Dead Ringer: Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Detective Miller is not here right now. Is there someone else who can help you?”
So, it’s detective, then. I wished the tiny blond receptionist had kept her voice down. Two officers looked up from their paperwork and stared in my direction.
“No, that’s fine, I’ll just catch up with him later.” I zipped out of there before there were any more questions.
That put me a half hour early for a lunch meeting with Fred. He was already in his office, and when I walked in he called out, “Oh, good, you’re here! Let’s try and beat the rush.”
Lest you think our working lunches were anything cushy, let me disabuse you of that idea. We rode the elevator down to the ground floor where we joined about twelve other people in a line at the busy hospital cafeteria. For $7.00 you could get a hot lunch — today it was fake mashed potatoes with fake gravy, something called Salisbury Steak but that could have been the remains of any life form, and green beans straight out of a can. There were also wan looking sandwiches with some kind of pressed meat and thin slices of what my mom used to call polyester cheese. Ostracized in their own stainless-steel bin were some oddly-shaped chicken nuggets I’d once overheard a nurse refer to as McTumors.
I opted for a salad and treated myself to a cookie. Fred got a hamburger that came with half-done fries on the side. I thought it very brave of him. That hamburger looked like it had been places.
We found a table over by a window that looked out into a small courtyard filled with lush, flowering shrubs and billowing ostrich ferns.
“So,” Fred said. “Have you had a chance to look over the denominational grants?” He took a giant bite of his burger.
“I have,” I said. “Looks pretty straightforward. I set up a calendar for the due dates for reports and grant renewal applications, so I won’t miss anything.”
Fred nodded and dabbed with his napkin at a smear of ketchup on his chin. “It’s not that complicated. Just gotta keep on top of the budget and track those expenses. The Presbyterians in particular like to see every penny accounted for.” He laughed.
I poked at my salad with my fork. Some of the iceberg lettuce looked a bit frayed around the edges, and the few pieces of spinach someone had thrown in were papery thin and sad. The tomatoes were fresh, though, and I confess to a little excitement at how generous they’d been with the croutons. I added some salt and pepper and squeezed a packet of ranch dressing over the whole mess.
“So, how is Maxine, Fred? How are the treatments going?”
“Fine,” he said much too quickly. “Everything’s going fine.”
“That’s great,” I said. “I’m glad to hear it.” But there was something brittle in his voice, and I thought for a moment how haggard and pale he looked, and thought, too, that since we were here, together, I should tell him about my work with Omega, but what a shitty time to drop it on him. And to what end? Was I really going to do any more work for Mark? He seemed to have shut me out as far as any new cases he had taken on, if there even were any. Paolo and Gina seemed old history, and I wasn’t sure if Rachel had ever actually been a client.
“I’m just glad you’re here, Blainey,” Fred said. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to know our Pastoral Care office is in good hands.”
I nodded. “Of course, Fred. Whatever you need.”
“We haven’t talked yet about you doing all the scheduling, have we? And it would help greatly if you could take over supervision of Benny as well.” I stifled a groan and told it to go back where it came from. Scheduling three other part-time chaplains and supervising a rabbity little intern were not on my list of ways to have a good time, but it came with the territory.
“Mavis can walk you through the new digital system we set up. Should make things a whole lot easier,” Fred said. Then he looked up at me, the remnants of the hamburger in his hands dripping pickle juice onto the plate. “Things better between you two?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think they are. Please don’t worry about that, Fred. We’ll get it worked out.” I wasn’t just blowing smoke. I believed the chill between us was beginning to thaw.
“You’ve barely touched your salad,” he said, peering over his glasses at the bowl in front of me.
“Guess I’m not really that hungry,” I said. Fred looked at the bowl and up at my face and at the bowl again. I looked at him, noting the gray shock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. Then I caught on.
“Oh!” I said. “Do you want the rest of it?”
“Sure. Slide it over here.”
Okay. A little unexpected, but, okay.
In that moment, I realized I didn’t actually know Fred, or much about him. He was married to Maxine. He’d been at St. Regis for at least a decade. He drove a white Ford Explorer. He played golf. Beyond that, nothing.
“So where did you go to seminary?” I asked.
“A small nondenominational school in Virginia,” he said, shoving lettuce into his mouth.
“What led you there? To seminary, I mean.”
He held up a finger for a moment while he chewed. “Ah. The pastor’s origin story,” he said, and took a gulp of water. “I grew up in Charlotte, son of a physician who expected me to follow in his footsteps. So I did. Until I couldn’t. I made it all the way to residency, and then realized I didn’t want to be a doctor.”
“Oh,” I said, genuinely surprised. I had no idea he’d gone to med school. “Where was that?”
“Chapel Hill,” he said.
“So from there to seminary. How did that happen?”
“I took a year to get my head together and realized I actually did want to help make people’s lives better, but let’s just say my gifts did not lie in the medical arena.”
“And how did you end up at St. Regis?”
Fred put his fork down. “Why all the questions, Blainey? Is there something you want to know?”
The defensiveness in his voice jolted me a bit. “Oh, I’m sorry!” I said. “I don’t mean to pry. I’m just always curious about, as you put it, the pastor’s origin story.”
“Do you mind if I finish my salad?” There was a little flash of anger that reminded me of how Sean used to fly off the handle.
“Well, technically my salad,” I said with a laugh, hoping to break the tension, but he picked up his fork and jabbed it into the remaining pile of greens, shooting me a look that was hard to decipher. I sat back in my chair and watched as he speared a tomato wedge and used it to scoop the last puddle of dressing, then he pushed the bowl away.
