Deep Freeze (34 page)

“You figured that right,” Carter said, imagining the preacher’s petite wife, a sweet woman with an overly pious and stern husband and a rebel for a kid. “Where was the last place she was seen?”

“The Columbia Theater.”

Where he had been.

Where Jenna had been.

“I’ve already dispatched the nearest unit. They haven’t reported back yet.”

“Thanks, Dorie.” He was pushing his chair back and reaching for his holster. “I’m on my way.”

Not Lynnetta…Oh God, please
, not
Lynnetta.

Jenna might have collapsed if Carter hadn’t grabbed hold of her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said, standing in her kitchen at six in the morning. The refrigerator hummed, a fire in the grate hissed and crackled as it burned, lacing the air with the scent of wood smoke. But the world had changed drastically overnight, and all those reassuring sounds and smells faded into the background.

Carter had phoned her to say he was stopping by and had shown up less than five minutes later with the horrible news that Lynnetta Swaggert was missing.

He looked like hell. Bags were visible beneath eyes red from lack of sleep. Deep creases ran in worried lines across his forehead. A day’s worth of stubble darkened his jaw, and the scent of tobacco clung to him. Physically, he appeared bone-weary, but there was something else beneath the tired facade, a fired-up Carter running on adrenaline, caffeine, and nicotine. “I wanted to tell you in person,” he said, “and ask you about last night, before I came to the theater looking for you. You and Rinda might have been the last people to see Lynnetta Swaggert.”

Alive.

He hadn’t said it, but that one word hung in the kitchen between them, unspoken but palpable. Jenna looked away and fought tears.
Lynnetta. Why Lynnetta?
There was a distinct chance Lynnetta Swaggert was dead. Just as there was an ever-increasing probability that Sonja Hatchell and Roxie Olmstead were no longer living.

“Lynnetta never phoned her husband?”

“No. He figured she was working late and started calling her around nine-thirty.”

“Just after we left,” she said, a little stronger now, her backbone once again rigid.

After Carter’s phone call had jolted her awake earlier this morning, she’d thrown on a pair of jeans and a sweater and clipped her hair onto the top of her head, hurrying down the stairs with the dog tagging after her just as Jake was letting the sheriff’s Blazer through the gates.

“There’s always the chance she left,” he said thoughtfully, though they both knew it was a platitude.

“Without a car in temperatures below freezing?”

“Someone could have picked her up. Someone she knew.” Along with a determination in his dark eyes, there was sadness.

“You don’t believe that.”

“Not for a minute,” he admitted, and finally, as if he just realized he was holding onto her arm, released it. “So let’s go over what happened last night. Who was at the theater, if Lynnetta took any calls, who stopped by, who phoned, if she used e-mail, if something seemed to be troubling her, that sort of thing. My guess is you’ll be called by the State Police, too, probably by Lieutenant Sparks. He’s a little intimidating at first, but is one of the good guys. I don’t know who will contact you from the FBI, but the field agent who works this territory knows her stuff. We’ll get this guy.”

“Before he abducts someone else?”

Carter’s lips tightened and she wished she could have recalled the sharp words. “That’s the plan.”

“You’ll have to work fast,” she said, and walked to the coffeemaker and ground some beans. “Whoever he is, he seems insatiable.” She poured water into the pot and hit the On switch.

Carter nodded. “It looks like he’s upping the stakes. Escalating.”

Critter gave a soft woof as the back door opened. “It’s me,” Turnquist called, and she peered down the short hallway to spy the bodyguard stopping near the laundry room to unlace his boots. “What’s up?”

Carter set his hat on the table and draped his jacket over the back of a kitchen chair. His shoulder holster and pistol were strapped on, reminding Jenna how dangerous her life, and the lives of the other citizens of Falls Crossing, had become.

As water dripped through the pot and the scent of Kenyan roast filled the room, Carter sat at the table and explained that Lynnetta Swaggert had never phoned her husband, wasn’t in the theater, and never went home. The reverend had called everyone he knew last night, searching for his wife, and Carter, along with the OSP, was checking everyone who had been in the theater or seen Lynnetta in the last few days.

“So he took her between the time I left and returned for Allie’s backpack,” Jenna said, knotting up inside.
If only you and Rinda had stayed until Lynnetta had finished with whatever she was doing!

“Or he was there when you went back, inside the theater with her.”

