Easy Innocence

Chapter 14

THE WALCHER home-or was it a mansion- stood at the top of a rise that overlooked Lake Michigan. At the moment the water was calm, Georgia noted, almost glassy, but the lake was as fickle as a teenager and could change quickly.

The house had three stories, but the front, a sandy shade of granite, was a monolithic façade like one of those modern museums. A thick grove of trees just now starting to turn provided a natural barrier between the home and the street. She pulled into a driveway shaped like a lower case "h" and parked at the top. The front door occupied the rounded part of the "h." She walked around.

Three circular concrete slabs, each one higher than the other, bridged a small fishpond at the front entrance. Glimpses of orange and silver flashed in the water. She moved to the side of an enormous wooden door and rang the bell.

A series of musical notes echoed in ever quieter pools of sound. Georgia shuffled her feet. In the past her badge, her weapon, and her uniform had given her instant credibility. Now she had nothing, except her wits.

The tall, thin woman who opened the door was dressed in black crepe pants and a beige shirt. Her dark hair was cut short above her ears, which sported gold hoops. Her angular face and pronounced cheekbones were softened by age and a flawless makeup job. She wasn't a beauty, but with her dark gypsy looks she was exotic, and she carried herself like she knew it.

Georgia fastened one of the buttons on her blazer. "Good evening, Mrs. Walcher. My name is Georgia Davis." She peered into a pair of dark, suspicious eyes.

"I thought they said seven-thirty."

"Pardon me?"

"Seven thirty. You're from the school, aren't you?" The eyebrows above the dark eyes rose into perfectly formed arches.

Someone from the school was coming here? Georgia flashed back to her conversation with Rachel. Counselors and social workers were making home visits to help students cope with Sara's death. She took in Mrs. Walcher's hauteur, the icy expression. This might be her only chance to interview the girl about Sara Long. She sucked in a breath and made a split decision.

"Um, is this a bad time? I was only a few blocks away..."

The woman's arched eyebrows were replaced by an irritated look down her nose. "I suppose we might as well get it over with." She turned around and called down a long hall with a cold-looking marble floor. "Tom, Lauren's social worker is here. I know it's early, but we're both here, and so is Lauren."

Georgia felt her stomach knot. What was she doing? She'd never get away with it.

"Certainly," a voice boomed. "Andrea, let the poor woman in."

As Andrea Walcher opened the door, a man with a broad but curiously flat face that looked too large for his body joined her. His blond hair was parted on the side. Ruddy cheeks framed small eyes and a weak chin. But he was tall and well built, and he wore jeans and a soft-looking green shirt which made him appear younger and less formal than his wife. "I'm Tom Walcher." He smiled. "You're from Newfield?"

Georgia remembered Cam Jordan's social worker. The weary self-importance. The officious manner. She drew herself up. "Georgia Davis." She sighed and faked another smile.

Walcher smiled back, but it failed to reach his eyes. "Come in."

Andrea Walcher gazed coolly at her husband.

Georgia stepped inside. Walcher led her into the living room, a huge space with a sunken floor, a thick white carpet over which lay oriental rugs, and a giant picture window. Through the window Georgia saw woods that ended precipitously at a rocky bluff. Rachel had told her there was a pool and a guest house, but they must have been on the other side of the property, because the only thing in front of the window was a bricked patio with a built-in barbecue pit and grill. A pair of tongs and oven mitts lay next to the grill.