If She Should Die (4 page)

“That’s a damned long time. No sense in our not being able to do our own testing.” A new idea seemed to pop into Ames’s mind. “How about dental records? That would be much faster.”

“The corpse’s teeth are missing, sir.”

“Missing?” Ames seemed to draw back for a moment before he grasped at another straw. “Then maybe it’s the body of an old person whose teeth have been extracted.”

“No, sir. They look as if they were smashed out, probably to prevent identification. The fingertips were cut off, too.”

Christine flinched. Teeth bashed out? Fingertips cut off? Dear God, please let the person have been dead when those atrocities were committed, she thought.

“Look here,” Ames began again. “You said the body’s badly decomposed. Then you tell me it’s the body of a female. Now how do you know it’s a female?”

Winter took a deep breath. “The length of the hair. The height. The shape of the pelvis—”

“Some boys these days have long hair,” Ames announced. “And you’re not a doctor. What do you know about the shape of a pelvis?”

“Not much, sir. That’s why we need an autopsy.” Ames glared at the deputy as if the situation were entirely his fault. “Mr. Prince, I really don’t think we’re accomplishing much here except alarming everyone,” Winter said evenly. “If you would just agree to go to the medical examiner’s in Charleston—”

“All right, all
right
!” Ames stormed. Then he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, as if he were counting to ten. Finally he touched Wilma’s shoulder. “Dear, I’m afraid I won’t be able to follow you home.”

“I can get home by myself,” Wilma said shakily. “But I don’t want you driving all the way to Charleston in this rain and as upset as you are.”

“I’ll be fine, just fine. I’m not upset. This is all just a terrible mix-up that I will have straightened out in a few hours.”

“I can go with you, Ames,” Christine volunteered, although she dreaded an acceptance.

“No. You have Jeremy to look after,” Ames said. “And I don’t need a nursemaid. Wilma here seems in much worse shape than I am.”

“I’ll take you home, Mrs. Archer,” Ginger said unexpectedly.

Wilma looked surprised. “Oh, honey, that’s not necessary.”

“I’ll just drive behind you to make sure you get home safe and sound. You won’t have to actually sit in a car with me listening to me prattle, because I know that’s what you’re really afraid of. My dad says I could talk the ear off an elephant, and that’s a mighty big ear.”

She ended with a wink and Wilma actually managed a weak smile. Christine could have kissed Ginger, who wasn’t always so sensitive to other people’s needs. Thank heavens she’d come through this evening, Christine thought as Ginger herded a shaking, watery-eyed Wilma out the door. Ames followed briskly, saying in an abnormally hearty voice, “Wilma, don’t go to pieces. This person
isn’t
Dara. It just isn’t. I’d know if my daughter were dead, wouldn’t I? It
isn’t
Dara.”

After they left, Christine stood rooted behind the counter. Deputy Winter had made no move to leave the store. She
looked at him, tried to smile, failed, and pushed her short hair behind her ears for the third time, a nervous gesture. She seemed cold to the bone in spite of the store’s comfortable temperature and her warm sweater. Her fingers felt sharp and icy.

At last, Deputy Winter asked, “Do you know anything about these letters from his daughter Mr. Prince has been receiving?”

“I know everything about them,” Christine said. Winter looked at her in mild surprise and she realized she had not explained her relationship to Ames. “I’m Christine Ireland. Mr. Prince was a good friend of my parents and took in my younger brother and me when they were killed seven years ago. Ames became our legal guardian.”

“But he didn’t adopt you.”

“No. But my brother, Jeremy, is now twenty and still lives with Mr. Prince and his wife, Patricia.”

“Patricia Prince,” Winter said thoughtfully. “I believe I’ve met her. She’s not Dara’s mother, is she?”

“Oh no. Patricia is far too young. She’s Ames’s second wife. Dara’s mother, Eve, died of cancer when Dara was twelve. Eve insisted on spending her last weeks at home, and Patricia was her nurse. She and Mr. Prince were married less than a year after Eve’s death.”

“Did Patricia and Dara get along?”

“They tolerated each other,” Christine said carefully, seeing a flash in the deputy sheriff’s eyes that meant he knew she was evading the complete truth. In reality, Dara and Patricia couldn’t stand each other and argued constantly.

