by Mary Birk
He spoke, interrupting her thoughts, his voice brusque, his eyes cold. “Good, he’s in regular clothes and had the sense not to come in a police car. Let him in quickly, Anne, in case the house is being watched.”
She nodded and moved to the door, trying not to let on to Andrew how much her husband’s presence disturbed her. She still couldn’t figure out why he’d come to California. He could have sent the annulment papers from Scotland by mail or Federal Express or something. She’d been expecting them for months, had prepared herself for their arrival, had even perused the mail every day, determined not to let their arrival slay her, and was relieved every day they didn’t come. Feeling disloyal to Andrew for her thoughts, Anne flashed a reassuring smile in his direction before opening the door to let the new arrival inside.
Dougal McLendon, a burly red-haired man in his mid-forties, wore jeans and an Oakland Raiders hooded sweatshirt. He’d been on the police force in Oakland for years before he moved to Bodega Bay over a dozen years ago and quickly worked his way up to chief. His wife, a teacher at the elementary school, had recently been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and their family was going through hell right now.
“Hello, Andrew, Anne.” Chief McLendon wiped his feet on the mat just inside the door, his face grave. “I brought two of my officers with me, but I let them out by the trees near the front gates. They’ll approach on foot and keep an eye out to see if it looks like the house is being watched.”
The chief looked over to where Terrence stood, then at Anne with an is-this-who-I-think-it-is look. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, feeling humiliation curl around her chest and rise up to her face, knowing her cheeks had to be bright red. Bodega Bay was a small town and her near-breakdown when her husband left her was no secret. Embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as it would be if Terrence found out, which she was determined he never would. As it was, every time she thought about how she’d humiliated herself trying to get him back, she wanted to die.
Terrence moved forward and offered his hand to the police chief. “Terrence Reid.”
“You’re the one who called the FBI.” Chief McLendon shook Terrence’s hand.
“Aye.”
Anne mustered up her most professional voice. “Chief, I don’t know if you remember but Terrence is a police superintendent in Scotland. He’s worked with the FBI a lot. He was here visiting when all this happened.” She tried to make Terrence visiting seem unremarkable.
Andrew seemed to think more explanation of Terrence’s role was necessary. “Anne and Terrence used to be married.” His voice was casual, distracted.
Once again, Anne felt her face blaze hotly, and, to her surprise, saw her husband flinch. She said, keeping her voice cool. “Andrew means we’re separated. We’re still technically married.” She didn’t know where to look, what to do with her hands, so she took Andrew’s arm to keep anyone from noticing how flustered she felt. She put on what her sister Jeanne called her ice princess look. A useful mask. Done correctly, it was very effective at blocking any feelings from showing.
Chief McLendon nodded, addressed himself to Terrence. “The FBI agent I talked to said you’d be able to give my people directions on what to do until he gets here.”
“Who did you speak with?”
There was no hint in Terrence’s voice that Andrew’s remark had affected him, but Anne had seen for a brief moment that he was not as indifferent to her as he seemed. And she felt the vines of that noxious hope weed growing, wiggling inside her, twining around her heart. She mentally snapped the stems and freed herself.
The chief glanced down at his notebook, opened it, and read from the page. “Jack Shelton. He said he heads up the child abduction response division for this region.”
Anne heard herself speak before she’d had time to think. “We know Jack.” When Andrew looked at her blankly, she said, “I mean Terrence and I know him.”
Terrence nodded, his face inscrutable, his Scottish accent thickening as he spoke, “I spoke with him, as well. He’s a guid agent. He’ll bring a team to process the scene and set up things for negotiations, but I’m sure he’d be grateful if your people could make a start. ”
The chief gestured to the far side of the kitchen. “Superintendent Reid, perhaps we can talk in private for a moment, go over what needs to be done.”
“Call me Terrence, Chief. I’m not on my patch.” Terrence’s tone was deferential, but Anne heard in his voice that innate authority cloaked in velvet diplomacy she’d heard him use many times before. Of course, he didn’t use that velvet when he was dealing with her. With her, he said exactly what he thought. No sugar or velvet coating.
“I’m Dougal, then.” He and Terrence moved away, leaving Anne alone with Andrew. Anne’s eyes followed the two men. She could tell they’d instantly bonded, and she tried to listen as they huddled together, talking. She couldn’t make out the words, but she could tell that Terrence was giving the chief instructions on what to do.
Andrew turned to her. “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
“You are.” She tried to make her voice confident.
“I’ll get her back, won’t I?” Andrew’s voice was strained.
“Of course. They just want money, and you can pay them.” She raised his hand to her mouth and kissed it. “She’ll be back soon.”
“Right. I know you’re right.” He squeezed her hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He tried a smile, but Anne saw the effort it took. He was just barely holding himself together. Her eyes drifted back over to the two men talking on the other side of the room and she wondered what they were saying, and how sure they really were that Lenore would come home safely.
Chapter 10
ANNE SAT WITH ANDREW still clutching her hand tightly, and waited for what seemed like an interminable time for the police chief and Terrence to finish talking.
