Crooked Little Lies

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  But devotion borne out of a sense of duty was not the same as devotion that rose, helpless and unbidden, as the extant and unstoppable side effect of love. While Jeff’s devotion in the days and weeks following the accident had been unflagging, what else could he have done? Given the gravity of her injuries, how would it have looked if he were to desert her?

  But he must have wanted to. He must have looked at her broken, damaged body and been sickened and overwhelmed at the enormity of her need. What sort of wife could she be to him? What did she have to offer when she could barely walk or lift a hand to help herself? It was nearly four months before they had sex again, and even then, every moment was fraught with their mutual anxiety that he would somehow reinjure her or cause her fresh pain.

  Still, he never spoke of leaving her, not until almost a year after her fall when her use of the Oxy got out of control, when it was only fair. But suppose now that the worst was behind them, he continued to stay out of obligation, for the sake of appearance? Because playing the hero came naturally to him? Suppose love had nothing to do with it?

  Lauren glanced sidelong at him, where he sat at the granite-topped island in their kitchen, sipping coffee. He’d lost weight in the past two years; she could see the blades of his cheekbones. The shadows under his eyes stood out against the fresh-shaven pallor of his skin. He was different since her accident, altered in ways she didn’t know, struggling with burdens he refused to share, and in all honesty, no matter how she protested, maybe she didn’t want the weight of them. Maybe she couldn’t stand up to the truth if she knew it. Maybe he would get fed up one day and walk out because of all she’d cost him, all she’d put him through. The idea sat in her head as ugly as it was regretful.

  Was it trustworthy?

  Who knew?

  Her mind was so full of tricks.

  She turned her attention to the breakfast dishes, finished loading them into the dishwasher. Drew and Kenzie had already caught the bus for school, and she wondered why Jeff was still here. Ordinarily, he left before they did.

  “I’ve got a meeting with Kaiser at nine,” he said. “When are you going to be ready?”

  Ben Kaiser, Lauren remembered, the owner of the Waller-Land building. Jeff was counting on its demolition to make their fourth quarter. But she was drawing a blank in regard to a meeting with the building’s owner. “You’re waiting on me?”

  “Well, yeah.” Jeff seemed faintly amused. “You don’t have your car?”

  She blinked. She had no clue what he was talking about and felt an inkling of alarm mixed with despair.

  “It wouldn’t start after work last night?” Jeff prompted. “We had it towed to the dealership?”

  “I rode home with you.” Lauren spoke through her hands that she’d tented over her mouth, as the memory, in all its vivid audacity, swaggered out of some mental closet, taking its own sweet time. She turned from Jeff, wanting to hide her distress.

  “It’s all right,” Jeff said, and it angered her. It so obviously wasn’t.

  She rinsed the dishcloth. “You don’t have to wait,” she told him, lifting her voice over the sound of the running water. “I’ll call the dealership and have them deliver the car if it’s ready. I have things to do here anyway.”

  “Suit yourself.” Jeff shrugged into his jacket and pulled his truck keys from his pocket, kissed her, lightly, perfunctorily—it was their usual ritual even in the worst of times—and catching her gaze, searching her eyes, he said, “I’ll see you later?” Translated, what he really wanted to know was whether this was going to be one of those days. The sort of day when she and everyone else would be better off if she stayed home.

  He would probably prefer it. What use was she with only half a brain? Jeff must wonder.

  The door closed behind him.

  A moment later when the landline rang, Lauren answered it without checking the Caller ID, and she was greeted by a man’s voice, calling her by name. When he identified himself as Detective Jim Cosgrove and said he was with the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office, specifically the criminal-investigation division, her heart started to pound as if in anticipation of bad news.

  “I understand you called last Friday, asking for a welfare check on a young man. Bo Laughlin. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Lauren answered, and although she realized it wasn’t a member of her family who was in jeopardy, her anxiety wouldn’t settle.

