An Accidental Woman (9 page)

“No. I got it from a contact.”

John didn't respond to that. As soon as the crowd thinned, he began walking faster, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Suddenly he stopped and, eyes haunted, looked at Griffin. “You should have been in there, man. The judge barely listens, then says he's holding her for thirty days without bail. There's total silence—disbelief—then pandemonium, but I'm not even sure Heather realized people were on her side. The court officer starts to lead her away and she turns back to look at Micah with tears streaming down her face.” He paused, swallowed. “I've never seen such pain.”

Griffin heard much of it in John's voice and felt a resurgence of guilt. The only thing easing it was the belief that this situation was temporary. “Cassie'll get her out.”

John pulled up his collar and resumed walking. “Yeah, but do you know what it'll take to do that? Only part of it's the thirty days of Heather's life, and of Micah's and Missy's and Star's. She's part of a family, y'know? The other part's the money. Know how much this'll cost? Okay, so Cassie won't charge for her time. But her out-of-pocket expenses to do a case like this might be high.”

“She's innocent,” Griffin insisted.

“Well, it'll cost her to prove it. I don't know how they're going to do it. Micah doesn't have that kind of money.”

Griffin did. He would foot the bill in an instant. Not that Poppy would let him do that if she knew the truth. Nor would Micah accept it. They wouldn't want money from the guy who'd caused the mess in the first place.

John went on. “Micah
particularly
won't have that kind of money if he blows the sap run. He took out loans for the new equipment and had it all figured out, exactly what he needed to gross each year to pay down the loans. If Heather's in jail and he's preoccupied, or if something doesn't work—one piece of the puzzle doesn't fit right—he's in trouble. Sap'll be running within the month, and Heather's sitting in jail. The timing of this sucks.” He stopped again and eyed Griffin strangely. “What are you doing here?”

Stopping alongside him, Griffin rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Here? I was heading for Lake Henry and got sidetracked.”

“Where've you been? Last time we talked, you were interested in Poppy. Disappearing for weeks doesn't say much for that.” He set off again.

Griffin kept pace. “She hasn't exactly been encouraging.”

“You knew she wouldn't be. You knew she had issues. Does she know you're coming now?”

“No. I thought I'd surprise her.”

“Poppy doesn't like surprises.”

“Right,” Griffin said. “But it's my only shot of getting a foot in the door.”

John stopped at a Tahoe with
“Lake News”
written on the door. “Why now?” He pulled keys from his pocket. “If you're thinking of writing about Heather, think again. Know how Poppy feels about people who make money off the bad luck of others?”

“I sure do,” Griffin said. “She told me that back in September. But I'm not writing about Heather. I can't. I'm in the middle of something else.”

“So why did you talk to your contacts about Heather?”

“Hell, if I can come up with something that'll help . . .”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I think Heather's being railroaded.”

“You think she's innocent? Because she's Poppy's friend?”

“In part.”

John stared at him. “Keep going. Poppy's gonna want to know the rest.”

Griffin was silent. When John didn't budge, he felt a sinking inside. John knew, then. He had seen the interview with Randy and had put two and two together.

Denying it would make things worse. So Griffin admitted, “Yeah, she's gonna want to know the rest, but that'll be harder for me to explain. It wasn't deliberate. When I remarked about that picture on my brother's wall, the last thing I expected was that Randy'd come snooping up here.”

John's stare grew vaguely blank before turning into a puzzled frown. “Randall Hughes. Oh God, I'm slow.”

It was a minute before Griffin realized what he'd done. With a frustrated sound, he hung his head. Then he raised it and sighed in chagrin.
He didn't know what John thought he was keeping from Poppy, but he'd surely stepped into the trap. “Guess I'm slower than you.”

John looked as angry as he had when he had come through the courthouse doors. “You led them here.”

“No,” Griffin replied. “I remarked on a similarity. Randy took it from there.”

“Same difference. Poppy figured it was someone who was here in the fall. She won't be happy it was you.”

Griffin actually took that as a positive sign. It suggested at least that she felt
something
for him.

“Are you going to tell her?” John asked.

“Probably. I'm not good at keeping things in.”
As you just saw,
he wanted to add. “On the other hand, if one of my people comes up with something that proves Heather wasn't Lisa, I'll be in the clear.” When John said nothing, he tacked on a less sure, “Don't you think?”

John looked at him a minute longer, then shook his head and unlocked the car. “What a mess,” he mumbled as he slid inside.

Griffin caught the door before it could close. “I need a place to stay. Will anyone in town rent me a room?” The nearest inn was a fifty-minute drive from Lake Henry. He didn't want to be that far away, especially not in winter with snow a common thing in these parts. If he was to be of help, he needed to hang out in the general store and pick up gossip at the post office. He needed to be seen around town enough so that people got used to him. That was the only way he would get the inside scoop on Heather, and he needed that. An in-depth study of the vanished Lisa was only half the story; an in-depth study of Heather was the other.

