Page 15 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

T HE V INE PLACE in 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 lining the 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 sure you have 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 in the 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?”

“The fellow who wrote the book about the Totonteac Indians of Mexico. A seminal work. I met him a few times when Molly was working with him—an interesting man.”

“Is he still teaching at UNM?” Corrie asked.

He would be an obvious person to talk to.

“No. He left the university years ago. Went back to Mexico.”

Corrie glanced at her notes.

“The investigation into her disappearance—what can you tell me about that?”

Vine leaned back, a disgusted look on her face.

“It was a perfunctory nightmare. The police, detectives, investigators all made it quite clear from the beginning that they had no interest. They assumed she’d run off somewhere, no doubt getting away from her rich, domineering mother.”

“And Molly’s father? What role did he play?”

The look of disgust deepened.

“Last I heard—which was twenty years ago—he was a drunken beach bum in Hawaii. I doubt he even knows she disappeared—assuming he’s still alive.”

“So you don’t have his contact information?”

“No.”

Corrie looked through her notes.

The remaining questions were increasingly awkward.

“Did your daughter ever show signs of suicidal ideation or ever attempt suicide?”

“No.”

“Was she ever treated for depression or any psychological issues?”

“Not that I know of. I believe she saw a therapist for a while after she dropped out of the PhD program—but that was just one of the many subjects she wouldn’t talk to me about.”

“You wouldn’t know the name of the therapist, by any chance?”

“No. But if you’re implying Molly committed suicide, I can assure you she did not.”

“Forgive the question, but how can you be so certain? In many ways, walking out into the desert as she did seems like a voluntary act.”

The woman’s eyes widened, their whites showing.

“I may not have been as close to my daughter recently as I once was. But whatever problems she may have had, whatever troubles she faced, she had a steady core. Always. I gave her that, if nothing else. She wouldn’t just throw her life away. Not uselessly. Not on impulse, the way people who string themselves up in their bathrooms seem to do.”

Now seemed a good time to change the subject.

“Would you mind please telling me the source of your family’s wealth?”

The woman was taken aback.

“How is that relevant?”

“It probably isn’t, and again I’m sorry for the intrusive questioning. But we need to gather as much information as we can. There’s no way to know in advance what might be significant later on.”

“Oil,” she said crisply.

“Texas.”

Corrie wrote this down.

“By the time she was twenty-one, Molly was married and divorced. Can you tell me about that?”

“Ugh. She’d just graduated college. Married in haste. Not long into the PhD program, she realized he was a bum and got rid of him.”

“Why did she marry him?”

“I wondered that myself. He had nothing obvious to recommend him. Nothing at all. Perhaps he was well hung.”

Corrie covered up her surprise by pretending to take notes.

“Can you give me his name?”

“Kenneth Curtis.”

“Did she have a current boyfriend at the time she disappeared?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Any close friends?”

“She had some friends among her colleagues from her time at UNM. I have her old address book and can look them up for you.”

“Could I borrow it?”

A hesitation.

“I suppose so.” She got up and walked over to a large cupboard across the living room and unlocked and opened it.

Corrie could see it was filled with memorabilia—graduation diplomas, framed photos, a bundle of letters, some books, a bound thesis, knickknacks, and a beaten-up teddy bear—clearly a sort of shrine to her daughter.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Vine. Would you mind if we borrowed some of this material?”

The woman turned.

“It’s all I have left of my daughter. I would hate to lose it.”

“I understand. We’re experts at handling evidence. I’ll send over our Evidence Response Team, and they’ll inventory every item and pack it up with care. I promise you’ll get everything back as soon as we’ve reviewed it.”

Corrie looked into the woman’s gray eyes, and for the first time she could see the depth of anguish in them.

Grief was finally breaking through the facade of this tough old Texas rancher lady.

“All right,” she said as she picked up first an address book, then a hairbrush, from the makeshift shrine.

“Molly was no stranger to the desert. She never would have gone out there unprepared without a reason. I… hope and pray that you find that reason.”