“I’m Ellen Blair,” she had said as soon as they were seated. “And you’re Jordan Langford. You bought Jesperson’s sheep pasture in order to plant grapes. You live in a trailer, but you’ll build a house up on Crystal River Road, and you work from dawn to dark.” She had laughed, and added, “Welcome to Crystal Falls, population eighteen hundred, and no secrets.”
How easily they had talked that evening. He had said, “Thirty-five. I went to school, got married, got unmarried, worked the vineyards in California, went to Italy and worked vineyards there. Inherited a little from grandparents and came looking for land. Winemaker.”
She had nodded. “Twenty-eight. School, married, unmarried, job, laid off, home again. New job at the college. Flunky to the president.”
“Now we know each other,” he had said.
He had walked her to her parents’ house next to the farm and garden store they owned. Over the next month she walked him all over town, to the waterfall that gave the town its name, to her old high school, the Mount Crystal College campus where Little Agate Creek tumbled over rocks to join Crystal River in a cauldron of foam.
They drove to the coast, twenty-five miles away, and on a clear day they hiked to the top of Mount Crystal, from where they could see the ocean in the west and the high Cascades in the east. He helped her move; she offered him the use of her bathtub, and they went to bed together.
“No commitment,” she had whispered. “No ties. We’re both still free.”
He had nodded then, but more recently she had started to feel pressured, not so much by his insistence on a commitment, but rather by his apparent belief that such a commitment already existed.
Her marriage had started out in the prescribed perfect bliss and ended in a predictable hellish discord; she was not ready to try it again. Knowing they both had been too young, too immature, did not ease the hurt; her problem was that she was not at all certain she was much more mature now than she had been five years earlier.
If only Jordan had never come here, she thought, then sheep would still be grazing in the pasture, the blackberries would still be growing thicker and thicker each year. Philip’s bones would still be buried.
That night she asked Jordan not to talk about it, knowing they were the only people in town not talking about it, and she sent him away early.
Five weeks later, Ellen was working in Hilde Melton’s office when the secretary buzzed Hilde to say the sheriff was there.
“Well, let him come in,” Hilde said, getting up from her desk.
Hilde Melton was generally considered to be a good-looking woman; Ellen thought she was beautiful. She rode a bicycle, hiked, walked for miles, ate properly, and at fifty-three she was envied by many of the students in their twenties. Her dark hair was starting to show gray in streaks. Janice Ayers, head of the psychology department, had said with a sigh, “Even getting gray is glamorous on her.”
“Hilde,” the sheriff said, entering with another man, “we have to talk to you.”
Ellen hurried to the door. “I’ll start on some of that right away,” she said, and left.
“They identified the bones,” the secretary, Rita, whispered in the outer office.
“How do you know?”
“Wanna bet?”
Ellen shook her head and went to her own tiny office where she was supposed to make phone calls to try to find someone who would maintain the school’s bicycles for less than Homer Wylie was charging. Instead, she stared at the wall with her hands clenched on her desk. After they found the bones, enough to say it had been a man, and a ring and the necklace, she had pretended nothing else would happen, that they wouldn’t identify him, that no one would admit recognizing the jewelry they had displayed on television, in newspaper photographs. An investigation was ongoing, but it had nothing to do with her. It would all pass, she had told herself as the talk died down; people would forget.
She had lived her life exactly as always, work, dinner with her parents once a week, dates with Jordan, and if her sleep was restless and her appetite gone, no one had noticed. Now and then she had found herself in front of the television with no awareness of what she had been watching, or she had found a book in her hands with no memory of having read anything in it. No one suspected anything unusual about her, she told herself; she was handling it.
But what had happened when Philip went back to the group at the fire? The question formed and re-formed through her daylight hours, and woke her with its persistence during the night. Patty had called several times, left messages; Sheila Baum Craxton had called; Beverly Kirchner had called, and Les Prell. She had returned none of the calls.
“Hey, Ellen, you asleep or something?”
Ellen jerked her eyes open to see Rita in the doorway. “Headache,” she said.
“Dr. Melton wants you, like pronto.”
When Ellen returned to the president’s office, Hilde was sitting behind her desk, grim-faced. The sheriff was studying the titles of books in a glass case; the other man stood up, regarding her with interest.
“Ellen, you know Sheriff Craxton, don’t you?” The sheriff was tall and thin; he looked tired. They nodded politely to each other.
“And this is Lieutenant Haliday from the state police special investigation unit. Ellen Blair, my administrative assistant,” Hilde said.
Haliday was about forty, with black hair, dark eyes. He was dressed in a dark suit, with a bright blue tie. He smiled at her in a friendly way and turned back to Hilde.
As if cued, Hilde said, “Lieutenant Haliday is in charge of the investigation into the death of Philip Seymour, who taught here fifteen years ago. He will require help in locating files. For the time being, you will be the liaison between the lieutenant and the college, assist him in any way you can. He’ll tell you what he wants. And see what conference room is available for him to use as an office for the next few days.” She looked at the lieutenant. “Is that sufficient?” she asked bitterly.
“Yes, ma’am. I think so.” He seemed to be the only one in the room at ease.
“Very well, then,” Hilde said, nodding to Ellen. “When you finish, will you drop by the house? We’ll have to go over whatever other tasks you have to abandon, see if they can be put off for the present.” She drew her phone closer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to start calling the trustees.” She looked fierce. Hers would be the hardest job, it was clear.
Walking with the sheriff and the detective down the wide corridor to the marble stairs to the second floor, Ellen was aware of the curious looks from work-study students at the front desk, from several people who just happened to step out of their offices as the trio passed. A cluster of students fell into silence at the foot of the stairs and stared at them frankly.
“Pretty building,” Haliday said. “Looks like a pretty campus, from what I’ve seen of it. Maybe you can show me around later.”
Ellen nodded. Conference Room A was too big, Haliday said when she opened the door to it. She went on down the hall to Conference Room D, and he said fine, just fine. The sheriff glanced around it, seemed to be waiting for something, and when it was not forthcoming, he shrugged. “HI be at the mayor’s office, you need anything.” He hesitated another second and left.
Haliday closed the door after him. He began to move about the room. He was compact; although his movements were quick and decisive, they also were fluid, like a cat’s. He regarded the long conference table with ten chairs, and extra chairs along one wall. Cabinets under the windows were empty, but there was a coffee maker on a table. He pointed at it inquiringly. “Fixings go with this?” he asked.