The Lost Women of Lost Lake (14 page)

Negotiating the spiral staircase down to the main floor as quietly as possible, Jane began the search for her wallet and Cordelia's car keys. She'd promised Helen Merland that they would go out to breakfast today and didn't want to disappoint her.

As she sat down on a dining room chair to pull on her boots, Cordelia stirred on the couch.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleepwalking?”

“Why?”

“Helen Merland's taking me to breakfast.”

Sitting up a bit straighter, Cordelia whispered “Where?”

“The Jacaranda Café, I would imagine.”

“Think Helen would mind if I tagged along?”

“I'm sure she'd love to see you, but isn't it a bit early for you to be up?”

“I think I can dig deep and find the wherewithal within me to cope.” Pulling the blanket off her midsection, Cordelia gazed down at her black-and-white striped hoodie. “I suppose the natives will find this a bit jarring.”

“Unless the café caters to fugitives from chain gangs, I think you'll be okay.” Jane brushed her teeth and combed her hair while Cordelia wrote a note for Jill and Tessa and then waited impatiently for Cordelia to finish with her makeup.

The convertible was parked in the drive.

“You take the wheel,” said Cordelia, sliding into the passenger's seat. “I'm in the mood to be chauffeured.”

“Before we go,” said Jane by way of warning. “I don't think we should mention to Helen that Lyndie's missing. Tessa told me last night that they were close friends. Since we don't know what happened, I don't think there's any reason to upset her.”

“My luscious lips are zipped,” said Cordelia.

*   *   *

Wendell sweated as he pushed an old lawnmower across the grass outside the Merland home. It usually took a good hour to get it all done. His plan was to finish early, then shower and spend the rest of the morning working on his lines. He'd just stopped to wipe the sweat off his forehead when a man he'd never seen before walked up and pointed to the roof.

“You got a couple issues up there,” said the man, adjusting his sunglasses. “First off, some shingles are missing. Also, part of the chimney flashing is gone. Bet you've got a leak inside. You're going to need to replace that or you'll run into some serious problems.”

“I'm not the owner,” said Wendell. “I'm just living in the walk-out basement temporarily.”

“Sure is a beautiful place. Probably the grandest home in town. Guess there are fat cats everywhere.”

“I'm not opposed to fat cats,” said Wendell, returning his handkerchief to the pocket of his tan slacks. “I'd just like to be one of them.”

The stranger smiled. “I hear you. Still, some people seem to be luckier than others. Can't help but get a guy down. Takes money to make money in this world. How did these people make theirs?”

“Ever heard of the Merland Brewery?”

“Good stuff. I'm sure I've helped add to their fortune.”

“Haven't we all.”

“You friends with these folks?”

“Mr. Merland's dead. It's just Mrs. Merland now. One of the reasons I moved in was to help her out. She's old, forgetful. I do what I can.”

“You're a nice guy.”

“Yes, I am. I get her groceries, make her some light meals, do a little cleanup, a little property maintenance. She pays me.”

“But not much, right?”

“I didn't ask for much.”

“She should give you a decent wage. It wouldn't be any sweat off her back.”

“No, I suppose not.” As the weeks had worn on with no photography jobs and no word from the insurance company about the fire, Wendell was becoming more and more concerned with his financial future.

“You gotta stand up for yourself, man, otherwise people walk all over you. Especially rich people.” Folding his arms over his chest, the stranger continued, “I'm looking to hire someone. It's easy money—if you can find the information I'm looking for.”

“Information?”

“About the owner of this house.”

“You know her?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then I don't get—”

“A thousand bucks,” said the stranger. “Cash money.”

Wendell glanced up at the living room windows. Sometimes Helen liked to watch him work in the yard. This morning he was glad to see she wasn't there.

“Mrs. Merland used to run a foundation. You familiar with that?”

“Somewhat.”

“I assume she's known around town as a philanthropist, a good and decent person. What I'm about to tell you might clash with that opinion. You can believe me or not, doesn't really matter.” He hesitated.