Finally, Chief McLendon came over. Terrence followed, but stood back, listening.
The police chief held up a notebook. “Andrew, I have a list of things we need from you, and that we need you to think about. Things that may help us recover Lenore, or,” he paused, “to identify her.”
“I want to do everything I can to help get her back.”
“Good. We have a description of Lenore—her weight, height, eye and hair color. Can you give us a recent photograph?”
Andrew nodded. “We just got her school photos.” He went over to the section of the long counter that served as a kitchen desk and brought the packet back to the chief, the tremble in his hand barely discernable. Anne could see it, but she knew him, knew that his hands were generally as steady as the earth.
“Thanks.” McLendon took out one of the larger photographs and put it on the table. “We’ll get this one copied. What was she wearing when you saw her last?”
“A nightgown. Dark blue with gold stars all over it.”
“And you’re sure it’s not in her room now?” The police chief looked down at his notebook and jotted down notes. When Andrew didn’t answer, the chief looked up. “Just wondering if the kidnappers changed her.”
“No, I don’t think so. I didn’t see it there. I’m sure I would have noticed. Want me to double-check?”
“No, that’s fine. We will. Did you ever have her fingerprints taken?”
“Yes, at school. They’re in a folder down in the study. I’ll show you where it is. What else?”
“The FBI will need DNA samples. Do you have a hairbrush she uses?”
Anne saw fear grab Andrew when he realized the implications of the question. “DNA? Oh, God. You think she’s dead?”
“Of course they don’t, Andrew. I’m sure it’s just routine.” Anne forced down her own fear and put her arms around Andrew, making sure she caught Terrence’s eye, warning him. “Lenore’s hairbrush is in her bathroom. She uses the bathroom that connects to her bedroom.”
Terrence got her message. “Anne’s right. It’s just routine. We’ll take care of it.”
Andrew, still shaken, voiced the thought that she knew had been gnawing at him. “Do you think the kidnapping could be tied to publicity from the sale of the Marisol Series?” She heard the anguish and guilt behind his words.
Terrence shook his head. “Let’s just focus on getting Lenore back. Did you notice anything else missing, Andrew? In Lenore’s room or anywhere else? Any of the artwork?”
The walls of the Grainger house displayed not only Andrew’s art and the art of the rest of the Grainger family, but that of many prominent contemporary American and European artists. Expensive sculpture adorned both the house and the grounds, and the Colony’s library contained not only scores of paperbacks and readable hard covers, but also locked cabinets of rare volumes of literature, collected chiefly because of the valuable illustrations they contained.
Andrew shook his head. “I don’t think anything else was missing, but I didn’t check. I was only looking for her. I can check if you think that would help.”
Terrence said, “Don’t do anything now, not until the scene’s been processed, but if you notice or think of anything, let the police or FBI know. Also, they’ll need a list of Lenore’s friends and of people who have been in the house in the past few months. Not just names, but if you have them, addresses and phone numbers.”
“There are all sorts of people here every day, between the conferences, the tourists, and the folks who work here, but I’ll make a list. It’ll give me something to do. Keep me from going crazy.” He went over to the kitchen desk and got a little notepad. “I may need to talk to Martha Warren or Frank Bolton to get some of the information, but I can make a start on my own.”
“Frank Bolton is who?” Terrence asked.
“The Colony’s director.”
“Was Bolton here today?”
“Yes, helping get the artists packed up and out of here. I think he’s still over at the office, but I haven’t told him what happened because of the note. I’m sure he’s wondering what’s going on.”
“The FBI or the chief’s people will talk to him and find out when each of the artists left and get all of their contact information. They’ll need to be interviewed as to whether they saw anything and to be excluded from involvement.” Terrence’s voice sounded remote, as if he were already miles away. She’d heard that remoteness before. He’d probably leave as soon as the FBI got there.
Andrew didn’t seem to notice Terrence’s tone, but focused on his words. “You think they could be involved?”
Terrence splayed out his hands noncommittally. “It needs to be considered. Can you also make a list of places Lenore’s been in the past few months? Places someone might have seen her and gotten the idea to take her?”
“I’ll have to think—it may take a while if we go back past December. Since then, we’ve mostly been here because Lenore’s been sick. I’ll need to talk with Martha about that, though. She takes Lenore places, and Lenore sometimes spends the night over there when I have to be gone overnight.”
Terrence nodded. “The FBI will need to take your home computer so they can check browser history, document history, messages, contacts, email flow and any other clues that might be learned from your hard drive. Of course, you don’t have to give it to them. You can make them get a search warrant.”
Andrew waved away the comment dismissively, “No, no, of course not. Anything that helps.”
“Does Lenore have a computer?”
“She has one of those little things that play educational games but no real computer. No access to the internet except with me.”
“Okay.” Terrence paused. “They’ll need to get a handwriting sample from you, and Anne, Martha, everyone around Lenore.”
“Of course.”
“Chief McLendon is going to take you and Anne over to the Mermaids and I’ll stay here with his officers and wait for the FBI’s evidence recovery team to get here.”
Andrew frowned. “Now?”
