Friday morning, I bypassed the office and drove to Horton Ravine. I’d called Margaret Seay the night before and our phone conversation had been brief. To my relief, talking to the mother of the dead girl was easier than I’d thought possible. I’d introduced myself and then asked if we might meet so I could talk to her about something that had come up related to her daughter’s death.
“Related in what way?”
“This is about a videotape.”
She was momentarily silent and then said, “I’m free at eight tomorrow morning if that’s not too early for you.”
“That will be fine,” I said, after which I confirmed the address and rang off.
? ? ?
Margaret Seay still lived in the house she’d shared with her then-husband, Paul, ten years before. The residence fit my notion of the Midwest: a two-story frame house, painted a cheerful yellow with white shutters and white trim. The roof was metal with a standing seam construction that must have provided a lovely sound during a rain, on the off chance we’re ever treated to inclement weather again. There was a wide porch along the front, with a white wooden swing, white wicker furniture, and red geraniums in wooden planters painted white.
I parked in the driveway and made my way up the walk. I rang the bell and waited. The door was answered by a woman in her early fifties. She held the door open without a word and I stepped into the foyer, saying, “Thanks for seeing me. I appreciate it.”
“It’s been a while since anyone asked about Sloan,” she said. “This is my stepson Joey.”
The young man she introduced looked like he might be in high school, in jeans, running shoes, and a letter jacket. His hair was damp and earnestly combed, with a few strands breaking free at the crown. His ears protruded and his forehead was creased with a look of worry that seemed odd for someone as young as he was. This was Sloan’s stepbrother, now engaged to the infamous Iris Lehmann.
I held out my hand. “Nice meeting you,” I said. “I’m Kinsey Millhone. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Margaret said, “Not at all. This is fine. He stops by most mornings on his way to work.” She put a hand against his cheek. “Why don’t we chat later?”
“I’ll call. Good meeting you, too,” he said with a small wave to me as he let himself out.
“What sort of work does he do?”
“He’s a project manager for his dad, whose company is Merriweather Homes. He’s due on the job site at eight thirty, which gives us time to have coffee before.”
I followed her into the living room. The floor plan was one I’d seen dozens of times. Living room to the right, dining room to the left, and a stairway that went up from the entrance hall to the second floor above. I pictured a kitchen off the dining room, and beyond that, a combination laundry room and mudroom leading from the kitchen to the back porch, which probably extended along the width of the house. A study or sunroom, corresponding to the size of the dining room, would adjoin the living room. The symmetry was pleasing. The walls were painted a soft white and the furniture was a tasteful mix of traditional and antique, with jewel-toned floral upholstery fabrics on the couch and solid-colored coordinating fabrics—teal and amethyst—on the sofa pillows and occasional chairs. The whole of it was immaculate.
Margaret Seay was probably my height, five foot six, built along sturdier lines than I. She wore her black hair short in a pixie cut that might have seemed inappropriate for a woman her age if it hadn’t so perfectly suited her. She wore glasses with dark frames and a slight tint to the lenses. She had dark eyes and a clear complexion, with little or no makeup and no jewelry. She wore a blue silk knee-length dress with a darker blue silk jacket. Her low-heeled navy shoes had probably been selected with comfort in mind. She seemed solemn and attentive, someone not given to smiles or animation.
“Please sit down,” she said. She took a seat in a small chair with a padded seat and an oval upholstered back done in a ruby velvet. She kept her feet flat on the floor and put her hands in her lap, one cupped loosely in the other as though she were posing for a formal portrait.
I sat in a matching chair. Only then did I notice the dog lying nearby. This had to be Sloan’s dog, Butch. I’d never seen a Pyrenees Mountain dog, but this guy was big, with a white coat, a plumed tail, and coarse hair that formed a shaggy ruff at his neck. His snout was gray and the hair around his eyes had turned milky white with age. He roused himself and stood politely, then approached in a halting gait that suggested arthritic pain. He crossed the distance between us and placed his chin on my knee. My guess was that his sight might be failing, limited to light and dark. I felt the tears well up unbidden. I let him sniff my fingertips, though I wondered if his olfactory sense had faded as well. I rubbed his silky ears and smiled, watching as he closed his eyes. “This is Butch?”
“Yes.”
“What a sweet guy. How old is he?”
“Thirteen, which is old for a big dog like him, but he’s in good health. He’s a sweet-natured fellow and I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“I’m not a dog person myself, but he’s a dear.”
This was apparently sufficient small talk for her purposes.
She said, “You came to ask about the tape Sloan was rumored to have had in her possession when she died.”
“How much do you know about it?”
“Just that it was thought to be the motivation for the shooting. I should tell you, however, that when the police searched her room, there was no sign of it. Why is it so important after all these years?”
“You know Fritz is out of prison.”
“I read about that in the paper. I hope you’re not going to tell me he’s a good friend.”
“Not at all,” I said.
“Then what’s this have to do with me?”
I was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how much I was at liberty to tell her. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t discuss a job without my client’s express permission, but I don’t see how I can ask you to trust me if I don’t trust you.”
“Fair enough. I do know how to keep matters to myself.”
“I hope so because I’m counting on your discretion. Fritz McCabe’s parents hired me because someone threatened to send a copy of that video to the district attorney’s office if the McCabes don’t hand over twenty-five thousand dollars. Again, this is confidential. I’m telling you because I hope you can help.”
“I don’t see how,” she said, perplexed.
“I talked to Poppy Earl and she told me you decided to open Sloan’s room a couple of weeks ago and dispose of her effects. The time frame coincides with Fritz McCabe’s release.”
“You think the two are connected?”
“It’s a possibility worth pursuing. I think his release generated the blackmail scheme. What I don’t know is whether someone’s been holding the tape all these years or whether the tape came to light when Sloan’s room was emptied.”
“I can assure you the police turned her room upside down at the time and found nothing. I locked the door the minute they were gone. Have you watched the tape?” she asked.
“Yes.”