Letters to the editor had gone from cranky to outraged, and no one had anything to say about anything else but Sheriff Dern, and that wasn’t only because of Alice Pulaski.
But bottom line, people wanted Alice found.
Of course, this would lead me straight to a press conference where I offered substantial rewards for information.
But what did I know about finding missing girls?
I had my own situation happening, this being my eldest, Fenn, who was also getting impatient.
I knew this when she’d called that morning, and upon my greeting of, “Hello, love of my life,” I received, “What the fuck, Mom?”
Allow me a moment to offer a lesson in why you shouldn’t stereotype:
My eldest, who had dreamed of flying, my guess, since she tore down her teddy bear mobile and the very next day stole a plane toy from a friend in her toddler group and refused to give it up, no matter how much he bawled or how much I tried to tug it out of her strong baby hands, entered college on an ROTC scholarship she did not need. Four years later, she did not wash out of UPT (Undergraduate Pilot Training). She was currently stationed in Korea, and she would wear false eyelashes behind the visor of her helmet in her cockpit, if she could.
I had nursed honesty and openness between us since they were little girls.
So I also knew she was enjoying the smorgasbord of male delicacies offered to her, because, “You gotta find the right dick to commit to, and it’s good to get a look at a lot of them so you know you got it right. You hear what I’m saying?”
I heard, and understood, as getting it right was a lesson I’d inadvertently taught her by getting it so very wrong in marrying her father…and then her stepfather.
On the other hand, my youngest, Camille was just as outwardly girlie as Fenn (when Fenn was allowed to be).
And she was still with her high school girlfriend, who was even more girlie, Joan.
There was one box we all fit in to.
We were humans.
Any other box was just plain bullshit.
“I mean, this is the FBI,” Fenn ranted on. “They’ve got nothing on those poor women and you’re in Bumfuck?”
“The FBI is not keeping me informed of the intricacies of their investigation, but I feel sure they’re diligently investigating.”
“The intricacies are, when that dime-a-dozen, crazy piece of shit didn’t get what he wanted from you, your hand in marriage after he asked you every week for three years, he kidnapped two women, roped Michael, Russ and Alicia in on his bullshit, and now you all are living under the control of one serious sick fuck.”
I gave it a moment, and then said, “I love how much you love me.”
My daughter gave it a moment and replied, “Obviously the United States Air Force doesn’t care much you’re dealing with this, not because they’re assholes, just because our remit is a whole lot broader. But I told my squadron commander that shit is real at home, and if some miracle occurs, even if it’s a random TDY that brought me closer to you for a while, I want it.”
“Don’t tell your sister, but you’ve always been my perfect daughter.”
“You say that shit to her too, don’t you?”
“I don’t recall,” I lied. “But in my old age, my memory is slipping.”
“You’re using that way too soon.”
“Hmm…”
“I met someone,” she announced, and I perked up. “His name is James. He flies F-16s. He’s a total ass. And I think I’m falling in love with him.”
For reasons I was not about to reflect on, visions of taciturn Cade Bohannan standing in my reading room, arms crossed on his chest filled my head.
Particularly around the “total ass” part.
But the last part too.
I mean, it had not been mentioned…
But there was Cade. And Celeste. And Jace and Jesse.
But no word of Mom or Mrs. Bohannan had been breathed.
“It does tend to go that way,” I said to my daughter.
“If I don’t kill him in the meantime, maybe we can arrange leave at the same time and he can come meet you.”
Oh.
Well then.
This was not a perkiness false alarm.
“I’d like that,” I replied.
“Whatever, I’m probably going to break his heart.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I’m Warren Packard’s daughter, am I not?”
Warren hadn’t only done me in, he’d had two other wives, both of whom had divested him of a lot of money, so he got smart, and from then on, only had girlfriends.
And he had a lot of those.
I did my best not to affect how my girls saw their fathers, one way or the other.
I also had to admit I might have failed in this.
But relations were strained between Fenn and Warren, and Camille and Angelo because Warren was Warren, and Angelo was Angelo, and my girls were smart and strong. So for the most part, their fathers dug their own graves.
“You’re also my daughter, and I didn’t repeat the sins of my mother, did I?”
I could hear the smile in her voice over thousands of miles when she decreed, “You rock the pep talk, Mom.”
“Thank you, lovely. Now stop worrying about me and stop worrying about falling in love. It’s a good thing, regardless of how terrifying it is. Go off and keep our country safe.”
“Okay, that ‘terrifying’ thing might have taken some of the shine off your pep talk.”
I laughed in a way I was sure she heard it and that it was genuine.
We talked longer, not much, but her call was the pep talk I needed.
And things were looking up. Since the call, I got an email from Delgado’s office manager, Elvira, and they’d arranged a meet with Polly’s nephew, so maybe my new lighting could go in.
This news had set me to hitting go on a variety of other things, which would be additions to the things I’d pressed go on over the last few days (namely a new office desk and furniture and accoutrement for the deck and the pier).
