An Accidental Woman

by Barbara Delinsky

  So Griffin asked now. Reaching his exit, he ended the call. He coasted down the ramp and turned left.

  “Continue straight for five miles,” Sage prompted.

  He glanced at the monitor as he completed the turn, trying to calculate any slowdowns he might encounter. He wanted to get to the courthouse before the whole thing ended, but this road was no highway. Granted, the lanes were generously wide, but there was only one in either direction. Five miles could easily take fifteen minutes.

  He reached for the phone to call Poppy, thought twice and, instead, focusing on something with better odds for success, punched in a different number. This one belonged to Ralph Haskins, an old family friend whose skill as a private investigator had proven invaluable to Griffin’s father over the years. Ralph was always pleased to hear from a Hughes. He was also totally aware of the breaking news from New Hampshire, which meant that Griffin didn’t have to fill him in or give explanations when he asked for as much paperwork on Lisa Matlock as Ralph could find. Randy would have paperwork, but Randy’s channels were public—and besides, out of pride alone, not to mention resentment, Griffin would love to best his brother in this. Ralph was his strongest hope. He worked behind the scenes, between the lines, and underground. He had a network that was unsurpassed, and had a way of getting information other people couldn’t. Griffin knew that the smallest bit of intelligence gleaned from a medical record, school record, telephone or credit card bill might offer a clue.

  Ralph hadn’t been able to find Griffin’s sister, Cindy, but then, she knew Ralph and knew how he worked, which made it easier for her to stay one step ahead. Perhaps because of his frustration with that, he was eager to help Griffin now.

  Leaving him to it, Griffin ended the call and pressed the radio’s scan button. Moments later, he was listening to the strongest of the local stations, going from one to another. They told him that the hearing was still in progress.

  * * *

  When he arrived in West Eames a short time later, he had no trouble finding the courthouse. It was a sweet frame building that looked like a church, but there was no mistaking the crowd milling on its front steps. He spotted several crews of local reporters; as he drove past looking for a place to park, other crews were scrambling to set up across the street.He parked the Porsche on a side street and was quickly hit by the cold when he climbed from the car. Pulling on a parka, he jogged past charming little homes whose eaves dripped with ice, over two blocks of packed snow to the center of town. He reached the courthouse just as the first of those who’d been inside pushed open the large granite-gray double doors and spilled out.

  He didn’t see Heather. Nor did he see Micah or Cassie. Those coming out looked angry, not a good sign to someone praying the whole thing would be dismissed there and then.

  Feeling a sense of dread, he headed for the television camera closest to the door and positioned himself near the soundman. Within minutes, the correspondent emerged from the crowd, inserted the earpiece that she was handed, caught up the microphone, and, awaiting her cue, looked at the camera.

  “You look good, Amber,” Griffin called.

  Amber Abbott glanced at him in a moment’s surprise, then grinned. “You, too, Griff. Doin’ a story?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. What happened?”

  Eyes back on the camera, Amber adjusted the collar of her chic wool topcoat so that it didn’t obscure her jaw. “She’s being held without bail for thirty days.”

  Griffin’s heart fell. “Held?”

  “Pending receipt of the governor’s warrant from California.” Receiving her cue, Amber spoke to the camera. “Yes, Philip, the hearing here in West Eames has just concluded . . .”

  Griffin moved away, having to snake through crowds that had closed in around the building. A part of him wanted to hide, thinking thateveryone would know him for the traitor he was, but the stronger part of him needed to know more.

  He looked around for a familiar face, relieved to spot John Kipling, with his brown hair, close-cropped beard, and Sherpa jacket, coming out of the courthouse into the harsh winter sun. Griffin’s relief faded, though, when he saw the furious look on John’s face.

  Seconds later, John’s eyes met his. He had been seen. There was no turning back.

  Fighting his way up the stairs against the crowd, Griffin extended a hand. He was relieved when it was met with goodwill, and quickly pushed aside his guilt. “How can they hold her? She’s been a model citizen.”

