Page 84 of The Dead Come to Stay
“So, still think Ava and Foley are a thing?” Green asked him.
He had to admit, it was looking less and less likely.
“Gold star to you,” he said. “Not a jilted lover.”
“Not one who gets revenge on refugee women,” Green said. “Particularly not pregnant ones.”
“Agreed.”
“You fancy Sophie might be?” she asked as they wandered down another corridor. It was a question worth answering. But best answered, perhaps, in her absence. If, that is, they could get any of her many supposedly thankful employees to talk about her.
Finding their way around the club provided some exercise. A sprawling set of interconnected buildings and extensive grounds—kitchens, banquet hall, private rooms. The land Lime Tree occupied made up part of an estate long ago, but was converted to a golf club in the 1890s. Harold Wagner purchased it in 1999, and his wife, Sophie, succeeded him at his passing, raising up young Simon and turning the club—somehow—into the platform for Fresh Start in 2002. The charity grew faster than the club memberships. Then again, this seemed to be an overall trend nationally.
“It’s generational,” Green said as they peered into a busy kitchen prep room. “Young people don’t do clubs and golf.”
“Rebellion against their parents?” MacAdams asked.
“Maybe. Or, you know. The world is on fire and hitting a ball with sticks feels a bit silly.”
MacAdams shrugged. “It’s about rubbing shoulders, though, isn’t it?” he asked, hunting the kitchen’s flushed faces for recent sponsored refugees. “Business types doing deals on the green.”
“People don’t have to rub shoulders anymore, boss. It’s what Zoom is for. Over there—is that one of them?” MacAdams had just glimpsed Anje, the woman they met on their last visit to the country club. She was headed out through the rear door, toward the patio.
“You take the left; I’ll take the right,” MacAdams said.
Would she actively avoid them? Probably not. But he wasn’ttaking chances, and meeting outside would be less threatening. He’d found the side door, but by the time he crossed the grass, Green had already intercepted Anje.
“And this is Detective MacAdams,” Green said, giving him a nod. “We were wondering if you could look at a picture for us, tell us if you recognize the person in it?”
MacAdams held it up, but Anje looked away. “I can’t. I have to collect the herbs for tonight.”
“Just look, please?” Green asked; she barely gave it a glance.
“I—I don’t know. I don’t think so. I have to go.”
It was deeply suspicious... or was it? MacAdams noted that none of the sponsored refugees wanted to look police in the face. And perhaps that made sense. This did not bode well.
“You could really help us if you took a closer look,” he said, but his phone had begun to buzz. The number wasn’t familiar; he handed the sketch over to Green.
“MacAdams here,” he said.
“Oh! Detective? I—I didn’t really expect you to answer.” The voice was excited, breathy, and not wholly unfamiliar.
“This is?”
“Sorry, sorry! I’m Emma. Rosalind’s foster mother. You said if there was anything else, I should call—” she began, and MacAdams nearly dropped the damn phone trying to fish out his notepad. He wedged the mobile between ear and shoulder.
“Yes! Go on,” he said, nodding that Green should continue. Anje was already shaking her head negative; she didn’t know the girl in the drawing. If Green was asking her about Sophie, he didn’t hear over Emma’s rapid-fire speech.
“Well, I took her phone away. Rosalind’s. That’s how they all communicate these days, and I never know what’s what.”
“Ma’am,” MacAdams said, hoping to hurry things up. Several of the staff had just come out to the patio, too. Maybe for a smoke. Maybe looking for Anje.
“I want what’s best for her. You understand. And she shouldn’t be hanging out with that boyfriend of hers. They get into trouble together.”
MacAdams suppressed a sigh and rehomed the notepad. This was going to be an angry parent’s witch hunt, no doubt.
“But he has been texting her. I don’t know the passcode, but you canseewho it is. Keeps wanted to know ‘what happened.’ I thought you should know, because that’s how she got mixed up. If it weren’t for Domino, or whatever he calls himself, she’d be fine—”