I’d also found this nifty software that you could enter a room’s measurements, it gave you a mockup and a bunch of digital tools so you could design your own closet.
I spent at least an hour (okay, maybe two) on that and was still enthralled by it when instinctively, my head came up.
Celeste was at the back door.
Her hand was pressed against the glass.
Her eyes were aimed to me.
Her expression said it all.
The sour taste was back in my mouth as I got up, walked to the doors, opened one and said to her, “Go to them, I’ll be right down. Is there a direct path or do I need to use the road?”
“There’s a path. It’s—”
“I’ll find it, lovely. Go.”
She went.
I ran upstairs to put on some shoes.
Ten
Pistachio Green
The path was direct from a spot between two trees at the edge of the clearing of my yard (as it was, there was no grass, just dirt, pine needles and cones), to a spot in the clearing at the back of the Bohannan compound.
And a compound it was.
There was the green metal-roofed house that was much larger than mine (it had at least a thousand extra square feet, maybe two). There was an even bigger pole barn. Another, smaller house was tucked up into the woods on the hill beyond the main house.
They had a pier as well, and again it was bigger than mine and extended so far out into the lake, it was a trick of nature, their swell of the water going inward, that I couldn’t see it from my place. And a boathouse that housed an actual boat. A sleek speed one.
Around the space there were vehicles parked haphazardly everywhere. A new blue Shelby Mustang, two Ram trucks—they seemed matching, though one was black, and one was silver— both of those parked up by the smaller house. There was also a black GMC Yukon. And there were two muddy ATVs sitting outside the pole ba
rn. Last, but not least in this vehicular collection, a restored, old-model, light-blue, soft top Ford Bronco.
I took all of this in at a glance, jogging across their pine needles to their back deck (also bigger than mine) to their back door.
I stood at it nary a second before it slid open.
Gratitude shone almost as brightly as the dismay and worry on Celeste’s face.
I stepped in.
They had a great room too. Though instead of the doors leading to the living room area closer to the lake, which fed into the kitchen and dining that was closer to the front door, it was all spread out so no matter where you were doing the things you did in the natural course of your day, you had a view to the lake. The living room was to the left, kitchen to the right.
However, this was not the house of three men and a teenage girl.
This was a veritable showplace.
Large chef’s kitchen.
Shag rug with such a rich, deep pile, it looked like fur and had to be a bitch to vacuum.
This sat over the gleaming wood floors and under the pistachio green velvet couch with steel nail details.
High-backed leather armchairs.
Enormous brushed-steel circular coffee table.
It looked like someone had told a designer, “Make it pretty, but not so the men will be uncomfortable.”
I could not wrap my head around the idea of Cade Bohannan resting his faded jeans-clad ass on pistachio velvet.
Nor could I imagine his sons doing it, but there they were, identical to each other, and the image of him, one watching me intently, one scowling at me magnificently.
Bohannan himself was in the kitchen, leaned into both hands splayed wide on his bar, his sunglasses gone.
He had close-set, hooded eyes, and they were not the deep blue of his sons’ and daughter’s.
They were clear gray.
He was also staring at me.
“Who the fuck is this?”
I turned my head back to the couch and the belligerent twin was clearly the one who spoke.
Okay, since I’d done what my mother’s intuition had told me to do, without thinking, and I was here—now what did I do?
But I knew.
I did what any mother would do in an uncertain, but intense situation.
I waded in…
And winged it.
“I’m Delphine,” I told who I knew was Jesse. “Your new neighbor. And you’re coming to dinner.” I turned to Bohannan. “Six o’clock. Sharp.”
He didn’t hesitate a beat.
He said, “We’ll be there.”
Eleven
Whadaya Know?
I had a dilemma.
Because, by the time I’d raced back up to my house, dashed off a grocery list for dinner and got ready to roll out, I had to stop.
Because I had been to the grocery store in Misted Pine (once), so I knew where that was.
But I also had an FBI agent looking out for me when I did.
And I was supposed to have locals taking my back when I did it again.
But they were currently busy.
I called Delgado’s team.
Elvira answered.
“I need to go to the grocery store,” I told her.
“I bet you do,” she murmured.
Her reply made one thing crystal clear: nothing got by that team.
Further indication, not that I needed it, that I’d chosen well.
“Give us ten,” she said. “We’ll call Moran.”
Then she hung up.
But I made note there was someone I could trust within the local police, and that was hard-faced Moran.
I got a text in less than ten minutes that it was all clear to roll out.
So I did.
And when I did, it was 3:45.
This was not conducive to wowing anybody with my culinary artistry, of which I had a lot, by 6:00.
But I’d have to figure it out.
I did.
Sear-roasted pork tenderloin. Cheesy polenta. Asparagus. Fresh-baked bakery rolls. And for dessert, brownie bites with a Rolo shoved in the middle.
So the brownies were made from a box.
I had a feeling the Bohannans wouldn’t complain.
