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I left my desk and crossed to the i
“I wondered if I might talk to you.”
“Sure. I’m Kinsey Millhone. Have we met?”
“Not really. I’m Joa
“Of course.”
I stepped aside as though admitting an apparition. She was probably in her mid-fifties, with one of those lovely mild faces assigned to dead saints on Catholic calendars. She was half a head shorter than I, with shoulder-length blond hair worn in the sort of flip I’d longed for in high school. She wore a dark skirt and a matching cropped jacket with a green silk blouse under it. For having thought about her so often, I was unprepared for an encounter. What was I going to say to her? I’d come up against a blank wall. How could I explain where I’d started and where I’d ended up?
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
She sat down in one of the guest chairs and pulled the other one closer, giving the seat a quick pat as a way of encouraging me to sit near her instead of on the other side the desk. She was clearly in charge. When I settled in the chair, the two of us were almost knee to knee.
Her features were finely drawn: small blue eyes, light brows and lashes, a straight nose, and lips thi
“I spoke to Lieutenant Dolan this morning. He’s been gracious about keeping in touch with me since he retired. He called, saying your name had come up with regard to Mary Claire’s disappearance. He tells me a young man named Michael Sutton has come forward with information that looks promising.”
“I don’t know what to say. May I call you Joa
“Of course.”
“Michael was wrong about the date. This came to light yesterday and I’m still adjusting to the disappointment. He was a kid at the time, six years old, and the incident he remembered actually happened a week earlier, if at all.”
“I don’t understand. Lieutenant Dolan said he came across two men digging what appeared to be a grave two days after Mary Claire was kidnapped. You’re saying his report was false?”
“He made a mistake. There was no malice intended. He read a newspaper article and Mary Claire’s name triggered a vivid recollection. His story sounded reasonable. Detective Phillips thought it was worth pursuing and so did I.
“Yesterday, Michael’s sister came in with evidence showing he wasn’t anywhere near Santa Teresa on the date he claimed, so it looks like he conjured the memory out of whole cloth. Whatever he saw, it had nothing to do with Mary Claire. I wish we had more, but it’s not there.”
“Well.” She stared down at her hands.
“I know all of this is hard on you, and I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. I should be used to it by now. I should have detached years ago, but I’ve never found a way to do it. Something like this comes up… a scrap of information surfaces and even against my better judgment, I feel a flutter of hope. I can’t tell you how many people have come up with ‘clues’ in the last twenty years. They write, they call, they stop me on the street, all of them claiming to know Mary Claire’s whereabouts. Any reference in the paper and the ‘tips’ come pouring out. Some ask for money and some just want to feel important, I suppose.”
“Believe me, Michael wasn’t doing this for gain. He was hesitant about going to the police and uneasy when they sent him over to me. As odd as his story was, it seemed to hold an element of truth. In the end, it just didn’t hang together.”
“I’m not blaming anyone. It’s all just so endless.”
“Look, I know this is none of my business, but can you tell me what happened afterward? I can’t imagine what it must have done to your personal life.”
“It’s simple enough. My husband and I divorced. It might have been unfair to fault Barry for the way he handled the situation, but watching him those three days taught me things I hadn’t fully understood. He took over. He called all the shots. I was relegated to the sidelines while he dealt with the police and the FBI. My opinions and my reactions meant nothing to him. For the first time, I saw the sort of man I was married to.”
“What would you have done if it had been up to you?”
“Exactly what they asked. I’d have kept the matter quiet instead of bringing in the police. I’d have paid the ransom without a second thought. That’s what the Unruhs did and their daughter survived. I’m sure the FBI would have deemed it the worst possible tactic, but what did they have at stake? Twenty-five thousand was nothing to us. I found out later Barry had twice that much in a secret account-money he used to establish his new life after we separated. For all I know, that was always his intention, saving up so he could leave. I reached a point where I didn’t care one way or the other. I suppose if Mary Claire had been saved… if she’d come back to us alive… we might have smoothed things over and gone on as we had before.”
“Is he still in town?”
“He moved to Maine. I think he wanted a location as unlike California as he could find. He remarried and started another family. So much for us.”
“Do you have any idea why you were targeted?”
“Barry owns a wealth-management firm. It’s a company he started years ago and he’s always done well. He felt that’s what put us in the line of fire. That and because Mary Claire was an only child.”
“How long were you married?”
“Eight and a half years.” She hesitated. “I’ll admit when he left me, I took revenge, spiteful little thing that I am. According to our prenuptial agreement, if we divorced, he’d have paid me a pittance in alimony for the next ten years. He was older. He’d been married twice before. I knew the risk I was taking and I did what I could to protect myself, though it didn’t amount to much. When our relationship collapsed, he was hoping for a quick divorce so he’d be off the hook. My attorney argued the prenup should be set aside because I’d signed under duress. By the time the divorce became final, he’d been forced to settle for six million, plus a million in legal fees. So here we are. He’s stuck with me for life, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.”
“Do you work?”
“I don’t have a job, if that’s what you’re referring to. I’m a part-time docent at the art museum, and I volunteer two mornings a week at Santa Teresa Hospital in the newborn nursery.”
“Is there any chance your daughter had medical problems? Allergies, asthma, anything like that? I’m trying to understand what might have happened to her.”
“She’d had the occasional seizure since infancy and the pediatrician had her on Dilantin. I take it you ask because you think something might have gone wrong.”
“Exactly. I don’t believe those guys were hardened criminals. Rain tells me she was treated well. She believes they mixed sleeping pills in her lemonade, but instead of going down for the count, she got hyper and slept less and less. Suppose they upped the dose, trying to induce sleep? If Mary Claire was already on an anticonvulsant, the combination of medications might have been fatal.”
“I see what you’re saying, and it makes sense. My poor little one,” she said. She covered her eyes for a moment as though she might block out the very idea. I watched her work to compose herself and she finally sighed. “What now? Is this as far as it goes?”