Moonlight on Butternut Lake (19 page)

“Me? Oh, nothing.” Walker smiled. “I'm just thinking about last night.”

“What happened last night?”

“Allie and I went on a date.”

“In Butternut?”

Walker nodded.

“Let me guess. You went to the fish fry at the American Legion. Or was it karaoke night at the Elks Club?”

“You can make fun of Butternut all you want,” Walker said. “But today, I'm not taking the bait. Actually we were supposed to go to the Corner Bar for hamburgers, but after we dropped the kids off at Jax and Jeremy's, I thought, ‘Why the hell are we going out in public?' I mean, we could've talked, but we couldn't . . . you know, do anything else.”

“Probably not without attracting the attention of other people,” Reid agreed. He was only giving Walker half his attention. The other half belonged to Allie and Mila. They were standing in waist-deep water now, as Allie watched Mila do the arm movements for the front crawl.

“Anyway,” Walker continued, “we went to the boatyard instead. And I sent the night watchman home. And then . . . well, you know. Or you get the general idea, anyway.”

“In the office?” Reid asked.

“No,” Walker chuckled. “Not the office. In one of the boats on the showroom floor. The Chris Craft Corsair, actually. The Capri 21. That is one beautiful boat. And very comfortable, too, it turns out.”

“You know we're going to have to knock twenty-five percent off her sale price now, don't you?” Reid said.

“Don't worry,” Walker said amiably. “I brought a blanket in from the truck. But Reid, seriously, it was”—here he sat up on his deck chair—“it was amazing. I mean, not only did we not have to worry about being interrupted, but afterwards, we actually had a conversation without either of us falling asleep. And then, you know, we did it again. And then again after that.”

“Okay, that's too much information,” Reid protested.

But Walker only laughed. “You used to like hearing about my conquests, Reid.”

“Yeah, well, I don't think it's considered a conquest if you're already married.”

Walker laughed again. “Maybe not. But damn it, it
felt
like one.”

Just then, they heard Brooke crying from inside the cabin, and, a moment later, Lonnie appeared with her at the screen door. “She just woke up,” she said, “and she's a little fussy. I tried giving her the bottle Allie left for her, but I think maybe she wants her daddy to give it to her instead.”

“I'd love to give it to her,” Walker said. He stood up and clapped Reid on the shoulder. “Don't forget, day after tomorrow, you get your cast off. Then the party, right?”

Reid nodded resignedly. He'd already tried, and failed, to convince his brother a party wasn't necessary.

“Oh, Walker, don't forget the business plan,” Reid said, pointing to the file his brother had left beside the deck chair.

“Right,” Walker said, picking it up.

“And, uh, if you want, you can leave that on my dresser,” Reid said. “I'm not promising anything, but I can probably take a look at it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But don't get too excited, all right? I didn't say I was coming back to work.”

“No, of course not,” Walker said. And then, because he knew Reid too well to press his luck by saying anything more about it, he started to leave.

“Hey, Walk?” Reid called out to him.

“Yeah?”

“You know the barbershop in Butternut?”

“Yeah, it's a good one.”

“You think you could run me over to it tomorrow?”

“God, yes,” Walker said, instantly coming back. “You gonna get the works? Haircut, shave, the whole thing?”

“All right, calm down,” Reid said, waving him away. “Go take care of your kid.”

After Walker went back inside the cabin, sliding the screen door shut behind him, Reid was left alone to watch the end of the swimming lesson. There wasn't much to see. It was winding down now, both women moving leisurely toward the ladder. He'd stay out here a little longer though, he decided. At least until they started to come up from the dock. A breeze blew off the lake, stirring the trees that towered above the deck and bringing with it the scent of dry pine needles and the clean, tangy smell of lake water after it's rained. And Reid, looking down at Mila, her red bathing suit speckled by the sunlight, felt it again, the feeling he got sometimes when he watched her swimming lessons. It was a lightness, a buoyancy, a weightlessness, almost, that made him
forget, momentarily at least, that he was in a wheelchair, and that he wasn't even walking right now, let alone floating.

