Adelaide Upset (8 page)

“What a clever idea, I love it! You look so
young, but you must have a lot of experience because I can tell
you’re very talented.”

“
No thanks,” I said,
waving off the paper plate she was trying to load up for me. “I
stopped by my grandma’s house on the way over and she always
insists on stuffing me full.” I couldn’t stop lying; bullshit
stories just seemed to fall right out of my mouth.

“Alright then, if I can’t tempt you,” she
said, returning the plate. “How about I take you to meet Bill
Shrader, he’ll work out someone for you to interview.”

“Bill Shrader?”

“The man from the festival,” she
prompted.

“
The accountant?” Here I
was surrounded by burley lumberjacks—surely one of them must have
known Smith—and she wanted me to see the accountant?

“
It must have something to
do with writing our checks, but I swear he knows everyone,” Sam
assured. “The muckety-mucks like to joke that he doesn’t just know
everyone, but everything, since he’s been around for so long.
Either way, he can point out an experienced logger among the bunch
for you to interview.”

It was packed under the
pavilion, with picnic tables stuffed together, covered in cloth and
piled high with food as families gathered ‘round. Sam navigated the
crowd looking for Bill while I merely tried to control my face, the
emotions always battling to take over. Men bragged stories, women
clucked gossip, children rushed, and everyone ate, the medley of
subtle emotions seemed to crescendo inside me. Someone hit the
punch line as we passed and I smiled, almost laughing along with a
joke I’d never heard.

“
There he is.” Sam spotted
Bill Shrader as he separated himself, moving away from the pavilion
to stand in the shade of a nearby tree as he stuffed down a
burger.

I was just thinking how
I’d like to get rid of Sam when someone called her name. A women
rushed over, her necklace of plastic beads clacking. “I’ve been
meaning to speak with you, Sam.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” I hurried to say.
“I’ll just go introduce myself to Bill.”

“I’ll find you later,” Sam called. “We’ll
exchange cards!”

For the second time I
rushed away from Sam, letting her words trail off behind me. I was
eager to meet Bill, just one link closer to learning the
truth.

He was sweating again. I
could see patches of wet fabric growing under his armpits as I drew
near, his meager thatch of hair was slicked with it, sticking to
his scalp. “Hello, Bill.”

He chewed. He swallowed. “Do I know
you?”

“
Unfortunately my name is
Laide,” I said, again wishing I’d put more thought into going
incognito. “Sam Phelps sent me to speak with you about an interview
I want to do for the paper.”

He sort of hunched over
his food, watching me intently from under a ledge of heavy eyebrow.
“Unless it’s a story on accounting I won’t be much help.” He went
back to chewing.

“
Geared more for locals
than tourists, it’ll be a verbal vignette, a glimpse into—” He was
bored, impatient for me to go away. I didn’t blame him. “You know
what,” I said, letting his impatience bleed into me. “I’m really
only interested in David Smith. Yes, you know him,” I continued,
noticing Bill had stopped eating, suddenly alert. “He worked at
SL&S for a while, but then he suddenly left, or maybe
disappeared.”

“
That was more than ten
years ago,” Bill acknowledged.

Finally, some answers.
Smith had scared me into treading lightly, as if his death could be
a dangerous topic, but my, or rather Bill’s, impatience had paid
off.

“If I recall, he had family. Did you talk to
them yet?”

“
No,” I responded, feeling
his curiosity. “I believe they’re under the impression that he ran
off and left them, so I’m hesitant to stir up troubling memories. I
was hoping he’d have a friend that still worked here, someone who
might remember those days before he disappeared.”

Each time I said
disappeared
it
seemed to stir his emotions, dredging up concern; he himself was
troubled by the memories. “Yes,” he said slowly, as if he were
thinking. He paused to wipe the side of his mouth carefully with a
crumpled napkin. “He had a friend, Marks, but anyone who worked at
SL&S back then could’ve told you that, everyone knew they were
close.”

“Does Marks still work for SL&S?”

