Such a Perfect Wife Page 5

  “Yeah, but she told me she was fine, just had a lot to do that day.”

  A chilling thought jumped out at me. “Could someone have been in the house with her when you called?”

  “No, nothing like that. But something seemed to be on her mind.”

  “About her personal life maybe?”

  “Look, as I told you, she didn’t say. And now, no offense, but we need to shut this down. I want to head up to Dot’s to help out.”

  “Understood,” I said, sliding off the stool. “Does Shannon have any other close friends?”

  “Shan’s not one of those people who needs a gaggle of friends. We have each other, and that seems to be enough for her.”

  “What about her sister—are they tight?” I was thinking of the little stink bomb Matt Wong had dropped about Kelly.

  “They’ve had their issues, but again, I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Just curious. They don’t get along?”

  “When Shannon moved back here from Anguilla with Cody, her father immediately brought him into the family business, and then a few years ago, when Mr. Baker became ill, he turned it over to Cody to run. Kelly resented that.”

  “Would she have wanted her own husband to work there?”

  “Doug? He already runs a chiropractor business. The rumor was that Kelly would have liked it for herself. I hear she doesn’t love some of Cody’s choices, but the proof’s in the pudding, as they say—the business seems to be booming. Now if you don’t mind, I really need to split.”

  She began moving toward the front of the house.

  “So you were camping in the Adirondacks?” I said as I trailed behind her. The back of my brain had been noodling over what she’d said about having no cell reception, which seemed odd to me—why would a mother with young kids go someplace where she couldn’t be reached?

  “Not camping. Off the record again, that was a little white lie. The place where I was staying is a cabin my dad built. After he died this spring, my mother decided to sell it, and I’ve been promising to spruce the place up for her. I’m a real-estate stager, just so you know. It was my kids’ days at my ex’s house, so I figured I’d just go up there and start the process. I didn’t love not having cell service, but I figured the kids would be fine for a day and a half.”

  “Why the camping story?”

  “Because the less my ex knows about my damn business, the better. A guy I’m seeing was planning to meet me the night I arrived.”

  “And you didn’t see any reports on TV while you were up there?”

  “We never bothered with a TV there.” She swung open the front door. “Bye.”

  “Thanks again for your time,” I said, handing over a card and extracting my fingers just in time to prevent them from being pinched by the closing door.

  I needed to be on the move myself. I’d stolen a peek at the kitchen clock and seen that it was going on nine. There was a stop I hoped to make before the press conference at ten.

  From J.J.’s house, I jogged back to the school and headed to the address I’d found for Baker Beverage Distributors, about four miles south of the village of Lake George. Cody probably wouldn’t be around today, but I was hoping to chat with a few more of the employees.

  The building was set back a bit from the road, on a couple of nicely landscaped acres. It was huge and industrial-looking, covered with metal siding, though there was a natty striped awning over the door to the front office, placed there, I assumed, to make that section look inviting for clients. I pulled into a small lot by the office, though I could see a larger parking area along the rear half of the building, filled with big beverage trucks emblazoned with soda and beer logos.

  I was halfway to the office door when I noticed the sign in the window. “The office is closed this week, but deliveries are being made. If you have any questions, please call and leave a message and someone will respond shortly.”

  I sighed in frustration over making the trip for nothing. I knew some of the staff were helping in the search, but I hadn’t realized that Baker would actually be closed.

  Dot’s was so packed when I returned that I was lucky to grab a parking spot. A podium had already been set up a few feet beyond the overhang, and the place was abuzz with press and volunteers obviously eager for an update. I spotted both Wong and Alice Hatfield, plus J.J., who was talking solemnly to another woman. And Terry Dobbs, the owner of the Lake Shore Motel, was in the mix today. Volunteering, I wondered, or simply rubbernecking?

  I managed to snag a spot for myself toward the front of the crowd, not far from the podium. From this vantage point I could see that Sheriff Ed Killian was already present, positioned beneath the overhang, along with two deputies. With him were Kelly; her husband, Doug; a girl of about twelve or thirteen, who appeared to be their daughter; and Shannon’s mother, her glazed eyes suggesting she had attempted to quell her angst with heavy meds. Right next to her was a man in a white clerical collar—a priest or minister. I recalled what Dobbs had told me about Shannon not running on Sundays because it was a church day. This was probably her pastor, here to lend support to the family.

  Cody was up in front, too, though removed slightly from the others. Perhaps as the hours had passed, the family had grown suspicious, and they were now keeping a slight distance, both literally and figuratively. A woman I didn’t recognize was standing directly behind Cody—an attractive redhead, probably in her mid-thirties. As I observed, Cody turned and spoke to her in a neutral manner, one that suggested she might be his assistant, the one who had supplied a partial alibi for him on Monday morning. Nothing about their body language suggested anything more intimate, but I would have to keep my eye on their interactions.

  At exactly one minute after ten, Sheriff Killian strode assuredly toward the podium. He was about fifty, handsome in a sheriffy way, and lacking the potbelly so common in men in his age group. He had an imposing presence, due in part to his high, felt-covered campaign hat, which made him appear to be around six feet nine.

