The Hiding Place (28 page)

Spending cash whenever she stopped for anything, she carried on toward Seattle—and freedom.

Nick insisted on driving her to the photographer’s, which was fine, but Tara asked him to wait in the car. He readily agreed, since he had Beamer and Claire to deal with. Tara was already nervous and didn’t want to spook Robert Randel by Nick hovering like a bodyguard. And Claire might blurt something out if she heard Tara lie—which she would no doubt have to do:
pretexting
was just a clever investigator’s word for that sad reality. Her visit to Evergreen Photography had to seem like business—important, but not a matter of life and death. So why was she suddenly seeing it that way?

A bell jangled overhead as she entered the shop. She’d never been here before, since Robert and his lighting assistant had always come to the Lohan house for the yearly photos. She recalled how thrilled she’d been to be included in the annual shoot done just before her wedding. Sad to think that the two times after that her smiles were forced and insincere. She’d never managed the stoic grace her one-time mother-in-law had always displayed.

The decor here was Western Victorian, with over-stuffed chairs, fringed lampshades and a thick, patterned carpet. The mood was enhanced by blowups of modern-day people in old-fashioned Wild West garb, in color, though posed stiffly like tintypes. Thank heavens the shop was clear of clients, because she needed to finesse this. Her pulse picked up, and her insides twisted.

The maroon velvet curtains separating the shop from the back work area parted, and Robert came out. He had a tanned, leathery face, probably from doing so many shoots outside over the years. Tara guessed he was in his late fifties, though he’d never married. She’d heard he was a man-about-town with local ladies. He wasn’t handsome but striking, with his black hair and sleek eyebrows accenting his aquiline nose. He wore khakis and a navy sweater and moved with a silent stealth that must have come from his part Indian heritage, which was also echoed in his high cheekbones and dark, narrow eyes. Maybe it was just the photographer in him, but those eyes were really looking her over.

“Ah, Ms. Kinsale,” he said, holding her hand a beat longer than necessary, “as lovely as ever. With that face and hair, you should have done some modeling. So sorry about all your troubles. It must be an adjustment not to be a Lohan.”

She bit back a sharp retort, telling herself she had one mission only here. Forcing a small smile, she tugged her hand away. “Though I’m no longer a Lohan, I consider your fine photos heirlooms I’ll never part with. Besides discussing an outdoor photo shoot of my foster child and me, I was wondering if I could get a copy of the current Lohan family photo.”

She almost fell over when that popped out of her mouth. She was indeed desperate if she thought she could carry off that in-your-face ruse; it was not one she’d rehearsed or agonized over.

“Ah, the current photo or the last one you were in?”

“Veronica Lohan and I are still very close, and I can hardly hold a grudge against such generous people. Yes, the current one, for old time’s sake.”

“It’s my property,” he said, hand on his chin as he tapped his mouth with his index finger, “but technically theirs, too, with the current privacy laws and all. Why don’t you have Mrs. Lohan just call me with permission then?”

“You likely haven’t heard, but she’s back in the clinic and rather incommunicado right now, though I’ve been to see her. And I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“Tell you what,” he said, reaching out to pat her upper arm, “let me just print a photo of Veronica for you—I still do everyone in smaller family groups and separately, too, of course—and you can call me when you get permission for the multigenerational one.” He turned toward a huge keyhole desk, sat at it and rolled out a bottom drawer with neat-looking files. “Everything’s digitized today. Got to keep up with the times. No negatives to care for anymore, everything on CD. Ah, here it is. I’ll be right back.”

His white teeth flashed in his brown face as he waved a CD labeled in black marking pen and disappeared with it into the back room.

Her hopes crashed. This wasn’t going to work. She was finally going to have to force herself to research Laird online to get his and Jen’s address in Seattle and any other information she could. And then she was going there to…To what, other than to see her lawyer friend? Nick would have a fit if she tried to confront Laird and Jen. But she was starting to fear she’d never get answers any other way. If Nick refused to let her do that, she just might have to sneak out on him.

Tara could hear the photographer in the back room. How long would it take him to insert a CD and print a picture? And what did it matter, since the photo was only of Veronica?

