Except, the coming insurance payout. How much access would he have?
CHAPTER TWENTY
IT’S SATURDAY. FIVE a.m. The weekend, for whatever that’s worth. Unable to sleep, I’m lying on my camp cot, looking up at the overhead light and imagining pictures in the ceiling drywall. Guns. Knives. A dog. A bonfire. I think about what I need to do today: follow up on Chandler’s employment history. Call the life insurance company and try to spoof some information about Victoria and Daniel’s policies.
My cell rings, and I have to roll over and reach for where it lies on the floor with the cord curled around it like a noodle. I lean too far and tip the cot over and bang my nose on the floor.
“Son of a bitch!” I press my hands to my face as the call goes to voicemail. I get up, dress, and make coffee before listening to the message.
“Audrey, it’s Claire. Please call. It’s Dan — he’s been — he’s been kuh-killed.”
The final word, killed, is almost lost in a guttural sob. I only understand because it’s a word I’ve heard a lot, in a variety of tones and accents. I put aside my surprise and dismay: those emotions won’t be helpful. Instead, I call back immediately. She’s at home, and I get directions, pour the coffee into a thermos and show up at her door. Inside, we sit on a black leather sofa that has a matching recliner. House plants crowd the corners and the coffee table has an artful stack of photography books. A giant TV covers most of one wall; a free-standing Tiffany floor lamp glows in the corner. The image of middle-class prosperity.
But. First things first.
I get a mug from the kitchen — note the soapstone countertops and white-painted cabinetry — pour out some coffee, add cream. Notice the tremor in my hand.
“Drink this, Claire. That’s right. Now. Tell me what happened.”
Her voice is tight, controlled, but breaks forth occasionally into an emotionally charged stutter. “He didn’t come home last night. He often works late, so, I was annoyed but not worried. I went to bed at midnight. But he wasn’t back this morning. I called his phone, cell and office, but no answer. Went by the church, but it was locked. His car was still in the lot. I don’t have keys so I banged on the door, yelled. Then I called the police.”
“Deep breaths, Claire.” Wait while she complies. If ever I need evidence of who was behind the initial delay of investigating Victoria’s disappearance, I have it here. Claire would have called the cops if not deterred by Daniel.
Although, I guess he is her husband and not just her friend. Still.
A steel-and-crystal clock ticks from the wall. Claire glances at the face and together we watch the creep of the minute hand.
“They came while I was banging the door again. Of course, they thought I was a burglar — ’til I said I was the one who called. My husband, inside. No answer. They got the door open, went in, ‘Police!’ One kept his eye on me, tried to keep me back. As if! But I was too worried to care. I pushed in, following, went right to Dan’s office. He was —” she breaks off, gulping air like a climber on Everest.
I picture it, the desk, the computer, the piled papers. “He was…?”
“He was leaning back in his chair, all the way, his face all bloody, his head — oh God — his head —” her voice rises, a near shriek. “So awful. What kind of monster would do such a thing?”
Anxiety clamps around my body like a coffin. I was just there yesterday evening, talking to him. Just a few hours ago. I shudder. Was the killer in building, lurking? Waiting until I left? I take a breath of my own, try not to think about how I was the last person to see him alive. Except the murderer.
And maybe the murderer saw me.
I force myself to calmness, take refuge in the routine search for information. It’s the best way to help my friend.
I take her hands. “It’s okay, Claire, you’re all right. I’m going to help you. Find some answers. Let’s go back to the parking lot. Outside. You saw his car, right? What kind is it?”
“Toyota Highlander. Grayish blue. Or bluish gray.”
The same thing I saw yesterday. “Were there any other cars in the lot?”
“No. Just his. And mine.” She’s stopped stammering, is holding tight to my hands.
“What do you drive?”
“Little white pickup. Ford Ranger.”
These questions are largely to get her to steady down, recounting information she’s sure of. But the discrepancy in their vehicles is telling. We’re talking a twenty thousand dollar price difference. Daniel didn’t stint himself. Where did the money come from? My dislike of the man is growing, posthumously. Remembering how I had been able to just walk inside the previous day, I say, “Is the church usually kept locked?”
“Victoria liked to leave it open if she was working there, so people could come in to see her. But if Dan was alone with the money, I’m sure he’d lock up. Especially at night.”
“What money?”
“Collection money. For the various fundraisers and service offerings.”
I remember some of the requests from my first visit to the church. He’d been alone with the money yesterday, I assume. But it couldn’t have amounted to more than a few hundred dollars, if that. Probably much less — there’d been no service in which to pass the plate. I recall my meeting with him, his words: Audrey, I didn’t expect to see you. A slight emphasis on the ‘you’.”
“Would he have been meeting anyone?”
There’s a long pause. When Claire answers, her voice is choked, not with grief but with anger. Or maybe both.
“What. Do. You. Mean. Meeting with someone? Like, an affair, do you mean? Do you mean, cheating on me? With another woman? Who do you mean, exactly?”
I pull my hand away, surprised
