wade had arranged with Duane, to drive to the Caruthers’ cottage on Hyatt Lake early the next morning. Wade made a stop outside the Buttermilk Café so his deputy could pick up sandwiches and coffees for the drive, and Duane came back with a veggie wrap for himself, cheddar and beef for Wade, as well as two to-go cups.
“Forgot you like your coffee black, and I asked for two lattes,” Carter apologized as he filled the cup holders. “Want me to run back and change the order?”
“Don’t bother. This is fine.” As Wade took a sip of the rich, creamy latte, he wondered if his deputy was on to him. One day he might have to publically admit he preferred these things.
They arrived at the Caruthers’ cottage just before two in the afternoon. The log building was nestled into a grove of aspen and the short driveway was so jammed with emergency response vehicles they had to pull in on the shoulder of the main road. Parked near the house was a cherry red Mazda, which Wade assumed to be Joelle’s vehicle.
He stopped to glance in the window and felt his chest tighten at the sight of a baby’s car seat in the rear. A take-out cup from Starbucks was in the cup-holder, but apart from that, the interior was neat.
As he straightened, one of the officers from Ashland, a tall, blond man, obviously the one in charge, approached him.
“I’m Wade MacKay.” He showed his badge, then introduced his deputy.
“You made good time. Todd Waverman.” The tall blond main offered him a hand. Todd looked to be in his fifties. He had rough features and a no-bull-shit manner about him. “The baby is still missing. We’ve contacted the usual babysitter, but the husband already spoke to her and she has no clue. As for the husband, he’s still being questioned up in Ashland. Have you spoken to Joelle?”
“We got her statement, but it’s not helpful. She didn’t recognize her name when I told her who she was. She has no memory of her husband or baby either—though the fact that she had worked for the Shakespeare Company seemed familiar to her. According to the neurologist who treated her after the accident, unpredictable memory loss is not uncommon with the sort of severe head injury she sustained in the accident.”
“That could be.” Waverman’s eyes narrowed in the bright sunlight. “Or she feels guilty about something and she’s faking amnesia.”
Wade pushed aside an unexpected—and inappropriate—urge to protect Joelle. “That’s possible, of course.”
“Has your team found anything in the cottage?” Duane asked. He had out his pen and notebook and had been busy jotting things down since they arrived.
Wade gave the cottage another look. It was an attractive place, but small. At best it would have two bedrooms.
“No sign of a struggle, no traces of blood. Nothing. We found her purse and her phone right where her husband said they would be. We’ve also recovered her laptop and we’ve got someone going through her recent calls and emails. Top priority is searching the grounds—there’s a lot to cover. The cottage comes with about five acres of land, stretching back to the lake.”
Wade followed the line of Todd’s finger. The lake wasn’t far, maybe three hundred feet from the home. A sandy path cut through the woods toward it. About seven or eight suited-up searchers were visible from where he stood. He imagined more were fanned out over the property.
“Mind if we take a quick look inside?”
“Suit up, then go on in. It’s a peculiar case. If you see anything we missed, let me know.”
Wade stepped inside, feeling more curious than normal about a potential crime scene. Homes revealed a lot about the people who lived there. And he knew so little about Joelle and who she’d been before the accident.
Hopefully he’d fill in some of the empty blanks here.
The air inside was stale, at odds with the cheery pale-green paint and bright-red fabric on the sofa and chairs. Sandals and running shoes were piled by the door and several colorful baby toys were strewn on the living room carpet. Other than that, the entry and living room looked neat.
Wade passed through an arched opening to the kitchen, which had pine cabinetry and white appliances. A high-chair was parked next to the table and several plastic bowls and bottles had been left on a rack to dry by the sink.
On the fridge were about a dozen photographs, most of them of a baby girl, from infancy to what Wade presumed was close to her current age of ten months.
Cute kid.
