Third Degree (18 page)

… Pick yourself up. Get up again. Let WIMP help.

I closed the computer. The whole thing was extremely shady and I wondered how many women actually availed themselves of WIMP’s services, which included boarding at a local safe house (once again, Lydia’s basement?), counseling services, and loans to relocate and “start anew.” I put my computer under my arm and started off for Jane’s house, deciding that I needed more information.

Jane and her partner, Kathy, were both home, enjoying a glass of wine by the pool in their backyard. Jane offered me a chair and a glass of wine. I accepted both gladly.

“I’m glad you came over,” Jane said in her usual gracious way.

“Thanks for letting me drop in,” I said, clinking glasses with both of them before taking a drink.

“We decided not to do anything this weekend,” Kathy said. According to Jane, Kathy was a master of home improvement and spent every weekend doing some kind of major renovation. “God knows, we need it. I taught summer school this year. Ugh.” Kathy taught physics at a high school in a neighboring town.

“Amen,” I said. Jane asked me again why I was home so early. I gave her the
Reader’s Digest
version.

Kathy shook her head. “And
that
is why I haven’t been to church in years.”

Jane laughed. “No, the reason you haven’t been to church in years is that you don’t get up before noon on Sundays.”

Kathy shrugged. “Touché.”

Jane pushed a plate of cheese and crackers my way. “I’m glad you came to visit.” She looked at my laptop, sitting on the glass-topped table. “But why did you bring your computer?”

I cut to the chase. “What do you know about WIMP?”

Both Jane and Kathy did double takes. “WIMP?” they both said simultaneously. Neither of them seemed to have any idea about the organization, or they were extremely good liars.

So it was more underground than I thought. If Jane, a good friend of Lydia’s, didn’t know about the organization, Lydia must have kept it very hush-hush. I opened my laptop and went back to the WIMP page. Jane’s blue eyes scanned the screen, reading some of the same things I had read just minutes before, her eyes growing wide as I recounted my tale from the night before. “What is this?”

“This is one of the ‘volunteer activities’ that Lydia Wilmott is involved in,” I said, using finger quotes.

Kathy sat back in her chair and looked at Jane. “I told you she was a whack job.”

Jane shot Kathy a look. “I’ve known her a long time. Her intentions are good.”

“So that’s why she goes around kidnapping women in distress?” Kathy said. “Give me a break.”

Jane closed the computer. “Lydia had a very sad upbringing. She has a lot of issues that she’s still working out.”

“Doesn’t give her the right to kidnap Alison,” Kathy said, her mouth full of cheese and cracker. I didn’t know Kathy well and my first impression had been tainted by the embarrassing discovery that Jane was gay and I didn’t know it. Kathy was taller than I was, and slightly imperious, amber-colored eyes peering out from behind tortoiseshell glasses. She signaled that she was not to be messed with by the way she carried herself. She was no-nonsense and sharp as a tack; at least I was sure about that. “And who doesn’t have issues?” Kathy added.

I waited for Jane to continue, helping myself to some camembert and Triscuits, a combo that went delightfully with the wine they had served. I really needed to get out more. Apparently there was a whole big wide world out there that went beyond St. Thomas University and martinis. Too bad that being kidnapped was one of the reasons I was finding this out.

Jane seemed conflicted. “I don’t know. I think she means well. And she’s a good friend.”

Kathy coughed into her hand. “Fruitcake.” Obviously, this was a conversation that they had had more than once.

“But back to WIMP,” I said. “Did Lydia ever mention it at all?”

Jane gazed out at the pool. “A little. But I didn’t know it was called that and I didn’t know how they went about doing the work they did. I got the impression that what they did was very good ultimately. And Lydia funded everything with her own money. She was very passionate about helping the women. I’m not sure why.” Jane looked at Kathy. “But this does make sense. She always said that Carter didn’t appreciate how much time she spent volunteering. I just assumed that meant working on the silent auction for our church and the other things she did to help women. I didn’t realize that she was so deeply involved. I just figured she was overextended like the rest of us.”

I mulled this over and decided that all of this information begged the question. “Did Carter abuse Lydia, Jane?”

Jane shot a look at Kathy before answering. “I don’t think so.”

