“I can hear you, Maddy.”
“It's kind of creepy out here,” I muttered.
“It's beautiful. Take a deep breath. This is country air,” Jack enthused. He went on about our declining farmland and growing pollution and was saying something about the settlers and the Indians when I finally tuned him out.
We drove past pretty little houses dotted in the fields. Then we were back in forested land, and we could glimpse front porches bedecked with pumpkins and scarecrows and orange lights.
We found the driveway to the Lanford cottage merely by chance. I had seen car lights coming out of a narrow dirt driveway and realized this must be the “opening in the trees” Jamie had written about.
“There, Jack!” Now I was yelling again. “Pull in there. If it's Logan's place, he's seeing visitors.” Jack drove up a curving, forested path to a brick manse. No Abe Lincoln cabin, this, I thought in surprise. I knew the Lanfords had some money, but I didn't realize they were in this strata of wealth.
I sat for a moment, taking in its glory and feeling the twinge of envy that always comes to me, at least briefly, in the presence of the rich. The cabin was more brick than wood, an elegant structure and thoughtfully landscaped. It was tastefully lit by several exterior floodlights. I fancied that a woman's hand had been responsible for many of the little touches visible even in the growing dusk: the life-sized friendly scarecrow sitting on an Adirondack chair on the porch; little orange luminary bags, currently unlighted, that stretched the length of the graduated stone stairway; pale orange fairy lights glittering on a trellised bench in the front yard.
Even from our vantage point in the driveway, it was obvious that lights were on within the house. My unease grew, along with a reluctance to face Logan. I sat in the car.
“Well?” Jack prompted after a moment, running a hand through his windblown hair.
“Suddenly, ah…”
“Yes?”
“I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent,” I quoted shakily. I thought of the car that had just left. Had it been Logan? Had it been a visitor? Had it been someone with a blue bumper sticker in their rear window? Or had it been another driveway that I'd seen a car emerge from?
Jack wasn't buying my reluctance. “I'll prick your intent. You dragged me out here before dinner, and dinner is my spur, so I'll do it for you.”
In a flash, he was out of the car and ascending the stone steps. Jolted into action, I chased him, yelling. I certainly didn't want to have to explain the ravings of a hungry boyfriend to my old high school chum.
I needn't have worried. Jack had already rung the bell when I reached him; we waited together for some response. After a while, I peered in the narrow window of the front door. I saw a foyer with a sturdy wood side table, above which hung an autumnal patchwork quilt, looking less like an heirloom and more like an expensive creation from a Saugatuck souvenir shop.
“Logan?” I called loudly, ringing the bell again. “It's Madeline. Madeline Mann!”
No response came from within. A sudden cold breeze wrapped around me, and I realized that my light jacket was not warm enough.
“I think the temperature just dropped,” Jack said. “Come on, Maddy. He's not here. Dinner time.”
“But what am I supposed to tell Jamie?” I wailed. “That after all this I'm not sure if Logan's here or not?”
Jack started down the steps. After one last glance through the glass, I followed him. A compromise occurred to me. “Hang on!” I called. I took out one of my business cards that identified me as a reporter for the Webley Wire. On the back I scrawled a note to Logan, asking him to look me up in town (if he could find me at one of the B and Bs) or to call Jamie. I put it through the mail slot and had the satisfaction of hearing it fall to the floor on the other side.
“Okay,” I said. “I guess that will have to do.”
Anticlimax weighed upon me as we braved the sudden cold and ran for the car. The smell of wood smoke smote me with an inexplicable sadness, and a regret that I'd ever listened to Fritz's complaints.
“I have a weird vibe,” I muttered in the car as Jack fumbled with the keys.
“At the risk of making you angry, Maddy, when don't you?”
I shook my head, staring at the carpet under Jack's boots, lit by the car's interior light. There was blood on it. “Jack! Blood!” I shrieked, pointing.
He looked at the stained tan carpet, then at the bottom of his hiker. “False alarm. Those are mulberries. Didn't you notice them all over the walk?”
