I start my day with more interviews. Dalton joins me again. He’s calm today, his edges muffled, until an interviewee gives me grief and then all he needs to do is rock forward, his jaw setting, and she falls in line so fast it’s like having a rottweiler at my side, dozing until he smells a threat and then rising with a growl and a lip curl to douse that threat in a heartbeat. Very handy.
My first interview is with the last person to see Powys alive. It’s a woman, perhaps not surprisingly, given that he disappeared in the middle of the night. From her bed, apparently. She’s convinced he was kidnapped on his way to the bathroom. According to Dalton, there was absolutely no evidence of a break-in, but she’s not going to admit Powys screwed her and then snuck off in the night. Which means pretty much everything about her story is suspect. Including the part, I’m guessing, where they had sex four times that evening. Which was, as Dalton snorted, “irrelevant,” though the fact she kept repeating it suggested this was highly relevant to her.
The second interview is Irene’s co-worker, who was the last to see her alive. Irene worked in the greenhouses, having a background in horticulture. Her co-worker is also a gardener, and I remember her from Dalton’s little brown book. She’s in Rockton hiding from charges of poisoning her abusive husband and burying him in the flower bed. In researching her online, Dalton had uncovered a story about a very wealthy woman whose abusive husband had been found fertilizing her prize roses. She’d disappeared while out on bail. The article included her photo, which apparently matches the sixty-year-old woman now telling me what a sweet girl Irene had been. As for why she needed to buy her way into Rockton, that had less to do with her killing an abusive husband and more to do with the body found beside his—that of their twenty-three-year-old maid, pregnant with his child.
All that means I have a second witness I can’t trust. Which I am beginning to suspect will be par for the course in Rockton. Even many who haven’t bought their way in will have something to hide, like me. A town full of liars. Cases here will depend more on evidence than interviews.
Speaking of evidence, I want to talk to Beth, but she has clinic hours until noon. Dalton says we’ll go by after lunch.
He walks me to my last interview of the morning and then leaves. He has rounds to make, which is mostly about just being seen, reminding people he’s there, to make them feel safer or to warn them … or a little of both.
This particular interview is all mine because he trusts the interviewee to cooperate, given that he’s a former cop. I meet Mick in the Roc. It’s closed for another hour, but he’s there, cleaning up and waiting for me. There’s no sign of Isabel, which is a relief.
When I walk in, Mick’s polishing the bar, and that stops me in my tracks, my mind slipping back to another time, another bartender. I indulge the stab of grief and regret for two seconds before walking over and taking a seat at the bar.
Mick sets the rag aside and puts a steaming mug of coffee beside me, along with sugar and goat’s milk from under the counter. He doesn’t say a word, as if this is no grand gesture but just common hospitality.
I pour in the milk.
“So,” he says. “Abbygail.”
“I hear you two were involved.”
He nods and begins folding the rag, meticulously.
“I’d ask if you want a lawyer present,” I say. “I know cops realize that’s wise for any interview. But I’m not sure where we’d find one.”
He gives a short laugh at that. “Oh, there are plenty here. I think it’s the most common former occupation.” His lips quirk. “Surprisingly.”
“Or not.”
A shared smile, and he nods, his gaze slightly downcast. Not submissive, just quiet and contained, neither overly friendly nor unfriendly.
He sets the rag aside again. “I’m not blocking. Just working up to it. I’ll tell you everything. It just … isn’t easy.” He takes a moment, then a deep breath, and says, “So … Abbygail. I would say what a good kid she was. Tough, strong, sweet, generous, all that. But everyone’s going to tell you that. So I’ll just say they’re right.”
“Good kid…,” I say.
“Yeah.” He rubs his mouth. “That’s not a slip of the tongue. When she arrived, she was nineteen. We started seeing each other a year later. I was twenty-five, and the youngest guy here. Which is why people thought we should give it a shot. Beth and a few others.”
“Eric?”
A sharp laugh. “Uh, no. Definitely not Eric. He knew Abby wasn’t ready. He didn’t try to stop us, though, because she wanted to, and I…” He rocks back on his heels. “This is going to sound shitty, but I gave it a try because she wanted to, so I thought I should. We were friends, and I wanted her to be happy.”
Which doesn’t sound shitty at all. It sounds sweet. But I understand what he means, that he feels bad about dating someone he wasn’t romantically interested in.
He continues. “We went out for a couple of months. I can give you dates if that helps. It just … it didn’t go anywhere.”
“So you were lovers for two months.”
“Uh, no. When I say it didn’t go anywhere, that includes sex. With her background, I just couldn’t … It felt wrong. Like I was taking advantage. It was dating. High school stuff, because that’s what she was, Detective. Inside. I don’t mean she wasn’t smart or mature, just that she never had the chance to grow up in a real way. It was like she skipped her teen years, and in Rockton she got them back. Which is one reason it didn’t work. There might have only been a five-year age difference, but I felt like a creepy old man.”
“And the breakup?”
“Mutual.”
“I hear you got together with Isabel about a month later.”
“Yep.”
“Was there any tension there? With Isabel and Abbygail?”
He gives me a real laugh for that. “Not at all. Abby knew I was checking out Isabel even before she and I got together. She’d tease me about it. When Abby and I broke up, she’s the one who told me to go for it with Iz. She liked her. They liked each other. Iz…” He rubs his mouth again. “Isabel doesn’t exactly wear her heart on her sleeve, but Abby’s disappearance hurt her as much as anyone.”
