ghosts of disappeared identities . . .
He shook his head, concentrated on the road. Past the turnoff, the hotel’s private road was almost dry, the heavy-hanging pines sheltering it from the early snow. The road switched back and forth, climbing the mountain, until it opened out to the parking area, the wide portico, and the snow-covered, rock-walled gardens. He was surprised to see so many trucks and SUVs parked along the curving drive. While the Algonquin was planned as a year-round resort, it was supposed to be closed for rebuilding until spring.
The answer came when Russ pulled into a spot next to a big Ford 350. DONALDSON ELECTRICS was plated to the side. Construction workers. He got out of his truck, tugging his hat on to shield himself from the snow. Management must be in one all-fired hurry to finish the job if they had guys out working on a day like this. Maybe the hotel would put ’em up if they got snowed in?
He stepped through the front doors onto a sea of plastic sheeting. The sweeping wooden floor was covered with the sawdust and grit-spattered stuff, just as the few remaining pieces of furniture were obscured by drop cloths. The two-story stone wall at the far end of the lobby was still scorched and streaked with soot, and the open doorways to the ballroom were hung with dusty plastic tarps. No sign of any workmen or hotel employees, but beyond the canvas-covered reception desk, a light shone through a half-open door.
He crossed behind the desk. “Hello?” he said. “Anybody here?”
“Mmm.” He heard something clatter against a desktop. A slim woman in jeans and a turtleneck appeared in the doorway, dabbing at her face with a paper napkin. “Sorry,” she said around a mouthful. She beckoned him into the office. “Lunch.”
He held up one hand. “No need to apologize. I probably should have called before coming over.”
She finished chewing and swallowed with evident relief. “I’m afraid we’re closed. As you can see, we’re in the middle of a major rebuilding project.”
“I’m not here for a room.” He unzipped his parka.
“No?” She took a plate holding tangerine peels and the remains of a sandwich and slid it onto a credenza. “Please,” she said, gesturing to one of two upholstered chairs across from the desk. She sat opposite him. “I’m Barbara LeBlanc,” she said. “General manager.”
“I know,” he said. “We’ve met before.”
She tucked a strand of dark auburn hair behind her ear and looked at him more closely. Her face lit with recognition. “The police chief! You were here the night of the fire. It’s good to see you again . . .”
“Russ Van Alstyne,” he supplied. “You have a good memory.”
“In the hospitality business, it’s a must. We’re working with a curtain designer named Linda Van Alstyne. Any relation?”
“She’s my wife.”
Barbara LeBlanc smiled. “She does wonderful work. You must be very proud of her.”
Ms. LeBlanc evidently remembered names but didn’t keep up with the news. “I am. Proud.” He had been spared having to tell everyone who might not have known that Linda was dead. Thank God for that.
She folded her hands and rested them on the desk. “So. What can I help you with?”
He felt his face getting hot, just as it had the last three times he launched into his spiel. “It’s my wife. Linda Van Alstyne. She left our house without a word last Saturday or Sunday, and I haven’t heard from her since. I’m hoping you might have some idea where she’s gone, since she’s still replacing the curtains and stuff that was lost in the fire.”
Barbara LeBlanc’s pleasant expression didn’t alter, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which became opaque. “She left Saturday or Sunday? You’re not sure which?”
He sighed. “We’re temporarily separated. I’ve been living at my mother’s house for the past few weeks.” Embarrassing as it was, he figured admitting he lived with his mom made him sound less like a potentially abusive husband trying to recapture a runaway wife.
LeBlanc shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve met your wife, of course, and we’ve spoken about payments for materials and things like that, but I don’t have any idea where she could have gone.”
She would make a good poker player. He had no idea whether she was telling him the truth or not.
“Is there anyone else she would have worked with here? Besides her seam-stresses, I mean?” He had already called the three women who sewed for Linda.
“There’s Mr. Opperman, of course. The owner. He makes all the design decisions. And I think she had one or two of Ray’s crew help her with some of the heavy work. Installations she couldn’t handle on her own.”
It looked like he wasn’t going to get out of this without speaking to Opperman. Another exercise in humility. “Can I speak to the foreman? And is there a number where I could contact Mr. Opperman?”
“He’s supposed to be back this afternoon,” Barbara said.
“The foreman?”
“Mr. Opperman.”
“Here?” he said. “I thought the business was based in Baltimore.”
“He’s found it more . . . feasible to live here during the rebuilding. He’s been away in New York City for a few days. He was going to drive up today, but I’m not sure if he’ll make it, with the storm coming on.”
