In a Midnight Wood Page 3

  “Right.” He took another swallow of beer.

  “What do you remember about it?”

  “Well,” he said, resting the beer bottle on his thigh. “As I recall, we didn’t have many leads. I followed up on what I could, but it never went anywhere.”

  Dave waited, but when his dad said nothing more, he continued, “I just talked to Wendell Romilly. You remember him?”

  “The father.”

  “He said you’d cleared him of any connection to Sam’s disappearance.”

  “Nah, that’s not right. Since we couldn’t prove a crime, I could hardly clear anyone. Check my report. I probably filed more than one.”

  Dave had already looked at them. Right after he joined the force, it was the first thing he’d done—privately, of course. He also knew that a police officer didn’t always put everything he’d learned or suspected in an official report. That’s what he was after—that and one last confirmation that his father really didn’t know anything. “Okay, but what about your field notes?”

  “There was a box in the basement with some of my notebooks in it. Your mom would get sick of looking at them and toss them in it to get rid of them. If you can’t find the box, go ask her if she knows where it went.”

  Dave’s mom and dad had divorced many years ago. Theirs had not been a match made in heaven. Then again, living with a cop wasn’t easy. It was one reason Dave had remained single. These days, his mom lived in Hackett with her two Westies, which was fine with him. They’d never gotten along.

  “I’ll take a look in the basement,” said Dave. “Except I can’t do it now.” He was disappointed that his dad didn’t have more to offer. “Think about your investigation, okay? Maybe when we talk next, you can go into more detail.”

  “I’ll try,” said his father. “Hey, before you go, get me another beer.”

  Dave studied him a moment, seeing nothing but the ever calm, always forthright older version of the man he’d always been so proud to call his father. “Sure thing. One beer coming right up.”

  5

  Emma had planned to make her mother’s famous fried chicken for dinner, but because she was so unhinged by the news about Sam Romilly, Jane took a look in the refrigerator and offered to do it herself. She’d found one of Audrey’s old recipe books and, while Cordelia and Emma talked out on the patio, Jane got to work.

  By six, they were seated at the dining room table, enjoying the chicken, some roasted potatoes and carrots with fresh rosemary, and thick slices of homegrown tomatoes. After a few glasses of wine, Emma seemed to be in a better mood, so the conversation drifted to less fraught topics.

  “How goes the candy store?” asked Cordelia, reaching for the corkscrew to open a second bottle of wine.

  Emma had received her bachelor’s degree in psychology from Stanford. While there, she’d met a young man, Philip Anguelo, a computer whiz who had just partnered with a couple of friends to build a tech start-up. The start-up took off like a rocket, and Philip and Emma married the following year. Their daughter, Verity, came along soon thereafter.

  Emma was home with Verity during her early years, but when her daughter was diagnosed with childhood diabetes, Emma turned her energy to creating sweets that her daughter could actually eat. That led to other parents wanting the sweet treats, and eventually Emma set up a website and began to offer her wares online. She’d apparently never wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, so she was more than willing to ride the wave.

  “I’m selling the company,” she said, pressing a napkin to her lips.

  “Selling?” said Jane.

  “But what about our annual Christmas box of chocolates?” asked Cordelia.

  “You’ll get one this year, but after that, you’re on your own.”

  “What happened?” asked Jane.

  “I got this incredible offer last spring, and I couldn’t turn it down. I had to think about it for a while, which is why I never talked about it.” She held her wineglass as Cordelia refilled it. “I might as well tell you right up front: I’ve asked Philip for a divorce.”

  “Oh, Emma,” said Jane. It wasn’t unexpected, but she was still sad that it had come to that.

  Emma held up her hand. “But turns out, it’s not that simple. Philip is Catholic. Or, I should say, his parents are Catholic. As long as they’re alive, he says he’s stuck with me and I’m apparently stuck with him. Even so, however it turns out, I’m done forever with the marriage thing. The good part is, asking for a divorce has given me some unexpected leverage. I promised him I wouldn’t file if he signed a document stating that he had no claim to my business.”

  “Before he knew about the sale?” asked Jane.

  “Exactly.”

