Fortunes of the Dead (14 page)

I wondered why she would lie in a life-or-death situation.

The fudge cake arrived, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting beneath a pool of thick hot fudge. I took a bite—the cake alone was so rich and heavy I could be sated with that one taste, not that I'd let it go at that. I stirred cream into my coffee, thinking back on my conversations with Miranda.

The first thing she'd told me was that Cheryl had
not
been having an affair with Cory Edgers and that her sister's disappearance had nothing to do with a love triangle. She said she'd know if Cheryl had been having an affair with Edgers. She'd even defended Edgers, saying he was a departmental outsider, and that a friendship between Edgers and Cheryl had been perfectly natural.

Miranda might lie to convince me to look elsewhere for Cheryl's murderer. If she really believed that Edgers had nothing to do with Cheryl's disappearance, she wouldn't want me going over the same ground the police were covering. I could see Miranda telling me what she wanted me to know, in an effort to control the investigation. Particularly if she thought doing so was in Cheryl's best interests.

I took a sip of coffee and wiped a dot of cream off the table with my napkin. Was I kidding myself? Making excuses for Miranda? People rarely tell the truth. They tell you what they want you to know.

The waitress eased my bill onto the table. I took another bite of cake, paid in cash, and left a generous tip. The only difference between me and other people with money was that mine wasn't going to last. Which also meant that I enjoyed it more.

Today there were two cars in the narrow driveway beside Robbie Little's house on Rosemont Garden—a mildly crumpled Toyota Celica that was blocked in by a beige Ford Ranger, almost new, a rental. I parked the Miata at the curb one house down, and walked up the sidewalk.

A white trellis covered the right side of the little house, and in the spring the brown growth snarling through the slats would no doubt erupt in dozens of roses.

Very quaint for a single male grad student.

My knock on the door was answered in due time by a small woman, comfortably padded, who could not be an inch over five feet. She was slightly bent, as if her back hurt. Her hair was sparse, soft looking and white. Her glasses were silver, and she wore a nubby white sweater and an apron over red sweatpants. Her tiny elfin feet were tucked into a pair of hideous Dearfoam house shoes that clueless relations give for gifts at Christmas.

“Hello, my dear, are you one of Robbie's friends?”

“My name is Lena Padget, I'm a detective, working on the disappearance of Cheryl Dunkirk. If Robert's home, I'd like to talk to him. Robert and Cheryl were close friends, weren't they?”

“Oh, yes, honey, they used to be ‘together.' In fact, for a long time, Cheryl lived right here with me and Robbie. I'm June Holden, by the way, Robbie's grandmother, on his mama's side. Come in now, honey, it's too cold to stand outside.”

The living room was overheated to the point that it was more comfortable outside. I shed my jacket in self-defense. The unseasonably warm February had segued into a warmer than usual early March. Winter was over.

“Sit down, sit down, I'll be right back, just let me go tell Robbie you're here.”

I settled on an ugly but comfortable couch that was covered in a gold-and-blue floral-print fabric. It had a gathered ruffle across the bottom and there seemed to be at least nine pillows lined up across the seats, two that matched the fabric on the couch, the rest a mix of satin, crocheted knit, velvet, and cotton. The living room was tiny, and crowded with an amazing conglomeration of furniture. A highly polished piano took up an entire corner, and a television perched on a metal rack covered up a window, which could not let much light in anyway, sealed as it was in heavy drapes of gold brocade. A walnut veneered bookcase sat next to the TV, shelves heavy with
Reader's Digest Condensed Books
and stacks of heavy yellow issues of
National Geographic
. There were two chairs, a recliner and a rocking chair, and a rectangular coffee table whose surface was covered with porcelain dogs of all sizes and shapes.

The murmur of male voices drifted in from the kitchen, which was no more than three feet away. I listened shamelessly, but couldn't really catch the conversation. I heard the faint noise of a bell, which seemed odd, until I noticed a miniature white poodle in the doorway. The dog wore a pink rhinestone collar with a small silver bell.

“Hello,” I said.

The dog quivered nervously, then bounced across the floor and stopped at my feet.

