The Laura Cardinal Novels (63 page)

“It’s fine,” Laura said. “Is he on the property now?”

“I sent him out on an errand.” Barbara Wingate stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a whisk.

She wore blue jeans and a starched white cowboy shirt, tail out, a green sweater tied around her shoulders, her red-gold hair pulled back in a ponytail except for a few feathery bangs on her forehead. The skin of her heart-shaped face just a little loose, but the effect was more charming than if she were twenty. Her fine deep green eyes were wide and innocent. They reminded Laura of a doll’s eyes.

She glanced at Richie. He was transfixed.

“Do you know when Jessup will be back?” Laura asked, deciding that she, at least, wouldn’t be bowled over by the lady’s charms.

“No, I don’t. I was just baking a pie. Would you like to come in the kitchen? I have some wine open.” She nodded to her son. “We have that Brie, Josh. Would you mind cutting some?”

She led the way into the kitchen: stainless steel double oven, stove, and refrigerator, a long granite counter. A well-worn butcher’s block formed an island in the center of the room. Everything bright, colorful, and inviting, like the ceramic rooster canisters arranged by height along the wall by the sink. Cozy.

Laura felt the air slice by her as Josh walked to the refrigerator. He pulled the door open with force, yanked out a crisper, and pulled out a large Ziploc bag holding a block of cheese.

“I think they’d like the Brie better,” Barbara Wingate said.

Josh’s shoulders stiffened.

Mrs. Wingate ignored his reaction and said, “The other crisper. But that will be fine, too. You want to use the cutting board by the sink?”

Josh tumbled the cheese out onto the cutting board and pulled a knife out of the block near the sink with such force he could have been a Samurai.

Barbara Wingate’s back was to them; she was whisking egg whites while Josh knifed the cheese. “I have some red wine. Would either of you like some?”

“No thanks,” said Laura.

“Thanks just the same,” Richie said, then whispered to Laura, “That kid can really cut the cheese.”

“Funny.”

Mrs. Wingate did a few more things to the bowl of egg whites and mixed it with something else until it looked like batter, then poured it on a pie pan lined with dough, did a few more things, then put it in the oven. Laura had never baked a pie in her life, had never even seen a person baking a pie, so she couldn’t have articulated what she saw, but she did understand that Barbara Wingate was an expert at it.

There was already a warm smell, vaguely fruity, and it made Laura hungry. Did Barbara Wingate cook pies on a staggered schedule like they did on cooking shows?

Laura suddenly wished she’d paid attention in home ec—all the homey touches. Kind of like Martha Stewart, if Martha Stewart had an angry son.

Laura wondered what dynamics were in play here.

Josh placed the plate of cheese on the counter and reiterated, “I don’t talk about police work with my mother, so she had no way of knowing we were looking for him.”

“It’s not a problem,” Laura said.

“Just so you know,” he said stubbornly, “it was a miscommunication.”

“We got that,” said Richie, taking a slice of cheddar.

Barbara Wingate sat down and joined them. “So you want to see Luke? It doesn’t have anything to do with Dan’s death, does it?”

“Not directly. We need to talk to him, though.”

Mrs. Wingate’s exquisite eyes held steady. More like Ann Margret than Hayley Mills. She pushed her hand, palm up, under her chin, balanced on an elbow. “Josh has been so upset by what happened. With Dan. They were best friends—”

“They know all that,” Josh Wingate said. He opened the refrigerator, looking for something, then slammed it shut and stood with his back to it, arms folded.

Barbara Wingate didn’t seem to notice. “Luke’s building a new fence for the corrals. He had to go get a new posthole digger; ours finally gave out. But he should be back soon.”

An uncomfortable silence settled on the kitchen. Barbara Wingate picked at a piece of cheese, stood up. “I have water crackers.”

“That’s okay—”

But she bustled over to a cupboard and brought them out, put them on another dish.

Outside, a truck groaned up the slight hill. It didn’t stop at the house, but went on up to the corrals.

“Here we go,” said Richie, standing up.

As Mrs. Wingate walked them out, Laura asked, “How’s Erin doing?”

Barbara Wingate looked slightly bewildered. “Erin?”

