The Summer Bones (10 page)

At least her mother wasn't among the crowd. There was some grace in this world. Last night had been enough. Victoria dropped her purse and keys on the chair by the door as her uncle introduced the girl. “This is Andrea Martin, from Rushville, honey. She's a schoolteacher and a friend of Damon's,” he added genially.

“Damon's friend” meant Damon's girlfriend. Emily had always been the one to keep Victoria informed on the inside family gossip. Not for the first time, Victoria regretted the April rift with her sister. She hadn't even known he was seeing someone, though she wasn't surprised. If you looked like Damon, you could date anyone you wanted to date. He wasn't known for having serious entanglements, but he'd had his share of girlfriends.

“He's working, of course. Both he and Elmer are still out.” Kate scooped the onions off the cutting board and expertly slid them into a pan with the edge of the knife. The room began to fill with an enticing aroma. “They're baling hay, even in this heat.” She shook her head. Tall, dark, and elegant, Kate wore pale tan slacks and a white blouse that set off her striking coloring.

Her face was patrician, with delicate bones and fine clean lines, large eyes moving to glance at her niece with obvious concern. A sweep of glossy, dark hair curved back from her forehead and fell down to her shoulders. There was no doubt where Damon got his good looks. Both in coloring and temperament, he resembled his serene mother.

“Life goes on,” Victoria said without sarcasm. Especially on a farm—there were animals to be fed, chores to do, crops to care for. She'd grown up with that practicality staring her in the face. She could hardly resent it. Emily might be missing, but there was no use in letting the rest of their world go to hell.

“It does,” Kate agreed, moving toward the refrigerator. “My, but you look tired, Victoria. Gorgeous”—a brief, quiet smile—”but tired. Sit down.”

“I'll help.”

Kate shook her dark head. “Sit. We can handle this. Gives us something to do. It's why Jim and I popped over.” Her gaze rested briefly on the older woman by the sink.

She
was
tired, Victoria realized. Bone-tired. She sat obediently in a chair next to her father and watched him brood into his cup of coffee with an expression just like the one he'd worn the night before. Uncle Jim gave her a kindly wink, which she answered with a small smile. Andrea Martin looked faintly uncomfortable, fingering a glass of iced tea.

Her grandmother stood by the sink, scraping carrot peelings into orange curls with expert strokes. She might have been in another world. If she had even noticed Victoria's arrival, she gave no sign of it.

“I should go,” Andrea said, clearing her throat. “Just tell Damon that if he wants to cancel for tonight, I understand.”

“Cancel?” Victoria raised her eyebrows.

Again the fingers went up and down the moisture on her tea glass. Andrea Martin seemed to acutely feel the discomfort of the family situation. She explained quickly, “We had a date. It was nothing. Just a movie. I don't still expect him to want to go.”

“Why not?” Victoria felt the seep of exhaustion drift like a drug into her blood. “He can't help anything just sitting around here with the rest of us.”

“That's what I say.” Jim gave Victoria an approving look.

“I understand that things are … unsettled.” Andrea shook some droplets of water from her fingers and dropped her hands into her lap. Her eyes were light blue, her lashes nearly as blond as her hair. Once again that twinge of discomfort came and went in her face.

Unsettled
. It was an appropriate word. No obvious tragedy. No body. No evidence of an actual crime—just one missing girl and a worried family, maybe nothing—maybe a catastrophe.

“Damon works like a dog,” Victoria's father roused himself enough to mutter. “If he wants to go out, he should.”

“Absolutely.” Victoria almost hated to agree with him. Habit. She disliked agreeing with either of her parents. Agreement was like taking sides. Taking sides meant being used as a weapon be tween the two of them and resulted in emotional disaster. She turned and nodded encouragingly at Andrea. “We'll tell him to go.”

Kate had added chicken and wine to the pan. The smell was divine, drifting across the warring smells of humid summer air and barnyard. The Delft clock ticked stolidly in the corner.

Andrea stood. “If you'll just tell him I stopped by?”

