And Now She's Gone(8)
One workstation’s wall was bare. At the other station, sheets of paper covered in sticky notes had been left on the chair, waiting for Isabel’s return and review. There were no desktop pictures of Kenny G. with Isabel, nor pictures of Isabel with Ian O’Donnell. A framed picture of the missing woman cuddling an orange tabby sat next to a photo of the same missing woman standing between Clair Huxtable and Lou Rawls look-alikes.
Isabel Lincoln’s parents?
Couldn’t be. This couple looked like they knew all the lyrics to “Lift Every Voice and Sing.” They looked like the couple who hoarded petrified copies of Jet in the attic and had watched Soul Train every Saturday morning and had attended wedding receptions that ended with the Hustle or the Electric Slide. There was a pressing comb in a drawer somewhere in their house. Because this couple? They were black black.
Gray reached into her purse. “Do you mind if I record our conversation? Just so that I have everything?” Because of course she thought of recording an interview now.
Farrah said, “Sure,” and Gray pressed Record on her phone’s voice memo app.
“Okay,” Gray said. “So, Isabel’s job?”
“She organizes events for our scholars to meet their benefactors. She organizes board meetings, hosts alumni trips.… She’s been here for, oh, two years now. But she recently applied for a student life advisor position to work directly with incoming freshmen. Though I’d hate to lose her, I gave her a glowing recommendation.”
“Did she ever leave for days at a time?”
“Yes, but she always cleared time off with me first.”
“Do you have a list of her days off?”
Back in her office, Farrah tapped at the computer keyboard. “Here we go.” She clicked Print and, seven seconds later, Gray had a list of dates that Isabel Lincoln had requested.
December 5–7
March 13–15
May 22–24
The March and May dates … Since Gray hadn’t been able to take notes, she wasn’t sure if those dates matched the dates Ian O’Donnell had mentioned.
Farrah allowed Gray to conduct interviews in a small conference room that reeked of ranch salad dressing and jalape?os. She offered the P.I. a Diet Coke—Gray needed a caffeine boost to power through her third and fourth interviews of the day.
“At first, we didn’t think anything was wrong.” This was from Beth Sharpe, a tall brunette who wore a silver nose stud. “Isabel told me that she and Ian were heading to Palm Springs for the Memorial Day weekend.”
“Really?” Gray’s eyebrows lifted. The good doctor hadn’t mentioned a trip to the desert.
Gray liked Secret Santa, secret sauce.… Secret plans, though, were the best secrets!
Down on the conference room table, her phone blinked, then the screen went dark. She pressed the Home button, then got the Empty Battery icon. Dead phone.
“Uh-oh,” Beth Sharpe said. “Need a pen?”
“I have one.” Gray searched through her bag for that stupid, sticky pen. Wallet, ibuprofen, hand sanitizer, chewing gum, coins … no pen. “Sorry. We can keep talking,” she said, face warm again. “If I need to clarify anything—”
“We can email,” Beth Sharpe said, nodding. “So, anyway, Izzy thought Ian was gonna finally propose. Not that she would’ve said yes. Can I tell you something?” She jiggled her knees, then stopped jiggling her knees, then jiggled her knees again. “This is gonna sound crazy, and I’m kinda glad that your phone died, because I don’t know if I want this recorded, but … I think Ian took Izzy out to Palm Springs and killed her. I think he buried her near one of those giant wind turbines.”
“That’s a rather … extreme thing to say.”
“She told me that Ian had a temper and that she’d discovered his big secret. She was really nervous the last time I saw her. She said it could ruin his career.”
“And so…”
“He knew that she knew…”
“And?”
“He killed her.”
“And?”
“He buried her body—”
“Beneath a giant wind turbine,” the women said together.
Nan Keaton, an older redhead wearing a prairie skirt and cowboy boots, stomped into the conference room before Gray could find another pen. Nan sat with an “Oomph,” crossed her arms against her doughy breasts, and kept her jaw clamped like a crocodile on a wildebeest’s leg. That kind of defensive body language was known as “She knows something but ain’t sayin’.”
Gray was already exhausted. “Ian said that he and Isabel ate lunch together every day.”
Nan barked, “Ha! She was lucky if it was twice a week. He always had to work, he always had to save lives, to literally hold people’s hearts in his hands. He always told her that if she ever wanted to be a doctor’s wife, she’d have to share him with his patients.”
“And what was Isabel’s response to that?”
“What do you expect it to be?”
“Did she ever think he was cheating on her when he was supposed to be seeing patients?”
Nan didn’t respond. She was the type of woman who prayed hard, drank harder, and kept the lights on for her trucker lover or her small-town-sheriff lover or her prodigal son. Tears cried for those men always disappeared into the folds of her weathered skin, but They still counted, you hear? They still counted.