Nine Lives(40)

Despite desperately wanting to speak with Art Kruse, to find out if he really did know her own father, she’d waited. Her first day in Maine had been spent almost entirely inside the cottage, although she’d taken an early morning walk, first down to a white lighthouse on the tip of a rocky peninsula. Because of a cold, impenetrable fog Jessica couldn’t even see the ocean that no doubt stretched beyond the lighthouse, its lamp rotating, its horn blasting in periodic bursts. It was as though a gray curtain had descended along the shoreline. No, that wasn’t quite it. It was like looking at nothing, as though the world simply ceased to exist beyond a certain point.

From the lighthouse she’d walked to the village of Port Clyde, a small cluster of docks and buildings along a busy harbor. There was one restaurant, one ice cream shop, one general store. Jessica went into the store and bought enough groceries and wine to last her a few days, then carried the heavy bags back up the hill to her cottage.

For the rest of the day, Jessica tried to acclimate to her new, temporary life. The book she’d started was good—all about life after a devastating plague—but in between bouts of reading she was nervous and restless, pacing through the house. At dinnertime she made herself pasta with clams and drank half a bottle of Chardonnay. Then she turned on the television, spent thirty minutes trying to figure out the three separate remotes, and finally settled in to watch Rio Bravo on TCM. She was familiar with the movie because it had been one of her father’s favorites, although she didn’t remember its being as funny as it was. It made her want to call him, even though that was impossible. He was in the memory wing of an assisted living facility, and, lately, he was having trouble recognizing family members when they stopped in to visit, let alone when they called.

I should call my mom, Jessica thought. At least to let her know that she was in the middle of a case and might be hard to reach for a while. She could also ask her mom about Art Kruse, although she doubted that her mother would know anything about him. Still, she supposed she could ask her mom to ask her dad about Art Kruse. Even though his condition was getting worse, he still had moments of lucidity, especially when it came to the distant past.

So the first call she made, the following morning at half past eleven, was to her mom’s cell phone number, and received a chirpy “Hello.”

“Mom, it’s Jessica.”

“Oh, my phone didn’t recognize your number. I wonder why not?”

“I’m calling from a different number. That’s why I’m calling you. I’m swamped with work and I’m off of my cell for a few days.”

“What’s going on? No, don’t tell me. I’ll only worry. Are you at home? Can I call you at your home number?”

“I haven’t had a home number for three years, but if it’s an emergency, send me an email okay?”

“Okay, honey. Guess where I am right now?”

“I don’t know. Where?”

“I’m at Margie Lowry’s house for lunch. You remember Margie?”

“Kind of, I think.”

“You remember Danny Lowry?” A memory surfaced of a painfully shy boy with thick glasses and bright red hair. He’d been in Jessica’s class from kindergarten all the way through senior year of high school, although she doubted they’d ever exchanged a single word.

“I remember Danny. You’re at his mother’s house?”

“She’s having a little luncheon reunion for all the ex-troop leaders, the Brownie moms.”

“Oh, fun. I won’t keep you, but can I ask you to do one thing for me?”

“Of course,” her mom said, and now Jessica could hear chatter in the background, the sound of elderly women gossiping.

“When are you next going to visit Dad?”

“I was thinking of going over this afternoon after lunch, because Margie now lives in Westford so I’m halfway there as it is.”

“When you see him, can you ask him a question about one of his old friends? Someone named Art Kruse.”

“Art Kruse? One of your father’s old friends?”

“I’m pretty sure he was. The name doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Not really, honey, but maybe. You know your father—”

“I know. Just ask him. I’m not expecting much. Will you remember the name?”

“Can you text it to me?”

“I can’t, actually.”

“Right, right. No phone. You said it was Art Kruse. Can you spell it for me?”

Jessica spelled out the name, and her mother promised to ask her father about him. She doubted it would lead to anything, but it couldn’t hurt.

After finishing the call with her mother, she punched in the number that Aaron had given her for Art Kruse in Florida. After several rings, a man’s voice, hoarse-sounding, said, “Hello?”

“Is this Art Kruse?” Jessica said.

“Depends on who’s calling.”

“Mr. Kruse, this is Agent Winslow calling from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m pretty sure that you’ve talked, already, with my colleague …”

“Yes, yesterday. He gave me a list of about a hundred people, none of whom I’d heard of, but wouldn’t tell me what it was all about. Something to do with my son’s death, I guess.”