“Do you think we should go find him?”
“I’ll go to the house when we’re done here. You can drop me off.”
I nodded. “So...what does this do to our suspects? We know that David didn’t know about the affair.”
“It still leaves us with that mysterious call to the town attorney, though.”
“Who was a personal friend,” I added. Our eyes met. “You don’t think that she and Diaz...”
“I can’t believe she’d do that after Sam gave her holy hell,” Sarah said.
“Maybe she called Diaz to end it.”
Sarah shrugged, but didn’t answer. I knew what she was thinking: Nothing seemed impossible at this point.
“So where does this leave us?” I asked again.
“Nowhere.” She stood up. “I can’t concentrate. I have to check on that kid. Can you drop me off now?”
I said I could, and I did. Then I picked up a bottle of wine and went home to Frank. Sometimes a drink with a good friend fixes you right up. That my good friend was a dog, didn’t escape me.
* * * * *
Before opening the bottle of wine, I sat down at the desk in the kitchen, undid the phone line and plugged it into the side of the computer. The dial-up modem took forever compared with Sarah’s high-speed access, but eventually I was on e-mail.
I clicked open the e-mail from Sarah and printed the coffee information to show Caron. Then I hit “Reply” and sent back a “Thanks.”
Sarah had said her e-mail address would automatically be added to my address book when I replied. But she’d forgotten to tell me where the address book was. I clicked on “Write Mail” and typed “Re,” intending to send her another message asking that question, and the “a-l-n-a-g” filled itself in. Well, wherever the address book was, it was working the way Sarah had said it would.
I had typed in the message and sent it off to her, when an instant message popped up. “hi ma.”
Eric, bless his heart. I had planned to instant message him myself tonight. Even if he was out, his “away message”—de-signed to let his friends know where to find him—was a great way for me to keep tabs on him. For example, “movie brb” meant that he was at a movie and would be right back. Sometimes he even said what movie.
Cool, huh? I thought of the “away message” as Mother’s Little Helper—though perhaps not as effective at calming nerves as the Rolling Stones’ version. But still...
I typed back: “I’m surprised you’re home on a Saturday night. Everything okay?”
“it’s 2 early yet”
Eric’s generation seemed to have abandoned spelling, capitalization and punctuation altogether. But they did write, and you had to give them points for that.
I pumped him for information about school, and then: “Do you remember Sam Harper?”
“eh, he went 2 BC 2 or 3 years younger than me”
“BC” being Brookhills Christian. “What’s he like?” I was starting to feel silly typing full sentences.
“quiet got caught with girl at pc but who hasnt”
“Pc”—Poplar Creek. I didn’t bother asking whether Eric had ever been caught at Brookhills’ version of Lovers Lane. I’d just get an answer I couldn’t decipher anyway.
“Do you think Sam has a good head on his shoulders?” What I was really asking was whether we needed to worry about the kid blowing off that head.
“Is he stable?” I clarified.
“is any kid that age stable”
Spoken—or written—as a mature man of eighteen. I told Eric to be good and wished him a good night.
He told me the two were “mutually xclusive” and signed off.
Higher education, wider vocabulary, worse spelling, but the message still translated to, “Butt out, Mom.”
Spirits buoyed without the help of spirits, I put the bottle of wine away and went to bed.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning I slept in. Sunday, we had decided, was going to be a day of rest, damn it. The store was closed.
At 8:00 a.m. I padded out to the kitchen to make coffee—a busman’s holiday, but a holiday nonetheless. I opened the cabinet, looking for beans—a Scandinavian, perhaps, or a Mexican Altura. Nothing. The gastronomic equivalent of the shoemaker’s children going without shoes.
Sighing, I dug to the furthermost reaches of the freezer, moving aside single hot dogs and matching freezer-burned buns. Finally I reached my dirty little secret. A small red can of store-brand coffee. You know, sometimes coffee is just coffee.
I got the pot started and went to the door to get the paper. Frank, who had finally roused himself from his doggy dreams when I opened the cupboard, followed me. The moment I opened the front door and leaned down to pick up the newspaper, he barreled out barking, nearly knocking me off my feet.
“Quiet!” I said in a loud whisper, the kind I like to pretend is inaudible at 8:00 a.m. I looked up to find that Frank had a reason for barking.