He'd felt this feeling before, but it had been a long time ago. So long ago, in fact, that he had to make a mental effort to travel back that far in his mind. The last time he'd felt this way—
really
felt this way—was the summer he and Walker had bought their first boatyard. They'd paid almost nothing for it, only to realize later that they'd still paid too much for it. But they hadn't known that then. They hadn't known
anything
then, as far as Reid could tell, except, of course, that they loved boats. Building them, repairing them, customizing them. Anything having to do with them, really. And they'd thought that that would be enough to build a successful business. Well, that and the fact that they were willing to work like maniacs to do it. As it turned out, of course, that
had
been enough. But there was no way they could have known that then. Then, they should have been afraid. Should have been, but weren't.

The best part of that first summer, oddly enough, hadn't been the days, but the nights. The nights were when the two of them sat on the hood of Walker's pickup truck, which they parked outside the boatyard's office, and split a six-pack of beer while they listened to an old transistor radio Walker had found in an abandoned boat. They talked, far into the night, leaning back against the windshield of the truck, looking up at the sky, reluctant to go to sleep even after they'd finished the beer and the radio's corroded batteries had finally given out. They'd talked about the business, of course. About everything they wanted to do with that boatyard. And other boatyards too. This, when they'd barely had enough money to buy the cans of soup they ate for dinner, heated up on a hot plate in the boatyard's office. But they'd talked about other things as well. What other things they talked about,
Reid wasn't quite sure now. Sports, probably. Women, definitely, though, as he recalled, they hadn't had a lot of time to meet any of them that summer.

Finally, though, the two of them would call it a night, climb into the bed of the pickup truck, and unroll their sleeping bags. Why had they slept in the truck, Reid wondered now, when they'd had the boatyard office right next door? But then he remembered.
Rats
. The office, the whole boatyard, actually, had been overrun by rats the size of small cats. They'd slept in the truck to get away from them.

He smiled now as he saw he and Walker as they'd been on those early summer mornings, after a night spent in the pickup. They'd crawl stiffly out of their dew-covered sleeping bags, which they'd hang out to dry on the hood of the truck, and then they'd eat handfuls of cereal right out of the box for their breakfast. They couldn't wait to get started then on rebuilding that boatyard, that pathetic little boatyard that Reid knew now should have failed. Should have, but didn't.

And the funny thing was, they'd been right to make big plans. Their business had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. But the more it grew, Reid suddenly understood, the further he'd gotten from the way he'd felt sitting on top of that pickup truck that first summer.

But when had it stopped being so much fun? he wondered now. When did it become like everything else in life? Another problem to solve. Another item to check off a list. Another reason to stay up late, or wake up early, or work for sixteen hours at a stretch? He couldn't remember when it had happened; he just knew that it had. So why had Reid kept pushing himself so hard? Kept pushing both of them so hard? What was it that he'd wanted? And why hadn't anything he'd gotten ever been enough?
He knew what Walker would say; he knew because Walker had already said it many times before. He'd say that Reid was trying to even some score with their dad, some score that could never be evened. It was their dad who'd introduced them to boats. When they were little, he'd always had one in the garage that he was working on. He'd let them help him sometimes, too, and he'd give them little jobs to do, little projects to work on. For their dad, though, boats were just a hobby, and as much as he would have loved for them to be a business, he didn't know how to make them one. He lacked something, the courage, maybe, or the drive, to turn his love of them into a full-time job.

And then he'd left. Left not just their mom, but them, too. He'd tried to stay in their lives, for a while, anyway. But then he'd stopped trying. Maybe it was because he and their mom kept fighting, even after the divorce, about child support checks, about visitation, about every little thing they could think to fight about it seemed. Or maybe it was because he'd met another woman and, eventually, had a daughter with her. He'd never introduced them to their half sister. They'd only heard about her, and not from their father, either, but from a friend of their father. By the time she was born, their dad had dropped out of their lives for good.

But no matter, Reid had told himself. He and his brother had taken something their father had loved to do and done him one better. No, done him
one hundred
times better.
One thousand times better.
They hadn't needed him. And they hadn't succeeded because of him, either. In fact, they'd succeeded
in spite of
him. But none of their success had ever given Reid the satisfaction he'd thought it would.