  “My partner and I are in the area. We’d like to stop by and ask you a few questions about your encounter with Mr. Laughlin.”

  Lauren sensed he wasn’t asking. “No one’s found him yet?”

  “No, ma’am. We’d like to talk to you,” he repeated.

  “When?”

  “Now, if it’s convenient.”

  Lauren walked quickly from the kitchen and down the hall to the front door, where she could look out to the street, and there they were. Two men in a plain dark-brown sedan. She could see the passenger, Detective Cosgrove, she guessed, had a phone pressed to his ear, waiting for her answer.

  She flung the door wide, wanting to catch his attention, wanting him to see that she wasn’t intimidated, even though she was. “Come right in,” she said into the phone. He met her gaze through the passenger window, and she thought she saw one corner of his mouth lift, a fraction of a smile.

  She led them into the formal living room, a room she disliked. It was uncomfortably furnished for one thing, and set apart from the rest of the house, seeming far removed from its heart, which was the combined kitchen/great-room area. Lauren had never known what to do with the space and had lately thought of making it into a room for herself. An idea had germinated recently that she might write about her experience with antiques and salvage. She didn’t plan a lot of text, rather she would tell the story through photographs of rooms she’d helped her clients create using old, rescued furniture and architectural remnants. She wanted Tara to help her. It would be a great project for them. A sister project. Now she wasn’t sure Tara was even speaking to her.

  Lauren asked the officers if they would like coffee. They declined. Detective Cosgrove, the evident spokesperson, opened a notepad and set it on his knee. He and his partner looked a bit uncomfortable with their respective woolen-suited bulks wedged into the narrow-armed embrace of the two matching pink silk-upholstered wingback chairs Lauren had installed across from a small brocade sofa. Perching on the edge of one of the sofa’s cushions, she wondered why she had brought the chairs home, how she could have ever thought they were stylish, much less serviceable.

  “I was going to call you,” she said, “after I heard about Bo’s disappearance on the news last night.” She hadn’t managed it after all. Before the call could go through, Kenzie had wakened, crying out from a bad dream, and Lauren had gone to her, forgetting her intention.

  “Can you tell me what you were doing in the area where you spoke to Mr. Laughlin last Friday? You did speak to him, right?”

  Lauren said she had and repeated the gist of their conversation.

  “We don’t advise that motorists approach unknown pedestrians as a rule.” Cosgrove straightened his knee and brought it back.

  “I know,” she said, “but I nearly hit him.” She added in defense of herself, “I wanted to be sure he was all right.”

  Cosgrove’s look seemed commiserating.

  “He was so close to the edge of the road.” Lauren flattened her palm on her chest, feeling her breath shallow in memory of her alarm. “Anyway, it isn’t something I would do ordinarily, but—I’ve seen him before, around town, walking. Do you know anything about him? Why he—? Is there something wrong with him? He mentioned his sister, Annie, but does he have parents, other family?” She looked down, distressed suddenly, and fiddling with her wedding rings, she apologized. “It’s none of my business.”

  Cosgrove didn’t confirm or deny it, and neither did his partner
.

  “I would stop for a hurt animal, you know? Why not a person?” Lauren felt compelled to say this.

  “Was anyone else with you at the time, Mrs. Wilder?”

  Cosgrove shot her a look from under his brow, one Lauren couldn’t interpret. It gave her an odd feeling. “No,” she answered.

  “Can you describe what he was wearing?”

  “Gray pants, chinos,” Lauren answered, “and a blue-plaid cotton shirt. Short-sleeved and buttoned to the neck. And tennis shoes. They were dark-colored, navy or black, maybe. He was very neat, neat as a pin,” she said.

  “The car you saw him get into, you say it was a Cadillac, but could it have been a Lincoln, a Town Car?” Cosgrove’s partner, something Willis—Lauren hadn’t registered his first name—spoke for the first time.

