Immoral (11 page)

“Deal,” Andrea said.

When the pitcher of margaritas was half empty, they barely noticed the cold anymore.

Andrea lay propped in a wicker chaise, her stocking feet poking out from under a multicolored Spanish blanket. A space heater glowed in front of the chaise, warming her toes. The blanket bunched at her waist. Above it, she wore only her silk blouse. From time to time, she rubbed the gooseflesh on her bare forearms. For the first hour, she had kept the blanket tucked under her chin, but eventually she let it slip down.

She held a bowl glass in her hand. Every minute or two, she extended her tongue to lick a trace of salt from the rim, then took a swallow of the green drink. Despite the dim light, Stride could see her do this, and something about the glimpse of her tongue on the glass was very arousing. He watched her from his own chaise a few inches away.

The porch was nearly dark. A faint glow from the house lights behind them cast shadows. Where the frost had not crept onto the glass, they could see through the tall windows to the inky darkness of the lake, illuminated only by a handful of stars and a half moon giving off a pale glow. For long minutes, they lay next to each other. It was late, but they were wide awake, keenly attuned to the sounds around them: the crash of waves, the hum of the space heater, the in and out of their breathing. Their conversation came in fits and spurts between stretches of silence.

“You’re pretty calm about the divorce,” Stride said. “Is that an act?”

She stared at him. “Yeah.”

A few streaks of water appeared on the windows. Stride could see texture in the rain, a light mix of sleet and snow. They heard the patter increasing on the wooden roof above their heads and the whip of wind against the house. The frame rumbled. He reached for the pitcher of margaritas and refilled their glasses.

Andrea swirled the ice in her drink. A sad smile crossed her lips.

“I had to visit my sister in Miami. Denise had just had a baby. I got back, and there was a note. He needed some time alone, he said. To write. To ‘find himself creatively’ again. He never had the courage to call me. Not once. Just postcards. Goddamn postcards, for the whole world to see. Next thing I know, he’s in Yellowstone. Then Seattle. He’s still writing great stuff. But somewhere along the way, he’s realized that he just can’t be himself around me anymore. That I’m stifling his genius. So maybe it’s better if we call it quits.”

“Shit,” Stride murmured.

“It took five weeks and ten postcards for Robin to officially declare our marriage over and tell me he’d met someone else in San Francisco. On the back was a photo of the fucking Golden Gate Bridge.”

“I’m sorry,” Stride said.

“That’s okay. I don’t miss him so much as I hate being alone.”

“It’s the little things I miss,” Stride murmured. “I’m cold in the mornings. Sometimes I wake up and try to roll over to get close to Cindy, like I used to. She’d always complain about my cold hands, but she was like a heater warming me up. But she’s not there anymore. So I lie there freezing.”

He heard his words die away. He was aware of the lingering silence. Without Andrea asking, he knew she wanted him to tell her more. Earlier, in a passing comment, he had mentioned Cindy’s death, not going into detail, not wanting to cast her shadow over their evening. Andrea reacted with shock and grief, but like everyone else, she had no idea what to say or how to comfort him.

Even one little detail, a memory of warming up next to her in bed, made him want to tell all his stories. But he was stubbornly silent.

It was now actively snowing outside. The streaks of ice, slowly slipping down the window glass, obscured the view. Stride glanced at the Parsons table next to the chaise and realized the pitcher of margaritas was empty. He glanced at his watch but couldn’t read the time in the shadows.

“You have succeeded,” Andrea declared finally.

“At what?”

“I am now drunk. Thank you.”

Stride nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Andrea looked over at him. Or he thought she did. He could barely see her.

“Tell me something,” she said. “Do you want to fuck me?”

It was the kind of question that called for an immediate answer, although this was the first time since Cindy died that Stride had faced it. He knew what half a pitcher of margaritas and his stiffening crotch told him to do, but he still felt unfaithful. “Yes, I do.”

“But?” she said, hearing it in his voice.

“But I’m drunk, and I don’t know if I can, uh, rise to the occasion.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Yeah.”

“You haven’t had sex since she died.”

“Nope.”

Andrea slid out of the wicker chair. She staggered to her feet. “Tough,” she said.

