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15
THEVINE PLACEin Tesuque, New Mexico, was a rambling old ranch set back from the village road, with irrigated fields in front, a horse barn with an alarming lean to it, corrals, and weathered outbuildings. It had, Corrie thought, a picturesque charm: despite its ramshackle nature, the place gave off a whiff of quiet wealth. Before driving to Tesuque, she’d done a little research on the pretty little town. More or less unknown to the public, it had become a stealthy retreat for movie stars like Robert Redford, European royalty, billionaires, and other celebrities seeking privacy.
As she pulled into the graveled area in front, Corrie felt a twist in her gut as she thought about breaking the news of Molly’s death to her mother. Looking through the records, Corrie found the woman had not only reported Molly’s disappearance, but followed up on it assiduously. She was also all too aware that—while Molly checked all the boxes for being the victim—she was in the uncomfortable position of having to relate the strange circumstances to the mother.
She mounted the creaking steps of the wooden porch liningthe front of the old adobe house and knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately, and a woman who could only be Molly’s mother stood in the doorway, a stoic look on her face. Catherine Vine was dressed like the horsewoman she clearly was, in jeans, boots, a cowboy shirt, and a bandanna around her neck held by a silver-and-turquoise slide. Despite her seventy years, she was remarkably handsome.
“Thank you for coming,” she said in a soft Texas accent. She turned and led Corrie through the entryway into a living room. “Please, have a seat.”
Corrie took a seat and Mrs. Vine did the same, then folded her hands and gave Corrie a disconcertingly direct stare. “You found her, I assume.”
“Yes, Mrs. Vine, it’s my belief that we did,” said Corrie.
The woman waited, hands folded, gray eyes alert and keen. She was obviously a no-nonsense type who would not appreciate a litany of condolences and small talk, so she got directly to the point, explaining how the remains were found, and where. The mother listened with fixed attention, leaning forward, her sharp face betraying little emotion. Corrie concluded with a description of the undressing and, finally, the discovery of the lightning stones and what they were.
When she was done, there was a short silence.
“Do you have any questions, Mrs. Vine?” Corrie asked after what she considered an appropriate interval.
She looked at Corrie steadily. “I have many questions, but none, I believe, that you can answer—at least, not yet. But,” she added, “I’m sureyouhave questions. I’m ready to do whatever I can to help you find answers.”
“I appreciate that very much,” said Corrie. “Do you feel able to continue now? I can always return if this is a difficult moment.”
“It’s no more difficult than the last five years, dealing with slapdash investigations, second-rate detectives, and uncaring police departments. I sense with you, Agent Swanson, someone who actually cares—at last.”
“I’m sorry,” said Corrie, careful not to show any reaction to this unexpected compliment. “Thank you for your trust.”
The woman nodded crisply.
Corrie took out her notebook on which she had jotted down her questions. “Before leaving, I’ll need to take a DNA sample from you, for legal confirmation.”
The woman nodded.
“Would you mind giving me an idea of Molly’s life situation in the year or so before her disappearance? We’re trying to get a picture of what led up to her, um, trek into the desert.”
“Molly taught English at Santa Fe High. She commuted there from Tesuque.”
“She seems to have changed teaching positions often. Any reason for that?”
The woman let out a sigh. “Even from a young age, Molly was restless. She was a seeker and questioner. She always hoped that a change would somehow make things better.”
“Why did she abandon her PhD?” Corrie asked.
The woman shrugged. “I wish I knew. She was so excited about her subject, her professor, her fieldwork. And then… all of a sudden, she dropped it all. After that, she drifted around a bit, tried her hand at modeling and acting. Finally, when I shut off the funds, she went back to school and got a teaching certificate. But not with any great enthusiasm.”
“She lived here in Tesuque?”
“Yes. Not with me, though. We somehow drifted apart. At least, she drifted from me—I don’t know why. She had a little house inthe village and would come by occasionally for dinner. But she became distant, and nothing I did seemed to help.” The woman paused. “We never had a falling out, just a drifting away.”
“But you did discuss it with her—if anything in particular was going on, or if she had something on her mind?”
“I tried to, but she was evasive.”
“Her MA was in archaeology,” said Corrie. “The Gallina culture, I believe.”
“Yes. She was deeply, deeply interested in the Gallina, spent several summers doing fieldwork out in those remote canyons. I just couldn’t understand why she dropped out. Everything I’d heard up to that point implied her work was brilliant. Her PhD advisor was Carlos Oskarbi, you know.”
The name did not ring a bell with Corrie. “Oskarbi?”