Portrait of Vengeance

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “Beth—”

  “—way to access—”

  “Beth!”

  “Oh. Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “I need you to look for similar cases of parents murdered and a child killed or missing. Go back twenty—no, make that thirty-two years.”

  Beth’s eyes widened. “You found out about another one?”

  “Andi mentioned a case in The Dalles, Oregon. We’ll look at that soon enough. I want you to look specifically at thirty-two years ago.”

  “Okay. That’s easy. Nationwide?”

  “No. Not to start. Go with the Pacific Northwest. Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and Montana. I may expand that later. While you’re doing that, can I borrow your car? I need to get this composite to the chief.”

  “Absolutely. But speaking of Chief Kus, you might want to . . . um, tidy up first.”

  I glanced down at my rumpled clothing dusted with Pyrenees fur and graphite.

  “And you have a smudge of pencil lead on your nose.” Beth pointed to a spot on her face. “I didn’t notice a wedding ring on his finger, by the way.”

  “You just never give up, m’friend.”

  “Waaait a minute.” Beth put up a hand. “In the excitement of joining you on this case, I didn’t think about it, but weren’t you supposed to drive to Glacier Park with Blake?”

  “Change of plans.”

  “And he was okay with you working on this homicide?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Which means no and I should mind my own business.”

  I ducked my head and moved to my room where I discovered Beth had hung up all my clothes by color, arranged my makeup and hair products in the bathroom, and set up Winston’s nylon-mesh kennel. My old laptop rested on the Queen Anne coffee table in front of the small sofa in the bay window. The dresser drawer held my underwear and a second set of breast prosthetics. I hadn’t made up my mind about reconstructive surgery following my double mastectomy, so they were a necessary evil. The insurance company insisted I buy backups after I lost the first pair of breast forms, named Lucy and Ethel, in Utah, and the second set, Thelma and Louise, in Kentucky. I’d dubbed this pair Laverne and Shirley. I was wearing Ginger and Mary Ann.

  The Gideon Bible was next to the bed with a new devotional booklet on top. I checked to see if she’d given me any reading assignments.

  I washed my face, applied fresh makeup, and ran a comb through my hair. Clean khaki slacks, a blouse, and a coral cotton sweater finished the outfit.

  Beth looked up from her laptop and gave me a nod of approval as I headed out the door. “Thank you for unpacking for me.”

  “Just trying to help.”

  “You’re the best sidekick!”

  “Better than Watson was to Sherlock?”

  “Yup.”

  “Kato to the Green Hornet?”

  “As long as you’re not Cato to the Pink Panther.” I smiled at her.

  “Just so you know, I’m not giving up on the subject of Blake and your love life.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” I picked up the car keys. “Oh, if you get a chance, see if Eric has any suggestions for good places to eat. And if you could call this number”—I handed her Peter Otskai’s business card—“and tell him where we are. He said if something comes in for me at the Clearwater Lodge, he’d make sure to get it to me. Also, I have some more interviews later this afternoon, but I’ll check in with you first. And one final thing. I had you bring a sheet of foam board.” Foam board was a lightweight, rigid surface used for a variety of art and display projects.

  “Yes. It’s in my room.”

  “Prop it up on the easel you packed. We’ll be using it to visualize the current crime.”

  “Oh boy.” Beth beamed. “Just like they do on television.”

  “Yeah. And let the director know I need to see him about the script.”

  “Sure, I’ll . . . You’re joking with me, right?”

  I chuckled all the way to the car. Once I reached the driver’s-side door, I called Chief Kus. “Andi Tubbs’s composite is done.”

  “Could you drive it to the department? I have some new names for you to interview.”

  Just as I hung up, the phone rang again. It was my ex-husband, Robert. “Yes?”

  “The court date is set. May nineteenth.”