“You don’t still live with Mr. Prince, Miss Ireland?” Winter asked.

“No. I have a house on Cardinal Way.”

“Nice area. New. Not many houses.” Deputy Winter shifted from one foot to the other. Christine didn’t know
whether to ask him to sit or to offer tea or coffee in this situation. It was hardly a social call. But he seemed weary.

“I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee,” she said. “You look cold. Would you like a cup?”

He hesitated, then said with a grateful smile, “I’d love a cup if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I take it black.”

Christine went into the small closet they called a kitchen with its sink, microwave oven, coffeemaker, and miniature refrigerator. In a moment she returned and motioned for him to sit at the table where Ginger had been polishing silver. “Sorry I don’t have any pastry to offer. We always get a fresh selection from the bakery in the morning, but we’ve been so bored today, we’ve eaten it all. It’s a good thing every day isn’t like this or we’d be the pudgiest staff in town.”

Winter rewarded her with his first genuine smile that even reached his eyes. He took a sip of coffee, muttered, “Good,” then asked, “Will you tell me more about these letters Mr. Prince has been receiving, supposedly from Dara?”

“Well, the letters are brief and noncommittal, written on a small piece of stationery, usually something with flowers or cupids or bows. That
is
the kind of paper Dara would choose. But they’re typewritten except for an ornate
D
at the end, always done in ink.”

“Was it Dara’s habit to type her letters?”

“No. She hated to type. And she loved the name Dara. Ames says her mother chose it because when she first saw her daughter, she said the baby would grow up to be a
daring
young lady. Anyway, I’ve never known of Dara to sign anything with just a
D
.”

“Mr. Prince said the last letter came from Phoenix, Arizona.”

“They’re always from a different place, some large city where it would be hard to find her.”

“What do they say?”

Christine closed her eyes, trying to recall the letters. Ames hadn’t shown her one for over a year. “They’re vague. ‘Having a great time.’ ‘Doing well, so don’t worry.’ Terse, really nothing more than notes, although Dara was a chatterbox. Of course, the way people speak and the way they write aren’t always the same.”

“What about requests for money?”

“None that I know of.”

“Reference to a job or a boyfriend?”

“No,” Christine said. “And no explanation about where she’s living—apartments, houses, hotels.”

“Did she have credit cards?”

“No. She was only nineteen. But she had a sizable bank account accrued from bonds and cash gifts from friends and relatives. She’d withdrawn ten thousand dollars from it two days before she disappeared. She left a couple of hundred in the account, to keep it open, I guess.”

Winter raised his eyebrows. “I can’t imagine having ten thousand dollars of my own at nineteen.”

“Neither can I.” Christine’s parents had left eight hundred thousand in trust for her and Jeremy and a hundred thousand in life insurance. The terms of her father’s will did not give her possession of the money until she was twenty-two, though, and Ames had always kept her on a tight leash where money was concerned. Technically she’d been financially well off at nineteen, but actually she was like a child with a small allowance. This hadn’t been the case with Dara, though, and Ames had grasped at the large bank withdrawal as another sign that Dara had run away and needed the money to finance her “escape.”

“Ten thousand would have lasted awhile,” Winter was saying.

“Yes, but not three years.”

“You don’t think Dara could have gotten a good job,
one that paid so well she didn’t have to ask her father for money?”

“If so, why does each letter come from a different part of the country?” Christine asked. “Besides, she really had no skills to get a high-paying job. And if she’d married a man who was well off, I believe she’d boast about him.”

“A lover?”

“You mean a rich sugar daddy? No, she’d boast about him, too, only she’d say they were engaged so she wouldn’t enrage her father.” Christine shook her head. “Nothing about those letters makes sense to me.”

“You clearly don’t think she’s sending the letters. Does Mr. Prince believe they’re from his daughter?”

Michael Winter looked at Christine intently. His voice was deep yet with an intimate, sincere quality that made her feel as if she could tell him anything. Christine had nothing to hide, but she reminded herself that she did not know this man, either. Just how truly his voice and gaze revealed his personality was yet to be seen. Until then, she felt she must watch her step for the family’s sake.