Away for a few days? Oh, God, could it be that simple? “Was he alone in New York? Could Linda have been with him?”
Now he could make out what was behind her eyes. Pity. “As far as I know, he was alone. He’s been meeting with travel companies about promoting the Algonquin. I can’t vouch for his off-hours, but he’s been in touch with me every day, either by phone or by fax.”
“But you don’t know for sure, do you? Is there any way to find out? If she’s there?”
You really have been left behind like a three-legged dog, her expression said. She crossed her arms over her chest and bent her head. Russ sat, literally on the edge of his seat, afraid to breathe for fear of making her jump the wrong way. Come on, come on.
“Let me try something.” She stood up and went around to her side of the desk. She picked up her phone and punched in a shortcut number.
“Hello,” she said. “This is Barbara LeBlanc of the Algonquin Waters Spa and Resort. May I speak to Mr. Sacramone?” There was a pause. Then: “Fine, thanks. And you?” She smiled. “You flatterer. Watch out, one of these days I’m going to take you up on your offer.” The flattering Mr. Sacramone went on for a half minute or so. “He has?” She looked at Russ. “He said he’d try to get back today. He can always stop in Albany if the weather gets too bad.” A pause. She laughed. “Yes, I’m sure I’ll be the one booking him a room in a snowstorm.”
More unheard talking from Mr. Sacramone. “That’s more or less the reason I’m calling,” Barbara said. “Mr. Opperman told me to order flowers for the lady with whom he was staying. He wants them to be there when she gets home, you understand. But I don’t have her address. Do you have it for me, by any chance? So I can keep looking like a miracle worker?”
Russ’s stomach clenched. Barbara’s eyebrows went up. “No? Huh. My mistake, then. I’ll have to ask him to clarify for me when he gets in touch next.” She looked at Russ, shook her head. “You, too, Emilio. Ciao, bello.” She hung up.
“The concierge at Mr. Opperman’s hotel says he was alone his whole stay. Which doesn’t surprise me. Mr. Opperman is very focused on the business.”
He had enough of a sense of humor left to be amused by the fact that he was crushed because his wife hadn’t gone off with the owner of the Algonquin. “Thanks anyway,” he said. “I appreciate you trying.”
“Let’s go find Ray,” Barbara said, her tone professionally upbeat. “Maybe he’ll know something.”
Russ followed her out of the office.
“They’re working downstairs, in the spa facilities,” she said. “The fire didn’t spread that far, but we had extensive water damage. Lots of rewiring and retiling.”
Broad stairs led down from the lobby to the spa. Once they were below the ground floor, Russ could hear the high-pitched grind of a Skil saw and someone cursing a stubborn coupling wire.
“Ray?” Barbara called. She picked her way past sawhorses and coils of insulated cable. “Ray?”
They entered the work area. Russ could see it had once probably been the fanciest place to soak your feet or get covered with mud between New York and Montreal. Now it was a god-awful mess, like a beautiful woman with a bad hangover and ratty hair. A man in a flannel shirt and suspenders unbent from where he was studying a blueprint. “Whitey! Matt! Knock it off a minute.” The Skil saw died away. The big guy crossed the work space toward them. He was as tall as Russ and a good fifty pounds heavier, with the open face of a man who viewed the world as his friend until proven otherwise.
“Hey, Ms. LeBlanc. What can I do you for?”
“This is Ray Yardhaas, our foreman. Ray, this is the Millers Kill chief of police, Russ Van Alstyne.”
Ray shook his hand. “We met before. Two summers ago, when we were building this place the first time.” He grinned. “First time I ever met someone investigating a real live murder. Impressed the hell out of my wife.”
“Ray, we’re looking for someone who might have been helping Mrs. Van Alstyne with the curtain installations.”
“Mrs. Van Alstyne?” He glanced at Russ. “You mean the curtain lady? Yeah, that’d mostly be Charlie. Why? Has he been bothering her?”
Leblanc frowned. “Is that a concern?”
“Aw, his heart’s in the right place, I guess. It’s just his mouth’s usually in third gear while his brain’s still easing off the brake. He’s got little hands, though. Good for doing that fiddly sort of work.”
“Can I talk to him?” Russ asked.
“He’s taking a break.” Ray mimed puffing on a cigarette. “He’s my crew, though. If he’s been up to something he shouldn’t, I want to know about it.”
Ross shook his head. “I’m just looking for some information.” He considered how much to share. “My wife—”
Ray pointed over his shoulder. “Here he is.”
Russ turned around.
And saw Dennie Shambaugh walking toward him.