The Winter Widow (7 page)

“Who is Martha?”

“Martha, my housekeeper. Why didn't she tell me?”

“When did you last see Lucille?”

“When I went to bed. I don't know. Ten-thirty. It must have been ten-thirty.”

“Mrs. Guthman, your husband doesn't seem very worried.”

Ella stared at her. “Dan was shot here, and now Lucille is missing. Something's happened. I know it.”

“Do you have any specific reason for thinking that?”

“Lucille wouldn't just go off.”

“Can you think of any place she might be?”

Ella's shoulders slumped forward and she huddled in on herself. “I don't know,” she said dully.

Susan waited.

“I think,” Ella went on after a moment, “maybe they—Lucille and Otto—had a—an argument.”

“What about?”

“I don't know.” She looked at Susan and shook her head. “He doesn't tell me, he never tells me. Sometimes—” She shook her head again. “Sometimes they argue.”

When Ella didn't say anything further, Susan asked, “Does Lucille like her job?”

“Yes, of course she does.”

“It's important to her?”

“Oh, yes. She's proud to be on the paper. She writes stories and reports the news and all the activities. People need to know what's going on and they like to read about their neighbors. Weddings and christenings and about themselves.”

Ella spoke with a forced enthusiasm, as though she'd been challenged to prove Lucille's commitment to her job. Susan wondered why. “And Mr. Guthman was proud of Lucille? He approved of the job?”

Ella raised her chin. “Of course,” she said with too much conviction and then resided back into her huddle. “He didn't always understand what it meant to her, her job. She's twenty-five, you know. He thought it was time she got married and settled down. Fathers are—” She twisted the handkerchief.

Uh-huh. Susan could see that Lucille and her father certainly might
argue.
“Did she take anything with her? Clothing, a suitcase?”

Ella looked startled. “I don't know. I never thought— I'll go and look.”

They went up a stairway and into a corner room with windows on two sides. Ruffled curtains hung over the windows; the four-poster bed had a flouncy lavender-flowered bedspread of the same print. Dolls, small stuffed animals and trinkets sat on chests and bookshelves. In the corner between the two windows stood a desk with a portable typewriter, a fluorescent lamp and a small tape recorder.

With an air of futility, Ella went methodically through the hanging clothes in the built-in wardrobe, pushing each garment aside as she went to the next. She doesn't have any faith, Susan thought, in my ability to help; she feels this is a waste of time. “Is anything missing?”

“Her heavy coat. Other things, skirts and sweaters. I can't be sure.”

“Suitcase?”

“Yes.” Holding aside the hanging garments, Ella pointed at the back of the wardrobe where two matching suitcases sat with an empty space for a third.

“Excuse me,” she said in a tight voice, eyes blurry with tears, and darted from the room, apparently not wanting to cry in front of a stranger. Susan went to the tape recorder and found a cassette in place. She pushed the eject button and took it out. Someone, presumably Lucille, had written January on it.

After replacing it, she pushed rewind and then play. She heard Lucille's voice, faint, rewound again and turned up the volume.

“January thirteenth. One twenty.”

Her heart skipped a beat. January thirteenth was the day before Daniel had been killed.

“January sixteenth. Two ten. Random schedule. Makes it almost impossible.” Then nothing.

“Damn,” Susan muttered, rewound and played the tape again, copied the two brief comments in her notebook, then pushed fast forward. She removed the tape and played the other side. It was totally blank.

Seated at the desk, she slid open the center drawer. Jumble of odds and ends: pens, rubber bands, scraps of paper, four small metal containers that had originally held cough drops. One now held paper clips; another, six or eight colorless plastic pellets; the third, cough drops; and the fourth was empty. The other drawers had office supplies: paper, envelopes, typewriter ribbons and carbons.

She examined the clothing in the wardrobe, sticking her hand in pockets and the toes of shoes without finding anything. The drawers of the chest produced sweaters, pajamas, scarves, underwear. In the bottom drawer, she came across a small stack of canceled checks held together by a rubber band and wrapped in a yellow scarf.

