An Accidental Woman Read online

  “Hello?” he called.

  When no one answered, he ducked back out and went around the sugarhouse. A woodshed, piled high with logs, stood against the east end of the fieldstone structure, close beside a huge set of double doors. Behind the sugarhouse, on the north, were two large steel tanks. Another tank, even larger, sat on a platform a few yards up the hill, and yet other machine stood off to the right. A bit farther off, nearly hidden in a stand of billowy firs, was a doorless garage, in which he could see a large tractor with a yellow plow on the front.

  He headed up the hill toward the sound of the saw. Once past the tamped-down stretch, his boots sank deeper in the snow, but they were the right boots now, and besides, he figured that the saw couldn’t be far. He crested one small rise and saw an evenly spaced stand of bare maples with snow on their limbs. He had to steer right and crest another rise before he finally spotted Micah in the distance. He was out of breath and sweating under his thermals before he was halfway there. By then, Micah had spotted him and killed the saw.

  Had Griffin been a timid man, he might have turned and run. Micah Smith was a head taller than he was, the chainsaw might have been a toy for the ease with which he held it, and, below an orange wool hat, his face was threatening and dark.

  Truth be told, Griffin couldn’t turn and run, even if he had been timid. He could barely wade through the snow those last few yards, but wade he did, trying to look as pleasant and nonchalant and non-threatening as possible. When he was within striking distance, he stuck out a hand.

  “I’m Griffin Hughes.”

  “I know who you are,” Micah said and turned back to the tree he had downed. The stump was a dozen feet off, surrounded by sawdust in the snow. The branches had been removed and stacked in long pieces. With a quick pull, he set the chainsaw to snarling and went to work on the trunk.

  Griffin watched. Micah made a clear cut, then moved down two feet. The tree trunk was easily twelve inches in diameter and, to Griffin’s eye,looked healthy enough. When curiosity got the best of him, he plodded around so that Micah could see him. Then he yelled over the sound of the saw, “Was it sick?”

  “No,” Micah yelled back. He finished another cut and moved on to the next.

  “So why’d you chop it down?” Griffin called.

  Micah finished another. “Snow,” he said and moved on.

  “Snow what?”

  Micah sawed off that piece, moved down the trunk, severed another. Silencing the chainsaw then, he straightened and, with resignation, said, “It was a good tree. I put it in as a sapling a long time ago, and I’ve tapped it for two years now. South exposure, it got good sun and had a broad crown.” He looked around the sugarbush. Some of the trees had a handful of withered brown leaves that hadn’t had a chance to fall off before being frozen in place. “It was too broad for it’s own good. The first snow came in October, wet and heavy on a full head of hair. The weight was too much.” He hitched his chin toward the longer branches piled on the snow near the stump. “The biggest of those broke right off under the weight, took nearly half the crown. A tree won’t produce sap without the starch brought in by the leaves. No leaves, no starch, no sap. If I left this one standing, it’d only take sun away from more promising trees in the grid.”

  He started up the chainsaw and went at the next section of trunk.

  Griffin continued to look around the sugarbush. The maples were utterly still, seeming too cold to even shiver. They were carefully spaced, and while his island was mostly evergreen, the only evergreens here stood off in a group on the side. Had Griffin been poetic, he’d have said they were watching everything that happened there.

  “Windbreak,” Micah called over the sound of the saw. “Protects the maples from a northwesterly blow.”

  Griffin could understand the why of that, but he had dozens of other questions. That said, he wasn’t pushing his luck. Instinct told him that he was privileged to have gotten as many words from Micah as he had. So he settled for calling over the growl of the saw, “Do you sell the wood?”

  Micah finished the cut. “No.”

  “What do you do with it?”

  “Burn it. Evaporator can use up to a cord of wood a day. If the season’s long, I’ll need all I can get.” He went back to work.

  Griffin spotted the ax, and was sorely tempted. He’d been barely a teenager when his grandfather had taught him how to split wood at the cabin in Wyoming. He had spent the best summers of his life at that cabin, and had indeed split many a cord.