  My stomach clenched. “I don’t see why this needs to go to court. I’m sure we can work out something with my daughter—”

  “Our daughter. And I told you if you put her in any further danger I’d petition for a change in the parenting plan. She almost died the last time she was with you. You’re an unfit mother.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You missed her sixteenth birthday party yesterday!”

  “You didn’t invite me or tell me where it was! I called, sent a gift—”

  “Good thing you sent the receipt. The sweater didn’t fit.”

  I tried to loosen my grip on the phone. “Look, Robert, in another year she’ll be off to college. She’ll be leaving home—”

  “And I’m going to keep her safely with me until then.” In the background I could hear Caroline’s voice. His new wife. “You have to tell her, Robert.”

  “Tell me what?” I asked.

  Robert must have put his hand over the phone. Muffled conversation continued for a moment, then his voice cleared again. “Caroline’s pregnant.”

  Slumping against the car, I tried to say Congratulations, Wonderful news . . . something. My mouth refused to work and my eyes burned.

  “Did you hear me?” Robert asked.

  “Um,” was all I could manage before disconnecting. I wanted to go back to the room, tell Beth, maybe hug Winston and let him blow nose-kisses into my hair. I wanted to cry until it made me sick and gave me the hiccups. Instead, I got into Beth’s car and headed to Lapwai.

  I’d spent a lifetime pushing away black thoughts, but they reared up despite my best efforts.

  You’re jealous, Robert whispered in my head.

  “I’m not. I’m genuinely happy for Caroline. I was just . . . surprised. You told me you never wanted another child.”

  With you, Gwen, with you.

  “Won’t you be too busy with the new baby to want Aynslee around?”

  It’s best this way. If your past is catching up with you, you may not survive this time.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Robert. Just be quiet.” I turned on the radio to still the voices.

  The newscaster was in midbroadcast. “. . . no further word on the missing four-year-old, Beatrice Sinopa, taken from her home in Lapwai sometime Monday night. Nez Perce Tribal Police will be releasing a composite sketch later today of a person of interest in the case . . .”

  I turned off the radio. I didn’t need another reminder of how high the stakes were in solving this case.

  The parking lot of the police department was completely full, with cars spilling out onto the street. I finally found a spot several blocks away, this time making sure the car was securely locked.

  “Marcey!” a woman’s voice called from behind me.

  Turning, I saw Officer LoneBear barreling down on me. “Yes?”

  “I heard your car was dumped in the river.” She was out of uniform, wearing jeans so tight there’d be no way she could breathe, let alone sit, red spiky heels, and a blouse low enough to leave little doubt of her cup size. Her lips were coral, setting off her tanned skin. Placing her hands on her hips, she moved her gaze from my flat leather shoes, up my khaki slacks, to my blouse, which I’d buttoned to the top.

  I felt . . . practical. I wanted to point out that low-cut shirts were out of the question when your breasts were silicone inserts. When you bent forward, the heavy inserts would flop forward into the bra, and someone could look down your front and see the gap between flat chest and bra.

  I shook my head. Why do you need to explain yourself to her? Instead, I said, “Just now you used passive language, usually the choice of someone who wants to conceal the
identity of the perpetrator.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just wondering if you know more about my stolen car.”

  “No, no, of course not.” She shook her head. “Lots of people don’t want an outsider like you getting involved in tribal issues. You might want to take the hint.”

  “Multiple denials.” I folded my arms. “More signs of deception. Better watch yourself, LoneBear. Car theft is against the law, even on the reservation. I may be forced to tell your boss of my suspicions.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “He’s more than my boss, so just keep your eyes and hands off of him.”

  Is she actually jealous of me? “You’re kidding.”

  She muttered something, then turned and stomped off. I was pretty sure I’d just heard my first Nez Perce cuss word.

  “Soggy wooker,” I called after her. Oh, that was mature.

  Men, women, and children spilled from the department onto the ramp and gathered in small groups in the parking lot. I plowed through the throng of citizens, feeling very blonde, and finally edged through to the lobby. A man in a blue flannel shirt and jeans pounded the tiny counter in front of the glassed-in reception area. The woman behind him added her voice to his. “He’s out there! None of our children are safe!”