  John urged him back down the steps with the hitch of his chin. “Cassie argued that, but she didn’t have a prayer of winning. Lisa Matlock went underground fifteen years ago. Odds say she’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  “You’re assuming the woman in there is Lisa.”

  “Not me,” John cautioned. “The judge, the prosecutor, and the FBI. And the DiCenzas,” he tacked on dryly. “Charlie DiCenza may have struck out as a vice presidential candidate, but he still has clout. Word has it he was brought into the loop long before anyone up here was, and he’s been making calls. He wants his son’s murderer caught and punished. Short of someone producing DNA evidence that proves Heather isn’t Lisa, this outcome was a fait accompli. The hearing was over before it started. There was no way she was being released.”

  “So is there DNA evidence?”

  “No. There was never any reason to collect it. Lisa had no record.”

  “Which raises the question of why she allegedly ran the guy down. She was eighteen years old. She was pretty and smart. She’d been accepted to Berkeley on scholarship. Is that someone who needed to resort to extortion?”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” John replied as they reached the bottom of the steps. Starting down the sidewalk, he shot Griffin a glance. “On scholarship? Was that in the papers?”

  “No. I got it from a contact.”

  John didn’t respond to that. As soon as the crowd thinned, he began walking faster, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Suddenly he stopped and, eyes haunted, looked at Griffin. “You should have been in there, man. The judge barely listens, then says he’s holding her for thirty days without bail. There’s total silence—disbelief—then pandemonium, but I’m not even sure Heather realized people were on her side. The court officer starts to lead her away and she turns back to look at Micah with tears streaming down her face.” He paused, swallowed. “I’ve never seen such pain.”

  Griffin heard much of it in John’s voice and felt a resurgence of guilt. The only thing easing it was the belief that this situation was temporary. “Cassie’ll get her out.”

  John pulled up his collar and resumed walking. “Yeah, but do you know what it’ll take to do that? Only part of it’s the thirty days of Heather’s life, and of Micah’s and Missy’s and Star’s. She’s part of a family, y’know? The other part’s the money. Know how much this’ll cost? Okay, so Cassie won’t charge for her time. But her out-of-pocket expenses to do a case like this might be high.”

  “She’s innocent,” Griffin insisted.

  “Well, it’ll cost her to prove it. I don’t know how they’re going to do it. Micah doesn’t have that kind of money.”

  Griffin did. He would foot the bill in an instant. Not that Poppy would let him do that if she knew the truth. Nor would Micah accept it. They wouldn’t want money from the guy who’d caused the mess in the first place.

  John went on. “Micah particularly won’t have that kind of money if he blows the sap run. He took out loans for the new equipment and had it all figured out, exactly what he needed to gross each year to pay down the loans. If Heather’s in jail and he’s preoccupied, or if something doesn’t work—one piece of the puzzle doesn’t fit right—he’s in trouble. Sap’ll be running within the month, and Heather’s sitting in jail. The timing of this sucks.” He stopped again and eyed Griffin strangely. “What are you doing here?”

  Stopping alongside him, Griffin rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Here? I was heading for Lake Henry and got sidetracked.”

&
nbsp; “Where’ve you been? Last time we talked, you were interested in Poppy. Disappearing for weeks doesn’t say much for that.” He set off again.

  Griffin kept pace. “She hasn’t exactly been encouraging.”

  “You knew she wouldn’t be. You knew she had issues. Does she know you’re coming now?”

  “No. I thought I’d surprise her.”

  “Poppy doesn’t like surprises.”

  “Right,” Griffin said. “But it’s my only shot of getting a foot in the door.”

  John stopped at a Tahoe with “Lake News” written on the door. “Why now?” He pulled keys from his pocket. “If you’re thinking of writing about Heather, think again. Know how Poppy feels about people who make money off the bad luck of others?”

  “I sure do,” Griffin said. “She told me that back in September. But I’m not writing about Heather. I can’t. I’m in the middle of something else.”

