Grady Lake, page 15
part #1 of Grady Lake Mystery Series Series
Rich and Dougie are talking about opening day of hunting season while Mae and Nicole gossip about how much Diana Iverson just sold her house for, so I take the opportunity to scan the room for Fallon Palmer. I want to get a better look at her face and assess how bad the argument must have been. I will never understand a man who can raise his hand to a woman, but I also don’t understand anything Lincoln does. When I finally find the family’s table, near the exit doors, Fallon is not sitting with them. Lincoln, Bradford, and several people I assume to be extended family fill the seats. My eyes dart around, searching for Fallon and eventually land on a group of women, all consoling a slightly middle-aged brunette who is being held up straight by two of her friends. She wears a blank stare, with a steady stream of tears dripping down her face. I squint, attempting to recognize her, and just as it clicks in my head who she must be, Mae leans over and whispers to me, “Lincoln’s ex, JoAnne. Mother of the boys.”
I cannot imagine what she is experiencing right now. From everything I’ve heard about the former Mrs. Palmer, she’s a lovely woman. She supported Lincoln through graduate school and waited tables for extra cash so he wouldn’t have to take on a job before he got his degree. He started making his millions, moved to the Upper Peninsula, and left her in the dust for barely-of-age Fallon. I can only hope she made out like a bandit in the divorce. I don’t know what comes over me as I scoot my chair out, rise to my feet, and begin walking toward her. I hesitate when I’m a few feet away and her moistened eyes lock with mine.
“Hello, I’m Katie Benard. My family has lived on Grady Lake my whole life, and I went to school with your son. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”
I reach my hand out to shake hers when recognition sets in. Her eyes grow just a little larger.
“You’re . . . you’re . . .”
“Yes, I was Malorie Benard’s sister.”
This seems to get the full attention of all three of her friends, who each shift their focus on me the minute I say her name.
“You were with my son when your sister disappeared,” she says, but it comes out as more of a question than a declaration. It was never covered by the major news outlets, thanks to Sheriff Nelson, so it’s possible she’s wondering if her boys told her the truth about their whereabouts that night. My face is instantly crimson. I try to inhale and exhale slowly, a trick the therapists of TikTok taught me to reduce the heat in my face during these uncomfortable moments, but it only makes it worse. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she adds.
“No, no, it’s okay,” I assure her. “Yes, Benson and I were together that night. We had a bit of a high school romance, but we hadn’t been close in years. I actually just moved back to the area last month from Lansing and hadn’t yet had time to catch up with him. Like everyone else, I was very sorry to hear of his passing.”
“Unfortunately, the boys take after their father and don’t have enough good sense to stay with a respectable woman very long. I’m sorry things didn’t work out between the two of you. You seem like a lovely young woman, and most likely would have been a great influence on my son,” she replies, her eyes focusing over my shoulder and shooting lasers in the direction of Lincoln’s table. I’m not quite sure how to respond to that, so I just shake her hand once more and repeat my condolences. I’m shocked as she pulls me in for an embrace. Not just any embrace, but a hug so tight we are cheek-to-cheek. I stiffen as she whispers in my ear, “Make sure that sheriff looks into whether Lincoln had any interactions with the missing girl, Sammie. Find out if their paths crossed, even once. I have a horrible feeling.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I’m not sure why I don’t tell Nicole or Dougie about what JoAnne said to me, but I feel the need to work through it on my own before involving them in yet another one of my theories about the Palmer family’s involvement in cases of missing girls. Until today, I’ve waffled back and forth on whether I’m convinced of their guilt simply because I don’t like them, but Lincoln’s ex-wife changed that today. Someone else understands. Someone else suspects Lincoln of a misdeed that goes beyond being a selfish, money-hungry creep, and that someone was married to him for over a decade and knows exactly what he’s capable of.