My nod must not look entirely convincing, because he says, “You’re wondering how they could get along, right? The bordello madam and the former teen prostitute? I know what you think of Isabel, but she really believes she’s doing the best thing for the women here. No, not believes. Hopes. She wants to do the right thing by the women here, and…” He studies my look. “And you really don’t want to hear that. Anyway, Iz used to talk to Abby about her experiences, advice on how Isabel could run a safe establishment. But those talks? You know what Iz did before she came here, right?”
I shake my head.
“She was a psychologist. So she counseled Abby. Not officially. It was just talking. But it wasn’t just talking, if you know what I mean. Iz wanted to help, and Abby needed help, so they talked, a lot.” He picks up the rag and begins folding it again. “Which is the long-winded way of saying there wasn’t tension between them.”
“Was there tension with anyone? For Abbygail?”
“A few of the guys. I can give you a list. But it’s a short one.”
“The sheriff says she didn’t get bothered that way.”
“Guys were mostly respectful. But a few came on to her. She’d never tell Eric, or he’d go after them and then she’d feel like she’d tattled and overreacted. You know.”
I do know. It’s exactly how I feel about telling Dalton who offered me credits for sex.
“She wanted Eric to think everything was fine,” he says. “With Eric…” He clears his throat. “I don’t like talking about her personal stuff…”
“She had a crush on him.”
He exhales. “Yeah. I’d tease her about that; she’d tease me about Isabel. I think, when she encouraged me to give it a shot with Iz, she was hoping I’d say the same for her and Eric. I didn’t. Wouldn’t. She’d have gotten hurt, and I never wanted to see her hurt.” He crumples the rag and puts it aside.
“Sheriff Dalton wouldn’t have returned her attention.”
“Hell, no. If I felt like the old guy with the teenager, it would have been even worse for Eric. Like dating your little sister.” He shudders. “Just no. I think Abby understood that. Most times. Every now and then … well, she’d wonder, and I’d steer her away. For her own good. For his, too. If she came on to him … shit. That’d have been rough, knowing she saw him that way. He wanted to be her big brother, not her Prince Charming.”
I must smile at that, because he laughs. “Yeah, no one’s going to mistake Eric for Prince Charming. But he was her knight in shining armor, however much he’d hate to hear it. He’s a good guy.”
“I keep hearing that.”
“Yeah, Eric’s fans and friends are a little too quick to support him. Mainly because we know what a crappy first impression he leaves. And second. And third. How are you guys doing?”
“We had a rough start, but I’m starting to see the side that wins him fans.”
The smile grows. “Good. You two seem to be spending a lot of time together.”
“We’re working a big case together.”
“Still…” He catches my look. “Okay, I won’t play matchmaker. You’ll get plenty of that from others. So, back to Abbygail…”
“You were the last person to see her alive.”
He flinches, as if I’ve poked a wound that hasn’t healed.
“She was heading for the forest,” he says. “I was over by the woodshed, hauling logs. It was after dark, and there was no way in hell she should have been that close to the forest. She said she’d heard an animal that sounded hurt. We scoured the area together, and I had no reason to think she wasn’t telling the truth, which makes me feel like a complete idiot, but honestly? Eric said don’t go into the forest, so Abby didn’t go into the forest. She’d tease and poke, but she never disobeyed him. I really did think she’d heard an animal.”
“But you didn’t find anything.”
He shakes his head. “So I walked her home. Beth’s neighbors saw us—they can confirm that. Abby went inside, and everything seemed fine. Beth got home an hour later, after working late next door at the clinic, and when Abby wasn’t there, she just figured we were out, and she went to bed. I think Abby grabbed a lantern and went back. She loved animals, and if she thought she heard a wounded one…”
“It’s the only thing that would have drawn her into the forest.”
“But not far. Yes, she might wander in farther than she meant to, chasing a noise, but I can’t imagine she’d go in deep enough to get lost. Someone lured her in. I’m sure of it. Others might tell you different, and maybe they think I’m just covering my own ass because I didn’t manage to stop her from going into that forest. Either way, it doesn’t cover my ass, because I was still the last … the last to see her. I fucked up. And she disappeared.”
He goes quiet, lost in that grief, until I break it by saying, “You mentioned a list? Guys who gave her trouble?”
He snaps from his reverie. “Right. Let me get a pen.”
I pass him mine, and he writes it out and hands it to me. As I go to leave, he says, “Abby would have liked you.”
I turn and look at him.
He shrugs, a little embarrassed. “I was just thinking that. She had a lot of women here playing mother and therapist. What she didn’t have was a female friend.” He fidgets. “It wasn’t the same with me, and sometimes I think maybe if she’d had another girl she could have confided in, about anything…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I’m probably being silly. We all keep wondering where we went wrong, thinking we missed something, failed to give her something, and if only this or that, then maybe it’d have been different. Anyway, all I mean is that she would have liked you. You’re a survivor. Like her.”
That gives me pause, but he only shrugs and says, “I was a cop, remember? I recognize the signs.”
I nod and start to go. Then I say, “Everyone presumes she’s dead. You knew her, as much as anyone. Maybe more. Is it possible she’s…” I look toward the forest.
“Still out there?” His gaze drops. “I wish it was, Detective.” He resumes polishing the bar, his voice rough with grief. “I really wish it was.”