Chapter 7

For the first section of the drive, I was on autopilot. The brisk mid-morning of June on the Oregon Coast became a blur of still-damp ferns, pavement dark with moisture, the branches of spruce and pine and fir glistening. I passed Hastings Rock, with its jumble of architectural styles—everything from Victorian to beach bungalow to modernist—making a postcard skyline against the horizon. The Jeep, always noisy, seemed louder than usual, until the rush of wind against the frame and the roar of the engine made me feel like I’d stuck my head in a wind tunnel. In a good way, if that makes any sense.

But below that initial level of disconnect, I ran through frenzied replays of the conversation with Kiefer and Bobby. How Kiefer had said, I thought it would be cute . How Bobby had said, Of course I was going to tell you . The way he’d stood in the kitchen, that defiant pose like he knew he was doing something wrong and was daring me to say something about it. How he’d said, Not everyone is like you .

How dare you? That’s what I wanted to say. And I wanted to—to shake him. It wasn’t something I’d felt before, as though words weren’t a sufficient outlet for my feelings. Like the only way I could tell him how I felt was to lay hands on him, as though somehow pure force could make him see that he was being an idiot. And even as I shook with the need, I was also horrified by the strength of that urge, by the darker current of it. Because I wanted to do something that would shock Bobby. I wanted to do something that would snap him out of this craziness. I wanted to do something that would wipe that stupid look off his face. You’ve known each other a month, I wanted to say. Barely a month. You don’t even know his middle name. But what I really wanted to say, what was stuck in my throat, was: How dare you feel sorry for me?

Because that was what it had been at the end. Condescending, yes. Patronizing, sure. But worst of all, full of pity.

Not everyone is like you .

Fine, I thought. No problem. Move out. Go live a great, happy life with this baby version of West you somehow managed to dig up. See if it goes any better for you this time.

And then I started to cry. I had to pull onto the shoulder of the road, easing the Jeep to a halt. I didn’t sob. I didn’t fall apart. But I sat there, fighting wave after wave, my eyes hot and stinging.

Eventually, I got myself under control again. Slumped in my seat, I stared out the windshield. The day was bright and clear, and even inside the Jeep, I could tell it was warming up pleasantly—a perfect summer day in this part of the world. Next to me, green stalks rippled in the breeze. Barley, maybe. Or wheat. An ancient wheel line sprinkler broke up the neat rows. As I watched, a little brown bird with a yellow throat fluttered down onto the lateral pipe. It cocked its head, as though listening to something, and took off again in a flurry of movement.

The world moves on, I thought. And I checked the mirror and shifted into drive and got going again.

It would have been generous to call my sudden flight from Hemlock House a plan, but I had intended to talk to Neil and Jane Carver—or whatever Jane’s last name was these days—and since I found myself almost halfway to Astoria, I decided now was as good a time as any.

When I got there, the street was as quiet and empty as it had been the day before. I drove past Arlen and Candy’s house, but there was no sign of a grim-faced octogenarian lying in wait with a shotgun. Maybe more importantly, there was no sign of Candy, who probably would have asked me for Bobby’s phone number. If she did, I was going to give it to her. Petty is as petty does.

Richard’s house—which, I guess, was really Neil and Jane’s house now—looked unchanged from the day before: a little white bungalow like all the others on the street. The curtains were open, and the windows were dark. I parked and got a look at the garage, but the door was down, and I couldn’t tell if there was a car inside. Then I knocked on the front door.

Steps moved inside the house, and the door opened to reveal a woman. She was White, and I put her age somewhere in the sixties. She had long, thick hair that had once been dark but was graying now, and she had great skin—and clearly wasn’t wearing any makeup. Not beautiful, but…well, what I might have called arresting, if I were writing about her. Something about her face held the eye. She wore a knit top, polyester slacks, and sensible pumps; she didn’t seem like the type to lounge about the house in a muumuu.

Her voice was surprisingly deep when she said, “May I help you?”

“My name is Dash Dane. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Jane Carver.”

“I’m Jane Carver.”

Believe it or not, there isn’t a WikiHow article for “How to Introduce Yourself to a Potential Murderer.” (I checked.) So, I said, “I know this is going to sound strange, but I was wondering if I could talk to you about Richard Lundgren. I’m not a reporter. This is going to sound crazy, but—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Dane. Won’t you come in?”

