Nothing to Lose (J.P. Beaumont #25)(50)

“Here we are, and take your time,” Twink announced. “See you when you’re done.” She lit a cigarette, drew out her paperback, and settled in for the duration.

There was no way to know what to expect from this visit, but as I approached the door, I gathered myself for a possible confrontation. I’d already heard that Roger Adams had a temper, and when he learned the reason for my visit, I was relatively sure he wouldn’t be thrilled to see me. I rang the bell and waited and then waited some more. Finally a key turned in the dead bolt, and the door swung open.

The barefoot man I saw standing before me wasn’t at all what I expected. Scrawny to the point of being gaunt, he was dressed in a pair of flannel pajamas that appeared to be several sizes too large for him. He resembled the guy I’d seen in the photograph on the Roger Adams Web site, but if this was the same man, he seemed to have aged several decades. His hair stood straight up, as though he’d just crawled out of bed.

“Mr. Adams?” I asked uncertainly.

Swaying slightly, he used the doorjamb to steady himself while studying me with a bleary-eyed stare. At last he nodded. “Who are you?” When he spoke, his voice was raspy, as if weakened from lack of use.

“My name’s J. P. Beaumont,” I explained, offering him a business card. “I wanted to talk to you about—”

Before I could say anything more, he brushed the card aside. “A detective?” he asked. “Are you here to help me?”

Help him? Believe me, that was not at all the greeting I had expected. While I struggled to find an appropriate response, a woman dressed in a terry-cloth robe materialized in the entryway behind him. Just visible over Roger’s pajama-clad shoulder, she had a towel wrapped tightly around her head and appeared to have just stepped out of the shower.

She dodged around the man in the doorway as though he weren’t there and then stopped directly in front of me. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded furiously with her eyes drilling into mine. “And what do you want?”

Nice to meet you, too, I thought.

“As I was just telling Mr. Adams here, my name is J. P. Beaumont,” I said aloud. “I’m a private investigator from Seattle. I’d like to speak to Mr. Adams about the disappearance of Christopher Danielson.”

“Who?” the man asked vaguely, putting one hand on the woman’s shoulder as if using her to help himself remain upright. “Has someone disappeared? Do we know him?”

The robe-clad woman, clearly the second Mrs. Roger Adams, covered his trembling hand with a solicitous one of her own. “It’s all right, Roger,” she said. “This is nothing for you to worry about. Just let me handle it.”

“But who’s gone missing?” Roger insisted.

Shelley turned to face him with a smile that was all sweetness and light. “Come on, now, honey-bun,” she said. “It’s too cold for you to be standing here in your bare feet. Not only that, it’s time for your afternoon nap. Let’s get you back in bed.”

“But what about this man here?” Roger objected, waving his free hand in the air and sounding more agitated. “If someone is missing, we should help.”

“No, we shouldn’t,” she said firmly. “Whatever this is, it isn’t our problem. Come on, now, let’s go.”

As Shelley drew Roger away from the open door, I noticed that she paused long enough to deftly remove the key from the dead bolt and slip it into the pocket of her robe. She then led Roger off with him protesting like a two-year-old who’s not the least bit inclined to take a nap. As they went, however, I noticed something else. When he’d waved his hand in the air, his oversize pajama sleeve slipped back down to his elbow, revealing a distinctive pattern of bruising around a painfully thin wrist.

In my experience marks like that usually result when someone has been held in restraints for a considerable length of time. If that was the case, maybe the question he’d asked me earlier had some basis, and he really did need my help.

Shelley hadn’t slammed the door shut in my face or told me to get lost, so I stayed where I was, awaiting her return, except I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was going on inside this house. What if things with Roger weren’t okay? If he were being held against his wishes, what was my responsibility here? And if I tried to tell someone here in Homer that odd things were happening on Diamond Ridge Road, shouldn’t I have some kind of proof to back up that claim? With that in mind, while Shelley was still out of sight, I slipped my iPhone out of my pocket and set it to record before putting it away again.

When the woman of the house returned a minute or so later, she was still dressed in her robe but had shed the damp towel. As she approached the doorway, she appeared to have had a sudden change of heart as far as I was concerned.

“I’m Shelley Adams, by the way, and you are?”

“J. P. Beaumont,” I replied. “I’m a private investigator.”

“Come in so I can shut the door,” she invited. “Sorry about snapping at you. I have to keep an eye on my husband every minute, and sometimes the pressure gets the best of me. The last I saw, he was sitting there in his room, quiet as can be and watching TV, so I thought it was safe for me to jump in the shower. I had no idea he had somehow located the spot where I kept the key to the dead bolt. He goes wandering, you see, and that’s why I have to keep the doors locked. The last time Roger went walking around barefoot in the snow, it’s a miracle he didn’t come away with frostbite.”