It’s strange to see the restaurant dark when we pull into the gravel lot of Benard’s, but it’s tradition for the aunts to close during funerals for anyone who lives on the lake, regardless of their last name. Lou exits her Suburban next to us, followed by Brenda and Deb.
“I’m going to get my overnight roast beef going for tomorrow’s sandwich special. Nicole, your dad said you’d stop in before your morning shift to get some wrapped cold cut sandwiches for the deli case at the store. I should have them ready by nine,” Lou says, digging her oversized keyring—featuring no less than a dozen unmarked keys—out of the pocket of her fleece Columbia jacket. Not once have I seen that woman retrieve the wrong key while unlocking a door; it’s some sort of restaurant owner magic.
“You got it, Lou. You need my help with the roast beef?” Nicole asks.
“No, but you’re sweet to ask. I’ve got a system and it would only slow me down if someone helped.”
“What about me? Want my help, Aunt Lou?” Dougie asks.
Everyone laughs in response, except for Brenda. “You jerks leave my poor baby alone,” she says, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. “Anyone would be lucky to have his help in the kitchen.” This only gets a second, more boisterous explosion of amusement from the group. God, it’s so nice to hear everyone laugh. Jovial moods have been in short supply since the holiday weekend, and it sure would be nice to get back to normal, another reason I hope we get some answers about Sammie soon.
Before everyone disperses, Nicole, Dougie, and I agree to meet up at the Boon Dock for an early fall tradition—spiked apple cider and pumpkin donuts, which get stocked at the Grab N Go the first week of September each year. I follow Lou into the restaurant to make a batch of apple cider, Dougie goes up to the lodge to grab us all sweatshirts and a wool blanket, and Nicole heads to the store to “shoplift” the donuts. We plan to meet in thirty minutes, which is more than enough time, even with certainty that something is going to distract Dougie from his mission. An interesting news story on the TV as he walks by, a text from a friend, a sudden need to unload the dishwasher—something always distracts Dougie, no matter how many times we remind him to focus.
Luckily, Lou already has a chilled jug of apple cider in the walk-in cooler for our new fall menu, so I just pour it into a pitcher with a little bourbon, a dash of cinnamon, and my secret ingredient—a splash of orange juice. I grab a few plastic cups, say goodbye to Lou, who is entirely too focused on her beef to acknowledge me, and I’m out the door in ten minutes.
I’m hugging the pitcher of cider tight with one arm, the cups in the other, when a particularly strong gust of wind blows and I consider texting Dougie to make sure he is grabbing a thick enough sweatshirt for me. Last winter when I was home, I texted him in the lodge and asked him to grab me something warm to wear so I didn’t have to run all the way upstairs and he brought me one of Malorie’s paper-thin windbreakers from 1999. I want to sit on the dock tonight for hours, enjoying the start to my favorite time of year, but that’s not going to happen if I’m freezing.
I walk past cabin one just before I get to the trail and a motion to the left of the structure startles me. It’s Brandi Spencer and she’s smoking a cigarette, something I’ve never seen anyone in that family do during their time at Benard’s. She cusses under her breath and stomps the half-smoked butt out under her boot. “Please don’t tell Lou. I know I’m not supposed to be smoking within twenty feet of the cabin.”
I laugh. “Mrs. Spencer, you’re talking to one half of the two-sister duo who was famous for sneaking cigarettes next to this very cabin when we were in high school. It was the furthest from the lodge and restaurant, so we figured we’d never get caught. Spoiler alert—we were caught red handed.”
Brandi’s face lights up, perhaps for the first time since I’ve met her. “By Lou? Were you girls grounded for a year?”
I think back to that late summer evening, probably about a month before Malorie’s disappearance. We were scared beyond belief when Lou came around the corner, catching us both with Virginia Slims hanging out of the corners of our mouths. Mom was the only one who smoked Virginia Slims, so she knew where we got them. It went without saying that we didn’t ask for Mom’s permission before sliding them carefully out of a nearly full pack while she got dressed for her shift at the restaurant. She smoked over a pack a day, even more when she was stressed; there’s no way she would miss two measly cigarettes.