“We will,” Jim said heartily, and heaved himself to his feet to walk her outside. It was fairly obvious that Damon's father approved of Andrea Martin. And why not? She was pretty and healthy and seemed nice enough on short acquaintance.

Victoria leaned her chin on her fist and narrowed her eyes. The heat from the blistering day had settled into the evening like a warm blanket. Her father was sweating even as he raised the coffee cup to his mouth. She could see the sheen of perspiration on his upper lip and the sides of his cheeks.

“Why are you drinking coffee?” she asked abruptly. She wasn't sure why. The question just came out.

“What?” His eyes swiveled her way. He looked startled almost, that she had spoken directly to him. Spoken of her own free will. Not something that had happened often in the past few years.

“It's too damn hot to drink coffee,” she said unkindly. “Have something cold, like iced tea.” It was a peevish statement—childish. Victoria saw Kate glance back over her shoulder.

“I like coffee.” He took a sip and set down the porcelain cup. It rattled nervously into the saucer.

“And you do what you like, don't you?” Victoria murmured, half defiant, wondering even as she spoke why she had to say this now. Taking out her fatigue and frustration on him was an exercise in futility. She should have said what needed to be said years ago or just have let it go forever.

He looked at her—green eyes to green. His expression acknowledged her anger with a challenge of his own. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“What I said, I guess. You do what you like. Live where you want.” Victoria bit her lip, but she didn't look away.

While her mother and Emily had always been alike—emotional, outspoken, passionate, she and her father were just as similar in temperament—reclusive, restrained, controlled. They had never discussed the divorce—never discussed the hellish marriage that had trapped four people in a life that none of them wanted.

Since she'd started it, maybe it was time that they hashed some things out—just the two of them.

Kate said quietly, “Let's not forget we're all feeling some stress here.”

Richard Paulsen nodded fractionally, but he ignored her comment. His voice was entirely composed. “Do what I like? Victoria, you have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Sure I do. I was there, remember? For all those nasty arguments and slamming of doors and threats of divorce that just didn't seem to happen.”

His mouth tightened, whitening the lines around his lips. “All right, guilty as charged. Yes, I lived for years with a woman I disliked for the sake of my children. Yes, I watched my family divide and splinter apart and felt impotent to stop it. Oh yes, I liked that very much.”

Kate turned fully from the stove. The spoon in her hand dripped sauce in a thin stream onto the floor. “Richard.” It was a breath.

“We didn't enjoy it much ourselves,” Victoria said.

His chin went down. “I know.”

“You know?” It was an incredulous statement.

“I do understand your anger, Victoria. It's not unusual among children of divorced couples, no matter their age. But your mother and I tried.”

“You misunderstand.” Victoria enunciated each word carefully. “And please don't patronize me. I'm not angry over the divorce. I'm angry because you didn't do it years ago. Em and I had to hear it all those years. All the ugly words, all those years.”

Slow color burned upward into her father's face. “It wasn't my fault. Not entirely. If you want to choose this time to crucify me, for God's sake let's get your mother here to take her share. So many nails in my palm for so many in hers.”

“Why didn't you file for divorce years ago? I haven't ever understood that.”

“It isn't easy to explain.”

“You might try.”

He said nothing to that. His hands lay flaccid on the tabletop. His mouth was pinched. Kate had turned back toward the stove, shoulders hunched. Her grandmother still sent ribbons of carrot peelings flying.

Silence. The clock seemed loud.

“Don't answer, that's fine. I didn't want to choose this time.” Victoria stood after a moment, rubbing her forehead with weary fingers. “Not any more than you want to explain. I don't know why I said anything at all.”

“Look—”

She moved away from the table.

Aunt Kate was studiously stirring her chicken. “Do I have time for a quick shower?” Victoria asked.

Her aunt turned from the stove and nodded, eyes somber. “Of course, honey. Dinner won't be for another half an hour or so.”

Nodding, Victoria turned away and woodenly headed for the stairs.

