Fortunes of the Dead (25 page)

“That's Leo,” Kate said.

“Hi, Leo.”

The boy didn't look up.

The smell of beef, potatoes, and onions permeated the house. It was warm inside, and good to be off the road.

“The bathroom's that way,” Kate said, “if you want to wash up.”

When I found my way back to the kitchen, Leo was sitting at the table, drinking a glass of milk, with George curled up at his feet. Kate waved me to a chair.

“Go on and sit. Everything's ready. You have no idea how thrilling it is to have company.”

Kate put hot yeast rolls into a basket, offered me Coke, beer, or water, and sat down across from me at the table. The roast was fork tender. There were potatoes, onions, and carrots that were sweet and well done. Leo took two bites, then kicked his foot hard on his chair. So far he had not looked at me or said a word.

“Do you like being a detective?” Kate asked me.

“Some days yes, some days no.”

Leo jumped down from the table, and Kate held his face between her hands. “Go upstairs and get ready for bed. You and George can read until I come upstairs.”

Leo did not look at her, but ran up the stairs. George got up and headed after him.

“So Cheryl's family hired you?” Kate said.

“That's right.”

“How are they?” she asked softly.

I shrugged. “You know how it is. It's hard.”

“I wish I could help you out, but there's nothing I know about it. I've talked to the police from Lexington, the Commonwealth Attorney's office. Even the ATF. I'd help you if I could.”

I nodded.

“Would you like some coffee?” Kate asked.

“I'd appreciate it. It'll keep me awake on the drive home.”

“You're not as far out as you think. You can be back on seventy-five in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“That's a hell of a relief.”

She got up and began rinsing a coffeepot. “Everybody seems to think my husband killed this girl. Is that what you think, too?”

“I'm not sure.”

Kate looked at me over her shoulder. “Aren't you going to ask me what I think?”

“I didn't have the nerve.”

She laughed. “Everybody else does.” She sat down, resting both elbows on the table. “Cory isn't the easiest person. He's not good when he's frustrated. But I wouldn't be here if I thought he was a killer.”

“I understand that.”

“Do you think he's going to be arrested?”

“I honestly don't know. But I've met your husband.”

“And?”

“And … and I can see how someone could have a favorable impression.”

“You don't sound convinced.”

“I only know him from the bad angles. And I have information that you don't.”

“Which is?”

I looked at my feet. I really didn't want to do this.

“Which is?” Kate said again.

“Did you know your husband was married before?”

She nodded. “I saw her a couple of times when we lived in London. Amy McAlister. We never spoke.”

“I spent some time with her and she told me that she and Cory never really got divorced.”

Kate's face went slack, and she stood abruptly, went to the coffeepot and filled two mugs. She put cream and sugar on the table. “She's not exactly reliable, you know. She's an alcoholic. I always wondered if that happened before or after she married Cory.”

“I checked it out, Kate. They never got divorced, which means you aren't legally married.”

Kate laughed. “I'm sorry. I just don't … it's got to be some kind of mistake.”

“Yeah, and the name of the mistake is bigamy.”

“Why did you come all the way out here to tell me? So I'd get mad and spill my guts.”

“Pretty much.”

“Most people think Cory's a great guy.”

“You're just not what I expected when I drove out here. You're younger than I thought you would be. And you don't look like one of those wives who—”

“Say it,” Kate tells her. “One of those women who hang on to a man no matter what he does, because they are afraid to have a life of their own?”

“Something like that.”

“What exactly is it you want from me? Because I've already talked to the police and the prosecutor's office. They won't tell me anything, by the way.”

“Yeah, I hear you won't tell them the same.”

Kate nods. “Why should I? Would you, in my place?”

“I'm not exactly sure what your place is, so I can't answer that. I guess I'd be careful, if I were you. No one's going to look out for you, including your husband, so you better take care of yourself. And Joel Mendez, have you talked to him?”