  “Was it a lot of money?” asked Cordelia, never one to be compelled by social niceties when she wanted information.

  “Yes, it was more than generous.”

  “Will you move out of your home in Mountain View?”

  “I can’t. We have to keep up appearances. And I need to be quiet about the split, or any men I choose to date.”

  “What about Verity?” asked Jane. “Does she know about the marital problems?”

  “We haven’t talked about it, but … probably.” She ran a hand through her hair. “My daughter is fifteen going on thirty. She doesn’t miss much. When I decided to come back here for the summer, I asked her to come along. I saw right away that it wasn’t going to happen. She’s too involved with her friends to want to spend three months in a small town in the middle of nowhere. And she’s a real daddy’s girl. I don’t blame her. Her father is exciting. I sell candy. Big whoop.”

  Cordelia dropped her napkin next to her plate. “What’s it like being back?”

  Emma laughed. “As soon as I set foot in town, I got nailed to head up a committee for our twentieth class reunion. It’s next weekend, by the way. The woman who had been heading the committee had to bow out for health reasons. Believe me, there’s way too much to do. I’m working with Kurt Steiner. Have you heard of him?”

  “The name sounds familiar,” said Jane.

  “Coleridge Street Press published his first book of poetry, oh, maybe eight years ago. In a Midnight Wood.”

  “Oh, sure. A friend gave me a copy. He’s a farmer or a baker or something, right?”

  “Butcher,” said Emma. “His family owns the only butcher shop in town. We’ve become really great friends over the summer. He’s even taken me fishing a couple of times, just like my dad used to do. And he’s easy to look at.”

  “Oh?” said Cordelia.

  “I’m not interested, if that’s what you’re suggesting. You can call me shallow if you want, but I like being around beautiful men. I mean, he’s got this cute, toothy smile. Telling a guy he’s cute is never a good thing, but he is. And he’s got a great mustache that turns down around the edges of his mouth. There are so many tragically ugly mustaches these days, don’t you agree?”

  “I do,” said Cordelia, offering a deeply sympathetic nod.

  “As a friend, he’s been a real gift.” Looking away, Emma added, “Sam will need to be included in the class memorial. Kurt and I are organizing that.”

  It was the topic Jane had been wanting to talk about. But as soon as Emma said Sam’s name, her eyes began to tear.

  “Will you excuse me?” she said, getting up. “I just need a moment.” She walked stiffly out of the dining room.

  Jane and Cordelia exchanged glances.

  “We should probably clear the table and clean up the kitchen,” said Jane.

  “I suppose,” agreed Cordelia, though with little enthusiasm.

  As Jane busied herself putting the leftovers into containers, Cordelia’s phone rang.

  Fishing it out of her back pocket and checking to see who it was, her expression brightened. “Oh, it’s Hattie. Do you mind?”

  Whether Cordelia’s change in mood was because Hattie was on the line or because she had found an excuse to get out cleaning up—or both—Jane couldn�
��t tell. Not that it mattered. She was hardly a stranger to dishes.

  After turning on the dishwasher a little while later, she grabbed a glass of iced tea and went outside. The heat of the day still lingered in the air as she made her way down the broad front lawn to a strip of beach. She set her glass on one of the Adirondack chairs, then kicked off her sandals, rolled up her jeans, and waded into the water, feeling the fine sand squish between her toes.

  Besides wanting to spend time with Emma, Jane had another reason for wanting to get away. She’d had an off again, on again relationship with a woman, Julia Martinsen, for many years. During the final year and a half of Julia’s life, Jane had taken her into her home and cared for her until her death last February. Everyone assumed Jane was reeling from the loss of Julia, and that it was why she appeared so weighed down, yet that was only part of it. She’d taken a week off from work in March to grieve and try to gain some perspective. The only conclusion she’d come to was that she was a fool. She’d told no one, not even Cordelia, what had happened after Julia’s funeral, and perhaps that was a mistake. Cordelia had always warned her about Julia’s malign influence, but Jane felt she knew better.

  Hearing a noise, she turned to find Emma, wine bottle in hand, coming—or perhaps more accurately, weaving—down the grassy hill from the house.

