The Lost Women of Lost Lake (24 page)

Once they were back in the parking lot, Jane suggested that they take a look around.

“I wonder if Emily's here?”

“She doesn't work until three.”

“How do you know that?”

Jane tapped her head. “Psychic.” She led the way past a couple of the dilapidated cabins to a dirt path that ran in front of those that faced the lake.

“Not exactly thriving,” said Cordelia.

Each cabin had a large brown plastic garbage can next to it. A couple were overflowing with trash.

They kept walking. The path took them through some tall grass to three cabins set deeper in the woods, with no view of the shore.

“Something's not right,” said Jane coming to a stop.

“Meaning?”

“When checkout time is eleven in the morning, why would you schedule a cleaning woman to arrive at three?”

“Well,” said Cordelia, examining the red polish on her fingernails. “Maybe that's when they do their deep cleaning. You know, like shampooing the rugs.” She laughed at her own joke.

“So why does Emily come at three?”

“We could ask Arnie that question.”

“You think we'd get a straight answer?”

“Not if he's hiding something.”

“Why would he have something to hide?”

“He wouldn't. Unless it's illegal, immoral, or fattening.”

“Let's think about this for a second,” said Jane. “Since Feigenbaumer was staying here, maybe he saw something and put two and two together.”

“Whatever two and two added up to,” said Cordelia.

“If he discovered something illegal, maybe he threatened to tell.”

“And they, whoever
they
are, got rid of him before he could talk. You think Emily's mixed up in this?”

“Seems like a theory with more holes than Swiss cheese.”

“And Arnie doesn't look all that dangerous to me. Besides, we've already established that Lyndie LaVasser's and Feigenbaumer's deaths were connected, right? I can't see how what's going on here could have any bearing on that.”

Frustrated at her lack of answers, Jane said, “You're right.”

“Of course I'm right.”

“Let's get out of here.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

*   *   *

Kenny's piece-of-junk motard had cost Jonah a hundred bucks and two hours of sitting in a dirty repair shop. He had some cash with him, but ended up charging the repair to the credit card his parents had given him. What he didn't have was time. He was on the road now, headed for Harris Lake. He'd called Emily's mom from the repair shop, found out that Emily was starting work at three today, which meant he might not be too late after all. His plan was to find her, talk to her alone, without Kenny there to apply his not inconsiderable intimidation skills, and then he'd nail down what was really going on. Once he understood the problem, he'd solve it. There was no way on earth that Emily loved Kenny more than she loved him.

Pulling up to the office at Fisherman's Cove shortly after four, Jonah swung his leg off the bike and set the kickstand, and then he went inside and asked the old man behind the desk where he could find Emily.

“Not sure, son. What do you need?”

“I need to talk to her.”

“What about?”

“I don't think that's any of your business.”

“How'd you find out about Emily?”

Jonah had no idea what he meant. “She's my girlfriend.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I'll just walk around until I find her. Thanks for nothing.”

Coming around the back of the building, he saw a guy he knew walking to his car. “Sam,” he called. “Wait up.”

The guy stopped and turned around. “Jonah?”

“Have you seen Emily this afternoon? I need to talk to her.”

“Emily?”

“You know. Emily Jensen. She's my girlfriend. She cleans cabins here. I don't see her car in the lot. Her mom told me she'd be here.”

Sam unlocked his car. “Sorry, man. Can't help you.”

“Are you working here, too?” asked Jonah.

“Nah, just visiting a friend. Hope you two hook up.”

He seemed to be in such a rush that there was nothing else to do but let him go. “See you around,” he called.

Shifting his focus toward the dirt path, he couldn't believe Emily would take a job in a place like this. The cabins all looked like slums. Rotting wood. Rusted screens. Concrete blocks used to prop up drooping decks.

“Emily?” he yelled, jogging slowly along the shoreline. “Emily, I gotta talk to you. Come on out. Emily, please. This is important. Life or death.” He kept calling. When she didn't show, he followed the path through the weeds and found three more cabins separated from the rest. One of them had a light on above the door.

