“If I talk to her, I’ll tell her you said so.”
“Give both of them my love.”
Driving south again I had a lot on my mind. I was still mulling over the account Hale Brandenberg had given me about Grand. When it came to Greg and Shelly’s departure, I confess I felt vindicated. They hadn’t turned around at all, let alone snatched first Rain and then Mary Claire. I understood Deborah’s reasoning, but the points she cited were circumstantial, a crude cause and effect that didn’t hold up to scrutiny. This was the kicker from my perspective: if Greg and Shelly weren’t guilty, then who was?
When I reached the office, I parked, snagged my shoulder bag, and got out of the car, locking it behind me. I noticed a car parked directly across from mine, a sleek white Corvette with a woman in the driver’s seat and a guy in the passenger seat next to her. The sun reflecting off the windshield prevented a clear view of the driver so I shrugged to myself and continued up the walk. I unlocked the office door, and as I was letting myself in I heard two car doors slam in quick succession.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Diana Alvarez moving in my direction. Her male companion was someone I’d never seen before. Oh, joy, I thought. She looked as buttoned-down as ever—loafers, black tights, and a black corduroy jumper worn over a white turtleneck. I could see that any outfit looked spiffier when paired with black tights, and I vowed to add more to my wardrobe. Since I was already the proud owner of two skirts, I’d be all set.
Diana carried a large leather tote, bulging from the weight of an oversized book. “I’m glad we caught you,” she said. “We were just about to take off. This is my brother, Ryan.”
Belatedly I saw the resemblance. The solemn dark eyes were clearly a family trait. “Nice to meet you,” I said.
Ryan and I shook hands. He wore gray slacks and a charcoal sport coat over a pin-striped dress shirt. His red tie introduced the only note of color. Offhand, I pegged him as a salesman working in the retail clothing business, maybe Sears. I couldn’t imagine why she was back again.
“Mind if we come in?” she asked.
“Might as well.”
I stepped back and let them move into the office ahead of me. They settled in the guest chairs, Diana adjusting her skirt before she placed her tote on the floor. She tilted the case against the modesty panel on the front of my desk. There was something self-satisfied in her demeanor, a quality I’d seen before and one that made me testy.
I sat down in my swivel chair. “What can I do for you?”
Even before she spoke I could tell she’d rehearsed her remarks, eager to present herself as someone organized and in control. “I told Ryan about the conversation we had—”
I interrupted, hoping to throw her off balance. “We’ve actually talked twice—once at the dig and again the next day.”
“I’m referring to our meeting here. Something nagged at me when you talked about Michael’s seeing the two men in Horton Ravine. If you’ll remember, I asked you then what made him so certain of the date and you told me it was because it happened on his sixth birthday.”
“Okay.”
“Even at the time it seemed off and I remember saying so.”
“You know you really don’t have to go through the whole thing again.”
“I’m touching on the salient points,” she said. “I hope you don’t object.”
“Far from it. I’m begging you to get on with it. I’ve got work to do.” She ignored that and went on. I half expected her to whip out her little spiral-bound notebook, but she’d committed her recital to memory. “You told me Mary Claire Fitzhugh was kidnapped on Wednesday, July 19, 1967. Michael claims he saw the two men two days later, on Friday, the twenty-first.”
I waved a hand in the air, dismissing the details, which I didn’t feel bore repeating. As far as I knew, none of this was in dispute.
She shot me a dark look and then went on. “According to his account, Mom dropped him off at the Kirkendalls’. Billie was sick so his mother let Michael wander on the property and that’s when he came across the two men. I’m repeating this for Ryan’s sake since he was the one who pointed out Michael’s error.”
“The error?”
“A whopper,” Ryan said.
“And what might that be?”
Diana reached for her tote and removed what I could see then was a scrapbook, the pages thick with newspaper clippings, programs, souvenirs, and party favors, some of which were sticking out. The assemblage was clearly the work of someone suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder, who couldn’t bear to throw anything away. She’d marked a particular page and she turned to it, reversing the album so I could see the contents without craning my neck.