I admit a preference for cats or large dogs, but the poodle let me pet her head, then jumped onto my lap. She was light and trembly, but when she curled up in the crook of my arm I could see her attraction.

The slide of Dearfoam slippers across carpet signaled the return of Robbie's grandmother, who gave me a smile and a puzzled look. “Who are you talking to, my dear?”

“The dog.”

Mrs. Holden caught sight of the dog in my lap and laughed, settling into the rocking chair. “Oh, Beatrix Potter, you've made a friend.” She leaned forward and whispered to me. “I thought she was still taking a nap on her pillow.”

Beatrix Potter abandoned me, and ran across the room to her mistress.

“Robbie will be right in. He's just finishing up some business with somebody from where he used to work. Robbie was an ATF agent, you know, like Cheryl. I mean student agent, or what do they call it?”

“Intern.”

“Yes, intern. Robbie would get so fussed when I'd tell people he was an
agent
, but the gentleman who's in there with him now, he
is
an agent.”

“Really?” I said. This was curious.

“It's been quite a morning for visitors.”

“Sounds like it. Mrs. Holden, I was interested when you said Cheryl used to live here.”

“Oh, yes.” June Holden scratched Beatrix Potter behind the right ear. “She and Robbie were dating, you know, had been dating for a couple of years. They were all set to get an apartment together, here in Lexington, so Robbie could be close if I needed him. He spent half his summers here with me while he was growing up, so he and I are comfortable. And I thought, well, I don't care who lives with who, so I told them both that the offer to move in here with me was open if they wanted to try it out, but that there would be no hurt feelings if they wanted to sign that lease, because couples need their privacy, and I understand that.

“They were both working, and going to school, and trying to get grants, like the kids do these days. And they seemed to like the idea. Now I won't say we didn't have our little adjustments. Robbie uses just an awful lot of hot water, and isn't much for hanging up towels; and Cheryl, she is the sweetest girl, but it takes a little getting used to the way she likes to leave her things around.

“But that's just family, you know, and having them here was lively, and we sure had us some fun. The kids didn't have to work so many hours, because they didn't have to worry about rent, and they insisted on paying for the phone and the utilities. They wanted to pay for groceries, but I put my foot down there. I'm the resident grandmother, for heaven's sake; I don't charge my babies for food. They helped around the house, and did all the outdoor chores, except my roses, I do those myself. And they were always full of fun, those two. We'd spend many a night watching those rental movies and eating microwave popcorn. Beatrix Potter loves popcorn, don't you, girl? She can jump up and catch it in her mouth.

“Like to break my heart, when the two of them broke up. I was sure they were going to get married. Cheryl cried and cried when she moved out and told me she was going to miss me as much as Robbie. Well, poor thing, her mother dying like she did when Cheryl was a senior at high school. That's a hard age, for a girl. And when she and Robbie would come home and see I had cooked them a dinner that was on the stove, her eyes would just light up. Those two years were good for Cheryl, no matter what. She was too shy to come over to visit me because of Robbie and all, but she used to call me up on the phone. And lately, the two of them seemed to make up into friends, and she was just starting to come over again when she … when she went away.”

June Holden pulled a folded tissue from the sleeve of her sweater.

“Mrs. Holden, I was hired by Cheryl's stepfather, Paul Brady, and Cheryl's stepsister, Miranda.”

I stopped talking, because the noise of chairs scraping linoleum was loud even in the living room. The voices got louder, and two men came in from the kitchen.

Robbie leaned across the coffee table and shook my hand. He looked just like his picture, clean-cut and buttoned-down. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Padget.”

“Not a problem.” I gave him points for remembering my name.

I glanced at the other man who stood behind Robbie. He was handsome, in a surfer boy sort of way, mid-thirties, and wore a well-cut suit and the kind of tie you could not buy in Lexington.

“I'm Wilson McCoy.”

“He's from California,” Mrs. Holden said.

McCoy shook my hand. He hair was bleached nearly white, with a lot of dark root showing. He was tan, and built, and stood at an angle that took the weight off his left leg.

“Wilson is an old friend of the family,” Robbie said.

