The Lost Women of Lost Lake (16 page)

“So I'm an asshole?” He released her hand. “Nothing new in that. Make it quick.”

He revved the motor as she changed into her jeans and T-shirt. She didn't like the dank, moldy smell in the shed, so she never spent any time in it, unlike some of the other employees, who would drink their Cokes and play poker at the rickety card table. Tucking her work clothes into her locker, she attached the combination lock and gave it a spin, then ducked into the office and handed off her backpack. She told the owner that she was done for the day.

He glanced up from his newspaper and smiled at her with yellow, nicotine-stained teeth. “Thanks, honey. Have a nice evening.”

When she got outside, she heard the distinct sound of wheels grinding on gravel. Rushing back to the parking lot, she saw that Kenny was driving away up the hill, leaving her stranded. “Hey, stop,” she yelled. “Kenny? Stop!”

“Need a ride?”

Turning, she came face to face with the stranger in the blue jacket. He was standing just a few feet away, smiling.

18

Jonah approached Helen Merland cautiously, not wanting to wake her. She was asleep on a chaise lounge, lying in the shade of a huge elm tree on the patio in her backyard. He'd been wanting to come by ever since he got back to town. This was the first chance he had. It tugged at his heart to see how old and worn she looked.

Jonah remembered a far different Helen, a hearty woman who laughed uproariously at his antics, chased him through her house as they played hide-and-seek on wintery afternoons. She would make hot cocoa and bacon and egg sandwiches for lunch, and they'd pile their food on a tray and take it out to the living room, where they'd sit on the window seat and watch it snow. As he moved into his teens, he could always count on her for a few extra bucks to supplement his allowance.

Jonah had met Helen for the first time when he was eight. It wasn't as if he didn't already know who she was. Everyone did. He'd seen her riding her horse through the fields near her home, watched her stride into town carrying a big leather briefcase. She was glamorous the way movie stars were glamorous. She stuck out in a town like Lost Lake.

Helen loved animals. The fall their lives intersected, she'd adopted an English sheepdog. A puppy. Nobody in town had ever owned anything like that before. Jonah was mesmerized. He'd walk by her house every day on his way home from school, hoping to see the puppy out playing in the grass.

One afternoon, he heard Helen calling for the dog. Her yard wasn't fenced back then, so, as puppies often do, Maisey had gotten out. Jonah was too tongue-tied to say anything to Helen, but he decided he'd help her look. He found the dog drinking from a kid's plastic swimming pool five blocks away. Maisey was so friendly that she came to him when he called, hopped right into his arms and licked his chin. He could still remember the look on Helen's face when she answered her front door.

She said, “Oh my goodness, you found her. I was out for hours looking. I thought I'd lost her.”

She invited Jonah in, offered him cookies and milk. She let him play with Maisey that afternoon until it was time for her to have dinner with her husband, then showed him out, telling him to come back anytime. Before he left, she hugged him, told him that they were going to be great friends. And they had been, ever since.

Moving up next to her, he saw her eyes flutter and then open. A soft smile spread across her face. “Tommy. I'm so glad you're here.”

Tom Merland was her son. Jonah had never met him because he'd died in Vietnam.

“I'm not Tom,” said Jonah.

“No?”

“I'm Jonah.”

He figured it wasn't so much the Alzheimer's as it was the fact that she'd been asleep and was momentarily disoriented.

“I'm back from St. Louis, staying with Aunt Jill and Aunt Tessa.”

“I hadn't heard,” she said, touching his sleeve. “Help me sit up.”

He repositioned the back of the chaise until it was more or less upright. After reorganizing the light cotton blanket around her shoulders, he asked if she was warm enough.

“I'm just fine,” she said, gazing up at him, then switching her attention to the elm. “That one's coming down next month. It has Dutch Elm. That tree was old when we bought the place. Conrad wanted to take it down, but I said no. I liked the shade. Can you imagine a ninety-foot-high, one-hundred-year-old tree felled by something as tiny as a beetle?” Turning back to Jonah, she said, “Life is fragile. Remember that. Even when people look tough, they aren't.”

