Sinister Heights by Loren D. Estleman Page A

business, but I didn’t stop her. You never know what might come out of an open window.
    â€œYou’re still a young man, Mr. Walker, but you look as if you’ve taken your share of dings. I’ll tell you a number of things that happened once the Glendownings began married life, and you can tell me what you think they mean. They spent their honeymoon in a resort on Lake Erie. She called me twice during that week. When they got back home she called me every day, at first, then once every few days. By the end of the first month I was hearing from her once a week. The calls got shorter, then farther apart. By their six-week anniversary I was calling her. These calls usually ended in quarrels about unimportant things. Sometimes she’d complain about David’s behavior—he’d taken to leaving her alone most evenings while he drank with his trucker friends in some bar or at their houses, and it got so he wouldn’t spend even an hour with her after coming back from a week on the road before he went out drinking again—but when I agreed he was treating her atrociously, she’d turn square around and defend him, accuse me of interfering. That was when we spoke. Often the phone would ring and ring and nobody would pick up. One time David answered, said Constance wasn’t home, and hung up before I could ask when he expected her back. I’m sure as I am of anything that she was home. Where would she go? All her friends were here, and I’d hear from them now and then asking how Constance was, because they couldn’t get through to her, they said.
    â€œThe next time I got hold of her I asked her about it. There was a pause before she said David had told her about the call, but she’d been preoccupied and forgot to return it. She said she’d gone out to get a few things. I may not be Mother of anyone’s Year, Mr. Walker, but I know when my child is lying to me. She knew nothing about that call until I told her. Does this pattern suggest anything to you?”
    â€œThere’s always the possibility he forgot to tell her. Husbands do that.”
    â€œIf it were as innocent as that, she wouldn’t have felt the need to lie. I asked you a question.”
    â€œIt sounds like the M.O. of the textbook wife abuser: Isolate her from friends and family, turn her against them, make her dependent on him, and treat her like pocket lint until there’s nothing left of her self-respect. Dear Abby runs a checklist twice a year, like the Cosmo quiz. If you score high, you lose.”
    She colored a little when I mentioned Dear Abby . “I eventually fell back on the hackneyed device of clipping out that very column and sending it to her anonymously. I might as well have included my return address. The last time we spoke, she threw it in my face and said I was trying to drive a wedge between her and her husband. I thought it was interesting that she could charge me with David’s crime, but I didn’t get the chance to say so. She said that until I felt like apologizing to her and David for my hatefulness, she didn’t want to hear from me. As I said, that was more than a year ago. I haven’t felt like apologizing in the meantime.
    â€œThe worst part is I haven’t seen my grandson since he was an infant. They were always too busy to come up and visit, or little Matthew was sick. They used variations on the same excuses when I suggested visiting them. Matthew would be three now. Quite a little man.” She lifted her chin, daring me to find any moisture in those dark eyes. The tear ducts might have dried up and blown away.
    I got out my notebook and added the name Matthew Glendowning to the list of Leland Stutch’s heirs. It was getting to be a cottage industry.
    I said, “If you’ll give me Constance’s most recent address and telephone number, I’ll get out of your hair.”
    She gave them to me without getting up to consult