Mean Streak

God bless Alice. He forgave her the previous banalities. She was saying all the right things now. “Yes. I blame myself for not suggesting a psychiatric evaluation yesterday when she seemed unable to remember specifics about how she sustained the concussion and the time she spent in that cabin. Of course, given what we know now, how were we to distinguish between faulty recollection and sheer fabrication?”

“We must get help for her.”

“We have to find her first. I only hope she survives this villain. Connell said he wasn’t a sexual predator, but…well, he’s already seduced her, hasn’t he?” He let his voice crack emotionally on the last two words, and Alice’s response to it was instantaneous.

“It’s difficult to be angry with her and worried at the same time, isn’t it?”

“That describes exactly what I’m feeling.”

She was silent for a moment, then, “What does all this mean to us, Jeff? To our relationship?”

“I’ve already told you. We can’t go on seeing each other. Emory has to be my sole concern now. I don’t say that to hurt you.”

“Nevertheless, it does.”

“I’m sorry. We both went into this with eyes wide open, neither predicting a happy ending.” Then, “I’d better go now, check in downstairs and see if any progress is being made.”

“Should I keep this latest incident under my hat?”

“Please. Let’s get through the night, see what tomorrow brings.”

“All right.” Her good-bye was tearful and subdued.

He disconnected and grinned at himself in the dresser mirror. “That went well.” Had he scripted Alice, he couldn’t have put better words in her mouth.

If Emory survived this second misadventure with her criminal boyfriend, her mental stability would be brought into question. She would be denounced and ridiculed. Perhaps the end of her star-kissed life would bring too much pressure for her to bear. She might very well break under the strain of losing everything she had worked so hard to achieve, and, when she did, God knows what she would do to herself. Suicide would be credible.

As he was leaving the bedroom, he glanced toward the bed where he’d tossed his ski jacket when he came upstairs. He had noticed yesterday that the trademark zipper pull was missing. He didn’t know how and when it had become detached, and a search among his belongings hadn’t produced it.

It was a small thing. But wasn’t the devil in the details?

* * *

When Jeff excused himself to go upstairs to call Alice, Jack Connell asked the two detectives, “What’s that about?”

Knight, who was halfway through a minibar can of cashews, said, “Dr. Alice Butler. OB-GYN.” He explained the three-way medical clinic partnership. “Also, she’s Emory’s best friend.”

“Who’s committing adultery with him.” Grange tipped his head toward the top of the stairs.

Jack divided a look between them. “Huh. Does Emory know?”

“We don’t think so,” Grange replied. “She might. She might not care. Would you, if you were her?”

Jack smiled, then asked, “When she went missing, you looked hard at him?”

“Snug as a bug in a rug with Alice Butler from Friday evening till Sunday afternoon, when he became concerned about his wife,” Knight said.

Grange expanded on that, recounting the interview he’d had with the other woman. “She confessed, crumbling beneath the weight of guilt. We thought for sure we had Jeff’s dual motive.”

“Dual?”

Grange told him about Emory’s legacy from Charbonneau Oil and Gas. “She’s worth a bundle and then some. We were on our way to apprehending him, but then Emory showed up at the filling station, alive.”

Knight said, “The husband’s no longer a suspect. Your boy Hayes Bannock stole all his thunder.”

“Bannock won’t hurt her.”

“So you’ve said.”