Chapter 3

The drive up the coast wasn’t exactly comfortable. The Jeep isn’t the smoothest of rides, plus it’s surprisingly noisy inside, and there was also the little issue of Bobby’s ferocious silence as he rode shotgun.

About every five miles, I said, “Thank you again for coming.”

And every five miles, Bobby said nothing.

That kind of thing can make a relatively easy drive feel a lot longer.

Vivienne’s attorney had provided addresses for the house where her brother had lived at the time of his disappearance, as well as for Vivienne’s father’s home. The numbers were only different by a digit, so I figured they were neighbors. The homes were located in a neighborhood outside Astoria. On a normal day—when I wasn’t stuck inside the time-warping effects of my best friend’s silent anger—the drive would have taken an hour, tops. Today, though, it felt like it took about a month to get halfway there, and trust me: no matter how beautiful the coast is, or the spruce and pine forests, or the restless prism of the ocean, nobody wants to spend a month with Bobby’s extremely loud silence.

So, it was a relief when Bobby picked up his phone, scrolled, tapped, scrolled, tapped, and held it to his ear. When he spoke, his voice had his usual crisp, no-nonsense tone. “This is Deputy Mai from the Ridge County Sheriff's Office. I’m calling because—yep, you got it. Thanks.” What followed was a one-sided conversation in which Bobby didn’t actually have to do a lot of talking. In fact, once he had identified himself again, he mostly listened.

When he put down the phone, he stared out the windshield and said, “A woman walking her dog found the body on June 3.”

Spend enough time at the dinner table with my parents, and fun conversation topics like decomp rates come up. I’d done plenty of research of my own, too, and I had an idea of the condition Richard Lundgren’s body would have been in. “Yikes.”

Bobby nodded. “They identified the body from dental records, like Vivienne told you. And, like she told you, Richard Lundgren went missing thirty-three years ago on June 21, 1985.”

“Was that the police department?”

“Yes.”

“And they just told you that stuff?”

“They gave me that information because the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office has a vested interest in any investigations related to Vivienne Carver.”

“Oh.”

“And because Sheriff Acosta called them earlier to tell them I’d be calling.”

“Uh. Oh.” Which meant Bobby had called the sheriff after I’d pitched this little outing to him. “Was she mad?”

“She wasn’t happy. For heaven’s sake, Dash, Vivienne killed two people. She almost killed you. She framed an innocent woman for murder and let her spend her life in prison. And that’s just the stuff we know about. How do you think the sheriff is going to feel when she finds out you’re on a mission to prove Vivienne’s innocence?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m on a mission—”

“The sheriff also told me,” Bobby said over me, “that I don’t have any legal authority in this investigation. And she told me if we get ourselves in a jam, we’re on our own because this isn’t my job, and it’s not part of the deal she worked out with you.”

“And just to be clear—” I braced myself. “—are you mad?”

“You’re the detective,” he said, still staring out the window. “Figure it out.”

That was a very un- Bobby-like thing to say.

“Bobby, it’s not about proving Vivienne’s innocence. It’s about the fact that if she didn’t kill her brother, someone else did—and that person shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. And I know what you’re going to say—”

He turned in his seat abruptly and said, “Do you?”

I swallowed. “Uh—”

“What am I going to say, Dash?”

I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes, so I kept my attention on the road. “You’re going to say that the Astoria police can handle it, and if she’s innocent, they’ll sort it out, and it’s none of our business.”

“No, that’s not what I was going to say.”

“Okay. Were you going to say that you understand this kind of thing is important to me, and that justice matters, and this is our chance to do something good?”

“No.”