  “So why did you talk to your contacts about Heather?”

  “Hell, if I can come up with something that’ll help . . .”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I think Heather’s being railroaded.”

  “You think she’s innocent? Because she’s Poppy’s friend?”

  “In part.”

  John stared at him. “Keep going. Poppy’s gonna want to know the rest.”

  Griffin was silent. When John didn’t budge, he felt a sinking inside. John knew, then. He had seen the interview with Randy and had put two and two together.

  Denying it would make things worse. So Griffin admitted, “Yeah, she’s gonna want to know the rest, but that’ll be harder for me to explain. It wasn’t deliberate. When I remarked about that picture on my brother’s wall, the last thing I expected was that Randy’d come snooping up here.”

  John’s stare grew vaguely blank before turning into a puzzled frown. “Randall Hughes. Oh God, I’m slow.”

  It was a minute before Griffin realized what he’d done. With a frustrated sound, he hung his head. Then he raised it and sighed in chagrin.He didn’t know what John thought he was keeping from Poppy, but he’d surely stepped into the trap. “Guess I’m slower than you.”

  John looked as angry as he had when he had come through the courthouse doors. “You led them here.”

  “No,” Griffin replied. “I remarked on a similarity. Randy took it from there.”

  “Same difference. Poppy figured it was someone who was here in the fall. She won’t be happy it was you.”

  Griffin actually took that as a positive sign. It suggested at least that she felt something for him.

  “Are you going to tell her?” John asked.

  “Probably. I’m not good at keeping things in.” As you just saw, he wanted to add. “On the other hand, if one of my people comes up with something that proves Heather wasn’t Lisa, I’ll be in the clear.” When John said nothing, he tacked on a less sure, “Don’t you think?”

  John looked at him a minute longer, then shook his head and unlocked the car. “What a mess,” he mumbled as he slid inside.

  Griffin caught the door before it could close. “I need a place to stay. Will anyone in town rent me a room?” The nearest inn was a fifty-minute drive from Lake Henry. He didn’t want to be that far away, especially not in winter with snow a common thing in these parts. If he was to be of help, he needed to hang out in the general store and pick up gossip at the post office. He needed to be seen around town enough so that people got used to him. That was the only way he would get the inside scoop on Heather, and he needed that. An in-depth study of the vanished Lisa was only half the story; an in-depth study of Heather was the other.

  Not that he was doing a story. He had a book to finish and didn’t have time. But, boy, this subject sure fired him up more than a watered-down tribute to Prentiss Hayden did.

  John looked out the windshield. “The town’s going to shut out the press.”

  “I’m not the press. I’m Poppy’s friend.”

  He glared at Griffin. “That’s worse. Know how protective Lake Henry is of Poppy? She’s special. Very special. She might be rosy and upbeat, but her life is no cakewalk.”

  “I know that,” Griffin said, and he did. He knew things about Poppy that he doubted even John knew, and he hadn’t relied on Ralph Haskins or any other contact to do the research. He’d done it himself.

  John started up the Tahoe. He revved the motor once, let it idle, revved it a second time. Then his eyes found Griffin’s. “Charlie Owens, owns the general store? His brother moved away a dozen years ago, but he left a place here that needs checking all winter. If you want to earn brownie points with Charlie—and brownie points with Charlie can take you a long way in this town—you could stay right there and do the checking for him.” He gave Griffin a guarded once-over. “Nah. Maybe you couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’d be roughing it. The place is bare bones. Middle a winter? It’s tough.”

  “I can handle tough,” Griffin said. He had hiked a good part of the Appalachian Trail and was no stranger to rustic accommodations. Wasn’t he already wearing insulated hiking boots? Besides, house-sitting was far better than renting a single room. It would give him space to set up shop. He had a biography to write. “Does it have a roof?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Heat?”

  “There’s a woodstove.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Wind. Snow. Access. Little Bear’s an island. It’s a quarter mile out.”

  Griffin had never lived on an island. “How do you get there in winter?”

