Two men, the older one in overalls, the other in a brown sweater and khakis, were seated in a booth in front of the television—currently tuned to a ball game somewhere that was not Tennessee. Kate always seated Leo with his back to the screen. She never liked the way TV hypnotized her son, and she never let him watch unless she was really pressed, or he needed calming down. And even those times made her feel guilty.
Leo was in constant motion tonight, and unusually connected. Probably the result of time spent with George.
The dog had reappeared at sundown the day after they’d fed him meatloaf, trotting straight up to Kate, the obvious pack leader, and dropping a mud-stained sweater at her feet.
“Ah,” she had said. “A scavenger.” She picked up the sweater, as George seemed to expect, holding it by the edge with thumb and forefinger, wrinkling her nose. It was at one time a rather delicate pink cardigan with tiny pearl buttons, cashmere, expensive, and petite. No doubt the owner had been desolate to lose it; but the stains were copious, crusty and dark, and Kate left it draped it on a peg, out of George’s reach, outside Sophie’s stall near the refuse bin. The sweater would go to the dump on the next trip out.
Kate began by making it clear to both boy and dog that George, no matter how welcome, would be an outside dog. She had gathered up two old towels for a makeshift dog bed, and George slept contentedly on the front porch the next two nights.
Kate, meanwhile, called the Anderson County Animal Clinic who had issued the rabies tag hanging from the dog’s worn-out collar, and learned that indeed, George was one of their patients, though they were under the impression he had emigrated. His owner, Clarise Hardinet, had lived just a few miles from Kate’s mountaintop. Upon her peaceful death in her sleep some ten months ago, her son had cleared out the household, sold the antique cookstove, and taken charge of the dog.
“You think maybe George escaped and was trying to go home?” Kate asked. If George had an owner, they would have to give him up.
The woman on the other end of the line was honest and opinionated. “Most likely the son just turned him out. Dirk Hardinet’s just like that—he’s not much on dogs, or any other kind of animal that’s not dinner.”
Kate’s intention to part with George died a swift and unrequited death, and just like that she and Leo had a dog for real. According to the entire staff of the animal clinic, George was a candidate for canine sainthood, and, even better, up-to-date on his shots. It was suggested that Kate bring George in for a checkup, where he was found to be seriously underweight, happily negative on heartworm and lime disease, and sadly suffering from the various infestations that plague a homeless dog who is down on his luck. He also had a painful and itchy ear. Kate and Leo left the clinic with ear wash, healing antiseptic ear gel, heartworm pills, and flea protection, as well as a thirty-pound bag of Hill’s Science Diet for Seniors. So far George had run up a tab of one hundred eighty-nine dollars and a meatloaf. Kate put the vet bill on her Bank of America Platinum Visa.
An impending thunderstorm the third night set George to pacing up and down the front porch. He did not ask to come in. His expression was one of stoic uneasiness; he was clearly expecting the worst. Kate brought him inside to the basement, where he stayed quietly for one hour and twenty-three minutes, pacing up and down the hideous gray-and-brown-flecked indoor-outdoor carpet the owners had put down on the concrete floor. Kate, not immune to George’s air of discomfort, let the dog out of the basement. He ignored her invitation to sit near her on the living-room floor, and proceeded straight upstairs like a dog who knows exactly where he is going, and settled in the hallway outside Leo’s open door.
Kate stayed upstairs for the next two hours, cleaning the master bathroom and keeping an eye on the dog. Hours later, exhausted from sentry duty, both George and Kate fell asleep. The next morning Kate discovered George on the throw rug beside Leo’s bed, which was where he had slept ever since.
Kate looked at the list of specials on the menu and laughed. “Here, Leo, they’ve got meatloaf.” She turned the menu where Leo could see the handwritten list of choices in the back plastic sleeve. “See, Leo? That spells meatloaf.”
“Doggie,” Leo said, without looking up.
“Okay, there’s meatloaf, broasted chicken, pot roast, and chicken livers.”
“Chee-kin,” Leo said.
