Fortunes of the Dead (16 page)

There was a car in the driveway, a two-year-old Saturn that had clearly just been washed. It was the only vehicle in sight that wasn't splashed with mud. The license plate was from Laurel County—London, Kentucky was in Laurel County.

I parked the Miata on the curb, and went to the door.

The bell wasn't working so I knocked, waited, and knocked again. The front porch looked like it had been recently swept, and the glass in the storm door was clean.

Edgers was out, or he was ignoring me. If he was ignoring me, I could have him out of the house in minutes. No man in the world can tolerate a stranger messing with his car.

I stepped off the concrete porch and approached the car. Even the tires were clean. Just inside, on the dash, was a portable blue light and siren. Sunglasses were splayed on the front seat, along with a small vinyl notebook full of papers. I crouched down and looked under the car for no particular reason, then walked slowly, staring, circling the Saturn, which was beige, and so well cared for it looked new. I heard the creak of a door, and footsteps.

Edgers had that state trooper physique—tall, with broad shoulders and physical presence. He had a law enforcement haircut, short and close to his head. His smile surprised me. He had blue eyes, very clear, very alive. He walked with a wiry grace unusual in a man of his size, and was cop enough to do the visual sweep that made him aware of who might or might not be on the street, in my car, along the side of the house.

“I'm sure you have a reason to be here.” He even grinned. He talked pure Kentucky and gave me a sideways look and if I didn't know better I'd have thought he was flirting. The boys at Cheryl's apartment could call him an old man all they wanted. He didn't look a day over thirty, even though he probably was, and I could see why Cheryl had been attracted.

“I'm not trying to steal your car.”

“That's good. Never steal a car from a cop.”

He said it with a quiet pride, as if it defined him. He folded his arms and leaned back against the Saturn like he had all day and talking to me was the most interesting thing on the agenda. I got the feeling that he had been bored until I walked up to the doorstep, and that strangers were welcome here.

“Cory Edgers?”

He nodded.

“Lena Padget.”

We shook hands. His grip was firm, his palm warm and dry; he wore a thick gold wedding band on the left hand.

“You with the Commonwealth Attorney's office?”

“No. You're welcome to see the ID.” I opened my purse, well aware that he was watching just in case I had a weapon—ridiculous, because there was barely enough room for what I already had in there—the leather wallet, the lipstick and hairbrush and the extra pair of hose. I showed him my driver's license and investigator's license. He looked at them long enough that I knew he was paying attention, then handed them back.

“What brings you here, Ms. Padget?”

“Cheryl Dunkirk. I understand you were a friend.”

His smile went away, and his eyes looked sad. “Come on in and sit down. I just made coffee, if you'd like a cup.”

The last thing I expected was to be invited in. He led the way up the cracked gray sidewalk, and I glanced out onto the street. Cars went by; there was a lot of traffic. My Miata sat in full view in front of the house.

He was a big man, Cory Edgers. He stopped and motioned me forward and opened the storm door by reaching over my head. I felt very small. I stepped up into the living room, which was clean, though the walls were an ugly mint green and full of nail holes and finger smudges. The wood floors were dull and scratched, but swept clean. The place had a sort of barracks feel about it, as if these were the current quarters of Deputy Sheriff Cory Edgers and were ready for inspection at any time. Edgers was like a retired soldier, newly released from military service but still caught up in the regulations that haunt veterans their first months of civilian life. Edgers was in the law enforcement army.

“I'm here on temporary assignment. The house belongs to a friend. He's been having trouble with vandals, and he's happy to let me stay here free just so there's somebody around. Come on in the kitchen.”

The kitchen was the heart of the house. The linoleum floor was as clean as old linoleum can be, which means the current layers of dirt were mopped away, leaving the ground-in dirt that defied string mops and reasonable effort. I wasn't sure if a scrub brush and hard labor would get that kind of dirt up, because I had never tried.

