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I hand him the binoculars, and he peers through them as Tom enters the house. On the first floor, the kitchen lights flick on. They’re soon followed by the dining room lights as Tom makes his way deeper into the house.
“What’s he doing?” I ask Boone.
“Opening the bag.”
“What’s in it?”
Boone sighs, getting annoyed. “I don’t know yet.”
That ignorance lasts only a second longer before Boone lets out a low whistle. Handing the binoculars back to me, he says, “You need to see this.”
I lift the binoculars to my eyes and see Tom Royce standing at the dining room table. Spread out before him is everything he bought from the hardware store.
A plastic tarp folded into a tidy rectangle.
A coil of rope.
And a hacksaw with teeth so sharp they glint in the light of the dining room.
“I think,” Boone says, “it might be time to call my detective friend.”
Detective Wilma Anson isn’t even close to what I expected. In my mind, I pictured someone similar to the detective I played in a three-episode arc ofLaw & Order: SVU. Tough. No-nonsense. Dressed in the same type of function-over-style pantsuit my character wore. The woman at my door, however, wears purple yoga pants, a bulky sweatshirt, and a pink headband taming her black curls. A yellow scrunchie circles her right wrist. Wilma catches me looking at it as I shake her hand and says, “It’s my daughter’s. She’s at karate class right now. I have exactly twenty minutes until I need to go pick her up.”
At least the no-nonsense part meets my expectations.
Wilma’s demeanor is softer to Boone, but only by a degree. She manages a quick hug before spotting the liquor cabinet two rooms away.
“You okay with that around?” she asks him.
“I’m fine, Wilma.”
“You sure?”
“Certain.”
“I believe you,” Wilma says. “But you better call me if you so much as think of touching one of those bottles.”
In that moment, I get a glimpse of their relationship. Former colleagues, most likely, who know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. He’s analcoholic. She’s support. And I’m just the bad influence thrown into the mix because of something suspicious taking place on the other side of the lake.
“Show me the house,” Wilma says.
Boone and I lead her to the porch, where she stands at the railing and takes in the dark sky and even darker lake with curious appraisal. Directly across from us, the Royce house has lights on in the kitchen and master bedroom, but from this distance and without the binoculars, it’s impossible to pinpoint Tom’s location inside.
Wilma gestures to the house and says, “That’s where your friend lives?”
“Yes,” I say. “Tom and Katherine Royce.”
“I know who the Royces are,” Wilma says. “Just like I know who you are.”
From her tone, I gather Wilma’s seen the terrible-but-true tabloid headlines about me. It’s also clear she disapproves.
“Tell me why you think Mrs. Royce is in danger.”
I pause, unsure just where to begin, even though I should have known the question was coming. Of course a police detective is going to ask me why I think my neighbor did something to his missing wife. I become aware of Wilma Anson’s stare. Annoyance clouds her features, and I worry she’ll just up and leave if I don’t say something in the next two seconds.
“We heard a scream this morning,” Boone says, coming to my rescue. “A woman’s scream. It came from their side of the lake.”
“And I saw things,” I add. “Worrisome things.”