“Mendez. The detective?”

“Yeah. Just so you know, he and I are together in the romantic sense.”

“As in biblical?”

“That, too, yes.”

“Did he send you down here to talk to me?”

“He doesn't know I'm here, and he wouldn't like it if he did. Separation of church and state, you know.”

“So who hired you then? Cheryl's sister?”

“Her stepsister and her father. They need to know what happened, and to make sure everything is done that can be done. It's a family thing. They're always going to have hope.”

“They can't think this girl is still alive,” Kate says.

“They can and they do.”

“And you?”

I shook my head.

“Do you think my husband killed her?”

“I think it's possible. But not for the reasons everybody thinks. I don't believe it was over an affair. What do you think, Kate?”

Kate traced a ring of condensation on the table. “Why should I tell you that?”

“Maybe you shouldn't.”

“I don't think I can help you on this. I don't really know how involved Cory is in this, but obviously I don't think he is a killer.”

I nodded.

“And I just … I don't want anything to do with this. It's Cory's thing, not mine.”

“Do you still love him, then?”

“I don't know. We've been married a long time and we have a son. And don't tell me I stay with him because I have low self-esteem.”

“Oh, hell, Kate, those two words strung together are my least favorite ones in the English language. Look, I work with women who have bad husbands. It's my specialty, okay? And I am sick and tired of everything being dumped into the category of self-esteem. It's just the catchall, and it's meaningless. Women stay with crummy husbands because they think it's best for their children, because they're afraid to leave, because they don't want to be alone, because they want a meal ticket—there's a million reasons why. And none of them have a damn thing to do with self-esteem, and you don't look like a victim to me. I put you in the family responsibility category. The minute you decide he's not good for the family, you'll cut him loose. Probably about the time we find out what really happened to Cheryl Dunkirk, if we ever really do.”

“If I knew something that would help the family … I'd tell you that.”

“Look, I'm not going to hound you about this, Kate. You have to make up your mind what you want to tell me, if anything at all. I just thought that since you hadn't come out in defense of the guy, you might be willing to tell me something, or anything that might at least lead to a body. It would be good for the family to be able to bury Cheryl, and not have to live with uncertainty all of their life.”

“Yes. I really didn't think of it that way.” Kate looked up at Lena. “Do the police have a case? Is Cory going to be arrested?”

“I have no earthly idea.”

“What about the detective?”

“He won't tell me a damn thing.”

“Then how can you expect me to talk to you? If I talk to you, and Cory finds out about it, don't you think he'll … I don't know. Do something?”

I leaned back in my chair. “Absolutely, I do. I'm glad you realize it yourself. If he did kill Cheryl Dunkirk, he can certainly come after you. Especially if he thinks you are any kind of threat. And even though you don't think he's a killer, you shouldn't take that kind of risk.”

“So why would I tell you anything?”

I sighed “You might not. Revenge would be my motive, if I were in your shoes. But I'm kind of big on that sort of thing. And because of Cheryl's family. I would worry about them.”

Kate took a sip of coffee. “I don't think I know all that much.”

“Is there anywhere you could go if you needed to?”

“My parents.”

“Can I give you some advice? Don't leave it to the last minute. If you decide you aren't comfortable here, or with him, take your son and go see your family for a while. Give yourself a chance to think, away from him, so you can find some perspective.”

“I appreciate your concern, but—”

“I know. It's none of my business.” I rummaged through my purse. “Here's my business card. That's my old number, here.” I found a pen and put the new number down. “If I can help you out, give me a call.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks for dinner. And thanks for rescuing me. And remember what I said, will you? It's lonely out here.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

Kate's head rests sideways on the back of the couch, and her eyes are just barely open. She is drifting, and her mind no longer acknowledges the sounds and images that come muted from the TV. Leo is curled next to her, snoring softly. George is on the rug at Kate's feet, drowsing but alert, in the way of dogs who take the protection business seriously. Now and then he scratches and Kate wakes up enough to ask him why, as he has been cleansed of all biting companions. George gives her his full attention when she asks, then scratches again and settles back on the rug.