“Ames certainly wants to believe they’re from Dara.”

“But he doesn’t really?”

“I can’t read his mind, Deputy.”

“But you’ve known him for years. Certainly you can make a guess about whether he believes they’re from his daughter.”

Christine sighed. Ames Prince was a hard man to know, and in spite of her years in his house she felt he held her and Jeremy at a distance. He was fond of them. He’d taken his responsibility as their guardian seriously. He’d always maintained an interest in their activities. He’d been unfailingly patient and kind to Jeremy, whom he liked to have around, especially after Dara disappeared. But he had never in any way been like a father or, at least, like their warm, demonstrative father had been. She knew
Ames didn’t love them, maybe because Dara had so jealously hoarded his parental affections. Christine wasn’t sure she and Jeremy felt anything for Ames beyond friendship and gratitude. But she couldn’t say all of this to a man she’d only met twenty minutes ago.

“Ames desperately wants to believe the letters are from Dara. I think he’s almost convinced they are.”

“But not quite.”

She shook her head. “He’s too smart not to realize something is wrong about them.”

“That’s why he won’t allow them to be tested for fingerprints, isn’t it? He’s afraid Dara’s won’t be on the letters.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“What about this farewell note she left the night she disappeared?”

“That night, Ames only glanced in her room and saw she wasn’t there. None of us actually went in, so we didn’t find the note until the next day. It was on her dresser and said: ‘Time for this bird to fly. Don’t worry.’ ”

“Signature?”

“Just
D
.”

“So you don’t believe she wrote the note?”

Christine frowned. “The handwriting looked like hers if she was really nervous or in a hurry. But once again, the terseness bothered me. I think if Dara were really running away, she’d say something a lot more melodramatic than ‘Time for this bird to fly.’ ”

“Did you ever consider kidnapping?”

“Ames and the police did for a while, but if she was, no one ever asked for ransom. There were no signs of a struggle in her room or anywhere in the house.”

“But you don’t believe she just ran away.”

“I think her taking off voluntarily is really unlikely. She’d threatened it, but she always said dramatic things to get her way. Like a child. But actually running away
would mean being out in the world on her own with only ten thousand dollars. That might sound like a lot to us, but it wouldn’t to her. She spent money like water.” Christine shook her head. “I’m rambling. This news about the body has thrown me. Maybe I can talk more clearly when I’ve had time to calm down. But—” Michael Winter raised his eyebrows. “But I wouldn’t want Ames to know I’ve been discussing the letters and the farewell note. He considers it all family business. He’d be furious.”

“He won’t hear it from me.” Michael Winter smiled at her again. His dark eyes went from hard and inquisitive to understanding, and the chiseled planes of his face softened. His teeth were even and white, and shallow lines framed either side of his mouth. Christine noticed he had a mole beneath his left eye that looked almost like a tiny dark tear. She found herself wanting to trust him in this awful situation. She found herself afraid of taking the chance.

“Would you like more coffee?” she asked abruptly.

“I really should get going, although I’ve been out in this mess since early this morning.”

Christine looked out the front windows at the rain falling against a dull gray sky. The few trees lining Main Street bore young, droopily wet leaves, and signs hanging in front of buildings flapped in the cold, brisk wind. Cars splashed dirty water onto the sidewalks. Suddenly an image of Dara, beautiful and laughing, flashed through Christine’s mind. Her stomach did a small flip at the thought of what lying in dirty river water for three years would have done to Dara’s lovely body. The picture was gruesome.

“What’s wrong?” Winter asked. “Your face went completely white.”

“I was thinking of Dara in the river.” She folded her arms across her chest almost protectively. “If this body found today
is
Dara’s, how could she have remained in
the water so long? Certainly she would have surfaced before now.”

“The plastic wrapping could have gotten caught on something. Maybe trapped in tree roots sticking out under the water. This is the first flood for three years. The rush of water could have dislodged the body. And there’s a tear in the outer layer of plastic. It’s possible the body was weighted down with a concrete block or something else heavy. The bundle, for lack of a better word, could have come in contact with something sharp that ripped the plastic and the weight fell out, allowing the body to finally surface.”