Jenna cringed inside, remembering the feeling that she wasn’t alone while searching for the backpack, the sense that someone was nearby, breathing softly, moving noiselessly. To think that he might have been as near to her as Carter was now. And she’d blamed it on the cat. Her hands shook as she poured coffee and carried cups to the table, then sat across from the sheriff. As Carter took notes and sipped from his cup, Jenna told Carter everything she remembered from the night before, including the eerie sensation that someone had been in the theater. She also explained the few facts she knew about Lynnetta Swaggert—that she was devout, married to a preacher Jenna had met a few times but didn’t know, that Lynnetta had one son, who was a friend of Josh Sykes, and that she was an excellent seamstress who created or altered costumes for the troupe. Jenna thought Lynnetta was about thirty-eight, looked younger, had the energy of five women, and worked part time as a bookkeeper for a local accountant.

“What about her personal life?” Carter asked.

“I don’t think it was unhappy. Or if it was, she didn’t complain.” Jenna had never heard Lynnetta say that she was dissatisfied with her life, her husband, her job, or even her son, Ian. Jenna knew pitifully little about the woman, but Lynnetta had mentioned a brother in the Cincinnati area.

“…and that’s about it,” she said, rubbing her arms as if from a sudden chill. She felt terrible. Responsible. Even though she knew better.

Her coffee sat untouched in front of her.

“Do you have any clues?” she asked, when Carter had finished taking notes.

He hesitated and she expected him to give her some line about not being able to talk about the case. Instead, he frowned darkly into his cup before taking a long gulp. “Nothing yet. But there’s something else I wanted to ask you about.”

“Shoot.”

“Did you know any makeup people in Hollywood?”

“Of course. A lot.”

“I’m talking about the kind of individual who makes the masks that fit perfectly to an actor’s head, something that would make him change dramatically but retain his own facial features, the kind where they make a mold of the subject.”

“Yes…the monster makers. There are companies that do that kind of work. Robert, my ex-husband, worked with several when he was into his horror-flick phase,” she said, her thoughts still on Lynnetta. “Why?”

“A long shot, just a theory,” and one Carter obviously wasn’t going to share. “Could you give me a list of the companies who worked with the films you made or anyone you know in that business?”

“Sure.”

“You think some Hollywood makeup man is stalking Jenna?” Turnquist asked.

“I don’t know who is, but I want to check out every possibility.” He drained his cup as his phone rang. “Carter.” If possible, his face became more grim as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. “I’ll be right there,” he said, then hung up. “Gotta run. A would-be ice climber just fell off of Pious Falls. Looks like he shattered his pelvis.” He plowed tense fingers through his thick hair. “I’d appreciate it if you could jot down the names of the makeup companies.”

“We’ll fax it later,” Jake said, and watched as Hans Dvorak’s rig rolled up to the gate and stopped. Hans rolled down the window and punched in the code. The gate swung open.

Carter noticed the foreman’s truck drive through. “How many people have the security code?” he asked.

“Six…maybe seven. People who work here,” Jenna said.

Turnquist nodded and finished his coffee. “I’ve got their names.”

“Fax that, too, and change the code every day.”

“Every day?” she repeated, stunned.

“That’s right.”

“I’ll call Wes Allen to reset it,” Turnquist said.

Carter rubbed his jaw, scratching his whiskers. “Why don’t you try someone else?” he suggested, his frown deepening.

Turnquist’s eyes narrowed. “Something wrong with Allen?”

“He’s real busy, what with his own business and the theater.” Carter pulled his jacket off the chair and stuffed his arms through the sleeves.

“Wes would make time,” Jenna said, sensing an undercurrent she didn’t really understand, then remembered Rinda saying there was some bad blood between her brother and the sheriff. Something about Carter’s wife.

Turnquist said, “Then I’ll call the guy Harrison knows, Seth Whitaker.”

“I don’t really know him.” Carter glanced at Jenna.

“I’ve met him—he seems okay,” she said.

Turnquist nodded. “I’ll vouch for him.”

“He did work for you before?” Carter was eyeing Jenna.

“Yes, when the pump froze.”

“Then have him show you how to program it and you change it every day. The only people who will know what it is are you, the kids, and Turnquist here.” Carter nodded at Jake as he zipped his jacket.

“And Hans and Estella,” she corrected.

