Walleye Junction (12 page)

“That's kind of you to say.” Emma flicked her blue eyes to the door. “I need a minute to compose myself. You can go on in if you like.”

“I can wait.”

Emma folded her arms tightly across her chest. “You may regret it. I'm not great company at the moment.”

“I heard you've only just returned to Walleye Junction after a long time away.”

“It's been twelve years.”

“Have you seen your parents in that time?”

“I saw my father a couple of times a year. My mother less so.”

“You live in San Francisco?”

“Yes,” she said, sounding exhausted. “It was a long drive.”

Emma walked along the porch and stared out at the view of the mountains.

“My mother isn't just upset. She's confused. I'm worried there might be some underlying health issue.”

“Could that be why she didn't contact you?”

Emma turned to face Macy. “That's the story I'm telling myself. We've had our disagreements in the past, but she'd have never shut me out of something as important as this.”

Macy gestured toward the driveway. “Is that your Escalade?”

“Not even if I had all the money in the world. The hatchback is mine.” She tilted her head toward the house and frowned. “My mother has company. Her old boss has stopped by with his third wife. I know my mother can't stand the thought of having the woman in the house, but she's still doing her level best to make them feel welcome. The strain is beginning to show though. They've been here for nearly an hour.”

“I need to speak to your mother on her own.”

“It will be a good excuse to get rid of them. They may mean well, but they're only making matters worse.”

*   *   *

Dr. Whitaker handed Macy his business card before taking charge of introductions. Macy recognized him from billboards along Route 93 where he loomed over the highway wearing a benevolent smile, lab coat, and stethoscope. According to the billboards, Dr. Whitaker could perform miracles. Macy felt he inspired far less confidence in the shiny blue tracksuit and tennis shoes he was wearing. His wife Sharon was a crisp-looking brunette who wore a string of polished pearls that matched her smile. While he appeared to be in his mid-sixties, Sharon was thirty at best. She clutched a smartphone in her well-manicured hands like it was a lifeline and glanced down at the screen every time she thought no one was looking. They were very tan so Macy imagined they spent a lot of time on vacation.

Dr. Whitaker and his wife had positioned Francine Long between them on the sofa. She was as gray as they were golden. Silver threads of hair fell around her finely wrinkled complexion. She wore no makeup and her blue eyes were raw from crying. She barely acknowledged Macy when she was introduced. The doctor and his wife stood as Francine made a move to get up.

“I'll just be a couple of minutes,” she said, gripping Dr. Whitaker's outstretched hand for balance. “I want to freshen up.”

Francine exchanged awkward hugs with her guests and in turn they promised to stop in again. Offers of help were made more than once and the latest Mrs. Whitaker provided instructions for reheating the casserole she'd left on the kitchen counter. Apparently it was gluten free.

Macy accompanied Dr. Whitaker and Sharon to the door. A tall man of considerable bulk, the doctor loomed over Macy when he spoke.

“If you think of anything that we could do for Francine could you please let us know,” he said. “She is very dear to us.”

Sharon clutched a tissue tight in her hand, but her eyes were bone dry. “We cut our vacation short when we heard the news about Philip.”

“We couldn't sit on that cruise ship a moment longer knowing what Francine must be going through.” Dr. Whitaker shook Macy's hand again. “The poor woman.”

Emma opened the front door. “Thank you so much for stopping by to visit with my mother.” Once outside, they hovered on the porch. Macy could hear bits of their conversation.

It's so good that you're here with your mother in her time of need.

Where else would I be,
asked Emma.

The doctor's voice boomed.
How long has it been? Twelve years? That whole tragic business with Lucy seems a lifetime ago now. I'm sure everyone has forgotten.

Upstairs floorboards creaked and a toilet flushed. Downstairs the screen door snapped shut and Emma wandered into the room looking sad and angry at the same time.

“Would you like a drink?” she said, heading for the kitchen. “I found something at the store that looked like coffee.”

“Only if it isn't any trouble.”

Emma talked to Macy through the open door. “You're not from around here are you?

“No, I was born and raised in Helena. I still live there, but as a special investigator working for the state, I generally go wherever they need me.”

“You must put in a lot of miles.”

“Too many to count. It's a big state.”

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Molten.”

“My specialty.”

Macy stood in the middle of the living room that looked as if it was lifted straight from the pages of a 1960s Sears catalog. The small flat-screen television appeared to be the only nod Philip and Francine had made to recent advancements. The sofa was covered in a pale blue fabric that matched the floor-to-ceiling curtains. Despite its age everything was in good order. She ran her eyes over a set of bookshelves that stood behind a reclining leather chair. Philip Long enjoyed spy novels. Macy picked up a well-thumbed classic by John le Carré from a stack of books that sat on a low table.

“Magnus Pym, ranking diplomat, has vanished, believed defected. The chase is on: for a missing husband, a devoted father, and a secret agent. Pym's life, it is revealed, is entirely made up of secrets.”

Macy sensed she was being watched. She turned toward the stairs.

Francine Long had changed her clothing. She wore a mustard-yellow dress that was cinched in at the waist and had a hem that fell below the knee. Her hair was no longer hanging loose. It was now pulled back into a neatly pinned bun.

“My husband was the reader,” she said, taking the book from Macy and putting it back in its original position. “Once his nose was stuck in a book there was no distracting him.”

Francine rearranged the cushions before sitting down in an armchair with a floral print. Macy positioned herself on the sofa and dug a business card out of her bag for Francine.

“I'm sorry to intrude at such a difficult time, but I thought it best that I stop by and introduce myself properly.”

For a few seconds Francine's face was twisted in grief. She spoke softly.

“I'm not sure how I'll be able to help. I really can't understand…”

Emma walked into the room carrying a tray. She touched her mother's shoulder. “Mom, I've made you tea and coffee. I wasn't sure what you wanted.”

