“Yes, it was.” She hesitated. “Thank you.”
He knew better than most that sometimes there was nothing else to say. He concentrated on his driving.
Irene propped one elbow on the side of the door and braced her chin against her hand. “It’s true that I don’t have any solid evidence to indicate that Pamela might have been murdered. But I do have something.”
“What’s that?” he asked, deeply wary.
“The summer that Pamela and I spent together as friends, we invented a code phrase that we used to let each other know when something was really important and that it had to be kept a total secret from everyone else.”
“So?”
“Pamela used that code in the e-mail note she sent to me asking me to meet her here in Dunsley.”
He tightened his hands on the wheel. “No offense, but a teenage code is not a lot to go on.”
“It’s enough for me,” she said.
Six
The center of town was busier than Luke had ever seen it since he had arrived in Dunsley. The parking lot in front of the post office was jammed with trucks, vans and SUVs. He glanced through the windows of the Ventana View Café and saw that every booth was filled.
A long, gleaming black limo occupied three spaces in the parking lot in front of the municipal building that housed the mayor’s office, the town council chambers and the police department. Luke pulled into a slot beside the big car and sat quietly for a few seconds, studying the scene.
“Something’s missing here,” he said.
Irene made a soft little sound of disgust. “Like the major media?”
“Looks like the news of Pamela Webb’s death hasn’t gone beyond the town limits yet.”
“Except for the story in this morning’s edition of the Glaston Cove Beacon, you mean,” she said with grim pride.
“Except for that,” he agreed. “But since I doubt that anyone outside of Glaston Cove actually reads the Beacon, I think it’s safe to say that the story is still very low profile.”
Irene unfastened her seat belt. “The Dunsley Herald went bankrupt years ago. I doubt if the Kirbyville Journal has got the word yet. And you’re right about the limited circulation of the Beacon.” She smiled coolly. “All of which means I’ve still got an exclusive.”
His gut tightened. Disaster loomed.
“You know,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “it might be a good idea to talk about how we want to approach this conversation with McPherson. Never hurts to have a strategy.”
But he was conversing with himself. Irene was out of the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind her and heading toward the entrance of the municipal building. He saw her reach into her oversized shoulder bag and take out a small device.
A recorder, he thought. As he watched, she slipped it into the pocket of her trench coat.
“And to think that I came to Dunsley for peace and quiet,” he said to the empty front seat.
He got out of the SUV, pocketed the keys and went after Irene. He caught up with her just as she strode through the front door of the municipal building.
A short distance beyond the entrance, a tall, distinguished-looking man with a very familiar profile stood talking in low tones to Sam McPherson.
Ryland Webb possessed a full head of the silvered hair that seemed to be a requirement for public office. He also had the face for the job, Luke thought. The combination of rugged, man-of-the-West angularity mixed with just the right touch of old-world aristocrat photographed well.
An attractive, well-groomed woman in her early thirties stood at his side, gripping his hand in a silent gesture of loving support. The fiancée, Luke decided.
On the other side of the lobby, an intense, twitchy man spoke urgently but very softly into a phone. An expensive-looking leather briefcase sat beside one foot.
“Pamela was a deeply troubled woman, as everyone in this town is well aware,” Webb said to Sam. He shook his head in a melancholy gesture, the long-suffering, grieving father who has always feared that his daughter would come to a bad end, no matter how hard he worked to save her. “You know as well as I do that she struggled with her inner demons from the time she was a teenager.”
“Thought she was doing okay these past few years,” Sam said evenly.
“She was seeing a psychiatrist again,” Ryland said. “But obviously in the end her illness overwhelmed her.”
“It doesn’t look like she OD’d on street drugs.” Sam frowned. “The bottle we found on the table is a legitimate prescription. I’ve got a call in to the doctor who wrote it.”
Ryland nodded. “That would be Dr. Warren. Worked with Pamela for quite a while. This isn’t his fault. I’m sure he never realized that she was planning to kill herself.”
The harried-looking man with the briefcase ended his call and hurried toward Ryland.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I just spoke with the people who are handling the funeral arrangements. They picked up your daughter’s body at the hospital morgue a few minutes ago and are on their way back to San Francisco. We should be going, too. It won’t be much longer before the media gets wind of the tragedy. We need to have a statement ready.”
“Yes, of course, Hoyt,” Ryland said. “I’ll talk to you later, Sam.”
“Sure,” Sam said.
Irene stepped directly into Ryland’s path. “Senator Webb, I’m Irene Stenson. Remember me? I was a friend of Pamela’s in the old days here in Dunsley.”
Ryland looked startled. But his expression quickly turned warm and polite. “Irene, my dear. Of course I remember you. It has been a very long time. You’ve certainly changed. I almost didn’t recognize you.” His expression grew somber. “Sam says you were the one who found Pamela last night.”
That was his cue, Luke thought. “She wasn’t alone,” he said. “I was with her. Luke Danner.”
“Danner.” Ryland’s eyes tightened a little at the corners. “Sam mentioned that the new owner of the lodge was also on the scene.” He indicated the woman at his side. “Luke, Irene, allow me to introduce my fiancée, Alexa Douglass.”
