No one immediately answered, so he rang again.
Just as he was reaching for the bell a third time, Sarah Johnson opened the door. She wore black slacks and a black V-neck sweater over a white cotton shirt with french cuffs. Her pretty face was ravaged and even thinner than when he’d seen her at the funeral home on Saturday. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she had a ball of tissues in her hand as if she had been crying, but she managed a watery smile as she invited Dwight in and ushered him past an enormous Christmas tree in the foyer into an informal sunroom at the back that overlooked a winterized swimming pool on a lower level and the woods beyond.
“Malcolm’s not here right now, but do you have news for us?” she asked when they were seated and he had refused her offer of something to drink.
“News?”
“Who put the liquor in Mallory’s drink,” she reminded him. “Malcolm’s convinced that she would still be alive if she’d had her normal reflexes.”
“You don’t?” he asked, hearing something different in her voice.
She leaned her head back against the couch with a tired sigh. “I don’t know, Dwight. I’ve quit trying to understand any of this. It’s not going to bring her back to know, so what difference does it make in the end? First Charlie and now Mallory. I’ve lost them both.”
“Actually, it was Charlie I came to see,” he told her. “Mrs. Barefoot said he was here.”
She sat upright and her expressive eyes were suddenly frightened. “Why do you want him? What have you heard, Dwight?”
“Is there something I should have heard?” he asked gently.
“No, of course not! Everybody’s upset. Nobody’s making sense. Malcolm’s raging around like a wild man and Charlie—”
She broke off and stood up. “He’s downstairs getting some of his things. He’s moved over to Jeff’s parents’ house, and I guess you’ve heard that he took back Jeff’s name?”
Dwight nodded.
“Malcolm’s been good to him, Dwight.” She led the way to a carpeted staircase that curved down into a walk- out lower level. The railing was trimmed in cedar and ivy interlaced with red velvet ribbons. “There’s no reason for Charlie to act like this. Yes, Malcolm spoiled Mallory, but that didn’t mean he never loved Charlie. All daddies spoil their daughters, don’t they? Mine did. I bet Deborah’s did, too.”
Her words sounded to Dwight like an argument she had made so many times that even she no longer believed it.
At the bottom of the stairs lay a pleasant space furnished like a casual den with several couches that faced a large flat-screen television recessed into one wall. A granite-topped wet bar was tucked under the stairs and wide french doors led out to the pool and terrace.
On the wall opposite the stairs were several closed doors.
“Charlie,” Sarah called. “Honey?”
She crossed to one of the doors, gave a light knock, then opened it. “Charlie?”
Through the open doorway, Dwight could see a bedroom furnished in masculine colors and a full bath beyond that. The closet door stood wide and several drawers in the chest were half open. The lights were off, but another set of wide french doors let in enough December daylight to let them see that the rooms were empty.
Back in the den area, Dwight oriented himself and gestured to a door in the corner. “Does that go outside?”
Sarah nodded and Dwight quickly crossed to it. To the left lay the three-bay garage. To the right was the outer door he had noticed when he drove in. It was slightly ajar, and when he stepped outside, he was not surprised to see that the white Hyundai was gone.
CHAPTER 21
—“Dancing Dan’s Christmas,” Damon Runyon
I drove home in a pleasant state of anticipation that was further heightened when I hung my coat by the kitchen door and Dwight emerged from our bedroom in a fresh dark brown shirt, brown tweed slacks, and a crisply knotted tie in shades of gold and brown. His hair was neatly combed and even his cowlick was temporarily lying flat. He had shaved again and the smell of his aftershave lotion made me weak-kneed as our arms went around each other and our lips met.
He chuckled and looked down at me. “Nothing ol’ married lady about
“A year of practice makes perfect,” I said, kicking off my shoes and unbuttoning my shirt. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be ready to roll.”
Tomorrow night would be more formal, but I wanted to look soft and alluring tonight. We had reservations at the Mexican restaurant that had led to Dwight’s proposal. Back then, I had shoved the candle on our table aside because it had never crossed my mind that I might have a romantic relationship with this man I had known my whole lifetime. Candlelight would be welcome this time, though. I changed into a dark red blouse with a ruffled plunging neckline, and added dangly earrings that would sparkle in the flickering flame. My hair was loose, my skirt was tight, and my red patent leather heels were as high as I planned to be by the end of the evening.
I had just slipped the second one on when I heard Dwight say, “Yeah, okay. I’ll call Sheriff Poole and we’ll rendezvous there in thirty-five minutes.”
A moment later: “Bo? Looks like we’ve got ’em!… Yeah, the truck and three of the crew, and they’re heading in… Okay, I’ll meet you at Tinker’s Crossroads in fifteen minutes.”
He had already hung his tie on the back of a chair, and when he saw me standing in the doorway, his face mirrored excitement and regret.
