Page 37 of Water's Edge

“Is there a table in the front room?”

She stirs a little but keeps her eyes closed. “A small one. Beside the chair. Round. Drop-leaf. There’s a plant on the table and a glass of something beside the plant. A clear tumbler. Red liquid. I didn’t smell it, but it looks like a cranberry gin and tonic. I like them too.”

I make a note of that in case I invite her over someday.

“The kitchen?”

“No table. Just the countertop. A coffeepot. Electric. Mr. Coffee, I think. There’s burnt coffee in the bottom of the pot. The switch is in the ‘on’ position. She’s left the pot and the coffee burnt up. It must have shut itself off. I don’t smell it.”

I push for more. “Any papers on the table or countertop?”

“An envelope on the counter. Mindy peeked. It was a money order made out to Joe Bohleber. Eight hundred dollars.”

She’s doing damn good for not wanting to do this.

“Stove?”

Ronnie cocks her head slightly, remembering. “Gas. There must be a propane tank outside. I looked at the burner knobs. All off. I was worried. She left the coffeepot to burn up. Nothing on top of the stove. Wait. There was. An iron skillet. The skillet looked like there was bacon grease in it. Old. I didn’t smell it. I didn’t smell anything except for in the bathroom.”

“Go to the bathroom, then.”

“No door. It’s missing. The sink is rust stained. Formica countertop. A bar of soap… lavender… and a jewelry thingy. You know, one of those ceramic hands with fingers spread so you can put rings and necklaces and stuff on the fingers? There are no rings. A gold chain with a locket.”

“Did Mindy see the locket?” I ask.

Ronnie’s head bobs a little. “Yeah. She opened it. It was gold. Real old looking. Inside was a picture of an older man on one side, a picture of a baby, a newborn on the other. Mindy let me take pictures of it with my phone. Want to see?”

I do and start slowing the Taurus.

I pull over onto the shoulder to see. The old man’s picture is one of those old black-and-white shots. A stern-looking face, sharp nose, and dark, bushy eyebrows. He looks to be in his forties, which I suppose is ancient to Ronnie. The baby is not much more than a face shot. This one in color. The baby looks chubby, but I guess most babies look chubby. It is definitely a newborn. Its dark hair looks like it was glued down in swirls.

“It’s odd that she’d have a locket with these pictures, don’t you think?” Ronnie asks, her eyes now open.

“Maybe it was her mother’s. Or she bought it like that,” I say. “What else do you remember? Clothes? Posters? Bills lying around? Anything?”

Ronnie shrugs and looks upward, thinking. “The closet was stuffed with clothes. I mean, she was a real clotheshorse. Anyway, there were several sets of clothes scattered on top of her bed. Three tops, one long-sleeve button-down, beige. One light blue, short-sleeve. One pullover with sequins. A couple of slacks, beige and black. A pair of jeans. They were all pretty old, but still nice. Her house was very tidy. It wasn’t like her to leave those lying out. I thought she must have been deciding what to wear. I didn’t see a checkbook or purse or anything.”

“Why would she be deciding what to wear?” I ask.

Ronnie locks eyes with me and says what I’m thinking.

“She must have had a date.”

Nineteen

Jim Truitt’s house is a mini-mansion facing the Twins, two small uninhabited islands that lie between the Bay Club and the peninsula known as Bull’s Head. Strike that: it’s a full-blown mansion. Nothing mini about it. I can see a dock behind the huge house. Several slips are occupied. Sailboats, a yacht, a cabin cruiser, and some smaller but not less-expensive-looking vessels. I take the twisting, rhododendron-lined drive and come to a parking area off to one side. The driveway continues on behind the house. A black BMW is parked under a covered portico.

“The mah-stuh is home,” Ronnie says in a haughty voice.

I ignore her.

I get out and Ronnie opens her car door with a screech that I’ve never noticed before. Being surrounded by wealth, out in the playground of God’s country, the BMW makes my Taurus look like the Beverly Hillbillies have arrived. As I look around, I spot the surveillance cameras. One on each side of the portico. I press the intercom button beside the door and wait. And wait. Finally, a man’s voice asks, “Can I help you?”

“Detective Megan Carpenter.”

The door opens to reveal a tall man with dark red hair styled in a spiked crew cut. His features are sharp, angular. He has full pouty lips, and his nose is too wide for his thin face. His ears protrude from his head like the handles on a Rookwood vase. He’s dressed in blue jeans shredded at the knees and a purple T-shirt with “Priestess Warrior” silk screened on the front. He’s also wearing a smile. It doesn’t look real. He’s somewhere in his mid-forties, and I wonder if we’ve come to the right house or if there is a cult gathering inside that’s passing around Kool-Aid.

Priestess Warrior?

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