I Love You More: A Novel (9 page)

The first thing we noticed when we got out of the car was the drop in the temperature; there was already a chill in the mountain air. I saw a curtain move in one of the windows as Mack and I climbed the front steps. A woman opened the door to our first knock. She was short and plump, with muddy green eyes and thin lips; there was an unsightly mole about the size of a dime on her right cheek. I wondered why she hadn’t had it removed; it was a simple procedure. She wore a long gray corduroy skirt and an oversized burgundy cardigan sweater over a white blouse. Other than the long, straight blond hair, she looked nothing like the other two wives.

“Mrs. Lane?” I asked.

“It’s
Ms
. actually,” she said. “Ms. Miles. I never took my husband’s name. I’m assuming you’re here about Oliver?”

“I’m Detective Kennedy and this is Detective Jones,” I said. “We’re with Cooper’s Island PD. We’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you have a moment?”

“A moment?” She smiled. “I’m guessing this might take longer than a moment. Please come in, detectives.”

If our surprise visit made her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. I scanned the room. Overstuffed bookcases of various shapes and sizes lined every available wall. The furnishings—sofa, easy chairs, coffee table—were all tones of beige and brown, and had obviously seen better days. She led us to the back of the house and a windowed-in porch that overlooked an unusually large backyard with a well-manicured garden one story below. A territorial view of the town peeked through a row of arborvitaes. The dark, woodsy decor—cedar paneling, creaky unvarnished wood floors, stone fireplace, and leather sofa and chairs so worn that they looked like they’d lived through World War II—played second fiddle to the pungent scents of musty rugs and recently burned wood. I felt like a boy in a tree house.

“There’s a walkout basement beneath us,” she said. “From the front, you can’t tell the house has two stories because it sits on a hill. Right now the space below is unfinished, but we’d hoped to renovate it one day, make it a large great room that led out to English gardens and perhaps some sort of water feature. We even joked of making a maze out of greenery and setting up a permanent croquet lawn for all the children we planned to have.” She paused, smoothed her skirt. A nervous habit? “This was Oliver’s favorite room in the house. He always said it brought back boyhood memories. You know tree houses and such.” Had she said that with emphasis? “Please have a seat, detectives. I had just turned on the kettle when I heard the door. Would either of you like a cup of black tea or some hot cocoa?”

“Hot chocolate for me,” Mack said.

“Tea is good,” I said.

“Milk or sugar?”

“Both,” I said.

I was thinking how perfect a douse of rum or brandy would be
when Roberta Miles said, “I’ve got some Captain Morgan, Detective.” This time she stared directly at me. There was obviously more to the woman than her outward appearance suggested. Was that what Oliver Lane had seen in her?

“No thank you, ma’am,” I said. “We’re on duty.”

“Please, call me Bert, Detective. Ma’am sounds so condescending, don’t you think?” She flashed me a sweet and unexpectedly pretty smile, and left to get our tea and cocoa.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mack said when she returned. She set our cups on the wagon-wheel coffee table in front of us.

Her blouse fell open as she leaned into the chair, revealing a nicely defined collarbone and round, taut breasts. Her baggy clothing had fooled me into thinking she wasn’t shapely.

“I haven’t seen one of these since my college days.” I indicated the coffee table.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “It was my wedding gift to Oliver. We saw one at a café in town soon after we met, and I told him how my father used to have one just like it, and it was the strangest thing: his father had one too. Do you believe that? It was uncanny how much Oliver and I had in common.”

“Like what?” Mack asked. Noting her questioning glance, he added, “I’d just like to get a better picture of who your husband was. It may help our investigation.”

“Of course,” she said. “Well, both of our fathers died from a heart attack, and at the exact same age. Consequently, we both preferred to eat healthy. No meat or poultry other than free-range chicken, fresh-caught fish, organic fruits and vegetables, nuts and seeds, almond butter. And we’d just started hiking more regularly. We both loved the outdoors. Financially we were perfectly matched; Oliver was very frugal. And reading. Oliver enjoyed reading even more than I.”

I wanted to say something sarcastic like
What a great guy
, but decided against it. “I understand you have a child, Ms. Miles?”

