But when he arrived in her office, he found it empty, quiet, except for the rhythmic wash of waves and the calls of gulls that were part of the lighthouse screen saver.
His heart pounded.
He went to the other end of the third floor, to the adjoining bedrooms she’d converted into her own personal antiques shop, and flung open the first door he came to. Dark. He flipped the switch and the light — sharp, glaring — bounced off an array of items that awaited selection by the mistress of the house. Some were displayed as if arranged for a shop window, others lined along shelving, still others in gift wrap so as to offer a surprise to a woman who couldn’t leave the premises.
He went through the connecting door, knowing already that she wouldn’t be on the other side.
He ran to the small door that opened up onto a narrow staircase that led up to the widow’s walk. He couldn’t recall the last time Sheila had gone up there. It was too much like going outside for her, but he decided to check anyway.
He opened the door. The stairwell was so dark that he couldn’t get his bearings. No type of lighting had been installed in the passage leading up top to the square landing, the vantage point from which Jeff’s grandfather’s mother had watched for the return of her husband — watched, even after word arrived that his ship had capsized off the coast of India.
Was that it? Had Sheila gotten caught up in the notion that he’d been away too long? Had she gone up there as a last-ditch effort to urge him home?
Jeff couldn’t fathom it, the notion that Sheila was up there, but he was running out of options. He groped his way to the top of the stairs and threw open the door.
Moonlight illuminated the tiny windowed square. No Sheila.
What was left? The basement, he considered doubtfully. His mind speculated wildly at the events that might have driven her down there. His heart pounded harder against his chest wall.
Logic teased him, told him that maybe she’d decided to unearth some just-remembered painting, or accent table, or an item from her past. He descended staircase after staircase, soothed and panicked by turns, hoping she was in the basement yet chilled by the fact that she hadn’t come upstairs at the sounds of him in the house.
She’d always amazed him with her skill for identifying any sound coming from any level of their home. It didn’t matter which part of the house she was in at the time, she had such a connection to the structure. Jeff attributed this to the fact that she’d become one with the place, perhaps even more so than with him. He may be her husband, but this was her sanctuary.
If she wasn’t in the basement, then he knew of only one more option in the massive house. It was an option he dreaded.
She wasn’t in the basement. Gulping air, he climbed the stairs back to ground level. Only one area remained.
The secret passageways.
When Jeff was only seven years old, he had discovered a hidden staircase in the massive Victorian home — a staircase that had been unknown to Primrose Talbot. The woman couldn’t wrap her mind around the notion that a mere boy had stumbled upon something so important — something that she had never come across. To add insult to injury, Grandfather Talbot had announced, with obvious pride in the boy, that the house must really like Jeff to have shared its secret and that the property would be signed over to him as soon as he became of age.
Although Auntie Pim was aware of her father’s adherence to the old ways, which dictated that the men in the family should own the real estate, she had been openly stunned by this turn of events. Jeff, reveling in a child’s triumph, didn’t realize until years later how hurt she had been. But he recognized in time that she was the working force that held the mansion together, and when the attorney brought around documents giving him sole ownership of the property,
Jeff had simply refused to sign. Only after Auntie Pim’s stroke had he taken the Talbot reins.
He hadn’t been through the maze of hidden corridors in years. I wish Greer were here, he thought as he made his way to the nearest opening that led behind the walls of the house. Greer was familiar with the maze because he often used it just as Sir Anthony Hopkins’s character had used similar passageways in Remains of the Day. But Jeff didn’t expect his butler for another three hours.
He pushed against a portion of paneled wall in the library, groped along the wall inside until he found a button. He pressed it, and a soft, dim light illuminated the narrow hall.
As he walked through these arteries of his house, he began to feel encouraged by the realization that Sheila could actually be somewhere inside the walls. Perhaps something had caused her to panic, had driven her into the tightest possible recesses of the house. She would feel safe here, he surmised, she would welcome the narrow corridors, welcome the feel of the close walls wrapping themselves around her.
He called her name, got only an echo.
He moved faster, thankful that the lighting system of the hidden corridors was wired to work every fixture on every floor.
He covered the first floor, peering down the capillaries that shot from the main artery. He glanced down the staircase that led to the basement, then continued on, covering every open space as if he were liquid — flowing, reaching into each conceivable inch.
But Sheila wasn’t there.
He emerged, gasping, and ran down the flights of stairs, rechecking every floor, yelling Sheila’s name as he descended, having it bounce back to him unanswered. He moved swiftly, gulping the void and choking against the knowledge that he would not find his wife.
He needed help.
Breathless, his chest heaving, he grabbed the cordless phone from the kitchen wall and punched in Greer’s cell number after locating it on the cork bulletin board. Walking through the tiny mud room toward the back door, he opened it and glued his spine to the doorway as if to keep from collapsing. He placed one foot in the house, the other on the outer stoop, and waited for Greer to pick up.
“My God, Sheila,” he cried into the darkness, “where are you?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
O, God, thy sea is so great and my boat is so small.
—Ancient prayer of Breton fishermen
“It’s my fault.” Pacing, Greer ran slim fingers through his short black hair.