A cold front has swept in from Canada, and Kate and Leo have gathered kindling from beneath the canopy of wind-blasted trees, and stacked up logs from the woodpile. Kate has built a fire in the woodstove and closed off the French doors on either side of the great room, so that she and Leo and George are quite toasty. The three of them had settled in front of the television for an
X-Files
marathon—both boy and dog asleep before the conclusion of episode two.

On the other side of the French doors, the rest of the house was immersed in the chilled bluish dark that settles over winter nights. The scent of wood smoke, the glow of fire behind the glass door of the woodstove; these comforts were too pleasant to leave. Kate decided they would sleep downstairs tonight.

The neighbors at the bottom of the hill had brought Kate a bottle of red wine. It would be nice to have a glass, but she wouldn't. That morning she had woken up vomiting, the nausea striking at the precise moment her mind slid from unconscious to awake. There had been other indications, little things—a slight tingling in her breasts, feeling sleepy in the afternoon. The subtle and personal signs that told her she was pregnant.

By Kate's estimate she was six weeks along—it had been exactly that since the mishap. “Deficient condom” was how Cory explained it. Her gut told her he'd been trying to get her pregnant.
Why?
Kate wondered. To keep her vulnerable, to keep her in line? Kate wondered how she could earn a living and look after Leo, and deal with the physical strain of carrying another child. She wasn't sure she could do it. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

She had been in an odd state of mind since that strange visit from Lena Padget. She felt heavy and lethargic when she ought to be frantically worrying and finding out if she was, indeed, legally married to Cory Edgers.

In a small way she was excited. Did she really want to be married to Cory? If the marriage wasn't legal, she was free. She could walk right off the mountain, she could get her life back. She could go home to Kentucky. The lease on the house was in Cory's name. As soon as she got packed, she could go.

The urge was overwhelming—put some things in the Jeep, settle Leo and George in the back, and be home before breakfast tomorrow morning. Don't wait, the Padget woman had told her.

But it was so cold out, so cold. And she was sleepy. And she didn't want to leave Sophie alone on the mountain. She should do it right—pack up the house, hire movers, turn off utilities, and give her parents some warning that she was on the way. Not that the last was necessary. She could show up on their doorstep in the middle of the night and they'd be thrilled.

Kate was dreaming about breakfast in the big old kitchen at home when a low but sustained growl from George woke her. The sound of car tires on gravel permeated her consciousness. Someone was coming up the steep gravel drive—nobody drove up the mountain by accident.

George was up on his feet, making a beeline for the French doors, whining and looking at Kate. He grumbled low in his throat, and lowered his head. A ridge of fur rose like a stripe down his back and the slam of a car door sent him into a frenzy, his bark hoarse and fierce.

Kate was on her way to get the .38 she kept in the utility room off the kitchen. The gun was hidden behind the horse meds. The front door opened before she was halfway to the kitchen. George threw himself into the doors between the great room and the foyer, and they bulged outward with the force of his weight. Any second and he'd be going through the glass.

Cory Edgers paused in the doorway, keeping an eye on the dog.
My husband is home
, Kate thought. The black cloud for every silver lining. Kate noted how pale Cory was, as if he'd been ill. She put a hand on George's collar and pulled him back, but it was not until Leo woke up and shrieked “Daddy!” that George stopped barking and retreated.

Kate stood beside the couch, feeling so detached she might as well have been catching a glimpse of strangers through a window. There was the father lifting the little boy to his shoulders, a father who never talked to the little boy, or played with him, or picked him up for a hug unless there was someone to watch and notice. The little boy was smiling—a scene right out of Family 101. The weight was back on her chest, and she felt the spark of hope fading, felt herself retreating behind the façade of happy mommy, happy wife.