“And your point is?”
“Just curious. Are you friendlier with him than with Kelly?”
Her pale-blue eyes darkened, like the lake water when a cloud crossed the sun. Flinty Girl was back.
“Oh, that’s rich,” she snapped. “I don’t know what you people in the big city do when someone in your world dies. Maybe you just think, ‘Tough luck,’ and order another dirty martini. But up here we look out for each other. We console each other. We offer to help and send food. Goodbye.”
As soon as I stepped onto the porch, the door slammed so hard behind me that the Indian corn hanging on the outside clacked loudly against it a few times.
Back in the driver’s seat, I jotted down our exchange while it was still fresh in my mind. My gut told me thatsomething funny was definitely going on between J.J. and Doug. She’d reacted way too defensively for me to believe it was all about people clinging together in grief, and as for her line about sending food, Claiborne hadn’t exactly dashed off with a ham casserole in his hot little hands.
If they were sleeping together, both in town and further upstate, what did that mean in the grand scheme of things? For starters, it meant that J.J. most likely had been keeping secrets from Shannon, and Shannon may have sensed it or outright suspected that there was something brewing between her friend and her brother-in-law. It was even possible that Kelly had confided in Shannon that she was worried about what her husband was up to.
Of course, if Shannon was at odds with her sister, she might not have cared if Doug and J.J. were having a fling. Yet that didn’t gel with what I knew about Shannon. Regardless of whether she and Kelly were close, she probably wouldn’t have liked seeing her sister hoodwinked and betrayed.
There was another factor I had to consider. J.J.’s weird revision of her impressions of her final phone call with Shannon. Maybe she had learned something in the past couple of days that had given her a reason to reassess Shannon’s state of mind that morning. Something Doug had told her, perhaps? There was also the chance she was flat-out lying now, covering her tracks, but I couldn’t think of why that would be. I watched her in my mind smoothing an eyebrow that didn’t need smoothing. Had that been a tell?
I slumped against the seat and exhaled loudly. My workalways necessitated talking to the friends and relatives of dead people, and while I’d learned over time to steel myself for those conversations, at moments they could be wearing, particularly when they went around in circles or the other side seemed to be offering nothing but a pack of lies.
I’d talked to a number of people today, yet I had little to show for it. I wondered if I was becoming too absorbed in the idea that Shannon’s death was tied directly to her return to the church. Perhaps, as I surmised before, the killer had a religious fixation but hadn’t even been aware of Shannon finding her faith again.
Before I temporarily ceased tugging at that thread, however, there was one more person I wanted to consult with: Cody’s assistant, the red-haired woman I’d spoken to briefly the second day I was here. It was a stretch to think Riley, who’d only worked with Shannon for several months, would know more than J.J., but it was worth a try.
Please own a landline, I begged. And she did. According to the white pages, there was a listing for Al and Riley Hickok on Pheasant Road in Lake George.
The house, which was less than a mile from J.J.’s, turned out to be small but attractive, with a sleek white motorboat sitting in the driveway. Unfortunately, when I rang the bell, there wasn’t any response. I leaned across the stoop railing and peered through the picture window into the empty living room. It wasn’t decorated to the nines like J.J.’s, but the furniture seemed nice enough: a couch, coordinating armchairs, a colorful area rug, and a huge flat-screen TV on the far wall.
It was only when I went to give the bell one more try that I caught sight of the note taped on the inner wooden door and partially obscured by the outer storm door.
Viv, tried to reach you on your cell but no response. Sorry, had to run to office for a couple of hours. Can meet later if you want. R.
It wasn’t surprising that she’d blown off a friend in order to work on a Saturday. Baker Beverage had been closed for several days, paperwork had surely been piling up, and Riley probably decided to jump on the situation before she fell too far behind. Since Cody was clearly busy consoling his kids and making funeral arrangements, I realized that this might be my best opportunity to talk to Riley without him around.
When I turned into the driveway for Baker Beverage a short time later, I was struck once again by how attractive the setting was. Though there was an industrial feel to the building itself, the area was beautifully landscaped. Business was supposedly booming under Cody, but the clusters of lush, mature trees and scrubs on the grounds reinforced what Kelly had intimated: that it had done very well under the late Mr. Baker.
I spotted the car as soon as I rounded the final curve of the driveway—a dark green Audi parked in front of the building. Chances were good the Audi belonged to Riley and I’d made it in time.
I parked ahead of the other car and crossed the lawn to the entrance. A glance through one of the windows to theside of the door revealed a small, empty reception area with only a single light burning. Not unexpectedly, the door was locked. I rang the buzzer, hearing it pierce the silence inside. When no one responded after a minute, I tried again and also rapped on one of the windows, to no avail. I realized that if Riley’s desk was tucked toward the back of the building, she might not even hear me.
I retreated, traipsed around to the parking lot, and wandered along the long side of the building, looking for another entrance. There was a door halfway down the wall, and I gave pounding another try, without any luck this time either.
A thought flashed across my brain before I even saw it coming: What if she was in there with Cody, doing stuff they shouldn’t be doing, like screwing each other’s brains out instead of bottling beverages?
I was just about to round the back of the building to see if his Lexus was hiding out there when I heard a woman’s voice call out “Hello” from the front of the building. I darted back along the perimeter to the main entrance, and there was Riley, her brow knitted in consternation, holding the door half open.
“Can I help you?” she said with a tone that suggested she wasn’t really eager to do so. Her dark red hair was gathered in a sloppy braid and she was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a green turtleneck sweater the shade of her car.
“Riley, hi, do you remember me?” I took a couple more steps in her direction but not so close as to raise her guard. “We met outside the volunteer center the other day. I’m Bailey Weggins, the reporter fromCrime Beat.”
“Oh, hi, I didn’t recognize you,” she said, her tone softening. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“First, sorry to barge in like this. I didn’t realize you guys weren’t open today.” In light of her wariness, it seemed wise not to mention that I’d stopped by her house and read the note on the door.
“We’re never open Saturdays at this time of the year. I came by to deal with a backlog.”
“I was hoping to ask you a few questions. I talked to Cody today at the parish center, and I told him that we’re trying to do everything we can to help find the killer.” It was a cheap trick, but I knew my carefully chosen words would make it seem as if I had Cody’s blessing to pump her.
“I feel horrible about what happened to Shannon, but I’m not sure how I can help.”