  Warmed by the memory, he picked up the ax. Testing its weight, he shifted it in his gloved hand until there was a sense of familiarity. Then he took the first of the large logs in the line of severed sections and stood it in the snow. Legs spraddled, he raised the ax high, eyed the soft spot he wanted, and struck. Like a shot, the log split down the middle.

  “All right,” he crowed and looked up half expecting to see his white-haired grandfather grinning from ear to ear.

  The sight of Micah, glowering, was a shock. “Don’t sue me if you cut off your toe.”

  “I won’t cut off my toe. I was taught better.”

  With a disparaging snort, Micah revved up the chainsaw and turned away.

  Feeling invigorated, Griffin split each half of the log again, then started over with the next log, and then the next. Finding a rhythm, he worked his way down the tree.

  When Micah was done with the saw, he began loading the split logs onto the sled.

  Griffin finished his part and, game for more, eyed the pile of branches. “Is that kindling?”

  “Another day. Grab the reins,” Micah instructed, tossing his chin toward the back of the sled, where leather straps trailed from the corners over the trampled snow. Griffin caught up the two just as Micah began to pull.

  It should have been easy at the back end. Micah was the engine. All Griffin had to do was hold on tight enough to prevent a runaway sled. By the time they had gone all the way back down the hill and reached the sugarhouse, though, his arms were as tired as his thighs. “What the hell’s the tractor for?” he called as Micah kicked and pulled the sled around to the exact spot he wanted.

  “To make things easier.”

  “So why didn’t you take it up there?”

  Micah shot him a cold look. “Because I felt like working at things. You have a problem with that?”

  “Nope,” Griffin said, because he wasn’t having Micah think he couldn’t hack it. “Not me.”

  And the work wasn’t done. When Micah started tossing wood from the sled to the top of the pile by the sugarhouse wall, Griffin chipped right in. He figured that sore muscles were a small price to pay for a bit of respect.

  Still, he was flagging badly when Micah straightened and, alert now, turned toward the road. “Poppy,” he said.

  Just when Griffin needed a rush of adrenaline, the sight of the red Blazer brought it. It came down the road with the crunch of tires on packed snow and disappeared in front of the house. He was setting the last of the logs up on the pile when two little girls rounded the corner at a run and made for Micah. They were beautiful children, one slightly taller than the other, both with bright jackets and hats, long dark hair, and big dark eyes. Griffin imagined he saw hope in those eyes as they looked up at their father.

  Not wanting to see that hope die when they asked about Heather, Griffin took off his gloves, raised a hand in a wave, and said on an up note, “Good workout. Thanks.”

  He strode off, around the house to the front. Poppy was already out of the Blazer and up the ramp at the end of the porch. He took the porch steps by twos, nearly collapsing on the top one, his legs were that weak, but he reached the door in time to open it for her.

  Sending him a wary look, she rolled past. Once she was inside and clear of the door, she pulled off her chair gloves, took a cloth from a side pannier, and began to wipe loose bits of snow from her wheels. “Are you bothering Micah?” she asked.

  “Nope. Just working up a little sweat.”
He pulled a candy from his pocket. “Want a kiss?”

  She glanced at the candy and seemed about to say something tart when the back door slammed. Her eyes flew that way, reflecting concern.

  Taking the cloth from her hand, he hunkered down and finished up. From the back hall came shuffling sounds as the girls took off their things, then a soft running. The smaller of the two appeared first, then the older. Both stopped just inside the front room.

  “Who’re you?” the older one asked.

  “He’s . . . uh, he’s . . .” Poppy tried, and as endearing as Griffin found her unsureness, he couldn’t let her suffer.

  “Griffin,” he said. Dropping the cloth on his thigh, he held out his hand. He stayed on his haunches, hoping to be less intimidating that way.

  “That’s Missy,” Poppy told him, “and Star just behind.”

  “Missy.” Griffin mimed shaking her hand, then did the same with the younger child. “Star.” So. Smiths didn’t shake hands. In Micah’s case, he assumed it was animosity. In the case of the girls, he figured it was caution. They had never seen him before. He was a stranger.

