"Tandy." Barbie. Then, "Tandy, it's CBS."
"And NBC," Ken said.
"We'd like to buy you breakfast."
There had to be twenty reporters and twice as many techs in the parking lot.
"Tandy. Please. We know you're in there."
"Don't you want to send some kind of message to your fans?" Ken.
"We talked to your boss, Mr. Kaplan. He said it was fine if you talked to us."
"What bullshit artists," Tandy said from bed. "Kaplan died three months ago in a car accident. They just got his name from some book."
"You'll probably have to face them," I said as I walked back to the bed.
Wan smile. "I was thinking that this'd all make Laura very happy."
"I was thinking that myself."
"CBS and NBC pounding on the door. Begging for an interview."
"This is a national story now You finding the bones. The murder-suicide."
She swung her slender legs out of bed. Ragamuffin hair. Sleep-scarred right cheek. Tiny yawn. Tight quick stretch of tight quick arms.
"I should take a shower first."
"Probably a good idea."
"Look good, I mean."
"Right."
She looked at me seriously for the first time this morning. "You all right with this?"
"Sure."
"I'm not being cynical? My sister's dead and I'm doing promo?"
"Well, it isn't promo exactly. You're grieving for your sister and you'll convey that. Whatever the show gets in publicity is extra."
She padded over, stood on tiptoes, and kissed me. "I'll bet my breath is bad, isn't it?"
"Tandy, everybody has bad breath in the morning."
"Yeah. But mine is really bad. And I probably smell, too, don't I?"
"Something terrible." Then, "You took a shower about six hours ago. How bad could you smell?"
"I got up to tinkle in the middle of the night. I'm starting my period. I smell when I start my period."
"Not to me, you don't."
"Really?"
"Really." And she really didn't.
She started to the bathroom door. "So I'm not being cynical, talking to the press?"
"You're not being cynical."
"I really loved her, Robert."
"I know you did."
She smiled. "I just keep thinking how happy she'd be with all this promo."
"Take your shower."
I tugged on my clothes and went to the door. "Tandy'll meet you at the coffee shop in forty-five minutes."
"Are you a friend of hers?"
A group of ten other reporters now encircled Barbie and Ken. Bobbing up and down like apples in a barrel.
I said, "Something like that."
"Had Laura and Noah Chandler been arguing before last night?"
"Tandy will answer all of your questions. And that's about it for now. See you in forty-five minutes."
While Tandy dressed, I took a quick shower. Her old clothes looked better than my old clothes. I changed into a white button-down shirt and chinos. The clean clothes felt good.
She looked sweet. I led her down to the coffee shop, escorted her inside. Her celebrity had doubled in the last few hours. Yesterday, she wouldn't have fetched a half-dozen stares. Today, virtually everybody in the crowded coffee shop glanced and stared at her.
Her sister was killed. Last night. Right over to the motel.
That handsome guy who used to play a cop on TV, he killed her. Noah Chandler, his name was. Remember?
I saw an attractive woman with the word MANAGER on her plastic ID tag. I told her the circumstances and asked if there was a small party room where we could set up. She said there was.
There was a small banquet table. They set their mikes up on it and stashed Tandy in the middle.
There was only room for a half-dozen camera people.
The manager personally brought Tandy a large breakfast, two eggs over easy, hash browns, toast, orange juice, coffee, Diet Pepsi.
When she finished breakfast, the questions started. And that's when I slipped out.
Am lead me to Susan Charles's office.
Susan said, "Thanks, Am." Then, "Coffee, Robert?"
"Thanks."
She walked over to the Mr. Coffee, poured us each a cup. "You owe me one," she said, serving me.
"Oh?"
"The press wanted to start knocking on your door at five-thirty. But I insisted they hold off for another hour or so."
"I'll send you a yacht."
"I'd appreciate that."
I sipped the coffee. It was actually not too terribly bad. I said, "You still thinking it was murder-suicide?"
She seemed surprised. "Yes. Aren't you?"
"I guess not."
She sat back in her chair. "This should be interesting. Why not?"
"I'm not sure."
"There's a convincing argument."
I shrugged. "Why now? They'd been having this argument-whether she'd marry him or not-for months. Why would he suddenly decide to kill her?"
"I doubt he 'decided' to kill her, Robert."
"No?"
Shook her head. "Argument starts. Heat of the moment. Kills her accidentally. Or in such a blind rage that it's almost accidental. Sees what he's done and feels so much remorse that he kills himself, too. Happens all the time."
"That's true. But I still don't buy it. Just my gut is all." Intercom. Am. "City council meeting in ten minutes, Chief."
"Thanks." Susan Charles shrugged. "Maybe you're right, Robert.
But we really won't know anything until we get the lab stuff back." I stood up. "I'll walk you to your car."
The Greyhound station was as worn out as the people it served, shadowy, chilly, vaguely ominous. Bus travel used to be respectable. Not anymore. There were still just the good plain folks who took the short rides from one small town to another but there were also the kind of sad and crazed felons who were either just out or just headed to prison-small-time con artists, would-be political radicals, men expert with knives, gun, burglary tools, and how to move an amazing amount of drugs in a short time. Last year, something like eight Greyhound drivers were killed by their passengers. The old days were long gone.
The lockers were four wide, six deep. Several of them looked as if somebody had taken a crowbar to them from time to time. The lock gave me some trouble. It was just a plain Yale but it wouldn't open without a lot of wiggling and waggling. I picked up what was inside, shut the door, and took off.
All this was watched by a lean, pale man who could have, in the right light, passed for an albino. He wore a cheap Cubs jacket and a shirt opened to his sternum. He inhaled his cigarette so deeply you suspected he was trying to get lung cancer. He grinned at me with bad teeth and said, "Enjoy it, man. Wish I had a stash like that."
They're everywhere these days, even in small towns, the shadow people, all crazed vaguely threatening grins and obscure words and that terrible burden of sorrow in the soft insanity of their eyes. I got away from him as quickly as I could.
There were maybe two dozen sheets of paper in the package. It'd been a long fax. The logo on the cover said ST. JUDITH'S PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL.
I was sitting on a park bench in the town square. Two squirrels in front of the Civil War memorial were busy digging up nuts. The angling sunlight was warm as only autumn sunlight can be warm. Not burning hot, but nourishing, preparing us for the winter soon to come.
I was just getting a start on the faxed pages inside when I saw her across the street. On her trusty bicycle. She was sliding a letter beneath the driver's-side windshield wiper on my rental car.
Emily Cunningham. The cousin of the girl Rick Hennessy had supposedly killed.
I just watched her. She didn't see me. Didn't even look around, really. Just shoved the letter between blade and windshield and took off pedaling fast. As if moving fast and not looking around at all somehow made her invisible.