The crime-scene guy called for a bigger crew with ground-penetrating radar and a gas sniffer. Two dozen people milled around, talking about secret graveyards, but there was no real graveyard.
At three o'clock they found the only other grave that they would find. It was fifty yards south of the first one, in an area that Lucas, Del, and Flowers had walked right over. The top of the grave was occupied by a driftwood stump, which was why they missed it. The bottom was occupied by Gabriella Coombs, curled into a knot in a green plastic garbage bag, wasted and shot through with maggots, almost gone now…
At home that night, after taking a twenty-minute shower, trying to get the stink of death off him, Lucas went down to dinner and grumped at everyone. Coombs was going to haunt him for a while; chip a chunk off the granite of his ass.
The other thing that bothered him a bit was that he knew, from experience, that he'd forget her, that in a year or so, he'd have put her away, and would hardly think of her again.
He'd gotten down a beer and was watching a Cubs game, when Weather came with the phone, and handed it to him. The medical examiner said, “I took a look and can tell you only one thing: it's gonna be tough. Nothing obvious on the body, nothing under her fingernails. We'll process anything we find, but if there wasn't much to start with, and it's been days since she went into the ground…”
“Goddamnit,” Lucas said. “There's gotta be something.”
There was; but it took him a while to think of it.
Lucy Coombs came to the door barefoot and when she saw Lucas standing there, hands in his pockets, asked through the screen door, “Why didn't you come and tell me?”
Coombs had gone to look at her daughter at the medical examiner's. Lucas had avoided all of it: had sent Jerry Wilson, the original St. Paul investigator in the Marilyn Coombs murder, to tell Lucy that her daughter's body had been found.
Now, standing on her porch, he said, “I couldn't bear to do it.” She looked at him for a few seconds, then pushed the screen door open. “You better come in.”
She had a plastic jug of iced tea in the refrigerator and they went out back and sat on the patio, and she told him how she, a man that she thought may have been Gabriella's father, and another couple, had traveled around the Canadian Rockies in a converted old Molson's beer truck, smoking dope and listening to all the furthest-out rock tapes, going to summer festivals and living in provincial parks… and nailing a couple of other good-looking guys along the way. “I always had this thing for hot-looking blond guys, no offense.” “None taken.”
“Summer of my life. Good time, good dope, good friends, and knocked up big-time,” she said, sitting sideways on a redwood picnic-table bench.
“God, I loved the kid. But I wasn't a good mother. We used to fight… we started fighting when she was twelve and didn't quit until she was twenty-two. I think we both had to grow up.”
She rambled on for a while, and then asked the question that had been out there, in the papers and everywhere else. “Are you sure Amity Anderson did it?”
“No,” Lucas said. “In fact, I don't think she did. She might have, but there are some problems…”
He'd gone back to Eau Claire, he told her, and talked to Frazier, the sheriff's deputy, and all the other investigators they could reach. Amity Anderson had no boyfriend, they said. Just didn't have one. They accounted for her nights, they looked at phone records, at gasoline credit-card receipts, they checked her mail. She had no boyfriend…
And she had that alibi for the night Donaldson was killed. The alibi was solid. Would Leslie Widdler have gone into the house on his own? Wouldn't he have wanted a backup? The night Gabriella disappeared, there were two phone calls from Anderson's house, one early, one fairly late. The recipients of the phone calls agreed that they'd spoken to her.
“That doesn't mean she couldn't have done it, but it's pretty thin,” Lucas said.
“You think Widdler's wife, I saw her name in the newspaper…”
“Jane.”
“You think she was involved?” Coombs asked.
“I think so,” Lucas said. “Anderson insists that she was-and to some of us, she sounds like she's telling the truth.”
“So it would be Jane Widdler who killed Gabriella.”
“Probably helped her husband,” Lucas said. “Yes. They worked as a team.”
Coombs took a sip of lemonade, sucked on an ice cube for a moment. “Are you going to get her?”
“I don't know,” Lucas said. “I see a possibility-but we'd need your help.”