“Uh, yes?”

(Will Gower definitely wouldn’t have let it sound like a question.)

The living room at the front of the house was surprisingly updated and, if I’m being honest, beautiful. I mean, the size and the layout made it hard to pretend the house itself was anything but what it was, but Jane had done a great job with what she was working with. The sofa set was cream-colored upholstery with nailhead trim, and when Jane indicated for me to sit, I discovered that it was comfortable as well as attractive. The coffee table was simple—just solid wood with a good stain—but it matched the entertainment center. A few stylishly antiquated prints hung on the walls, and it took me a moment to recognize the watercolors as cityscapes of Astoria. Peonies exploded out of a blue glass vase and lent a hint of their perfume. It was a far cry from Arlen and Candy’s place next door.

Jane left. Sounds filtered to me from the kitchen: running water, the clink of cups, steps moving back and forth. It took me a moment, but then I spotted the opportunity she’d given me, and I eased myself up from the sofa. The house was tiny, and a little stub of a hall connected the living room to the kitchen. I figured if Jane asked why I was wandering around, I could explain I was looking for the bathroom. That never went wrong in books.

Three doors stood open along the hallway. One connected with what had to be Jane and Neil’s room—it had a lived-in look. The furniture here was dated but in good condition, and although the tops of the dresser and the wardrobe appeared to be free of the usual junk that tended to accumulate (at least, in my bedroom), one of the nightstands held books, and the other had an empty glass and a remote control. The next room was the small but pristine bathroom, with the same white tile running across the floor and up the walls. The shower curtain was closed, but if I pushed it back, I expected I’d find the tub scoured within an inch of its life. And the next room appeared to be for guests. The bed was made up, but it felt unused in a way that the other room hadn’t. In the kitchen, a kettle whistled, and I started to turn back toward the living room. And then I noticed the books.

The bookcase stood against the far wall, and the books lining it were clearly all from the same series. I didn’t need to get closer to know what they were; I’d read those books plenty of times, and I had the same series back at Hemlock House. They were the Matron of Murder books—Vivienne’s magnum opus .

As the sound of footsteps moved closer, I hurried back to the living room and settled onto the sofa again. A moment later, Jane appeared, carrying a rosewood tray with a tea service for two. I watched her movements as she poured: steady, unhurried, assured.

“Milk? Sugar? Lemon? It’s a Darjeeling that I just found.”

“No, thanks.”

She offered me a flash of a smile as she sat. “Excellent. I’d hate for you to ruin a good cuppa.”

“It’d be a different story if it were coffee, though.”

“Is that so?”

“Have you ever heard of a s’mores latte?”

With a quiet laugh, she shook her head. “I don’t think my doctor would approve.” She sipped her tea, watching me over the rim of the cup. And then she said, “You’re trying to learn what happened to Richard.”

“Yes.”

She was silent for what felt like a long time—no longer sipping her tea, but holding the cup in both hands as though trying to absorb its warmth. “It happened a long time ago,” she finally said. “It was a tragedy; Richard was a wonderful man. But tell me, Mr. Dane, why it matters now, after all these years? What good will come from opening old wounds?”

It was a strange metaphor, on top of a strange response. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting—outright hostility, perhaps, like Arlen. I probably wouldn’t have been too surprised by a distraught widow, complete with waterworks. But I hadn’t expected this composed, reserved, and clearly intelligent woman whose first response was to ask why I was bothering to try to find her husband’s killer. And I certainly hadn’t expected the question to be…genuine, because it was clear that Jane wanted an answer.

“There are a few reasons, I guess,” I said, trying to frame my response. “One is that Richard’s killer is still walking around out there. He might have hurt other people. He might still be hurting other people. And even if he hasn’t, he needs to be held accountable for what he did to Richard. I think that’s what the family of every victim wants.”

“Do you think so?” She seemed to contemplate her own question. “I don’t know. Revenge is a hollow thing, and punishment isn’t much better. We want what everyone wants, of course, which is for the awful thing never to have happened in the first place. But that’s impossible.” Her gaze focused on me again, as though she’d remembered me, and more crisply, she added, “Besides, this person might be dead. Might have died years ago. Or perhaps this person has lived an exemplary life. Perhaps they’ve gone on to do wonderful things, helped lots of people, and made the world a better place. Shouldn’t all of that be weighed in the balance?”

