“It’ll be fun,” Gin promised, injecting a little extra enthusiasm into her voice. She’d spent extra time dressing for the outing after Jake called to let her know that he was going to be home late. He had hired a couple of guys from his crew to take overnight shifts keeping an eye on the construction site, but he was pitching in to keep the costs down.
She hadn’t told Jake that she planned to do a little investigating at the event. And she didn’t tell Rosa, either. After all, it was likely that no one remembered Marvin Morgensen, if it had actually been him in the news photo. But she couldn’t give up without trying.
“You know I’m thrilled to have a night out of the house, especially with Olive babysitting,” Rosa said as they headed out the door. “Antonio can’t get enough of her. But I was sort of thinking we’d drive up to the city, have a glass or two of chardonnay, and maybe flirt with lawyers and executives. You know, like all the other single girls in town.”
Gin laughed. “But that’s just it—we’re not like all the other single girls. Why settle for a bunch of boring rich guys when you can spend an evening with Civil War reenactors?”
“Why indeed,” Rosa agreed, smiling.
The dinner was taking place at a popular casual restaurant. They walked through a lively happy-hour crowd at the bar to the back room reserved for the meeting. Inside, an attempt had been made to give the bland meeting room a festive air: each table had a centerpiece of thirty-six-star Union flags in vases of red, white, and blue carnations, and rows of tea lights around the banquet tables flickered and danced.
At least two dozen people filled the room, sipping drinks and chatting like old friends. As Doyle had promised, the crowd was diverse and lively. Clean-shaven, button-down professional men rubbed elbows with bikers in leather vests and complicated facial hair; an elderly, grandmotherly woman in a velour tracksuit held court with several tattooed young women in miniskirts and heavy black boots.
Doyle spotted them standing in the doorway and hurried over. “Wow, you came!” he exclaimed. “I was afraid things might have gotten a little out of hand last night.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I brought a friend,” Gin said.
Doyle’s cheeks turned pink as Gin made the introductions, and he vacillated between grinning and staring at Rosa. She didn’t seem to mind.
“I’ll tell you what, Doyle,” Gin said. “I hate to take advantage of your kindness yet again, but I thought I’d take you up on your suggestion and see if I can talk to some of your members who’ve been active for a while. But Rosa doesn’t really know anyone here, and I was wondering if you’d mind telling her a little bit about the organization.”
“Oh, sure!” Doyle bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Rosa, we’ve got a tab going, could I get you a drink?”
As the pair went off to find beverages, Gin congratulated herself on her matchmaking—and then focused on her own task.
She took the photograph of Morgensen from her purse, printed from an online news article from when he went missing, and approached a group of older men standing near the spread of appetizers. They made room for her to join the conversation and listened politely as she introduced herself and explained that she was doing an article for an online news outlet and that she’d been given Morgensen’s name by a source. She said she hoped to interview Morgensen for background information, a story she’d concocted as the easiest way to try to gather information without having to explain how the connection had been made.
“I’m delighted that the media are taking such an interest,” an elderly gentleman in a plaid sport coat said. “I really wish I could help. But I’m afraid I didn’t start attending regional events until last year. There are a lot of people here who’d be happy to talk to you, I’m sure.”
“Oh, that’s very kind,” Gin said, hoping that the lie she’d prepared would sound convincing. “But my story has an angle that only he can help with—he was apparently descended from a soldier who died right here in this county.”
Gin moved on to several other people but met with similar responses. A few of the attendees thought Morgensen looked familiar from various events, but no one knew him well.
Until she started talking to a pair of sixty-ish women in owlish glasses, who so resembled each other that they had to be sisters, a fact Gin confirmed during introductions.
“Oh, I remember him,” Tanya exclaimed. “Marty something-or-other. Remember, Tina, he came to the holiday party that one time?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, that’s understandable, because he spent the whole time pestering Danielle Sigal. Couldn’t take his eyes off her. Remember, he tried to get her out on the dance floor, but she turned him down. It was disgusting, really—he was old enough to be her father.”
“Oh, I vaguely remember . . . kind of a homely fellow, receding hairline?”
“And the waistcoat that didn’t fit!” Tanya crowed. “That’s exactly the one.”
“This Danielle Sigal,” Gin said. “Is she still active in the organization, by any chance?”
“Is she ever,” Tina gushed. “She’s just a doll, sweet as can be. She’s got wonderful energy.”
“She’s here tonight,” her sister, Tanya, added. “Would you like to meet her?”
Gin followed in the women’s wake, taking a detour past the buffet table with paper plates full of canapés to a small group of people sitting at a table in the back.
“Danielle, honey,” Tina said. “You shouldn’t be hiding back here. Why aren’t you out there dancing with all of the other young people?”
“Oh, I would be, but I threw out my back during a firing drill.” A young woman got up with obvious effort, holding onto the chair back for support, keeping her weight off her left leg, which was encased in a brace. Her hair fell forward from a barrette, covering half her face, which was dotted with acne; she was probably trying to disguise the worst of it. “You know how you’re supposed to keep your left foot in place and step diagonally with your right so the musket goes in between the soldiers in front of you? I keep getting it backward—if it had been a real battle, I think I would have accidentally killed that gym teacher from Wexford.”
