An Accidental Woman (7 page)

There was a second's silence, then a quiet, “Low blow, Griff.”

“She's been gone for seven years now, put Mom in her grave, sent Dad out tomcatting, made family gatherings such a nightmare we don't bother much anymore.”

“I wasn't the brother who got her hooked. That was James.”

“So did we know?” Griffin asked aloud as he had so often silently. “Did we look the other way? Could we have stopped it?”

“Our family has ghosts. Most families do.”

Griffin refused to reason the situation away. “Cindy's no ghost. She's alive out there somewhere. If you ever put in half the effort trying to find her that you've put into ruining a good woman's life, she'd be back in the fold.”

“Hey,” Randy suddenly said in a way that signaled a blow-off, “I'm driving into the garage under my building. No reception here. Talk later.”

The phone went dead. Not that Griffin had more to say. He was thinking
back on meeting Heather that day in October four months before. She had been concerned about one of her children and had medicine in her hand. The look on Poppy's face while they talked vouched for affection and respect. Poppy would never have a friend who was a killer.

* * *

But Poppy stayed in Lake Henry. For one thing, with Micah and Heather in West Eames, she needed to be close by for the girls. For another, though the courthouse was handicapped-accessible, she had no idea what the parking situation was with snow and ice thrown into the mix. For a third, a contingent of others from town were going there.

In addition to all that, she had work to do herself. By late morning, nearly all her phone lines had lit up. Some of the calls were from townsfolk wanting to confirm what had happened; these involved a simple repetition of facts on Poppy's part. Others were from the media, and Poppy knew all the right words to say. The challenge with those calls came in remaining patient and polite. With each additional call—each additional media outlet trying to sniff out dirt at Heather's expense—her civility was further tried.

Hardest of all, though, were calls like the one from Poppy's sister Rose, because they involved speculation, and speculation raised issues for which there weren't any answers.

“What if they keep her in jail?” Rose asked. “What will Micah do then?”

“They won't keep her in jail,” Poppy replied. “She hasn't done anything.”

“They can do it, Poppy. So what'll Micah do?”

“She'll be home.”

“What if she isn't?”

“She'll be
home.”

“What if they keep her for a while?”

“Please, Rose.”

But Rose persisted. “Do you think Micah's worried?”

“Of course he's worried. He loves Heather.”

“Forget love. Think about the girls. Who'll take care of them if Heather's in jail? Who'll help with sugaring?”

Poppy's stomach began to knot. It often did that when she talked with Rose, who was an alarmist of the first order. Rose was the youngest of the three sisters—the “Blake blooms,” as they were known in town. Lily was the firstborn, typically introspective, sensitive, and focused. Poppy was the rebel, far more easygoing than the other two. And Rose? Rose was a clone of their mother, which meant that she saw the dark side of every issue.

Unfortunately, it was easier for Poppy to accept the fear of calamity in Maida, their mother, than it was to put up with it coming from Rose.

“Why are you fixated on this?” she asked now. “Heather will be
out.
”

“I'm fixated on it,” Rose returned, “because I know things you don't. Heather got all sorts of business ideas from Art”—Rose's husband, Art Winslow, whose family owned the local textile mill—“and she's put them to good use. New evaporator, new logo, new accounts. So here's Micah, who's just grown the business, thinking Heather would help, and suddenly she isn't there. The weatherman's forecasting sun. If the days start to warm, the sap could be flowing in two weeks. The timing of this is terrible.”

“Rose.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don't know,” Poppy ground out and, ending the call, proceeded to worry about all of the points Rose had raised.

* * *

“Lake Henry is refreshing,” the reporter was saying. “In a day and age of complex lives often ruled by machines, the town is a throwback. With a population just over seventeen hundred, it is an old-fashioned kind of place where everyone knows everyone else and people protect their own. The town is situated on a lake of the same name in central New Hampshire, and this, folks, is the stuff of which getaway dreams are made. There's no making a wrong turn in a maze of avenues here; a single main street runs through the center of town and continues all the way around the lake. Uh, excuse me”—he thrust the mike toward a man who approached—“excuse me, could you tell us—”

The man walked by before the request was out.

Undaunted, the reporter resumed his narrative. “Behind me, you see the police station, the church, and the library. These three buildings hold all of the official business that is part and parcel of town life.”

Griffin had been in each of the three buildings, and felt pleasure seeing them again. Each was made of wood and painted white with black shutters. The police station was low and long; the library was stately and tall; the church had a storied look, with a spire that stretched high into the tops of the trees.