“That’s for a judge to decide. But Daniel Webster said justice is the ligament that holds a civilization together—I’m paraphrasing—and I think there’s something to that. As a society, we agree to protect each other, and when we fail in that, we have a responsibility to make sure that order is restored.”

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

“Something like that.”

“But is it your responsibility, Mr. Dane?”

“Maybe not. But I don’t know if there’s anybody else. From what I understand, the police already think they know who did it. They’re convinced Richard was one of Vivienne’s first victims, but it doesn’t seem so clear cut to me.” I waited, but she didn’t take the bait. She sat there, watching me, her dark eyes unreadable. “Don’t you want justice for Richard? Aren’t you angry?”

She set the teacup down, and it rattled against the saucer. Then she clasped her hands in her lap. “I’ve spent the last thirty years being angry with Richard. That doesn’t make sense, I know. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should feel some sort of demand for justice. But I don’t. I feel tired, Mr. Dane. And old. And empty. I don’t know if I have it in me to feel that much anger again.”

Silence fell over the little house. Outside, in the distance, a lawnmower came to life.

“Ask your questions, Mr. Dane,” she said, and she took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “I’d like to get this over with if you don’t mind.”

“Could we start with the night Richard disappeared?”

“We had a terrible fight. I left. When I came home, he was gone.”

“What did you fight about?”

She gave a bitter laugh. “We fought about what we always fought about: Richard’s stubbornness.”

I waited, but she didn’t expand on that. “I hate to ask this, but were you having an affair?”

“You’ve been talking to Candy.” But she sounded amused more than anything. “No, Mr. Dane. I wasn’t having an affair. And I imagine I know what your next question will be. I went to Neil’s house after the fight; by that point, he and Vivienne had divorced, but he was still my friend, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. We weren’t sleeping together, just to be clear.”

“But you’re married to Neil now.”

“I understand the implication, Mr. Dane. Let me show you something.” She excused herself and returned a moment later with a framed photo.

The colors were oversaturated and faded, and to judge by the clothes, it was from sometime in the 1970s or 80s. There were four people in it: two men and two women. It was easy to make out a young Vivienne and Richard—when I saw them together in the photo, the likeness was even stronger, although the Richard in this photo was even younger than the one in the photo Vivienne’s attorney had sent me. The other two were clearly Neil, with his dark hair and dark eyes, and Jane. I guessed that the picture had been taken in a high school gym, because they sat on bleachers, Richard and Neil in basketball jerseys and skimpy shorts, their faces flushed and sweaty. Vivienne sat next to Neil in a sweater and slacks; she was one pearl necklace away from looking like a teenage June Cleaver. But Jane was perhaps the most surprising, radiant in makeup and a cheerleader uniform.

“We were friends,” Jane said, turning the photo so she could look at it. “Best friends. Of course, everything seems more powerful at that age, but we really were close. It’s hard to describe; have you ever had something like that? A group of people that you knew you belonged to, in a way that went beyond blood and bone?” A smile turned the corner of her mouth. “I believe young people today call it ‘found family.’”

I nodded, and I was surprised to find myself explaining, “Here. In Hastings Rock, I mean. We call ourselves the Last Picks, like—”

“The last picks in gym,” Jane said, and she laughed. It was a rich sound, deep like her voice, and full of unexpected delight. “Oh God, Vivienne must have loved that. She hated gym.”

I grinned, but it was as much because of how surreal this moment felt as because of the statement itself. Here I was, with a woman double my age, listening to her talk about the Vivienne Carver as though she were just another hapless teenager. Which, I suppose, at one point she’d been, but it still felt unreal.

“After Neil and Vivienne divorced, we all wanted to stay friends. Neil’s estranged from his family; he barely made it through high school without getting kicked out of the house, and once he left, he never went back. And he and Arlen hit it off right away. He was the son Arlen always wanted. After the divorce, Neil stayed part of the family.” She stopped and cleared her throat. “I understand it must seem strange that Neil and I ended up together, but it really wasn’t. Richard was gone. Vivienne had moved away. We had always been close.” That unexpected smile turned the corner of her mouth again. There was something…self-aware about the smile. Not quite mocking, but close. “And, of course, I’d had a crush on Neil myself at one point in high school, although at the time, I couldn’t see that he wasn’t interested in me.”

