Cat Playing Cupid

24

IT HAD BEEN two hours earlier that morning when Dallas picked up Lindsey at her apartment and they headed up the valley to her storage locker, to go through Carson Chappell's belongings. Across the green hills, fog drifted in a pale scarf that feathered and vanished as they moved inland up the two-lane road between pastures and small farms; in the yards of the scattered houses, yellow acacia trees bloomed, their honey-scented flowers bright against the pink blossoms of plum and cherry trees; daffodils buttered the meadows in wild clumps; and new colts played and rolled in the wet grass. Lindsey drank in the freshness of the valley, trying not to think about facing Carson's belongings again, not to think about opening those musty cartons that had been untouched for nearly ten years, about handling those small possessions that would stir her painful memories.

"The things we shared," she said, looking over at Dallas. "So sentimental and silly, you'll wonder why I kept them. Old theater tickets when we'd had a lovely evening. A sweater I knitted for him that he tore on a fencepost. And the photograph albums from our trips together, and from office parties."

"How many albums?"

"Maybe a dozen, but most are from before we met."

"How long did you work for Chappell and Gibbs?"

"Four years. We dated for about two years before he…disappeared."

She didn't want to look at the pictures again, she didn't want to stir it all up. Didn't want the weight, again, of the memories she had managed to put away. Why had she kept everything? Right now, she wished she'd tossed it all. Wished she'd never seen that newspaper clipping, wished she hadn't started this. What compulsion had made her come to the police with that clipping?

Dallas watched her with interest. She was more reluctant than she should be, considering that she was responsible for this investigation, that she had come to him. If not for her intense curiosity, Oregon might never have made the connection, might never have ID'd Chappell.

Probably he and Mike, seeing the article and looking over the cold cases, would have followed up. Or not, he thought. There'd been no indication that Carson had ever gone up there, that he'd ever left the state.

"Still looks new," Lindsey said as they approached the storage locker complex. "It was built the year I rented the smallest locker." The building was well maintained and still looked fresh. It had been designed with the charm of the area in mind, white plastered front, red tile roof, handsome plantings, so that it was not an eyesore in the community. The narrow gardens skirting the outside walls had grown lush now, with tall yellow Euryops, and lavender and early daylilies.

Dallas pulled the Blazer in through the wrought-iron gate, past the white stucco office, and on in between the rows of freshly painted metal buildings. The driveways had been swept clean. Her locker was in the center of the third row, a small, six-by-eight cubicle with her padlock on the door. Inside, it was half full of stacked, sealed boxes, and one filing cabinet that held her own back tax receipts, which she had seen no need to cart with her to L.A.

After the police had gone over his apartment, Carson's mother had sold his furniture but had kept his clothes and personal papers and all the other small detritus of Carson's life. Much of that life Lindsey had never known, had never been shared with her. Carson had kept the years after college to himself, didn't talk much about them though he'd been free enough with stories from his earlier years at Cal, and with stories of his childhood growing up along the Oregon coast.

Was that why he'd slipped away to Oregon? A sudden longing for the places he'd known as a boy? A sudden urge to be among the woods of his childhood, a last look back before he settled down to their new life? A need in some way so private that he hadn't wanted to discuss it?

Dallas had brought with him a lightweight folding table to make their work easier, and a small box cutter, and as he pulled out the marked cartons that he wanted and set them on the table, she slit them open and carefully laid out the contents, starting with the boxes of household linens and pots and pans and dishes-the black skillet crusted on the outside with years of buildup that Carson hadn't bothered to remove, the ugly set of yellow-and-brown dishes he'd promised to take to Goodwill, the espresso machine she'd given him for Christmas a few months before they were to be married.

Opening a box marked "Miscellaneous," examining coasters, an ashtray, a handful of keys, Dallas said, "This was all Carson's? None of it was yours?"

"The vases," she said, unwrapping the last of the three. "He never had cut flowers in the apartment, so I brought these-two of them. I don't remember this one," she said, holding up the more garish one with distaste. "It doesn't look like anything Carson would choose."

Wearing gloves, as he'd asked her to do, she set the vases aside and opened a small leather box containing four old watches, three pairs of dark glasses, and two tie tacks.

"I've wondered why Carson's mother kept all this. And why I keep it. Irene said in case the police might want it later. Sometimes I've thought that was sensible, sometimes that it was foolish, that his mother just couldn't bear to throw it all away-and that maybe I felt the same. What do you expect to find?"

"I don't know. That's why we're looking. As I said, anything strange or out of place-like the vase. Anything that makes you curious or uneasy."

Opening the box marked "Papers and Files," she laid out the musty folders. There were a few letters in one file, none that seemed very personal.