Removing the rubber band, she ran through the checks, all made out to “cash” in amounts of twenty, twenty-five or fifty dollars. The first was dated five years ago and there was one for each of the eighteen following months. A folded sheet of lined paper listed the amounts, and the figures were totaled at the bottom: $500, with an exclamation point. Beneath was written, “Now it's over.”

What's this all about? A flavor of penance hung over the little pile of checks, something secretive and sad hidden away beneath the underwear, something Lucille felt she had to pay for. Whatever it was had happened five years ago. For no reason Susan could think of, she copied the amounts, then snapped the rubber band around the stack and stuck it back in the drawer.

Nothing here told her where Lucille went or why she'd gone. Susan trotted down the stairs and, when she didn't see Ella in the living room, went back along the hallway to Guthman's office, thinking Ella might be waiting there.

Ella wasn't, but a man sat at Guthman's desk, speaking on the phone. From his resemblance to Otto, Susan assumed he must be son Jack. Jack didn't seem quite comfortable in his father's chair. She knew almost nothing about him except he taught chemistry at Emerson College. She could guess, though, that at least half his female students were in love with him. Attractive, early thirties, dark curly hair and a moustache, very professorial in a tweed jacket, white shirt and tie. He also looked very worried, nerves stretched tight.

He hung up the phone and leaned back with a heavy sigh, then noticed her and started.

“Susan Wren,” she said.

He rose. “Jack Guthman,” he said in a pleasant baritone and extended his hand. He was almost as tall as his father, but much less massive, and had none of the force of Otto's personality, that impact of power and presence that made everyone sit up and stiffen their spines in self-protection.

“I thought I might find your mother here.”

“She's lying down. Shall I get her?”

“Not necessary. I suppose you know about Lucille?”

He nodded. “Mother called.”

“Have you any idea where she is?”

Something she couldn't interpret flickered in his eyes, sensitive blue-green eyes like his mother's. He shook his head.

“When did you last see her?”

He thought a moment. “Sunday evening.”

Daniel's funeral had been Sunday afternoon. “Where did you see her?”

“Here. I came for supper.”

“You don't live here?”

“No,” he said. “I live near campus.”

“What happened Sunday evening?”

“Nothing really. Ordinary family meal. The usual conversation, the cattle business, my research, the weather.” He paused. “And, of course, we talked about Dan.”

“And Lucille? How did she seem? Was there something on her mind? Was she preoccupied?”

“Well—” He slid a hand in his pocket and she could see his fingers form a fist. “She was kind of quiet and certainly upset about Dan's murder. Everybody is. We're sorry—”

She nodded briskly, still unable to handle expressions of sympathy. They oozed under her defenses and threatened the whole shaky façade. “Your mother thinks Lucille had an argument with your father.”

“A fight with Dad? So that's what happened.” Worry seemed to drain away like an outgoing tide, smoothing the lines from his face. “She was always like that. As a kid, whenever he yelled at her, she'd go and hide.”

Ah, father-daughter conflicts. Susan's way had been to stand and fight. Apparently, Lucille's was to withdraw, and maybe bind up her wounds with righteous indignation. “Where would she go?”

Jack smiled. “Usually the hayloft.”

Nice smile, Susan thought. “Would she worry her mother this way?”

The tension returned, bringing anxiety back to his face, and he shook his head as though to ward it off. “Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like to sit down?” He gestured toward the chairs.

“I need to talk with your father. Do you know if he's back?”

“If he is, he's probably at the Bank.”

“Bank? In town?”

“Not that bank,” Jack said. “The Bank is that gray building with all the bars on the windows. That's where all the money is.”

“I don't understand.” Guthman had his own bank?

“Go on out,” Jack said. “He loves to show people.”

Out on the porch, she blinked in the cold sunlight after the gloom of the house and strode toward the gray building Jack had called The Bank. There was none of the earlier activity, nobody around; everything was quiet. A squirrel ran across in front of her and, far above, she heard a jet plane. Her shoulder muscles tensed uneasily. Lucille had, apparently, taken a suitcase and driven away in her own car. Nothing indicated she hadn't gone of her own accord. In opposition was the fact that she'd missed the sign ceremony and, according to people who knew her, that wasn't like her.