The kitchen walls were also mint green, like toothpaste, dingy and depressing. But the appliances, all matching harvest yellow, were squeaky clean and the stainless steel sink was bone dry and spotless. A Mr. Coffee burbled, the only thing on the scrubbed Formica countertops, and the house smelled like coffee, Pine Sol, and Irish Spring soap.

Edgers took two new brown mugs out of an otherwise empty cabinet and looked at me over his shoulder. “Coffee? Go ahead and sit, if you'd like.”

There were three matching maple chairs around the table. Edgers put a mug of coffee at my place, and set a box of Dixie sugar cubes on the table, alongside a tiny carton of heavy cream. He handed me a plastic spoon.

Edgers hooked a chair with his foot and pulled it out in a practiced motion. “So you're looking for Cheryl. Who hired you, if I may ask?” He scrupulously maintained eye contact, voice steady and sure and maybe just a touch wary.

“Her family.”

“They have my sympathy.”

“You still with the ATF, Mr. Edgers?”

“Technically. I'm on enforced leave until the paperwork goes through so they can get rid of me. It's the federal way. Back home they could have fired me a lot faster.”

“Did they?”

“Fire me? No reason to. I guess they know me better down there.”

“Why are you still in Lexington?”

“Like I said. Doing a favor for a friend.”

“Occupying the house?”

“Occupying the house. Cops do it all the time. It's good for the neighborhood.”

I glanced out the kitchen window, noticed a sagging wood garage at the end of the driveway. The door was boarded up with planks.

“That's the first place they looked,” Edgers told me. “She's not in there.”

I put cream in my coffee, mainly to have something to do with my hands. The constant eye contact was getting creepy. I took a sip from my cup. The coffee was hot and very good. Edgers's foot was a few inches from mine, his chair an arm's length from my chair. His smile was artistically genuine, sincerity vibrating like a jack-hammer.

“How can I help you, Lena?”

I did not like it when he said my name. I did not like the sensation I had that he
noticed
me. I saw how intentional it was, the close physical dominance, the unrelenting focus and attention. I looked down the shadowed hallway to the front door. A heavy door; no window at the top. The deadbolt was latched and the chain lock was in the metal slot. When had he done that?

“You know, I appreciate the coffee.” I pushed my chair back as if I was trying to get comfortable. Edgers slid his chair forward in pursuit. “But I'm wondering why you'd take the time to talk to me. You don't know me.”

Edgers tilted his head to one side. “I don't know about the way you grew up, but down in London we help out when we can, and there's always time for a coffee or a Coke in the kitchen. If you're working for Cheryl's family, why wouldn't I help? I thought the world of Cheryl and it breaks my heart what happened to her.”

“What did happen to her?” I asked him.

He reached into his back pocket for a wallet and a leather case.

“This is my badge. These …” He flicked pictures out with a practiced air. “These are pictures of my family. That's my little boy. His name is Leo; he's four. Looks like his mama, I think, don't you? That's my wife on her old horse she's had since she was a little girl.”

I glanced at the pictures. The little boy was dark-haired, not looking at the camera, as if he hadn't noticed the photographer. The woman was interesting. An honest face, a capable physical presence.

“I'm just a small-town boy who wanted to be a cop all his life. I've got a family, a wife I love and a little boy. I don't need a lot of money; I don't want to work in New York City. I just want to look after the community, to protect and serve the people I grew up with, and if that's corny, then too bad. I want to watch my son grow up, maybe with a brother or a sister. I want to make my wife happy she married
me
. I'm not all that interesting, I'm sorry to say. I don't hunt and kill animals; I don't smoke cigarettes; I drink Jack Daniel's from time to time and that's about it. I'm saving up for a boat to put on Laurel Lake to take my wife and son out on the weekends. Is there anything else you want to know?”

I leaned across the table. He didn't give ground. His face was so close to mine I could feel his breath, and my heart slammed, that sick feeling of nerves rising in my stomach.

“I want to know what you think happened to Cheryl.”

“I don't think we'll ever find out.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“In the office, the last day she was there.”

“What was the nature of your relationship?”

“I was her mentor.”

“Did that include sex?”

He smiled. “No.”

