Leave It to Cleavage (4 page)

Calls today would be weather-related and require tow trucks and Truro’s lone snowplow rather than guns and bullets. Not that there was a hell of a lot of what qualified as real crime in Truro even when it was warm. He’d seen a lot more action on the force in Atlanta, but he didn’t regret coming home. There was a certain symmetry to the town bad boy coming back as its chief of police, even if he’d had to leave a wife behind to do it.

Blake stashed the cruiser in the lot behind City Hall and walked down Main Street to the Dogwood Café. Here he knew everyone, and found satisfaction in that fact as he waved his hellos to the morning crowd and took his usual seat at the counter. He smiled his thanks when Jewel Whitman set a steaming mug of coffee in front of him.

Fifteen minutes later he’d read
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
from front to back, demolished the He-Man Breakfast Special, and drunk enough cups of coffee to enable him to float to his office.

“Jewel, if you pour me one more cup of coffee or put one more morsel of food on my plate, I’m going to have to arrest you.” Blake put a hand over the top of his cup and gave the waitress a look that had once made an armed felon throw down his gun.

The waitress patted her beehive hairdo and flashed him a smile. “You sure you don’t want some more grits? I could fry you up another egg or two.”

“Jewel, you’re killing me, here.”

“Well, I know you’re not getting enough real food with no woman there to do for you.”

“Do I look underfed to you?” Blake unfolded his six-foot-two-inch frame from the stool and patted his trim stomach before reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “The women in this town seem to think being male eradicates the cooking chromosome. Grandpa and Andie and I have been on our own for almost three years now. I think it’s time to scratch us off the Meals-on-Wheels list.”

“Joke all you like,” Jewel said. “But two crotchety males trying to raise a teenage girl? Why, you’ve turned that cute little thing into the biggest jock in six counties.”

Blake grinned and pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet and laid them on the counter. “Don’t you worry about us; we’re doing just fine. And I’ll lay you odds that little jock of mine will be heading to Duke on a full athletic scholarship in two years’ time.” Sport had been his salvation, and he intended to make sure his daughter reaped its benefits as well.

“Be that as it may . . .”

“We’re used to doing things ourselves. It gives a person backbone and determination.”

“Not to mention ring-around-the-collar.”

“Possibly.” Blake stuck his wallet back in his pocket. “But we’re fine, Jewel. Really. If it’ll make you feel better, you can give me an extra piece of bacon tomorrow.”

The dry cleaner and the hardware store were open by the time Blake made his way back up Main Street. Diane Lowell was turning on lights in the Blue Willow Antique Mall and Sandwich Emporium. At the end of Main, Blake stamped his feet on the mat outside the Truro Police Department and stepped through the door into the luxurious warmth of the brand-new building. Unlike the original hundred-and-fifty-year-old structure, which had been moved to a final resting place just outside of town, this one had shiny linoleum floors and smooth plaster walls. It also had new desks and an even newer computer, but its most impressive feature—at least in light of recent temperatures—was the central heating and cooling.

Blake stepped into the toasty warmth of the reception area, hung his coat on the hall tree, and stopped at the front desk for messages.

Anne Farnsworthy’s fingers flew over her keyboard at top speed, and she had a phone cradled between her shoulder and ear. When she noticed him, she stopped typing long enough to hand him a pile of message slips, then finished up on the phone.

“Morning, Anne. What do we have so far?”

“Well, Tyler Poole’s pickup got stuck in a snowdrift, and I sent Jim out to help him. Got a couple more of those strange hang-up calls—evidently somebody only wants to talk to you—and Andie’s math teacher called. She left her homework at home again, but I called your grandfather and asked him to run it on over. Ed’s going to be a little late getting in. Other than that it’s been real quiet.”

She looked him up and down. “Did you have breakfast? I brought in some sweet rolls in case you didn’t have time to—”

Blake groaned. “How in the world did I get appointed chief when the female population of Truro believes I can’t feed or clothe myself? How helpless do I look?”

“Those are trick questions, right?”

“Absolutely.”