Not that he was doing a story. He had a book to finish and didn't have time. But, boy, this subject sure fired him up more than a watered-down tribute to Prentiss Hayden did.

John looked out the windshield. “The town's going to shut out the press.”

“I'm not the press. I'm Poppy's friend.”

He glared at Griffin. “That's worse. Know how protective Lake Henry is of Poppy? She's special. Very special. She might be rosy and upbeat, but her life is no cakewalk.”

“I know that,” Griffin said, and he did. He knew things about Poppy that he doubted even John knew, and he hadn't relied on Ralph Haskins or any other contact to do the research. He'd done it himself.

John started up the Tahoe. He revved the motor once, let it idle, revved it a second time. Then his eyes found Griffin's. “Charlie Owens, owns the general store? His brother moved away a dozen years ago, but he left a place here that needs checking all winter. If you want to earn brownie points with Charlie—and brownie points with Charlie can take you a long way in this town—you could stay right there and do the checking for him.” He gave Griffin a guarded once-over. “Nah. Maybe you couldn't.”

“Why not?”

“It'd be roughing it. The place is bare bones. Middle a winter? It's tough.”

“I can handle tough,” Griffin said. He had hiked a good part of the Appalachian Trail and was no stranger to rustic accommodations. Wasn't he already wearing insulated hiking boots? Besides, house-sitting was far better than renting a single room. It would give him space to set up shop. He had a biography to write. “Does it have a roof?”

“Yeah.”

“Heat?”

“There's a woodstove.”

“So what's the problem?”

“Wind. Snow. Access. Little Bear's an island. It's a quarter mile out.”

Griffin had never lived on an island. “How do you get there in winter?”

“Walk or drive. It'd be easy if you had a truck. The Porsche?” John had drooled over it the last time Griffin had been in town. Now he said a pedantic, “I don't think so.” He moved to close the door, but Griffin held it firm.

“I'll rent a truck. I was planning to once I got here anyway.”

John brightened. “Well, there's an idea. My cousin Buck's looking to sell his. His girl just had a baby. You could pay him twice what he's asking and win over a whole other side of town.”

“Done,” Griffin decided. “Where do I go?”

* * *

When Poppy passed John's Tahoe in the center of town, though, she was too preoccupied to look twice. She waved in reply to John's honk, but she neither thought about another person in the car, nor had time to stop. Micah had called and asked if she would pick up the girls at school. She had left home to do it the instant Annie Johnson arrived to cover the phones.

Now, with a weak sun falling fast behind the evergreens, she pushed the Blazer as fast as she could on roads that were starting to ice up again. The attention required was a welcome break from her thoughts, which vacillated between outrage that Heather was being held in jail and near panic. She didn't
know
where Heather had come from, only that she was a good person. Poppy liked to think that she was one, too, but she had a past. So maybe Heather did, too.

Not liking this train of thought, she was happy to reach the school. Pulling on her gloves, which were padded and full-fingered for winter wheelchair use, she got herself out of the Blazer, and, with a bit of pushing, pulling, and wheeling, found a spot on the sidewalk where the girls would see her. She wasn't the only one there, but she was the only one foolish enough to be out in the cold. Other parents waited in the warmth of their trucks, while school buses lined the drive.

Poppy knew the parents in each of those other vehicles, but she didn't look their way. To do so would be to invite talk about Heather, yelled from one rolled-down window to the next. Instead, she burrowed into her parka, which was turquoise to match her chair, pulled a scarf tight around the collar, tucked her gloved hands in her pockets, and tried not to shiver. Moments later, the school bell rang. Moments after that, children in a rainbow of parkas poured from the doors, running off in whatever direction would take them home.

Normally, Heather would have been in the line of parents. Though the
bus could easily transport the girls, she had always wanted to take them home herself. Now Poppy was there in her place. It struck her that with Heather being held in jail for thirty days, this wouldn't be a one-time shot. It also struck her that as long as the nightmare went on, she needed to do this. Heather was her friend, but she felt a responsibility that went beyond that.

She was saved from dwelling on such thoughts when Missy and Star emerged from the school. Side by side and eager, they set off at a run toward the parents' vehicles. Almost simultaneously, they caught sight of Poppy and stopped cold. Their excitement died. Poppy wasn't Heather.

Missy was the first to start forward again; Star was slower. In the time that it took for both of them to reach her, Poppy realized that not only wasn't she Heather, but she wasn't a parent, wasn't a therapist, wasn't a lawyer. She didn't know how to explain what had happened. Micah might know, but Micah wasn't here. That left Poppy, who had absolutely no idea what to say.