“Not physically, anyway,” Kathy added. “You knew him, right?” she asked me.

I shook my head. Even if you watch someone die, I don’t think that qualifies as “knowing” them. Call me crazy.

“Well, he was an asshole, plain and simple. But she loved him. Did you ever read some of those ‘Ask Lydia’ posts that she wrote?” she asked. When I said that I had, she continued. “So you know what I mean. You could see how she adored the guy even though he didn’t give her the time of day. And then, the cheating …”

I thought back to Jane’s revelation that Carter had had an affair with Ginny Miller, something I was still trying to wrap my brain around before going into complete “system failure.” Lots going on and not a lot of ways to process it. “More than Ginny Miller?”

“Way more,” Kathy said, to the dismay of Jane, who reached out and put a hand on her leg to silence her. Kathy, on a roll, suddenly shut down. I think she realized that she had gone too far. She held her hands up in surrender. “I’m done.” She pushed her chair back and said good-bye to me before going into the house.

“I’m sorry, Jane,” I said. “I didn’t mean to start an argument between you and Kathy.”

Jane brushed it off. “It’s nothing that we haven’t discussed in the past. Kathy doesn’t like Lydia. She thinks the whole Wilmott scene is dysfunctional, and I can’t say I blame her. And she loves Tony’s so anyone who disparages him or his food is a creep, in her book.” She laughed softly and I got the impression she was only half joking.

“I kind of feel the same way,” I said. I stood, picking up my computer. “Thanks for the wine and the information.” I stopped midway between the edge of the pool and the gate to the driveway. I turned back around, something occurring to me. “He didn’t…?” I started, but Jane had already gone into the house.

I started down the driveway. The Wilmotts were certainly a complicated bunch. But just what was it about them that made Kathy see red at the mention of their names?

I was back at the house and in bed with Trixie, she and I having reached détente. She was lying at the bottom of my bed, nuzzling my feet with her wet snout while I spent some more time reading Carter Wilmott’s blog, something I hadn’t done since the night he had died. The home page looked exactly as it had when I first logged on; nothing had changed. I wondered if someone would take over the site or if it would eventually be taken down. Since Carter was no longer at the helm, it was hard to say what would happen. I scrolled through and looked for any mention of WIMP but there was none.

Carter included pictures of himself, particularly if he was reviewing a restaurant. In his restaurant review posts, he was always shown in front of the establishment, holding up a notebook and a pen as if to indicate that he was going to be reviewing the place. I wondered who took the picture and if it was Lydia. I also wondered what kind of service he got at these places, most of them knowing in advance that he would review them unfavorably, because, after all, that’s what he did every time. It didn’t take a genius to know that when Carter Wilmott was eating at your restaurant, you were going down.

I went back to his very first review and it happened to be the same local waterfront restaurant where Crawford and I had dined a few nights before. When Carter had reviewed it, it had been a popular chain restaurant that specialized in seafood and spectacular views. Carter had given the place one star, and only because they prepared an “excellent dry martini.” My kind of restaurant. In the picture that ran beside the post was a robust and hale-looking Carter, not the winded, pale, and thin man that I had encountered. I remembered having the same reaction when I had looked at the blog the night after he had died. I clicked through the various restaurant review posts, starting with the oldest and going all the way to the newest. Indeed, the man had lost a ton of weight. And it didn’t suit him. He looked far healthier in the earlier posts, despite the small roll of fat resting on top of the waistband of his belted jeans. A few extra pounds actually looked pretty good on him; his face was far too pale and droopy in later photos.

I wondered which version of Carter Ginny Miller had gotten: slightly chubby but kind of cute Carter or thin and bedraggled Carter? Because even as he dropped the weight and seemingly would have more options in the clothing department, he continued to wear his old clothes, cinching his pants at the waist until the last posted photo—dated two weeks earlier—had them buckling in the back (there was one side shot where this was noticeable) and bunched up in the front. Not a great look on anyone, particularly a middle-aged man.

I read through a couple of the reviews and decided that Carter Wilmott would have been well advised to invest in a thesaurus. Because there were just so many ways to say “disgusting,” “awful,” and “dirty” without running out of words. Which he had.