Laura Lippman - The Last Place

“How did you know that? You never went oystering.”

“I lived on the shore, Tess. Upper Shore, but part of the shore. We understand one another. After all, we’ve got a common enemy.”

“You mean Baltimore and the rest of the state?”

“Yep. It’s us against you, and we don’t ever forget it. Among ourselves, we may note the tiniest distinctions. But when it comes to the big picture, we’re in this together. Remember when the governor called the Eastern Shore a shithouse?”

“The ex-governor, Carl. And he’s always been a few milligrams light of a Prozac prescription. Everyone knows that.”

“No, he was on to something. You don’t like us, and we don’t like you. He’s the only one who dared to say out loud what everyone thinks. We think you’re nasty, decadent people who live in filth and don’t understand what it’s like to be dependent on the water and the land for your living. You think we’re ignorant hicks who aren’t good for anything but putting food on your table.”

“So Billy Windsor isn’t a serial killer, he’s just a resident of the Eastern Shore who murdered these people as part of some complicated eco-political agenda?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But I am saying I have a few insights. And I think his mother doesn’t have a clue what he’s been up to, okay? He’s kept her pure. She’s his mama.”

“Fine,” Tess said. “I’ll put my jacket back on when we visit her tomorrow. But I’m not going without my gun.”

Drey Windsor lived in a retirement community called Golden Shores. A mix of high-rises and town houses south of Annapolis, it was built far enough inland so the term “shore” was strictly euphemistic. But the developers had been serious about the gold, sprinkling cheap gilt on everything they could find.

“Maybe you can see the Severn River from the top floor of that big building,” Carl said as they navigated the look-alike cul-de-sacs early the next morning, trying to find Mrs. Windsor. She lived on Golden Meadow, but all they had found so far was Golden End, Golden Bay, Golden Way, and Golden Knoll. They had lied to get past the front gate, unwilling to announce their arrival. Tess was now worried that the Golden Shores security force would be on them if they kept driving around in such aimless fashion.

“There, on the left,” Carl said, and she made a screeching turn that drew disapproving looks from those who were out walking on this fine day, strolling along the Golden Loop.

Drey Windsor lived in a duplex bungalow at the far end of the cul-de-sac. A black Buick was parked in the driveway of the attached garage, and the yard was neat but impersonal. While other residences here had decorated their look-alike doors with wreaths and banners, her dark-red door held nothing but a brass knocker.

Tess picked it up, feeling slightly queasy. She felt for her gun, then let the knocker drop. She and Carl listened for the telltale signs that someone was inside-a few reflexive steps, a television or radio. There was nothing. Tess lifted the knocker again, but before she could drop it she heard a small, frightened voice from inside.

“Who’s there?”

It was a simple enough question, but they had no answer. Who were they, after all? How would they identify themselves to this woman? Before Tess could figure out what to say, Carl had stepped forward and shouted into the door, as if it were hard of hearing.

“Police, ma’am. From Baltimore.”

Tess looked at him, wide-eyed. Of all the lies she had told, she had never ever pretended to be a cop. Utility worker or secretary- absolutely. Someone’s long-lost relative, disinterested passerby-why not? There was no law against those impersonations. But pretending to be a cop could get you arrested.

“I was a cop,” Carl whispered to her. “And we were working with the state police. It’s not such a big lie if you think about it.”

She shrugged. Big lie or not, it was out there. She couldn’t take it back.

It seemed to take Drey Windsor forever to come to the door and open it. Yet when she did, she was much younger than Tess had expected, barely in her fifties. She must have given birth to Billy when she was all of twenty.

Still, it was a hard fifty-something. The sun had left her face scored with deep lines, and Tess guessed she had been a smoker as well. She had those telltale lines around the lips, the ones that come from drawing hard on a butt end. Her hair was the flat noncolor that comes from a bottle, a minky brown. But it was arranged neatly and she was dressed in a pair of flowery cotton pants and a bright T-shirt. She was one of those older women who kept their hourglass figures.

“Police?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

Tess looked at Carl: It’s your lie, go with it.

“No, ma’am, quite the opposite. We think we might have some good news. Could we sit down?”

The bungalow was built in what Tess thought of as the new ass-backward style, with a small formal living room at the front, a large kitchen-family room across the back. She understood why this floor plan was desirable to families with children, but she didn’t see why a retirement village had decided to ape it. Older people should be encouraged to move away from television sets, to have meals at tables, to entertain in formal rooms. With children grown and gone, this should be the time of life to eat from fine china, not from a television tray set up in front of a Barcalounger. If not now, when?

Mrs. Windsor took a seat in just such a Barcalounger, perching on the edge, folding her hands in her lap. Tess and Carl dragged two wooden chairs from the low counter that separated this room from the kitchen.

“You believe you have good news?” she asked, her voice cautious, almost skeptical. It seemed to Tess that she found it all too credible for police officers to be on her doorstep but was less convinced that they might bring glad tidings.

“Possibly,” Carl said. “I don’t want to overstate it or get your hopes up. There’s still a lot of work ahead of us. But, Mrs. Windsor-do you think it’s possible your son is still alive?”

Mrs. Windsor swallowed hard and blinked her eyes rapidly, as if trying to fan back tears. “Billy? My Billy’s been dead for almost fifteen years.”

“Well, technically he’s been missing, right? They never found him.”

“Under the law, I could have him declared dead. But there’s never been any reason to do that.”

“Really?” This was Tess, remembering the old crone’s statement that Audrey Windsor had probably done just that, to collect the insurance that enabled her to live among the rich at Golden Shores.

Or maybe she had merely allowed people to assume this was where her newfound wealth came from.

“If he had been my husband-but he’s not. Or if there had been life insurance-but there wasn’t. What seventeen-year-old boy needs life insurance? There didn’t seem to be any point to it. Besides, I didn’t want-”

She broke down, quite convincingly. But it occurred to Tess that Audrey Windsor could have finished that sentence in any of a number of ways.

“You didn’t want to make his death official?”

She nodded through her tears, face downcast so her expression was unreadable.

“I suppose a mother can’t help feeling that way. You’d want to hold on to the hope that he was alive, as long as his body was never found.”

Mrs. Windsor nodded again. Tess thought she saw a cunning glint at the top of her eyes, as if she were studying them, trying to figure out if they were buying her act.

“Well, that’s the possible good news,” Carl boomed. “You see, there’s a man of Billy’s age and description, up in Washington County Rehabilitation Hospital.”