Stride didn’t move. He watched her hike up her skirt and yank down the black stockings and floral panties underneath. She peeled them off and tossed them aside. She was a real blonde, with a wispy patch of pubic hair nestling between her slim thighs. With clumsy fingers, she undid the buttons of her blouse, then unsnapped the bra inside. She pushed aside the fabric, exposing her small breasts with erect pink nipples.

Andrea bent over him and yanked down the zipper of his jeans. Her fingers squirmed inside his pants and found his erection.

“Looks like you rose to the occasion.”

“Looks like it.”

She extracted his penis with some difficulty. In one swift motion, she swung her leg over the chaise and straddled him. Using one hand to spread her vaginal lips, and the other to hold his cock, she lowered herself onto him. Stride felt his penis sinking into her wet folds, and he groaned.

“You like?”

“I like.”

“Good.”

He reached up to her breasts and caressed her nipples with his fingertips.

“Harder,” she said.

He pinched them, then squeezed her whole breasts in his large hands. Andrea gave a loud shout of pleasure and sank forward, kissing him, forcing her tongue inside. Her buttocks rose and fell as she pumped up and down on top of him. Stride squeezed his hand onto her mound and found her clitoris and began to rub it in circles.

The porch creaked and whined. So did the chaise, complaining under the pounding of their combined weight.

Stride felt himself swelling. She was bringing him quickly to a marvelous, drunken orgasm. And it looked like she was having one, too. Her head rose back, and she had a wild smile on her face. Stride leaned forward and took her nipple in his mouth. She held his head tightly against her breast. He licked and tugged at the nipple, and the feel of her erect areola on his tongue sent him over the edge. Stride’s hips rose up to meet her as he spasmed. He came with his mouth still closed over her breast. Strangely, Andrea started laughing.

“God,” she murmured, half to herself. “And the bastard said I was cold in bed.”

“Well?” Maggie asked.

She kicked the snow off her boots on the floor mat of Stride’s truck, then folded her arms and stared at him expectantly.

“What?” Stride asked, smiling despite himself.

Maggie whooped. She punched Stride in the arm. “I know that smile,” she said, beaming. “That’s the smile of a man who got lucky last night. Did I tell you? Was I right?”

“Mags, give me a break.”

“Come on, boss, details, details,” Maggie insisted.

“All right, all right. We stayed up late, we got drunk, we ended up in bed. It was great. Are you satisfied?”

“No, but you obviously are.”

Stride shot her an irritated glance, then swung the truck out of the parking lot at Maggie’s building. The tires slipped on the fresh snow. Only a couple of inches of heavy, wet snow had fallen overnight, enough to make the roads treacherous but not enough to get the snowplows out of the garage. Stride blinked. His eyes were red.

“So how do you feel?” Maggie asked.

Stride clenched the wheel a little tighter and fluttered the brake as he edged up to a stop sign. “Guilty as hell, if you must know.”

“Look, you’re not cheating on Cindy,” Maggie said. “She’d have been pissed off that you waited this long.”

“I know,” Stride acknowledged. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself. But my heart doesn’t really believe it.”

In fact, he had dreamed of Cindy, and then, when he had awakened and felt a warm presence next to him for the first time in a year, he had enjoyed a brief moment when he thought it really was Cindy beside him. In his drowsy state, he believed that the tragedy of the past year had been the real dream and that life was still sweet and normal. Then he saw Andrea, and he felt a twinge of sorrow. It wasn’t fair. Andrea was pretty and sweet. Her naked body, half exposed above the blanket, was arousing to him. But he had to blink back tears.

“It was your first time,” Maggie said. “You’re back on the playing field. The more you date, the more comfortable you’ll get.”

“Maybe. Andrea and I are getting together again tomorrow night.”

Maggie smiled slyly. “Oh, yes? I get it. Once you take the gun out of the holster, you can’t stop firing, huh?”

Stride shot her a sideways glance. “You’re crude, Mags. Who taught you to be so crude?”

“You did.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stride said, chuckling.

“Just don’t get carried away, okay?” Maggie said. “You’re getting over Cindy’s death, and she’s getting over a divorce. You’re both on the rebound.”