“Tea is fine.”

Macy thanked Emma for her coffee. It was so thick she imagined a spoon would stand upright in it.

“Mom,” said Emma. “Do you want me to stay while you speak to the detective?”

Francine barely nodded. Her eyes darted around the room eventually landing on her late husband's empty leather chair. Emma brushed past it on her way to the sofa.

Macy slid her notebook out of her bag and took a moment to gather her thoughts. She'd have to take this slowly.

“Thank you again for speaking to me,” said Macy. “I know it's a difficult time, so I want you to tell me if you're tired. I can come back.”

In a gesture reminiscent of her daughter, Francine squared her shoulders. “I'd rather know what's going on. All this uncertainty is difficult. I'm worried…”

Macy almost reached out and touched Francine's arm, but then thought better of it. Francine Long struck her as someone who could crumble at the slightest sign of kindness.

“I'll speak to Lou Turner if you feel you need someone keeping an eye on things here,” said Macy. “I know he's having regular patrols monitor the house.”

“Thank you,” said Francine, her eyes moving to her daughter Emma. “I'd … we'd appreciate that.”

“We're following various leads, but as there is no clear motive for your husband's kidnapping and murder, the investigation could take some time.” Macy paused. “I'm not at liberty to tell you everything, but I will tell you what I can. I'm afraid that some of the information I'm going to give you today is going to be distressing.”

Francine pulled a cushion to her chest and shut her eyes.

Macy chose her words with care.

“Yesterday morning a local couple was found dead from an apparent drug overdose. The responding officer became suspicious when he noticed that their vehicle matched the description of the one seen the evening your husband was abducted. The crime scene investigators collected fingerprints and they were compared to what was found at the house where your husband had been kept. There was a match.”

Francine's cornflower blue eyes snapped open. “Who were they?”

Macy held up a pair of DMV photos. “They've been identified as Carla and Lloyd Spencer. Do those names sound familiar?”

“No,” said Francine, firmly shaking her head.

“I need you to take your time. You have to be sure,” said Macy.

Francine pressed a tissue to her lips and shook her head again. Macy checked her notes.

“Carla and Lloyd Spencer have lived in Walleye Junction all their lives. You could have come across them in any number of ways. Lloyd was a roofer. Maybe he worked for you and your husband at some point? Carla has held various jobs. She has worked as a tech consultant and as a waitress at the IHOP. More recently she delivered pizzas.”

Receiving no response, Macy pulled out a picture of Sean Spencer and placed it on the table.

“What about this young man?” Macy said, pointing to the image. “He finished high school last year.”

Francine picked up the photo. It trembled in her hands. “Who's this?”

“This is their son, Sean Spencer. He left town a few days ago and we're having difficulty tracking him down.”

“Do you think he—”

“At this point we just want to question him. We have no physical evidence that links him to any of the crime scenes.”

“But he's so young.”

“He's nineteen.”

“I'm sorry,” said Francine, handing the photo back. “I do not know these people.”

Macy left the photos on the table where Francine could see them. Emma picked up the photo of Carla and stared at it. “Do they have extended family in the valley?”

“Carla's sister lives here with her husband, Jay. They have a son named Kyle.”

“Kyle Miller?”

“You know him?”

“I went to school with him,” said Emma. “I guess you could say we were friends. As I recall he was quite bright.”

“I interviewed him yesterday.”

“He never talked about his family,” said Emma. “We all knew things were difficult at home.”

“They still are,” said Macy. “As far as I can tell, Kyle is the only one holding down a job. Carla and Lloyd Spencer both had histories of drug abuse. They were heavily in debt and in danger of losing their home. It is possible that they kidnapped your father for financial gain.”

Emma frowned. “But that's ridiculous. There are plenty of people around here with far more money than my parents.”

“As I said before, without knowing their motives for kidnapping your father, it's difficult to move forward in a focused manner.” Macy glanced at Francine. “I understand from Lou Turner that your husband feared reprisals following a series of programs he'd done on the growing numbers of the private militias in this part of the state.”

Francine nodded. “There have been threats. On a few occasions Philip was confronted in public. I thought he should get a gun for protection, but he wouldn't listen.”

Emma dismissed her mother's comment. “Buying a gun would have gone against everything dad believed in.”

Francine mumbled something under her breath that Macy didn't quite catch.

“Mom, I'm aware that I haven't been here for twelve years, but I still spoke to him once a week. He wasn't ever going to change his stance on gun ownership.”

Macy looked from daughter to mother. In unison they took a deep breath and dipped their heads. Their hands were folded in the same way on their laps. Their mouths held the same hard line. They were at odds and yet so similar. Macy started to speak again and two sets of blue eyes zeroed in on her.

“Then I guess it would come as a surprise to both of you that Philip applied for and received a gun license three months ago. He owned a registered handgun.”

Francine stared at Macy. “That's not possible. He would have told me.”

“Have you come across any firearms here at the house?”

“I had no idea.” Francine glanced at her daughter. “Did he say anything to you?”

Emma looked lost. “Not a word.”

“It's possible he decided to take the threats seriously but didn't want to alarm you,” said Macy.

Emma picked up Lloyd's photo. “Do these people have ties to any militia groups?” she asked.

“Carla and Lloyd formed their own group two years ago. Lloyd called your father during one of his shows. His language can only be described as colorful.”

“Did he threaten to harm my father?”

“Most definitely.”

“So that's it then,” said Francine. “It's over. You found who did it.”

“There are still unanswered questions,” said Macy. “We searched the van and Carla and Lloyd's home but have yet to find the murder weapon or your husband's laptop.”

“They could have thrown that stuff in the river or buried it,” Francine said, her voice going up an octave. “What other questions do you need answered?”