  “Sorry I left so abruptly,” she said, making herself comfortable on one of the chairs.

  “Are you feeling any better?” asked Jane, picking up a stone and skipping it across the water.

  “I need to talk. About Sam.”

  Jane returned to her chair and sat down.

  “Can I bend your ear?”

  “Of course. Well, except, here’s the thing. You know that, for the last six months, I’ve been working part-time for a podcast in Minneapolis.”

  “I’ve listened to a few,” said Emma. “They’re good. Minnesota cold cases. I like true crime.”

  Besides owning a restaurant, Jane had been a licensed P.I. for many years. People who didn’t know her thought restaurateur and investigator were an odd combination, but for Jane, they represented two of her biggest passions. When she came on board as a producer for Minnesota (N)ice last April, with a significant investment of both time and money, she stepped back from doing any P.I work. Initially she’d only been involved in research for the podcast, but when one of her interview segments was included on air, the reaction to her voice, her interview style, and her analysis was so positive, she was now being encouraged to think about becoming one of the hosts. In the last few months, she’d been tasked with developing new leads for upcoming programs. And it seemed as if one had just dropped in her lap. Sam’s disappearance now qualified as a legitimate cold case. Jane hadn’t been all that close to Emma when Emma was in high school. That connection had come later, after Emma’s marriage. Emma had mentioned Sam a few times over the years, of course, and Jane remembered commiserating about his loss, but now that it was being looked at as a potential homicide, she wanted to ask Emma more questions. “I might want to look into his death a little more closely.”

  “For the podcast?”

  “Would you have a problem with that? I mean, I’d like to talk to you about it, about him. I wouldn’t use what you tell me unless you gave me permission.”

  “There’s no problem. I want answers. Who knows? Maybe you can help.” She held the wine bottle up to the fading light to see how much was left. “Fire away.”

  “Okay. You dated Sam. When was that?”

  “We’d been friends since ninth grade. It turned into something more during our junior year. We dated for ten months, until he disappeared in early October of our senior year.”

  “Refresh my memory. What did you think happened to him?”

  Emma took several swallows of wine directly from the bottle. “At first I thought he’d run away.”

  “Why?”

  “Because his father is a sadist.”

  Jane was a bit taken aback.

  “You want to know why I think Wendell Romilly is a sadist?” She waited for a rumble of thunder to pass. Above the distant tree line, dark clouds had begun to erase the sunset.

  “Where do I start? Okay, so there was this one time. Sam’s dad had been given a bunch of old religious pamphlets published by a fundamentalist religion—The Worldwide Church of God. One of them said that doctors might be okay for setting bones and delivering babies, but for everything else, it was best to rely on God. I guess there’s a Bible verse that says something about anointing the sick with oil, laying your hands on the person, and asking God to heal them. Right around that time, Sam got this terrible pain in his stomach. His mom wanted to take him to the hospital, but Wendell wouldn’t hear it. He found some peanut oil in the kitchen and poured it on Sam’s head, did the hand ritual, and waited for God to do His job. By midnight, Sam was writhing in pain. By then his mom had had enough, so she took him to the emergency room. It was his appendix. It was so inflamed that a doctor ended up taking out part of his intestine.”

  “Did his father learn his lesson?”

  “Sam told me his dad thought he’d done the ritual wrong. He was hoping for a do-over. But nobody in the family was ever that sick again, and I guess Wendell eventually lost interest. They joined the Methodist church in town a few months later.”

  A gust of wind hit them as lightning lit up the sky. Jane wondered if they shouldn’t head in, but she didn’t want to interrupt Emma. “Anything else?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’s endless.” She leaned her head back. “Wendell liked to gaslight Sam. He’d get all red in the face and demand to know why Sam hadn’t cut the grass or washed the car or swept the garage. The problem was, he’d never asked Sam to do it. Once a transgression was established, the physical abuse would start. Wendell would slap him. Throw him against a wall. Once he grabbed Sam’s hair, hauled him up to his room, and locked the door. Yes, there was a lock on the outside of the door, installed by Wendell himself.”

  “Was Sam an only child?”

