Free I Love You More: A Novel by Jennifer Murphy

than reliable even in the off-season, what started as a small, innocent bonfire turned into the largest fire Cooper’s Island hadseen in recent history. With the exception of some minor burns no one was seriously hurt. The bad news was, Mack and I were up all night calling parents and schools, carting kids to nearby medical centers and emergency rooms, and taking official statements. The good news was, on my last ride back to the island, I got to see one of the more glorious sunrises I’d ever seen, nearly magical enough to cast a Labor Day–forgetting spell on me, definitely wondrous enough to give me a second wind, which ended up being just the boost I would need to deal with what happened next.
    After a very welcome shower, I headed to the office. Klide was hovering near my desk.
    “This came in a little while ago,” she said. “I thought you’d want to see it right away.”
    “What is it?” I asked. I was still wriggling my arms out of my suit jacket.
    “It’s from the police department in Boone. Apparently that Oliver Lane guy had another wife.”
    I hung my jacket on the back of my chair and sat. “We already know that, Klide. And what do you mean, Boone?”
    “Boone, North Carolina,” she said. “It’s a different wife.”
    “A different wife?” I was aware I was being repetitive, but I hadn’t even had my coffee yet, and none of what Klide was saying was registering.
    “A
third
wife,” she said.
    “No shit?” I asked.
    Klide handed me a police report with a fax cover sheet—
Who sends faxes these days?
I leaned back and started reading.
    “You want me to run down to the Tiki Hut and get you some good coffee?” Klide asked. The Hut doesn’t make the finest coffee but it definitely beats ours; Bonnie has a heavy hand.
    “You are an angel,” I said.
    It wasn’t surprising it had taken that long for us to hear about it. Connecting the dots was generally the job of the local authorities,and obviously Boone had been asleep at the wheel. What was surprising is that Roberta Lane had taken so long to report her husband missing.
    Back in Detroit, we’d always made unannounced visits on Sundays because the chances of finding someone home were greater. The element of surprise was essential to solving a murder case. Holidays were a crapshoot, but I didn’t want to wait. With all that had happened that morning, Mack and I got a later than optimal start, but we were able to make up some time on the road. We arrived midafternoon. The third Mrs. Lane lived in a small blue cottage with a rocking-chair front porch, white shutters, and stencil-cut window boxes. The house, like most of the ones nearby, sat on a hill inside a thicket of evergreen trees. We’d driven two blocks beyond it when we realized we’d gone too far. We doubled back. The house number was on the mailbox, but the house itself was completely obscured.
    The first thing we noticed when we got out of the car was the drop in the temperature; there was already a chill in the mountain air. I saw a curtain move in one of the windows as Mack and I climbed the front steps. A woman opened the door to our first knock. She was short and plump, with muddy green eyes and thin lips; there was an unsightly mole about the size of a dime on her right cheek. I wondered why she hadn’t had it removed; it was a simple procedure. She wore a long gray corduroy skirt and an oversized burgundy cardigan sweater over a white blouse. Other than the long, straight blond hair, she looked nothing like the other two wives.
    “Mrs. Lane?” I asked.
    “It’s
Ms
. actually,” she said. “Ms. Miles. I never took my husband’s name. I’m assuming you’re here about Oliver?”
    “I’m Detective Kennedy and this is Detective Jones,” I said. “We’re with Cooper’s Island PD. We’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you have a moment?”
    “A moment?” She smiled. “I’m guessing this might take longer than a moment. Please come in, detectives.”
    If