“When did you become the expert on relationships?” Stride asked sourly, regretting the edge in his voice.

“Let’s just say I know a little about taking a fall, all right?”

Stride said nothing. They drove on silently.

Their destination was on the south end of the city. They passed close to the harbor on their left and crossed a web of railroad tracks that led in and out of the docks. There was little development down here, other than a few windowless saloons, off-sale liquor stores, and gas stations. Another mile took them to the outer edge of town, where a large cluster of older houses clung to the land near the interstate. Most of the houses dated back before the 1940s, when they were modest but comfortable units serving ship workers. The houses were mostly ramshackle now, and the neighborhood was a magnet for the handful of drug dealers who called Duluth home.

“Marrying Graeme was quite a step up the social ladder for Emily,” Maggie said. “You have to give her credit for landing him. I wonder how she did it.”

“Well, the good reverend says she was quite a dish just a few years ago.”

“He said that?”

“I’m paraphrasing. But Emily is obviously still close to Dayton, and it looks like he knows more about her and Rachel than just about anyone.”

“But will he tell us anything?” Maggie asked.

“He agreed to see us. That’s a start.”

Stride navigated a series of snow-covered streets through the quiet neighborhood. The parked cars were lumps of little white hills to steer around on the narrow streets.

The church in which Dayton Tenby served as pastor was a beachhead from which the neighbors were battling back crime and vandalism. The churchyard was meticulously clean and landscaped with neatly trimmed bushes, sporting white snowcaps, carefully planted across the wide lawn. There was a large swing set and a cedar jungle gym for children. The church itself boasted a fresh coat of paint and bright red trim around the tall narrow windows.

They made the first set of tire tracks in the lot as they pulled in and parked. When they got out of the car, the air was crisp and cold. They kicked through the snow to the main door of the church. The wide lobby inside was chilly, with the heat vanishing into the high ceiling. They hugged themselves and looked around. Stride noticed a bulletin board crowded with notices about drug rehabilitation, abuse prevention, and counseling for divorce. In the middle of the board was a missing-person notice, with Rachel’s photo prominently displayed.

“Hello?” Stride called.

He heard movement somewhere in the church, then a muffled voice. A few seconds later, appearing out of the shadows of a long hallway, Dayton Tenby joined them in the lobby.

Tenby wore a pair of dark dress slacks and a gray wool sweater with leather patches on the elbows. He greeted them with a nervous smile, and his handshake, as it had been when Stride first met him, was damp with sweat. His forehead, too, was lined with moisture. He had a yellow pad, crammed with spidery writing, under his arm and a pen wedged behind one ear.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you,” Tenby said. “I was in the midst of writing tomorrow’s sermon, so I’m a little distracted. Let’s go in the back where it’s warmer.”

He guided them down the hall. Tenby’s church apartment was boxy and small, furnished in dark wood, with a large oil painting of Christ hung above the mantel of a modest fireplace. A fire burned there, making the room pleasantly warm. Dayton seated himself in a green upholstered chair by the fire and laid his yellow pad on the ornate end table beside it. He gestured at an antique, uncomfortable-looking sofa. Stride and Maggie sat down. Maggie fit perfectly, but Stride wriggled to find a position that suited his tall frame.

“When we first met, you told me you thought Rachel had run away,” Stride said. “Do you still feel that way?”

Tenby pursed his lips. “This is a long time to carry a joke, even for Rachel. I would never say so to the Stoners, but I’m beginning to fear this may be more than a childish game.”

“But you have no idea what else it could be?” Maggie asked him.

“No, I don’t. Do you feel she was abducted?”

“We’re not ruling anything out,” Stride said. “Right now, we’re trying to find out more about Rachel’s relationships and her past. We’re trying to construct a picture of her. Since you’ve known her and her family for a long time, we thought you could help.”

Tenby nodded. “I see.”

“You sound reluctant,” Maggie said.

He folded his hands in his lap. “It’s not reluctance, Detective. I’m trying to decide what I can say and what I can’t. There are things I’ve learned in my role as a religious advisor that naturally must remain confidential. I’m sure you can understand.”