Santa Fe.
Benjamin had booked them adjoining rooms at the Holiday Inn Parkside and after checking in last evening they had borrowed an umbrella and walked over to a Japanese restaurant on North Higgins. The food was fine but the conversation hideously stilted, perhaps because they were both trying so hard to avoid talking about Abbie. Benjamin had seemed barely able to look her in the eye and kept asking all sorts of eager questions about Venice. She wanted to scream at him to shut up. Who on earth was he? This polite stranger who had shared her life for all those years and was now treating her like a guest with whom he’d gotten trapped at a cocktail party.
She knew she was being unfair and that it was probably her fault that he behaved that way. Some curious defense mechanism seemed to have clicked on inside her brain. Being cold and brittle and angry with him was the only way she could cope. Allow herself to be any warmer or more receptive to comfort and she would lose her foothold and fall off the edge, spiral into the black whirlpool she knew was waiting for her below. Her little girl dead, lying cold in a box . . . No, she wasn’t going to let her head go there. But when he put his arm around her on their way back to the hotel she almost had. And again when he kissed her good night in the dingy corridor outside her room and they went off to their lonely, separate king-size beds, so thinly partitioned they could hear each other’s every shuffle and cough and flush of the john.
Sheriff Charlie Riggs didn’t have an office in Missoula, which was why he had suggested they meet for breakfast here at The Shack. It was a place Abbie had once taken them to, tucked away on West Main and just another short, wet walk from the hotel.
The sheriff had been there waiting for them, his rain-soaked Stetson and a white plastic bag beside him on the bench of the little wooden booth. He stood to greet them, a tall man, even taller than Benjamin, but bulkier, with a bushy mustache that was going to gray. His eyes were gentle and had in them a sadness that Sarah suspected was permanent, not merely contrived for their benefit. He had those old-fashioned Western manners that she had always been a sucker for, politely nodding when he shook her hand and calling her ma’am.
He declared at once how sorry he was about Abbie.
“I have a daughter myself,” he said. “Can’t even bear to think of such a thing happening.”
“Not wanted for murder just yet, I hope,” Sarah said with a withering brightness before she could stop herself. The poor man winced and Benjamin looked away.
“No, ma’am,” the sheriff said quietly.
They sat down and the two men chatted about the weather and nothing much else until the waitress came and took their orders. Then, leaning forward and talking in a low voice so as not to be overheard, Sheriff Riggs had taken them through what had happened. He told them about the skiers finding Abbie in the ice and how the autopsy at the crime lab hadn’t been able to establish either how she came to be there or how exactly she had died. He asked if they had any ideas about why she might have been in that part of the world and Benjamin said they hadn’t. Abbie had suffered head injuries, the sheriff went on, as well as a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder. And there was water in her lungs, which suggested she might have drowned. The best guess at the moment was that the injuries had been sustained in a serious fall, the cause of which remained unknown.
“You mean, someone could have pushed her?” Benjamin said.
“That has to be one possibility, yes, sir.” He glanced at Sarah, no doubt gauging her sensitivity to such talk. She felt vaguely affronted.
“What about suicide?” she said.
Benjamin looked at her in surprise.
“Abbie would never do that,” he said.
“How would you know?” she snapped.
They both stared at her. The spite just seemed to come spouting out of her of its own accord. She
Benjamin had booked them adjoining rooms at the Holiday Inn Parkside and after checking in last evening they had borrowed an umbrella and walked over to a Japanese restaurant on North Higgins. The food was fine but the conversation hideously stilted, perhaps because they were both trying so hard to avoid talking about Abbie. Benjamin had seemed barely able to look her in the eye and kept asking all sorts of eager questions about Venice. She wanted to scream at him to shut up. Who on earth was he? This polite stranger who had shared her life for all those years and was now treating her like a guest with whom he’d gotten trapped at a cocktail party.
She knew she was being unfair and that it was probably her fault that he behaved that way. Some curious defense mechanism seemed to have clicked on inside her brain. Being cold and brittle and angry with him was the only way she could cope. Allow herself to be any warmer or more receptive to comfort and she would lose her foothold and fall off the edge, spiral into the black whirlpool she knew was waiting for her below. Her little girl dead, lying cold in a box . . . No, she wasn’t going to let her head go there. But when he put his arm around her on their way back to the hotel she almost had. And again when he kissed her good night in the dingy corridor outside her room and they went off to their lonely, separate king-size beds, so thinly partitioned they could hear each other’s every shuffle and cough and flush of the john.
Sheriff Charlie Riggs didn’t have an office in Missoula, which was why he had suggested they meet for breakfast here at The Shack. It was a place Abbie had once taken them to, tucked away on West Main and just another short, wet walk from the hotel.
The sheriff had been there waiting for them, his rain-soaked Stetson and a white plastic bag beside him on the bench of the little wooden booth. He stood to greet them, a tall man, even taller than Benjamin, but bulkier, with a bushy mustache that was going to gray. His eyes were gentle and had in them a sadness that Sarah suspected was permanent, not merely contrived for their benefit. He had those old-fashioned Western manners that she had always been a sucker for, politely nodding when he shook her hand and calling her ma’am.
He declared at once how sorry he was about Abbie.
“I have a daughter myself,” he said. “Can’t even bear to think of such a thing happening.”
“Not wanted for murder just yet, I hope,” Sarah said with a withering brightness before she could stop herself. The poor man winced and Benjamin looked away.
“No, ma’am,” the sheriff said quietly.
They sat down and the two men chatted about the weather and nothing much else until the waitress came and took their orders. Then, leaning forward and talking in a low voice so as not to be overheard, Sheriff Riggs had taken them through what had happened. He told them about the skiers finding Abbie in the ice and how the autopsy at the crime lab hadn’t been able to establish either how she came to be there or how exactly she had died. He asked if they had any ideas about why she might have been in that part of the world and Benjamin said they hadn’t. Abbie had suffered head injuries, the sheriff went on, as well as a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder. And there was water in her lungs, which suggested she might have drowned. The best guess at the moment was that the injuries had been sustained in a serious fall, the cause of which remained unknown.
“You mean, someone could have pushed her?” Benjamin said.
“That has to be one possibility, yes, sir.” He glanced at Sarah, no doubt gauging her sensitivity to such talk. She felt vaguely affronted.
“What about suicide?” she said.
Benjamin looked at her in surprise.
“Abbie would never do that,” he said.
“How would you know?” she snapped.
They both stared at her. The spite just seemed to come spouting out of her of its own accord. She
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