“Emily,” he yelled again. “Come out. We gotta talk.”

“Hey, there, young man,” came Arnie's voice.

Jonah twisted around, saw Arnie steaming toward him.

“You have to stop that. You're annoying my customers. You either leave now or I call the sheriff.”

Jonah glared. “She's here somewhere, right?”

“Out.”

Standing his ground, Jonah screamed Emily's name.

Arnie took out his cell phone. “I'm calling the sheriff's department.”

Hands clenched into fists, Jonah started for the guy.

“Now, now,” Arnie said, backing up, holding up his hands. “Don't do anything we'll both regret.”

As he stormed past, he bumped into Arnie's shoulder, flipping him a full one-eighty. “This is total bullshit,” he muttered, spitting on the ground as he walked away.

28

Kelli Christopher picked Jane up from the Thunderhook parking lot at six. They made small talk all the way to Balsam Lake. When they reached the outskirts of town, Kelli pulled her squad car into a gravel driveway next to a barn. About thirty yards back from the highway stood an old farmhouse—white clapboard walls, two stories, screened front porch, with a big backyard, a picnic table a few feet from the entrance to a fenced garden, and a hammock tied up between two huge oaks.

“Welcome to my homestead,” said Kelli, cutting the engine and then leaning back and smiling. “This is my oasis. My refuge and sanctuary. And sometimes, when it's been a particularly bad day, my asylum.”

Behind the house were fields and trees that stretched as far as the eye could see.

“It's beautiful,” said Jane.

“That it is. Come on. Let me introduce you to Duchess.”

They made their way across an expanse of grass up to a back door. As soon as Kelli put her key in the lock, the deep barks began.

“You have a dog?”

“Not just any dog. Duchess is my soul mate.”

An Airedale bounded out of the house and ran in circles through the grass.

“She always does that. Has to work off her energy before she gets around to saying hi. My neighbor comes by to let her out if I have to work late. Sometimes I take her with me. She's the most generous, decent, loyal creature I've ever known. I suppose that sounds strange.”

“Not a bit. I feel the same way about my dog.”

“Name? Statistics?”

“Mouse. He's a chocolate lab. Not sure how old he is. He's been with me for a few years, and, yeah, I love him pretty insanely. How old is Duchess?”

“Four. Got her when she was a pup.” She crouched down and held out her hands. Duchess spread her front paws and dropped her head playfully, then came racing over and let Kelli scratch her from muzzle to tail. The dog was big, maybe sixty pounds, mostly brown, with a dark patch around her middle that extended to her tail.

“Hi, there,” said Jane, extending her hand to be sniffed. She sat down in the grass and let the dog examine the rest of her.

“I think she likes you.”

Jane stroked the dog's ears. “This really is a terrific place.”

“The farmhouse was built in nineteen-oh-two. My dad and brother helped me rehab it after I bought it eleven years ago.”

“You have a brother?”

“Jim. He's three years younger than me. My mom died when I was fourteen.”

“Weird.”

“Why?”

“I have a younger brother, too. And my mother died when I was thirteen.”

“Maybe we're the same person,” said Kelli.

Jane laughed.

The interior of the house was casually decorated, comfortable and homey. The biggest surprise came when they entered the kitchen. In many respects, it was still an old farmstead kitchen, large and open, with an oilcloth-covered table in the middle of the room and all the original painted wood cupboards. And yet the stainless refrigerator was high-end, the stove was the commercial variety with six burners and two ovens, and there was a wine refrigerator tucked under one of the counters. It definitely wasn't your grandmother's workplace.

“You like to cook?” asked Jane.

“My whole family does. We spend a lot of time here together. And when I'm alone, it's how I unwind. Cooking and my garden.”

Jane liked the feel of the place and the sound of the kind of life Kelli lived. It wasn't what she'd expected.

“I made some fresh chimichurri sauce last night. Thought I could grill us a couple of steaks, slather it with the sauce, and then serve it with some bread. You could make a salad. That sound okay?”