There were so many things I wanted to ask. I picked the first one that came to mind. “What did you mean that Neil was the son Arlen always wanted?”

Jane frowned. Her hands curled protectively around the picture frame, and she seemed to think. “Richard and Arlen’s relationship was…difficult. They fought a great deal. Richard was temperamental. Arlen was stubborn. By the time I knew them, they’d settled into a pattern that was, let’s say, antagonistic. Arlen commanded. Richard defied. Neil, on the other hand, has always been a charmer. As I said, he and Arlen hit it off right away.”

“But you and Richard bought a house next to Arlen and—what was the mom’s name?”

“Betty. She was already dying when Richard and I got married. Lung cancer. Richard wouldn’t talk about living anywhere else, and then, once she was gone, we were settled. Richard had a job at the plant with Arlen, and I was at the teacher’s college. It didn’t make sense to move.”

“They were close, then?”

“Oh yes. Richard was the apple of Betty’s eye. He could do no wrong. Of course, that only made things worse with Arlen.”

“Because he was temperamental.”

“Yes.” I thought maybe she’d stop there, but she sighed and looked past me, or through me, her eyes softening as they lost focus. “Richard was such a beautiful person. Everyone was drawn to him; it’s hard to explain, hard to help someone understand. He was magnetic, to borrow a tired word. He was smart and funny. He made you feel like you were the only person who existed. And he was handsome too; he could have cut a swath through the ladies if he’d wanted to, but that wasn’t his style.”

“Maybe I was projecting,” I said, “but I got the impression that the four of you were your own little group.”

Jane laughed. “That we were unpopular, you mean? No, not at all. Vivienne might have been, if not for the rest of us. No. But we were…self-contained. Even back then, it irked some of our classmates. People tend not to like people who work their way free of the herd, so to speak. But it was impossible not to like Richard.”

“But you fought frequently.”

“Candy’s information again?” she said. “Yes. In the last year or two before Richard went missing, we fought often. I hate to think about it now.” Her voice caught, and she touched the tissue to her eye again. “I hate thinking about all of it. How unhappy we both were. How we took it out on each other.”

“If you weren’t fighting about an affair, what were you fighting about?”

“I’m afraid I was being glib when I said Richard’s stubbornness. We fought about the usual things, of course. There was never enough money; even back then, the plant was cutting hours, and I still hadn’t started teaching. And Richard—” She stopped. “How well did you know Vivienne? Before, I mean.”

“Not well.”

Jane nodded slowly. “She and Richard might as well have been twins. They were what we call Irish twins, as a matter of fact, although I suppose that’s not the polite thing to say anymore. When Vivienne wanted to, she could be just as charming as Richard—she had that same magnetism, for lack of a better word.”

I nodded; I remembered my first day at Hemlock House, and how easily Vivienne had won me over. It had been her hallmark during her years in the public eye—she was always kind, always polite, always witty, always easy to talk to.

“But Vivienne and Richard were never satisfied. They always wanted more. It was hard to see it at the time. When you’re young, you think opportunities are endless, and that the world will give you what you deserve if you work hard enough. As they got older, though, and those opportunities didn’t come to fruition, they changed. They were more jaded about things. They were more insistent. It was like a constant demand for more.” She stopped again, and her eyes seemed to refocus on me. “That was one of the reasons for the divorce. Vivienne wanted Neil to uproot their lives and move to Portland. She was determined to be famous, whatever it took.”

There was a lot packed into those words. In Vivienne’s case, whatever it took had included framing an innocent woman for murder and, later in her life, killing two men to protect her secret.

“What did Richard want?” I asked.

“The same thing,” Jane said with that same smile bent out of true. “Only different. Everyone who wants to be famous really just wants to be someone else.”

The sound of the lawnmower cut off, and in its absence, the quiet pressed in on me. I tried to come up with a good way of asking my question, and finally I settled for simple: “What do you think happened the night Richard disappeared?”

But Jane shook her head. “You mean, do I think Vivienne killed him and stole our money and ran off to Portland?”

“I understand Vivienne and Richard were fighting as well.”