“Yes. She’s eleven months old. Her name is Isabelle. She’s napping.”

“Pretty name,” I said.

“It was my grandmother’s. Do either of you have children?”

“Not me,” I said.

“One boy,” Mack said. “Evan. He just turned three.”

“Oh, I can’t wait until three. Do you have a picture?”

Mack dug into his pocket, flipped open his wallet.

“He is so handsome. He looks like you.”

“Do you think so?” Mack asked as he admired his son’s picture.

There was something about Roberta Miles that made a man feel instantly comfortable, even special. She was warm, nurturing. She had a certain softness about her that made you want to bury your head in her lap, let her stroke your hair—tell me everything would be okay—

“You said you had some questions about Oliver’s murder?” I was surprised how easily the word
murder
had rolled off her tongue.

Mack replaced his son’s picture and adopted his questioning posture. Roberta Miles’s responses were slow, thoughtful. She’d been at a writers’ conference.

“Wildacres Retreat? In the Blue Ridge Mountains?” She waited for us to indicate we knew the place. We didn’t. “Well, it lasts two weeks. The first week you just write, and the second you workshop some pieces. I only attended the last week, what with Isabelle and all.”

“You took your daughter with you?” I asked.

“No, my mother stayed with her. She was visiting from Baltimore. I must admit I was quite exhausted, Isabelle was rather colicky, and I think I may have had a bit of postpartum depression. My mother’s coming was Oliver’s idea. The retreat was a last-minute decision actually. Pure luck it fell while she was here.”

“Did you go for your job?” I asked. “You manage a bookstore in Boone, right?”

“Yes, Black Bear Books. But that isn’t why I went, Detective. I’m a closet poet.”

“What time did the conference start?” Mack asked.

“Check-in was between noon and three,” Roberta Miles said.

“How’d you get there?” Mack asked.

“I drove,” she said. “It’s only an hour and twenty minutes from here. It seems I left the very morning Oliver was murdered; only I didn’t know that then. Gave me the chills when I found out.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I’m not certain. Seven, perhaps? I wanted to leave before Isabelle rose. You know, so she wouldn’t cry when she saw me leaving.”

“Why so early?” Mack asked. “Since check-in wasn’t officially until noon.”

“Like I said, Detective: Isabelle. But I also wanted to stop off for breakfast at the Woodlands. Do you know it?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Mack said.

“Well, you are missing quite a treat. The Woodlands Barbecue is down in Blowing Rock, a little out of the way if you’re going to Wildacres, but it has some of the best barbecue in the state.”

“Did you pay with a credit card?”

“Oh my, no. I’m not a big fan of credit, especially when it comes to inconsequential purchases. I did pay the conference fee with a credit card.”

“So there’s no way you can prove you were at the Woodlands.”

“Well, not through an actual receipt, if that’s what you mean. But I think the waitress will remember me. I gave her a twenty-dollar bill and told her to keep the change. Can you imagine, my entire meal was under twelve dollars? And I got the chicken and pig platter.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but breakfast couldn’t have taken more than an hour, so what did you do with the rest of your time?”

“I went into Little Switzerland and did a bit of shopping. It’s
a lovely and quaint little village just up the Blue Ridge Parkway from Wildacres.”

“Did you buy anything?”

“I’m not much of a spender, Detective Jones. I just wanted to browse. I did have a cup of tea at the inn, but unfortunately I didn’t pay for that with a credit card either.”

“What time did you arrive at … uh”—Mack looked down at his notes—“Wildacres?”

“A little before noon, actually, but the director let me check in early. Would you like me to give you her contact information? So you can verify what time I arrived? I’ll give you my mother’s information as well.” Before either of us could answer, she’d opened a drawer in the nearby end table, retrieved a notepad and pen, and started writing. “Here’s my mother’s phone number, and here is the website and e-mail address for Wildacres. I’m afraid I don’t know the telephone number off the top of my head, but I’m sure it’s listed on the website. Is there anything else you need? The address for the Woodlands?”

“I can look it up,” Mack said. “Though there is one thing I’m wondering about.”

“What’s that, Detective?”