“Broasted chicken? Like fried chicken, Leo?”
But she’d lost him. “Okay, Leo, I’m going to order you the chicken unless you say different. And mashed potatoes and green beans. And milk.” Kate immediately heard an echo of Cory’s voice, telling her that Leo didn’t talk because she talked for him.
“It’s Kate, isn’t it? Kate Edgers?” A familiar woman stood shyly at the edge of the table.
Kate smiled automatically. “Let’s see, you’re—”
“Your insurance agent. Rebecca Turner? The Turner Agency?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, you’re out of context. But I knew you looked familiar. Sit down, come on.”
Rebecca Turner looked wistfully over her shoulder at a side booth where a cup of coffee steamed next to a crumb-crusted puddle of water. A half-filled glass of ice water sprouted two straws, and a lemon slice had been tossed to the other side of the table. An enormous purse of astounding ugliness was open on one seat. Kate wondered where purses like that were sold, imagining a special section in a musty department store. A yellow legal pad, pages covered in large loopy script, sat at an angle from the sugar packets and salt and pepper shakers.
“Just for a minute,” Rebecca said. She looked cautiously at Leo, as if he might fly out of his chair and bite her neck. Kate recognized the look of a woman who was childless by choice.
“Hello,” Rebecca said.
Leo ignored her, and Rebecca turned away, social obligation to child fulfilled. She leaned forward, shoulders rounded. “I was wondering if you got the letter I sent.”
Rebecca was a pretty woman, green-eyed, with long brunette hair pulled back in a sloppy chignon. She wore red lipstick over full, bee-stung lips; no eye makeup. Her brow was creased, as if she’d been worrying or had a headache; maybe both. She had a gentle, nonthreatening demeanor and seemed to be totally absorbed in her work.
I hope she’s not going to try to sell me life insurance or annuities, Kate thought.
“I was concerned,” Rebecca said. “I didn’t get an answer and I wanted to make sure everything was okay, and that you got your coverage taken care of somewhere else.”
Kate frowned. “Did the policy lapse or something? I think I’m paid up, but I can make sure and look at my checkbook when I get home.”
“No, no no, do you think I would bother you about that in a restaurant? No, girl, but your husband … you know he took you off the auto policy when he added the life insurance?”
“What life insurance?”
Rebecca frowned. “The policy he took out on you last month. Your signature was on the app. He said when he brought the check in for the life insurance that you were going off the joint auto policy, because even with the discounts it was going to be cheaper for you to have your own policy with another company.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you saying that Cory took me off the car insurance policy?” Kate did not voice her other thought—that Cory could take a life policy out on her without telling her.
Rebecca leaned across the table and there was a knowing look in her eyes. “Kate, he took you off the auto policy three weeks ago, and if you didn’t get another one somewhere else, you’re not covered.” It was clear from Rebecca’s tone of voice that she considered no auto coverage on a level with jumping out of an airplane sans parachute.
“Can he do that? Just take me off without my permission?”
“Yes. That’s why I always send a letter, just to make sure the other party knows. Sometimes, usually when there is a divorce or a separation involved, the spouse doesn’t realize they were taken off the policy.”
“I didn�
��t get a letter.”
“He had me send it to a P.O. box, instead of the home address.”
He has a post office box? Kate thought.
“I can get you a quote first thing in the morning, or you’re welcome to stop in. You should get a pretty good rate. As I remember, it’s Cory who has the accidents on his driving record.”
Kate wondered how to explain a situation she did not understand herself, but evidently Rebecca did not require an explanation. It was clear she had seen this sort of thing before.
“If you haven’t ordered yet, the meatloaf is good tonight,” Rebecca told her.
Kate put a hand out. “Thanks, by the way.”
“I’m just relieved we got it sorted.” Rebecca stood up. “Let’s talk tomorrow, Kate. I can spin you off on your own policy, if that’s what you want. I’ll call you with a quote.”