“Would you believe she didn’t even tell our mom? She did, however, warn us that if she caught us again, she was going to make us smoke an entire pack in one sitting and work dock duty until we turned thirty,” I tell her, a smile spreading across my face to recall a clear memory that involves both my mom and my sister.
“Did it work?”
I let out a quick laugh. “You’re damn right it did. I never touched another one after that day.”
“Maybe I need her to come over here and scare me straight. I hadn’t had one since high school, and something about it sounded so good when I was at your friend’s store today. I just couldn’t stop myself from buying them,” she tells me, patting the rest of the pack that’s tucked snuggly in her back pocket.
“I don’t think anyone would blame you with what you’re going through,” I say, realizing that I inadvertently turned the subject back to her missing daughter. I’m sure Brandi wishes we could talk about anything else on earth, if just for a night.
She stares off in the direction of the moon for a moment. It’s projecting a light across the rippling lake, reminiscent of a book cover for an ominous murder mystery. I imagine a hand emerging from the water at any moment, before slowly sinking down below the surface.
“You know, when I was growing up, a young boy in my town was kidnapped. His body was found in a ditch a month later and, to this day, whenever I see his parents at the grocery store or the county fair, my heart breaks for them. It’s all anyone in town will think about when they see their faces, until the end of time. Thinking that I may have the same fate as old Mr. and Mrs. Halliday is unfathomable. Every day, it feels like I’m living someone else’s life. There’s no way this can be mine.”
I set the apple cider and cups down on the small table on the cabin’s patio and walk a few steps toward Brandi, holding out a hand to grasp hers. “You have no idea how much I understand.”
I hold her in an awkward embrace as she begins to cry. I rub her back without a word; she doesn’t need another person telling her it’s going to be alright when there’s a very good chance her life is never going to be alright again. Right now, she just needs someone who is going to let her cry without judgment or conversation.
“This may sound silly, but I think I was meant to meet you. I don’t think I could have made it this far without knowing someone is here that understands what we are going through. I’m so sorry you had to live through your own tragedy to be so useful during mine.”
I give her a soft grin and squeeze both of her hands before backing away. “I’m sorry, too.”
We both say goodnight and I end up meeting up with Dougie as I head toward the trail. Bless him, he grabbed my favorite hooded sweatshirt and the thickest wool blanket we have in the lodge, one that’s been in the family longer than I have. He even remembered to grab Nicole a zip-up fleece that isn’t too girly, too masculine, too itchy, or too form fitting—all complaints she has had in the past.
“Were you just talking to Brandi Spencer?” he asks, once we’re a few feet into the woods.
“More like listening while she talked, but yeah. It sure is hard watching another family begin the nightmare we have been living with for so long, knowing the road that’s ahead of them,” I say.
“There’s a good chance her story won’t end like ours, Sammie could still be found. Heck, even her body being found would give the family more closure than we’ve ever had.”
Dougie’s right. There are nights I’m desperate enough to pray for any sort of answer, even if it’s just Mal’s body being found or some sort of jailhouse confession by a convict who has been behind bars for years. Honestly, anything would be a relief at this point. We haven’t had any developments or new tips in so long, maybe that’s why I jumped so quickly on the theory that one of the Palmers had something to do with it. With that thought, I remember what JoAnne said to me at the funeral—find out if Lincoln had any interactions with Sammie before she disappeared. Nolan mentioned that Karli would be interviewing the Spencers for a possible podcast tomorrow morning, an interview they gladly consented to. I hand the jug of cider to Dougie before pulling out my phone and shooting off a text to Nolan, asking if he could get Karli to casually bring up the Palmer family during her questioning.
“Why?” Nolan writes back.