“Go on,” said Wendell, curious about what he had to say.

“In nineteen seventy, a woman moved to town. You might know her as Lyndie LaVasser.”

“Lyndie? She dated my dad for a few years.”

“You two close?”

“Not … anymore.”

“Well, you may not want to hear this, but she was involved in a homicide in Chicago in nineteen sixty-eight. Her real name is Judy Clark. When it looked like she might get caught, she took off and ended up here. Helen Merland helped her financially during the two years she was in hiding. Another woman was also involved in the homicide. She might also be in town. Her name back then was Sabra Briere. I believe that Mrs. Merland helped them both acquire new identities and then brought them to Lost Lake. I'm looking for proof.”

Wendell scratched the back of his head. It was a lot to absorb. “Why would Helen do that?”

“I have a theory, but I need more proof. One thousand dollars in small bills. You interested?”

It might help him pay off some of his debt. He'd been considering filing for bankruptcy. Everything in his life seemed so confusing. “What would constitute proof?”

“Does Mrs. Merland store any business files in the house?”

“She has a study crammed with filing cabinets, not that I've ever seen her go in there.”

A car drawing up to the curb attracted Wendell's attention. When Cordelia and her friend got out, Wendell waved, embarrassed that they'd caught him looking so unkempt. He was supposed to meet with Cordelia at one. He hoped he hadn't gotten the time wrong.

“Find anything with the name Judy Clark or Sabra Briere on it,” whispered the stranger. “You're looking at a two-year period. Shouldn't be that hard. What's your name?”

“Wendell Hammond.”

The man pulled out a business card and handed it over. “My cell phone number is at the bottom. You find anything, you call me.”

Wendell glanced at the name.

“Call me Steve,” said the man, keeping his back to the street.

“One
thousand
dollars, right?”

“In cash.”

Shaking the man's hand, Wendell said, “I'll see what I can do.”

*   *   *

For a Tuesday morning, the Jacaranda Café was bustling. The red oilcloth-covered tables looked festive, as did the red gingham curtains The smell of fresh baked bread made Jane's mouth water. The waitress who greeted them appeared to know Helen and made sure they were seated at the first available table.

“I know what I'm having,” said Cordelia, flipping open the menu and then closing it back up.

“A dozen caramel rolls,” said Helen.

“Think twelve is enough?” asked Jane.

Helen hadn't remembered about breakfast. They found her in her bathrobe sitting at a table on the patio, reading the morning paper and enjoying a cup of tea. Helen recognized Cordelia instantly, though once again seemed confused about Jane's identity. She called her by her daughter's name twice before the fog of confusion lifted and she remembered who Jane was. She had no memory of their conversation on the beach yesterday morning. Thankfully, she was eager to go out to breakfast.

“My appetite isn't what it used to be,” said Helen, reading through the daily specials.

“How's everything with the brewery?” asked Jane.

“I guess you haven't heard,” said Helen. “We had to close it last year. Put a lot of people in this town out of work. Believe me when I say that I'm not as well-loved as I used to be. The job base was already hit hard by the economy. Lots of home foreclosures, stores going out of business. Shutting down the brewery made it even worse.” She took a sip of water. “The natural spring, which was our water supply, became contaminated. I don't recall all the details, but it left us with little choice. The purity and taste of the spring was our claim to fame. It's all gone now.”

“Bummer,” said Cordelia, adding, “I know that hardly qualifies as an elegant statement of concern and compassion.”

“Works for me,” said Helen. “I might as well tell you the other bad news. I'm not keeping it a secret from my friends. I was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. So far, I think I'm doing pretty well. I get confused sometimes. I'm on a drug that's supposed to slow the progress of the disease.”

Jane assumed it might be something like that.

“I had no idea,” said Cordelia.

“None of us gets through life without some pain. I will say that some days are better than others.”

The waitress arrived and they all placed their orders.

“Is that why Wendell Hammond is living with you?” asked Jane, watching the waitress move behind the counter and hook the order to a check wheel.