“Richard was fighting with everyone. He was…not himself that last year. He was deeply unhappy.” Jane blew out a breath. “I’m not sure what Candy told you, but I think I should say that, like the rest of that family, she’s a deeply unhappy person. Some of that has to do with the fact that Candy has had a hard life, and it hasn’t made things easier for her to watch Vivienne’s success. That must have been very difficult for her. But it doesn’t excuse this kind of behavior.”

“What kind of behavior?”

“Making up stories. This whole mess she’s created.”

“What did she make up? I mean, I understand that not all her conclusions were correct, but it seems like what she told me was more or less true.”

“You don’t understand. You’re not part of this family, so you don’t understand. Nobody believes Vivienne killed Richard. I told you: they were like twins. She never would have hurt him, no matter how much they argued. Vivienne loved him more than she ever loved anyone else—”

The door handle rattled, and then the door swung open, and a man stepped into the living room. Today, Neil Carver wore a blue T-shirt with the words ASTORIA FIRE DEPARTMENT on the breast and black utility pants. His hair looked thinner up close, and in that first instant, he carried himself the way Bobby sometimes did at the end of a long shift—like the fatigue went deeper than the bone. Then he saw me.

“What’s he doing here?”

Which was interesting, albeit rude—apparently, everyone in the extended family knew who I was.

“He wanted to talk,” Jane said quietly.

Neil spared her a disbelieving look. Then, to me, he said, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you need to leave.”

“I understand this is a difficult time for all of you,” I said, “and I also understand this might be hard to believe, but I’m trying to help—”

“You’re snooping around,” Neil said, “playing detective. That’s a job for the police.”

Okay, again, fair, but definitely rude.

I looked at Jane, but her expression was closed off, and I realized she wasn’t going to help. “I was hoping you could tell me about Richard, maybe about the night he disappeared—”

“He didn’t disappear,” Neil said. “He was killed. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Don’t you have the tiniest bit of decency? He was her husband. Their brother and son.” He swallowed, and his voice wavered. “My best friend.”

“I know, but—”

“If you know, then what are you doing? You’re like a hog, rooting around in our suffering for your own entertainment. What kind of person does that?”

“Vivienne asked me to help—”

“Vivienne.” He scoffed. “Vivienne doesn’t need anyone’s help. She made that perfectly clear when she left.”

“Mr. Carver, do you honestly think she killed Richard?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“The police do. And maybe it doesn’t bother you to have Vivienne convicted of a crime she didn’t commit—”

“Does it bother you ?” He peered at me, and I realized, after a moment, he wanted an answer, but he continued, “What are you doing helping her anyway?”

“Yes, it does bother me. Because if she didn’t kill Richard, then someone else did, and that person is still out there.” I took a breath. “Candy seems to believe—”

“Candy.” Neil pushed a hand through his thinning hair. “Candy is nuts.”

In a soft voice, Jane said, “Neil.”

“She is. He ought to hear that before he makes a fool of himself on her behalf.” Squaring up with me, Neil continued in a more even tone, “All Candy wants is approval, just like Viv, just like Richard. Just like their old man—that’s where they get it from. Can you understand that? Candy’s spent her whole life making a fool out of herself to get people to notice her, running after any guy who would give her the time of day, and half the ones who wouldn’t, myself included. She hates Viv because Viv went and made herself famous. She hated Richard because everyone loved Richard, never mind all the times Richard pulled her bacon out of the fire.”

“Neil,” Jane said again more firmly.

“He did. Not that she ever thanked him for it. You ought to hear her carrying on sometimes, how Richard ruined her life, chasing off that deadbeat. Everything that ever went wrong for Candy happened because Richard wouldn’t let her shack up with Zane Potthof. He’d have had her turning tricks by the end of the week.”

Jane straightened in her chair. “That’s enough.”

“She was thrilled when Richard disappeared. Ask her where she was the night Richard died.”

“Neil!”

Jane’s voice rang out in the small house. A hint of color dusted Neil’s cheekbones, and he rubbed his forehead.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Jane said to me.

Neil gave ground grudgingly as Jane walked me to the door. He stood behind her, watching me as I moved out onto the porch, his expression somewhere between wary and chagrined. Jane’s expression, though, was downright icy; the intelligent, pleasant woman I’d been talking to before Neil arrived was gone.

“Mr. Dane,” Jane said as she shut the door. “Don’t come back.”