“How do you do?” Alexa inclined her head in graceful acknowledgment of the introduction. “I’m so sorry that we are meeting under such sad circumstances.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Hoyt muttered. “We really do have to leave.”
“Yes, Hoyt,” Ryland said. He looked apologetic. “Irene, Luke, this is my aide, Hoyt Egan. He’s in charge of keeping me on schedule. This is a very busy time for me, as I’m sure you’re well aware. I’ve got back-to-back fund-raisers lined up for the next two months. And now I’ve got Pamela’s funeral to worry about.”
“Gosh, just think, a fund-raiser and your daughter’s funeral in the same time slot,” Irene murmured. “Which will it be? Choices, choices.”
There was a short, stunned silence. Luke watched every jaw in the room except his own drop so hard it was a wonder they didn’t all crack on the floor.
Ryland recovered first. Dismissing Irene, he fixed his attention on Luke. “I’m not entirely clear on why the two of you went to see Pamela last night.”
“It’s complicated,” Luke said.
Irene took the recorder out of her pocket and clipped it to the strap of her shoulder bag. She reached into another pocket and removed a pen and a notepad.
“Senator Webb, I’m with the Glaston Cove Beacon. As you may or may not know, we announced your daughter’s death in today’s edition.”
“That’s impossible,” Hoyt snapped. “None of the media even know about Pamela’s death yet.”
“I just told you, I’m a reporter,” Irene said patiently. “The story ran this morning. You can also find it at the Beacon’s online site.” She turned back to Ryland. “Can you tell us if there will be an autopsy performed on your daughter to determine cause of death?”
Anger flashed across Ryland’s face, but only for a split second. He veiled it almost instantly. “I realize that finding Pamela’s body last night
must have been a terrible shock for you, Irene. But I must make it clear that I have no intention of discussing the details of my daughter’s death with any member of the press, not even you. This is an intensely personal matter as I’m sure you, of all people, understand.”
Irene jerked ever so slightly, as though she’d been slapped, but she did not step back. Luke watched her scribble something on her notepad.
“Did Chief McPherson tell you that the reason I’m back in town is because I got an e-mail from Pamela requesting me to meet her here in Dunsley?” she asked.
Ryland was clearly astounded by that information. “Pamela contacted you? What did she want?”
“She didn’t say. She just asked me to come here to talk with her.”
Ryland swung around to confront Sam. “You didn’t tell me about this.”
Sam flushed a dark, dull red. “Didn’t think it was important.”
“Sir,” Hoyt interrupted nervously, “we really have to get moving.”
Ryland switched his attention back to Irene. “I wasn’t aware that you and Pamela were still in contact with each other.”
“That e-mail note was the first word I’d had from her in seventeen years,” Irene said very steadily. “Naturally I was more than a little surprised to receive it.”
“She gave no indication at all why she wanted to talk to you?” Ryland demanded.
“No,” Irene said. “But I got the impression that it had something to do with the past.”
“What past? Your friendship with her, do you mean?” Ryland grew visibly calmer. “Yes, that does make sense in a way. I expect that she wanted to say good-bye to an old acquaintance. People intent on committing suicide sometimes do that, I’m told.”
“Really? Who told you that?” Irene asked, scribbling madly.
“I read it somewhere,” Ryland muttered. He eyed the recorder uneasily. “Pamela was being treated for severe, clinical depression,” he added, enunciating each word very clearly.
“I don’t believe that she contacted me to say good-bye, Senator,” Irene said. “I think she may have wanted to discuss the circumstances surrounding the death of my parents, Hugh and Elizabeth Stenson. I’m sure you recall the case.”
Ryland stared at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Alexa closed her elegantly manicured fingers over his sleeve. “Ryland?”
“It’s all right, dear.” He pulled himself together. “Years ago there was a terrible tragedy here in Dunsley. A murder-suicide. Irene’s parents both died.” He raised his voice slightly and spoke directly toward the recorder. “Poor Irene, here, found the bodies. Everyone said she was badly traumatized by the experience and would probably never be quite right again. Don’t worry, there is no connection to Pamela’s death.”
Alexa looked at Irene. “You have my deepest sympathies, Miss Stenson.”
“Thank you.” Irene did not take her gaze off Ryland. “Sir, don’t you agree that there is at least a remote possibility that Pamela’s death is connected to what happened all those years ago?”
“No,” Ryland said in a thoroughly crushing tone of voice.
Hoyt Egan jerked. He stared at Irene in mounting horror. “What you’re implying is impossible, Miss Stenson, absolutely impossible. And if your paper prints any innuendos of that sort, the senator will consult his lawyers.”
Ryland gave Irene a hard stare. “You said yourself that you had no contact with Pamela after leaving Dunsley. That means you don’t know how unstable she was. Sam says there was nothing at the scene to indicate anything other than an overdose. For the sake of everyone involved, but most of all out of respect for my daughter’s memory, I ask that you leave this alone.”
Alexa bestowed a kindly smile on Irene. “Rest assured, Miss Stenson, when Ryland returns to Washington he intends to introduce a bill to increase funding for mental health research.”
“That certainly makes me feel a lot better,” Irene said.
