Shane blushed.
She giggled. “Stand up straight, so I can see it.”
He was obedient. “Little Shane’s standing up straight, too, babe.”
She reached inside the window, and fondled his erection through his underpants. She made this moaning sound he’d never heard her make before. He was embarrassed, but very turned on at the same time.
“I want more of that later,” she purred, giving him one final, gentle tug.
Then she suddenly turned around and hurried toward the alley off the backyard. In a stupor, Shane watched her duck inside a black Jetta. It looked like her therapist’s car. The engine started up, and the car drove away.
Shane’s erection quickly subsided as he stood there in the window. He remembered something Karen had told him the previous afternoon. “You need to keep an eye on her. If you notice a sudden change in her or a severe mood swing, call me.”
For a few moments, Shane thought about calling Karen, maybe waking her up, and telling her what had just happened.
But he went back to sleep, instead.
Chapter Fifteen
The phone woke her up.
Blurry eyed, Karen glanced at the clock on her nightstand: 8:32 A.M. She hadn’t meant to sleep this late. But after almost shooting her own houseguest in the predawn hours, she’d been so shaken up, she’d just tossed and turned. She must have nodded off at some point, because Rufus had awoken her with some sudden and inexplicable barking at around 5:45. Then, just as suddenly, he’d gone back to sleep. But Karen hadn’t been quite as lucky. The last time she’d looked at the clock, it was 6:41.
At least she’d gotten nearly two uninterrupted hours. Still, she’d overslept-and the damn phone was ringing.
Propping herself up on one elbow, Karen reached for the cell phone on her nightstand. She didn’t recognize the caller number. She cleared her throat, then switched it on. “Hello?”
“Karen Carlisle?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“This is Jacqueline Peyton with the Seattle Police. I spoke with you yesterday.”
Karen quickly sat up. She felt a pang of dread in her gut. They must have found Koehler’s body. Despite everything that had happened in those woods last night, Karen still clung to some hope that Koehler was still alive. As of 7:00 last night, there had been no body, and only speculation. She wondered if that was all about to change.
“Ms. Carlisle?” the policewoman asked.
“Yes, I’m here,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “How can I help you?”
“We’ve been trying to locate Amelia Faraday ever since we spoke with you yesterday afternoon. She hasn’t been to her dorm. She isn’t answering her phone. We’ve talked with her roommate, her boyfriend, and her uncle, and none of them have any idea where she is. I was wondering if you might have heard from her.”
Karen hesitated. “Um, is this about Detective Koehler? Is he still missing?”
“I’m afraid so, yes. We think Amelia Faraday might have been one of the last people to see him, after you, that is.”
“I see,” was all Karen could think to say.
“Has Amelia contacted you? Do you have any idea where we might be able to reach her?
“Um, you know, I–I might be able to help you,” Karen stammered. “But I just woke up, and I’m a little out of it right now. I was up late last night. Could I get back to you in about twenty minutes, Jacqueline? I have your number here on my cell. Could I phone you back?”
“That would be fine. I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” she replied.
“Talk to you soon,” Karen said, and then she clicked off. “God help me.”
She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. Rufus barked once and got to his feet. He scurried after Karen, down the hallway toward the guest room. All the while, Karen thought about how much she hated lying to the police. And yet here she was, doing just that. If she could hold them off for just two hours, she’d get Amelia to Dr. Richards. She’d have an expert opinion on Amelia’s condition. It could help their case. Despite everything, Karen still believed Amelia was innocent on some level.
“Amelia?” she called. “Amelia, are you up?”
No response. The bathroom door was open. No one was in there. She didn’t hear anyone downstairs.
Karen got to the guest room doorway and stopped dead. The bed was unmade and empty. Amelia’s clothes and her knapsack were gone.
But the sleep machine was still churning out the sounds of ocean waves and seagulls in flight.
“Let me double-check on that,” said the thin young man in a swivel chair. Seated across the desk from him, George guessed he was about twenty-four and gay, or metrosexual. He probably hated wearing that cheap-looking blue suit. His blond hair looked painstakingly mussed, and was loaded with product. The young man smiled at George, then turned toward his computer keyboard, and started typing.
He was the only person on duty in the small, modern ranch-style office across the street from Arbor Heights Memorial Park. The hedges bordering the cemetery were neatly trimmed, and the tall wrought-iron gates stood open.
But across the street, George had had to ring the doorbell before being buzzed in by the young man, who introduced himself as Todd. The office had a large picture window, which offered a view of the cemetery. There were three potted palms and two desks, both with computers. One wall was all file drawers, while another had a huge map of the cemetery with color-coded decals over certain areas.
George sat on the edge of his chair while Todd frowned at the computer screen. “No, I’m sorry,” he said at last. “We don’t have any billing records for Savitt, Duane Lee. I show he passed away in 1993, and he’s in plot E-22 on the east hill. But there’s nothing else here.”
“Are you sure?” George asked. “I called yesterday, and someone here told me they might be able to help me if I came by in person.”
Todd sighed. “Well, we don’t have any billing information in the computers for burials prior to 1996. There’s no paperwork, either. Everything over ten years old gets shredded. Who did you talk to?”
George started fuming. He shook his head. “I don’t know. But he told me to come by today. I live in Seattle. I flew down to Portland, rented a car, and drove an hour here to Salem because this guy told me he could help me.” George decided not to mention that he’d also paid for a cab to schlep Jessie over to his house at 5:30 in the morning, and then take him to the airport. She’d phoned an hour ago. She’d gotten Jody off to school and Steffie to the daycare center.
“You must have talked to Murray,” Todd surmised. “He has the day off. He’s been here since the late eighties. But I don’t know how he could possibly remember a transaction from 1993-”
“Could you call him?” George asked.
Reaching for the phone, Todd winced a bit. “Um, he said he was going hunting today. But I can try.”
George said nothing. He knew why Murray remembered that transaction from 1993. It was because the man buried in plot E-22 had murdered three people.
“Hi, Murray, this is Todd,” the young man was saying into his phone. “If you get this message, call me at work. You talked to a man in Seattle yesterday, and told him if he came here, you could give him some billing information on the burial of a-” he glanced at his computer-“Savitt, Duane Lee, from 1993. Well, the gentleman is here, and waiting. So call me as soon as you get this.” He hung up, then rolled his eyes at George. “I don’t know if he’ll call back. Like I said, I think he’s out shooting Bambi’s mother.”
The remark was probably meant to elicit a chuckle, but George just glared at him. “Could you give me directions to this plot E-22?” he growled. “As long as I came all this way, I might as well take a look at the grave.”