“Just for a while. It’s routine. The house and grounds are a crime scene, and we want to avoid contaminating the area as much as possible until the FBI has checked everything out. They need to process your clothes and both of your cars. The chief will have you change clothes over at Anne’s.” He looked at Anne, his manner as aloof as if they barely knew each other. “Do you or Jeanne have something he can change into?”
She gave a nod that was every bit as aloof. She’d learned to hold back with him. “We’ll find something.”
The chief stood up and picked up his jacket from the chair where he’d laid it. “Bring the pad with you, Andrew. We’ll go in my car.”
Andrew asked, “What if the kidnappers call while I’m gone?”
Terrence said, “You’ll be back long before they’re supposed to be calling, but we’ll have all calls to the house monitored and forwarded just in case they call earlier. And the chief will be with you.”
Andrew nodded. “We’ll get my daughter back, won’t we?”
“We’ll do our best.” Terrence moved forward, put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder and walked him to the back door. “I’ll call if there are any developments.”
Anne followed with the chief and, as she passed Terrence, mouthed her thanks. He gave her a slight, detached, wave and watched them get into the car.
She looked back toward the door as they drove away, but Terrence had disappeared.
Chapter 11
CAREFUL NOT TO TOUCH anything, Reid took a walk through the house. He wanted to get a feel for where everything had happened, and an idea of how it had happened.
He started up the main stairway, examining the life-sized painting of Andrew Grainger’s ill-fated late wife that hung on the wall of the landing, dominating the great room below it. She’d died in childbirth, the chief had said. But on the enormous canvas, Marisol Grainger still lived. She was clad in a filmy dress, her pale lilac skirt draped softly around her, falling past her knees and clinging to her legs like large flower petals turned upside down towards her bare feet. Her long dark hair tumbled down her back almost to her waist. Grainger had painted her walking away into the sea, looking back as if someone had called to her, a wistful and portentous smile on her face.
Tearing himself away from the haunting portrait, Reid passed along the hallway upstairs, noting the entrance to a back stairs that he knew led down to the kitchen. When he got to Lenore’s room, he looked around carefully. Lenore obviously liked ballet. Probably because of her mother. There were ballet shoes, ballet posters, and a ballet barre going across one mirror-lined wall of the room. The walls were a creamy pale yellow, which contrasted perfectly with the dark floor boards. A plush rose colored area rug covered the center of the room, leaving dark floor boards showing around the edges. High white base boards along the floors, and coordinated molding outlining a ceiling crowned by a delicate pink Venetian glass chandelier, formed an elegant backbone to the otherwise child-oriented room.
Lenore’s four-poster bed was covered by a comforter and dust ruffle of cream with tiny embroidered roses. The bed had not been made up, but it didn’t appear that either Lenore or her kidnapper had disturbed the bedclothes much.
In one corner of the room, next to a bin of toys, sat a cushioned rocker with a foot rest. A tall lamp next to it provided light for reading. Two bedside night table chests guarded the bed, one on each side, and along another wall stood a larger chest with a mirror. Bookshelves above a desk held photos, games, and children’s books. At one side of the room was a walk-in closet whose door stood open revealing racks of clothes.
Reid frowned and went over to the nightstand on the closest side of the bed to him. An intercom monitor like the ones his sister had for her children in their rooms, sat beside the lamp, its red light illuminated. Grainger hadn’t mentioned the intercom when he gave his account of the night’s events. If it’d been on, how could he not have heard anything when the girl was taken? He’d make sure Shelton knew to ask about it.
Reid walked down the hall using a map he’
d had Grainger draw, trying to gauge the proximity of Grainger’s room from where the girl had been taken. He could see the door of the father’s room not far from that of his daughter’s. On the landing between the two bedrooms was a little sitting area. This portion of the hallway opened to the great room below on one side. From here he could see past where Marisol’s portrait reigned, down to where the party had been going on the night before. He opened Grainger’s bedroom door. A massive intricately carved mahogany bed was unmade, the sheets and down comforter falling off the sides. Reid’s heart dropped into his stomach as he realized what he was seeing.
The bed where Anne slept with Andrew Grainger.
On the nightstand next to the bed sat a monitor like the one that had been next to Lenore’s bed. This one was turned on, too. Next to it sat reading glasses, as well as a photograph of the child when she was still an infant and two photographs of Anne, each in a sterling frame. In one of the photos, Anne was on a sailboat, laughing at whoever was taking the photograph, her soft blonde hair tossed about in the wind. In the other, she was on a surfboard, riding a wave, her hair wet and sleeked down, her muscles taut, wearing the apricot bikini Reid had bought her on their honeymoon almost two years ago. His mouth went dry and he felt his heart pounding.
Reid had not yet put his own photographs of his wife away—they still haunted his Glasgow flat. Stowing them away in a drawer or trunk somewhere would not take her out of his mind. And truth be told, he’d had hours of comfort from those photographs. He’d looked into her face, cajoled her, scolded her, begged her, yelled at her, had meals with one of her photos propped in front of him. He’d searched her eyes millions of times trying to figure out what he could do or say to get her to come home to him.