Chapter 29
I SETTLE INTO THE FRONT ROOM WITH MY LAPTOP.
A DIFFERENT WRITING location, hoping for inspiration, enough to keep my mind off Noah and Aubrey and what happened this morning with Jeffrey.
For a change, words seem to flow and after an hour, I stand and stretch, musing about the scenes I had written and feeling like my novel of a young woman and her mother has taken a turn.
From a relatively bland start of a young woman contemplating her life and its disappointments, to a woman of more strength and conviction.
But a darker mood has crept into my prose, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
Returning from the kitchen, a cup of tea in hand, I hear truck engines.
I don’t see them from the window, so I venture out on the porch in the cold.
I place my cup on the railing and lean out but still can’t see anything from here.
I’m tempted to walk out into the road. I glance at Noah’s place.
His car isn’t in the driveway, so I head down the porch steps, then curse myself for caring whether he’s there or not.
There’s no one around and the bare trees bend and sway in the wind. Leaves twist and turn in a mini cyclone, then settle back on the water’s edge. Nature seems to have awakened with the return of the trucks as if calling to the searchers: Come look. There’s something hidden here.
I see a white van and a couple of cars at the end of the lake. I wonder if this is the state team that Detective Bellman was waiting for. I turn to go back the other way, not wanting to get too close to the action, fearful of what I’ll see.
I walk past Spencer House, and then past Ruth’s, wondering if she’s had a chance to talk to Jeffrey and if she has taken the Spencer House key from him.
I keep walking around the bend until I see Jeffrey’s cottage in the distance.
There’s a car parked in front of it. Detective Bellman.
I wonder if he’s found something to tie Jeffrey to Simon’s murder and I think of Noah’s suspicions.
Noah has lived here his whole life. He knows these people a lot better than I do. Maybe he’s right to suspect Jeffrey.
I don’t want to run into the detective, so I curtail my walk and head back to the house.
Maybe the exercise and cool air will give me a second burst and I can get more work done on my novel.
Ruth’s place looks quiet, but I notice that Larry’s SUV is still in the driveway.
Maybe he has made a permanent move here.
I’m about to head up the Spencer House steps, pick up my forgotten tea, when Noah pulls into his driveway and jumps out of his car.
“Hey, Emma!” he calls. “You up for a late lunch in town?”
I feel my heartbeat kick up and heat rush to my face. I’m terrible at hiding my emotions. “Sorry. Another time?”
“Okay,” he says, his brows drawn together.
“See you later,” I holler back, and rush inside the house.
I check my phone and see that I have a text from the drugstore.
My photos are ready for pickup. I get into my car and head down the lake road.
There are more vehicles gathered at the end of the lake now.
And a couple of news vans. I speed past and see that the neighborhood gates are open.
That’s how the media got in, on the coattails of the cops’ vehicles.
Town is busy and I feel a little better. I seem to be able to breathe easier away from Cheshire Lake these days. Sometimes it still feels like a sanctuary, other times a sinister, suffocating prison, making my emotions yo-yo seemingly on a whim.
I wonder what I’ll find in Mary’s photos.
I back up into a parallel spot in front of the store and head to the counter. The same tall, skinny teenager is there. He recognizes me, the lady with the ancient, disposable camera.
“Hey,” he says. “Photos actually turned out. The quality isn’t too good, but they’re okay.”
“Great. Thanks.”
He rifles through a large drawer under the counter and rings up the little package. I glance up at the plate glass window and see a news van pull up. My pulse starts to pick up. Do they know I’m in here? Did they follow me?
Don’t be paranoid, Emma.
With the news at the lake, Alex Spencer’s long-lost daughter can’t possibly be too interesting. Still. I pay for my photos, shove the package in my purse, and head outside. I turn away from where the van sits and hurry to my car.
Back at the lake, the cops are busy like a colony of ants on a mission. There’s a boat out on the lake, a bigger boat than any I’ve seen there before. It’s crowded with people and equipment looking for Carol Lawson or any trace of her, I suspect. I wonder if they found anything yet.
Ruth calls from her porch as I get out of my car.
“Emma, would you like to have dinner with Larry and me later?” Her silver hair frames her face like a halo, and I wonder if the invite is a way to make up for the Jeffrey incident. Ruth seems to feel a sense of responsibility for him.