He drew a chair up next to her. He wanted to sit close so he could hold her hand. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm still here.”

“Of course you are.”

“I went shopping this afternoon for a new dress. That's why I'm so all in.”

“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Something to eat?”

“Just let me look at you.” Her rheumy eyes took him in. It almost felt as if she were trying to memorize him. “What do they call that?” She twirled her finger and pointed to the red bandana he'd tied around his head.

“It's kind of like a sweatband. I like the way it looks.”

“Me, too. I think you've grown another foot.”

“Not quite.”

“And you're filling out, becoming a man. I wish you could have known my son. You two would have hit it off just the way we did.”

Jonah had heard so much about Tom Merland that he felt as if he knew him.

“You know, honey, my mouth is parched. Maybe you could get me a glass of water.”

He hopped up. “Be right back.”

He entered the house through the French doors. As he crossed the dining room into the kitchen, he heard a noise coming from the rear of the house. Pulling a detour into the hallway, he followed the sound until he came to Helen's study. The door was partially shut. Pushing it open, he saw a man in khaki slacks and a yellow polo shirt on his knees in front of one of the metal filing cabinets, pawing through the files in the bottom drawer.

“Mr. Hammond?” said Jonah, not sure what was going on.

The man turned around. “Jonah,” he said with a high squeak, his blond eyebrows shooting straight up.

“What are you doing here?”

“I, ah … I live here. I mean, for the moment. It's not permanent. You probably didn't hear that my business burned.”

“No. Wow, that's awful.”

“Helen was kind enough to let me move into the basement until I can get back on my feet.”

“That makes total sense. What are you doing in here?” He nodded to the filing cabinet.

Standing up, Wendell said, “She asked me to help organize some of her files.”

“Really? Why?”

“She can't stay here forever, you know.”

“She's moving?”

“Well, not immediately. I've been helping her as much as I can. She's got that—” He pointed to his head. “You know.”

“Alzheimer's.”

“Sometimes she gets confused. She's walked off a couple of times. I was frantic the other morning when I couldn't find her. And then, since she can't drive anymore, I get her groceries for her, take her to doctor's appointments. She gives me a little money. But one of these days I'll be moving on.”

If lightbulbs could actually burst on over someone's head when they were seized by a great idea, one had just burst on over Jonah's. “Well, nice to see you, Mr. Hammond.”

“You too, Jonah.”

Racing back to the kitchen, Jonah opened the refrigerator and found the cold water bottle. He poured a generous glass and then hightailed it back outside.

“Thanks, honey,” said Helen, taking a couple of thirsty sips. “That really hits the spot.”

“Listen. I just had an idea.” He sat back down next to her.

“What would that be?”

“I ran into Mr. Hammond inside. He said he's living here, but won't be around much longer.” Jonah explained his reasons for returning to Lost Lake. “One way or the other, I'm spending my senior year here. I asked Tessa and Jill if I could stay with them. They're thinking it over. But here's the problem. If they're not okay with it, maybe I could move in here with you. I could help you out, the way Mr. Hammond does. I could get your groceries, take you wherever you need to go. Do whatever needs to be done. I'd only be in school for part of each day. And my weekends would be free. What do you think? It sounds like a win-win situation for both of us.”

She seemed hesitant.

“You don't need to give me an answer right now. But think about it, okay?”

“I'd have to talk to your parents first.”

“Sure, that's fine.” He was positive he could sell it to them if his aunts said no. In fact, the more he thought about the idea, the more he liked it. He had to find Emily ASAP and give her the good news.

19

“Ten minutes,” called Cordelia from her usual perch, five rows back from the stage.

The actors drifted, grumbling, into the vom that led to the dressing room.

Cordelia stood and headed down the stairs. “Where do you think Fontaine is?”

“No idea,” said Jane, following her to the main floor.

“Without my stage manager, this dress rehearsal is dead in the water.”

“He came by to see Tessa this afternoon,” said Jane. “After I took Helen shopping for that new dress, I stopped by the cottage to make Tessa and Jill a summer stew for dinner.”