She sighed and glanced down at the manila folder he’d left on the desk. The shiny silver curve of another CD protruded. Holding her breath, she slid it out. In bold, black marker, it was labeled
Lohan/Spring 2006/Seattle.

This held last year’s family photos. But Seattle? Had everyone gone to Seattle for them? Why, when they were always taken at Jordan and Veronica’s home, with the view of the picture window and mountains in the background? Or would this CD just be of Laird and Jen?

She could hear a printer from the back room. He’d be back soon. This CD wasn’t what she’d come in for, but maybe it was better than nothing. At least she could throw darts at the photos of Laird and Jen, she thought perversely. They’d already been married for over a year when these ’06 photos were taken. It would be wrong to take it, but so much was wrong. What else was she capable of, to get answers and justice for herself and little Sarah?

Praying Robert wouldn’t miss the CD, which she intended to somehow return, she pocketed it just before he came back in. If only she could swap this one for the one in his hand. Surely Susanne and Jordan were hiding the most recent photo from her, so would the CD she’d taken even help?

Her next thought staggered her: perhaps Laird and Jen had a child of their own. That could be it. Because Tara’s child had died, and the family felt guilty about that—or feared she’d discover that and prosecute them—they had hidden from her the photo of Jen and Laird, not only happy with each other but with their own baby. That would explain why Jordan had taken down the current family photo when she already knew of Laird’s marriage and of her lost child.

Tara leaned against the desk to steady herself. It took every shred of self-control not to run outside. If her theory were true, Jen must have been pregnant when she and Laird were married. And that was proof positive that they’d had an affair, maybe even before Tara’s accident. No wonder they were wed just a few days after he divorced his comatose wife!

And that would explain why the Lohans risked damaging PR when it got out that Laird had divorced a helpless woman in a coma. Worse, perhaps it was a coma their doctors intentionally induced or extended so she couldn’t contest the divorce. How shocked Laird must have been to discover that his injured wife had also gotten pregnant, despite being on birth control pills. Having her own child was another reason that Jen might not want Tara’s child to live.

Somehow she managed to calmly take the five-by-seven photo Robert extended to her. She had to get hold of herself, keep up the charade, but her voice came out much too shrill. “Oh, that’s a lovely photo of her.” Tara tried to focus on it. It seemed blurred, wavy. She must not faint again as she had when she’d learned she had a child. Think, she told herself.

In the photo, Veronica wore a lavender suit and a pristine strand of pearls. Her smile was lovely, but a haunted look lurked in her eyes. Her former mother-in-law had never been like the others, gung ho for anything that profited the family. If Tara’s new theory about Laird and Jen was correct, perhaps Veronica had more to feel guilty for than her own alcohol and drug problems.

“Careful,” Robert said. “It’s barely dry. I’m so sorry to hear she—she’s ill again. Please give her my best. Let’s set a date for our session with you and the child, then. And, Tara, if you’re ever in town and just want to talk, please call me. I know a great new restaurant just down the way.”

In other words, she thought, maybe if she let him date her, she’d eventually get the evidence she really wanted. But she might already have that, on a CD, one that felt as if it was burning a hole in her pocket and in her heart.

Veronica had driven like a bat out of hell until she was clear of the Denver area. As she headed northwest on Route 19, she drove slowly and carefully. She could not afford to be stopped for speeding, because she had not a shred of ID on her. With all her planning, she had not thought to ask Rita for that. Just as well, she told herself, because she had no intention of being traced until she did what she had to do. Besides, she was a new woman now.

Despite the fact she was going to speak with Laird about his “lost child,” she savored her freedom. Except for Thane’s children, she didn’t miss anything she’d left behind. And the scenery was breathtaking, with its alpine lakes reflecting the surrounding jagged, blue-gray peaks topped by clumps of clouds.

Not used to long drives, she planned to stay one more night in Colorado, but by tomorrow, she’d be in Wyoming. Yes, she’d stop for the night at the little town of Walden, just twenty miles from the border. Henry David Thoreau had said, in his paean called
Walden,
that he went to the woods because he wished to live deliberately. When it came time for him to die, he’d written, he didn’t want to find out he hadn’t lived. Yes, she understood that now. Her very own Walden, it would be.