“She would have had it coming,” Tina said. “She refused to die when Laura told her she was hit.”
“Laura was General Banks,” Tanya confided. “She likes to have a lot of bloodshed up front. But nobody wants to spend the whole battle lying face down, so some people cheat.”
“I never realized the battles were so hotly contested,” Gin said.
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it. Danielle, this is Gin,” Tina said. “She’s writing a story for the Internet.”
For a few minutes, they all chatted about the attention the discovery of the body was bringing to the reenactment community and how the protests had turned into a miniconvention, with events planned every day that week.
“You going to the moonlight battle, Danielle?” Tina asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” the girl said shyly from behind her heavy curtain of hair.
“There’s going to be a staging of the Battle of Dranesville at the fairgrounds two nights from now,” Tanya explained. “It’s mostly just for fun—there’s going to be a full moon, and Dranesville was a minor battle without many casualties, which means mostly there will be a lot of standing around and drinking.”
“See you there!” Tina and Tanya excused themselves to go find refreshments.
“How do you like living in Trumbull?” Gin asked after the sisters had moved on.
“Oh, it’s great,” Danielle said. “I love the arts revival that’s going on downtown. I work as a nurse’s assistant, but I’d love to have my own ceramics studio someday.”
“My mother would be thrilled,” Gin said, smiling, then explained her mother’s arts initiative.
“That’s awesome.”
“I wonder if you can help me with a different matter,” Gin said, changing the subject. “I had actually set up an inter
view with someone who was supposed to meet me here tonight. I was wondering if you might know this man.”
Danielle took the photograph and held it up, peering closely in the dim lighting. She pushed her hair back impatiently, revealing a tiny bandage near her hairline. “That’s Mr. Morgensen!” she exclaimed. “Sure, I remember him; he used to come to a lot of the events back when I first joined. He helped me get started, took the time to talk to me about where to find gear, especially since I was on a budget—he introduced me to some people who had things they were giving away or selling cheap. He gave me tips on how to act at the battles too—there’s a whole etiquette, you know? Anyway, one day he just stopped coming. Someone said he moved back home to Kansas.”
“It sounds like he showed a real interest in you.” Gin took back the photo.
Danielle smiled fondly. “I mean, there’s so many great people in this group. But he just went out of his way to help, you know?”
The girl certainly fit the profile of the Shopgirl Rapist’s other victims, according to the articles Gin had researched that afternoon. All of the victims were between seventeen and twenty-two years old, and all were attractive and outgoing. Psychiatrists interviewed for the articles had speculated the young women had rejected their attacker sexually before becoming his victim—that he was acting out of rage.
Maybe he’d never gotten around to making a move with her—perhaps he’d been so spooked by Chief Crosby’s interest in him all those years earlier that he truly had quit harassing women for good. Or maybe Danielle was so naïve that she hadn’t been aware that his interest was inappropriate.
“Did he spend time with you outside of the organization?” Gin asked, trying to make the question sound casual. “When it was just the two of you?”
“Oh, he was always offering to show me his own collection of memorabilia, but it never worked out. I work strange hours, you know? I really hope nothing bad happened to him. It would just be too sad.”
“Just one more thing—did you hurt your face too? During the firing drill?” She nodded in the direction of the tiny bandage.
“This?” The girl’s hand went to the side of her face. “Yes, we only shoot blanks, of course, but it can still cause a kick. I wasn’t ready for it—I need to be more careful.” She mimed the firing of the long rifle, showing how she would have rested it on her shoulder.
“Anything for authenticity, right?” Gin said wryly. They continued chatting pleasantly about the various elements of the staged battles for a few moments, but when a few people Danielle’s own age came over with mai tais, Gin made her excuses.
Let the girl enjoy the evening, she thought. There wasn’t anything to be gained by explaining how close she might have come to being one of Marvin Morgensen’s victims.
* * *
“You’re having a good time?”
Rosa leaned in close enough that Gin could smell her perfume. “He’s terrific, Gin. Did you know that he’s got a teenage daughter and a four-year-old?”
“No, I just met him the other day.”
“He asked me if I’d like to bring Antonio apple picking with him and his kids next week.”
“Are you going to go?”
“Absolutely, if I can find someone to stay with Mom for the day.”
“I will,” Gin said. “If you think she’d be comfortable with me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t ask that of you . . .”
“Of course you can! We’re friends, Rosa.” The truth of the statement sunk in, and Gin smiled. “I’d actually really enjoy it. We can watch HGTV together and eat popcorn for lunch.”
“She’d love that.”
Doyle came back, balancing two glasses. “One Arnold Palmer for the lady. Sorry, Gin, can I get you something too?”
“No, I think I’m going to call it a night soon.”
“Did you have a good time? Meet anyone interesting?”
“I did, actually. Although . . . perhaps not as interesting as the two of you.”