We passed a faded sign of painted plywood advertising a produce stand, but there was no indication where the stand might have once stood or where we were supposed to go. The state highway carried us inland until the ocean was no longer visible. The trees thinned out, and we started to drive between agricultural fields. In one, an aging outbuilding of corrugated metal, with rust-eaten skirting and paint peeling from its roof, stood alone on ground allowed to go fallow. In another, a woman had crawled under what I wanted to call a combine, and she appeared to be venting her frustration with a wrench. Brush grew in patches along the sides of the road—not the ferns I was accustomed to around Hemlock House, but desiccated tangles of blackberry and hawthorn. Startled by something I couldn’t see, a sparrow launched itself from one of the blackberry bushes and zipped away.

In what I thought was a moment of particular genius, I said, “Do you want to tell me what you were going to say?”

“Not particularly.”

I had to work some spit into my mouth before I could talk, and then—somehow—what came out of my mouth was “Okey-dokey.”

That should have been my cue, ladies and gentlemen. That, right there. I should have steered straight for the closest outbuilding, combine, or utility pole and put myself out of my misery. (I assume Bobby would have been thrown clear and escaped without a scratch.)

After a deep breath—or three—Bobby said, “The county medical examiner doesn’t have much to work with, but she didn’t see any signs of physical trauma.”

I wasn’t sure how much soft tissue would remain after thirty years in the water, but my guess was not much, which meant that the only place the medical examiner would be able to look for signs of whatever killed Richard Lundgren were his bones. And while bones could provide a lot of evidence—hey, they made a whole TV show about that—people could be killed in all sorts of ways.

“What you’re saying,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, “is we’re not going to luck into an obvious cause of death and an even more obvious and personally identifying weapon, and have everything wrapped up by dinner.”

“Interesting,” Bobby said. “You knew what I was going to say. Again.”

“No, that’s not what I—” But I stopped myself. “Maybe I should stop talking.”

Bobby didn’t say anything, but he did make a noise that sounded an awful lot like “Hmm.”

In my infinite wisdom, I decided driving the rest of the way in silence was the best course. The fields and pastures gave way to homes. Then neighborhoods began to appear. To my surprise, the GPS didn’t take us into Astoria itself but kept us south of the city. The homes here were small frame constructions. I put most of them somewhere between fifty and seventy years old, with slab foundations and—where it hadn’t been replaced by vinyl—aluminum siding. One house needed its roof replaced. Another had a gutter hanging like a dropped jaw. Green algae bloomed on the north side of one little box of a house. The lawns varied—most were cut short, with a kind of ruthless utilitarianism that exposed brown patches and crabgrass. Just to keep things interesting, though, others were overgrown. One homeowner had chosen to go with the “abandoned toys” theme, and their yard was littered with action figures, trikes, and a Batman bicycle. It had the Bat Signal in yellow against the black body and shiny black tassels on the handlebars. I wondered if they made the same model, but for an adult.

Bobby was looking at me. My brain snapped the realization at me, and my face flushed. Because I was still—perpetually—Dashiell Dawson Dane, I blurted the first thing that popped into my head: “I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but those tassels would definitely make that bike go faster.”

To my surprise, Bobby let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He rubbed his face, and when he lowered his hands, he looked like Bobby again—as though, until this moment, he’d been wearing a mask that just looked like Bobby. It was disorienting because it hadn’t been until now that I’d realized the difference. When he spoke, his voice was Bobby’s voice. “There’s no way they’d make the bike go faster.”

“Oh, they totally would. They’re awesome.”

“How would that make the bike faster?”

“It’s science, Bobby. Try to keep up.”

For a heartbeat, that goofy smile flickered on his face. And then he said, “I’m sorry I’ve been short with you. Kiefer—”

But he stopped.

Kiefer what, I wanted to know. Kiefer yelled at you? Kiefer picked a fight? Kiefer got angry because you’re a deputy and sometimes your job comes first? (Echoes of West.) And then another option sent a dark little thrill through me: Kiefer was furious because you chose to spend time with me over the date you’d planned with him. I wasn’t sure I liked what that feeling said about me, but it was there, and I couldn’t deny it.

Bobby didn’t look like he was going to finish that thought, so I said, “Bobby, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head.