  Lauren looked at him. He was older than Cosgrove, and unlike Cosgrove, who was wiry and thin, Detective Willis was fat. His meaty cheeks fell in folds to his neck. A thick scallop of flesh lapped his belt. Lauren couldn’t imagine how, if the occasion arose, he would chase down a criminal. Answering him, she said she was pretty hopeless when it came to identifying cars. “It was a sedan, long and black. I know that for sure.”

  Cosgrove jotted a note and looked up at her. “Did he get into the car willingly? Was there anyone around him? Did anyone else get in the car?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Did you get in the car, Mrs. Wilder?”

  Lauren jerked her gaze to Willis. “No! Why would you ask—?”

  “No reason.” Willis patted the air. “So, there were no other passengers then, only the woman driving?”

  “That’s right,” Lauren answered. “He looked happy, not as if he was in any danger or afraid in any way. I thought he must know her.”

  When Cosgrove asked, Lauren gave him a description of the woman. “She was older.” Lauren frowned into the middle distance, trying to reassemble the woman’s image. It was important to be accurate. “She kept her hands on the steering wheel, and she bent over a little, watching Bo get into the car. She was laughing with him. I mostly saw the back of her head, her white hair. She wore it up in a French twist with a comb, a tortoiseshell comb.”

  “Tortoise what—?” Cosgrove was out of his depth.

  Lauren smiled. “It’s a decorative comb to help keep your hair in place. It’s all shades of mottled brown like a turtle’s shell.”

  “Huh.” Cosgrove made another note.

  “We could get her to work with a sketch artist,” Willis suggested.

  “Yeah. We’ll see,” Cosgrove said.

  “What about the license plate?” Willis switched his glance to Lauren. “Did you see whether it was local or out of state?”

  She started to shake her head, but then she realized she knew the answer. “It was a Texas plate, the one with the bluebonnets on it. I’ve always wanted one, but the extra charge seems like an extravagance.” She smiled again.

  Cosgrove did, too.

  “Do you remember any of the letters or numbers?” Willis asked.

  Lauren said she didn’t. She apologized again. “I wish I could be more help. Do you think—I mean, it isn’t possible this woman kidnapped him, is it?”

  “We don’t really know what happened at this point, Mrs. Wilder. But if you think of anything else, please give us a call.” Cosgrove passed her his business card and after flipping closed his notepad, he stood up. Willis followed suit.

  “Of course.” Lauren stood up, too. “But I can’t imagine anything I know could be useful.” She led the way to the front door.

  “You’d be surprised,” Cosgrove said. “Sometimes the smallest detail can be the whole answer.”

  “You’re actually the last person to have spoken to him,” Willis said.

  “That we’ve found,” Cosgrove added.

  “Yeah.” Willis confirmed it, staring hard at Lauren.

  She didn’t like him, the way he seemed to imply something vaguely accusatory, as if he were insinuating she knew more about Bo Laughlin’s disappearance than she was saying. She took in a breath, preparing to deny it, but then she caught herself and bit back her speech, some instinct warning her how foolish it would sound. Standing aside, she allowed the officers passage through the front door onto the porch. “His family must be out of their minds with worry.”

  “A lot of folks are concerned for him,” Cosgrove said. “More than half the town’s population is either manning phones at the community center or out searching for him.”

  “I hope nothing bad has happened to him.” Lauren felt stricken, as if she should have done more. “If only someone had come when I called on Friday,” she began.

  Willis interrupted her. “An officer went by the store, Mrs. Wilder. Laughlin was gone by the time he got there.”

  “I see,” Lauren said.

  “Thanks for your time.” Detective Willis followed Cosgrove down the steps.

  “There’s one other thing.” She spoke even as the memory surfaced.

  Willis paused, turning to squint at her.

  “Bo showed me a roll of cash. There was a rubber band around it. I said he should put it away. Someone could rob him, hurt him.” Lauren was thinking of Bo’s vulnerability.

  “You see any evidence of drugs?” Willis asked. “Anything that would make you suspect he had them in his possession or that he was on something? Were you on something?”