  “Walk or drive. It’d be easy if you had a truck. The Porsche?” John had drooled over it the last time Griffin had been in town. Now he said a pedantic, “I don’t think so.” He moved to close the door, but Griffin held it firm.

  “I’ll rent a truck. I was planning to once I got here anyway.”

  John brightened. “Well, there’s an idea. My cousin Buck’s looking to sell his. His girl just had a baby. You could pay him twice what he’s asking and win over a whole other side of town.”

  “Done,” Griffin decided. “Where do I go?”

  * * *

  John’s cousin Buck lived on the Ridge, which was Lake Henry’s version of the wrong side of the tracks. Given that the Porsche wouldn’t go over well there—or, more aptly, would go over so well that people would pour from their homes wanting a piece of it—John suggested that Griffin stash it in a boat shed at the local marina for the duration of his stay. That put Griffin in John’s car for the ride to the Ridge.When Poppy passed John’s Tahoe in the center of town, though, she was too preoccupied to look twice. She waved in reply to John’s honk, but she neither thought about another person in the car, nor had time to stop. Micah had called and asked if she would pick up the girls at school. She had left home to do it the instant Annie Johnson arrived to cover the phones.

  Now, with a weak sun falling fast behind the evergreens, she pushed the Blazer as fast as she could on roads that were starting to ice up again. The attention required was a welcome break from her thoughts, which vacillated between outrage that Heather was being held in jail and near panic. She didn’t know where Heather had come from, only that she was a good person. Poppy liked to think that she was one, too, but she had a past. So maybe Heather did, too.

  Not liking this train of thought, she was happy to reach the school. Pulling on her gloves, which were padded and full-fingered for winter wheelchair use, she got herself out of the Blazer, and, with a bit of pushing, pulling, and wheeling, found a spot on the sidewalk where the girls would see her. She wasn’t the only one there, but she was the only one foolish enough to be out in the cold. Other parents waited in the warmth of their trucks, while school buses lined the drive.

  Poppy knew the parents in each of those other vehicles, but she didn’t look their way. To do so would be to invite talk about Heather, yelled from one rolled-down window to the next. Instead, she burrowed into her parka, w
hich was turquoise to match her chair, pulled a scarf tight around the collar, tucked her gloved hands in her pockets, and tried not to shiver. Moments later, the school bell rang. Moments after that, children in a rainbow of parkas poured from the doors, running off in whatever direction would take them home.

  Normally, Heather would have been in the line of parents. Though thebus could easily transport the girls, she had always wanted to take them home herself. Now Poppy was there in her place. It struck her that with Heather being held in jail for thirty days, this wouldn’t be a one-time shot. It also struck her that as long as the nightmare went on, she needed to do this. Heather was her friend, but she felt a responsibility that went beyond that.

  She was saved from dwelling on such thoughts when Missy and Star emerged from the school. Side by side and eager, they set off at a run toward the parents’ vehicles. Almost simultaneously, they caught sight of Poppy and stopped cold. Their excitement died. Poppy wasn’t Heather.

  Missy was the first to start forward again; Star was slower. In the time that it took for both of them to reach her, Poppy realized that not only wasn’t she Heather, but she wasn’t a parent, wasn’t a therapist, wasn’t a lawyer. She didn’t know how to explain what had happened. Micah might know, but Micah wasn’t here. That left Poppy, who had absolutely no idea what to say.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t good enough. The questions started the instant Missy reached her side. “Where’s Heather?”

  Poppy held Missy’s unzipped parka closed with one hand while she opened the other arm to Star. “She’s in West Eames.”

  “Why’s she there?” Missy asked.

  How much to say? “There are things she has to do there.” Poppy smiled to make light of it and gestured more broadly for Star to come. “So I’m here picking you up.”

  Missy wasn’t that easily satisfied. “She said she’d be back.”

  “When did she say that?”

  “When she left this morning. But she didn’t look good. She didn’t look like she wanted to go anywhere.”