“Sure does,” Bill answered, stuffing the
disgusting napkin back into his front pocket. “How about I fetch
him for you while I pick up another burger?”

I had no desire to get
near the pavilion again, let alone root around for this Marks guy.
He couldn’t have suggested anything better. “Thanks,” I said
gratefully. “That would be good.”

He seemed intent on his
mission as he waddled off, and sure enough, he went for the burgers
first. I followed him with my eyes, watching as he lathered on the
mayo, as if he weren’t close enough to a double bypass already.
After that he disappeared into the crowd.

It was a few minutes
before he reappeared, walking out of the pavilion with a bear-like
man. They talked together, Bill waving his hands, the other, Marks
I assumed, was scowling down at him, looking
disconcerted.

I hurried over, watching them as I went.
Marks growled something and stalked off before I could stop him. I
ran faster, panting by the time I reached Bill. “Where’d he
go?”

Bill was agitated, but
calming. “He left,” he said, waving toward the parking lot. “I told
him you were curious about David, but he said he had to go and just
left. Couldn’t stop him.”

I took off, running for
the parking lot without so much as a thank you or goodbye. I made
it in time to see the back of an SUV fishtail in its rush to be
gone, kicking up rocks as it sped away. Whoever had been driving
left more than a wake of dust and pebbles, they’d left their
feelings.

Guilt.

Fear.

The driver was volatile,
desperate. And for me to know that, to pick up emotions from so far
away, it meant that they were strong. Strong like a scream is
loud.

The murdered theory was
looking more likely by the minute.

My eagerness to see Lucas was only slightly
dampened by the picnic, though I couldn’t really call it a bad turn
of events. Marks was my new lead, and possibly Smith’s killer, so
that was something.

I passed Divot Drive,
turning into Luke’s cul-de-sac instead; the only other house on the
circle was condemned and covered in ivy. His SUV was in the
driveway, and soft light spilled out from the windows.

I ran inside, calling,
“Luke!”

“
Up here,” his voice
rumbled down from above.

I climbed the stairs just
in time to watch Lucas empty his pockets. It was a little ritual of
his; every time he came home he would set his wallet, keys, and
phone on top of the chest of drawers.

I took up perch on the edge of his bed,
letting him unwind.

“
I just got back,” he
said, glancing at me as he unlaced his boots. I noticed his fingers
were cleaner than usual, the black smudges faded with washing. I
kept staring, which I’m sure was creepy, but I’d missed him. All I
wanted to do was sit on his lap and give him a kiss, but the
picture was holding me back. How did I bring it up?

“What’s the matter?”

“What? Nothing,” I lied.

He’d been watching me as
closely as I’d been watching him. “I was hurrying to get back,” he
said, his deep, quiet voice carrying across the room in a low
whisper. “It must mean I missed you.”

He said things like that,
stating straight forward facts. It was the closest he got to
romantic.

“I need a shower. Care to join me?”

And then he said stuff
like that. Both comments made me shift around awkwardly, but for
different reasons.

“So you think I’m ready then, for sex?”

“Nope,” he said, giving his head a blunt
shake. “But I’m ready to see you naked.”

“Come off it, I know you think I’m ready,” I
argued. “Why else would you keep condoms in your nightstand?”

He shrugged.

“
I went through your
stuff,” I said impulsively, hoping to provoke some sort of
response.

He shrugged.

“
Francesca said I should,”
I rambled, trying to elicit a reaction, any reaction. “And since
she also said that every man keeps a condom in his nightstand I bow
to her wisdom.”

“
Francesca is good at
getting you to do things you don’t want to,” he commented mildly
while unpacking his duffel.

“What’s that mean?”

“
All of your stories begin
with ‘Francesca made me’ or ‘Francesca talked me into.’ But you
don’t listen to anyone, with the exception of a few select friends
who you go to great lengths to make happy.”

I’d been working up to a
big hissy fit and then he had to go and be all nice. Shit, I’d just
have to start all over. I flopped back on the bed, emitting a sound
of frustration.

