Six Years

Chapter 32

The FBI, Shanta said, wanted to know what I knew about all of this. I told her the truth: I knew nothing. I asked Shanta what the will and testament said. It was pretty simple: All of her assets should be split equally between her mother and sister. She had also left a request to be cremated, and interestingly enough, she wanted her ashes to be spread in the woods overlooking the quad at Lanford College.

I thought about the will and testament. I thought about where it had been found. The answer wasn’t yet in my grasp, but it felt as though I were circling right above it.

As I started to leave, Shanta asked, “Are you sure you don’t have any thoughts about this?”

“I’m sure,” I said.

But I thought now that maybe I did. I just didn’t want to share them with Shanta or the FBI. I trusted her as far as I could trust anyone who had openly told me that her first allegiance was to law enforcement. To tell her about Fresh Start, for example, would be catastrophic. But more to the point-and this was key-Natalie had not trusted law enforcement.

Why?

It was something I had never really considered before. Natalie could have trusted the cops and testified and gone into witness protection or something like that. But she didn’t. Why? What did she know that prevented her from doing that? And if she didn’t trust the cops, why on earth should I?

Once again I took out my cell phone and tried Malcolm Hume’s number in Florida. Once again there was no answer. Enough. I hurried over to Clark House. Mrs. Dinsmore was just settling into her desk. She looked up at me over the half-moon reading glasses. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

I didn’t bother defending or cracking wise. I told her about trying to reach Malcolm Hume.

“He’s not in Vero Beach,” she said.

“Do you know where he is?”

“I do.”

“Could you tell me?”

She took her time shuffling papers and sliding a paperclip into place. “He’s staying at his cabin off Lake Canet.”

I had been invited once many years ago for a fishing trip, but I didn’t go. I hate fishing. I didn’t get it, but then again I was never one for ease-back, Zen-type activities. I have trouble turning myself off. I’d rather read than relax. I’d rather keep the mind engaged. But I remembered that the property had been in Mrs. Hume’s family for generations. He joked that he liked to feel like an interloper, that it made it more like a vacation spot.

Or like a spot perfect for hiding.

“I didn’t know he still owned a place up here,” I said.

“He comes up a few times a year. He enjoys the seclusion.”

“I didn’t know.”

“He doesn’t tell anyone.”

“He tells you.”

“Well,” Mrs. Dinsmore said, as though that were the most obvious thing in the world. “He doesn’t like company there. He needs to be alone so he can write and fish in peace and quiet.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Escape that hectic, jam-packed life at the gated community in Vero Beach.”

“Funny.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re on paid leave,” she said. “So maybe you should, uh, leave.”

“Mrs. Dinsmore?”

She looked up at me.

“You know all of the stuff I’ve been asking about lately?”

“You mean like murdered students and missing professors?”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

“I need you to give me the address of the lake house. I need to talk to Professor Hume in private.”