June Holden looked at her grandson over her shoulder. “Now, Robbie, I've already told her that Wilson works for the ATF, and if that was a secret you ought to have warned me.”

Robbie turned red to the tips of his ears.

Wilson McCoy grinned and shook my hand again. “Wilson McCoy, ATF, and old friend of the family.”

“California cousin?” I asked.

McCoy smiled down at Mrs. Holden, then turned back to me. “You're working for Cheryl Dunkirk's family, that right?”

“That's right.”

“Cheryl was one of ours, you know. And Robbie was very close to Cheryl. Anything we can do to help you out, let me know. We're all on the same team here.” His smile was devastating.

McCoy sat down in one of the armchairs and Robbie settled on the edge of the piano bench. It seemed Robbie had a babysitter for the interview.

“Just a couple of questions, Robbie.”

His eyebrows went up, like a facial question mark.

“I've talked to some of Cheryl's friends, and they seem to think she had something major on her mind before she disappeared. They seemed to think she might have confided in you.”

“Oh, that.” Robbie set his lips together, and grimaced. “She was just freaked because the Lexington S.A., her boss, I mean, took her aside and warned her about that deputy sheriff who was firing on her all the time.”

“Firing
on her?” June Holden said.

“I mean making a pass, Gram. Cheryl was afraid it made her look bad, and she asked me what I thought she should do. I told her that the S.A. was just looking out for her, not giving her a hard time, and that it was pretty clear she was young and green and the deputy guy was a sleazebag.” Robbie glanced over at McCoy—for approval, I thought.

“That it?” I asked him.

“That's it.”

“I had the impression there was something more than that.”

“Not that I know of,” Robbie said, but his ears were turning red again. He'd never work undercover.

“What happened to her journal?”

“Her what? “Wilson said.

“Her professional journal,” I said slowly. “The grade for the internship is based, in part, on a professional journal.” I looked at Robbie. “You had to keep one, too, didn't you, when you did your internship?”

“Oh. Oh, that. Yeah. No, I haven't seen it. The police probably have it, don't you think?”

“I guess I'll ask.” I stood up; my foot was asleep, but only mildly. I nodded at each one of them in turn, to give the circulation time to get moving. “One more question, Robbie. What do you think happened to Cheryl? Do you think it was just her getting mixed up in an affair with the wrong kind of guy?”

He wouldn't meet my eyes. “No, I don't think that's it.”

And though Robbie was looking at his feet when he gave his opinion, he did say it in front of myself and Wilson McCoy, and I admired him at least for his integrity and loyalty to Cheryl.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

It was clear that whatever Robbie Little knew, he was an ATF loyalist and wouldn't be sharing information. It was also clear he agreed with Miranda—that Cheryl's disappearance was more than a sex scandal. The most obvious possibility was that Cheryl had stumbled onto something touchy in her work with ATF. I knew the Feds sheltered their interns—I knew they weren't allowed out in any field situation that might prove the tiniest bit dicey.

And yet. Wilson McCoy, ATF agent from California, was suddenly in Lexington, talking to the one person most likely to know what was on Cheryl's mind.

Joel had not said a word about McCoy, or any details on the ATF angle. Which didn't mean he didn't know about it. But I knew Joel well enough to know he thought Cory Edgers was guilty of something. It wouldn't be a bad idea to meet the man, and make up my own mind. I scrolled through the directory on my cell phone, pausing over Joel's work number. I didn't want to ask him for Edgers's location, and I wasn't sure he'd tell me.

I scrolled through again, and stopped at Rick's name. Rick could find Edgers, if anyone could. And I wouldn't have to go to Joel. I imagined finding out what happened to Cheryl before Joel or Wilson McCoy. It would be nice to score points for the good ol' girls.

Surviving as an actor is difficult anywhere, and as far as acting is concerned, Lexington, Kentucky isn't even anywhere. Rick counts himself lucky to do the occasional role for Actors Theatre of Louisville, or Showboat Theatre in Cincinnati. So far his most successful role has been as the man-eating plant in
Little Shop of Horrors
. He does Shakespeare in the Park, and works summer stock. These jobs bring him great satisfaction and no income.