All Mortal Flesh

Charlie shrugged. “He needed a job.”

Ray turned to Russ. “I had to get some new guys. Some of my crew had already left for southern work. I didn’t know he was a con, though. I don’t hire no cons.”

“Why’d you pass on him, then?” Russ put his glasses back on.

“I got a simple test if I haven’t worked with a guy before. I take him through the site and ask him how he’d tackle five different jobs. Charlie’s brother didn’t know much more’n how to swing a hammer.”

“Charlie, did you try to get your brother a job with my wife?”

Charlie was dumbfounded enough to forget to be afraid of Russ. “Are you kidding? He couldn’t sew. The carpentry, I figured he could pick up. That’s easy. But sewing?”

Russ’s hand twitched. Charlie saw it and shrank back into Yardhaas’s shadow again. “I mean pet sitting. House sitting. Whatever he would have called it.”

Charlie shook his head. “Pet-sitting’s a girl job. His girlfriend pet-sits. Doesn’t pay crap, but she loves ‘little fuzzy critters’ ”-Charlie’s voice crept up into a falsetto-“and just between you an’ me, it’s about the best she can do. Dumb as a box of hammers.”

“She’s dead,” Russ said.

Charlie’s mouth opened.

“Somebody slit her throat and then sliced her up like so much roast beef.”

Charlie’s mouth was still open. After a few seconds, he said, “Are you shit-tin’ me?”

“We think your brother did it.”

“Nuh-uh.” Charlie shook his head. “No way. He’s nuts about Audrey.”

“That’s what a lot of guys who kill their wives or girlfriends say.”

“No, not like I’m-a-stalker nuts about her. He, you know”-Charlie looked around as if embarrassed to say the word in front of witnesses-“he loved her.”

Russ wasn’t in the mood to debate Dennie Shambaugh’s emotions. “He assaulted an officer, stole a car, and fled from questioning. Do you have any idea where he’d be?”

“No.”

“Charlie. If your brother didn’t kill Audrey Keane, he needs to turn himself in and clear himself.”

“I don’t know where he is. Last time I talked with him was Christmas, at Frannie’s house. Our sister. Mary Francis Delacourt. She lives in Fort Henry.”

“Is he likely to have gone there? Or to one of your other brothers or sisters?”

“I dunno.”

Russ pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “If he contacts you, get in touch with the Millers Kill police immediately.”

“Sure.”

Sure. Russ breathed in. Out. “One more question. Ray here says you helped my wife-the curtain lady-with some of her work.”

“Yeah.” Charlie bobbed his head up and down in an earnest display of helpfulness. “Nice lady.”

“Yeah. Did you ever hear her say anything about traveling, or going on a trip, or getting away?”

“She was going away to Montreal at Christmastime. With her husband.” His eyes lit up. “That’s you.”

Christ. If Charlie thought his brother’s girlfriend was dumb, she must have been barely functioning about sponge level. “Besides that.”

“Nah,” Charlie said. “Sorry.”

That was that. The moment Russ had been dreading, when he tapped out his last lead.

“Although,” Charlie said.

“What?”

“She did have a bunch of stuff here.”

“A bunch of stuff?”

“You know. A suitcase, one of those makeup bags women use. Stuff like that.” He glanced from Russ to Ray to Barbara LeBlanc. “Mr. Opperman let her use a room to keep stuff in.”

Barbara looked at Russ. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Although it’d be easy enough for him to give her a master key. We have a bunch of them already made up. If anyone’s working late or gets snowed in, they can stay the night.”

“Could she be-”

Barbara was already shaking her head. “I can’t imagine it. Between me and the crew and the caretaker, no one could be here for more than a night without tipping us off. Besides, as a guest of Mr. Opperman, she’d have no reason to try to hide from anyone.”

“Unless she’s not hiding.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she could be somewhere in here, unable to get out or contact anyone.”

Barbara and the two workmen looked up at the ceiling, as if they could imagine what sort of condition Linda would have to be in to disappear within the walls of the hotel itself.

“You say you have master keys already made up.”

“Yes,” Barbara said. Then she looked at him. “Oh, but you can’t mean-” She twitched, uncomfortable. “Surely you can’t think she’s really here.”

“I don’t know. But I’m not leaving until I make sure.”

The manager pressed her lips together, frowning. Then she squared her narrow shoulders. “I’m coming with you.”

“Let’s get to it, then. There are a lot of rooms to check out.”

FORTY-TWO

Ben Beagle considered himself a people person. Mostly. He liked that his job required him to interact with men and women he never would have run across in the normal circle of office, errands, restaurant, home. He liked listening to their confidences and unearthing their secrets, and he liked the idea that every once in a while, something he wrote might affect someone else’s life. He even liked their e-mails-profane, grateful, funny, scathing.

But Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ he hated it when they followed him home.

Not that he was home, exactly. The offices of the Post-Star were, technically, open to the public, which meant that anyone who had to talk to a reporter right away in person about how his neighbors were running an al-Qaeda cell or about how her local school board was filled with godless heathens could enter the lobby, pester the receptionist, and speak to a reporter. Not in the newsroom. In the lobby. Usually it was one of the interns or, if they had all been sent on coffee runs, whoever had the least amount of work or the most time until deadline. The people who came to the Post-Star offices rarely asked for a reporter by name. Probably, Ben thought, because they were the sort of folks who had every edition dating back to 1950 in stacks around the house and couldn’t remember who was currently working and who had died in 1976.

Debbie Wolecski, unfortunately, had his name. And number.

“Why aren’t you out right now tracking down my sister? I thought this was a big-deal investigation for you!”

Ben glanced out the window, where a hard, dry snow was turning downtown Glens Falls into a ghost town, and quelled the urge to answer, Because I don’t like to drive in this kind of weather. “Debbie, I told you on the phone. A local small-town police chief killing his wife and covering it up with the help of his force is news. It’s about corruption, and the violation of the public trust. A local small-town police chief whose wife runs off is gossip.”

She crossed her arms. At least today she was wearing a fuzzy turtleneck instead of that skimpy summer thing she had on yesterday. Florida people. Save him. “What about his affair with that clergywoman? That’s something! You barely touched on it in this morning’s story.”

“It’s only something if you’re the Weekly World News.” He sighed. “I’m sorry your