“Yes. Sure. That would be nice. What time?”
“Five thirty okay for you?”
“Yes. Fine. Thank you.”
“Good then.” She nods and heads back inside.
In the foyer, I make a point of securely locking the front door behind myself. I shed my jacket, pull off my boots, rub my arms with my hands. It’s chilly in the house. The gray day is getting dimmer as the afternoon has progressed to early evening.
The big boat is motoring back toward the end of the lake, and I assume that the day’s work is over. I wonder if they’ll be back tomorrow, and I wonder if Alex is keeping track of what’s going on from Boston. And I wonder if he’ll stay there with Liliana.
I drop my purse on the sofa, pull out the photo envelope.
My heart beats in heavy thumps. Am I invading Mary’s privacy?
Would she care? With trembling fingers, I open the flap and pull the substantial stack from the paper pocket.
The photos are nested together, almost stuck, almost moist. The top photo is of the lake, grainy, with a funny greenish tint.
It looks like it was taken from the dock.
Where the Thompsons’ house now sits, there are only thick woods.
Mary died long before Dale and Aubrey moved here.
The next photo features two young men. Not Alex or anyone who looks familiar.
They stand together, wide grins on their faces.
Bare-chested, wearing cutoffs. I remember that Noah said Mary had friends who would come over in the summer to swim and hang out.
The next photo is of a girl with one of the guys in the last photo.
Her big hair curling over her shoulders, obviously not wet, despite the bikini she wears.
She must not have been in the water, maybe just sunbathing.
I glance at the mantel clock. It’s nearly five thirty now.
I need to brush my hair, tidy up, and head over to Ruth’s.
I take a peek at the next photo. Again, nameless young people.
I was hoping to see one of Mary. I’ll look later, maybe one of her friends took her picture and it’s farther down in the stack.
I shove the photos back in the envelope.
Ruth has set the dining room table with her everyday china.
Probably to give us more room than there is in the little kitchen.
I don’t see Larry, and the house is quiet.
I help Ruth carry serving bowls to the table, a much smaller and more homey assortment than the dinner party with Simon, where we all sat and ate London broil, talked pleasantly, not knowing what was to come.
Tonight, meatloaf in neat slices with tomato sauce adorning the tops is arranged on a platter.
In a tall bowl, mashed potatoes sit with a hunk of butter melting in the middle.
String beans with a bit of seasoning on top round out the meal.
“I wonder what’s keeping Larry,” Ruth says. “Dinner’s going to get cold.” She wrings her hands. “I’m so sorry about Jeffrey,” she almost whispers. “He doesn’t think sometimes. I had a talk with him, took his key, and told him he was not to go into the house without Alex’s permission or yours.”
“Thank you, Ruth. He really scared me.”
“He means well. He just doesn’t always use his head.” Ruth glances toward the dining room door. “Let’s sit, Emma. We don’t need to wait for Larry. We’ll get started.”
Before we can fill our plates, the front door opens and the sounds of Larry fill the house, scraping boots, a cough. “Sorry, Ruth. I lost track of time,” he calls from the kitchen. We hear water running and I assume he’s washing his hands.
Larry joins us at the table. “Emma, didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“I asked her to dinner,” Ruth says. “She’s alone again.”
Larry nods and settles himself into the chair opposite me. The chair creaks as he reaches for the meatloaf platter.
“What did you find out?” Ruth asks.
“Not a helluva lot. But I know they didn’t find anything. I figure today was a bust. They’ll be back tomorrow. I couldn’t get much out of anybody. The cops kept shooing everybody back. I hung around this reporter gal. She seemed to be getting all there was to get, I think.”
So, Larry has been down at the lake, gathering what information he could. I eat quietly, absorbing their conversation.
“Have you heard anything, Emma?” Ruth asks, shaking me out of my thoughts.
“No. And I haven’t been watching the news lately either.” I’ve been avoiding the coverage since it seems to fuel my anxiety.
Ruth nods. “I’ve seen a little bit of the coverage.
They want to make a mountain out of a molehill.
That’s my opinion.” She sighs. “Seems to me if Carol went down with the car, she would’ve been in the vehicle.
She was a tough little thing. I’ll bet anything she walked away, got out and never looked back. ”
“Probably,” Larry says.