Mack leaned forward, rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Seems odd you didn’t touch base with your husband while you were gone. Wherever we are, the wife and I check in every day.”

“That does seem a bit peculiar, doesn’t it?” Roberta Miles said, and smiled. “Well, you see, detectives, there isn’t any cell-phone service at Wildacres. With the exception of the retreat center itself, it’s pretty undeveloped up there, mostly forest, dirt roads, even bears. It’s barely accessible in the winter months. Oliver travels—I mean, traveled—a lot. It wasn’t unusual for him not to contact me for a few days. When we were first married, I must admit I wondered about that, but then, well, I just got used to it.”

“Makes more sense now, I should think,” I said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, since now you know about his other lives.”

She didn’t respond.

“When exactly did you contact the local PD?” Mack asked.

“You mean the police? The Wednesday after I got back.”

“You arrived home on Saturday, right? So four days later?”

“Yes.”

“Why four days? Why not, say, two, three, or even five?”

“It wasn’t about the number of days. Oliver didn’t come home. He always arrived home by dinnertime on Tuesday and left on Thursday afternoon. That’s how his travel schedule worked. So when he wasn’t home by Wednesday morning I knew something was wrong.”

“And you never connected your missing husband with the dead man on Cooper’s Island?” Mack asked. “His picture was all over the news.”

“I don’t own a TV,” Roberta Miles said. “Nor do I subscribe to the local paper. I prefer not to surround myself with negative energy.”

I could almost feel Mack trying not to roll his eyes. Mack is your regular, everyday guy. We’d actually had more than one conversation about his dislike of those
artsy-fartsy granola types
. “You were married to Oliver Lane for what, well over a year, and you didn’t have any idea he had two other wives?” Mack asked. “You never once wondered where he was when he wasn’t home with you and your daughter?”

She straightened. “You all might find this naïve, detectives, because your line of work breeds suspicion, but I am proud that I’ve always seen the good in everyone and anything. Why would I suspect my husband of something so distasteful as polygamy? Oliver was a good man, good husband, good father. Would you suspect
your
wife of such a thing, Detective Jones? Does it ever
cross
your
mind that she’s with another man while you’re at work?” She paused. “I thought not.”

Mack was staring at Roberta Miles with his mouth open, face flushed.

I jumped in. “You’re right about our line of work, ma’am. It does, as you say, breed suspicion, but unfortunately somebody has to fight the bad guys so honest, trusting people like yourself can go on being that way.”

“I appreciate your diligence, detectives.” A hint of sarcasm?

“We should be on our way,” I said, and rose. Mack followed suit. “Thanks for your time and frankness, and for so graciously inviting us into your home unannounced.”

I gave her my card, told her again how sorry we were, asked her not to hesitate to call if she needed anything. She walked us to the front door, urged us to drive safely, watched us get into the car, drive away.

“Geez, do you believe that guy?” Mack said, when we were safely buckled in. “I mean she knows the guy had two other wives and yet she was still painting him as perfect. Sounds like he was some player.”

“My bet is he’d been at it for a while. Hey, I’m hungry. You?”

Downtown Boone was as quaint and rustic as I thought it would be. The two-story brick buildings housed an array of mountain-type stores specializing in ski, bicycle, and hiking gear, along with specialty clothing and gift shops, an art supplies store, a gallery, Mast General Store, which looked like it carried the kitchen sink, and a number of restaurants. We found a place called Heavenly Diner. The neon sign and striped awnings were right out of Mayberry. My mother was a huge
Andy Griffith
fan. I smelled grease as soon as I walked in the door; I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. A counter that backed up to the kitchen ran the length of the narrow restaurant. Several booths with red vinyl seats, Formica tabletops, and miniature jukeboxes lined the windowed wall. All, save one, were occupied.

The waitress, who may have been attractive had it not been for the cropped purple hair, nose ring, black lipstick, and green fingernails, wore a crisp white uniform and pink apron.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Belinda. Can I take your order?”

I’d expected her name to be something like Roxy or Gigi. “How’re your burgers?”

She shrugged. “I don’t eat meat, but customers seem to like them.”

“I’ll have a burger and fries.”

“Cheese?” Belinda asked.