The butler’s slender body was tense, and Jeff attributed this to some inner core of professionalism struggling against the raw need to give way to emotion.
His own body was at that same stage, and he told himself over and over to keep a grip.
He’d be of no help in finding Sheila if he fell apart.
He clamped his free hand on the young butler’s shoulder. “No, it’s not. Don’t say that again.” With his other hand, he held the phone to his ear, waiting for the police dispatcher to come back on the line.
“But I would have been here if I hadn’t taken the day off. I would have —”
“Greer. First of all, you can’t work seven days a week. I’d see to that, even if Sheila were bedridden.” A glimpse of that future possibility flashed in his mind, and he erased the thought. “A large part of your duties is to run all of Sheila’s errands. That’s not going to change. I don’t know what drove her to leave the house, but it could’ve happened during a thirty-minute window while you were at the cleaners or the grocery store.”
Greer appeared ready to protest again, but Jeff lifted a finger, brought the phone nearer his mouth.
“Mister, uh . . . Talbot? You still there?”
“Of course I’m still here. My wife’s missing, for God’s sake.”
“Not technically, sir. Your wife being missing, I mean. Unless there are extenuating circumstances, a person has to have been gone —”
“But there are extenuating circumstances. There’s illness involved. She doesn’t leave the house.”
“Okay.” The dispatcher exhaled. “I’ll send someone over.”
Before Jeff could respond, he heard the buzz of the dial tone. “Damn them.” He slammed the phone into its cradle. “They don�
�t know what this is like.”
He leaned against the wall, willed himself to think. He wondered if a phone call had rattled Sheila, set her off somehow. He punched an arrow key on the phone pad, checked caller ID. The last number listed was that of the cell phone he’d used to call her on just before Bill’s funeral.
He punched Call and his telephone automatically dialed the number on the display. “Hello?”
“Judge? It’s Jeff.”
“Hey, old man,” the Judge said enthusiastically. “Didn’t you get enough of my company at the cabin? Not to mention my poker money.”
“I need help, Judge. Sheila’s gone.”
“Gone? But that’s . . .”
“Impossible. I know. Thing is, I don’t know whether the damned dispatcher understood. No telling how long it’ll take to get someone over here to help.”
Jeff heard crickets chirp in the silence. “What about Gordy? Have you called him yet?”
“No. I thought it would be best to get the locals here first.”
“You’re right. Want me to put in a call, light a fire under them?”
“Would you? I’m going nuts here.”
“Damn right, I will. I’ve got a captain who owes me anyway. He’ll send some extra officers to your house in under ten, or I’ll know the reason why.”
“Okay, and I’ll call Gordy.”
“Do you think he’s back in Chicago yet?”
“I don’t know. He’s supposed to be back there sometime today. Judge, thanks. I . . .” Jeff fought to retain composure.
“It’s the least I can do. Keep me posted.” He rang off.
Jeff replaced the receiver more gently this time, looked at Greer who was waiting anxiously. “We’ll have help here in a few minutes.”
Greer exhaled. “I’ll make coffee, sir.”
Jeff watched his butler as he methodically went through the steps for brewing coffee grinding the beans, lining the basket, filling the carafe with cold water, pouring it into the reservoir. At least Greer had something constructive to do, something to occupy his hands, his thoughts, if only for a few moments. Jeff felt a twinge of envy.
Greer bolted toward the butler’s pantry just off the kitchen and, soon, Jeff heard the opening and closing of cabinet doors, the clinking of silver and china, the crackle of packages. Although he and Sheila rarely had company, Greer was always prepared with some sort of finger foods that could be set out at the drop of a hat. Jeff didn’t expect that the officers would partake, but he left Greer to the busyness of preparation.
He picked up the phone, punched in a number that he didn’t need to look up.
Gordy Easthope picked up halfway through the second ring, and Jeff figured he’d waited for caller ID to register.
“Talbot, you old reprobate,” he said by way of a greeting. “It’s about damned time you called with a fishing report.”
“Gordy.” Jeff’s voice was strained. He tried to continue, but couldn’t find the words. The sound of his ex-partner’s voice brought on a wash of security, and Jeff felt as if he’d been holding it together just long enough to turn everything over to the most capable man he knew. That, combined with the thought of having to repeat the words, “Sheila’s missing,” brought on such a wave of emotion that he was rendered speechless.
“What’s wrong, bud?”
“Where are you?” Jeff measured out the words.
“Just leaving O’Hare, why? What’s going on?”
“It’s Sheila.” Jeff’s voice cracked. “She’s . . . she’s not here.”
He heard the shuffling of papers on the other end of the phone, followed by the blare of a horn, and the shrillness of a siren.
Gordy was on the move.
Jeff heard more shuffling, then Gordy yelled over the squall. “There’s a nonstop in fifteen. I’ll be on it. Cops at your place yet?”
“Soon. The Judge is slicing through bureaucratic red tape for me.”
“Good. Meanwhile, have Greer call everybody he knows — butcher, store clerks, other house employees. Have him use his cell phone. Keep either that or the house line clear at all times, in case she tries to call in. Get every damn person in the neighborhood looking.