* * *
While she waited for the old Land Rover to heat up, Gin checked her messages. Jake had texted around nine o’clock:
Meeting Gus for a beer, home soon
That was good . . . wasn’t it? Maybe Jake just needed to blow off a little steam, put his problems in perspective with a few drinks and some live music. And maybe he would figure out a way to talk to Gus about Marlene.
A frisson of fear snaked through Gin, thinking of the two men together, drinking, late at night. Jake clearly didn’t find her fears credible, but it was hard to stop imagining Gus setting fire to the very site where Jake had invested his hopes and dreams. And a man who would do something like that . . .
A man who discovered the woman he loved was having an affair with someone else—someone who might be the father of her child—might be moved to do a lot of things. Some men might confront the problem head-on; others would go on a bender, maybe internalize the pain.
Gus, if his wife was to be believed, had symbolically destroyed the lovers’ bond by burning down their love nest. But had he actually believed that the pair was still inside the house?
Could Gus truly be a murderer? Gin thought about the man who’d visited their home, who’d worked alongside Jake for months. Gus was soft-spoken, but he was also obviously passionate. When he spoke about starting a family in Trumbull, about saving for a larger home to accommodate more children, he had an intensity about him that was hard to ignore.
If his wife had desecrated that dream, what was he capable of?
Gin shook her head, frustrated with herself. Maybe it was the glass of wine she’d had, but she was letting her imagination get ahead of her. Jake was capable of taking care of himself—not to mention a good eight inches taller than Gus and considerably more fit. And besides, no matter what Gus had done when confronted with the reality of his wife’s infidelity, it didn’t make him a threat to anyone else. If he and Jake were talking it out tonight, all that was likely to happen was that Jake would try to help him find a way out of the situation he’d gotten himself into.
When Gin got home, she took Jett for a quick walk, then changed into her flannel pajamas and made a cup of tea.
She curled up on the couch with her laptop and scrolled through Facebook, searching for Marlene and Gus. Gus didn’t appear to have an account, but after a few attempts, Gin found the correct Marlene Sykes and spent some time reading through her posts.
She grew increasingly confused the further back she went. The meek, lonesome wife who’d been wasting away in Trumbull had apparently led an entirely different life in Steubenville. In nearly every picture, Marlene was surrounded by friends, dressed in flashy clothing and made up to the hilt. She posed with girlfriends, waiters, store mannequins, dogs—she was a master of the selfie, alternating between coy puckered lips and sexy smiles and off-camera gazes.
There were pictures with Gus too, but they diminished in frequency in recent months. In some, they looked like any other couple, holding hands or posing in front of scenery, or with various nieces and nephews and groups of friends.
There were a great many photographs with a particular woman named Karin, who Gin surmised was Marlene’s best friend. She clicked over to Karin’s profile and discovered that she owned a shop that specialized in the style of clothing Marlene had worn the night of the dinner: bright, close-fitting, trendy items.
Gin went through the photos a second time, slowly, trying to see if she could figure out who the secret lover was. Of course, it was possible that Marlene had deleted those pictures. Perhaps Gus had asked her to—or insisted—when they moved away to make a fresh start.
It didn’t add up. Granted, Gin had spent only a few hours with the woman. The first time, Marlene had seemed distant, bordering on afraid. Yesterday she’d been despondent. Could this be evidence of a worsening depression? Mental illness could drastically alter a person’s personality, if only temporarily. And Marlene had certainly suffered potentially precipitating events: the guilt and shame
of her continuing infidelity, the loneliness and boredom of being far from home, and the shock of suspecting her husband of a terrible crime.
Gin tried searching for Gus Sykes online, not really sure what she was looking for. Evidence of prior crimes, perhaps, especially those that revealed a temper he couldn’t control. But all she found were mentions on a family reunion site, his parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary announcement, and an out-of-date LinkedIn profile from when he was looking for work.
Gin closed her laptop and took her teacup to the sink. It was almost ten; she decided she would read in bed until Jake got home.
Halfway up the stairs, her phone chimed.
Had too much to drink. Gus and I walked back to his place. I’m going to sleep on their couch. See you tomorrow. Love you
Gin paused, looking out over the narrow window Jake had installed at the stairs’ landing. She had a view of the entire valley from here, the meandering black curves of the river, the bridge lit up prettily like a string of Christmas lights, and the cars traveling along the road on the other side.
Of course she didn’t want Jake to drink and drive. And no matter what the truth was about Gus Sykes, she knew it was silly to worry about Jake spending the night in his house.
She had just hoped for a while now to spend some time relaxing with Jake, putting their cares aside, enjoying each other’s company. Going to the reenactors’ party at the bar didn’t count because they hadn’t been alone the whole evening. Tonight, he’d begged off coming with her to go to the jobsite—but then he’d ended up getting drunk with a friend.
Gin thought of Tuck and his plan to spend tonight with his daughter. The image was sweetly domestic; it wasn’t hard to imagine, given how Tuck melted whenever he was around Cherie. There was something incredibly appealing about a man who loved his children.
All the Secret Places Page 21