Time of the Wolves by Marcia Muller

Author:Marcia Muller
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781612323503
Publisher: Speaking Volumes
Published: 2012-07-17T04:00:00+00:00

Shoemaker’s Lincoln was parked in the drive of the Victorian, a dusty Honda motorcycle beside it. As I rang the doorbell, I again tried to picture a younger, free-spirited Steve bumming around the country on a bike with Jack, but the image simply wouldn’t come clear. It took Shoemaker a while to answer the door, and, when he saw me, his mouth pulled down in displeasure.

“Come in, and be quick about it,” he told me. “I’m on an important conference call.”

I was quick about it. He rushed down the hallway to what must be a study, and I went into the parlor where we’d talked the day before. Unlike his offices, it was exquisitely decorated, calling up images of the days of the lumber barons. Andrea’s work, probably. Had she also done his offices ? Perhaps their gaudy decor was her way of getting back at a husband who put his political life ahead of their marriage ?

It was at least a half an hour before Shoemaker finished with his call. He appeared in the archway leading to the hall, somewhat disheveled, running his fingers through his hair. “Come with me,” he said. “I have something to show you.”

He led me to a large kitchen at the back of the house. A floral arrangement sat on a granite-topped center island: white lilies with a single red rose. Shoemaker handed me the card. My sympathy on your wife’s passing. It was signed: John.

“Where’s Missus Shoemaker?” I asked.

“Apparently she went out to the coast last night. I haven’t seen her since she walked out on us at the noon hour.”

“And you’ve been home the whole time?”

He nodded. “Mainly on the phone.”

“Why didn’t you call me when she didn’t come home?”

“I didn’t realize she hadn’t until mid-morning. We have separate bedrooms, and Andrea comes and goes as she pleases. Then this arrangement arrived, and my conference call came through. . . .” He shrugged, spreading his hands helplessly.

“All right,” I said. “I’m going out there whether she likes it or not. And I think you’d better clear up whatever you’re doing here and follow. Maybe your showing up there will convince her you care about her safety, make her listen to reason.”

As I spoke, Shoemaker had taken a fifth of Tanqueray gin and a jar of Del Prado Spanish olives from a Lucky sack that sat on the counter. He opened a cupboard, reached for a glass.

“No,” I said. “This is no time to have a drink.”

He hesitated, then replaced the glass, and began giving me directions to the cabin. His voice was flat, and his curious travelogue-like digressions made me feel as if I were listening to a tape of a National Geographic special. Reality, I thought, had finally sunk in, and it had turned him into an automaton.

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