“I was in Flagstaff the day you were all at the ice cream parlor—the dance class. She wasn’t feeling too well.”

Barbara Wingate’s expression clouded. “That was a scare. She’s all right, except she’s embarrassed. She felt we were making too much fuss of her, making her go in the ambulance.”

Her lovely eyes sad.

“She’s all right now, though?”

Josh, who had followed them to the door, said, “It’s up and down. Isn’t it, Mom?”

An undercurrent of anger in his voice. More than just anger over the Luke Jessup flap. She recognized it, had acted that way herself when she was a teenager. Almost as if Josh were trying to separate himself from his mother by challenging her. He was a little old for that, but family dynamics could be weird.

“She’s been sick since she’s been here,” Josh added. “Ever since Kathy and Mike died. All those trips to the Health Clinic, I guess it’s just something my mother is going to have to live with.”

Laura looked at Mrs. Wingate, who acted as if nothing were amiss. She’d make a good poker player. Cool and unruffled, those wide green eyes holding Laura’s.

All those TV shows and movies and books that had inculcated Laura as a child: Beauty equals Goodness. That kind of conditioning made it hard to think of Barbara Wingate making her own child sick.

But Laura had seen a lot in her three years as a detective. She’d seen people who could lie as easily as breathing.

And not all of them were cops.

When they got to the barn, Luke Jessup was already digging post holes for a new pen beyond the barn. He was as he’d been described: scruffy. His dark blonde hair had been pulled into a long ponytail, which went well with the beard. As with many people who slept outdoors, it was hard to tell where his brown long-sleeved shirt ended and his dark complexion began. It was not a healthy tan, more like a combination of sunburn and grime compressed into one ugly color. But he handled the posthole digger well and wore new yellow gloves.

Laura called to Jessup and he looked up. His eyes were electric blue in his dark face, aware and intelligent. She realized that if he cleaned up, he’d be a good-looking man.

When he saw her badge, he said, “You the detectives I’m supposed to talk to?”

“That’s right. This is my partner, Richie Lockhart.”

He set the posthole digger down and the three of them walked into the shade of an ash tree. It was warm already this morning, Indian summer holding, but Laura noticed that the edges of some of the leaves were beginning to turn yellow and gold. Fall was on its way.

Jessup removed the yellow gloves and wiped at his face. He was dripping sweat. Laura thought he must be a good worker.

They went over what he had seen, which didn’t vary from Dave Soderstrom’s account. He woke up to shots and saw a man walking around a tent, shooting.

“Did he seem calm?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but it was way across the lake.”

From that distance, he couldn’t tell what kind of clothes the shooter was wearing, although he guessed that it was a long-sleeved shirt and long pants, just from the shape.

“He left right after he was done shooting?”

“Uh-huh. Looked like he just jogged up the road.”

“Jogged? You said ‘walked’ in the report.”

“Seems to me he jogged. He knew firearms, though. The rifle was pointed at the ground.”

“The rifle was pointed at the ground?”

“Yeah. The way he carried it, I could tell he knew his way around firearms. You know, casual.”

“You didn’t see the vehicle?”

“That was farther up near the road. He just disappeared into the trees.”

Laura thought of something. “He didn’t stop to pick up his shells?”

“Nope. Unless he came back later.”

Unless he came back later
.

“Did you stay around afterwards?”

“Nope, I boogied.”

“You didn’t go to the tent to see if anyone was alive?”

“Ma’am, the way he shot into that tent, I knew there wouldn’t be any point. Besides, I didn’t want him to shoot
me
.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police right then?” Richie asked.

“Somethin’ told me not to.”

“What do you mean something told you not to?”

He kicked at the dirt. “I just thought I should keep it to myself. Police would find them soon enough.”

Richie and Laura looked at each other.

“Where have you been all this time?” Laura asked.

He looked at her. “I was holed up in Miz Wingate’s trailer.”

“This whole time? What about church?”

He rubbed his neck. “I didn’t make it to church this week.”

“Why was that?”

“I was too sick. Must’ve been some kind of flu or somethin’. Couldn’t barely move.” He put his gloves back on. “I sure was glad I had some place to stay. Miz Wingate took care of me like she was my own mother, bringing me soups and stuff. I only started feeling better yesterday.”

