Snow Creek(42)

She shrinks like a popped balloon.

“Bernadine did one already.”

“That’s Bernie. Not us. We drive the media story when we need to. Not to serve their ratings, Nan.”

She still looks deflated, but she nods.

I poke my head into Sheriff’s office. He’s finishing a call.

“I told Nan no interviews,” I say.

Now he looks deflated.

“Yeah, you’re right. I like that gal they were going to send out.”

I don’t respond.

“Anything from the lab?”

“Not yet,” I say.

He looks me over, like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“I remember that suit. That’s what you wore to the interview.”

I shrug. “Not much need for one around here. Besides, nothing goes out of style. I saw a guy in a leisure suit the other day when I was getting coffee.”

“No shit,” he says. “I used to have a few of those back in the day.”

I suspect he still does.

I tell him that I’m going back to Snow Creek before the memorial and I’ll meet up with him around one or so.

He gives me a sly smile. “Leaving no stone unturned, Megan?”

“That’s me,” I say.

In fact, I nearly live for turning stones to see what ugly thing crawls out from under. I did it with abandon when I was fifteen.

Or sixteen.



The ride back to Snow Creek is now autopilot easy. I play Adele on the CD player. Her voice soothes as my mind plays thoughts about Ida Wheaton. Beaten, brutalized, burned, dumped. It was such overkill. At first, I thought the carpet was an instrument of convenience, concealment. But why bother with it if you’re just going to burn her in the truck and drive it into a ravine? Too much effort. Now I consider it was purposeful. Whoever hated her enough to kill her so violently, must have loved her too. That’s why my money’s on Merritt. At some point he must have cared for his wife. Most husbands do. Then for whatever hideous reason, he strikes her with a hammer and rolls her up in a carpet to hide what he’s done. Not from others. Strictly from himself.

I pass the inventive two-story mobile and barely give it a thought.

When I near Dan Anderson’s place, I consider stopping. Maybe apologizing for not getting back to him. Or say that I had my eye on the carved bear. I play all of those scenarios in my mind and am glad that I keep going. I like him. I can tell he likes me. I just can’t go there. There are too many secrets to hold inside that keep me from being anything other than closed off.

The Torrance place looks exactly the same when I drive up. From where I park, I can see the note to Jared is right where it was. The goats look as though they are being taken care of, but there are no signs that any other car has been here besides Sheriff’s. That bothers me a little. It’s possible that Jared is someone out in the woods and gets there by walking. Maybe the mobile home with the sweet potato vine in the jar?

I scan the field and the tree line that rises up the mountains to the logging road where the truck and body were discovered. There’s an opening at the edge of the forest.

Before I head in for the trail, I knock on the door. At my feet are two purple and one dark blue Croc, the world’s most hideous shoe.

I knock harder.

A dark blue Croc, I know, was found not far from where Ida Wheaton’s burned body was found in the pickup truck.

“Amy!” I call out, leaning toward the door. “Regina! Is there anyone home?”

I don’t hear anything, but for a flash I thought I sensed a vibration on the porch.

I knock one last time, thinking of that Croc. Has Merritt been holed up here? I’m worried about the women. Something feels funny. I make a mental note to call into the office when I get in cell range. Deputies need to swing by here for a welfare check. I’ll pull records on both women later.

As I move down the trail it feels as though I’m entering in a tunnel. So dark in places. Every once in a while a sharp blade of light lacerates the space. The path is wider than a deer trail, though not by much. It snakes through the forest and begins to rise about a hundred yards in.

I have the wrong clothes for such an endeavor and definitely the wrong shoes.

Should have borrowed the ugly Crocs, I think. At least no one would have seen me in them. Maybe a squirrel but I could live with that.

I remove my jacket and fold it neatly to carry the rest of the way. I can’t show up looking like some derelict at Mrs. Wheaton’s memorial. For all I know, Bernie notified the media.

I had no idea they were coming. Really, I’m just as shocked as you are.

The trail leads me to the exact spot where the truck went down. A deep cut in the earth shows where the tow truck driver dragged it up to the road, where a flatbed had been brought to take it for processing at the same crime lab—only to tell us that an accelerant had been used and the VIN hadn’t been completely removed. The last three digits and one of the middle letters were still legible.

The truck was indeed Merritt Wheaton’s.

When I get back to the Torrance house, I try the door one more time. Again, no answer.





Twenty-Seven





Crime scene tape makes for an unsettling memorial decoration. It flaps in the breeze over by the barn and around the Quonset hut. I look at my phone, but of course, no word on the blood and hair evidence that Mindy collected yesterday. A half dozen cars are lined up in the field adjacent to the small apple orchard. I park behind Sheriff.