“Was she in love with you?”

“No.”

“Anything in her work situation that might have led to her disappearance?”

“She was an intern. No. Cheryl was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He tapped a finger on the table. “You and I both know there are a lot of predators out there who target women. Bad men, bad world.”

“Yeah. I'm wondering if you're one of them.”

“Take a number and get in line.”

I stood up. “Thanks for your time.”

Edgers smiled at me, walked to the front door, removed the chain lock, released the deadbolt. Edgers touched my shoulder as I walked through the door.

“Maybe next time, Lena.”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

I spent the rest of the afternoon at the movies, trying to shake the feeling Edgers had given me when he'd touched my shoulder. I got home between seven-thirty and eight. There were two missed calls from Joel on my cell. His car was in the driveway and the porch light was on. The front door was unlocked.

The fragrance of olive oil, garlic, and wine permeated the house. I left my purse beside the staircase.

“Hey.” Joel stood in the arched doorway between the kitchen and living room, drying his hands on a dishcloth. He had changed into a sweatshirt and drawstring pajama bottoms.

“Smells good,” I said.

“It's ready whenever you want to eat.” Something kept him there in the doorway. I supposed what kept him there was me. We were awkward tonight. “I've got a bottle of wine open. You want a glass?”

“Maybe in a minute.” I headed upstairs to the bedroom. I sensed that he was watching me, but I didn't look back.

Joel had made the bed. It's a black iron bed, graceful and curved in an old southern design called Savannah. We have a stark white duvet and lots of pillows. Joel always throws the pillows off the bed. I always pile them back on.

I wanted to change, but I still hadn't moved most of my stuff over. I wondered how many years it would take us to move in at the rate we were going.

One of Joel's old dress shirts was hanging in the back of the closet. A week ago I would have pulled it off the hanger and worn that. I kicked my shoes off and headed back downstairs.

Joel was in the kitchen, back to me, stirring something in an iron skillet. A panful of boiling water spilled over, hissing and steaming as it hit the hot elements.

“Ready to eat?”

“Sure. Thanks for cooking.”

Joel looked at me over his shoulder, puzzled. I took the glass of red wine that sat in front of my place at the card table, and stood in front of the window that faces the backyard. I couldn't see anything except my reflection in the glass. It was dark outside, light inside. Behind me I heard the scrape of a wooden spoon, the splash of water in the sink; mundane little cooking noises I found to be a comfort.

“I tried to call you,” Joel said.

“My cell was turned off. I went to a movie.”

Dishes clattered, the refrigerator door opened and closed. I would like to cook with Joel once in a while, but he won't let me help. It is as if he has the meal preparation planned like a military campaign and dinner is a mission in which there is no room for amateurs like me.

The week before we moved I served him a casserole that has kept me fed many a night—creamed corn covered in a layer of potato chips. It bakes in a quick half hour and you can vary the flavor depending upon the kind of potato chips you use, so it is both easy to make and adaptable. I think the casserole, combined with a new kitchen that Joel likes, may mean that I'll do very little cooking from here on out.

“Lena?”

Joel stood behind his chair and waited for me to sit down. There were cloth napkins on the table, more pots and pans. Clearly he'd brought over some of the kitchen things. There were new dishes—a blue, yellow, and red pattern, very Mediterranean looking, very swirled.

“New plates?”

“Pier One.” Joel used a clawlike server to spoon fresh linguine on my plate. “What do you think?”

“They're very pretty.”

“I should have checked with you first. Let you help pick them out.”

“No, no. They're great. Really.”

Joel had made a dish we call Linguine Mendez. He puts olive oil in an iron skillet, and browns garlic and shallots. Then he puts organic baby spinach (or so it says on the package) in with sliced red peppers, portobello mushrooms, sun-dried tomatoes, Kalamata olives, capers, and a copious amount of white wine. While the vegetables simmer, he grates fresh Parmesan cheese, and puts that in the skillet followed by plain yogurt. He squeezes a fresh lemon over all of this and adds some more wine. Everything simmers, then goes over pasta.