He remembered now the night of the accident, not the part after he'd gotten in his
car, but the part before he'd gotten in his car. He stopped himself though. He wouldn't think about that now. Not when he was in this good of a mood. He looked down at the lake. Mila and Allie had dried themselves off, and, still wrapped in their towels, they were making their unhurried way to the set of steps that led up to the deck. Soon, very soon, he'd go back inside. But for a moment, he lingered there, feeling that unfamiliar, but welcome feeling. It was happiness, Reid knew. And it had come into his life again when he'd least expected it to.

B
y the time Brandon walked into the coffee shop that morning, Ed Tuck was already wedged into one of the back booths and already hard at work on what looked to be the breakfast special. Brandon knew that special well. It was what he'd ordered when Mila had worked at this place. It was the only thing on the menu, as far as he could tell, that was even halfway decent.

His stomach grumbled hungrily as he made his way down the narrow aisle to Mr. Tuck's booth. He was starving. But he knew he wouldn't be able to eat anything here. Too many memories. It would have been easier to pick someplace else to have this meeting. He knew that. But this place was symbolic. And if there was one thing Brandon could appreciate, it was symbolism.

“Good morning,” Brandon said, sliding into the booth opposite Mr. Tuck.

“You're late,” Mr. Tuck said, barely looking up from his plate, where he was using his toast to mop up the yolky remains of his fried eggs.

Brandon, annoyed, flipped over the empty cup of coffee on
the table in front of him and signaled to the waitress. “It's my dime, Mr. Tuck,” he said.

Mr. Tuck shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, shoveling hash browns into his mouth. “But you already owe me a lot of dimes.”

That was true enough, Brandon thought, his hand going reflexively to the envelope in his pocket. He'd already spent a small fortune on Mr. Tuck's services, and he hadn't even given him this last installment yet.

“Sorry I'm late,” Brandon said. “I had to make up an excuse to get out of work.”

The waitress came over then with a pot of coffee and filled Brandon's cup. She took out her check pad, but he shook his head. “Just coffee,” he said, barely glancing at her. Funny how uninterested he'd been in women—even attractive women—since Mila had left. It was almost as if he didn't even see them anymore.

The waitress started to leave the table, but Mr. Tuck stopped her. “Ma'am, if you don't mind, I'll have a slice of the pie.”

“For breakfast?” Brandon asked, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“Why not? You only live once, right?”

Brandon sighed inwardly. Another charge on the tab. And he didn't believe the part about only living once. Judging from his waistline, Mr. Tuck looked like he'd already lived plenty, at least when it came to pie. And then he remembered something from Mila's days working at this place.

“I hate to tell you this, but the pie here is lousy.”

“I'm not picky.”

And that was a good thing, Brandon thought, when he saw the disgusting-looking wedge of pie the waitress set down in front of Mr. Tuck. But he seemed to like it just fine. So Brandon seethed, silently, alternately sipping his too-hot coffee and watching Mr.
Tuck eat his pie. This man, Brandon thought with disappointment, had none of the style and panache he'd expected a private investigator to have. Instead, he had a bad comb-over, a puffy face, and watery eyes that made him look like he had a permanent cold.

When he was done with his pie, he wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and pushed his plate away. “Where's the money?” he asked Brandon.

“The money?” Brandon said, surprised, and then irritated at his directness. “Where's the information, Mr. Tuck?”

“I have it. But I want to see the money first.” He reached into the briefcase sitting on the booth beside him and pulled out a sheet of paper, which he slid across the table to Brandon. “Here's my hours, and my expense report. I've deducted them from the retainer you gave me, but as you can see, Mr. Stewart, you still owe me two thousand dollars.”

Two thousand dollars
? Who the hell was this guy kidding? That was highway robbery. But Brandon said nothing. He didn't want to alienate Mr. Tuck yet. There'd be plenty of time for him to do that later, after he'd told Brandon where Mila was. So Brandon folded up the sheet of paper and tucked it into his pocket. “I'll look at it later,” he mumbled, taking an envelope out of his other pocket. Then he opened it up, counted out twenty one-hundred-dollar bills, and handed them over to Mr. Tuck.

Mr. Tuck glanced quickly around the coffee shop, recounted the money, and pocketed it.

“So,” Brandon said, leaning forward. “What have you got for me?” His heart was jumping in his chest, and it wasn't just the caffeine that was making it do that either. He'd spent seven weeks not knowing where Mila was, and today, he was finally going to find out.