“
Something tells me you’re
not in the mood for a naked shower,” Lucas said, dropping an
armload of dirty clothes into the hamper.

I jerked upright,
determined to cut the drama and be direct. “I’ll give you a naked
shower, just as soon as you tell me about this,” I said, crossing
the room for the window seat. I rummaged around, digging between
boots and under blankets until I found the picture. I yanked it out
with a flourish, slapping it to his chest on my way back to the
bed.

He glanced down at it briefly, not a bit
surprised, but then, what did I really expect? “Does this picture
make you insecure?” he asked.

“No!” I said a bit too shrill. A pause.
“Maybe,” I admitted.

“Some men enjoy a jealous girlfriend, I
never did.”

“Are you being a dick? I swear, I can’t even
tell if you are. I can’t even tell if we’re fighting.” Without
emotions, I was somewhat lost.

Lucas shrugged. “I’m not mad.”

“
I’m not either,” I
confessed. “But I can’t believe you’re not even a little upset that
I went through your stuff.”

“
You can go through
anything you want. I thought you knew that.”

I sighed. “So who’s the
redhead?”

He glanced down at the picture again. I
studied his face, but still nothing. “An old girlfriend.”

I swallowed, preparing to be calm and
mature. “Do you still have feelings for her? Is that why you kept
the picture?”

“I feel nothing,” Lucas said. “And I
certainly didn’t keep it for sentimental reasons.”

“Then why?”

“To remember the past, that’s all.”

“
That’s a sentimental
reason,” I argued.

“
No, and that’s the
point.” I didn’t understand what he was saying, and might have
pressed the subject, but he suddenly bent over, dropping the
picture under his desk and into the wastebasket. “There. They come
for the trash on Wednesday, I hope that’s sufficient for you, but
if you want it out of the house sooner I’ll take it to the curb
right now.”

“
No,” I said, feeling
uncharacteristically bashful and even a little flustered. “It’s
fine. I’m sorry for being such a bitch about it.”

Lucas padded across the room, tall and
serious as ever. He leaned down, resting his knuckles on the edge
of the bed as he kissed me. I would have let it go on, progress a
bit, but he pulled back. “I held up my end of the deal,” he said.
“Now it’s time for our naked shower.”

Did I say I felt bashful? I didn’t even know
the meaning of the word, but by the end of the night I would.

I was going to murder
Missy, though when the case went to trial I’d plead self-defense.
Her noxious laugh drifted across the office, a stuttered trill, the
sound reminiscent of a push mower that just won’t start.

She was sitting on the
other side of the office, in the little lounge area, flirting like
mad with
Team
. He’d been hanging around the office all day, playing his
guitar at intervals, strumming softly as he mumbled to himself.
Missy might have been killing me with her obvious desperation, but
Tim was the real problem. He wouldn’t go away. Eight hours
straight, from the start of my shift to the end of it, and he never
left the office once. I kept thinking
it’s only a matter of time before he has to
pee
... but apparently Australians have
big bladders. My only other hope was food; he’d have to go off and
eat sometime. That was when Missy arrived, absurdly early for her
shift and carrying takeout from Dairy Queen. Grease stains had
turned the bottom of her white paper bags transparent gray. I
envisioned heaps of mayonnaise and almost gagged.

“
Since you’re here,” I
said, grabbing my purse, ready to leave.

Missy had turned her back
to Tim so she could glare at me without him seeing. “Nonsense, my
shift doesn’t start for more than an hour. I’m just here to hang
out for a bit first.”

Missy made a habit of
coming to work early, but she never wanted me to linger, expecting
my prompt withdraw. But now I felt her frustration, it was directed
at me, as if Missy thought I was trying to thwart her somehow. I
surveyed her, analyzing the eagerness versus reluctance and
determined that she didn’t want to be responsible for the guests
yet. Summer months were busy, a Saturday doubly so, and she wanted
to chat Tim up a bit before her attention was turned toward
work.