“Did he say anything about being sick unto death?”

“How biblical. No.”

“Why was he there?”

“I'm not sure. He helped Tessa out to the deck, I imagine so they could talk without an audience. When I looked up a while later, he was gone.”

“Well,” said Cordelia, hands rising to her ample hips, “he better get here in the next five minutes or he's fired.”

“You can't fire a guy who's donating his time for free.”

With one frustrated glance up at the control booth, Cordelia swept off in a huff, leaving Jane to watch the art director put the finishing touches on a flamboyantly pink bedroom—the first scene of the play. Since Cordelia was deep into directorial mode, Jane wondered if this wouldn't be a good time to leave. Jill had suggested taking the pontoon out for an evening cruise, something Jane didn't want to miss. With the mood Cordelia was in, she figured that if she left now, she wouldn't be missed.

Turning to go, she noticed Jonah sitting way up in the semi-darkness at the back of the theater. She hadn't seen him come in, which meant he must have already been sitting there when she and Cordelia arrived. His head was tipped back and his eyes were closed, so instead of calling to him, she simply walked out.

On her way past the box office, she ran smack into Cordelia again.

Pressing a finger to her lips, Cordelia yanked on Jane's arm.

“What?” Jane felt herself being pulled back through the curtain that led to the stage doors. “What's going on?”

Cordelia formed a gun with her hand, pointed it at her head and pulled the imaginary trigger, all the while making a strangling sound in her throat. She seemed unable to speak.

The room behind the curtain was full of wood crates, packing boxes, and a long wooden table and chairs that was occasionally used for meetings when the other, more formal meeting rooms were occupied. The stage door was actually two oversized wooden doors that opened into the alley behind the theater.

“There,” whispered Cordelia, pointing to a pair of jeans-clad legs sticking out from behind one of crates.

Jane circled around and bent down next to the body. “It's Feigenbaumer,” she said, a sick feeling spreading across her chest. The back of his head had been blown off. The sight of his blood and brains spewed across the gray brick walls forced the sick feeling to her stomach. “He's dead. We better call nine-one-one.” Backing away, she held a fist to her mouth, hoping her dinner would stay put.

“You do it,” said Cordelia. “I'm having a nervous breakdown.”

When their eyes met, Jane felt sure they were thinking the same thing. The two people who had once shared Tessa's secret, whatever it was, were now dead.

“Who do you suppose did it?” whispered Cordelia as Jane took out her phone.

“No idea.”

“Tessa?”

“That's an awful thought.” Noticing something sticking out from under one of Feigenbaumer's shoes, Jane bent down to take a look. “What's that?”

“Looks like one of those cheap metal key rings.”

Jane wasn't so sure. She took a couple pictures of it with her cell phone.

“What if Tessa's done something dreadful?” asked Cordelia, a quaver in her voice.

Jane punched in 9-1-1. “Let's take it one step at a time.”

*   *   *

It felt like hours, though it was only minutes before two squad cars arrived, sirens blaring. Undersheriff Kelli Christopher entered the theater with the force of a storm, two male deputies in tow. She immediately cordoned off the back room and asked everyone to gather in the auditorium and wait until they could be questioned individually.

Since Cordelia and Jane had discovered the body, she separated them from the rest and asked them to wait in the costume shop. Half an hour later, they were still waiting. Jane assumed the undersheriff was taking her time with the crime scene, maybe calling for a tech to examine the room for evidence and a coroner—or if they were lucky, an actual doctor—to take a look at the body and give them some idea about the time of death. She doubted that Lost Lake had many homicides, and thus, Kelli was most likely in over her head.

“I know this may sound callous,” said Cordelia, staring down at the can of Sprite in her hand, “but I have no idea how I'm supposed to get this production in shape for a preview on Thursday night.”

“You're right. It sounds callous. But I understand your concern.”

The door opened and a solemn Kelli Christopher entered. Removing her cap and wiping her arm over her forehead, she said, “A few questions,” as she lowered herself down on the edge of the cutting table.