“Well, first, why don't I tell you what I haven't got for you,” Mr. Tuck said, settling back against the leather backing of the booth. “I don't have a record of a Mila Jones making an airline reservation or a rental car reservation. I also don't have a record of her opening a bank account, applying for a credit card, applying for government aid, getting arrested, or checking into a hospital. Nobody's run a credit check on her. And she doesn't have a job, either. Or, I should say, she doesn't have a job that's on the books. More than that, I can't say, Mr. Jones.”

“But what exactly can you say?” Brandon asked, confused. “I mean, you found her, didn't you?”

Mr. Tuck shook his head. “No, what I'm saying is that I
didn't
find her. Not a trace of her.”

“And you went . . . you went to Florida? And Nebraska?”

Mr. Tuck nodded and took another manila envelope out of his briefcase. He handed it to Brandon. “My assistant and I went to both places. It's all in this report. As discussed, we did twenty-four hours of surveillance on each residence. The apartment in Fort Lauderdale and the house outside Red Cloud, Nebraska. And let me tell you, Mr. Jones, it is not easy doing surveillance on a farmhouse in rural Nebraska without attracting attention. That's one of the harder jobs I've done.”

“But, but how do you know she wasn't inside her mom's apartment? Or her friend's house?” Brandon persisted, something close to panic setting in. “How do you know she just didn't go outside during those twenty-four hours?”

But Mr. Tuck shook his head. “No, we got inside the residences. Or my assistant did, anyway. In Fort Lauderdale, she was a pizza delivery girl who'd gotten the wrong address. When your mother-in-law told her she'd made a mistake, my assistant said her cell phone had died and asked if she could use her phone
to call the pizza place. Then she had a quick look around. She didn't see any sign of your wife. Your mother-in-law, by the way, was dead drunk, and this was at three o'clock in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, she's got a problem,” Brandon said impatiently. “Now, what about the other place, in Nebraska?”

“In Nebraska, my assistant posed as a driver who'd gotten lost. She stopped at the farmhouse to ask directions and then asked if she could use the bathroom and have a glass of water. It was hotter than hell there, as it turned out. But they were glad to give her something cold to drink. Nice family, by the way. Anyway, there was no one there fitting your wife's description.”

“But, I mean, just because she didn't leave those places while you had them under surveillance, and just because your assistant didn't see her inside of them, how can you be positive that she's not still hiding out in one of them?”

“We can't,” Mr. Tuck said simply. “Not without breaking the law. And that's what we'd be doing if we waited for everyone to leave a residence and then let ourselves in and searched it. That's called ‘breaking and entering,' and I won't do it. It's not worth risking my P.I. license for.”

“But, Mr. Stewart,” he continued, using his fork now to scrape the remains of the gelatinous pie filling off his plate, “if you think your wife is at one of those residences, holed up in an attic or a basement, I can tell you right now it's very unlikely. People can't live that way. Not for long, anyway. Eventually, they let their guard down. Your wife, for instance, has had several weeks now to get comfortable wherever she's living. Trust me. She's not hiding in a closet. She's falling into some kind of routine. Grocery shopping. Picking up a cup of coffee. Maybe even socializing.”

Socializing?
The word made Brandon flinch. The very thought of Mila meeting new people, especially people of the male persuasion,
was nauseating to him. She belonged here. At home. With him. Not off gallivanting somewhere, meeting men, flirting with them, maybe even . . . but here he stopped. He couldn't take that idea any further.

He gulped down some coffee and tried to clear his mind. He could let his guard down later, in the privacy of his apartment. He'd already punched several holes in the wall there since Mila had left at the beginning of the summer. “So,” he said, running his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “Where do we go from here, Mr. Tuck?”

Mr. Tuck raised his eyebrows. “From here?”

“I mean, what do we do next?”

“We don't do anything next.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that my work is done. I looked for your wife. I couldn't find her.”

“You're giving up?” Brandon asked, not bothering to keep the disgust out of his voice.

But Mr. Tuck only shrugged. “I told you the day you came to my office that there was no guarantee I'd find your wife. I told you I'd use every reasonable means at my disposal to find her. And I've done that.”

“But isn't there anything more you can do?”