  The officer on duty spotted me and pointed to the door. The room grew silent as I pushed forward. Whispers followed me. “She’s that artist.”

  “They know what he looks like!”

  “Finally something will be done.”

  With a buzz, the door opened and the officer ushered me into the hall. Chief Kus waited just inside. “Sorry about that. Ever since that article came out suggesting the killer found Beatrice through the Easter egg hunt, everyone’s been on edge. Seems most of the tribe who have young children were at the event.” He showed me into the task force conference room where several other officers were manning phones. Three more were bent over a map and marking locations. Pulling out the composite, I lifted the tracing paper I’d used to protect the sketch and held it up. “Unfortunately, the witness—”

  “That’s an awesome drawing.” The chief took it from me.

  “Yes, well, the thing is, the witness didn’t—”

  “It’s like a portrait,” one of the men said.

  “That’s amazing,” another said.

  “He looks pretty average,” Chief Kus said.

  “True. The good news is that it will eliminate a lot of people not similar.”

  “Meaning,” Chief Kus said, “all I have to do is arrest a third of the population of Idaho.” He taped the sketch to the wall with the crime-scene photos. “Hopefully we’re not back to where we started.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SEVERAL OF THE OFFICERS SLUMPED IN THEIR SEATS. The chief indicated a chair for me and sat at the end of the table. “So do you think we should release the drawing?” he asked.

  “It’s really your decision,” I said. “You’ll get a ton of calls you’ll have to wade through, but at least the public will be reminded there’s a missing child. Who knows?” I pointed at the sketch. “This guy may have been selling magazine subscriptions or, um, Avon or something door-to-door. He might recognize himself in the composite and come forward. You’ll be able to eliminate him as a suspect.”

  Chief Kus studied me for a moment. I tried not to stare back. He was definitely a good-looking—make that an amazingly handsome man. Almost as good looking as Blake. I closed my eyes for a moment.

  He lifted a set of papers, stood, and distributed them around the room to the different officers before placing a set in front of me. “All right. We’ll get the composite into the newspapers and online. Here is your next set of witnesses to interview. We’re going to follow up on the Easter-egg-hunt angle. Gwen, I gave you the people who claim they saw someone at the hunt paying too much attention to Bea. Find out if any of them could provide a composite sketch. Jonah here”—he nodded at a man on his right—“will be collecting surveillance tapes from nearby businesses. We’ll also be asking the public to bring us any video or photos they may have taken that day of Beatrice. We’ll have you look at everything to see if anyone was hanging around her or paying particular attention to the little girl.”

  The paper Chief Kus handed me bore my name at the top and five names, addresses, and phone numbers. The witnesses lived from Clarkston, Washington, to Kamiah, Idaho, sixty-eight miles upriver from Lewiston. I wouldn’t exactly be sitting around twiddling my thumbs waiting for the photos and videos. At the bottom of the paperwork were the same crime-scene photos and a copy of the autopsy reports.

  As the officers stood and collected their assignments, the chief motioned for me to stay. “I’ll e-mail you a copy of the photos as soon as you have a computer.”

  “You can send them here.” I wrote down Beth’s e-mail address.

  “Your car, I’m afraid, can’t be recovered just yet. The river’s too high with the spring runoff. My diver did get a chance to look inside. The keys were in the ignition.”

  Either I forgot to take the keys, or someone at the Sinopa crime scene took them from my purse. I bet that someone wears low-cut blouses and has a jealous streak a mile wide. “My friend’s providing the car, but we did have to move out of the lodge. We’re staying at the Two Rivers Bed-and-Breakfast in Lewiston. Any recommendations for good places to eat?”

  “I like the Qeqiit Lounge, but then again, the profits from the casino and lodge go to the tribe. I often eat there.”

