Shelley rose to walk me as far as the door. I was out on the porch when almost as an afterthought she asked, “Why all this interest in finding Chris Danielson now? Is Danitza the person who hired you?”
I found it interesting that Shelley wanted to know who had sent me snooping around and asking questions, but the identity of the person who hired me was none of her business.
“I’m working on behalf of Chris’s other grandmother, the one who lives in Ohio.”
“Well,” she said, “I wish you the best of luck on that score.”
I stood on the porch for a moment after the door closed behind me. Nothing about the interview had turned out the way I’d expected. Instead of despising Roger Adams, I now found myself feeling sorry for him. As for Shelley Hollander Loveday Adams? She had coveted another woman’s husband, and now that she had him, she seemed to be getting just what she deserved. As they say, sometimes karma is a bitch.
Chapter 19
“It’s about damned time,” Twink muttered impatiently as I clambered into the Travelall beside her. “Did you happen to use the facilities while you were in there?”
“No, I didn’t,” I told her.
“Well, I need to pee like crazy,” she said, “and we’re not going anywhere else until I have a pit stop, understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I told her, but the truth was, now that she mentioned it, I needed a pit stop, too.
Twink drove straight to a McDonald’s, where we both used the facilities without buying anything. I felt guilty about that, but after the superior burgers we’d had at Zig’s Place earlier, neither of us was the least bit hungry. Not only that, whatever McDonald’s had on offer would have been a real letdown in comparison.
There had been a line for the ladies’ restroom, so I beat Twink back to the Travelall.
“Where to now?” she asked when she finally showed up.
After my conversation with Shelley Adams, the ground had shifted, and so had my game plan. Roger Adams as he was now wouldn’t have the mental or physical capacity to pull off a homicide, but twelve years ago he probably would have. Regardless of whether he was ever charged or convicted, I wanted the matter settled in my own mind once and for all, for myself as well as for Jared and Danitza.
In my experience a man’s wife may think she knows everything there is to know about her husband, but I’ve learned over time that if the guy in question happens to have a secretary, she’s likely to know infinitely more. To that end, speaking to Roger Adams’s former secretary now moved to the top of my list.
“Next up will be a visit with someone named Helen Sinclair,” I told Twink before reading off the address Todd had sent me.
“Who’s she?” Twink asked.
“Roger Adams’s longtime secretary.”
“Wait, Roger Adams? Isn’t he some kind of big-deal criminal defense attorney around here?” The way Twink asked the question implied she already knew the answer.
“Used to be,” I said. “He’s retired now.”
“Is that the old guy who came to the door in his jammies?”
Since not much seemed to get past Twinkle Winkleman, there was no point in denying the obvious. “Yes, he was,” I admitted.
“Didn’t look like he was in very good shape.”
“He’s not,” I said.
We headed back into town. “You’re not going to call in advance and let Helen Sinclair know we’re on our way to see her?” Twink wanted to know.
“In my line of work,” I replied, “it’s usually best to show up unannounced.”
Twink thought about that for a moment before adding, “By the way, I booked a room for you at the Driftwood Inn. I already had your credit-card number, so I used my name and your card to make the reservation. That way they’ll give you my professional discount.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I meant to do that, but I hadn’t gotten around to it. But my room? What about yours?”
“Things aren’t what they used to be,” Twink replied. “Now all their rooms are nonsmoking. I’ll be staying over with a friend. We both smoke, and it saves your having to fork over money for a second room.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Appreciate it.”
And I did. After all, it was already verging on midafternoon. With that weird sort of pinkish dusk coloring the sky, staying overnight made sense. By my count we had at least three more interviews to do. The prospect of driving back to Anchorage in the dark of night with huge critters meandering across the highway wasn’t all that appealing.
Helen Sinclair’s place turned out to be a permanently installed mobile home on a street called Fairwood Drive. A white picket fence surrounded the place, but only the top six inches of each pointed post was visible above the accumulated snow. Twink parked on the street out front and once again settled into the driver’s seat with her paperback while I bailed out, opened the gate, and made my way up the cleared walk.
Three wooden steps led up to a sturdy covered porch, where a pair of Adirondack chairs sat just to the right of the front door. Unlikely as it might seem right now, it was evident that during less frosty parts of the year the porch functioned as an outdoor seating area. The bell was a hand-operated ringer attached to the door itself. When I pulled the lever back and forth, the halfhearted jangle it produced didn’t sound at all promising, but seconds later I heard approaching footsteps.
The door was opened by a cherubic-looking little old lady with a ready smile and a halo of curly white hair. Appropriately dressed for the holiday season, she wore a bright red outfit trimmed with white fur. Somewhere in the background, I caught the aroma of freshly baked cookies.
“Mrs. Santa Claus, I presume?” I asked.
“That’s me,” she answered with a smile before glancing at her watch. “My granddaughter runs a day care,” she explained. “My cookies and I are due to make an appearance there in about an hour’s time, just before the kids go home. May I help you?”
I extracted a business card from my pocket and handed it over. “My name is J. P. Beaumont,” I told her. “I’m from Seattle, and I’m here investigating the 2006 disappearance of Danitza Adams’s then-boyfriend, Christopher Danielson. May I come in? This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
“Of course,” she said, “but as I said, we can’t be long. I’ll need to leave soon.”
Over the course of my career, I’ve encountered some pretty dilapidated mobile homes, many of them so derelict as to be barely habitable. That was not the case here. Helen Sinclair’s home was tastefully decorated and neat as a pin, without a hint of dust anywhere in sight. Todd’s information on Helen had included the notation that she was a widow. Prominently displayed on the wall over the couch was a framed wedding picture. From the clothing and hairdos, I estimated that the wedding must have occurred sometime in the fifties. The sweetly smiling young bride barely came to the groom’s shoulders, and she couldn’t have been a day over eighteen.