Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

“No, ma'am. I'm Dr. Brennan.”

Her eyes went slightly out of focus, as if consulting a calendar somewhere over my shoulder.

“Did I forget an appointment?”

“No, Mrs. Veckhoff. I wondered if I might ask you a few questions about your husband.”

She recentered on me.

“Pat was a state senator for sixteen years. Are you a reporter?”

“No, I'm not. Four terms is quite an achievement.”

“Being in public office took him away from home too much, but he loved it.”

“Where did he travel?”

“Raleigh, mostly.”

“Did he ever visit Bryson City?”

“Where's that, dear?”

“It's in the mountains.”

“Oh, Pat loved the mountains, went there whenever he could.”

“Did you travel with your husband?”

“Oh no, no. I have the arthritis, and . . .” Her voice trailed off, as though uncertain where to go with the thought.

“Arthritis can be very painful.”

“Yes, it surely is. And those trips were really Pat's time with the boys. Do you mind if I finish my watering?”

“Please.”

I walked beside her as she moved along the pansy beds.

“Mr. Veckhoff went to the mountains with your sons?”

“Oh, no. Pat and I have a daughter. She's married now. He went with his chums.” She laughed, a sound halfway between a choke and a hiccup. “He said it was to get away from his women, to put the fire back into his belly.”

“He went to the mountains with other men?”

“Those boys were very close, been friends since their school days. They miss Pat terribly. Kendall, too. Yes, we're getting old. . . .” Again her voice tapered into silence.

“Kendall?”

“Kendall Rollins. He was the first to go. Kendall was a poet. Do you know his work?”

I shook my head, outwardly calm. Inside my heart was thumping. The name “Rollins” was on the H&F list.

“Kendall died of leukemia when he was fifty-five.”

“That's very young. When was that, ma'am?”

“Nineteen eighty-six.”

“Where did your husband and his friends stay in the mountains?”

Her face tensed, and the comma of skin under her left eye jumped.

“They had some kind of lodge. Why are you asking about all this?”

“A plane crashed recently near Bryson City, and I'm trying to learn what I can about a nearby property. Your husband might have been one of the owners.”

“That terrible affair with all those students?”

“Yes.”

“Why do young people have to die? A young man was killed flying to my husband's funeral. Forty-three years old.” Her head wagged.

“Who was that, ma'am?”

She looked away.

“He was the son of one of Pat's friends, lived in Alabama, so I'd never met him. Still, it broke my heart.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No.”

Her eyes would not meet mine.

“Do you know the names of the others who went to the lodge?”

She began fidgeting with the nozzle.

“Mrs. Veckhoff?”

“Pat never talked about those trips. I left it to him. He needed privacy, being in the public eye so much.”

“Have you ever heard of the H&F Investment Group?”

“No.” She remained focused on the hose, her back to me, but I could see tension in her shoulders.

“Mrs. Veck—”

“It's late. I have to go inside now.”

“I'd like to find out if your husband had an interest in that property.”

Twisting off the spray, she dropped the hose and hurried up the walk.

“Thanks for your time, ma'am. I'm sorry to have kept you so long.”

She turned with the door half open, one veiny hand on the knob. From inside the house came the soft bong of Westminster chimes.

“Pat always said I talk too much. I denied it, told him I was just the friendly type. Now I think he was probably right. But it gets lonely being by yourself.”

The door closed, and I heard a bolt slide into place.

It's O.K., Mrs. Veckhoff. Your answers were bullshit, but they were charming bullshit. And very informative.

I dug a card from my purse, wrote my home address and number on it, and stuck it into the doorjamb.

IT WAS PAST EIGHT WHEN MY FIRST VISITOR ARRIVED.

After leaving Mrs. Veckhoff, I'd bought a rotisserie chicken at the Roasting Company, then collected Birdie from my neighbor. The three of us had shared the fowl, Bird's tail fluffing like a feather duster each time Boyd moved in his direction. I was scraping plates at the sink when I heard the knock.

Pete stood on the back stoop, a bouquet of daisies in one hand. As I opened the door, he bowed at the waist and proffered the flowers.

“On behalf of my canine associate.”

“Not necessary, but appreciated.” I held open the door, and he went past me into the kitchen.

Boyd bounded over at the sound of Pete's voice, dropped snout onto front paws, rump in the air, then began cavorting around the kitchen. Pete clapped and called his name. Boyd went berserk, barking and racing in circles. Birdie bolted.

“Stop. He'll scratch the floor.”

Pete took a chair at the table and Boyd moved beside him.

“Sit.”

Boyd stared at Pete, eyebrows dancing. Pete tapped the dog's rump, and Boyd sat, chin upon his master's knee. Pete began a two-handed ear scratch.

“Got any beer?”

“Root beer.”

“Right. How'd you two get along?”

“Fine.”

I opened and placed a Hire's in front of him.

“When did you get back?” Pete lowered and tipped the bottle so Boyd could drink.

“Today. How did things go in Indiana?”

“The local arson investigators were about as sophisticated as the Bobbsey twins. But the real problem was the liability insurance adjuster representing the roofer. His client was working on a roof patch with an acetylene torch in the exact area where the fire started.”

He wiped the mouth of the bottle with his hand and drank.

“This asshole knew the cause and origin. We knew the cause and origin. He knew we knew it. We knew he knew we knew, but his official position was that they needed additional investigation.”

“Will it go to court?”

“Depends on what they offer.” He lowered the root beer again, and Boyd slurped. “But it was good to have a break from chow breath, here.”

“You love that dog.”

“Not as much as I love you.” He gave me his “Goofy Pete” grin.

“Hmm.”

“Any progress on your DMORT problems?”

“Maybe.”

Pete looked at his watch.

“I want to hear all about it, but right now I'm bushed.”

He drained the bottle and stood. Boyd shot to his feet.

“I think I will mosey with my dog.”

I watched them leave, Boyd dancing around Pete's legs. When I turned, Birdie was peering in from the hall doorway, feet positioned for a quick retreat.

“Good riddance” is what I said. Miffed is what I felt. The damn dog hadn't looked back once.

Birdie and I were watching The Big Sleep when the second knock sounded. I was in a T-shirt, panties, and my old flannel robe. He was in my lap.

Ryan stood on the doorstep, face ashen in the porch light. I avoided repeating my usual opener. He'd tell me soon enough why he was in Charlotte.

“How did you know I'd be here?”

He ignored my question.

“Spending the evening by yourself?”

I tipped my head. “Bacall and Bogart are in the study.”

I opened the door, as I had for Pete, and he brushed past me into the kitchen. I smelled cigarette smoke and perspiration, and assumed he'd driven straight from Swain County.