“Just a hunch,” I reply and tuck the phone back into my pocket.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tonight feels like the most normal night I’ve had since I got back to Grady. The three of us are sitting cross-legged at the end of the Boon Dock in a semi-circle, with the cider and donuts between us. The wool blanket is large enough to cover mine and Nicole’s legs, with room for Dougie if he drops the tough guy act and admits how cold he is. Leaves in every shade of red, orange, and gold float by after falling from the trees that tower over the edge of the lake.
We decide to play our favorite game, the one we created as teenagers on this very dock—Don’t Fucking Laugh. The point is to look your opponent in the eyes and say something so off-the-wall or offensive that they cannot help but burst out into laughter. The game is at its easiest when it’s just the three of us playing because we know each other so well, it’s simple to come up with something that’s going to make the other person lose it. After over three decades spent together, we have so many inside jokes and little idiosyncrasies that it doesn’t take much to send either of them into a fit of laughter. One time Nicole simply said “shit pants,” and we knew it was a reference to when Dougie had an accident on the bus home in fifth grade. I think we laughed so hard and so long that day, the game ended simply because we forgot we were playing it.
Nicole starts strong by turning slightly to her right to face me directly, before leaning forward and whispering, “You know what? I’m glad Dave cheated on you.” I last about five seconds before cracking a smile and biting my lip to stop the laughter. She doesn’t return my smile, just shrugs and takes a sip from her cup. “I’m not laughing; it’s the truth. Your bitchass never would have come back to Grady if you married that big city boy.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call him a big city boy; he grew up in Okemos, but I get what you’re saying, and I agree. I’m glad he cheated, too,” I reply, and this finally gets a smile out of her. She has not once displayed any signs of sympathy when my romantic relationships have fizzled out. Each time I pack my bags and come home to Grady after a breakup, she always remarks that we are “one step closer to her master plan of us living in the same house like on Golden Girls.” I really thought my college boyfriend, Kevin, was the one until a beautiful blonde in my Chem 101 class told me that she hooked up with a guy from my bowling team the night before . . . and Kevin was the only guy on that team. When I called to tell Nicole what happened, she laughed so hard she dropped her phone and simply responded with “Now ain’t that some shit” after regaining her composure.
It’s Dougie’s turn, and he surprises us both by actually getting his sentence out without ruining it by laughing. Part of the reason Nicole and I are horrible at this game is because Dougie can’t take his turn without giggling like a schoolgirl at the thought of whatever he’s planning to say, and we get absolutely tickled by his inability to control himself. There’s no way anyone will ever understand or enjoy this game like the three of us.
He looks at Nicole, takes a long drink of his cider, and says, “You’re just mad because you used to hook up with all the summer tourist girls, but now that you’re an aging lesbian, they’ve moved onto me.” He doesn’t break his stare as he reaches for a donut from the pile, takes a bite, and sets it back down. For a moment, Nicole controls her reaction, but there’s something about him calmly setting that donut back down that makes her lose it.
“Damn it, I almost had that one,” she says, slapping the dock with her hand. She coughs a few times, takes a deep breath, and leans forward, about a foot from Dougie’s face. “I may be an aging lesbian, but at least the summer tourist girls don’t disappear after I hook up with them.”
Dougie doesn’t laugh, but I do see him flinch slightly. “Ouch, too soon, Nicole, too soon.”
“Dougie, tell us the truth, did you flirt with Sammie? Do you think you would have gotten yourself into some trouble if she had shown up the night you were supposed to meet up?” I ask, my second cup of spiked cider giving me a little added bravery to ask my cousin the question that’s been in the back of my mind since I found out they were texting.
He looks like he’s been slapped. “Katie, I’m thirty-nine years old. She was a good-looking girl, but I’m not a total fucking creep. The thought never crossed my mind.”
“If this was Dateline, Keith Morrison would point out the fact that you just said she was a good-looking girl. Why are you speaking about her in the past tense?” Nicole asks, obviously joking but with a little truth behind her words.
