Page 66 of Moonshine Kiss
The Kendalls were here. And I had questions.
When Callie disappeared, I’d been a kid. When Scarlett found the sweater, Detective Connelly had been pulled in quick, fast, and in a hurry. So I’d never actually had a professional conversation with the Kendalls about their daughter.
Sure, I’d seen them around town. Made small talk here and there. They were fixtures here during the summer, a couple of weekends in the spring and fall. They even did Christmas here every other year. Everyone always looked forward to the tree they’d put up in the second-floor window. All silver and tinseled.
The house was wood and stone with graying cedar shingles and multi-level decks off the back, taking advantage of the lakefront view. I’d never been inside. I wondered if any of Callie’s friends had. She’d never brought anyone to Bootleg with her for the summer. It was always just the three Kendalls.
And now it was only two.
I had a feeling Connelly wouldn’t take kindly to my pitstop, but odds were I wouldn’t dig up anything of interest. What harm could it do?
I pressed the doorbell, heard it echo inside.
I waited long enough to start to second and third guess myself before the door opened. “Oh. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone, Deputy…” Mrs. Kendall glanced down at my name tag. Her hair, a soft, silvery blonde, was pulled back in a sleek bun, and she was wearing black slacks and a black cowlneck sweater. She was barefoot.
“Tucker,” I supplied. “Cassidy Tucker.”
“Do you have…news?” she asked, reaching up to touch the gold cross she wore around her neck.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I had a few questions, if you’ve got a minute?”
“Certainly. Of course. Please come in,” she said, standing back from the door. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?”
“No thank you, Mrs. Kendall. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”
Mrs. Kendall led the way inside to a sunken living room with tall windows overlooking the lake. There was a two-story stone fireplace that divided the living space from the kitchen. An eclectic collection of art adorned the wood-paneled walls. It was a little outdated and a lot ornate. Kind of like Frank Lloyd Wright on a lake vacation with Rich Grandma’s heavy furniture and brocade sofas. No family photos, no throw pillows, no homey touches.
But Mrs. Kendall was barefoot, so it must be home.
“My husband isn’t here. Is this something I can help you with or would you prefer to wait for him?” Mrs. Kendall asked, perching on the edge of a green settee.
I took a seat on a silk covered couch across from her and took the plunge. “I was reviewing the original case files of the disappearance and wondered if you could tell me about Callie hurting herself.”
The woman across from me sucked in a tiny breath, and I wondered just how much pain she’d endured over the years. Would it ever end?
She knotted her hands in her lap. “I must say, I’m relieved that law enforcement is finally taking this seriously. You must understand, deputy, Callie’s father and I never believed there was any foul play. This fiasco with the Bodines is unnecessarily dragging another family into our pain. Callie was sick. Callie hurt herself.” The words burst forth like water over a dam.
Outwardly, I stayed calm. But on the inside, excitement bubbled.She knew something.“How did she hurt herself?”
“They call it cutting. She’d take knives or other sharp objects and slice at her wrists. Long shallow cuts,” Mrs. Kendall said. She was looking out the window with a faraway gaze. “I failed her. As a mother, I failed my child. Nothing I did helped her, fixed her.”
“Was she ever hospitalized?” I pressed. Were there medical records we didn’t know about?
Mrs. Kendall shook her head. “Callie and my husband, well, neither of them wanted the attention. We arranged for her to see a private therapist. He prescribed medications, but she often went off of them. She was fine for weeks and months at a time. Such a lovely girl. Sweet and pretty. But then the cloud would come again. She’d lose interest in school and friends. She wouldn’t eat or get out of bed.”
“What did her therapist say?”
“I’m sure you have all of his files on Callie,” Mrs. Kendall said flatly, still staring through the windows at the winter scene. Bare branches, icy gray skies. “He felt she was depressed, unstable. She had such a happy childhood, but once she hit her teen years the happiness never lasted. I learned to treasure those times when things were good for her, for all of us.”
“Mrs. Kendall, I’m sorry to ask this. But do you have any proof that Callie was cutting herself? Since there aren’t any medical records maybe there’s something else?”
Her jaw trembled. “There may be something,” she said, finally.
I waited. There were times to push and times for space.
“No one’s ever asked me for proof before,” she said quietly. “All they’ve done is run rampant with ridiculous murder or runaway theories. No one is interested in the truth.”
I’d long wondered how insulated the Kendalls had been from the conspiracy theories that were still part of daily conversation in Bootleg.