Off to the right was a large red barn with snowy white trim, the massive sliding door open a few inches: a calendar picture of peaceful bucolic charm. Someone inside looked out through the door, saw her, and immediately ducked back. Male or female, Susan didn't get enough of a glimpse to tell, but that quick withdrawal was the action of someone who didn't want to be seem. Come on. Barns are made for people to be inside of. No, this someone was hiding. She'd been a cop long enough to recognize furtive behavior.

She thought of a young Lucille hiding in the hayloft. Surely not at twenty-five, simply because of an argument with her father? And surely somebody had checked. She cut toward the barn, pushed the door further open and stepped inside. Winter sunlight slanted through the doorway and sparkled on the dust in the air, lazily swirling as though someone had just passed through.

The barn seemed empty. “Lucille?” The sweet smell of hay and the pungent odor of cattle filled her nose. She heard the restless stamp of hooves. After a moment, her eyes adjusted. The hayloft? Problem here. If she climbed up to check, whoever it was could slip out while her back was turned. She needed Parkhurst, or any warm body. While she was rounding up someone, whoever was in here would be certain to get away. Susan wanted to know who was hiding from her and why. Somebody just curious about what the new police chief looked like? Then why wasn't that person innocently working around in here?

She moved along a row of open stalls. Two cows munching hay gazed at her with soft velvet-brown eyes. Three box stalls with Dutch doors ran along the far wall; all the doors, top and bottom, were closed but not latched. A wooden plaque with “
FAFNER
” carved into it hung above the center stall. Susan raised her eyebrows. Someone in the Guthman family must know music. If she remembered correctly, Fafner was a giant in
The Ring.

When Susan was a child, her mother had played violin with the San Francisco Symphony. While other kids were growing up with the Rolling Stones and Neil Diamond, she was humming Mahler and Bach.

Opening the top door of the first stall, she peered in. Empty. The partition between stalls was head-high and transversed with supports. An agile person could scale it with no difficulty. She couldn't see into the center stall, but she heard movement there.

Quickly, she side-stepped, swung open the top door—and froze. Her breath caught.

The bull inside was enormous, with a sleek hide the color of mahogany. The neck, with bulging mounds of muscle, lifted a head so huge the eyes looked tiny. The nose ring gleamed. The powerful chest rumbled with an ominous strangled bellow.

Before she could latch the bottom door, he burst through. She darted aside. He halted and snorted with savage threat, causing hairs to rise on her neck. With menacing deliberation, he lifted a foot, planted it down and lifted the other, shifting his immense bulk. The head with its great horns swayed with awesome slowness in her direction. She stood motionless. The eyes held a cold black glitter.

Jesus. When Daniel told her the bull had gotten loose, she'd thought it was funny.

Fafner scraped a forefoot at the floor. She held her breath. With a bellow of rage, he thundered toward her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SUSAN ran for the door. Hooves thudded behind her.

Chest tight with fear, she dashed through the open doorway and hooked an arm around the edge. Momentum swung her in a half-circle. Face against the rough wood, breath coming in ragged gasps, she shoved hard. The door slid, then caught the bull at his massive shoulders.

He bellowed with rage and effortlessly pushed through, halted and blinked in the sunlight. She froze. He pawed at the hard ground, humped his shoulders and lowered his head.

She backed away, edging along the barn wall and fighting for breath. Cold air bit at her lungs. Slowly, the huge head swung around and his eyes glittered as he spotted her. With incredible speed, he pivoted and charged.

She shot sideways, afraid of being crushed against the side of the barn. He thundered past so close one sweeping horn caught her jacket sleeve. It tore with a ripping sound, and the force spun her around. One ankle twisted. She lurched against his surging mahogany shoulder. The power locked inside the rippling muscles slammed her back.

She lost her footing and rolled on the ground. For a moment, she couldn't breathe; then her breath came fast and she could hear it whistling through her throat as her lungs sucked in air. She scrambled to her feet.