But what really drew his interest were the three photographs of Joelle and Richard Caruthers. One had been taken on a beach, another at a restaurant and a third on stage. In the third photo, Joelle was wearing a period costume and Richard was dressed in black jeans and shirt. He appeared to be giving her instruction about something.
Duane stuck close behind him as he gave the rest of the cottage a quick tour. There were other framed photos in the bedroom projecting the same image of a happy couple and their new child. Two nightstands flanked the queen-sized bed. One was tidy, with only a lamp and a small bowl containing change.
The other had a bottle of hand cream, a half-empty glass of water, a pair of pink reading glasses and a book that gave Wade a sense of déjà vu. It was one of Dougal’s, A Murder in the Family. With gloved hands, Wade picked it up and turned it over.
He was pretty sure this was the same book he’d seen in Joelle’s room in the women’s shelter. As he flipped through the pages, the story came back to him. It was about a man who’d killed his wife and gotten away with it for fifteen years before the cops finally built a case against him.
When he flipped all the way to the back, he saw a page had been ripped out. No doubt this was the author bio page he’d found in Chet Walker’s truck.
He pointed out the find to Duane, who made a note of it, then took the book to one of Todd Waverman’s team members to be filed as evidence.
Meanwhile Wade moved on to the bathroom. There were several baskets containing an astonishing large number of beauty projects. He supposed that made sense given that Joelle had done hair and makeup for a living.
To the right of the bathroom was a tiny second bedroom with only space enough for a crib, small dresser and a rocking chair. The color scheme was white and yellow, which reminded Wade of the flannel blanket Joelle had been carrying with her in the truck. He’d included the detail in Joelle’s statement. It might prove important at some point.
On his way down the back hall, Wade turned for a final look at the main living area. The afternoon sun was coming in the south-facing windows, and something glinted in a narrow space between the pine floorboards.
He went to investigate, and plucked out a delicate wedding band. There was an inscription in letters so tiny Wade could hardly read them: Never Doubt My Love, followed by a year, which Wade assumed was when Joelle and Richard had married. As he passed this to another of the crime scene people, he wished he could take it back to Twisted Cedars, and like Cinderella’s prince with the slipper, try it on Joelle’s finger.
He had no doubt that it would fit.
But why was it here, on the floor? Had it fallen accidentally, somehow? Or had Joelle flung it at Richard in a rage during an argument?
chapter twenty-five
as Wade and his deputy exited through the back of the cottage, a robin inspecting the grass for worms flew up into a nearby fir tree for cover. Wade and Carter followed the path to the lake. There was a fire pit at the halfway point, circled by four Adirondack chairs. Five officers were searching the shoreline and Todd Waverman was one of them. When he spotted Wade, he scrambled up the bank, and motioned that they should sit on the chairs by the fire pit.
“What did you think of the cabin?” Todd asked.
Wade told him about the book and the wedding ring. “Seems odd she would come to Twisted Cedars because she saw the name in a bio at the end of a book. Doesn’t make sense. As for the wedding ring, you can tell Joelle used to wear one. She has a tan line. So I’m pretty sure it’s hers.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Todd agreed.
&nb
sp; Deputy Carter looked up from taking his notes. “You stated Richard Caruthers left his wife and kid behind on Friday and that was the last time he spoke to her. Did he talk to them by phone at any time in the week?”
“He claims he was too busy with work. Apparently opening night for the play is next week.”
“That sounds fishy to me, sir,” Duane said. “My wife and I don’t even have a kid, but if I left her for a week, she’d want me to phone. No matter how busy I was.”
Wade nodded, mulling over the timeline. “When did Caruthers say he left the cottage on Friday night?”
“After dinner, around eight o’clock.” One of the men at the lake called out, and Todd jumped to his feet. Wade and Carter followed him down to the shore. But when the man who’d called the alert, withdrew his net from the lake, all he had was an old hiking boot.
Todd shook his head, discouraged, then refocused on their conversation. “Where were we? Oh, yeah. Caruthers. He says he drove directly home that Friday night, and stayed there, but he has no witnesses.”
