“Calvin Lowman,” Mel supplied. “And he’s not her husband.”
“Whatever,” I said. “I’ll bet even he was squirming in his seat. Every man there was probably doing the same thing.”
“Is there a purpose to this call?” Mel asked.
Her crisp tone would have deflected even the most determined of life insurance salesmen. “I invited Scott and Cherisse to dinner at El Gaucho tonight at seven,” I said hurriedly. “I was hoping you’d come, too.”
“What about Kelly and Jeremy?”
“They went home,” I said. “To Ashland.”
There was a pause. “I’ll think about it,” Mel said. “But don’t hold your breath. And there is a reason,” she added.
“I’m sorry?”
“A reason I’m involved with ‘those women.’ A reason I’m on the board. I just don’t like to talk about it, but maybe I’ll tell you sometime. If I start speaking to you again, that is.”
With that she hung up, leaving me with no clear idea of where I stood. She claimed she wasn’t speaking to me, but she had been. And the other part-the part she had left unsaid-about the reason behind her involvement with SASAC put a hole in the pit of my stomach. I had never even considered that someone as slick as Mel might have some dark corner in her past where she, too, had been gravely mistreated. If something like that had happened to her, I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear about it. Once I did, would I feel obliged to go out, track the jerk down, and throttle him with my bare hands? That would make a lot more sense than sending donations to SASAC!!!
I called Mel right back. “I know you’re still not speaking to me,” I said quickly, “but if you wanted to come back to the house and work together on Todd Hatcher’s stuff, I promise I won’t say a single word out of line.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, “but I need some space, Beau-space and time.” She hung up again.
Rebuffed, I knew I couldn’t afford to spend the day sitting around thinking about Mel and what I did or didn’t know. I needed to do something, to take some kind of action. Twiddling my thumbs wasn’t an option when what I really wanted to do was go out and knock a few heads. So I did the next best thing. I called the DMV and ran a check on Carol and Jack Lawrence. Once I had their address information, I headed for Leavenworth, two and a half hours away, on the far side of the Cascades.
Many small used-to-be logging towns in rural Washington have drifted into almost ghost-town obscurity. Several of the burgs along Highway 2 run perpetual going-out-of-business sales in the form of retired churches, which, now devoid of parishioners, live on in a tawdry, makeshift fashion as threadbare antique malls.
Leavenworth, too, was once headed in that direction and might well have suffered the same fate had not some enterprising city fathers-and mothers, I’m sure-decided to reinvent the place. They slapped on layers of Bavarian facades, dressed everybody and his uncle in lederhosen, and declared the city a tourist attraction. Such is the magic of self-fulfilling prophecies that the ploy worked remarkably well. Now thousands of people flock there for their faux Octoberfest and for their annual Christmas-lighting ceremonies. For authenticity’s sake, it helps that Leavenworth is high enough in the mountains that this holiday extravaganza usually takes place in frigid snow, with the occasional blizzard thrown in.
If I sound somewhat churlish about all this, let me say that the one time I bravely went there is also when the “occasional” blizzard happened. That storm resulted in a combination of record snowfall in Stevens Pass and an avalanche on I-90 at Snoqualmie Pass, a one-two punch that brought most of Washington’s east-west travel to a halt. Karen and the kids and I didn’t make it back over the mountains until Tuesday afternoon, two days late for both work and school. Since this was March instead of November or December, however, I figured I was safe enough on the weather score. And since it wasn’t Christmas, there was no need for me to be brimming over with peace on earth and all that jazz-especially when it came to Mr. Jack Lawrence.
During the long solitary drive from Seattle across a still snow-bordered Stevens Pass I had plenty of time for thinking. Gradually I was able to let go of the Mel situation and turn my attention to the problem of Jack and Carol Lawrence. As I drove I realized this would probably be nothing more than a useless fishing expedition. In fact, if Lawrence hadn’t given his stepdaughter such a tough time, I probably wouldn’t have bothered trying to interview him at all. It turns out, though, that I’m a great believer in giving people like him the opportunity to reap what they sow. Besides, I found his interest in not discussing Tony Cosgrove’s decades-old disappearance most interesting.
It was late on a sunny but surprisingly chill morning when I pulled up at the Lawrences’ mailbox on Lavetta Road south of Leavenworth proper. Lavetta Road isn’t so much a road as it is a very angular circle. Maybe they should have called it Lavetta Oblong. With the help of my trusty GPS, I managed to locate the long winding driveway marked “Lawrence,” which took off from the southernmost curve of Lavetta and headed off into the forest.
The house itself was one of those some-assembly-required log cabins where someone else cuts up, notches, numbers, and fits together all the tree trunks necessary to build the house. They’re then taken apart, loaded onto a truck, and hauled to wherever the house is being built. At that point the hapless homeowner has to reassemble the pieces himself or pay someone else to do it. Since Lawrence was an engineer type, I figured he would have done the work himself.
This one was a large two-story affair with a steeply pitched roof and a covered porch that ran across the entire front of the house. A single vehicle was parked outside-a muddied Subaru Forester that seemed much the worse for wear. Out of force of habit, I jotted down the license number, then started up the walkway. In true Leavenworth fashion, the metal door knocker had been fashioned to resemble a nutcracker. I gave it a good bash and waited to see if anyone would answer.
The door was cracked open the distance of a short length of fastened security chain. “Yes?” a woman asked questioningly, while remaining mostly out of sight behind the partially opened door.
Carol Lawrence was about my age. Her silver hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but even that small glimpse revealed a resemblance between her and her daughter that was nothing short of striking. She looked as if she had been crying, and I wondered what about.
“What do you want?” she asked.
I held up my ID. “Mrs. Lawrence,” I began, “if you have a few moments, I’d like to speak to you.”
By the time the words were out of my mouth she was already trying to slam the door. My foot, schooled by years of actual door-to-door Fuller Brush salesmanship, was firmly planted in the way.
“Go away,” she ordered. “I’m not talking to you and neither is Jack. Tony’s been gone for a quarter of a century. There’s no reason to bring it all back up.”
“But your daughter-”
“My daughter disapproves of me,” she said. “I didn’t wait the whole seven years, and she’s never forgiven me for that. But you know what? I’m the mother. I get to live my life the way I want to. Now go away.”
“Are you aware that your husband went to see DeAnn yesterday?” I asked. “That he was off the charts and threatened her? She was very upset.”
“Look,” Carol said impatiently, “Jack is DeAnn’s stepfather. They have never gotten along and never will. Not only that, I’ve finally figured out that I can’t fix it. So please go away and leave me alone before my husband comes home and finds you here.”
“You’re saying he would be upset by my being here? Why’s that? We’re just doing a routine follow-up on your missing first husband. I can’t see why Mr. Lawrence finds that so disturbing-unless he has something to hide, that is.”