  Instinct told him that getting the girls to like him would help him with Poppy. So he said, “I’m pleased to meet you both. I’m a friend of Poppy’s. And I just helped your dad chop wood.”

  “Are you sugarhelp?” Missy asked warily.

  “She means hired to help with sugaring,” Poppy explained.

  “Oh, no,” Griffin told the girls. “Just a friend.” He smiled. When neither of the girls smiled back, he reached into his pocket, pulled out several candies, and tried a hopeful, “Want a kiss?” The girls looked at his hand. He figured that if he could get the older one to accept him, the younger one would follow. “Missy?”

  “It’s Melissa,” she said, standing her ground, “and we don’t eat chocolate candy here. We eat maple sugar candy.”

  “Ah. I didn’t know that. I mean, I should’ve. It makes sense. Do you make the candy yourself?”

  “With Heather,” the little girl said, daring him to ask more.

  But before he could, Star slipped out from behind and came forward. Her eyes were on Griffin’s hand. “I like chocolate,” she said in the smallest little voice. “Is that from Charlie’s?”

  “It sure is,” Griffin replied. “I used to get these at the country store near my granddad’s cabin in Wyoming.”

  Poppy cleared her throat.

  He shot her a glance. “It’s true. You don’t think that a guy who could invent Hummers would live in Trump Tower, do you?” Something touched his hand.

  “Do these have nuts?” Star asked as she turned one of the kisses in his palm.

  Griffin scrutinized the wrappers. “Not these.” Shifting the kisses to his other hand, he dug back into his pocket. He came up with a single one, checked the color of its wrapper, and grinned. “This one does. I knew I had an assortment. Want it? Poppy doesn’t. She’s on a diet.”

  “She doesn’t need to diet,” the child said, savvy enough on that score. She took the candy from his hand, unwrapped it with careful skill, and took a bite. The chocolate was still melting on her front teeth when she looked at Griffin. “I like the ones with nuts. If you come again, bring those.” She turned and went back into the kitchen. Missy must have gone there, too, because she was nowhere in sight.

  “You’re playing with fire,” Poppy warned. “That child is vulnerable.”

  Griffin held up the cloth, arched his brows, and pointed to the pannier. As he tucked it in there, he said, “I won’t hurt her. She sensed that. Children are like animals that way. They feel vibes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have twelve nieces and nephews. I watch them. They know right away whether someone coming into the room likes kids or not. Hey.” He grinned. “I have something for you.”

  “I told you. No kisses.”

  “Nope,” he said and stood. Even with one hand on the arm of Poppy’s chair, he felt the strain in his thighs. A groan escaped before he could bite it back.

  Poppy smiled. “Oh my. You have a little problem.”

  “Nothing a hot shower won’t fix,” Griffin said and put his mouth to her ear. “I got a pack from California. When do you want it?”

  * * *

  With the phone bank set to beep when a call came in, Poppy sat by the hearth in her home blotting out thoughts of everything but the pack onher lap. She had glanced through it all, but was most drawn to the photos. They showed Lisa Matlock in a formal high school graduation shot, a less formal hiking-club shot with her head circled, a distant view of her as she worked serving food in the background of what looked to be a wedding, and a blow-up of her driver’s license.“What do you think?” Griffin asked, coming up from behind.

  Poppy put the formal graduation shot on top and studied it for the longest time. With each passing minute, her heart felt heavier.

  No resemblance, she wanted to say. These are two distinctly different women. At the very least she wanted to say that they might have been identical twins and still she could tell the difference between them. But she couldn’t even say that. All she could manage was a discouraged, “Amazing.”

  “They look alike.”

  “Yes.” She glanced up at Griffin. He was still fresh from the shower and looked handsome indeed. She might have dwelt on how much so, if the other matter hadn’t been so weighty. “If this was the one your brother had on the wall, I can understand why you stared. The resemblance is . . .”