“Maybe he spent some time on the home computer?”
“Nope. Says he just watched TV then went to bed.”
So it would be impossible to verify his story.
“If the husband is telling the truth, something happened to Joelle and the baby between that time, and a week later when he showed up at the cottage on Friday morning,” Wade said.
“Agreed. So let’s come at this from the other side,” Todd suggested. “What time did that truck driver leave Klamath Falls a week later on Saturday morning?”
“Seven a.m.” Carter had flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “Which would put Chet Walker in the right section of highway 66 around eight a.m.”
“Fastest I could imagine Joelle walking the five miles from the cottage to the 66 is about two hours,” Wade said. “Longer if she was injured, or disoriented.”
“So something happened between eight o’clock Friday night and six the following morning.” The Ashland Detective shook his head. “That’s a big spread of time. We’ll get more people out questioning the neighbors. But so far no one has come forward as having heard or seen anything out of the ordinary in the past two weeks.”
“Have you checked with their neighbors in town?” the deputy asked. “To see if they can confirm the husband’s arrival home on Friday?”
“We’re in the process of checking. So far, no luck confirming the Friday night alibi. But the closest neighbors on either side have admitted to hearing arguments at the Caruthers’ home since the baby was born.”
“And what does the husband have to say about that?” Wade wondered.
“He admits the baby not sleeping well has caused some stress. Joelle wishes he would spend more time at home, helping her. But he’s getting pressure from the Theatre, too, needing this next play to be a big success.”
“Nothing too out of the normal, there,” Duane said.
“We’ve just started our investigation,” Waverman said. “I suspect more dirt will rise to the surface.”
Wade didn’t doubt that it would.
* * *
When they were ready to leave, Wade asked if he could take one of the photos of Joelle with her husband, and another of Josephine. “The pictures might help Joelle remember.”
Todd agreed it was worth a try. He’d no sooner asked one of his men to seal the two photos in plastic, than his attention was caught by a new vehicle pulling to a stop on the road.
Wade looked as well. A C model, black Mercedes was pulling up behind Wade’s SUV, and a well-dressed man wearing sunglasses stepped out. He was medium height, with a barrel chest and long legs. Even from a distance, Wade immediately recognized him from the photos as Richard Caruthers. The chin gave him away.
Todd wasn’t happy. “He ought to know better than to be here. I warned him this morning we were cordoning off the area.”
“We’ll remind him on our way out,” Wade offered. He asked Duane to wait for the photographs, then made his way down the lane and to the road.
Caruthers was looking at Wade’s SUV, and as Wade approached, the other man lifted his sunglasses and narrowed his eyes. “Why are the authorities from Curry County here? Is that where my wife is? Have you found my daughter?”
“No news on your child, I’m afraid.”
The man’s shoulders sagged.
Wade introduced himself. “And you, I presume, are Richard Caruthers.”
Without leaving time for the other man to confirm this fact, he continued, “Detective Waverman has a message for you. He’d like you to return home and keep yourself available for further questioning.”
“If your wife had been in an accident and been gone for a week, and your child were missing, would you be okay with sitting at home by a phone and waiting for news?”
Wade studied the man, wishing his true motivations could be read as easily as the designer name on the side of his sunglasses. Was he an innocent man, distraught about his wife and missing daughter?
Or did he know a lot more than he was telling?
Wade kept his tone neutral. “It’s not easy. But you’re better off leaving this to the professionals. I’ve seen many a search effort bungled by a well-meaning, but untrained civilians.”
“They told me my wife has been found. That she was in a truck accident last Saturday—"
The man’s voice broke, and he couldn’t go on. He went back to his car and pulled out a bottle of water. After a long drink he asked, “Is she okay? They told me she had a brain injury.”
The Ashland police would have answered these questions for him. But Wade could understand a man needing to hear it twice. “She’s been released from the hospital, but she has some memory issues. In fact, she doesn’t know her own name. She doesn’t remember you, either.”