“No, I am. I shouldn’t have asked—it’s just, you told me you wanted me to tell you—”

“I do want you to tell me.” The words were firm. “I don’t want you doing anything risky without telling me.”

“But I should have thought about your date.”

“Yeah, well.” Bobby ran his hand along the seat belt, pulling it away from his chest and letting it fall back into place.

“I forgot.”

He nodded.

“Next time,” I said, “just remind me. We could have gone tomorrow.”

A smile tilted across his face. “Really? You would have waited until I got off work tomorrow evening?”

“Uh…yes?”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Okay, I’m not sorry anymore because that was super rude. I take back my sorry. If anything, I’m reverse sorry.”

“What does that mean?” Bobby asked drily. “You’re glad you ruined my date?”

I opened my mouth and nothing came out.

Would yes be such a terrible thing to say?

Instead, though, I gave Bobby a sheepish smile. And he smiled back. And we were both smiling. I think maybe we even laughed a little. Like we both knew it was a joke. Like we both knew we were supposed to pretend it was a joke.

Remember how earlier I had that stroke of genius about driving into a utility pole?

I should have stuck with the plan.

Maybe Bobby was trying to come up with a similar plan to get out of this mess because his voice took on its usual business-like briskness, and he said, “So, how does an amateur sleuth solve a thirty-year-old mystery?”

“That question feels like a trap.” But Bobby only looked at me, and after a moment, I said, “You mean in a book?”

The rumble of the Jeep’s engine filled the silence between us.

“Well,” I said, “in a book , a cold case—which I guess is what this is—usually isn’t all too different from a regular investigation. Unless you’re writing a police procedural or about a forensic scientist, your protagonist probably won’t have access to approaches that involve DNA evidence or gas chromatography-mass spectrometry or carbon dating. Or, heck, even an autopsy.”

“So, what do they do?”

“Well, they talk to people. They ask questions.”

“This is starting to sound familiar.”

“I told you it was pretty much the same,” I said with a grin. “Usually, the detective is trying to find something that was overlooked or concealed when the mystery was first investigated. They’re looking for new information, or lies, or a mistaken assumption—anything that will help establish means, motive, and opportunity.”

“That seems incredibly unrealistic. Wouldn’t people have forgotten the details after all those years? Or told the police in the first place?”

“Sure. But people also lie for all sorts of reasons, and sometimes, later on, the reasons for those lies become less important. Or they feel pressured to finally tell the truth. Or someone the police never talked to turns up. I mean, we’re talking about books, Bobby. Something convenient always happens. And if it’s not talking to people, the detective might do archival research or read someone’s journal. There’s even a whole branch of mystery novels about people who solve murders with genealogy.”

Bobby said something very un-Bobby-like under his breath.

I burst out laughing.

“If this involves you getting an Ancestry.com subscription,” Bobby said, “I’ll buy you dinner.”

“It’s a date.”

That did it again. The good humor that had been defrosting the ice between us vanished, and we drove the rest of the distance in an uncomfortable silence.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before the GPS announced that our destination was on the left. The address belonging to Richard Lundgren—or, better said, where Richard had been living when he’d disappeared—was a little square house that could only by the loosest stretch of the imagination be called a bungalow. Like the rest of the neighborhood, it fell into the category of tract housing that had clearly been designed for working-class families. The Lundgren home looked clean and well-maintained, with that severe attention to detail that suggested high standards but without any sense of adornment. A couple of generations ago, when these houses had been going up, the men and women who lived here would have worked in Astoria’s timber and fishing industries. Those industries had shrunk over the years, though. Some of the people here might still work the line at a fishery, or they might crew a fishing boat, but for the rest, hard times had come to stay.

The address that belonged to Vivienne’s father, Arlen Lundgren, was next door. It looked like a twin to Richard’s, which made sense considering the tract-housing style of the neighborhood, and it appeared to be similarly well kept. The only difference was that someone had hung hideous curtains in Arlen’s windows—some sort of eye-wrenching print of mauve-colored roses—and a few bare, brittle rosebushes huddled next to the stoop. There was no sign that anyone was home at either residence; with the curtains closed, the houses looked still and lifeless.

