“She didn’t dismiss the possibility that the Tracey boy might be involved in some of the animals’ deaths, but she shot down my idea that there might be a connection between them and Audrey Keane’s murder. She thinks it’s just vandalism gone awry.”
Lois tilted her head, causing her strawberry blond bob to swing along one side of her jaw. “She has a point. When my brother was in his teens, he and his friends used to set haystacks on fire for fun.”
“You’re kidding. You could burn someone’s house or barn down.”
“There’s not a lot to do when you’re a kid in the country.” Lois gave her a sympathetic look, then perked up as the sedate fox-trot music on the radio gave way to the thunderous sound of the Storm Center First Response Team’s theme music. Clare retreated with her cold coffee and her shredded enthusiasm, pursued by dire predictions of snow, snow, and more snow.
FORTY
Humility. That, Russ decided, was the lesson the universe wanted to teach him. Certainly, the value he placed on his wife and marriage first. He would never, as long as he lived, forget the horrible pithed feeling of hearing Linda was dead and the soul-lifting experience of having her resurrected by Sergeant Morin’s fingerprint kit. It was almost-not quite, but almost-enough to make him believe in God.
Which is where the humility came in. He had spent the morning visiting all Linda’s most recent job sites: a second home for skiing, a mother-in-law apartment, a charming farmhouse trying desperately to be a stately home with curtains swagged and draped and pelmeted up to the not-high-enough ceiling.
In each location, he had to explain that he had lost his wife. That she had left without word and had not contacted him in close to a week. Had anyone heard her mention a man? Or seen her with anyone other than one of her freelance seamstresses?
Humility. Clare would probably say it was good for him. He might have swallowed it with more grace if he had gotten anything other than embarrassed, sympathetic looks and “Sorry, I don’t know anything that can help you.”
He tightened his hands on the wheel of his truck and flicked on his wipers to rid the windshield of its steadily accumulating snow. Noon. The forecaster hit it dead on. He ought to call Harlene, make sure she got Duane and Tim, the part-timers, suited up for emergency response. If what the weatherman predicted was to be believed, they’d be coming up deep snow and whiteout conditions. He should also-
He caught himself short. He couldn’t do a damn thing. He was an acting civilian until Jensen decided to give him back his badge. It was up to Lyle to make sure the department was ready for the Blizzard of the Century or the Killer Storm or whatever theme name the television stations would come up with to describe it. His job was to make it to his last stop. Linda’s most recent work site. The Algonquin Waters Spa and Resort. He didn’t hold out high hopes. It seemed like every time he came near the place, it was a disaster. The summer it was being built, he had taken off from its helipad in a chopper-the first one he had ridden in in decades-and promptly crashed. This past fall, he had the worst dinner of his life there, seated next to his wife and across the table from Clare. Christ, he was still suffering indigestion from that one. The ballroom and most of the ground floor going up in flames was sort of an anticlimax.
He knew what he was doing, recounting his past miseries at the Algonquin. He was avoiding thinking about what he was going to do if he didn’t turn up any trace of Linda. He had no other leads. He had nothing. And the thought of returning to his freezing cold house, with its bloodstained kitchen and the fluttering ghosts of disappeared identities…
He shook his head, concentrated on the road. Past the turnoff, the hotel’s private road was almost dry, the heavy-hanging pines sheltering it from the early snow. The road switched back and forth, climbing the mountain, until it opened out to the parking area, the wide portico, and the snow-covered, rock-walled gardens. He was surprised to see so many trucks and SUVs parked along the curving drive. While the Algonquin was planned as a year-round resort, it was supposed to be closed for rebuilding until spring.
The answer came when Russ pulled into a spot next to a big Ford 350. DONALDSON ELECTRICS was plated to the side. Construction workers. He got out of his truck, tugging his hat on to shield himself from the snow. Management must be in one all-fired hurry to finish the job if they had guys out working on a day like this. Maybe the hotel would put ’em up if they got snowed in?
He stepped through the front doors onto a sea of plastic sheeting. The sweeping wooden floor was covered with the sawdust and grit-spattered stuff, just as the few remaining pieces of furniture were obscured by drop cloths. The two-story stone wall at the far end of the lobby was still scorched and streaked with soot, and the open doorways to the ballroom were hung with dusty plastic tarps. No sign of any workmen or hotel employees, but beyond the canvas-covered reception desk, a light shone through a half-open door.
He crossed behind the desk. “Hello?” he said. “Anybody here?”
“Mmm.” He heard something clatter against a desktop. A slim woman in jeans and a turtleneck appeared in the doorway, dabbing at her face with a paper napkin. “Sorry,” she said around a mouthful. She beckoned him into the office. “Lunch.”
He held up one hand. “No need to apologize. I probably should have called before coming over.”
She finished chewing and swallowed with evident relief. “I’m afraid we’re closed. As you can see, we’re in the middle of a major rebuilding project.”
“I’m not here for a room.” He unzipped his parka.
“No?” She took a plate holding tangerine peels and the remains of a sandwich and slid it onto a credenza. “Please,” she said, gesturing to one of two upholstered chairs across from the desk. She sat opposite him. “I’m Barbara LeBlanc,” she said. “General manager.”
“I know,” he said. “We’ve met before.”
She tucked a strand of dark auburn hair behind her ear and looked at him more closely. Her face lit with recognition. “The police chief! You were here the night of the fire. It’s good to see you again…”
“Russ Van Alstyne,” he supplied. “You have a good memory.”
“In the hospitality business, it’s a must. We’re working with a curtain designer named Linda Van Alstyne. Any relation?”
“She’s my wife.”
Barbara LeBlanc smiled. “She does wonderful work. You must be very proud of her.”
Ms. LeBlanc evidently remembered names but didn’t keep up with the news. “I am. Proud.” He had been spared having to tell everyone who might not have known that Linda was dead. Thank God for that.
She folded her hands and rested them on the desk. “So. What can I help you with?”
He felt his face getting hot, just as it had the last three times he launched into his spiel. “It’s my wife. Linda Van Alstyne. She left our house without a word last Saturday or Sunday, and I haven’t heard from her since. I’m hoping you might have some idea where she’s gone, since she’s still replacing the curtains and stuff that was lost in the fire.”
Barbara LeBlanc’s pleasant expression didn’t alter, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which became opaque. “She left Saturday
He sighed. “We’re temporarily separated. I’ve been living at my mother’s house for the past few weeks.” Embarrassing as it was, he figured admitting he lived with his mom made him sound less like a potentially abusive husband trying to recapture a runaway wife.
LeBlanc shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve met your wife, of course, and we’ve spoken about payments for materials and things like that, but I don’t have any idea where she could have gone.”
She would make a good poker player. He had no idea whether she was telling him the truth or not.
“Is there anyone else she would have worked with here? Besides her seam-stresses, I mean?” He had already called the three women who sewed for Linda.
“There’s Mr. Opperman, of course. The owner. He makes all the design decisions. And I think she had one or two of Ray’s crew help her with some of the heavy work. Installations she couldn’t handle on her own.”
It looked like he wasn’t going to get out of this without speaking to Opperman. Another exercise in humility. “Can I speak to the foreman? And is there a number where I could contact Mr. Opperman?”