  He cleared his throat. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice husky and his tone sober. “I want you to know that we are still aggressively searching for Shannon Blaine. At this point, unfortunately, we do not have any active leads. I do, however, have one significant development to report, thanks to our search efforts.”

  He paused, as if giving us time to catch our breaths.

  “Late yesterday afternoon, one of the searchers found Shannon Blaine’s earbuds about a mile from her home.”

  Chapter 4

  A COUPLE DOZEN HANDS SHOT UP, LIKE A MOB OF CURIOUS meerkats, but the sheriff raised his own hand in a “Let me finish” gesture.

  “The earbuds were located in a section of brush several yards off Wheeler Road. Though we’d searched Shannon’s jogging route previously, we decided to cover the area once more now that we have additional volunteers.

  “We are fairly certain that the earbuds belonged to Shannon because, according to her husband, she’d put a dab of pink nail polish on them to differentiate them from his or those of the kids.”

  Even from several yards away, I noticed Cody flinch at this small reminder of everyday life—or at least everyday life before Monday.

  My mind whirred. The earbuds seemed to confirm that Shannon had left for a jog that day, and that something bad had happened to her along the way. In other words, she hadn’t simply gone on the lam, bored or frustrated with life.

  “Unfortunately, at this time, we still have no concrete leads regarding Shannon’s whereabouts,” Killian added. “We’re continuing to look at all possibilities, including foul play. I want to add that the fund for the safe return of Shannon Blaine, established by family and friends, is now at fifty thousand dollars. . . . I have time to take a few questions.”

  The hands shot up again, with various reporters barking for Killian’s attention.

  “Sheriff!” Matt Wong shouted. “Are you thinking Shannon was abducted and the
earbuds fell off in a struggle?”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

  “That is certainly one possibility, but, without any evidence, I’m not going to speculate about that.”

  “Gina Tesco, Channel Six News,” a woman’s voice called out. “Do you believe Shannon could still be alive?”

  “Shannon Blaine is still considered missing.” As Killian uttered those words, I saw Shannon’s mother desperately clutch Kelly’s hand. “And it’s our goal to find her. We are using all resources available to us. We continue to coordinate search teams and employ the use of the sheriff’s department’s helicopter. And we will follow up on any information that seems credible. As of today, we have received roughly one hundred and fifty tips to the hotline.”

  Killian pointed a finger toward a male reporter midway back. “Bill?”

  “Have the tips included possible sightings worth investigating?” he inquired.

  “There have been reported sightings, but none have checked out so far.”

  “Sheriff, back to the earbuds.” It was my good buddy Alice Hatfield. She’d topped her car coat today with a black crocheted beret, befitting the morning’s cooler weather. “Why do you think searchers failed to notice them the first time they went over that area?”

  “We didn’t have as many searchers on Tuesday morning as we did yesterday. And it’s also possible the earbuds ended up under leaf cover, which later shifted with the wind.”

  I shot my own hand up.

  “Sheriff Killian, Bailey Weggins, Crime Beat. Isn’t there still one other possibility? That someone tossed the earbuds along the road, perhaps even after Monday, to make it look like Shannon had been jogging there?”

  Heads swiveled in my direction. I think most people immediately caught my drift. Sure, the earbuds could have been knocked off her if she’d been snatched while jogging, but if Cody had murdered Shannon in their home, he may have planted the earbuds immediately afterward, or even later, when the police’s interest in him began to intensify.

  There was even a far-fetched possibility, I realized, that Shannon had placed them there herself, as part of a plan to fake an abduction.

  “Ms. Wiggins, did you say?” the sheriff said, sounding more curious than snide. He joined a force of about a hundred people who had mispronounced my last name in my lifetime.

  “Weggins.”

  “Yes, Ms. Weggins, that is also a possibility. But as I said, I’m not going to speculate. Next.”

  I shifted to the left a little, hoping to catch a glimpse of Cody’s reaction to my question, but my view of him was now blocked.

  The sheriff fielded a few more questions. Was the lake being searched with sonar? (Answer: “No, we are holding off on that effort for the time being.”) Were registered sex offenders still being interviewed? (Answer: “Yes, that is ongoing.”) And, last, had the Blaine home been searched again, and if so, was luminol used? (Answer: “We are not going to speak on areas that might impact the investigation. . . . That’s all for today.”) He promised that there would be another press briefing tomorrow, the time to be announced.

  As the crowd dispersed, with reporters hurrying back to their vans to prep for their stand-ups in front of the cameras, I studied the players around the podium. I could see Cody now, speaking in what looked like hushed tones to Hank Coulter and still appearing very much like a husband who was worried sick.

  The priest seemed to be murmuring something to Shannon’s mother, words of comfort that surely wouldn’t be able to soothe her at all. From what I’d seen over the years, people whose loved ones are found murdered are never the same, though many of them manage to regain a degree of normalcy down the road. But if a loved one vanishes, never to be seen again, life is never, ever normal or good again. The family and friends left behind are unable to stop wondering and agonizing.

  The mother nodded dully a few times. The priest gave her arm a squeeze and moved off in the direction of a burgundy SUV. I hurried toward him.