“Our baby?”
“No.”
“I can’t believe this. It’s like a god-dammed horror movie. Can’t you at least tell me where Joelle is? I have to see her.”
“Probably not a good idea just yet,”
Duane joined them then. As he introduced himself to Caruthers, he tucked the photos into his jacket pocket.
Wade watched as his deputy made a head to toe sweep of the man.
“Nice socks,” he commented.
“What?” Caruthers looked from the deputy, to his own legs. Pulling up on his dark, tailored jeans he revealed socks that matched the violet shade of his shirt. “Who the hell cares about my socks?”
“Well, you do, I guess. Since you took the time to color coordinate your outfit. Nice shoes, too. Italian?”
Caruthers looked at him as if he was nuts. “How can it matter where I bought my shoes?”
“Just think it’s funny. If I was going to a cottage for a summer weekend, I’d probably wear sandals, shorts and a T-shirt. But hey. That’s me.”
Caruthers was clearly flustered by Carter’s observations. “I didn’t know my child was missing when I got dressed this morning. And I sure as hell didn’t realize my wife was in a crash last Saturday and that she doesn’t even remember who she is anymore.”
“I guess if you’d called her some time during the week, though, we would have found out these things sooner.”
“I was busy. And we’d had an argument. I figured she needed time to cool off.” Caruthers’ shoulders slumped. “You’re right, though. I should have called. I should have checked on her. Joelle always says I get too obsessed about my work. I wish to God—”
But he didn’t share what he was wishing, instead he began to pace alongside his car, his fine leather soles crunching on the gravel.
“I haven’t got a clue what to do right now. Sitting and waiting at home is impossible.”
“Do you have family you can call?”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, started scrolling. “My parents are in a care home. Neither one is very healthy. I’m not going to upset them until I know for sure what’s going on. Joelle’s mom died a long time ago. I do ha
ve a sister in Chicago. But she has three kids and a job...” He pocketed the phone.
“Friends?” Carter suggested.
“All of my friends are at the theatre. Christ. The play. We’re supposed to open in six days.” He sagged against the side of his car.
“As always, Shakespeare says it best. When sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions.” He stopped. “That probably sounds pretentious to you. But whatever’s happened in my life—both the good and the bad—Shakespeare has always had the perfect words to describe what I’m feeling.”
Wade exchanged a glance with Duane, and could tell they were both thinking the same thing. If Caruthers was in the mood to talk, they sure as hell were going to stick around and listen.
“You said there’d been an argument. What was it about?”
“What do all couples with a young child argue about? She thought I was working too much. And she was right. We hadn’t planned on having children. The theatre—and Joelle. That was all I needed to make me happy.”
“So life was pretty much perfect...before the baby came along?” Wade prompted.
“Yes. And no. The reality of a baby is different than the perception. Of course I fell in love with her the moment she was born. I keep thinking about her. How cute she looked in her new Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas, the last time I saw her. She loved when I read those stories to her.”
“Loved?” Wade’s eyebrows shot up at Caruthers’ use of the past tense. “Do you think your daughter is dead, Richard?”
“I don’t know what to think. But I’m scared. Wouldn’t you be?” Caruthers was gazing down at the lake now, where a couple divers were suiting up at the end of the dock.
“You keep looking toward the lake. Did your daughter like the water?”
“She was scared of it. But she was only ten months old. Still in the crawling stage.” Caruthers wheeled on Wade, suddenly. “You have to let me talk to Joelle. I need to know what happened.”
“Calm down.” Wade put a hand on the man’s chest and forced him to take a few steps backward.
“Can you tell me about Joelle’s accident, at least? Detective Waverman said she was in a truck that drove off the road and down an embankment. I looked it up online. The stories say the driver died. His name was Chet Walker and he was forty-six years old. What was my wife doing in his truck in the first place?”
forgotten (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 2) Page 15