As if she were a tourist with all the time in the world, she went into the Walden Ranger District Office to pick up information and maps. They kindly called ahead to book her—Alice Marvel; she’d picked the name of a girlhood friend out of the blue—a room at one of the small inns in town.

Despite the fact her cozy, wood-paneled room had a kitchen and eating area, she ate at a small, down-home restaurant on Main Street, reading brochures about how this area used to be a favorite Ute tribe hunting ground. Fine, she thought. She would officially begin the hunt to find her own, real
Walden
self here, and that meant finding an organ.

She checked her brochures for churches and took a brisk walk to the Catholic one. Weren’t they more likely to have an organ than the Baptists or Methodists or that defunct-looking movie theater on the main drag? At least Saint Timothy’s was open; the parking lot of the small church was crammed with trucks and cars. Oh, yes, she should have known: a hand-lettered sign read BINGO NIGHT.

She followed the buzz of voices to a large, multipurpose room labeled Fellowship Hall, where people were bent over rows of bingo cards. Up front, a woman spun balls in a metal basket and called out numbers into a microphone. Just inside the door, a long table was set up with cakes, cookies and coffee urns. Veronica wound her way around the room to the smiling young priest and asked him if they had an organ.

“Indeed, we do. Mass is tomorrow at ten, if you’d care to attend. We welcome guests in the house of the Lord. And you are?”

“Alice Marvel. Father, I know this sounds strange, but I was wondering if I could rent the use of the organ, right now, just for an hour or so. I would only play religious music, of course.”

He wouldn’t hear of letting her pay, he said, and led her into the dimly lit sanctuary where two young women were dusting the wooden pews.

“We have a guest organist, just for a while,” the priest told the women. “Don’t tell Rhoda that I let anyone else touch her organ,” he added, and the ladies laughed as if he’d made the most hilarious joke.

In the corner of the room, near the baptismal font and overseen by a wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, sat not a pipe organ, but an electronic one she would have spurned years ago. It was well-worn, its sustain pedals scuffed, and two of the keys on its manuals were split. Worse, its stops stuck. But Veronica turned it on with anticipation. The ladies kept dusting, and the priest hovered, probably thinking that some poor woman was about to make a fool of herself. “We’ve a songbook or two around here if you’d like,” he called out from the back door, evidently eager to return to his bingo-playing parishioners.

“Thank you, Father, but I’m fine.”

She began to play and paid no more attention to her tiny audience. She let the music soar, to help and heal her. First, “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” with all its running notes, then “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven’s
Ninth Symphony
. On and on, until she happened to glance up and saw the pews were filled with rapt people, many of them with their bingo cards still clasped in their hands. She remembered then they were Catholic and segued into Schubert’s “Ave Maria,” then played the version by Gounod and Bach.

When she finished, she was astonished that everyone stood and applauded, some with tears running down their cheeks. She saw the priest wipe his eyes. Then everyone rose, clapping, clapping until they finally went silent, still standing.

Although Veronica had wanted to be alone with her music, broken keys and broken life, it was suddenly the best performance she had ever given.

“Y
ou think Laird and Jen had a child, too?” Nick asked, wide-eyed. “Sweetheart, maybe you’re just baby-conscious. You know what I mean,” he insisted as he followed her at a fast clip into her office.

“Baby obsessed—baby haunted, more like,” Tara admitted, dropping into her desk chair, while Nick hovered over her.

Though they’d just gotten home, Claire was on the phone to her friend Charlee already, so Tara had taken the opportunity to tell Nick her new theory.

“The point is,” Tara plunged on, booting up her spyware-free computer, “they had an affair stretching back who knows how far? Every time I think his—and Jen’s—betrayal can’t be worse, I find out it is.” She inserted the CD with the 2006 photos. “Maybe they kept me comatose to hide not only the death of my and Laird’s child, but the birth of their own. This could also mean Jen, one of my attending physicians, has an extra motive for not wanting my child to live. She didn’t need competition for her own Lohan baby, the gold digger.”