Luke saw her knuckles whiten and knew that she was digging her nails into the leather strap of her purse.
“The senator is a busy man,” Hoyt announced. “We can’t delay our departure another minute.”
He stepped directly in front of Ryland and Alexa and led the way purposefully toward the door.
Ryland paused at the entrance to look back at Irene. “I hope you will remember that you are first and foremost a friend of the family, Miss Stenson.”
“I will never forget that Pamela was once my best friend,” Irene said.
Uncertainty darkened Ryland’s expression. Luke could tell that he was not sure how to take that statement. But Hoyt Egan was on the move again, shepherding his boss through the doorway.
“I’ve never even heard of the Glaston Cove Beacon,” Hoyt said to Ryland. “Which means that it is very small-time. Don’t worry, it won’t be a problem, sir.”
The trio went down the steps and got into the limo.
Luke looked at Irene. “Congratulations, I think you just rattled the cage of a U.S. senator.”
“For all the good it will do.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. “There isn’t going to be an investigation, is there, Sam?”
Sam stirred slightly, as though surprised to learn that anyone had even remembered he was in the room.
“Unless you’ve got something solid beyond that e-mail note from Pamela asking you to meet her here, I have no reason to push for an investigation,” he said quietly.
She smiled coldly. “And every reason not to go there, right?”
Sam’s mouth tightened. “You think I’m backing off because I don’t want to take on Ryland Webb, don’t you?”
Irene winced. “I shouldn’t have implied that. But there’s no getting around the fact that Webb is a powerful man.”
“Webb may be powerful, but he’s still a father whose daughter just took her own life, either deliberately or by accident. Your dad once told me that families usually try to keep suicide very quiet. I’ve dealt with a couple in the past few years, and I can tell you that he was right. It’s amazing the lengths folks will go to in order to hush up that kind of thing.”
Irene sighed. “I know.”
“Far as I’m concerned,” Sam said, “unless there’s a good reason for thinking otherwise, a family is entitled to keep its secrets.”
He looked to Luke, obviously seeking some backup.
Luke shrugged. “Depends on the secrets, I guess. But one thing’s for sure, every family’s got ’em.”
Seven
Forty minutes later, Sam escorted them out the door of the municipal building. Irene was still fuming, but a renewed sense of resolve was setting in. She reminded herself that she had known from the outset that the odds of convincing McPherson to conduct a full-scale investigation were less than zero.
“Give it some time, Irene,” Sam said. “I know it wasn’t easy, finding her like that. But when the shock wears off, you’ll realize that it really was an overdose, not a murder.”
“Sure,” she said.
Luke said nothing, just took her arm and steered her down the steps to the SUV. He opened the passenger-side door. Irene climbed in swiftly.
Luke got behind the wheel and drove out of the parking lot. Irene could see that every head in the Ventana View Café was turned in the direction of the SUV.
“Pack of ghouls,” she whispered.
“Give ’em a break,” Luke said quietly. “This is a small town. The death of someone like Pamela Webb, a senator’s daughter and former local bad girl, is bound to grab everyone’s attention.”
She gripped her shoulder bag very tightly in her lap. “They stared at me in exactly the same way at the funerals of my parents.”
He gave her a quick, sharp, searching look before returning his attention to the road.
“For what it’s worth,” he said after a while, “I think McPherson is right. Your friend’s death was either an accident or suicide.”
“I’m not buying it.”
>
“Yeah, I can see that. Give McPherson his due, though. He’s not cooperating in a cover-up. He laid out the facts for you. There’s nothing that warrants further investigation.”
“There’s still that e-mail note she sent to me. How can he ignore that?”
“He didn’t ignore it,” Luke said patiently. “Like Webb, he thinks that Pamela was planning suicide and going through a process of saying farewell to some of the people in her past.”
“Then why didn’t she wait until after she had actually said good-bye to me before she killed herself?”
“People who are planning to commit suicide don’t follow the same logic that the rest of us do. They’re focused on their own pain and suffering. That’s all they can grasp.”
The too-even way he spoke sent a chill through her.
“You sound as if you’ve had some personal experience with suicide,” she said.
“My mother killed herself when I was six years old.”
She closed her eyes briefly against a rush of sadness and sympathy. “Dear God, Luke.” She raised her lashes and looked at him. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded once, saying nothing.
“Last night must have been especially bad for you,” she said.
“It was my choice to follow you, remember?”
She frowned. “Why did you follow me? You still haven’t explained that.”
His mouth curved faintly. “When I see dots, I feel this overwhelming need to connect them.”
“I’m a dot?”
“Uh-huh.” He gave her a quick, assessing look and then shook his head, resigned. “You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
“Pamela’s death? No.”
“Mind if I ask why you’re so damn sure there’s a mystery here? Is it just that e-mail you got from Pamela? Or is there more to it?”
She thought about that. “It’s a feeling I’ve got.”
“A feeling.”
“Yes.”
“A feeling isn’t a lot to go on,” he said neutrally.
“That’s almost funny, considering it’s coming from someone who just admitted that he followed me last night because he sensed that I was a dot waiting to be connected to another dot.”