* * * *

Damon Paulsen straightened. He shook the moisture out of his eyes and squinted into the burnished sunlight. There was hay stuck uncomfortably to his hands, his arms, and his back. The air around him felt bath-warm. The smell of sweat was sour and strong, and he grimaced as he plucked his damp shirt away from his body. Bales of hay lay across the field like giant hairy bumps.

The police car had stopped by the south gate. He could see that Danny Haase was standing there, hoping to avoid the long trek across the messy stubble of a half-cut field. The sunlight winked off his mirrored sunglasses. He lifted a hand, his meaning clear.

Damon turned and walked around the truck, knocking sharply on the window. His grandfather switched off the idling motor, his bushy brows going upward in question. Damon jerked his head toward the gate and set off walking. His feet crunched the dry stubble.

Police cars rarely meant glad tidings. He walked steadily, the man at the gate getting gradually bigger, assuming normal dimensions. A flock of crows flew up at his approach, scattering like buckshot and complaining raucously.

A small brown snake, bewildered by the destruction of his perfect habitat and cover, slithered away in panicked hurry.

It was hot. It was damned dry. This had been one of the worst summers on record.

“Danny.” Damon reached the gate and put one grimy hand out to open it. Haase stood by the side of his car, casually resting his backside against the fender.

“You have some news?” Damon said. He hoped his face didn't give away the fact that his stomach had knotted into a tight ball of tension.

“About your cousin? No, I'm afraid not.” Danny pushed his sunglasses up his nose a fraction with a forefinger.

Damon's shoulders relaxed. “Good.”

“Good?”

He rubbed his cheek, undoubtedly making streaks in the dirt and sweat. “No news being good news.” There was straw stuck to his fingers and he shook it off absently, plucking the detritus off his face.

Danny acknowledged the truth of that by saying, “Especially in police work. Especially in a missing persons case where the real work rarely starts until a body is found. But I'm not even here about Emily Sims. I was hoping you would help me clarify some information in another case.”

Damon propped a shoulder against the gatepost and regarded the other man with a straight look, trying to control his surprise. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Another case? I don't think I understand.”

“Just a question or two. Then I'll be on my way.”

“Sure.” Damon felt puzzled. Around him the sky rose in a dazzling vista of darkening blue. The air smelled strongly of fresh-cut hay.

“Tell me how well you knew Hallie Helms.”

“Hallie Helms?” Damon straightened. There could be no mistaking his startled reaction.

“Hallie Helms.” Danny's voice was polite and mild. “She disappeared from Mayville on May 2—”

“I know who she is,” Damon interrupted hoarsely, “and I'm fully aware she's been missing. This is Mayville, Danny. A person can't stub his toe in this town without everyone knowing about it.”

“So?”

“So … how well do I know her?” Damon's brows arched upward. “I guess I would say I know her parents fairly well, and I know her by sight, of course. They only live five miles or so from our farm, and the whole family goes to our church. As I said, this is Mayville.”

Danny's eyes were invisible behind the shiny mirrors of his glasses. Damon could see his own image, dirty and sweating, with dark hair plastered to his skull.

“Have you ever been alone with Hallie Helms?” Danny asked.

“Alone?” Damon's voice was incredulous. Anger at the implication sent blood to his face in a wave of heat. “She's … what? Sixteen? What the hell are you saying? Of course not, I've never been alone with her.”

“Never?”

Something in Haase's voice and expression stopped Damon cold in the middle of denial—an assurance in his tone, a set look around the mouth of the man he generally looked upon as a friend, or at least a lifelong acquaintance.

He stood there, staring, and remembered a day last spring when Hallie Helms had been standing in front of the Dairy Twist—long brown hair, a slender figure in jeans and a patterned T-shirt, and a bunch of books in her arms.

“Wait a minute.” Damon took a short breath and consciously unloosened his jaw. “I have been alone with her. I suppose I didn't think of it as alone, or think of it at all, if you want the truth. I gave her a ride home from town one day. It was months ago. She'd missed the bus after school. She saw me. I was at the hardware store across the street from the ice cream place, and she came over and asked me for a ride home.
She
asked
me,
” he pointed out with emphasis.