Before He Finds Her (24 page)

“That’s New York Harbor,” he said. “From the roof deck you can see the Manhattan skyline.” He took her hand. The gesture was too intimate, and she almost pulled away but relented. “Come on—I want to show you my office.”

His office was out back. The yard was private and absolutely serene, the only noise coming from the engine of a distant motorboat. They passed the pool, with its own pool house (
It’s really a guesthouse
, he explained.
I didn’t ask for it, but it came with the property
) and they passed the garage (
I was going to have Bill pick you up in the Ferrari, but then I thought you might be more comfortable in the Town Car
) and they passed a clover-shaped pond (
Would you believe the osprey have been swooping down and stealing my koi!
), and finally they entered a smaller structure, built beside the dock, that made her feel as if she were on a yacht, everything wooden and polished and uncluttered. There was a sitting room and office adjacent to a full kitchen and what looked like a fully stocked bar. On the walls hung various medals, plaques, and framed letters both typed and handwritten.

“In the main house,” he said, “the walls are full of original artwork. George Rodrigue, William Baziotes... would you believe I recently acquired a Warhol? But
here
”—he motioned to the wall—“is where I keep what really matters. Gifts from soldiers, students, husbands, wives... ordinary folks whose lives I’ve helped in some way over the years. They mean a lot more to me than my Emmys.”

He was showing off, but only when he opened a half-empty bottle of Scotch and poured himself a not-small glass did it occur to her that he might also be drunk, or at least on his way. Other than on TV, she’d never seen a drunk person before. Wayne and Kendra rarely drank alcohol. Being drunk was less obvious than she would have thought—or maybe Magruder was a subtler drunk than most.

“What’s your poison?” he asked, and smiled.

“No, thank you—I’m okay,” she said.

“I know you’re okay,” he said, “but I want you to be comfortable.”

He couldn’t keep still. A tap of the foot. A slight bite of the lip when he thought she wasn’t watching. It reminded her of Phillip, screwing up the courage to kiss her that first time.

“Did you know that presidents vacationed here, once?” he asked. “In Silver Bay, I mean. Woodrow Wilson, Teddy Roosevelt. And movie stars: Jayne Mansfield, Buster Keaton. A train used to run right up to the bay. The boardwalk—have you seen it?”

She said that she had.

“It’s nothing, now,” he said. “But at one time it was jam-packed with the rich and famous. You wouldn’t know it, but there’s history in these five square miles.” Another sip from his drink. “It’s a lot quieter now, but that’s how I like it. Silver Bay is my antidote to the New York office. I don’t know if I could face the insanity every day without a serene place to come home to.” He smiled. “And that, by the way, is my answer to you from yesterday—why I still live in Silver Bay.” Another sip. “You should sit at the desk for a minute.” The wooden desk had nothing on it and was right up against a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the bay. She sat down and placed her hands on the desk’s cool, smooth surface. “So what do you think?”

When seated, she couldn’t see the dock—only the water. “It’s like being on a ship,” she said, though she’d never been on a ship.

“That’s because it’s how I designed it. See across the water? That pinkish house?”

It was one of the largest on the bay. “Yes.”

“That’s my ex-wife’s house. I know—it’s all very Gatsby. But she bought it after the divorce, and
I
wasn’t going to be the one to move.”

Melanie had no idea what he was talking about. And before she could stop herself, she made a mental apology to Arthur and asked, “Why am I here?”

“Why, indeed.” David looked out over the water. “You’re here because I treated you badly yesterday and wanted to make up for it.”

“That’s nice of you,” she said. “But you don’t have to ingratiate—”

“Also, I was hoping you might answer something for me.”

Ah. “I can try.”

“I’m really glad to hear you say that,” he said, finishing the drink and setting the glass down on the desktop. Looking out at the water, he said almost offhandedly, “Who are you?”

“What do you mean?” She kept her breathing steady. “You already know. I’m Alice Adams.”

