Light on snow_ a novel - Anita Shreve [87]
“You’re about to eat,” Warren says. “Smells great.”
“What can I do for you?” my father asks.
“I know it’s a terrible time—I’ve got to get home to my boys, too—but there’s something I think you should see.”
“Where?”
“Not too far from here.”
“It can’t wait?” my father asks.
“I think you should see this now,” Warren says.
I see a look—a kind of truce?—pass between my father and the detective.
“How long will it take?” my father asks.
“Half an hour? Forty minutes?”
My grandmother lets go of my shoulders and slips her apron over her head. “Don’t worry about dinner,” she says to my father. “I have to go upstairs and unpack anyway.” She folds the apron and sets it on a chair.
My father takes his jacket from a hook.
“I think Nicky should come with us,” Warren says.
My father climbs into the passenger seat; I slip in back. Warren makes the turn and heads down the hill. I notice there’s a Snickers bar tucked into the backseat pocket.
“Charlotte Thiel’s brother came and posted bail,” Warren says as the Jeep bounces over the ruts. “Problem is, she can’t leave the state. She’s gone to stay with an aunt for the time being.”
“Until the trial,” my father says.
“Or until she pleads.”
“What will the sentence be?” my father asks.
Warren makes the turn onto the road that leads into town. “Depends on James Lamont, whether he helps her out or not. Depends on Lamont’s lawyer. Three years maybe? Worst case, she’ll be out in fifteen months.”
“And Lamont? Where is he?”
“His parents went to Switzerland to get him and bring him back. Now, him—he’s looking at some serious time. Ten, twelve years. Might get out in six. The jury won’t like it that he fled the country. And he can kiss bail good-bye.”
“Does Charlotte have a lawyer?” my father asks.
“Her brother is taking care of that.”
I wonder what Charlotte’s brother looks like. What happened when they first saw each other? Did they embrace, a family in crisis? Or was he horrified? Furious? Struck dumb?
“Where does the aunt live?” my father asks.
“Manchester,” Warren says. “I can get you the address.”
“Please,” my father says.
Thank you, Dad.
I will send Charlotte the necklace, I decide. I will tell her that I got my period right after she left us. When she gets out of jail, she will call me.
We leave the village of Shepherd and travel on Route 89. The roads are completely clear. After twenty minutes or so, Warren slows at an exit and takes a right off the ramp. Immediately we are in a vaguely familiar town, one my father and I might have driven through during our aimless journeys in the summer.
We pass through a small village, mostly dark but for a Shell station on a corner. For a few blocks the streetlights have wreaths on them. I wonder what time it is: five o’clock? six? Warren takes a left and a right and travels up a hill into a neighborhood. I peer into the houses as we go. We pass a house with dozens of cars parked outside. Through the windows I can see men in jackets and women in dresses holding drinks. A party. A party would be fun, I think.
Warren looks at a piece of paper with an address on it and makes another turn. We are on a street lined with smallish two-story houses. Some have spotlights on their doors; others have lights along the rooflines and in the windows. One is completely dark but for a single blue bulb in each window. The effect is cold and unearthly. The road is plowed but still white. Snow is banked high on both sides. I’m counting Christmas trees as we go.
Warren studies the numbers on the houses. He slows the Jeep and pulls to the curb at the corner. He rolls down his window and peers into a house. “This should be it,” he says, pointing.
It’s a two-story house with a sloping roof and a room sticking out the side nearest us. The room has a lot of windows and might be considered a porch. The owners must have decided to use the porch as a dining room, however, because a number of people are sitting around a large oval table.