False Impressions (20 page)

Violet opened the car door. “You thought maybe I bought my meth from his gang.”

April leaned over to stop her, but Violet was quick. The seat belt buckle flew back with a thunk. “I didn’t mean . . .”

Violet climbed out and stuck her head back through the open door. “My father had no right to ask you to babysit me.”

“No, Violet, it wasn’t like that.”

“And for your information, Henry Yost saved my life.”

An old yellow car with black racing stripes was parked in front of the Wysocki’s house, illuminated by floodlights over the detached garage. April recognized it as a Ford Torino, seventies’ version.

“That’s a cool car,” April said. “That your boyfriend’s?”

“Just a friend.”

April said, “Okay,” and laughed, but Violet didn’t join in. “I hope you’ll think about stamping with us again,” April said. “Just because your father thought it was a good idea, doesn’t mean it’s not.”

Violet didn’t answer. Her eyes were on the house. Would she confront her father? April didn’t think he deserved her ire.

“Give us another chance. It’s usually a lot more fun. And it can be very gratifying. Spiritual, even.”

“Sure. Fine.”

Violet’s attention was on the front door. She was eager to get inside. She seemed a little nervous leaving her friend alone with her parents. Maybe Dr. Wysocki didn’t like him.

 

“You’re early,” he called. Mitch was working at his dining room table on his latest design for his next Hope House. He’d built one home for a low-income family and was planning three more.

She kissed the top of his head. “Stamping was a bust,” she said.

His attention had slipped back to the project. She could see she had interrupted his flow. She looked over his shoulder. This one was a four-square with two master suites on the upper floor. He was designing the bathroom, playing with cutouts of bathtubs and sinks.

“Go back to work,” she said.

“I’m at a bad stopping point,” he explained.

“That’s fine,” she said. April stripped off her layers of clothes and pulled off her boots. Mitch had lit the fire in his woodstove, and the room was toasty. His shag rug felt good under her feet.

“Want to watch a video in a few minutes?” he asked. “I’ve got the newest Jason Bourne thriller.”

April considered. Watching a guy race around trying to remember who he was and what he’d done in his past didn’t sound enticing. She got up to pour herself some wine.

“No, work on your house plans. I’m going online for a while.”

He worked, humming quietly. She logged on to the website of the local paper, hoping to find some information about who J.B. had been working with.

She couldn’t let Mary Lou’s anger stop her. If April wanted to look into J.B.’s death, nothing could stop her. She had Kit’s blessing, and that was all she needed.

She wondered if Violet had been lying to her. Her time in Aldenville didn’t overlap with J.B.’s, but still the meth community couldn’t be that big.

The local paper didn’t have much in the way of online archives. She couldn’t find an obituary for J.B., but she did find a police report about the explosion. It gave the name of the other deceased meth maker, Ransom Conway. A few lines explained that the house had burned to the ground. It gave the address.

She opened the map site and found the location. It was a rural route address so she couldn’t pinpoint the exact spot, but she saw the general vicinity. It didn’t look like much more than empty land with a sprinkling of homes. A vestige of a once thriving town, the site of a sawmill. It was several miles from town. She hadn’t been out that way in years. From Mitch’s house, it was directly across the valley behind the small mountain that loomed in his back window.

A search of Ransom Conway brought up nothing, just a few phone book listings for Conways. Impossible to know if anyone was related. She jotted down the numbers. She’d try them tomorrow.

She moved the map to the north end and found the river she’d been at yesterday. She followed it until she found the spot where the cottages were. She pictured the place she had looked at yesterday.

April closed the computer and got up, stretching. She found dirty dishes in the sink and started washing.

“Don’t do those,” Mitch called. “I’ll get to them later.”

“I’m just trying to keep busy.” Keep from talking, if she was honest. She didn’t want to hash over her day. She’d had enough of Mary Lou.

