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“Were you working at the coast during the Donatella homicides?” Savannah asked him.
“Nah . . . not that day. We’d just finished a remodel on their house,” he admitted, waving a hand back to include the rest of the construction team. One of the men in hard hats had stopped what he was doing and was watching them. “The Donatellas moved out for a while, but they were planning to move back in. They wanted everybody to think that everything was A-OK, you know?”
“But the dune was failing by then.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s why they were killed, right?”
She was debating interviewing some of the other workers, but the one that had stopped and looked over at her was already back at work, and she knew she would be interrupting a project that hummed with energy like a hive of bees.
Henry’s cell phone rang, and he drew it cautiously from his pocket. “Hey, babe,” he answered, his eyes on Savannah. They were clear and blue and had warmed at the sound of the caller’s voice. She realized he was talking to Nadine when he said, “There’s a cop here to see you. A detective from Tillamook County.” There was a tinny, fast answer, which had him comically pull the phone from his ear for a moment, before bringing it back and saying, “No big deal. She’s just doing a follow-up, and your name’s on the list.” More tinny screeching, and he suddenly held the phone out to Savannah. “Here she is.”
Savvy was a little taken by surprise. Gingerly, she put her fingers around the cell phone and said, “Ms. Gretz?”
“I never had anything to do with anything at Bancroft Bluff! I thought Owen was a dipshit from the start. Everybody did. It’s just a disaster, but the Donatellas . . . they were nice people. All we did was try to make a nice community, and look what happened. If you want to go after somebody, go after Hale St. Cloud and that old lech, Declan. They might not’ve killed Marcus and Chandra, but they pushed through that project when they knew better. And Hale’s wife, too. You should look into what she had going on. She was hot as lava and slavering over Marcus.”
Savannah could feel her face heat at the accusation.
“Whoa,” Henry said. He could hear what was being said because Savvy had pulled the phone about an inch from her ear.
“You’re talking about Kristina St. Cloud,” Savvy said, pressing the phone close again and holding the emotion out of her voice with an effort.
“I sure am. She was all over him.”
Henry stuck out his hand and wiggled his fingers, mutely asking for the phone back.
“You don’t believe me?” Nadine demanded into Savvy’s silence. “Ask Henry. She came on to him, too.”
“Could I meet with you?” Savannah asked.
“I just can’t. I’m running errands, and I don’t know when I’ll be done.”
Truthfully, Savannah was somewhat relieved. The last thing she wanted to hear was a decimation of her sister’s character, and, anyway, she was starting to believe that no one at Bancroft Development knew anything more than what had already been gleaned earlier. She was also growing sick to the back teeth of listening to gossip and innuendo about people close to her. Nadine’s remarks about Kristina dug deep into her soul, far more than they should.
“Can I call you again?” she asked, and Nadine said, “Okay,” somewhat reluctantly. She handed the phone back to Henry and thanked him.
He nodded, then pressed the phone to his ear and said, “You’re not making the best impression in front of the law here, y’know,” as he took a few steps away. Savannah couldn’t hear her response aside from the same rapid-fire, tinny voice.
She checked her watch. Five o’clock. The day had shot by, and she still wanted to stop by the Rib-I and see if she could connect with the much-maligned Owen DeWitt, if he was there.
For a moment she was undecided. Truth be told, she felt the urge to head back to the beach and stop off at the Seagull Pointe care fac
ility to see Herman Smythe. Though her priority was the Donatella homicides, and she was on her last few hours before her forced maternity leave, she hadn’t forgotten about Catherine Rutledge’s request to find DNA on the knife that had allegedly killed her sister, and she certainly hadn’t forgotten about the other strange piece: Catherine’s genetics lesson, in which she’d intimated that the males of their clan possessed even more potent “gifts.” She also still wanted to follow up and learn the names of all the women living at Siren Song, and Herman Smythe was that connection.
Throwing another glance at the sky, she scowled at the dark, forbidding clouds moving in from the west. The prediction of snow in the Coast Range later tonight wasn’t a good omen. Though she had chains, she didn’t want to risk having to use them; it didn’t sound like a winning proposition.
With a wave at Henry, who apparently was still trying to soothe Nadine’s ruffled feathers, she headed back to her SUV, checking the GPS for nearby restaurants and finding the Rib-I was only about six blocks away. Owen DeWitt’s home away from home.
“Where the hell is she?” Hale said aloud to the empty room.
He was at his desk, and he’d been on the phone with his subs, seeing who was working on Saturday and who was planning to show up Monday morning, checking on material deliveries from Portland and beyond, wondering if he needed to bring Russo back to Seaside when Kristina had the baby or if he would be freer than he currently expected. Apart from his call to Savvy, he’d pushed thoughts of Kristina’s disappearance to the back of his mind. She’d done this kind of vanishing act before. There was, in fact, a period the previous spring when he’d wondered if the fact that her sister was pregnant had scared her so badly that Kristina had her own personal breakdown. She would disappear for hours, once all night long, only to show up weary and miserable and to admit that she’d checked into a motel to try to meditate away her anxieties. Hale had called the motel surreptitiously, checking her story, and had learned that yes, his wife had stayed there. He felt bad about it, but her behavior had worried him sick. They were having a baby, for God’s sake; he needed to know where she was at all times. But then things had seemed to straighten out, and until the past few days he’d thought—hoped—it was all going to be okay.
Now he picked up his cell phone and punched in her number. Again. He had done the same thing three times already but had hung up before she answered. She would come back when she was ready, and then he would have to have a talk with her and tell her that no, this wasn’t the way things were going to be. She was going to have to be more responsible. When they had a child to take care of, she wasn’t going to be able to just up and leave.
Her voice mail answered: “Hi. You’ve reached Kristina. Leave a message.”
Holding on to his temper, Hale waited until the beep, then said, “Okay, I need you to pick up, Kristina. We’ve got to talk about a few things. This isn’t . . .” He wanted to scream at her, but it wasn’t going to help. Whatever she was going through was real to her, even if he couldn’t understand it.
Do you believe in sorcery?