I hadn't. I looked under my own seat and saw a similar reddish purple stain. “My carpeting!” I said mournfully.
“It's hard to get out,” Jack informed me. “And they're stuck all over your tires. I'm surprised the birds haven't eaten them.”
Suddenly I hated this place.
Quinn Paley's house was only ten minutes away. We found it with less trouble than we'd found Logan's, but it was hard to see anything in the dark. For some reason, I felt furtive from the moment we pulled into the long driveway. Halfway up I told Jack to stop.
“Why?” he asked.
“I just—let me walk the rest of the way. I'll come back to the car.”
I heard Jack sigh in the darkness and took it as agreement. I stepped out onto the dirt driveway, strewn with the last of the leaves. If there were mulberries here too, I wouldn't know. It was incredibly dark; Jack thoughtfully left the headlights on, but the driveway sloped around, and then I lost the light. There was a glow coming from the house, so I used it as my beacon as I snuck toward it. I hunched into my light coat and shivered with cold.
I heard a strange sound as I came closer, a sort of moaning or humming almost. It took me a full minute to realize it was the growling of a dog. Guard dog, I thought with a pang. What if it was loose? I was almost at the house. If the dog was unleashed, I'd be better off begging the Paleys for mercy than I would running back to the car. Assuming the dog was the kind who'd eat me for being a trespasser. I thought it was safest to assume the worst.
I crept cautiously toward the porch. The dog's growling hadn't yet grown into a bark, but it seemed to be gaining energy. I climbed the steps as silently as I could and peered into a brightly lit window, where a crack in the curtains showed me a large stone fireplace and a neatly kept living room, very domestic and Martha Stewart–ish. The facing wall was simply done in a hunting theme: a painting of British hunters pursuing a fox. Some guns hung beside it as a tribute to violence. One was missing, but its outline was still prominent, as though it had hung there for generations. A young woman lay on the floor in front of the fire, perusing a magazine. This must be the girl from the phone. Quinn's wife? She seemed young to be married, but I didn't want to make any assumptions.
A man walked into the room, holding a beer. It wasn't Logan, but that was all I was able to determine before the dog's growl erupted into a bark—no, that was definitely more than one dog. The cacophony made the man's head come up, a wary expression on his face. He made for the door, and I flew down the steps on the wings of fear and adrenaline.
I barely felt my feet touch the ground as I sailed toward the car. Jack was still there, thank God, his lights guiding me to safety. I covered the last few yards with some real Olympic-style running, knees high, arms pumping. I tore open the door and dove inside with a sob of relief, then forced a smile for a flabbergasted Jack.
“Okay, ready for dinner,” I said. “Go, go, go!”
Jack said I would feel better with some food in my system, and I did. We returned to the shop-laden Water Street and settled on a little Italian place which was, as Jack promised, right across from the harbor. We faced each other over steaming bowls of pasta and discussed our options.
“You okay?” he asked with some concern.
I nodded.
He touched my hand reassuringly. I have to say, after a slight trauma, I couldn't think of anyone other than Jack whom I'd want to run to. “I saw four B and Bs on our way back here,” Jack said. “This is the off-seaso
n, so one of them is bound to have a vacancy,” he assured me before devoting himself to a forkful of shrimp scampi. His hair was disheveled from our windy walk, and he looked about ten years younger than his age, twenty-nine, and very handsome.
“Fine,” I said after a swig of milk. “I think my heart may actually be beating at its normal rhythm again. I think I can assure you I will never want a dog. So. We may as well enjoy a part of this unexpected journey. I was really beginning to regret Fritz ever mentioning the name Logan Lanford!” I boomed heartily.
A Bing Crosby type who had paused near us to light a fragrant pipe now approached the table. For a moment, I thought he was going to ask if we cared to see the dessert menu, and I did care, passionately, despite the food still in front of me.
“Excuse me,” he said, looking at me. “I thought I just heard my name.”
I stared dumbly at him by way of response. I vaguely wondered if he were a charming, literate beggar who preyed upon tourists.