She washed the dishes despite his protests, feeling the comfort of the dull routine. When she was finished, she wiped down the counters. She hadn’t had a sponge in her hand since the Campbells moved in. She missed the mindless, rhythmic action. The kitchen reminded her of her other needs.

“I saw a nice rental property,” she said quietly.

She walked over to where he was working at the dining room table, drying her hands on a paper towel. She couldn’t find the nice thick cotton towels she’d gotten him for Christmas. Probably out in the garage under a power tool. The top of the table was littered with bits of wood and carving tools. His scroll saw was behind him, against the wall, where the buffet should be.

Mitch didn’t look up. “I told you there’s plenty of room for your stuff here. You’re practically living here as it is.”

“No,” she said. She was firm but gentle.

Mitch stopped, the tone of her voice getting his full attention. April felt like she’d swallowed a cotton ball. She knew what she was saying was right, but she didn’t want to upset Mitch.

“Come in here,” she said. “We need to talk.”

“Those words are never good,” Mitch said. But he got up and joined her in the kitchen, his face grave. She prepared coffee and set the pot on to brew. She used the Guatemalan roast, his favorite.

“You sure look at home here,” he said, watching her put the coffee beans back in the refrigerator and take out the creamer. She opened the cupboard and got down two mugs.

She set his favorite in front of him. “I love your house, Mitch, and I like being here with you.”

The L word. She backed off using the word “love.” They hadn’t said that word to each other. It was loaded, indicating a commitment she wasn’t sure she was ready for yet. She’d only been divorced from Ken a few months.

Right from the beginning, they’d been so comfortable with each other, so happy to be in each other’s company. They felt it. She knew she felt it and knew he did, too. They didn’t need to say “I love you” to each other.

“But . . .” he said. “I hear the ‘but’ in there.”

April sat, leaning on her elbows. She wanted to touch him, but he was leaning on the counter across the room. “I’ve barely lived by myself. I went from my parents’ house to my dorm to living with Ken.”

Mitch winced at the mention of her ex-husband’s name. “What about the barn?”

She didn’t want this to turn into an argument. “Even before Grizz and Charlotte arrived, that was always Ed and Vince’s place. Not mine.”

He lowered his gaze. The man had the best eyelashes, long and lush. It really wasn’t fair. She wanted to reach out and stroke his cheek, but they needed to settle this once and for all. They couldn’t always distract themselves with touches.

She said, “I know you don’t understand. You’ve been living on your own for so long. I need to make a home for myself. Complete with girly touches, if I want. Lace curtains, doilies.”

“Do you have an objection to my décor?” Mitch said, eyes sweeping the kitchen as though seeking out its faults. The roller shade in the small window over the sink was a dull white. A reciprocating saw sat on the counter, and his small butcher block was covered with glue stains. A grease-stained paper towel had missed the garbage, despite the orange Nerf hoop that was perched above the opening.

She followed his gaze and laughed. Mitch joined in.

“I know it could use a woman’s touch. That’s where you come in,” Mitch said.

“Getting my own place is not about your lack of style.” April drew in a deep breath. No more joking around. She had to make him understand.

He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “Being on your own can be lonely.”

He’d been living alone for quite a while before she moved back to town.

She let herself speak what she knew to be true. Her voice came out soft and slightly quivery but gathered strength as she spoke. “I need a sanctuary, one that I built for myself. I need to take some time, listening to myself, to my body and my mind. I feel myself crying out for a dedicated space.”

Mitch took her hand. She’d been keeping her distance, afraid that touching him would make it harder to say. But something else happened. His fingers twining through hers reminded her that Mitch wanted what was best for her. He had her best interests at heart all the time. In a way that no one else did. He wouldn’t object to her moving into her own place.

His fingers tightened around hers. She couldn’t read his expression. Finally, he smiled.

“You want me to help you look?”

She smiled. “Not just yet, but thanks.”

 

April set out about ten the next morning with the address
she’d found. A look at maps online had given her a good sense of where the house that had blown up had been. It was in the Aldenville town limits but several miles away from Main Street.