In Blake’s experience, which was vast, watching a man and child get dumped by their respective wife and mother did one of two things to a woman. It either turned her on or heightened her maternal instincts. And it almost always sent her scurrying to the stove.

The phone rang and Anne picked up on the second ring. “Truro Police Department,” she said. “Uh, wait, hold on. He just walked in.”

She clamped a hand over the mouthpiece and motioned to Blake. “It’s her,” she said quietly, “the one who keeps calling and asking for you, but won’t leave a message. She’s calling from a pay phone.”

“I’ll take it in my office.” Blake moved quickly through the reception area and closed his office door behind him. A second after he picked up the phone, the call was put through.

“Chief Summers.”

“I want to report foul play.” It was a woman’s voice, muffled and distant sounding, but definitely a female.

“Who is this?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that Tom Smith is missing and nobody’s doing anything about it.”

“Mrs. Smith?” He tried to picture the elegant Miranda Smith huddled in a phone booth placing an anonymous phone call to the chief of police.

The woman’s laugh was muffled, but he could tell how lacking in humor it was.

“Hardly. But then maybe she hasn’t noticed he’s gone. The Ladies’ Guild can be
soooo
time-consuming.” Though her voice remained unidentifiable, the sarcasm came through loud and clear.

“And what makes you think something’s happened to Tom Smith?”

“Because he’s disappeared. And I know he would have contacted me if he were able to.”

“If you want me to investigate, you’re going to have to give me more than that.”

There was silence on the other end, but he could hear the woman’s breathing.

“If you don’t identify yourself or give me something concrete, there’s not much I can do.”

“Wouldn’t want to upset the Ballantynes, would we, Chief? Sort of like taking a stab at the Royal Family.”

He ignored the jibe. “It
is
up to the family to file a missing persons report. Don’t you think a woman would file a report if her husband were missing? What possible reason would she have for keeping such a thing to herself?”

“Now those are real good questions, Chief. And if I were you, that’s exactly what I’d be asking Miranda Smith.”

Then there was a click, and a moment later he was listening to a dial tone.

Miranda stayed in bed for two days. She crawled under the covers after her unsuccessful Nancy Drew imitation and just couldn’t make herself get out. She watched a
Brady Bunch
marathon, a documentary on sheepdogs and the herding instinct, the movie
Titanic,
followed by a special on the real-life tragedy, and back-to-back episodes of
Sesame Street
before she finally turned off the television and simply lay there listening to the phone ring. Around midnight of the second night she forced herself downstairs to play back the messages.

“Miranda.” Her mother’s voice rang out in the silence. “You cannot continue to hibernate in this way. I want you out of that house and over here for dinner tomorrow night at six. No excuses.” She could hear Gran’s voice in the background. “Your Gran is threatening an intervention. Don’t make us come over there and drag you out.”

The rest of the messages were from Ballantyne. “Uh, Mrs. Smith . . .” Leeta’s tone was tentative and laced with worry. “Mr. Smith didn’t come in yesterday like we expected and we, uh, have a few questions. Can you ask him to call the office?”

The next voice belonged to Tom’s assistant, Carly. “Um, Mrs. Smith? We’re not sure what’s happening, but we really need to talk with Mr. Smith. There’s a problem in production and we’ve had some orders returned. Will you ask him to call in?”

The last voice was Helen St. James’s and it held an odd mixture of panic and anger. “It’s imperative that I speak to Mr. Smith. Fidelity National is ready to set a date for the audit.” There was a pause. “I’m not sure how to proceed. They want to come in next week.”

The early morning sky was steel gray and the promise of snow hung heavy in the air as Miranda drove through a just-waking Truro to Ballantyne.

Even as she passed under the archway and parked in the employee lot, she wasn’t sure why she had come or what she hoped to accomplish. All she knew was the ship seemed to be foundering and there was no one at the helm. And although she was too ashamed to call her father, she couldn’t just lie in bed while the ship went down.

She greeted Leeta in the lobby and walked toward Tom’s office, analyzing possible outcomes. Best-case scenario, Carly Tarleton would provide some clues to Tom’s whereabouts so she could hunt him down like the dog he was and make him fix whatever was wrong. Worst-case scenario, the crew would realize they’d hit an iceberg and their captain had not only deserted the ship but taken the only lifeboat.