Sarah’s 1975 lemon yellow Firebird was crunching up the driveway. The car stopped short, spraying gravel against my garage door. She jumped out. “Get dressed. We’re going over to the Harpers.”
“What—” I started, but Sarah already was herding me and the sheepdog back into the house, practically nipping at our heels.
I swung around and grabbed both sides of the door jamb as she tried to push me into my bedroom. “What in the world is going on?”
Sarah backed off and started pawing through her purse. Looking for a cigarette, I presumed. “Sam called me. David didn’t come home last night.” She finally met my eyes.
“Oh-oh.”
“Yeah, oh-oh. Now get dressed.”
We were out of the house in five minutes, but Sarah managed to finish one cigarette and light another in that time. She laid a patch on the road as we departed.
“What did Sam say? Are he and Courtney okay?” I asked.
Sarah gave me the look the question probably deserved. “Sam thinks his father took off because of what he told him about Patricia and Roger, of course. He’s afraid he’ll do something stupid.”
We’d been worried about Sam and here Sam was worried about David. “Like killing himself?” I asked.
“Or Roger.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Should we try to get hold of Roger? Make sure he’s okay? Or call Gary?”
Sarah didn’t answer me as the Firebird pealed around the last corner and she slammed on her brakes. Since the vintage car had no shoulder harnesses or air bags, I came this close to smashing my head on the dashboard.
“Hey,” I squawked, straightening up, “You almost put me through the windshield. I said, shouldn’t we—”
But Sarah wasn’t paying any attention to me. I turned to follow her gaze. Four squad cars were parked in front of the Harper house, two in the driveway and two on the street. The squads on the street were county sheriff’s vehicles and still had their lights flashing. The cars in the driveway were town police and they were empty. I recognized one of the empty squads as Gary’s.
“Looks like Sam has already taken care of that,” Sarah muttered.
“We’d better go in.”
Sarah left the car where it was and we made a dash for the front door. All around us, neighbors were sticking their heads out, wondering what was going on.
Sarah stomped up the front walk past a young sheriff’s deputy who was talking to a neighbor. I scuttled dutifully behind her and we had almost reached the door when the deputy called out. Sarah didn’t even turn around, just kept walking as she shouted something about being from the Harpers’ church.
As the deputy tried to intercept us, a car door slammed. I had a sinking feeling before I even turned to look.
Rats. Pavlik.
And why was I surprised? Patricia’s murder was his case. The disappearance of her husband would obviously concern him. I just hoped that Gary could keep Pavlik from scaring the hell out of Sam and Courtney.
Pavlik strode up the front walk even as Sarah was browbeating the deputy at the door. “Step aside, deputy. Let the ladies in.”
Despite his polite words, Pavlik looked grim. He ushered us in ahead of him and pointed to a couch in the living room on our right. Sarah tried to object, but Pavlik just shook his head and pointed again. Sarah sat. She did not speak, neither did she beg.
Pavlik said something to the deputy and went down the hall in the direction he indicated. I knew from previous visits that it led to the kitchen.
The Harper house was a large, well-appointed colonial, which looked like every other large, well-appointed colonial in town. Huge center foyer with a crystal chandelier, living room on the right, dining room on the left, kitchen straight back, family room next to it opening into the living room. Three bedrooms and a full central bath were crammed into one half of the upper level; the other half was taken up by a master bedroom suite, complete with walk-in closets, sitting area and whirlpool.
But no character, no soul. Not like my blue stucco.
Sour grapes? You betcha.
The couch where Sarah and I sat faced the foyer, which meant we could see only that and the dining room across the way. To get a right-angle view into the kitchen, I would have to go back into the foyer, where the young sheriff’s deputy stood watch. I had no doubt that was by Pavlik’s design.
The deputy was absently fingering the leather strap that snapped over the handle of his gun. Any second now, I expected him to take the gun out, twirl it and replace it in his holster. He looked up, catching me watching him, and glared. He was about twelve.
I couldn’t stand the waiting. I needed to do something. Sarah was uncharacteristically quiet, so I left her undisturbed and disturbed the deputy instead.
“Listen,” I began, “we don’t want to cause any trouble, but we’re concerned about the kids.” I glanced into the kitchen, but the action was taking place out of sight around the corner. I could hear voices, but that was about it. “Their son called us—”
Pavlik came in from the dining room, blind-siding me. “What did he say?”