  “No, there’s a younger brother—Scott. They were fourteen months apart. When Sam took off—” She stopped herself. “I mean … died, Scott was just starting his junior year.”

  “Did Scott get the same treatment from his dad?”

  “Amazingly, no. Sam was happy for him, but I could tell it bothered him.”

  “Was Sam close to his brother?”

  “Not really. Scott was sort of quiet, hard to read. I never really knew him. Sam was a free spirit, gregarious. He was smart, but he hated school, saw it mostly as a social occasion. He had tons of friends, and believe me, there were lots of girls who wanted him to ditch me and date them. He was pretty hunky. Strawberry blond hair and these amazing light gray eyes.”

  “If he didn’t like school, what did he like?”

  “Me. His motorcycle. Kurt Cobain. Grunge rock. Weed and Chips Ahoy cookies. And he loved taking chances—stupid, pointless risks. There were times when I wondered if he had a death wish. The other thing that always stood out was … if someone crossed him, he would figure out a way to get back at them. He put a different spin on it. He called it justice, said that’s what he was after, but it seemed more like revenge to me.”

  Shining a light on the life of the victim was often a good way to help figure out why the individual had died. Jane had so many more questions, but the storm was moving in. “I think we better go inside.”

  “Before we blow away,” said Emma.

  “To be continued?” asked Jane.

  “Absolutely. I’ll do anything I can to help you figure out what happened to Sam.”

  6

  The following morning, while Cordelia and Emma were still asleep, Jane drove into town to find a place to eat breakfast. Thankfully, last night’s storm had blown in cooler, more seasonable weather.

  After a quick look around town, Jane parked on Main, across the street from the White Star Cafe. Carrying an iPad, she entered and stood at the front, searching for an empty table. She
vaguely remembered the place, thinking she must have eaten here at some point, though she had no memory of just when.

  The interior felt like something out of American Graffiti. Formica-covered tables. Chrome stools with red Naugahyde seats at a long lunch counter. It wasn’t that the place had been renovated to look retro, it was retro. No sooner had she slid into a booth than a middle-aged waitress in a white blouse, black jeans, and a MAGA hat arrived with a mug and a pot of coffee. Glancing around, Jane noticed quite a few other MAGA hats.

  “Cream?” asked the waitress. Her name tag announced that she was Brenda.

  “Black is fine,” said Jane.

  “You look familiar. Didn’t I see your photo on a poster in the window at the art center?”

  Jane had no idea a poster had been created. She quickly explained that she was a restaurateur in Minneapolis and that she was in town to participate in the center’s silent auction.

  “Oh, right, the arts festival. I remember now. You’re the one who’s offering to cook that gourmet dinner-for-four next Saturday night. Goes to the highest bidder.”

  “That’s me,” said Jane.

  “I suppose it will get pretty pricey. I was thinking I’d put in a bid myself, but I doubt I’d win. Anyway, menu’s behind the napkin holder. I’ll be back in a jiff, unless you know what you want.”

  “I need a minute,” said Jane.

  “Sure thing, hon. FYI, the griddle cakes might not be gourmet, but they’re fabulous. So are the hash browns. And our cook makes real hollandaise, if you’re up for a Benedict.”

  As the woman walked back behind the lunch counter, Jane opened the plastic-covered menu. She settled on orange juice, two eggs over medium, sausage, and a short stack. She also ordered half a dozen caramel rolls to take back to the house.

  “You’re lucky you’re here early,” said Brenda when she came back to take the order. “We run outta those rolls pretty fast on Sunday mornings. If I don’t bring at least one home for my husband every weekend, he gets downright snippy.”

  Jane smiled as Brenda wrote her order on the guest check. After she moved on to the next table, Jane turned on her iPad, waiting for it to boot up. Before bed last night, she’d called the executive producer of her podcast, Will Gulmain, and explained about Sam’s remains being discovered. She said she’d followed the disappearance at the time, though most of it was lost in the mists of memory. Will wasn’t familiar with the case, but said he’d get some information together for her and send it ASAP. It arrived in her Dropbox just after seven. She figured this would be a perfect time to take a look at it.