Unperturbed by my confusion, he put out a big hand. “I'm Wick Lanford,” he offered. “Are you staying at my place?”
My mouth, if possible, must have opened wider. It seemed like some sort of jovial pickup line. I shook his hand wordlessly. Jack must have despaired at my slowness.
In any case, Jack rescued me. “She actually said Logan Lanford,” he told the man called Wick. “It's the name of a friend of hers.”
Wick was still smiling. “Logan is my son. Are you visiting him here?”
Suddenly I found my voice, and my memory. Of course! Logan's father lived in Saugatuck. The dad with the cabin and the broken answering machine. The Lanfords had been divorced when Logan was young, and his father was “an entrepreneur in Michigan,” Logan always told me. And I'd met him at high school graduation.
“Mr. Lanford! I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you. I'm Madeline Mann. I went to high school with Logan at St. Roselle. I met you once, but—”
“Sure, sure, I remember. You're as cute as ever. A little blonder, though, right?” He actually winked at me, which I can't remember anyone having done since I was about six. It was charming too, somehow, rather than annoying.
I admitted to the dye job, and Wick asked us what we thought of Saugatuck.
“We just got here,” said Jack. “But we like this restaurant.”
Wick laughed heartily, like Old King Cole. Some people entering the restaurant waved and called out to him, and he gestured back regally.
“Have you lived here long?” I asked him.
“Almost ten years, Madeline,” he told me. He gave the impression that he was confiding in only me, even though Jack was right there listening. I imagined that Wick was a very alluring bachelor, what with his money, his apparent popularity, and his undeniable attractiveness. “I bought a bed and breakfast out here, and it did real well, and now I have two. I'm also opening a restaurant in the spring, with my business partner.” He waved again, at some people who were leaving and seemed bent on getting his attention before they did.
“Is your partner also a businessman here in Saugatuck?” I asked.
Wick twinkled at me. “My partner is named Shelly, and aside from being a successful shop owner here in town, she also happens to be my girlfriend.”
I turned red, ashamed of my own sexism. That was the sort of thing I liked to expose in other people. “So,” he asked, his eyes scanning the room for more friends, “you're here visiting Logan?”
“Is he in town?” I asked him. “We're on a fact-finding mission.”
Suddenly Wick's broad face lost some of its geniality. He ran a hand through his thick gray hair and stroked some imaginary stubble. I noted, in the pause of his impending remark, that his tweed coat and jeans looked expensive, as did the boots that peeked out from below his denim hems.
“Did your mom send you?” he asked.
That one came so far out of left field that I was stricken dumb for the third time. I was forced once again to display my intelligent look, although this time I stylishly added a slight whining sound through my nasal cavity.
“My mother?” I finally managed.
Jack sent me a quizzical glance and answered for me again.
“Actually Madeline's here on behalf of Logan's wife. Apparently there's been a lack of communication about Logan's whereabouts. He forgot to mention where he was going, or what they should do for money while he was gone.”
Wick's facial skin seemed to tighten, and he sat abruptly on the edge of Jack's side of the booth. “Logan told me Jamie and the kids were visiting her parents in Peoria.”
I was now uncomfortably aware of my position as bearer of bad news. “That's not true,” I said gently. “He walked out for diapers on Wednesday night and didn't come back. Jamie is beside herself with worry, and they're all pretty stressed. And hungry.” I added this last part half as a joke, but no one laughed.
Wick Lanford sat like a graven image, taking this in. His jaw worked briefly, like he'd found a piece of steak somewhere in his molars, and then he was still. I was trying to formulate something like an apology when he started talking, apparently in an effort to articulate his growing anger.
“A little vacation, he told me. And hungry babies at home. Not even a call, except to Linus—”
“Linus?” I asked. “Is that how he got here? Jamie wondered where he could go without a car.” Linus was Logan's older brother.
Wick nodded. “My son Linus is a supplier for my inns. He travels back and forth all the time. Logan just hitched a ride.” He mused some more. Jack surreptitiously continued eating his shrimp. I couldn't blame him.