  “I know—” I clamped my mouth shut.

  His eyebrows rose. “And how did you know?”

  My cheeks burned. “I, um, saw you in there with Officer LoneBear . . .”

  He bit the inside corner of his mouth. “That explains it.”

  Whatever it was, he didn’t explain it to me. “And . . . um . . . speaking of LoneBear, we had a bit of a run-in outside. She mentioned that my stolen car might be a message that I’m not wanted here. And she seems to be . . . possessive of you.”

  “Really.” He rubbed his chin. “What else did she say?”

  I repeated the word she’d said, pronouncing it the best I could.

  He straightened. “Do you know what that means?”

  “No. Probably something bad. I called her a soggy wooker.”

  “Soggy—”

  “Wooker. A wad of hair caught in a sink drain and named after the Wookiee in Star Wars . . .” Heat rushed to my face at his expression. I sounded like my sixteen-year-old daughter. I held up the list of names. “I’ll get on this.” I stood and reached for the door.

  “Mrs. Marcey . . . Gwen. Just for the record, there’s nothing between Kelli LoneBear and myself.”

  I didn’t look at him. “Thank you, but it’s none of my business.”

  On the drive back to Lewiston, I batted away the things I didn’t want to think about: Blake, the upcoming custody battle over my daughter, Caroline’s pregnancy, how frightened a missing four-year-old child would be, that these murders could be related to me somehow . . .

  In our B and B meeting room, Beth had completely covered the table with her laptop, books, pads of paper, a stack of lavender Post-it notes, and a collection of pens in various shades of purple. The 30 x 40 piece of white foam board was on the easel. “Almost done. I would have had this information a lot sooner, but the Internet is slow and spotty. Old houses.” She snorted in disgust.

  “I’ll take Winston out for a walk.” The dog stood at hearing his name, then stretched, flopping a luxuriously plumed tail across Beth’s computer.

  “Please do.” She spit out a dog hair.

  After snapping on a leash, I led Winston outside. We hadn’t gone far when Eric caught up with us, stopping well short of Winston. “Ah, Mrs. Marcey—”

  “Call me Gwen.”

  He was wearing gardening gloves and carried a rake and small shovel. “Okay, Gwen.” He had the most extraordinary green eyes. “Have you stayed with us before? You seem to know the place.”

  “No. I . .
. must have read about it. How well do you know its history?”

  “Pretty well, but if you want to know more, there’s a three-ring binder in the parlor that talks about the past. It’s sitting next to the guest book on the sideboard.”

  “Thanks.”

  He turned to leave, then stopped. “Almost forgot. Your friend, Beth, asked about places to eat.” He reached into his back pocket and handed me a brochure. “We made this up for our guests. Our recommendations.” He gave a quick wave of his hand and strolled off.

  “Thank you,” I called after his retreating back.

  The parlor was empty when Winston and I passed through. The binder and guest book were where Eric mentioned. I grabbed them up and returned to the game room. Winston trotted into my bedroom, undoubtedly to sneak up onto the bed.

  I moved to the foam board and taped the photos around the outside edge. They proved to be not only of the crime scene but close-ups of the Sinopas’ fearsome injuries. I found the printout from Peter and attached it to the bottom. The crime-scene sketches were in my binder. I winced at the drawings. I needed to redraw and clean them up before turning them over to the task force. Taping these to the board for now, I stepped back and took in the effect. The photos were extremely graphic. “Beth, we’ll need to keep this turned to the wall when we’re not here. I don’t want a guest walking by and seeing the gore.”

  Beth glanced up from her work. Her face drained of blood, but she didn’t comment, just nodded.

  I read the autopsy reports before attaching them to the foam board. Mr. Sinopa was struck on the head with a blunt object. He must have been unconscious when his body had received such awful wounds. That was a blessing. Mrs. Sinopa wasn’t so lucky. There was a lot of anger in that attack. Personal?