two. If not, only a few fleeting moments. I suspect mine had come and gone long ago. And as I watched the woman swaying gently to Lonnie Cavander’s music, I wondered if this was hers.
“The most beautiful woman in Kreel County,” Deputy Rovick informed me.
“Most beautiful woman in any county,” I said, then caught myself. I hadn’t realized I was going to say that. After a few embarrassed moments I said, “At the risk of demonstrating my ignorance yet again, what is she doing in Deer Lake, Wisconsin?”
“Ingrid owns the place.”
“The whole town?”
“Just the part you’re sitting in.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You were expecting a bunch of inbred hicks dressed in overalls and sucking on jugs of mash, weren’t you?”
“You have to admit that pretty much describes the clientele over at The Last Chance.”
“Do I?”
“Perhaps it’s my imagination, but your speech did seem to contain certain countrified colloquialisms that magically disappeared once you crossed the street.”
“You’ve got me there,” the deputy said and then presented her hand. “I’m Gretchen Rovick,” she said as if we had just met.
“Holland Taylor,” I answered, accepting the charade. Now we could start over.
We discussed Alison for an hour or more, Gretchen contributing extended anecdotes—like the time Alison embarrassed an American history teacher who couldn’t see how the rivalry between Andrew Jackson and his southern-born vice president over Jackson’s mistress, Peggy O’Neal, had contributed to the outbreak of the Civil War. Or the time she purposely answered all one hundred questions in a true-false test wrong to see how her teacher would react. (Alison argued it was impossible to get one hundred percent wrong unless you knew all the correct answers. The teacher gave her an F anyway.)
Often Gretchen would slip into the present tense. “I still can’t believe Alison’s gone,” she’d say when she caught herself.
Gretchen and Alison had been childhood friends, growing up across the street from each other. Occasionally Alison would accompany the Rovick family on weekend retreats to Deer Lake, where they kept a cabin. And when Alison’s other friends began to shun her after she was certified a genius, Gretchen remained steadfast and true.
“It wasn’t her fault she was smarter than everyone else,” Gretchen declared as if intelligence was a handicap.
The two friends didn’t drift apart until the age of nineteen. Alison was at the University of Minnesota, completing work on her master’s. Gretchen had enrolled in the Law Enforcement program at Minnesota State University in Mankato. After graduation, Gretchen moved to Deer Lake and took a job with the Kreel County Sheriff’s Department. Still, the two women spoke at least three times a week by telephone. Inexplicably, Alison’s last call, according to her phone records, was placed one whole month before she disappeared. About the same time Marie Audette had lost track of her.
“We spoke every other day,” Gretchen said. “Our phone bills were outrageous. Then one day she stopped calling me, and when I called her, all I got was her machine.”
I told her about the harassing phone calls and suggested that that was the reason Alison refused to answer the telephone.
“Doesn’t explain why she quit calling me,” Gretchen said. She turned away, and I was afraid she might start to cry. I hate it when women cry. There’s never anything I can think to do about it except watch. Only she didn’t cry. Instead she asked, “Is there anything else?” obviously anxious to end the conversation.
“Stephen Emerton claims Alison was having an affair with someone while she was working for the health-care company, possibly a doctor.”
“Stephen is a jerk,” Gretchen insisted.
“That’s already been firmly established,” I replied. “But is he also a liar?”
Gretchen breathed wearily. “The woman in me says Stephen is full of
“The most beautiful woman in Kreel County,” Deputy Rovick informed me.
“Most beautiful woman in any county,” I said, then caught myself. I hadn’t realized I was going to say that. After a few embarrassed moments I said, “At the risk of demonstrating my ignorance yet again, what is she doing in Deer Lake, Wisconsin?”
“Ingrid owns the place.”
“The whole town?”
“Just the part you’re sitting in.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You were expecting a bunch of inbred hicks dressed in overalls and sucking on jugs of mash, weren’t you?”
“You have to admit that pretty much describes the clientele over at The Last Chance.”
“Do I?”
“Perhaps it’s my imagination, but your speech did seem to contain certain countrified colloquialisms that magically disappeared once you crossed the street.”
“You’ve got me there,” the deputy said and then presented her hand. “I’m Gretchen Rovick,” she said as if we had just met.
“Holland Taylor,” I answered, accepting the charade. Now we could start over.
We discussed Alison for an hour or more, Gretchen contributing extended anecdotes—like the time Alison embarrassed an American history teacher who couldn’t see how the rivalry between Andrew Jackson and his southern-born vice president over Jackson’s mistress, Peggy O’Neal, had contributed to the outbreak of the Civil War. Or the time she purposely answered all one hundred questions in a true-false test wrong to see how her teacher would react. (Alison argued it was impossible to get one hundred percent wrong unless you knew all the correct answers. The teacher gave her an F anyway.)
Often Gretchen would slip into the present tense. “I still can’t believe Alison’s gone,” she’d say when she caught herself.
Gretchen and Alison had been childhood friends, growing up across the street from each other. Occasionally Alison would accompany the Rovick family on weekend retreats to Deer Lake, where they kept a cabin. And when Alison’s other friends began to shun her after she was certified a genius, Gretchen remained steadfast and true.
“It wasn’t her fault she was smarter than everyone else,” Gretchen declared as if intelligence was a handicap.
The two friends didn’t drift apart until the age of nineteen. Alison was at the University of Minnesota, completing work on her master’s. Gretchen had enrolled in the Law Enforcement program at Minnesota State University in Mankato. After graduation, Gretchen moved to Deer Lake and took a job with the Kreel County Sheriff’s Department. Still, the two women spoke at least three times a week by telephone. Inexplicably, Alison’s last call, according to her phone records, was placed one whole month before she disappeared. About the same time Marie Audette had lost track of her.
“We spoke every other day,” Gretchen said. “Our phone bills were outrageous. Then one day she stopped calling me, and when I called her, all I got was her machine.”
I told her about the harassing phone calls and suggested that that was the reason Alison refused to answer the telephone.
“Doesn’t explain why she quit calling me,” Gretchen said. She turned away, and I was afraid she might start to cry. I hate it when women cry. There’s never anything I can think to do about it except watch. Only she didn’t cry. Instead she asked, “Is there anything else?” obviously anxious to end the conversation.
“Stephen Emerton claims Alison was having an affair with someone while she was working for the health-care company, possibly a doctor.”
“Stephen is a jerk,” Gretchen insisted.
“That’s already been firmly established,” I replied. “But is he also a liar?”
Gretchen breathed wearily. “The woman in me says Stephen is full of
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