He sighed. “You’re a lovely young woman—beautiful, in fact—but you’ll notice that I haven’t called you Alice since you’ve arrived. That’s because there is no Alice Adams enrolled at Gaston College. Which makes sense, given that your name is Melanie Denison.” Hearing her name said aloud gave her body a physical jolt. “Except, there’s no Melanie Denison enrolled at Gaston College, either. So I was hoping you’d be willing to explain that for me.”

“No,” she said, all of her muscles tightening. “I’m not willing to.”

He took a long breath and looked at her. “You need to understand that I do this for a living. Even if the Sandpiper Hotel hadn’t given us your real name, we’d have found it out. I have a very capable staff. Compared to the kind of investigatory research we do every day, this is nothing.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Look, Melanie, if you’re working for one of the rags, that’s your business. I’ll even keep it a secret.” She continued to stare out the window. “I’m not angry about yesterday, anymore. Honest.” He gave her a smile that was probably meant to seem reassuring, but she couldn’t help thinking that the person he was reassuring was himself. “In fact”—he reached out and took her hand—“I’d like to become better acquainted.”

If she were better at this—if she were Nancy Drew—she would pull her hand away and fearlessly continue her line of questioning from the day before. She’d get what she came for. Instead, she quietly said, “I should go. This isn’t a good idea.”

Magruder’s eyes widened. At first, she thought he had become angry, but no. There was fear in his eyes, or something like it. He couldn’t stop looking at her. At last, he said, “Let down your hair.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your hair. I’ll have Bill return you to your hotel in just a minute. I swear it. But do this for me first.”

She felt very alone in this man’s bachelor pad. “Mr. Magruder, I don’t know what you think I’m here for, but—”

“I’m not making a pass at you. But please.” His voice was suddenly desperate. “Put your hair down, and I’ll answer whatever questions you came to New York to ask me.”

And with that promise, she found herself removing the clip from her hair. She hadn’t cut it in a while—it was about the longest it’d ever been. Tied up all day, it would look scraggly, so she ran her fingers through it a few times before facing him head on.

He squinted a little in the early evening light, and the way he studied her face felt both clinical and tender. And just as it occurred to her why he might have made his request, and why he was now looking at her so intently, his eyes watered and he said, “Oh, my God.” He opened his mouth as if to say more—once, then again—before going to pour himself another drink, larger this time.

He dropped into one of the leather chairs, took a swallow, and set the glass down. “I didn’t actually think... I mean, it crossed my mind, but...” He closed his eyes. And when he opened them again and confirmed that Melanie wasn’t a mirage but an actual young woman in his office, he smiled and said, “You aren’t the spitting image of your mother, but you come damn close.”

15

They sat together on the sofa, watching the sun dip behind his ex-wife’s neighbors’ homes across the bay. Melanie held a glass of water while David Magruder went through most of a bottle of champagne. “You sure you don’t want any?” he said. “I mean, if Meg Miller being alive isn’t cause for celebration, I don’t know what is.”

The man could put away a lot of alcohol. He was clearly practiced at it.

“Water is fine,” she said, the ice cubes knocking together in her glass surely giving her fear away. He knew. Him. A journalist. An untrustworthy journalist. A volatile journalist with money and power. It couldn’t be worse.

“What about food—are you hungry? We could rustle something up in the main house.”

Her stomach was growling. For the baby, she had to get on a better eating schedule. But how do you eat when you’re nauseous all the time? “Maybe if you have some crackers or something.”

“Crackers?” He laughed. “Sure, we can rustle up some crackers.” But he didn’t get up. He still seemed stunned. “Look at you—Meg Miller. God damn.” He shook his head. “Meg Miller, alive and well.”

“I go by Melanie,” she said.

“Sure, okay. Melanie.” He smiled at her. Now that he knew her secret, he couldn’t stop smiling. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

She shrugged. “Hiding.”

“You lost me.”

“From my father. So he can’t find me.”

His smile disappeared. “You’ve been hiding since nineteen ninety-one?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“And I know your job is to expose stuff, but you have to keep this secret. You have to. Please. The only reason I’m alive today is that everyone thinks I’m not.”

“Your accent—do you really live in North Carolina?”