She really shouldn’t have watched that
Titanic
special.

In Tom’s office, she closed the door behind her and took her place at his desk.
Do not panic,
she instructed herself as she placed her laptop on the mahogany surface and booted up. Only her self didn’t seem to be listening.

At 9
A
.
M
. muffled voices rose out in the hallway and phones began to ring. It was clearly time to
do
something, but the best she could manage was to swivel around in the desk chair and stare out the window at the distant peak where her family’s lake houses perched.

She was still staring out the window when a sharp knock sounded on the office door. Before she could spin around, the door opened.

“Thank goodness you’re back.” Quick footsteps tapped across the office floor and approached the desk. “I brought my diploma in, Mr. Smith, just like we talked about. And Myrna really liked my new drawings. I know you must be tired from your trip. Did you get held up in—”

Miranda swiveled around to face her husband’s assistant.

“Oh!” The young woman’s blue eyes widened in surprise, and her mouth snapped shut.

Embarrassment suffused the apple-cheeked face and the hands that held the document in its cheap black frame fell to her sides, but not before Miranda took in the stubby, unpolished fingernails. These hands, at least, had not been photographed on her husband’s butt.

“Good morning, Carly.”

The young woman swallowed and wiped her free hand on her navy skirt. The diploma still dangled from the other. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith. I was expecting . . .”

“Yes, I know. But Mr. Smith won’t be in today.” She didn’t add the “or ever” that flew to her tongue. “What do you have there?”

“My college diploma. It took me a while, but I did it.” The blonde raised her chin, along with the document that bore the name of a small commuter college two towns away.

Carly Tarleton was somewhere in her mid-twenties, and to Miranda’s knowledge was the first of the Tarleton clan to earn a degree of any kind. Several of them had barely made it out of grade school; a few of the men were languishing in prison. The women had a reputation for reproducing, with and without benefit of marriage. If Miranda remembered correctly, Carly had a young daughter and no evidence of a husband.

“Earning a college degree is a great accomplishment. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Carly looked around the room. “So when will Mr. Smith be back?”

“I’m not sure. He’s still in China.” She swallowed. “I think he’s moved out of Hong Kong, gone farther, um, inland.”

Carly’s gaze swung back, interested. “Do you think he’s found any new suppliers?”

Miranda felt a flash of annoyance that this young woman with her illegitimate child and poorly framed diploma knew more about what her husband might or might not do than she did.

“I, uh, don’t know.” But she thought it unlikely, unless they were supplying G-strings in Big & Tall Men’s sizes.

Miranda studied the chunky blonde with the earnest blue eyes. “Did you book Tom’s flight and accommodations for this trip?”

“Yes.” Carly studied her back. “He was booked from Atlanta to San Francisco and then on to Hong Kong. With a return two nights ago.”

Miranda looked down at her own fingernails for a moment. “Was anyone traveling with him?”

Miranda could hear her heart beat in the silence. She forced herself to look up into the appraising blue eyes.

“Not that I know of,” Carly said. Then she hesitated. “But he could have dealt directly with the airline.”

“Who do we book through?”

“The Delta ticket office in Claymore.”

“Will you get them on the line for me, Carly? And please tell Helen St. James I want to see the latest financial statements along with all our receivables and pertinent client files immediately.”

Surprise washed over Carly’s face. She opened her mouth then closed it. With a nod, she turned and left the office, closing the door softly behind her.

Two minutes later Miranda was talking to the agent who had booked Tom’s flights.

“I booked him through San Francisco just like I always do,” the woman said.

“Yes, yes, and I know he was very happy with the flight.” Miranda coughed. “Um, did you book just the one ticket?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Was he traveling alone?” Miranda was prepared to describe the woman’s manicure if necessary, but she never got the opportunity.

“Who is this?”

“This is Miranda Smith. His wife.”

What followed was a really dead silence, which Miranda hastened to fill.

“What if you just tell me whether you sold the seat next to him to anyone else.”