I was pleased when the doorbell rang at 6:07.
Goldilocks.
Not too early.
Not too late.
Also, they didn’t tramp up to the back door.
I went to the front, looked out my peephole (you couldn’t be too careful, and I definitely couldn’t be).
And froze.
I couldn’t say I’d noticed the state of their grooming a few hours ago.
But now, all three of the men had hair still partially wet from showers. They were wearing button downs and clean jeans. And Celeste had changed into a dress.
I felt the need to start sobbing. Not crying. Not weeping. Sobbing.
I beat this need and opened the door.
“Welcome,” I said, stepping back immediately to allow entry.
I’d had time to do the most important thing of the evening.
I’d figured it out.
I knew exactly how I was going to play it.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” I shared as they marched in, doing this in a manner that it wasn’t the first time they had all shown as a family to my house when I was in said house. “We’ll get some drinks and then I’ll fill your stomachs.”
I had thought about something else in the time since then and now, and it came to mind again as I watched them filter into my house.
Jason, Jesse and Celeste looked like brothers and sister, very much so, even if the boys’ looks swung much closer to their father. And Bohannan had dominant features, so even though he didn’t have them, somewhere in his genes, those blue eyes could come from him.
But Jason and Jesse were much older. I’d be shocked if they were under twenty-five. My guess would place them at twenty-eight or nine.
Celeste was either a late baby or there were two former Mrs. Bohannans floating around.
Or, I hated to think it and hoped it was not true (though, it might explain a few things), one former and one no longer of this world.
I did not comment on this.
I said to Jason, “I know you don’t know me, even if you do. What there is to know now is that my home is a home, to everyone I know who has meaning to me. In that vein, would you get your dad and brother a drink, yourself and your sister too? I’ve got mine. There are some finishing touches I need to make on dinner.”
“Sure,” he agreed equably.
I nodded to him. “There’s beer and all sorts in the fridge. If something harder is required, the liquor chest is over there, there’s mixers and such in the cabinet.”
I pointed into the living room.
He nodded.
I turned to Celeste. “And, honey, that pitcher of ice water on the counter, could you fill the water glasses on the table? Then refill the pitcher and set it on the table.”
“On it,” she decreed, practically jumping to do something that didn’t have anything to do with carrying the heavy load she’d been carrying.
I moved to the French oven on the stove and the butter and parmesan beside it, saying, “Cade, I have a question for you.”
The guard in his tone was almost entirely concealed, a herculean feat considering the circumstances, when he offered, “Shoot.”
I glanced sideways at him standing on the other side of my bar and simply said, “David Ashbrook.”
He dipped his chin and replied with equal simplicity, “Solid.”
Okay then.
Good.
If he seemed to know what he was doing, I could hire Polly’s nephew to help me with the house.
“As a rock,” Jesse bit out with such acidity, my movements were wooden when I twisted to regard him standing next to his father opposite me at the bar. “His dad’s a dick,” he continued.
“Jess,” Bohannan murmured.
“She sh
ould know. And she should hire him,” he said to his father. Then to me, “He got Robyn pregnant in high school.”
“Oh, well, I—” I didn’t quite start.
“His dad told him to tell her to get rid of it. He told his dad it’s her body, he wasn’t gonna tell her to do shit.”
When it came, it was quiet, but as this story unfolded, Bohannan sighed.
Jesse was undeterred.
“She was gonna get an abortion anyway, but ole Don wasn’t gonna be talked to like that by his son, so he kicked him out. Robyn was sixteen. David wasn’t yet eighteen. He lived with us for, I don’t know, eight, nine months. By the way, she lost the baby.”
I turned fully to Jesse.
He kept talking.
“He worked for some outfits, not ever long because his dad kept dicking with him, and his bosses couldn’t be dealing with that shit. But he learned a lot because he’s sharp. Robyn graduated and got an associate degree. She’s a court reporter now, which is some serious cool. They got married a couple of years ago and whadaya know? They want a baby right away, because they’re that couple. They just didn’t want it when they weren’t ready, as, you know, it’s their freakin’ right.”
I had a sorry feeling I understood why Jesse was in such a bad mood, and it didn’t have much to do with the dastardly fathering of Don Ashbrook.
Even with his mood, I still knew I liked Jesse very much.
And because of his mood, I remained quiet and listened.
“But she didn’t lose the baby ten years ago because she was stressed or anything. She lost it because there’s something up with her womb. Not my business,” he shared, while sharing all David and Robyn Ashbrook’s business. “But they been having troubles getting pregnant. They’re over the freakin’ moon the latest whatever-they-did worked. She’s in her second trimester. She’s taking a break from work because court reporting can be serious stress. Until the baby comes and after, she’s being super careful. So they need money and David will break his back to do you right.”
“I’m talking to him tomorrow,” I said in a conciliatory tone.
“All right,” he spat.
The Girl in the Mist: A Misted Pines Novel Page 6