  “No!” She stared at him, unnerved by his query. “Why are you asking me that?”

  “Just looking for an opinion, Mrs. Wilder,” he said.

  But there was something in his expression, a canniness that said otherwise. It said he and probably all of law enforcement in the county knew her history and assumed that because of it, she had knowledge, dealings in that world. “I don’t have one,” she told Willis, coldly.

  He nodded. He was steps away when he stopped again. “You said you were alone on Friday. Where was your husband?”

  “At work. Why are you asking?” She didn’t give Willis time to answer. “I’ve been cleared to drive. You can ask my doctor. It’s all right as long as I keep to a familiar route and don’t go too far.” She spoke in defense of herself, feeling like a child called on to explain or face punishment, and in the moment of silence that followed, she waited for them to challenge her regarding her legal right to drive or the accuracy of her statements concerning her meeting with Bo, but they did neither.

  They only thanked her again, and Cosgrove repeated his request that if she did remember anything else, he’d appreciate a call.

  “I have your card.” Lauren brandished it.

  He touched an imaginary hat brim, got into the patrol car, and Willis drove away.

  Watching the taillights wink and then disappear around the corner, Lauren began to tremble. Drugs. The word appeared in her mind. The detectives had come here because of drugs and because they thought she was unbalanced, a brain-damaged druggie who couldn’t be relied on or trusted. They had the idea she had traded Bo that rubber-banded wad of cash for OxyContin. Was that right? The wonder and doubt, the invitation to panic hovered like smoke in Lauren’s mind. She went into the house, through the kitchen to the breakfast nook, and dropped into a chair at the table, dropped her face into her hands. Her heartbeat felt light and too rapid in her chest. It was that word, the very word drugs that had the power to so thoroughly unhinge her. Greg said some people would never believe she wasn’t still using. In meetings, he and others talked about how that was especially true if you relapsed. Greg had fallen off the proverbial wagon twice in three of the past four and a half years he’d been sober.

  In fact, that could explain what was going on with him now. Lauren lowered her hands. Maybe he hadn’t gone to Kansas City. Why would he go that far to find work? Maybe that was only the lie he’d told to cover up that he was using again. She sat back in her cha
ir.

  Suppose Tara knew—and that, and not a stomach virus, was what was ailing her? She would be heartsick, of course, and it made sense that she wouldn’t want to talk about it. But she would get past that, and in a few days, she’d call. She would confess the trouble, and she and Lauren would talk. They always did, eventually.

  It has nothing to do with you, Lauren would say. Addicts relapse. They fall back into compulsion. A person can be drug-free for any number of years—five, fifteen, twenty-five years—and then, boom, in the wink of an eye, in the time it takes to swallow a pill or shoot up, roll the dice, or down a drink, they’re back at it. Nothing but want, a huge ache, a bottomless hole looking for a way to get filled.

  I live in fear of this. Lauren imagined how freeing it would feel to say this, to name what was her second-to-worst fear to her sister.

  Her very worst fear was that she’d lose her children.

  She was pulling her keys from her purse when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the Caller ID window. Jeff.

  “Did you get your car back?” he asked when she answered.

  Lauren closed her eyes. God! Where was her mind? The Navigator wasn’t here. She knew that, didn’t she know?

  “Look, I’m really under the gun here. The Waller-Land demo is scheduled to start day after tomorrow, and I can’t find the permits, plus the truck with all the shit from the Anderson barn job just showed up.”

  “I think I saw the permits and the contract on the desk in the study. I’ll look,” Lauren said. “What about the trailer load of stuff you brought back from the farm? It’s there, too, right?”

  “It’s a fucking mess, Lauren. You have no idea. When can you get here?”

  “Jeff? Are you all right?”

  “Maybe we need to talk.”

  “Okaaay.” She drew the word out, uncertain, half-alarmed.

  “You ever think maybe we should sell everything and go, just get the hell out from under all of it—the goddamn debt, all the obligations—”