  “Father, may I have a word?” I asked. “I’m a reporter with an online publication called Crime Beat, and I’d love to ask you about Shannon. Does she belong to your parish?”

  “I’m not actually a priest,” he said pleasantly enough. “I’m a deacon. Tom Nolan. And yes, Shannon’s a parishioner.”

  “Oh, sorry for the misunderstanding. Can I ask the name of the church?”

  “St. Timothy’s. The Catholic church here in Lake George.”

  Up close, I realized that he was a near doppelgänger for one of my brother Cam’s college friends, a charming Irish-Catholic guy who’d had Kennedy-thick hair and big white teeth that seemed to be jockeying for room in his mouth.

  “I’d love to give our readers a fuller sense of Shannon as a person. Do you have a moment now?”

  “Unfortunately, I have to be back for a meeting at the parish center.” He hesitated. “But if you want to stop by in an hour or so, I could probably spare a few minutes. As long as you’re aware I’m not interested in gossip or anything of that nature.”

  That seemed to be code for “FYI, I won’t be throwing any shade at Cody Blaine.”

  “Totally understood. Shall I meet you there?”

  “Yes, it’s right next to the church.”

  As he drove off, I glanced back at the action. Though the sheriff had announced he wasn’t going to respond to additional questions, a cluster of TV reporters were trailing him to his vehicle, launching useless queries his way—I guess mainly so that their camera crews could catch them strutting their stuff.

  Cody, I noticed, had slipped inside Dot’s, but the red-haired woman I’d seen him speak to earlier was still hanging outside, waiting, it seemed.

  Okay, I thought. Let’s figure out who she is.

  “I’m so sorry for everything you’re going through,” I said as I approached her. “Are you family?”

  “No, I’m Mr. Blaine’s assistant,” she said. “Can I help you with something?”

  I gave her my spiel and said I’d love her impressions of Shannon.

  She smiled sadly as the breeze whipped a few strands of her hair around her face. “Shannon’s wonderful—in every way. We have to find her and bring her home.”

  “Have you spent much time with her?”

  “Not a lot, but she does come to the office a few days a week now.” She swiveled her head in order to see into the interior of Dot’s, and Cody, catching the movement, motioned for her to come inside. She nodded agreeably.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m needed inside.”

  “Of course. And would you mind telling me your name?”

  “Riley,” she said. “Riley Hickok.”

  I had to find a way to have a longer conversation with her, though my hunch was that she was fiercely loyal to her boss. Was that loyalty based on more than a regular boss/assistant relationship? I watched as she hurried into the building and strode quickly toward Blaine. Though Riley was attractive, she wasn’t in the same league as Shannon, and yet that hardly ruled out the notion of an affair. What’s that old line? Show me a beautiful woman and I’ll show you a man who’s tired of fucking her. So crude but so often true.

  Once Riley was inside, Blaine seemed to rattle off a set of instructions to her. Nothing about their body language suggested anything more than a working relationship. But they both had to know that curious eyes were watching.

  “Good question about the earbuds.” I heard a woman’s voice coming from behind me, and spun around to find Alice Hatfield standing there.

  “Thanks,” I said without cracking a smile.

  There had to be a reason she was massaging my ego after offering me a cold shoulder in the bar.

  “I mean, you went where most people from here are afraid to go,” she added, her voice deeper than I’d noticed previously. “It seems no one in town wants to so much as hint that Cody might have something to hide.”

  “Why is that, do you think?”

  “People like him apparently—at the off
ice and in town . . . and speaking of which, I want to apologize for being so rude last night.”

  I was glad she was going there. At the least it meant she could be a possible resource, willing to share info on the area.

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Feel like grabbing a cup of coffee? There’s a spot about ten minutes up the road, right on the lake.”

  A chat with her could provide valuable background about the residents of Lake George, if, that is, she had an inclination to spill. But for all I knew, something big was about to go down right here at the volunteer center and Alice Hatfield was attempting to lure me off the premises so a colleague of hers could grab the scoop for the paper. She must have read the wariness in my eyes.

  “No ulterior motive,” she said with a smile. “I promise.”

  “Okay then. You want to lead and I’ll follow you?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Shortly later I was headed north on 9N, trailing behind her red MINI Cooper. After about two miles, we exited to the right and navigated our vehicles down a narrow paved road. Our destination appeared to be the boathouse-style restaurant that was at the very end, right on the lake, alongside a marina with at least thirty gleaming white powerboats of various sizes. Alice led me to a set of wooden steps and we climbed to the deck.

  It was my first full view of the lake, which was absolutely stunning. When I’d been researching the area back in Manhattan, I’d stumbled upon a description of it that Thomas Jefferson had offered in a letter to his daughter. It was “without comparison,” he’d written, “the most beautiful water I ever saw . . . limpid as crystal.”

  Yet another thing the guy had been right about.

  The surroundings were equally riveting. On the eastern side of the lake, directly across from us, the low green mountains dropped right to the shoreline. As the range continued farther north, the color shifted to a faded blue, like a piece of duck cloth left too long in the sun.

  “Do you have loons here?” I asked Alice as we walked across the deck. Though there were at least ten tables set outside, there wasn’t a single customer.