“Not entirely. He's had a string of bad luck, poor boy. First his wife died of cancer, and then a couple of months ago his business burned down. He was living in the apartment above the photography studio, so when it happened, he lost everything. He had nowhere else to go, and very little money. He's a proud man. He insists he's not a charity case.”

“Did he own the building that burned?” asked Jane.

“I assume so.”

“What caused the fire?”

“No idea. He's trying to rebuild his life and his business. It's been slow going. I let him take over one of the bedrooms on the first floor to use as a studio. He's been so helpful, I'm not sure what I'd do without him.”

“What sort of photographer?” asked Cordelia, leaning back as the waitress set filled coffee cups in front of them.

“He does the portraits for the schools in the area, for the yearbooks. He also does weddings, family portraits—the usual. When he finds his own place and moves out, I'll have to hire someone to help me. The truth is, I can't live alone anymore.” She pulled her coffee cup directly in front of her. “Enough doom and gloom. Let's talk about you two. It's a funny coincidence, actually. I was talking to my daughter about you both just yesterday when we were out for a walk along the beach.”

“Your daughter?” said Cordelia. “But she's—”

Jane kicked her under the table.

“Hey. I thought we'd call a moratorium on sneak attacks.”

“So, you're up to see how Sabra's doing?” said Helen.

“Sabra?” repeated Cordelia. “Who's that?”

Touching a hand to her forehead, Helen seemed to falter. “No, no. See how I get confused? I meant to say Tessa. Didn't she break something? An arm? Am I getting that all mixed up, too?”

“She has a bad ankle sprain,” said Jane.

“That's why we're here,” said Cordelia, mesmerized by the sight of a plate of caramel rolls being served to the next table. “I'm taking over the play she was directing at the playhouse.”

“How I'd love to see it,” said Helen. “When does it open?”

“End of the week. I'll make sure you get comps.”

“In fact,” said Jane, “you could be my date for the opening.”

“Oh,” said Helen, looking down at her wrinkled cotton blouse. “I'm not sure I have anything to wear. I've lost so much weight.”

“I'll take you shopping,” said Jane. “We'll make an afternoon of it.”

“Today?”

“Why not?”

As they were being served their plates of bacon and eggs, hotcakes, maple syrup, and caramel rolls, Jane noticed the front door open. Kelli Christopher sauntered in and grabbed a seat at the counter. She had on the same brown pants and tan shirt that she'd been wearing in the wee morning hours, except that now she'd exchanged her cap for a brown campaign hat. It was a silly look, reminding Jane of Smokey the Bear or the Canadian Mounted Police—way too big a statement for a tiny county sheriff's department.

Aftr removing the hat and setting it next to her, Kelli's half-squinting gaze roamed the interior of the restaurant. Her scrutiny stopped when she saw Jane. In an instant she was up and heading over to the table.

“Morning, Mrs. Merland,” she said, nodding to Helen. “Nice to see you out and about.”

“Undersheriff,” said Helen with an amused smile.

“Cordelia, this is Undersheriff Kelli Christopher,” said Jane.

Between bites of caramel roll, Cordelia said a mumbled hi. She also spent a couple of significant seconds looking the sheriff up and down.

“I'm afraid I've got some bad news,” said Kelli, hooking her thumbs into her belt. “I was just over at the cottage, so Tessa and Jill already know. You're going to hear this soon enough. You might as well hear it from me.”

Just get on with it, thought Jane. Cut the pomposity and spit it out.

“We found Lyndie LaVasser this morning.”

“Found?” said Helen. “Was she lost?”

“Her car went off the road last night just south of Fifteen-Mile Lake. It careened down the side of a steep ditch. We never would have found it in the dark.”

Helen gasped. “Is she all right?”

Kelli shook her head. “Sorry. She's gone. We think it might have been alcohol related. Jim Moon, Lyndie's son, gave his permission for an autopsy. We should know more in a day or two.”

“What about the thirty-eight caliber slug you found in the wall of the emporium?” asked Jane.