spoken about what happened, to tell you the truth.”
“You should,” Ora said with sudden vehemence. “Grieving comes to people in a variety of ways. I’ve seen it in my own family. And, of course, Charley and I have watched friends pass as we’ve gotten older.” She reached out for my hand. “Have you spoken to anyone yourself? You must know Deborah Davies, the Warden Service chaplain. She was very helpful to Charley.”
“Charley?”
“After our accident, she came to see him.”
I found this revelation startling. “He never told me.”
“I think you’d find the reverend easy to talk to.”
I squatted down on the linoleum so that I was at eye level. She smelled of whiskey and rose water. “I appreciate your concern, Ora, but I’m OK.”
“Forgiveness can be hard,” she said in a tone that made me wonder if she was speaking of the plane accident that had paralyzed her or of something else. “It takes real effort.”
I shook my head with disdain. “I can’t ever forgive my father.”
“I’m not talking about your father, Mike. I’m talking about you.”
At that moment, the door blew open and the gust carried Charley into the room. I spotted a cell phone in his hand. “Mike and I need to go out for a bit.”
“What’s happening?”
“I’ll explain when we get back.”
“Of course, Charley. Whatever you need to do.”
Sarah appeared in the kitchen door, looking flushed, anxious, and confused.
“Mike and I need to take a ride, Sarah.”
“A ride? Where?”
“Parker Point,” said Charley. “I think something might have happened out there.”
9
W e grabbed our coats and stepped out again into the frigid night. I’d fastened my badge and my holster to my belt—the Warden Service required that all wardens be armed whenever we drove our state trucks. The rules also prohibited us from reporting to duty while impaired by alcoholic beverage, but I felt perfectly sober. As I reached into my pocket for the keys, however, Charley clamped a hand around my wrist. “Are you all right to drive?”
The question irked me. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve had a few pops.”
“I’m fine, Charley.” But my telltale breath drifted in the cold air.
He looked hard at me but didn’t speak again until we were backing out of the driveway. “I couldn’t find a local number for Hans Westergaard, so I tried him at home in Massachusetts.”
His insatiable curiosity always amused me. “You just can’t help yourself from butting into these situations, can you?”
“My mother always said I had an inquisitive nature.”
“Was Westergaard home?”
“No, but his wife was.”
“Uh-oh.”
“She told me Ashley Kim was her husband’s research assistant.”
“That’s a new term for it.” The truck hit a frost heave, which brought the seat belt tight against my chest. “I’m guessing there’s more.”
“Mrs. Westergaard said he left yesterday for an international monetary policy conference at Bretton Woods in New Hampshire. She hasn’t heard from him since.”
“What makes you think this is anything more than a case of him screwing around?”
“There was a tone in her voice.”
“I bet there was!”
Charley raised his collar up around his throat and rubbed his gloved hands together. “It was something else. She seemed panicked. ‘Is Ashley missing, too?’ she asked. I thought that was an odd word for her to use,
missing.”
“Should I call the dispatcher?”
“Let’s see what we find first,” he said. “Hopefully, we’ll discover those two lovebirds snuggled up in their nest, and that’ll be the end of the mystery.”
“If we do, I’m going to give her hell for leaving the scene of an accident. You can bet on that.”
“I have no doubt.” Charley laughed.
The drive from my house in Sennebec down the peninsula to Seal Cove usually took twenty minutes, but I kept my foot on the gas and we made it in fifteen. The headlights cut a narrow path through the
“You should,” Ora said with sudden vehemence. “Grieving comes to people in a variety of ways. I’ve seen it in my own family. And, of course, Charley and I have watched friends pass as we’ve gotten older.” She reached out for my hand. “Have you spoken to anyone yourself? You must know Deborah Davies, the Warden Service chaplain. She was very helpful to Charley.”
“Charley?”
“After our accident, she came to see him.”
I found this revelation startling. “He never told me.”
“I think you’d find the reverend easy to talk to.”
I squatted down on the linoleum so that I was at eye level. She smelled of whiskey and rose water. “I appreciate your concern, Ora, but I’m OK.”
“Forgiveness can be hard,” she said in a tone that made me wonder if she was speaking of the plane accident that had paralyzed her or of something else. “It takes real effort.”
I shook my head with disdain. “I can’t ever forgive my father.”
“I’m not talking about your father, Mike. I’m talking about you.”
At that moment, the door blew open and the gust carried Charley into the room. I spotted a cell phone in his hand. “Mike and I need to go out for a bit.”
“What’s happening?”
“I’ll explain when we get back.”
“Of course, Charley. Whatever you need to do.”
Sarah appeared in the kitchen door, looking flushed, anxious, and confused.
“Mike and I need to take a ride, Sarah.”
“A ride? Where?”
“Parker Point,” said Charley. “I think something might have happened out there.”
9
W e grabbed our coats and stepped out again into the frigid night. I’d fastened my badge and my holster to my belt—the Warden Service required that all wardens be armed whenever we drove our state trucks. The rules also prohibited us from reporting to duty while impaired by alcoholic beverage, but I felt perfectly sober. As I reached into my pocket for the keys, however, Charley clamped a hand around my wrist. “Are you all right to drive?”
The question irked me. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve had a few pops.”
“I’m fine, Charley.” But my telltale breath drifted in the cold air.
He looked hard at me but didn’t speak again until we were backing out of the driveway. “I couldn’t find a local number for Hans Westergaard, so I tried him at home in Massachusetts.”
His insatiable curiosity always amused me. “You just can’t help yourself from butting into these situations, can you?”
“My mother always said I had an inquisitive nature.”
“Was Westergaard home?”
“No, but his wife was.”
“Uh-oh.”
“She told me Ashley Kim was her husband’s research assistant.”
“That’s a new term for it.” The truck hit a frost heave, which brought the seat belt tight against my chest. “I’m guessing there’s more.”
“Mrs. Westergaard said he left yesterday for an international monetary policy conference at Bretton Woods in New Hampshire. She hasn’t heard from him since.”
“What makes you think this is anything more than a case of him screwing around?”
“There was a tone in her voice.”
“I bet there was!”
Charley raised his collar up around his throat and rubbed his gloved hands together. “It was something else. She seemed panicked. ‘Is Ashley missing, too?’ she asked. I thought that was an odd word for her to use,
missing.”
“Should I call the dispatcher?”
“Let’s see what we find first,” he said. “Hopefully, we’ll discover those two lovebirds snuggled up in their nest, and that’ll be the end of the mystery.”
“If we do, I’m going to give her hell for leaving the scene of an accident. You can bet on that.”
“I have no doubt.” Charley laughed.
The drive from my house in Sennebec down the peninsula to Seal Cove usually took twenty minutes, but I kept my foot on the gas and we made it in fifteen. The headlights cut a narrow path through the
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