“I’ll have an agent pick me up at Sea-Tac.” He paused, killed the siren. “Jeff?”
“Yeah?”
“Hang in there, buddy.” Gordy broke the connection.
As Jeff replaced the phone, Greer entered the room. “Sir, the police have arrived. They are waiting for you in the library.”
Jeff nodded, hurried toward the front of the house.
Two officers — one male, one female stood near the fireplace where Greer had a fire going. They turned as Jeff entered the room. He glanced at their sleeves, then extended his hand to the ranking officer. “I appreciate your coming so quickly.”
“I’m Sergeant Tom Wyatt.” He shook Jeff’s hand. “This is Officer Hart. Larrabee didn’t leave us much choice.”
“Have a seat.” Jeff indicated the couch.
The uniformed pair sat. Sergeant Wyatt said, “The Judge told me you weren’t exaggerating when you said your wife wouldn’t wander off without good reason.”
Jeff stood by the fireplace. He was afraid that if he sat down he’d fall into some sort of black hole. He took a photo of Sheila from the mantle, gripped it tightly as he gazed at the image of the smiling woman.
“Did your dispatcher fill you in?”
Wyatt turned to his partner. “Hart, you talked to dispatch, right?”
“Yes, sir.” She looked at Jeff, and he got the distinct impression that she pegged him as an abusive husband. “He just said that your wife wasn’t on any medication, wasn’t under a doctor’s care —”
“Isn’t.” Jeff’s jaw tightened. “Don’t use past tense when you refer to my wife.”
“Sorry. I’m used to working homicide.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Hart looked up questionably at Wyatt.
“Mr. Talbot,” Wyatt said, “did you and your wife have some sort of disagreement?”
“No.” Jeff shook his head, muttered, “For God’s sake.”
“No problems in, say, the last few months?”
“I said, no.”
“Isn’t it possible that she went for a walk, or left to meet a girlfriend for a drink? Have you called her friends?”
Jeff slammed his fist against the wall.
“Haven’t you been listening? My wife is agoraphobic. She —”
“I understand —”
“The hell you do. My wife has an illness that has prevented her from leaving this house for the last five years. She doesn’t meet friends for lunch. She doesn’t go for walks. She doesn’t even leave to go to the doctor, or the dentist, or the beauty shop. When she needs something, anything, I bring people in. Get it through your heads, she does not leave these walls!”
“There’s no reason to yell, sir.”
Jeff locked eyes with Wyatt, stared him down.
“Did the Judge tell you that I’m an FBI agent?” Jeff wasn’t sure why he didn’t say former agent. Who cares? He thought. He needed every possible advantage he could gain, for Sheila’s sake.
Surprise swept over the sergeant’s face, then left just as quickly. “No. What difference does that make?”
“Put aside your prejudices, Sergeant, and realize that I’m not given to hysterics. I’ve had training. Listen to me when I say that this is a special case.
“My wife wandering around out there is no different from an Alzheimer’s patient out there, or a four-year-old. Each of them would, at the very least, be disoriented, frightened. At the worst? You should know the answer to that one without my spelling it out. They would be in increasingly advancing stages of dementia, panic, fear. And so will my wife.
“You know what it’s like here on Queen Anne,” he continued. “One crowded street after another. One block of houses practically identical to the last. And to the next. Several streets are dead-ends. Others loop
around to accommodate the hills. To someone who hasn’t spent any time on these streets familiarizing himself with the layout, the landmarks, these houses are nothing more than cookie-cutter look-alikes bungalow after bungalow, street after street.
“If my wife’s disoriented enough, she may not even remember the name of our street. She sure as hell won’t have her bearings. Do you understand?”
“I’m beginning to, sir. I have two more officers outside. We’ll grid off the hill, start knocking on doors.” Wyatt reached for the photo.
Reluctantly, Jeff handed it over.
“Do you have more of these?”
Jeff looked at Greer, who nodded and hurried from the room. He returned with a small stack of photographs in varying sizes, handed it to the sergeant.
Officer Hart asked, “What was she wearing?”
“I left early this morning.” Jeff again looked to Greer.
“When I left around nine, sir, she was in black twill pants with a two-piece sweater set: tan, white, and black stripes. Black loafers, hair pulled back with a black leather barrette.”
The officer nodded as she wrote, then stood. “We’ll let you know if we find anything.”
Jeff started toward them. “I want to come with you. She’ll respond better if I’m there.”
The sergeant sighed. “Not a good idea, Mr. Talbot, and you know it. Besides, we need you to stay put. That way, if she comes home of her own accord, you’ll be here. And, if we find her, we’ll know where to find you.”
After a moment, Jeff nodded. He watched Greer lead the officers out of the room, listened for the front door to close, then went to the kitchen phone. He had one more call to make.
He found the listing in the small address book Sheila kept in a kitchen drawer and dialed the number for her sister, Karen. He’d be surprised if he caught her at home. Karen Gray was the exact opposite of Sheila and, as a photographer for National Geographic, she could be a dot anywhere on the globe.
The Weedless Widow Page 15