“No. You buzz ’em in. Have the electrician, Whitaker, work it so that you have control from the house.”

“That might take a while.” She wondered how the girls would keep up with the ever-changing access code.

“Then find someone else. A company who will install the buzzer today or tomorrow.” He eyed Jenna as he squared his hat upon his head. “You won’t have to do this forever,” he assured her as he headed for the door. “Just until we get the son of a bitch.”

Rinda called less than an hour later. She was a wreck, her voice trembling as she cancelled all activities at the theater—dance classes, voice lessons, even the rehearsals for the coming play. “It’s just too weird, too disrespectful,” Rinda whispered, her throat sounding clogged as if she were fighting tears. “You were right—we should have stayed later last night until Lynnetta’s husband showed up. We should never have left her alone.”

“You don’t know that we could have made a difference. If the creep who took her wanted her, he would have found a way to get to her.”

“God, who is he?” She cleared her throat. “He waited until after we left to pounce, didn’t he? He was watching. He might even have a key.” She was working herself up, her voice rising. “This wasn’t random, Jenna. It was planned. I know it. Oh God, why would anyone want to hurt Lynnetta?”

“I don’t know.” Jenna rested a hip against the counter and stared at the fire. She couldn’t think of a single soul who would want to harm the preacher’s wife.

Rinda sniffed, then asked, “Has Carter been by to see you?”

“Yeah, this morning.”

“He was here, too, asking all sorts of questions. Just left. He or some officer from the State Police is going to talk to everyone in the theater troupe, all of the actors, stagehands, the janitor, you name it. Even Scott, if you can believe that.”

Jenna could, but didn’t say as much. As it was, Rinda sounded slightly miffed, her grief spilling into anger.

“I can’t believe this mess,” Rinda admitted. “I hope—I mean, I pray—that Lynnetta’s okay. Maybe her disappearance is all just a big mistake…” But the desperation and pain in her voice said she believed otherwise. As did Jenna.

“Let’s not give up hope yet.”

“I haven’t. But it’s hard. And you’d better brace yourself. That reporter for KBST, Brenda Ward, she’s already called me. Twice. And someone from the
Banner
, where Roxie Olmstead worked. They’ve left a couple of messages. I’m tellin’ ya, these people are cannibals. One of their own is missing and they’re trying to make a story out of it.” She blew her nose and added vehemently, “But just try to get them to write a human-interest piece on the renovations to the theater and see what happens. Nothing, that’s what! It’s all murder, scandal, blood, and sex these days!”

“I think the theater’s going to get a lot of press now.”

“Exactly.
Bad
press. Just what we need…and Lynnetta. I can’t quit thinking about her, about last night…Oh God, Jenna, what’s happening around here?”

Nothing good.
“I don’t know.”

“Look, I’ve got to go,” Rinda said. “And warn Scott.”

“Warn him?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t even know about Lynnetta, and they were pretty tight. He drove into Portland last night for a concert that should have been cancelled because of the weather, but wasn’t. Anyway, he has no idea Shane’s on the warpath. Jesus Christ, that makes me mad! To even suggest that Scott might know something. Shane Carter is Scott’s godfather and still he doesn’t trust him.”

“It’s his job. He can’t trust anyone right now,” Jenna said, bristling slightly as she defended the man that, for months, Rinda had lauded and now was cursing.

“Oh, no!” Rinda gasped.

“What?”

“Turn on your television. Check out KBST.”

With the phone to one ear, Jenna picked up the remote with her free hand and clicked to the station Rinda had suggested. There, on the screen, a reporter was planted in the snow in the foreground. Behind her was the theater. Police cars and a few uniformed men were visible, as was the sign announcing tickets on sale for
It’s a Wonderful Life
.

Rinda groaned.

“You wanted publicity.”

“No one will come to the play now.”

“You don’t know that—the first performance is still a few weeks away,” Jenna said, wondering why she was trying to cheer her friend up. Rinda was right, the situation was dire. Poor Lynnetta.

“This isn’t the right kind of publicity.”

“According to my agent, there is no wrong kind,” Jenna said, hoping to lighten the conversation, but Rinda wasn’t to be consoled.

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“A city cop car in my drive. Probably Officer Twinkle.”

“Who?”

“Old joke. Bad one. Never mind.” She sighed as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “I suppose this is going to be unending.”