She shook her head. “Please. I’m not going to tell you, and I’m begging you not to try to find out. I need your help.” She had sought David out because of the unlikely possibility that he’d have something useful to say about the night of the murder. But when she thought about how easily he had investigated her without her knowing, a new idea started to take shape. “I need you to help me find my father.”

“Darling, your father had a fifteen-year head start. The police have gotten nowhere. I’m not sure what you think I can do.”

“You said you do this for a living.”

“I’m a TV journalist, not a bounty hunter.”

“But you can try, can’t you?”

The yard had darkened a shade, and he squinted out the window, as if Ramsey Miller might be standing on the dock, waving at them.

“I can try.”

He insisted on taking her back to her hotel, but she insisted on being the one behind the wheel.

“I’ve been drinking for enough years to know when I can and can’t drive,” he said.

“Either I drive or I’m calling a cab.”

He shrugged. “It’s a nice night—we’ll take one of the convertibles.”

“How many cars do you own?” she asked.

“Six,” he said. Then: “Seven. I forgot about the new one. Can you drive a manual transmission?”

“No,” she said.

“Then so much for the Alfa Romeo.” He grinned. “Come on, we’ll take the Corvette.”

They went out to the massive garage, where seven shiny cars were parked in a line. The yellow Corvette was in the center. After David pulled the car’s top down, they got in, and she backed out of the garage, scared to death of hitting something, and went around the circular driveway to the road.

She turned left and accelerated, the engine revving beautifully, and headed back to town, passing the large estates, and then the road curved around so that it ran along the bay, which looked smooth as glass underneath a sky that was fading from purple to black. She hadn’t ever ridden in a convertible before, let alone driven one, and she decided on the spot that of all the things missing from her life, this one ranked high.

“You remember your way around?” David asked from the passenger seat.

“Only from the past few days. I have no memories of this town,” she said. “I wish I did. I wish I could remember my mother. I try all the time.”

At the light, she turned away from the bay and headed west on Main Street.

“Let me tell you something. She’s worth remembering.”

“So you weren’t strangers.”

“No,” he said. “We were close. I loved your mother.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? I mean we were good friends. She was a wonderful person. I think I’m actually pretty drunk.”

“Were you ever more than friends?” Melanie was glad that it was dark and she had a reason to keep her eyes straight ahead.

“No,” he said. “Never. Turn right here.”

“Why?”

“Just do it—I want to show you something.”

The turn sent her in the direction of her parents’ old neighborhood. She’d seen enough of that for one day. But then he had her make another turn, and another, onto a road that was new to her.

“Pull into that parking lot,” he said. There were no other cars. “Drive to the end there and park. You need to see this.”

David got out, and she followed. Though it was dark out now, she could see that they were in a park, a pretty spot with mature trees and a playground ahead and a pond off to the left. At the edge of the playground were a few picnic tables. David climbed up and sat on one of the tables.

“So is it familiar?” he asked.

“No. Should it be?”

“This is where you used to play.”

“Really?” She tried to imagine herself as a toddler, sliding down those same slides. Swinging on those same swings. She climbed up on the table and sat beside David.

“There used to be a taller slide over there with several twists. It was your favorite. And that rubbery surface is new. Back then there were woodchips, I’m pretty sure. Same swings, I think. Though sometimes you just liked chasing the birds.”

“Why do you know this park so well?” she asked.

“I used to meet your mother here when she came with you,” he said. “With your father away so often, I think she appreciated the adult company.” Melanie knew from the articles she’d read that her father was a trucker. “We would talk.”

“What would you talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t remember now. Our jobs, our lives, politics, the weather... whatever was on our minds, I guess. You’d throw crusts of bread to the turtles in that pond.” He smiled. “That was the only way to lure you away from the playground and back to the car—the promise of feeding the turtles.”

I used to play here. I used to feed the turtles
.
This was my home
.

Melanie climbed off the table and went over to the swings. There were bucket swings for babies and another set for older kids. She sat in one of the larger swings, lifted her legs, and glided back and forth a few times before lowering her shoes and dragging to a stop.