She went back to her booth, picked up the small blue-and-white ticket left on her table, rummaged through a wallet and left a generous tip. “’Night, Lennie.”
“’Night,” Leo said, pouring salt into his hand.
A small part of Kate’s mind registered a shocked pleasure that Leo had responded, especially when called by the wrong name, but for the most part she was thinking about what Rebecca had just said. That one, Cory had taken her off the auto policy; two, he’d taken a life insurance policy out on her; and three, he had mentioned neither. No doubt, if she brought it up, she would find that he had put her on another auto policy with another company, and that the life insurance was some kind of joint policy, that left her well-provided for, and covered funeral expenses for them both. Cory was high-handed with the finances, though Kate did most of the day-to-day bill-paying and budgeting.
Money embarrassed Kate. She had that ingrained Southerner’s reticence about finances, and had always understood from childhood that one does not ask for things.
But she knew she’d paid the auto insurance premium, six months in full, and wondered if a refund had been issued. Maybe it had. Issued and mailed to Cory’s post office box. What other things had he directed to his private address? When was the last time she’d received a statement on their joint mutual fund?
Kate was no longer hungry. She wanted to go straight home and look through the bankbooks and check statements and see what else Cory had been up to. It would be easier and more immediate to keep track of the finances online, but Cory had always been adamant to the point of paranoia that they not access or put out any financial information over the Internet. It occurred to Kate that by preventing her instant access to their accounts, it would be easy for Cory to initiate transactions that would take her weeks to discover.
The dinner crowd was beginning to stream in for an early supper, and the empty tables were filling up. Kate’s waitress, Renée, came by with Kate’s tea and Leo’s milk and took their orders for the daily specials. The woman was slender, with short hair, salt-and-pepper gray, and she brought Leo a package of saltine crackers.
“You having chicken again tonight, Leo?” Renée wore easy-fit jeans and a Tennessee Vols T-shirt.
Leo wrapped his fingers around the package of crackers, crumbling them in his fist.
“Leo,” Kate said.
Renée laughed. “So long as they keep him busy, it doesn’t really matter if he eats them.” She patted Kate’s shoulder. “I’ll put your order in.”
It was the sudden drop in noise level that made Kate look up. Two men in suits stood in the doorway of the dining room. One was young, with a blond crew cut and dark roots. Not local. The other was nearing sixty and had a relaxed self-assurance. Both of them looked at her. Kate turned away, but was aware that they were crossing the room toward her. Her hands began to tremble and she looked up and watched them. Everyone in the dining room stared.
“Mrs. Edgers?” The blond opened a leather ID. Kate took the time to look it over. Agent Wilson McCoy of the ATF. The other, Alexander Rugger, Assistant Special Agent of the Nashville office.
Kate stood so abruptly her water glass toppled sideways. Water flowed across the table and dripped to the floor.
Cory had told her to expect this, and she’d already talked to that police captain, Mendez. Maybe it was the surprise that was rattling her. Being approached in a public place with no warning.
Kate took a deep breath. Her knees felt rubbery and she sat back down. She picked up the water glass, looked at Leo, who was still smashing crackers. The cellophane had split and beige crumbs accumulated on the plastic tablecloth.
Kate was aware that the men asked permission to sit, that Renée came by with a thick cloth to clean up the water, that the men refused any offer of food. She felt disconnected, like she’d taken a double dose of antihistamines.
The men took up space, their knees under the table too close to hers, their polished black shoes taking more than their share of room. Kate tucked her feet under her chair, and watched Leo closely. If he started swinging his feet, he’d hit both of the men in the knees.
Kate shut her eyes just for a moment. For some stupid reason she was thinking about the chalkboard on the wall next to the TV listing the dessert menu. There was butterscotch pie tonight, which she’d been looking forward to, but she couldn’t order dessert with those men staring at her, she couldn’t eat with the men staring at her, and when they left, she wouldn’t be able to eat knowing everybody in the dining room was staring at her.