“How long have you been sick?”

“I guess I came down with it a day or two after I saw the shooting. Stayed up all night, trying to find out what was getting at the chickens.”

“Chickens?”

“Something’s getting in, because we’ve lost two since I’ve been here.” He shook his head. “I reinforced that fence so well, hard to believe anything could get in.”

Laura couldn’t think of anything else to ask him, so she went for the tried and true. “Did you know Dan Yates or Kellee Taylor?”

“I seen Kellee around, and I knew Dan on account I met him a couple of weeks ago, right here.”

Laura perked up at that. “On this ranch, you mean?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Any special reason he was here?”

He shrugged. “He’s a friend of Miz Wingate’s son. The police officer. I know that much.”

As Laura and Richie walked back to their respective cars, Richie said, “That Barbara Wingate sure is something.”

“I know.”

“Did you notice there wasn’t any kid stuff around the house?”

“Kid stuff?”

He shrugged. “Hey, if it was my house, there’d be an ant trail to the kitchen—you know, backpacks, books, toys, Game Boys. That’s one neat house. Everything in its place, like out of
Better Homes & Gardens.
”

“So?” Laura didn’t have children, so the world of children wasn’t very real to her, kind of like the mysterious conjuring of Barbara Wingate’s pies.

Richie shrugged. “It’s just weird, that’s all.”

Following Richie back to the motel, Laura thought about Richie’s comment on the house. Nothing to show a kid lived there.

Barbara Wingate, the perfect woman. Beautiful, kind, strong. More persona than person.

Was Erin just window-dressing on Barbara Wingate’s stage set?

At the motel, Richie put The Club on his Monte Carlo steering wheel and slipped into Laura’s brown Impala. He ran his hand along the dash. “
Much
better.”

“Jesus.”

“No, Jesus would drive a Monte Carlo.”

Laura pictured that for a moment. It made her smile.

They spent the rest of the day looking for Bobby. They tried his house twice and his mother’s house once. They tried his friends. Turned out he didn’t have many. He had kept a pretty low profile for someone who had lived in Williams most of his life. They did learn, however, that he had quit his bread route.

“Something’s brewing,” Richie said as they ate dinner outside on the patio at Cruisers. “Why wouldn’t he just come back home? Where are they?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“You think he’s good for it? Dan and his girlfriend?”

Laura thought about the calls Dan made to Shana’s cell. She thought about what had turned up on his computer: a half dozen ecoterrorism sites bookmarked, including the blog that contained the reference to the Earth Warriors. “He’s the best bet so far,” Laura said.

When they got back to the motel, Richie told her he was going to be early. “I’m beat. The kids kept me up late last night.”

She almost told him to put a sock in it, she knew the truth and didn’t want to hear it anymore. But why bother? Clearly, it was important to him to maintain the illusion that he was happily married.

She guessed he was entitled.

The next morning Laura walked to the
Williams–Grand Canyon News
building on Third Street, a couple of blocks away from the motel.

Laura entered the small front office, half of it taken up by an old black printing press, strung with fake cobwebs and decorated with skulls for Halloween. A counter ran along the left-hand side of the room, dividing the work space from the entrance area. A thirtyish dark-haired woman with the name tag LILA JOHNSTON smiled and said, “May I help you?”

When Laura told her what she was looking for, Lila led the way into the back. “Let’s go to the conference room,” she said. “I think I can put my finger right on it.”

Laura pushed through the swinging door and followed Lila into a small room with a large table.

“Just a minute, and I’ll get it for you.” Lila trailed a scent behind her—roses.

As Laura waited, she looked out the window. An ash tree, its leaves just beginning to turn yellow, glittered against a crystalline blue sky.

She felt guilty, spending her time on this. Time was slipping away and she was going off on a tangent. But she couldn’t let it go.

If what she suspected was correct, Erin Wingate was a victim of Munchausen by Proxy.

Laura remembered the mother at the soda fountain in Flagstaff. What did she say about Erin’s bad spell? It wasn’t the first time? No, she said,
This is the third time this has happened
.

Three times, just with the dance class.

What are the odds
?