“My help?”
“Yes. Because of your mother, and the Armstrong quilts, you're in… sort of a unique position to help us,” Lucas said.
She looked him over for a minute, sucking on the ice cube, then let it slip back into the glass, and leaned toward him. “I'll help, if I can. But you know what I'd really like? Because of Mom and Gabriella?”
“What?”
Her voice came out as a snarl: “I'd like a nice cold slice of revenge. That's what I'd like.”
Jane Widdler was sitting on the floor in a pool of light, working the books and boxes and shipping tape. The cops had photographed everything, with measurement scales, and were looking at lists of stolen antiques. But Widdler knew that the store stock was all legitimate; she had receipts for it all.
Leslie's suicide and implication in the Bucher, Donaldson, and Toms murders had flashed out over the Internet antique forums, so everybody who was anybody knew about it.
She'd had tentative calls from other dealers, sniffing around for deals.
At first, she'd been angry about it, the goddamn vultures. Then she realized she could move quite a bit of stuff, at cost or even a small profit, and pile up some serious dollars. She was doing that-took Visa, MasterCard, or American Express, shipping the next day…
Her clerk had walked out. Left a note saying that she couldn't deal with the pressure, asked that her last paycheck be mailed to her apartment. Good luck on that, Widdler thought, pouring plastic peanuts around a bubble-wrapped nineteenth-century Tiffany-style French-made china clock, set in a shipping box. Eight hundred dollars, four hundred less than the in-store price, but cash was cash.
There was a knock on the front door, on the glass. The closed sign was on the door, and she ignored it. Knock again, louder this time. Maybe the police? Or the lawyer? She made a frown look and got to her feet, spanked her hands together to get rid of the Styrofoam dust, and walked to the door. Outside, a woman with huge bushy blond hair, dressed in a shapeless green muumuu and sandals, had cupped her hands around her eyes and was peering through the window in the door.
Irritated, Widdler walked toward the door, shaking her head, jabbing her finger at the closed sign. The woman held up a file folder, then pressed it to the glass and jabbed her own finger at it. Making an even deeper frown look, Widdler put her nose next to the glass and peered at the tab on the file folder. It said, in a spidery hand, “Armstrong quilts.”
The woman on the other side shouted, loud enough to be heard through the door, “I'm Lucy Coombs. I'm Marilyn Coombs's daughter. Open the door.”
Widdler thought, “Shit,” then thought, “Elegance.” What is this? She threw the lock, opened the door a crack.
“I'm closed.”
“Are you Jane Widdler?”
Widdler thought about it for a second, then nodded. “Yes.”
The words came tumbling out of the woman's mouth, a rehearsed spiel: “My mother's house has been attached by the Walker and now by the Milwaukee museum. They say the Armstrong quilts are fakes and they want their money back and that it was all a big tax fraud. I have her file. There's a letter in it and there's a note that says you and your husband were Cannon Associates and that you got most of the money. Mom's house was worth two hundred thousand dollars and I'm supposed to be the heir and now I'm not going to get anything. I'll sell you the original file for two hundred thousand dollars, or I'm going to take it to the police. The museums can get the money back from you, not from me.”
The woman sounded crazy-angry but the part about Cannon and the Armstrongs wasn't crazy.
“Wait-wait-wait,” said Widdler, opening the door another inch.
“I'm not going to talk to you here. I'm afraid of you and I'm afraid the police are tapping your telephones. They tap everything now, everything, the National Security Agency, the CIA, the FBI. I brought this copy of the file and the letter and inside there's a telephone number where you can call me at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning.
It's at a Wal-Mart and if you don't call me, you won't be able to find me and I'll go to the police.”
The woman thrust the file through the door and Widdler took it, as much to keep it from falling to the floor, as anything, and Widdler said, “Wait-wait-wait” but the woman went running off through the parking lot, vaulted into the junkiest car that had ever been parked at the store, a battered Chevy that looked as though it had been painted yellow with a brush, with rust holes in the back fender. The woman started it, a throaty rumble, and sped away.