I nibbled around the edges of my cookie, which was peanut butter with chocolate chips and actually quite good, chewy and dense. We sat in silence for a while.
Then he said, “Have I bragged to you about my grandkids?” He pulled his wallet from a back pocket and opened it to show me photos of two little boys, both with light brown hair and dimples. “They’re six and eight now. My daughter and son-in-law live up in the mountains. Maxine and I go up there and take them on hikes and fishing and things like that,” he said.
“They’re adorable.”
“Listen, Blainey, I’m sorry for snapping at you like that. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He gave me a searching look. “Please. Forgive me.”
“Don’t give it a second thought,” I said. “I know you’ve been under tremendous pressure.” I was giving it a second thought, though, and later probably a third.
Thus far our dealings had been cordial and professional. I couldn’t think of anything else that had changed, except, of course, the fact that his wife was likely dying of cancer. Still, it felt like an odd interchange. We bussed our table and then rode the elevator upstairs in silence.
Back in the office, Fred asked Mavis to walk me through the scheduling system, then left, saying he’d check in at the beginning of next week.
The system wasn’t difficult, and I would’ve figured it out on my own, but I could tell Mavis was relishing being in a position to tell me stuff I didn’t know and talking to me like I was a third-grader. I mean, c’mon, how could I deprive her of that?
We were just wrapping up when the door opened. In walked Chad Miller. My mouth dropped.
Mavis gave him an approving once-over, spending more time than necessary on the bulging muscles peeking out from his short-sleeved dress shirt, which, honestly I hadn’t noticed before, but there they were, and as a sidebar, he had some really nice biceps.
“Good afternoon! What may I help you with, sir?” Mavis used a little sing-song voice that made me look at her with narrowed eyes.
Chad nodded at me. “Ms. Blair, if I could have a moment of your time, it’s important I speak with you.”
I was completely unnerved. Was he here because I’d made a scene at WindDancer? Had Lamar filed a complaint? Was I going to be charged with something? Jesus Christ, was he here to arrest me? Visions of being escorted out in handcuffs, to Mavis’s wild applause, made my knees nearly buckle.
I didn’t bother with introductions, since what I wanted most of all was to get Chad into my office and behind a closed door.
“Mavis, thanks, we can pick this up later,” I said and turned to him. “This way.” I felt her eyes on us all the way down the hall.
I shut the door and gestured to the chairs in front of my desk. “Please,” I said, and went around behind my desk and sat, folding my hands and setting them on my lap like a good little girl and waited for whatever hammer was going to fall.
After a moment’s silence, during which he got out a notebook and pen, Chad finally spoke. “Can you tell me your whereabouts last night?”
“What?”
“Where were you last night?”
His question put me right off balance. “Home,” I said.
“Anyone with you?”
“I live alone.”
“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts? A neighbor who saw you? A conversation on your landline, for example?”
I shook my head. Something eely crawled in my gut.
“When was the last time you saw Ms. Roper?” he asked.
“Day before yesterday,” I said, “at WindDancer. What’s this about? Is Rachel okay?”
“So Monday?”
“Yes.”
“So, you didn’t see her this morning?”
Shit, shit, shit. “I had hoped to, but when I got to WindDancer, I was informed I was on the restricted list.”
“And why is that?”
Here it was. The moment. Why, indeed?
“Detective Miller, I wasn’t completely forthright in our prior conversation.” Galaxy-sized understatement.
He set down his pen and leaned forward, the chair creaking as his weight shifted. “Oh?”
“Rachel Roper actually was a high school classmate of mine,” I said, choosing my words as if picking my way through a minefield. “However, my interest in her situation is also connected with some extracurricular work I do with regard to private investigation.”
I let that sink in.
“Wait. You’re a PI?” He choked on a laugh, which pissed me off a little.
“No, of course not.” I still don’t know why I said it like that. “No, I’m not, but I do some contract work with a PI here in Brady. And Ms. Roper had contacted us about helping her locate the daughter she’d surrendered to adoption some years ago.”
Chad widened his eyes and shook his head. “You gotta be kidding me.”
I didn’t respond.
“Who do you work for?”
“Omega Investigations. Mark Danner,” I said.
“That guy?!”
“Yes, that guy. Why?”
“Well, he’s got a bit of a reputation around town. Been known to bend the rules from time to time.”
I thought of us breaking into Weston’s vacated rental house, remembered how we’d stood in the kitchen pulling numbers from the answering machine.
If only Chad hadn’t laughed. “I’ve always found him to be above board,” I said, looking at him evenly. “Anyway, Weston Roper doesn’t want me to see Rachel because he says the baby never existed. And I believe Rachel. And I’m coming to think Weston could very well be the father of his half-sister’s child, so no wonder he wants me to go away!” I hadn’t meant to spill that part, but, oops, there it was.
Chad sat up in the chair, pen in hand again. “Okay, so the last time you saw Ms. Roper was Monday afternoon,” he said, already writing.
“Correct.”
“How about Mr. Danner? Was he there with you?”
“No,” I said.
“And to your knowledge, has he had any other recent contact with her?”
“To my knowledge, no. Detective Miller, please, what is this all about?”
He stood then and put his notebook and pen in a back pocket. “Ms. Blair, I’m sorry to inform you that Rachel Roper has passed.”
“What do you mean?” I said, confused and unsure of what I’d heard. “Passed what?”
“Passed away,” he said. “She’s dead.”
That time I got it. “Oh, my God,” I said. “Oh, my God, oh, my God.” Because those were the only words I had. Then I began to weep.