  “Uncanny.”

  It was, indeed. “Which doesn’t mean it’s her,” Poppy hastened to say, and not out of sheer obstinacy. She was grateful to Griffin for having gotten these, because it did explain why there may have been a mix-up. Still, she was Heather’s friend. Out of loyalty alone, she wasn’t ready to say that Heather was Lisa. “People do look alike. There are only so many different eyes, noses, and mouths. Same with hair.” She guessed that fifteen years later, Lisa Matlock might have silver strands there, too.

  “And smiles? That was what got me when I was here in October. Even aside from the scar, the smile is the same.”

  Poppy actually found the eyes more gripping. The graduation shot was in color, and those eyes had the same irridescence as Heather’s. “According to these records, her school grades were good. Same with recommendations. It’s no wonder she was offered a scholarship.” She singled one page out from the rest. It was a medical report from the emergency room of a Sacramento hospital, made eight months before Rob DiCenza’sdeath. The cut at the corner of Lisa’s mouth wasn’t the only thing mentioned. There had been other facial bruises. The doctor noted that though the patient denied it, he suspected domestic abuse.

  “Why didn’t he pursue it?” Poppy asked, knowing that Griffin was reading over her shoulder.

  “He had no legal obligation to do that. Lisa said she was eighteen. It was a lie, but he didn’t know it. He might have pursued something if she’d come in battered time and again, but she didn’t. If there were other incidents, she went to a different hospital.”

  “Your person didn’t find other records?”

  “Not yet. He’s still looking.”

  Poppy returned to the graduation photo. She compared it to the other photos. The scar was there in all but the driver’s license. “When did she get her license?”

  “Right after she turned seventeen.”

  “The date of birth here says April. Heather’s birthday is in November.”

  Griffin said nothing.

  “You’re thinking Heather may have lied.” Poppy wondered it, too. “We know that Lisa is capable of lying, if she told the doctor she was eighteen when she wasn’t. But no one who knows Heather here can think of any time when she lied.”

  The phone bank beeped. Poppy wheeled around and returned there, setting the papers on the sofa as she passed. Not surprisingly, the call coming in was on Micah’s line. One of every four she received lately was for him.

  She was on edge even before she answ
ered. “Hello?”

  “Micah Smith, please,” said a deep-voiced man.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Samuel Atkins, Sacramento Bee.” His tone was nonchalant, like Micah was someone he talked with regularly.

  “Samuel Atkins, Sacramento Bee,” Poppy repeated less nonchalantly. “And you think I’ll just put the call through to Mr. Smith?”

  “Who is this?”

  “His press secretary. He isn’t taking calls. He isn’t doing interviews.”

  “I’m prepared to pay.”

  “Well, that’s a new twist,” Poppy said, “but it would mean prostitution on the part of Mr. Smith. He isn’t that desperate, Samuel Atkins, Sacramento Bee.” She punched off the call with a flourish and a snort. “That man has called before,” she told Griffin. “He used another name, but I know the voice.” She let out a breath, then drew in another and told herself to relax. Tossing the headset on the desk, she went back to the sofa for the packet Griffin had brought.

  She returned the graduation photo to the top and searched it for something, anything that didn’t match. Lisa’s ears were pierced; so were Heather’s. Lisa’s hair was long, dark, and wavy; so was Heather’s. Lisa even had the same uneven edge on her two top front teeth.

  “So,” Poppy reasoned, “if I were Lisa, and I was as smart as she was, wouldn’t I have done something to change my appearance?” She looked up at Griffin. “I mean, right there you have the best argument for why these women can’t be the same person. It would be just dumb to disappear and then resurface somewhere else looking exactly the same.”

  “Unless the somewhere else was the last place on earth where you think a lawman would look,” he reasoned. “And if she left no paper trail—if she used a new name, new driver’s license, new Social Security number—it wouldn’t have been so dumb. Changing the paperwork is a hell of a lot easier, and cheaper, than plastic surgery. A few questions on a street corner will tell you who to see where, and a little money closes the deal.”