I sit up straight. “Nothing. Sorry. Just — zoned out for minute. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I’d better get home. I’ll be in touch.”
She lets go, but still looks concerned about me. Hell, I’m concerned about me. But it’s bad form to reveal your craziness to a client. I give her a jaunty wave, the kind that says ‘everything’s great here in la-la land’ before heading out the door. I almost collide with an elderly couple dressed in matching sweatshirts but, after exchanging apologies, make it safely to my car.
I’m halfway home before I realize I walked out without paying for my meal.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MY PHONE IS ringing. I’m thrashing around on my cot, patting the floor, looking for where I left it. Finally, my hand closes around the cool black rectangle. The name on the lock screen is Elizabeth Harkness.
“Hello?” I’m still groggy, but make an effort not to sound like I’m still in bed at nine in the morning. I wonder why she’s calling. She wasn’t friendly the last time we talked, and seems to be estranged from Victoria.
“Is this Ms. Audrey Lake?”
“Speaking.” Sort of.
“I wish to make an appointment to talk to you about my daughter.”
Now I’m awake. “Where and when?”
“Say, in an hour. At Victoria’s apartment.” Pause. “I assume you know where it is.”
I have some trepidation about returning to Victoria’s apartment. It’s been five days since her body was pulled from the Columbia River; a week since Claire Chandler engaged me to investigate her disappearance. My last visit wasn’t exactly a jaunt in the park, but if Elizabeth Harkness is here, that means it’s not considered a crime scene, and that means no one has looked for forensic evidence. And now I’ll be legitimately shedding my own fibers and whatnot. In case anyone asks.
After negotiating the calf-wrenching access stairs, I knock on the door, noting the tiny scratches I left on the knob the last time I was here. Ms. Harkness herself answers: a tall white woman with silvering dark hair wearing a rose-colored cashmere sweater. Around her neck is small silver cross. On her wrist is a delicate silver watch. Or maybe it’s white gold. Or platinum. I’m surprised to see her. For some reason I expected her to bring a butler.
“Are you Audrey Lake?”
“I am. And you must be Victoria’s mother.”
She opens the door wider to let me in, and I enter the apartment for the second time. It’s the same, and yet different. Ms. Harkness’s own handbag is on the table, a pale pink Fendi clutch, along with a steaming cup of tea. Nothing has been disarranged, but her presence has filled the small space. Victoria is no longer here.
“Would you like a beverage? Tea, or coffee?”
“No, thanks.” I don’t know if she brought her own, but it feels wrong to drink Victoria’s.
“Let’s get down to business, then. If you’ll come with me to the bedroom, I’m packing up her things.” She takes the cup and leads the way.
The bedroom, where I’d had my flashback and a close encounter with the carpet. She’s put the suitcase that was under the bed on top of the mattress, and it already contains a few items, folded with retail neatness.
She says, “The rent is only paid through the end of the month, and the landlord wants all her things removed. This isn’t how I want to remember her, but needs must.” She takes another blouse from a hanger in the closet and lays it on the bed in preparation to folding. “I’ll come straight to the point. What have you discovered in your investigation of my daughter?”
I can see Ms. Harkness chairing a board meeting or a citizen’s committee with authority and precision. I lean against the doorjamb and take out my notebook. “Have you spoken to the police?”
“I have, and was very disappointed to learn that there was no missing persons report, although you led me to believe you were actively investigating her disappearance. Now that she is dead, I want some answers.” Her voice shakes ever so slightly, and I’m suddenly in sympathy with her. This tiny break in her tight control reveals the grieving mother beneath the sophisticated facade.
“What have the police told you, Ms. Harkness?”
“Are you not in communication with them yourself?”
“Bear with me, please. I’ll answer your questions as best I can, but it will be helpful if I can understand what you know already.”
“All right.” She places the blouse into the suitcase and walks back to the closet. “I understand that Victoria did not appear for a church service she had scheduled for Thursday of last week. The first I heard of this was your call to me on Sunday, which alarmed me.” She glances at me, her expression reproachful.
I oblige her by squirming a little.
She continues. “When I came over here the next day to talk to the police, I discovered no one had filed a missing person’s report. The police had no idea she was gone. Until the call about her — her body came through.” Elizabeth’s voice has risen, and her eyes are swimming with tears. She looks away, into the depths of the closet.
The door casing is hard against my spine. “I’m so sorry you had to learn about it like that.”
“The M.E. says it was most likely an accident, that there are no signs of foul play. That Victoria drowned after falling into the water.” She fingers the bright fabric of a floral skirt, and carefully removes it from the hanger. “Now, Ms. Lake, I would appreciate it if you would explain your role in all this.”
I don’t hesitate. Unlike my conversation with Olafson, I feel like this woman has a need to know that goes beyond the legal niceties. I only wish there was more to tell her. I explain that I was hired by the Church of the Spirit to