I swung around to face him. The sheriff looked like he hadn’t shaved this morning.
“I’m not sure exactly. He called Sarah and told her his dad hadn’t come home. But if Sam didn’t call you, why are you here?”
He didn’t answer, and that’s when I got it. “You found David.”
Pavlik rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “We found him. In Poplar Creek.”
My heart was thudding loudly in my chest. “Is he dead?” No, Maggy. He was swimming.
Pavlik nodded wearily, not even taking the opportunity to poke fun. “Apparent drowning.” He spoke softly.
I moved closer and gestured toward the kitchen. “Does Sam know?”
“No. He and his sister are upstairs. Donovan says the boy is practically incoherent. Do you know what happened between him and his...”He broke off. “Does Sam call Harper ‘Dad’ or ‘David?’ ”
That was one question I could answer, at least. “He calls him Dad. I just—”
“Excuse me, is this a private club or can I join?” Sarah said in my ear.
I jumped. “Geez, I’m sorry, Sarah. The sheriff was just telling me...”I stopped and turned back to Pavlik, not wanting to get in trouble with him again. “Can I—”
Pavlik told her for me. “David Harper was found at six
a.m. this morning by a man walking his dog. He was in Poplar Creek. Dead. Presumably drowned.”
I thought of David floating in the muddy creek waters, a bizarre counterpoint to Patricia in the pool of skim milk. I decided to stop thinking.
“Suicide?” I asked. Pavlik answered with a question of his own for Sarah. “Why did the boy call you?” I looked at Sarah. She looked at me.
Pavlik continued. “You’re obviously concerned about him. What’s going on?”
Sarah spoke up. “Sam called me this morning and said David hadn’t come home last night. He was very worried.”
“Why would he call you?”
Sarah bristled. “I’ve been a friend of his mother’s since she moved here. Sam and I have gotten close.”
“He repairs her car,” I added helpfully. They both gave me dark looks.
“Let me get this straight,” Pavlik started.
Danger, danger, Will Robinson.
“You’re a friend of his mom and he repairs your car, right?” He looked at Sarah for an affirmative, which she gave him warily.
“So when his dad disappears, instead of calling a rela-tive—a grandmother or grandfather, an aunt or an uncle, or even the police—he calls you out of the blue?”
Sarah’s ears were flattened and her teeth bared.
I jumped in to save Pavlik. Just call me a softy. “He called Sarah because he felt guilty about something he’d said to David.”
Pavlik eyed Sarah. “And you know what that was?”
Sarah sighed, apparently deciding to level with the sheriff, too. “Listen, the kid felt terrible.” She pulled him over to the dining room, away from the deputy. “You know about Patri-cia’s affair.”
Pavlik nodded.
“Well, Sam did, too. But his father didn’t, until yesterday.”
“Sam told him?”
I picked up the thread. “David was telling him they should forgive Patricia’s killer, and Sam just exploded. He told David about Roger and Patricia and that he thought Roger killed his mom.”
“How did Harper take it?”
Back to Sarah. “Sam said David acted like Sam had punched him in the gut. He asked Sam to leave him alone, that he wanted to pray.”
“And then went and threw himself in the creek, instead,” Pavlik muttered under his breath. He shook his head. “I need to tell the kids what happened. If you’re so close to them,” he nodded at Sarah, “it might be easier for them if you’re there.”
I had a hunch Sarah might be regretting that “close” comment, but she turned and followed Pavlik up the stairs, me trailing.
Gary was just coming out of one of the bedrooms. Pavlik eyed him. “Find anything in there?”
Gary shook his head.
“Okay, then your guys can take off. We’ll take it from here.” Pavlik turned and knocked on the door across the hall, the one with a “KEEP OUT!” sign on it. It had to be Sam’s room. Eric’s door had a similar sign on it when he was Sam’s age. Except that his had a scribbled, “This means YOU, Mom” below the typed words.
Gary sketched a salute at Pavlik’s back and trotted down the steps.
I turned my attention to the task at hand. Sam. Pavlik and Sarah were already in the room. Teenage boys’ bedrooms all look alike. And they all smell alike. Eau d’ Dirty Socks and Congealed Food.