She wasn’t sure what looking at the property where the meth explosion had happened would tell her. But someone had to know something about J.B. The neighbors might be helpful, telling her who’d lived there. People tended to stay in place in Aldenville, so someone was bound to know who’d owned it. Maybe someone remembered the guys who went in and out of there last year.

The roads in that part of town were sparsely populated and full of bends and dips. Fun to hit at sixty miles per hour. She and Deana had driven these winding roads as high schoolers. For April’s sixteenth birthday, Ed had given her a 1987 Chevy Cavalier. It wasn’t a sweet ride, but it functioned most of the time. When things got rough at home, she would get in the car, pick up Deana and just drive. At April’s house, once Ed had left, life had been unpleasant. Bonnie had been so miserable. Things weren’t a cakewalk for Deana, either. There had been a period when she was unable to reconcile teenage life with living in a funeral home. They’d needed their driving sessions.

This road looked sort of familiar. She slowed, looking for some landmark to tell her where she was. A scarred mailbox, listing to one side, had the address in gold and black lettering that she’d been looking for.

She opened her car door and got out. She blew on her hands and stomped her feet. It was nuts how quickly the cold permeated her layers of clothes. She wished she’d thought to bring a thermos of coffee.

This was the place. The wind howled across the empty lot. Scraggly pine trees rimmed the property. The remains of an old foundation were barely visible as the snow sunk along the perimeter, leaving the imprint. Next to it, a pile of debris rose like a mass grave topped with snow. She couldn’t tell where a driveway might have been. Unbroken snow lay across the front yard in deep drifts. No one had been to the site all winter. There was nothing for her to see here.

April looked to see if anyone else was around. To her right, April could make out smoke coming from a chimney, and she smelled wood smoke. A little home was tucked into a copse of now bare trees. In the spring, it would be obscured from view.

There were no sidewalks, so she drove to the house with the smoke.

A woman opened the door, shielding a toddler, who insisted on seeing who was on the porch.

April spoke quickly, before the door closed. “Hi, I was wondering if you knew anything about the Conways. They used to own that place up the road.” April pointed.

“It wasn’t the Conways, it was the Farrell house. But no one’s there now.”

“The house burned?” April said. The woman didn’t seem to mind that her superheated house air was leaking into the outdoors. April could only imagine how isolating winter was for this woman.

“Yeah, that was like a year ago,” she said. Even though she was distracted by the twisting boy in her arms, she was clearly desperate for adult conversation. “My husband has been trying to buy the land for us, but there are no living relatives.”

“There’s no one?” April asked. “So who owns the land now?”

She shrugged, giving her boy a shot at freedom, which he promptly took as she loosened her grip. “It’s in probate court, going to take forever.”

Her attention strayed as her toddler dropped down out of her arms, squirted around her legs into the house and came back carrying a cat. The woman moved her hip to block her son’s path. She let the storm door close. “No, no, Brandon. Sparky has to stay inside. You, too.”

The boy dropped the cat and tried to make a run for the outdoors. “Sorry,” she said as the front door closed. April could hear the indignant cries of the young boy as she walked away.

April stood on the porch and looked out at the road. There was a farmhouse across the street. She knocked on that door, but there was no answer. She got back in her car and drove a quarter mile to the next visible house, which sat up on a rise.

She drove up, parking in the driveway alongside an old Suburban. A red snow shovel leaned against the open garage door, and inside she could see a large woman, dressed in knit pants and a sweatshirt, pushing a broom. This looked more promising.

She looked up when April pulled in, and came out to greet her.

“Can I help you?” Her face was red with exertion. The driveway was swept free of any snow accumulation, and the garage was so clean, April would have eaten in it.

“Are you selling something? I don’t want anything. If you’re one of those religious nuts, just be aware. I’m guaranteed a place in heaven putting up with my Marvin all those years. Not that I expect to see him up there.”