Mr. Tuck sighed, and, finally, having satisfied himself that not a single smear of pie filling was left on his plate, he put his fork down. “Look,” he said, “if money is no object for you, I could do a little more legwork. Go to the bus station, maybe. Unlike airport ticket counters, they don't check IDs that carefully. Someone could easily use a fake one. Plus, it's easy to pay cash for a bus ticket. So, yeah, it would be a good way to travel if you were trying to run away from someone. I could show her picture
around the station. Ask if anyone's seen her. I might get a hit that way.”

Brandon nodded eagerly. “Do it.”

“Okay, but I'm going to need another retainer.”

“Another one?”

“I spent the first one.”

Brandon seethed. He'd already cleaned out his savings account to pay Mr. Tuck. “I might be able to get an advance on my salary,” he muttered, draining the last of his coffee.

But after giving him a long, shrewd look, Mr. Tuck shook his head. “I think that would be a mistake. I think we both know you've already spent more money than you can afford to spend.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?” Brandon asked angrily, bringing his fist down on the table with more force than he'd intended. Mr. Tuck sucked in a little breath, and several diners turned to stare.

“What you're supposed to do, Mr. Stewart,” Mr. Tuck said, recovering from his surprise, “is to accept the fact that your wife has left you and move on with your own life.”

“
Move on?
Are you kidding?”

“No, I'm not kidding. Because if the last several weeks have taught me anything, it's that your wife doesn't want to be found.”

“My wife doesn't know what she wants.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But here's something else you may want to consider. Even if you do find her, you may not be able to persuade her to return with you. It's a free country, Mr. Stewart. You can't compel her to come home if she doesn't want to.”

“Compel her? She's my wife, Mr. Tuck.”

“That's true. But under the laws of this country, being your wife is not the same thing as being your personal property. She's a free agent. She can return home with you. Or she can choose not to.”

“It's not a question of choice.”

Mr. Tuck looked at him sharply. “Actually, it is. If you force her to go with you against her will, that's kidnapping. And it's a felony. You could do serious time for that.”

Brandon tried to shrug that off. Though in truth he'd had a few brushes with the law already, and it had left its mark on him. Still, he was confident that once he found Mila, she'd come back with him. She'd have to. She was his wife.

Brandon signaled for more coffee, even though the cup he'd already drunk felt like it was burning a hole in his stomach. The waitress came over, but she looked nervous. She filled Brandon's cup and left immediately. Mr. Tuck didn't look too eager to stick around either. He glanced at his watch and reached for his briefcase. But Brandon wasn't letting him off that easily. He'd taken Brandon's money. Now he could damn well listen to him.

“Mr. Tuck,” he said quietly, leaning in close. “I know how most people see marriage today. They see it as disposable. If you hit a little rough patch, the way my wife and I did, it's over. You're supposed to just call it a day. Pack up and move out. Find somebody else. Maybe marry them, too. If that doesn't work out, you can always try again, right. But me? I'm old-fashioned that way. I believe marriage is forever. Until death do us part. And when I find my wife—and I
will
find her—I intend to remind her of that.”

Mr. Tuck frowned then, as if Brandon had said something offensive. Or disturbing. Which, of course, he hadn't. He'd spoken the truth as he saw it. Nothing more and nothing less.

“Well, good luck with that,” Mr. Tuck said quickly. He slid out of the booth, without shaking Brandon's hand, and he started to leave, but then he turned around and came back. “Mr. Stewart? My job for you is done,” he said brusquely. “Don't call my office again.” And then he was gone.

“Don't worry, I won't call your office again,” Brandon said mockingly. “You've wasted enough of my time. Not to mention my money.” He sat hunched over in the booth for a while, his coffee getting cold, the ebb and flow of the other diners swirling around him.

Finally, he glanced at the check, threw some money on the table, and got up to go. He had a plan. He'd take over where Mr. Tuck, that two-bit P.I., had left off. How hard could it be? He'd start by taking Mila's picture to the bus station. He'd come up with some story about why he was looking for her. Maybe he'd even say she was crazy, he decided, heading out of the coffee shop and down the street. Yeah, crazy was good. And not that far from the truth, either. After all, she would have to have been crazy to throw away everything they'd had together.