"And all that we've looked at, so far," Dallas said, "was Carson's? None of it's yours? What about the linens and clothes?" he said, indicating several boxes they hadn't yet opened.

"I don't remember anything of mine. There were some women's clothes when his mother packed up." She reached for a box labeled only with a question mark. "None of this was mine," she said softly. "I've never known whose they were."

"You never lived in that apartment?"

"I never lived with him. I've never been in favor of that. It seems so…" She frowned, trying not to sound stuffy or say too much, but wanting to put into words what she felt. "An affair, yes, if you're serious. But to live together unmarried seems-so indecisive," she said lamely. "So…uncommitted." She felt her face burning. "That sounds prudish and old-fashioned. But living together seems such an easy way out. A casual stop at a fork in the road, knowing that later you can easily change your mind and go another way. I don't like that-I hate the idea that such a relationship isn't important, that tearing it apart doesn't matter."

Embarrassed and uneasy, she busied herself emptying a box of tapes and books. Dallas was silent, watching her.

"I consider your view refreshing," he said quietly. "That kind of relationship should not be incidental and ephemeral."

She still felt uneasy. "Makes me sound like I should be wearing laced corsets and twelve petticoats."

"When Carson disappeared," he said, "apparently there was a good deal of gossip about other women. That had to have upset you, to wonder if he had been so casual and secretive after making a serious commitment."

She looked down, nodded. "My friends kept saying, what else should he be? All men expect to play the field, to get away with whatever they can."

Dallas busied himself going through the small boxes of old belt buckles, pocketknives, an old camera, a couple of camping knives. He checked the camera for film and found it empty. "That's what some people want our society to be. Easy sex. Easy drugs. Easy crime. The more that people promote those ideas, the more infectious, and destructive, they become."

Lindsey looked at him directly. "That is very refreshing. How…how does Mike feel about that?"

Dallas smiled. "Ask his daughters. I lived with Mike and his brother while the girls were growing up. Those girls never bought into the glitzy popular trends, they knew too much. They understood how such views weaken and destroy a culture. They knew the details of many of the cases we worked, they were too well informed to get sucked in."

Turning away, he set the resealed box on the stack they had sorted through, and picked up the one marked "Albums." She felt a chill watching him open it. This one would be painful. All the photos of her and Carson, sometimes with friends, or pictures they'd taken of each other on day trips hiking south of the village.

They spent the next hour going through album pages, Dallas asking people's names and where certain pictures had been taken, Lindsey recalling all she could while trying to numb herself to the memories.

There were pictures from the office, taken at office parties, Ray and Nina Gibbs hamming it up, looking so happy together. Nina overdressed in her too bright outfits and too much jewelry. Lindsey could see, in every shot, the gold bracelet Nina always wore.

"The bracelet was an heirloom," Lindsey said. "It was the only thing about which I ever heard her make a sentimental remark, ever show any warmth regarding her family."

She studied the last page, a party shot of herself with Carson and her sister, Ryder. "One of our clients' homes, the Richard Daltons'. That was when Ryder still lived in the village." She lifted the album, looking closer. In the picture, the glance between Carson and Ryder had always made her uneasy. She looked a long time, then closed the album.

He said, "That picture disturbs you. Why?"

She felt herself blushing. "I…She was always a flirt, my sister."

Dallas nodded, and began to pack up the boxes. "I'd like to take some of the albums and the box of women's clothes back to the station. As the investigation progresses, maybe something will strike a note, make a connection."

"Take anything that might help. And you can always come back later, I'll have a key made for you." She taped up the last box, they stacked them neatly, folded up the table, locked the door, and headed out. They were halfway back to Molena Point when Dallas took a call on his cell phone. When it buzzed, Lindsey automatically touched her pocket, then remembered she'd left her phone at home, on the dresser-as she often did when she thought she wouldn't need it. Calls from clients could go on message, she didn't like being tied to the office once she'd locked the door behind her.

"How old a grave?" Dallas was saying. "How much of the body did you…?" He paused, listening, talked for only a minute more, then pulled over to the shoulder of the two-lane, where he could park.

"I need to make a stop, up in the hills. There's a turnoff just ahead. You have time to ride up with me? It's the old Pamillon place. It would save me half an hour."

"Of course," she said, interested in his sudden tension. "I have time."

Pulling onto the road again, he said, "You needn't look at the grave, you can stay in the car if you like."

"I know it's silly, but I guess I don't want to look." Yes, she would just stay in the car, sit quietly, take time to steady herself after this morning, after opening wounds that were still raw, that she very much wished she hadn't been foolish enough to stir into new life.