“More than okay.”

They worked companionably to make the meal happen. Jane prepared a classic vinaigrette, using fresh tarragon and adding a dollop of heavy cream to the mix before whisking it into an emulsion. After washing the leaf lettuce and cutting up a cucumber and a big Brandywine heirloom tomato, all fresh from the garden, she piled the salad, a loaf of bread, butter, and a couple of beers on a tray and carried it outside, joining Kelli by the gas grill. Duchess was chasing a ball around the yard, nosing it away from herself and then pouncing on it.

Jane squeezed off one of the beer bottle caps and handed it to Kelli. She opened another one for herself and sat down at the wood picnic table a few feet away. Kelli had already brought out some plates, silverware, napkins and salt and pepper. A bottle of old vine Zinfandel had been opened and placed between two wineglasses.

“I noticed a photo of you and another woman on the mantel in your living room,” said Jane. “You look a lot alike.”

“That's Laura,” said Kelli. “We were together for five years. I asked her to move out last fall.”

“I didn't mean to bring up something painful.”

“I'm surviving. More or less. It's been a hard winter. Laura went back to Duluth after she moved out. I told her that I loved her too much to watch her kill herself.” At Jane's questioning glance, she added, “Booze. I wanted her to get into a treatment program, said that if she did, we could talk about getting back together. I'm nowhere near ready to date someone new, which is why I said no to the blind date with you.”

Duchess dropped her ball next to Jane's foot. “Here you go,” said Jane, tossing it almost to the garden fence.

Sprinkling some garlic salt on the steaks, Kelli continued, “Because I'm the stoic sort, people get the idea that I'm tough, that nothing gets to me. The truth is, I'm … not immune. Laura called me a couple of weeks ago. She's been in treatment for three months. Wants to drive up and talk.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I want to believe she's getting her life together, that she can change.”

“People do change,” said Jane. “I've seen it.”

“What about you?” said Kelli. “You're not with someone?”

“I lived with a woman for ten years, until she died of cancer. I've had a few relationships since then. The last one ended in November. It was my fault. She said I was a workaholic and I have to admit that I am.”

“Oh, yeah, I've had that thrown at me, too. I happen to love my job. Not going to apologize for it. Laura's a dental hygienist. She likes it okay, but it's not part of who she is.”

That was it exactly, thought Jane. If you couldn't step back, draw a clear line, it was harder to separate the two.

“So, should we talk turkey now or later?” asked Kelli, testing one of the steaks doneness by pressing on it with her finger.

“Might as well do it now.”

“Tell me more about what you learned in Chicago.”

Jane had concluded that there was no point in holding back. If she cooperated, maybe Kelli would be more inclined to give a little, too. “I assume you know all about Feigenbaumer's father. How he was murdered in nineteen sixty-eight. That three women were involved. One, Yvonne Stein, went to jail. The other two took off and were never seen again.”

“And the other two were?”

“If we're to believe Feigenbaumer, and that photo he had, Lyndie LaVasser was one.”

“Which was the reason he'd come to Lost Lake.”

“Yes, but there's more. He evidently believed that both of the women he was looking for were here.”

Kelli raised an eyebrow. “Who's the other one?”

“That's the big question. Whoever she was, she was the sister of the man Lyndie was dating back in sixty-eight. The brother's name was Jeff Briere. The sister's name was Sabra.”

“You think it's Tessa?”

“I don't think there's absolute proof one way or the other. Feigenbaumer was planning a confrontation. Because he couldn't prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, he intended to lie.”

“Get them to turn themselves in.”

“Exactly.”

“So did he murder Lyndie?”

“It's possible. Maybe she refused to bite. Wouldn't admit who she was. Who knows what happened that night at the emporium? The bullet in the wall suggests that something went wrong. If he did kill her, he needed to make it look like an accident for multiple reasons.”

“But then, how did Tessa's gun go from Feigenbaumer to his murderer?”