I unlocked my phone and examined the photo that Vivienne’s lawyer had sent me. It had the saturated colors that I associated with quick, cheap photos from another era, and it showed a close-up of a young man. He had a kind of attractiveness that was a combination of strong features and youth that didn’t quite translate into handsomeness—a high brow, prominent nose, and heavy jaw that, combined with hair the color of wheat, gave him a distinctly Norse look. Even in the close-up, it was easy to tell that he was well built and vital. A thousand years ago, he would have made one heck of a Viking. He was pushing one hand through his hair, as though the photo were a candid one, and he’d been caught unaware, and on that wrist he wore a bracelet that consisted of a fine gold chain and what I guessed was a small saint medallion.

“He doesn’t look like he’d be easy to overpower,” Bobby said.

I shook my head.

“We can rule out a gun or a blow to the head,” Bobby continued. “The medical examiner would have seen some kind of evidence if that’s how it happened.”

“Which leaves some kind of drug to incapacitate him.” I sighed. “And in books, poison is a woman’s weapon.”

“Good thing this isn’t a book,” Bobby said with that slanting smile again.

I got out of the Jeep, but instead of heading to the front door of the house that had belonged, at one point, to Richard Lundgren, I headed toward the backyard. A few windows were set into the side of the house, and these were curtained as well. The back of the house had a few more, and finally I got a glimpse of bare, dark glass—no curtains, but I couldn’t make out anything inside the house without walking up and pressing my nose to the window, which I wasn’t quite ready to do. A rusting gas grill on wheels, plastic patio furniture that looked brittle and washed out from UV exposure, and a few planters that held nothing but weeds were the only suggestion that someone used this space. As with the front of the house, the landscaping—if you could call it that—was really nothing more than mercilessly short grass.

Bobby stood, hands on hips, and looked out at the slough. I followed his gaze. The water began maybe forty yards from the patio, with rushes and sedge bristling at the waterline. A thin scum of algae covered the water, which appeared to be stagnant—if the water was flowing or had a current, I couldn’t tell. It wasn’t a wide body of water, maybe another thirty or forty yards, and I doubted it was deep. I guess it had been deep enough, I thought with a sick feeling. But the slough was long. I couldn’t see the end of it in either direction. A broken length of barricade tape floated on the water, which I took to mean that the local police were no longer even pretending to try to preserve the scene.

“Maybe someone killed him somewhere else and brought him up here in a kayak,” I said, taking another, longer look up the slough.

Bobby shook his head. “Too complicated.” He swung his gaze back to the house.

I knew what he was thinking. “Forty yards isn’t nothing, but someone could have dragged him from the house to the slough. Even a much smaller woman.”

Bobby nodded, but he said, “But she would have been exposed the whole time. If anyone had looked out the window, they would have seen her.”

We both turned to consider the house next door. A man stood there, and he was holding a shotgun. My first, confused thought was: How long has he been there? I hadn’t heard him, and to judge by Bobby’s sudden stillness, neither had he. Then my brain began to take in the details of his appearance. He was old—not just older, but old , in his eighties, maybe even older. He had a surprising amount of white hair left, and the color of it made me think of Ivory soap. He wore a brown, waffle-weave bathrobe, and he had on some kind of rubber clogs that looked like knock-off Crocs. Gun, my brain told me again. I tried to make sense of how he’d gotten the drop on us—he couldn’t have come out of the house, or we would have heard the ancient storm door. But there was a detached garage next to the house, as well as a freestanding building that I took to be a workshop or a storage shed, and he could have come from either of those. It was hard to focus, though; my brain kept saying, Gun.

The man said, “Who the fudge are you?”

(He didn’t say fudge.)

And then he brought the gun up toward us.