Another thought: Since Shannon’s home was roughly equidistant from the Bolton church and St. Tim’s, there was a chance that St. Mary’s had been her original parish but that she decided to switch churches once she’d recommitted. Except Kelly and Shannon’s mother belonged to St. Tim’s, so it was likely her childhood parish.
And if St. Mary’s was relevant, anyway, why hadn’t the caller mentioned Bolton rather than Sunset Bay?
Next, I searched the Internet for everything I could find about lapsed Catholics, even reading a few blogs by people who’d reclaimed their faith. Age sometimes was a factor. There was nothing like a fear of dying to make someone rethink the way he or she was approaching life. Shannon was only thirty-four, though, so it was hard to believe that was the reason.
One of the blogs had been written by a man who had lost his sister and had rekindled his faith in order to help him make sense of her death and ease the despair it had caused. Shannon’s father had passed away a few years ago, but if grief were her primary motivation, she probably would have turned to the church sooner than this past July.
So what had motivated Shannon to go back? I wondered. Was it because of turmoil in her life, and had that same turmoil compelled her to seek an escape? And could the answer shed any light on her disappearance?
I stood for a minute in the center of the room, swigging a bottle of iced tea and thinking. Then I grabbed my carkey. Night was falling and my stomach was rumbling, but I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to check out this lead. Five minutes later I was on the road, with my Jeep pointed north.
The wordhamletturned out to be generous. Sunset Bay, or at least the main part of it, consisted simply of a dozen white clapboard buildings, including a general store, diner, and ice cream “parlour.” Just beyond were a few sleepy looking motels and unpaved roads shooting off in several spots toward the lake. There was no point in traveling down any of them tonight because it was too dark to see much.
Before heading back, I drove north for two more minutes to the town of Bolton and quickly found St. Mary’s. It was locked up tight for the night.
Clearly, if I was going to discover what the caller had been talking about—and if itwasn’ta prank—I was going to have to learn more about the area first.
Maybe someone at Dot’s would be able to help with relevant info. Like Hank Coulter, Captain Command Center and former chief of police. Granted, he’d chosen to be tight-lipped on the subject of Shannon, but perhaps he’d feel differently about Sunset Bay. Though it was now close to seven and I knew he was probably gone for the day, I set out for Dot’s on the off chance he was still manning the phones. Drawing close, I saw to my dismay that the lights were off and the only vehicle in the parking lot, a black pickup truck, was preparing to exit.
I slowed, curious. As the truck passed me on the left, I caught a quick glance of the driver, who was Coulter himself.He was alone but moving his mouth, probably using Bluetooth to talk on the phone, and he appeared agitated.
Something was up.
I pulled into the lot and shifted into park so I could check my phone. No alerts from the sheriff’s department, no news on thePost Starsite about Shannon, either. Should I follow Coulter’s car? I wondered.
My phone pinged before I could decide, and I was surprised to see a text from Alice Hatfield. And even more surprised when I opened it:
They’re searching the Blaine house. You might want to get over here.
Okay, this was big. The only way the cops could have obtained a search warrant was by convincing a judge they had probable cause, that they believed evidence of a crime would be found on the premises.
This was probably what Coulter was jawing about, tipped off by one of his buddies still in law enforcement. I quickly turned the Jeep around and hightailed it to the house on Wheeler Road. Sure enough, as I neared the Blaine place, I saw that the front yard was aglow with lights. Several police vehicles were parked in front, along with a solitary TV van and, just behind it, Alice’s red MINI Cooper. She was leaning against the hood, her attention focused on the house. As I pulled my car in behind hers, she swiveled her head and flicked her chin up in greeting.
“Thanks for the tip,” I said, approaching her on foot. “Did I do something to deserve it?”
“I figured I owed you one after last night.”
“Much appreciated. Do you know what grounds the cops used to obtain the warrant?”
“No warrant necessary. According to my police source, Blaine gave them the okay to have a second look.” Now it was her turn to grin. “I think your suggestion that the earbuds could have been planted got under his skin.”
“Are you serious?”
“The guy seems hell-bent now on proving that he didn’t harm his wife. Regardless of your question, with each day she’s missing, the spotlight on him intensifies, and now it’s in his interest to seem as cooperative as possible.”
I cocked my head toward the house. “Have you tried going up there and asking questions?”
“Yeah, and they gave me the deep freeze. Said I can wait until the press briefing tomorrow.”
“I think I’ll mosey on up there for a closer look.”
“If your toes get cold, I happen to have a big thermos of coffee.”
“Thanks, I’ll definitely consider the offer.”
As I walked away, I noticed the wind for the first time, racing up the sleeves of my jacket. Fall definitely was closing in.
The police had strung yellow caution tape around the perimeter of the large yard, obviously to keep reporters from trampling onto the grounds, though the only media on-site besides Alice and me was the navy-jacketed reporter from theAlbany TV station and his camera guy. A couple of sheriff’s deputies were standing ramrod straight on the other side of the tape, their thumbs tucked into their thick black belts.
