The Boy from the Woods(45)

In the search field, Hester typed in “Cheryl Carmichael.”

Yep. Oren’s ex.

Half of Hester floated up and out of her body and tsk-tsked disapprovingly. The other half—the half still in the chair—frowned at the floating half and countered, “Yeah, right, like you’re too good for this.”

Hester hit the return button and let the screen load. The top searches were for a Cheryl Carmichael who worked as a professor at CUNY. Uh-uh, no—that was definitely the wrong Cheryl Carmichael. Hester scanned down the page. She wasn’t sure what she’d find online about a divorced woman in her mid-to-late sixties. But when she found the right one—Cheryl Carmichael living in Vero Beach, Florida—what Hester uncovered was far worse than she’d imagined.

“My God…”

Cheryl Carmichael was all over social media. Her Instagram account had more than 800,000 followers. Her vertical Instagram bio or whatever you called it read:

Public Figure

Fitness Model

Influencer and Free Spirit “I love life!”

#Over60andFabulous



Gag me, Hester thought.

Under the bio was an email address to write “For Inquiries.” Inquiries? What kind of inquiries? Hester’s mind spiraled down a prurient hole until she realized that by “inquiries” she meant paid endorsements. Yes, for real.

Companies paid Cheryl to pose with their products.

Looking at the photos on display made Hester’s stomach knot. Cheryl, who used to have flowing locks down to the middle of her back—Hester remembered her at the Little League field in tight shorts and a tighter top, the dads pretending not to stare—now sported that mod, short, spiky hair. Her physique, which was on display in many risqué pictures with hashtags reading #bikinibabe #fitgoals #squats #loveyourself #beachbum, was all that and more.

Ugh. Cheryl Carmichael was still a knockout.

Hester’s mobile rang. She checked the number and saw it was from Wilde.

“Articulate,” she said.

“What are you doing?”

“Making myself feel immensely inadequate.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. What’s up?”

“Did the phone company get back to you?” Wilde asked.

He was talking about Naomi’s phone. “They’re monitoring it. So far, no activity.”

“Meaning the phone is off?”

“Yes.”

“Can they tell when and where it was powered off?”

“I’ll check. Did you talk to Matthew last night?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And it might be better if you talk to him directly.”

Wilde didn’t want to betray Matthew’s trust. Hester understood.

“There is one other thing you can do for me,” Wilde said.

“I’m not much in the mood to put a lot of resources on this. I mean, unless you have some real evidence Naomi didn’t just run away.”

“Fair enough,” Wilde said. “Can you make one more call to Naomi’s mother?”

He briefly filled her in on his conversation with Ava O’Brien the art teacher.

“So if the mother took the kid, wouldn’t she tell the father?” Hester asked.

“Who knows. A quick call to the mom might put it to rest. If you’re too busy—”

“What, you’re going to call? What would you say? ‘Hi, I’m a single male in my late thirties looking for your daughter’?”

“Good point.”

“I’ll do it.”

“You okay, Hester?”

She was staring at a photograph of Cheryl Carmichael in a one-piece that could be a cover shot for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. “I’m average at best.”

“You sound grouchier than usual.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Where are you?”

“Still at the high school. I want to try to question the Maynard kid.”

*



Wilde hung up the call with Hester and turned to Ava.

“You sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“It might blow back on you.”

Ava shrugged. “I’m out at the end of the year anyway. All the part-timers are. Budget cuts.”

“Sorry.”

She waved it away. “It’s time I moved back to Maine anyway.”

They’d stayed in the same art room. Wilde had slowly circled, checking out the various student works throughout the room. It was, in some ways, the greatest museum he’d ever seen. There were drawings and watercolors and sculptures and mobiles and pottery and jewelry, and while the talent level was naturally all over the place, the heart and creativity were never less than mesmerizing.

They stood by the door and waited for the final bell.

“This wasn’t an art room when I was here,” he said.

“What was it?”

“Shop with Mr. Cece.”

She smiled. “Did you make a lamp or footstool?”

“Lamp.”

“Where is it now?”

He had given it to the Brewers, his foster-cum-adoptive parents who retired to a gated community in Jupiter, Florida. Wilde and his foster sister Rola had helped the Brewers move in eight years ago, renting a U-Haul for the long drive down Interstate 95. Rola kept wanting to stop at roadside oddities along the way, like the UFO Welcome Center in South Carolina and America’s smallest church in Georgia.