“Our housekeeper, yes. But Joyce hasn’t been in here for several days. There’s been no need.”
The closet was a large walk-in hung with so many outfits that it was impossible to tell if anything was missing.
“She likes shoes,” Cork said, noting what seemed to him to be an inordinate number of pairs.
“She has a weakness for expensive Italian footwear,” Lauren said, with only the slightest note of censure.
Cork checked her dresser. Sachet in the drawer that held her delicates, and everything was neatly— obsessively—folded.
“Who does her laundry?” he asked.
“Joyce.”
“Does Joyce fold the laundry?”
“Lauren is particular.”
“Clearly.”
Outside the rain had stopped and the clouds were beginning to break. Through the broad bedroom window, Cork could see Iron Lake. Here and there, the gray surface was splashed with pools of glittering sunlight.
“I heard that she had the boathouse remodeled,” he said.
“Yes. A little retreat where she can get away from all that goes on in the big house here.”
“May I take a look?”
Ophelia glanced at her watch.
“It’ll take just a minute,” Cork said. “Promise.”
She accompanied him out a side door and along a path constructed of flagstone. She walked awkwardly, relying heavily on her cane. It was a painful thing to see, especially when Cork recalled the grace with which she’d moved before her accident. Ophelia knocked on the boathouse door. No one answered and she tried the knob. The door was unlocked and she opened it.
“Lauren?” she called, but clearly only for the sake of propriety.
It was a comfortable little nest Lauren Cavanaugh had created for herself, one very large room that included a small sitting area and a bed. Through an opened door in the far corner, Cork saw a tidy little bathroom with a shower. The place was done in rustic tones and had a very intimate feel to it, even more so than her private residence in the large house. It struck Cork as the kind of retreat that might be perfect for trysting.
“Look, Mr. O.C., I’m really uncomfortable with this.”
Cork walked to the bed and pushed down on the mattress. His hand sunk into the bedding and disappeared.
“God, I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Ophelia said, “but I’d like you to leave.”
“Why? I haven’t taken any of her silver.” Cork gave her his most serious look. “The woman is missing, Ophelia. I’ve been hired to find her. If I’m going to do that, I’ll need your help. And your discretion. It would be best if everything we’ve discussed here today stays between us.” Cork started for the boathouse door. “I think I saw a computer in her study back in the house. I’d like to have a look at it.”
“No. I think it’s time you left.”
He smiled, pleased, despite himself, at the iron in her will. Before he could move or speak, someone outside called, “Lauren!”
A moment later, a young man stepped into the doorway.
“What is it, Derek?” Ophelia said.
“I saw the open door and thought maybe. … Any word from Lauren when she might be back from Chicago?”
Derek was tall, athletic, good looking. His blond hair was sun bleached nearly white. He had a tan, too deep to have come from the North Country, and carried himself with the easy grace Cork associated with California surfers. Cork’s and Ophelia’s presence in Lauren Cavanaugh’s little retreat was obviously a surprise to him.
Ophelia said, “No word yet.”
He looked Cork over, his ocean blue eyes lazy and sure. “If you hear anything, will you let me know?”
“Of course,” Ophelia said.
Derek flashed them a smile made of perfect white teeth and left.
“One of the new residents?” Cork asked.
“One of the old ones. Derek is here for three months. He’s nearing the end of his residency.”
“Nice looking kid.”
“I suppose.”
“He seemed pretty familiar with the boathouse.”
“He’s a little relaxed with protocol. It’s a California thing, I think.”
“Maybe.”
But Cork, ever the detective, wondered if there might be more to it than that.
SIX
Ophelia saw Cork to the front gate, where she said, “I got an e-mail from Jenny yesterday. She sounds happy.”
“Ecstatic? Effervescent? Ebullient?”
She laughed. “Aaron seems like a nice guy.” She was speaking of the farmer-poet whom Jenny was dating. “I’m envious.”
“There are good men here, too,” Cork said.
Her eyes dropped briefly to her ruined leg. “Guys here want a girl who can dance at the wedding.”
Cork’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from the belt holster and checked the display to see who was calling. It was Lou Haddad.
“Gotta go, Ophelia,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”
“If I get into trouble, Mr. O.C., there will be hell to pay.” She shook her finger at him playfully, waved good- bye, and closed the gate behind him.
Cork took the call on the way to his Land Rover.
“I’ve had a chance to look at the old schematics,” Haddad said. “I’ve found something.”
“What?”
“Can you meet me at the Vermilion One Mine in an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
It was two o’clock when Cork drove through Gresham again, and the sky overhead had cleared. The clouds had drifted east toward the Sawbill Mountains, beyond which lay the vast, icy blue of Lake Superior. A few chairs had been placed on the sidewalk outside Lucy’s. They were all occupied by folks drinking coffee or Cokes in the shade of a green awning. A couple of protest placards leaned against the wall, and Cork recognized a few of the faces from the gathering outside Vermilion One that morning. As he passed, several pairs of eyes turned his way, and he felt the hostility directed at him as solidly as if they’d thrown rocks.
He knew the sentiments of the residents of Gresham, knew that, despite the money that might come their way from a new mine enterprise, the townspeople were no more eager than the Iron Lake Ojibwe or anyone else in Tamarack County to have a nuclear waste dump in their backyard.
When he approached Vermilion One, he saw that Isaiah Broom and most of the other protesters were still there, but Hattie Stillday had gone. Tommy Martelli logged him in, and Cork headed to the office building. Haddad’s Explorer wasn’t in the lot. Cork walked inside, gave Margie Renn at the reception desk a brief wave in passing, and went immediately to the conference room, which was empty.
In a corner near one of the windows sat a small easy chair, an end table, and a standing lamp. On the table lay a large book titled