I had a thought. “If Logan's here, why didn't he answer the door when we drove to the cabin?” For once I had captured Wick's roaming eyes, which looked rather miserably into my own.
Logan's dad seemed a little edgy. “He didn't answer? Well, maybe he thought—I mean, did he know it was you? Know why you all were there?”
“I called out to him. I imagine he could have heard me, or seen me through the window,” I said.
Wick stood suddenly. “I'll get to the bottom of this right now. Do you two need a place to stay? I've got the two B and Bs here in town. One is quaint, and one is more elegant. If you want the first, you can stay at Thatch Cottage. If you're lookin’ for modern conveniences and a nice Jacuzzi, then go to Elegance. That's two blocks over on Griffith, on the corner. Can't miss it. It's on the house. Least I can do when you come all the way out here for Jamie.”
Jack and I both began to thank him, and he waved us away. He pulled a business card out of his pocket and scrawled something on the back. “Wherever you decide,” he told us. “Just show this to the innkeeper. I'll be in touch about Logan.”
I thanked him again and felt a bizarre desire to bow as well. Wick was like Saugatuck royalty, and we'd been invited to the palace.
Jack and I chose Elegance. Our room had a pretty view of a forested park, no longer visible in the autumn dark. The room was decorated with refined simplicity and muted tones, and the style was in the little details. I viewed the well-stocked side bar and the telephone table that contained not a Gideon Bible, but a local restaurant list, some mysteries for in-room reading, and a few copies of Connoisseur and the New York Times. I pulled back the bedspread and found that the sheets were silk, and the pillow contained not a mint, but an entire bar of Godiva chocolate, which I proceeded to eat. I sat on the edge of the bed, munching and kicking my feet to the rhythm of some distant sirens, the sound of which drifted in our window like a delightful October ghost.
“I've never slept on silk sheets before,” I said with my mouth full.
Jack was fiddling with a television in one corner, probably trying to find PBS. Jack loved watching those shows that no one else cared about, like the mating habits of the praying mantis or the slow erosion of the world as shown in time-lapse photography. “About time you did,” he murmured, playing with the channel selector.
“Should I call my mom and tell her where we are?” I asked,
mostly for something to say.
“Nah. We'll be home tomorrow. She won't even miss you.” Jack had now found a promising-looking station that featured some tiny animal facing extinction; it looked like a cross between a rat and my high school economics teacher. He settled into a wingback chair and let out a contented sigh. “God bless Wick Lanford,” he said.
The phone rang then. “He heard you,” I joked as I walked to the telephone. I picked up the receiver. “Hello,” I said, smiling and wiping chocolate from my mouth.
“It's Wick Lanford,” said a voice barely recognizable as belonging to the man we'd just met. His tone had an indefinable quality that raised the hairs on my arms.
“Hello,” I said again without the smile. “Did you find Logan?”
Wick made a horrible noise, like the bellow of a bear, and I jumped in place and sent a shocked look toward Jack. I realized then that Wick was crying.
“Mr. Lanford!” I yelled. “Is everything all right?”
After a few moments, Wick got himself together. “Logan's dead,” he said tonelessly. “I got here and found him dead, killed by someone. He's…been killed.”
“My God,” I said. I sat abruptly in the chair next to the phone. “I…don't know what to say. I'm so sorry. This is terrible, I…” I went on, trying to voice my feelings of sorrow and commiseration and doing an inadequate job. Finally I cut myself off. “Mr. Lanford, what can I do?”
The idea of specific action focused him. “I've got some police out here, and more on the way. I told them you were here—they found this little card you left for Logan. They want to ask you some questions.”
“Should we come out there?” I asked.
“No. No, I don't think so. Too much going on. But now that I know where you are, I can tell them, and they can come on out. You'll still be up?”
“Of course!” I assured him. As if I would sleep now.
I hung up and told Jack what Wick Lanford had told me. “So he was in there, Jack, lying in there when I stood outside calling his name!”
Jack nodded grimly. “Sounds that way. I'm sorry, Madeline. I know he was a friend of yours.”
Madeline Mann Page 6