“The town clerk and the registrar work out of the police station,” the reporter explained. “The library rents its top floor to the Lake Henry Commission, and the basement of the church houses the historical society. The Commission, by the way, focuses on environmental issues, and since these are the top priority for the local folk, the Commission is the powerhouse of the town. When it comes to deciding other issues, Lake Henry is one of the last in the state to retain a town meeting form of government. Led by a duly-elected moderator, the townsfolk gather in the church for two nights every March to vote on issues of concern to the town for the upcoming year.”

Griffin knew all this. Having grown up in Manhattan, though, he was as charmed hearing about these things now as he had been learning them last fall.

“The post office is that brick building across the street,” the reporter said, and the camera zoomed in. “The yellow Victorian behind it is the local newspaper office. But if you want to experience the heart of this little town, you cross the street to my right.” The camera shifted to a sprawl of crimson clapboard. “That is the general store, owned for generations by the Owens family. This is where townsfolk pick up groceries, medicines, newspapers, greeting cards, and gifts. Charlie Owens and his wife, Annette, run it now, helped in shifts by their five children, and they have expanded and changed it to keep up with the times. The café still serves breakfast all day, but the quiche on the menu is as likely to contain porta-bello mushrooms as cheddar cheese, the bread is homemade, thick, and filled with goodies like wheat germ and nuts, and the lunch sandwiches are served on baguettes with avocado slices and bean sprouts. Uh, excuse me?” He tried to snag another passerby, a woman this time. When she too walked on, he smiled at the camera without missing a beat. “Back at Charlie's, though, some things never change. The main part of the store centers around a woodstove, just as it did when Charlie Owens' grandfather had his little one-room shop. Townsfolk gravitate toward the chairs around that stove to talk about the weather and share the latest gossip. This is particularly true in winter,” he added, pulling up his collar over cheeks that were already ruddy.

It was cold in New Hampshire, but that didn't discourage Griffin. He had initially seen Lake Henry in autumn, when the roadsides were awash with color and the air smelled of sweet cider. During his last trip there, it had snowed. As frustrated as he had been at making no progress with Poppy, he had loved that snow. Seeing it there on the ground now, he smiled.

The reporter went on with a billow of white breath. “I'm told that the weather here today is typical. But along with the chill in the air comes something else—the peace and splendor of winter in an out-of-the-way New England town. Standing here in Lake Henry is like standing in a Currier and Ives scene. Look around”—he demonstrated—“and you can still see Christmas lights and wreaths. The air is quiet and crisp. If there's a highway somewhere out there, you can't hear it. And the snow here is white,
still,
three days after falling. This is a rare treat for those of us who
live in the city.” He touched his earpiece, frowned briefly, then said, “I'm told we have something more now. While we await word from the superior court in West Eames on the fate of Heather Malone, we have a satellite hookup with Randall Hughes, the FBI agent who cracked the case. Back to you, Ann Marie.”

Griffin's smile disappeared. Slowly, he straightened. Ann Marie was a beautiful woman, but his awareness of her had absolutely nothing to do with her looks and everything to do with his brother's appearance—live, vivid,
revealing
—on the screen. Horrified, he watched.

“For those of you just joining us,” the anchor explained, “Randall Hughes is a member of the FBI's cold case squad. Agent Hughes, it's been fifteen years since Robert DiCenza was killed, and the FBI has been looking for Lisa Matlock ever since. You are being credited with finding her. Can you tell us how it happened?”

“I didn't find her myself,” the agent modestly replied. “The apprehension of Heather Malone was the result of a unified effort by the FBI, the Office of the Attorney General of California, and the Lake Henry Police Department.”

“What gives you reason to think that Heather Malone is Lisa Matlock?”

“I'm afraid I can't comment on that at this time.”

“What led you to Lake Henry?”

“A tip. That's how most cases are solved.”

“A
tip?”
Griffin shouted at the screen. “That was no tip! It was a
blunder,
which you
unconscionably
took advantage of!”

Calmly, Ann Marie said, “We understand that this tip came from a member of the press corps who was in Lake Henry last fall covering the scandal that involved a woman there and Cardinal Francis Rosetti of Boston. Is this true?”

Randy was a second longer in answering this one. He had the good grace to respond with a simple, “Yes.”

“Is it safe to guess that a member of the press corps recognized her?”

“No.” Again, a pause. “No, but a remark was made that led us to another investigation, and that investigation led to Ms. Malone.”

Griffin simmered.

“What was that remark?” Ann Marie asked.

“I'm not free to comment on that at this time, either.”