“Hmm?” Kilmer said, glancing over.
“I’m done.”
Kilmer put his own phone away. “How far away is this place?”
“We’re here,” Duckworth said.
Duckworth’s favorite coroner, Wanda Therrieult, wasn’t on duty. They were met by a young, pasty-looking woman Duckworth thought was a student picking up some part-time hours. She wasn’t qualified to perform an autopsy, but she could run the office alone until one needed to be done, at which point Wanda would be called.
She consulted her computer, then said, “Okay, um, Miriam Chalmers... okay, I know where she is. Hang on. If the two of you could wait here.”
The body, Duckworth explained to Kilmer, had to be moved to a viewing area. While they waited, Kilmer went back to studying his phone.
“Were you and your sister close?” Duckworth asked.
“Not particularly,” he said, not looking up.
“Were you in touch?”
Kilmer glanced up. “Christmas, sometimes. Weddings. Things like that.”
“Did you come for her wedding to Adam?”
“No. I wasn’t invited. No one was. They got married in Hawaii.”
“Oh,” Duckworth said.
A door opened. “We’re ready,” the young woman said. “She’s just in here.”
The two men moved toward the door, Duckworth in the lead. He caught a glimpse of a pair of naked feet on the table when his phone rang yet again.
“Damn,” he muttered. “I’m really sorry about this.” He took out his phone, wanting to check the caller’s name, figuring that whatever it was, it could wait.
It was Garth again.
“Hang on,” Duckworth said to Kilmer, turning and blocking him from going into the viewing room. Into the phone, he said, “What is it, Garth?”
“Okay, don’t be pissed. Maybe I shouldn’t have done this, but I did it, so sue me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The phone started ringing again, so I figured, shit, maybe I should just answer it, so I opened up the purse, found the phone, and answered it. I said hi, and it was some guy, and he said, ‘Who’s this?’ And I said, ‘Garth Duhl.’ Which, I guess if he’d never heard of me, would seem kind of odd.”
“What did he say, Garth?”
“He says, ‘Where’s Georgina?’ And I say, ‘What?’ And he says, ‘Where’s Georgina? Where’s my wife?’ And I say, ‘Who is this?’ And he says, ‘This is Peter Blackmore. Why are you answering my wife’s phone?’ So I tell him that somebody would get back to him, and I hang up, and I look through the purse, and I find a driver’s license, and you’re not going to believe this.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Duckworth said, ending the call. He looked at Kilmer and said, “We’re not going to do this now.”
Thirty-eight
Miriam Chalmers looked at me fiercely and said, “I’m calling the police.” She was reaching into her purse, presumably, for a cell phone.
“Okay,” I said evenly.
I was happy for her to call the Promise Falls cops, or Lucy Brighton. Then I could be spared the task of giving her the news about her husband.
Assuming, of course, that the police had that right. Lucy had identified his body, after all. I realized now everyone had just assumed the body next to him had been his wife’s.
It was possible, I supposed, that Miriam already knew her husband was dead, that coming into the house and shouting his name was an act. But it didn’t strike me that way. If she really did not know about what had happened at the drive-in, I had to marvel at the fact that Adam Chalmers had found two women — Miriam and Felicia — with an apparent disinterest in current events. In Felicia’s defense, I’d found her much earlier in the day. But it was well into the evening now, nearly twenty-four hours since the drive-in bombing.
My lack of concern about Miriam calling the police seemed to have lessened the urgency on her part to do it. She still had the phone in her hand, poised to make the call, but she had stopped.
“Is Adam here?” she asked.
“No.”
“Where is he? I called here earlier today and left a message, and he hasn’t answered his cell.”
The voice mail I’d heard. It had been from her. “I don’t think I can carry on this way.” I was betting that number I’d made note of was her cell.
“You should talk to the police,” I said. “Make the call. But not 911. Call one of their nonemergency lines. Or better yet, I could drive you down to the station.”
She let the phone fall into her bag, then dropped the purse onto the nearest chair. She reached a tentative hand out to the wall. “What’s happened?” she asked. “Who did you say you are?”
“Cal Weaver.” I took out one of my business cards and handed it to her. She barely glanced at it before dropping it onto the chair. “When did you go away?”
“What?”
I nodded in the direction of the overnight bag on the floor. “Have you been out of town?”
“Two days,” Miriam said.
“Where?”
“Lenox.” A small town, just into Massachusetts, where they held the annual Tanglewood music festival. “There’s an inn there I go to when I need some time.”
“Time for what?”
“I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here, but I’m not answering another question until you tell me where Adam is. Is he okay? Has he had a heart attack?”
You did what you had to do.
“Have a seat,” I told her.
“No.”
“Please. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
She knew it was going to be bad. I could see it in her face. I pulled out a chair at the table for her, sat down close to her on the corner. My eyes were glancing around, wondering where the alcohol was kept.
“There was an accident last night,” I said. “At the Constellation Drive-in. You know it?”
Miriam nodded.
“The screen toppled. It looks like it was a bomb. The screen fell on some cars, crushed them, including a Jag registered to your husband. He was in the car. The police got in touch with Lucy, told him that her father was dead.”
“No,” she whispered. “There must be a mistake. Why wasn’t I called? Why’s no one been in touch with me?”
“That might be because everyone thought you had died with your husband.”
She let that sink in for a moment.
“There was someone else in the car,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “Of course. Who goes to the drive-in alone?” She fixed her eyes on me. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if anyone knows at this point. I don’t know if anyone realizes the mistake that’s been made. Because you’ve been out of town, because you haven’t been here.”
“All Lucy had to do was look in the garage and see my car wasn’t here and... the stupid twat. Where is Adam? Where is he... where are they keeping him?”
“You should talk to Lucy. Or the coroner’s office. He may have been moved to a funeral home. Paisley and Wraith, for example. They’re the biggest in town.”
Miriam sniffed.
“There are probably people you should call,” I said. “Your brother, for one. Lucy was in touch with him. I think he’s coming here, with the intention of identifying your remains.”
“Good God.”
“Why were you in Lenox?” I asked.
“I needed some time to think. Adam and I have been... having a rough patch. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Even if someone had tried to reach me, I had my phone off most of the time. I didn’t watch the news, didn’t know anything about any of this. Today, I was ready to talk, but I couldn’t get hold of him.”
“You left a message. That you didn’t think you could keep on going this way.”