She had a terrible hostesslike compulsion to offer to buy the men dinner. Did she have enough money? She was pretty sure Golden Girls took debit cards, but what if Cory had taken money out of the account and she didn’t have enough?
The two agents exchanged looks, and Kate wondered if they’d asked her a question. The blond, McCoy, shrugged. “Mrs. Edgers, we’re investigating the disappearance of Cheryl Dunkirk, who as you know—”
“I’m aware of the situation.” Kate looked over her shoulder. No one was out-and-out staring, but people were aware.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, realized Renée was beside her, balancing a round tray of food in her free hand.
“I’m sorry, Renée. Can we … can we wait on the food just for a few minutes?”
“Everything okay here?” Renée asked, keeping a hand on Kate’s shoulder.
Kate felt steadier. She realized that everyone in the restaurant who was a regular had taken her side, whatever side that was. Two men in suits against a woman and a four-year-old child. She had mysteriously become part of the community.
Rugger looked at Renée. “I don’t think we need anything just now.”
“You want me to go get the owner?” Renée asked Kate.
“No, Renée, thanks. Everything is okay.”
“You sure, honey?”
“I’m sure.”
“Just wave if you need me. I’ll be watching.”
“Thanks,” Kate said. She waited until the woman was out of earshot. “I would have appreciated a phone call from you setting up an interview, and I’d also have preferred to talk to you somewhere other than a public restaurant.”
“We were on the way to your house, and stopped across the highway to ask directions. Guy at the Git and Go said you’d just filled up your Wrangler, and had stopped in here. He suggested we could catch up with you a lot easier here. He said we didn’t have a chance in hell of finding your house.”
Kate wasn’t surprised how aware people were of her every move. The good and bad of small towns.
“I’ve talked to Detective Mendez from Lexington. I’ve talked to Agent Benden of the Knoxville ATF. I don’t have anything new to tell you. And you are, after all, talking about my husband. I don’t have to make a statement or testify against him.”
McCoy ran a hand over his close-clipped hair. “If you think your husband is innocent, Mrs. Edgers, why are you worried about testifying in court?”
“Don’t patronize me.” Kate had endured the humiliation of hearing about Cheryl Dunkirk from her mother, though Cory swore he’d been on his way home to tell her i
n person. He’d dismissed the hints of suspicion about his part in the disappearance as ludicrous, something the Lexington police department was using to hide their own inability to come up with Cheryl’s whereabouts. He’d reassured Kate that he was still working with the Lexington ATF office, and hinted that there was a deeper investigation going on, involving something Cheryl had been tangled up in—and that he himself was a major player in the ATF investigation, as he’d mentored the girl quite a bit. It wasn’t anything he could talk about; Kate would have to trust him. And he’d told her, with unmistakable smugness, that it would not be long before he was in the clear … even a hero, though he hoped the publicity wouldn’t come to that. Some things needed to be kept out of the public eye, just for the sake of professionalism.
Cory had been livid when he found out she’d talked to Detective Mendez. She had told Cory she’d left the detective standing on the porch, but in truth she had invited the detective in and given him a cup of coffee and a homemade chocolate chip cookie.
Detective Mendez had called first, arrived on time, and been oddly reassuring—quiet, comfortable to be around. He seemed to understand a lot without being told and had gone out of his way to make it clear that he would not mention their conversation to her husband unless it was necessary. She hadn’t had any information for the detective. He’d had a long drive for nothing. She had wondered, afterward, why he had assumed she wouldn’t tell Cory about it. Later, she wished she hadn’t. Maybe he’d been giving her advice.
Kate looked at the two men sitting at her table and did not think that her husband was on his way to becoming an ATF hero.
“Mrs. Edgers?” Ruggers said. “Would you like us to come back some other time? When we’re not disturbing your dinner?”
Smart, Kate thought. Good police work. Make the witness feel like she has control.
“Ask your questions,” she said. “I’ll cooperate as much as I can. I didn’t know Cheryl Dunkirk, but I hope you find her, I hope she’s okay. Anything I can do to help.”
Fortunes of the Dead Page 15