A Child Shall Lead Them (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 6)

by Flora, Kate;

  “Not being coy. The truth is that I don’t know what I’m going to do with him yet. Okay? So can we go knock on some doors now?”

  “Sure, Joe.”

  They rode in silence a while. Then Kyle said, “Is it just me or does this day feel endless?”

  “Not just you.”

  They parked in front of Ida Mae Wilson’s house, which was still surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. They would keep the house and grounds sealed until they were sure they’d learned everything the site had to tell them. They might walk the yard when they were done knocking on doors. Burgess entertained a secret horror that there might be bodies buried in the back yard. So far, it had been that kind of case.

  They crossed the street. He went right and Kyle went left. They’d hit four or five houses, then cross back to Ida Mae Wilson’s side and work their way back to the truck.

  The first door Burgess knocked on was answered by a small woman whose gray curls were as big as she was, a woman slightly bent over with age. She peered at him through thick glasses as he introduced himself, “Detective Sergeant Burgess, ma’am, Portland police,” and held out his badge so she could see it. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the house across the street and your neighbor Ida Mae Wilson. May I come in?”

  She stepped back so he could enter, and he followed her shuffling feet into an overcrowded living room. She seated herself in a recliner lined with a layer of afghans. He seated himself on the sofa across from her and got out his notebook.

  “May I have your name, ma’am.”

  “Rose Samson.”

  “Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Mrs. My husband Oliver passed last year.”

  “How long have you lived here, Mrs. Samson?”

  “Forty-seven years next month.”

  “Are you acquainted with Ida Mae Wilson?”

  “We were good neighbors for many years.”

  “Ms. Wilson’s house is empty. Do you know where she’s gone?”

  “Last I heard, she was in one of those retirement places. The ones where old people go from independent living to assisted living to being warehoused in a nursing home.” Rose Samson fumbled with some papers on a nearby shelf and pulled out an address book. “I’ve got it written down in here somewhere.”

  She read off the name of the place and its address. “I’ve got her phone number, too. Don’t know if it is still good. I went there to see her once or twice. It was too depressing. Detective, the place was full of old people. Looked nice, you know, but when we were in the dining room, there were all these old, old people in wheelchairs, dribbling their dinners down their fronts and smelling like pee. Ida Mae didn’t seem to mind. I’d rather die than live in a place like that.”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “How long ago did she move away?”

  She gazed down at her lap, then back at him. “Let’s see. This is July, right? So it was about two years ago April, after that awful winter we’d had. She said keeping up the house was too much for her, and that going up and down that steep driveway in the winter made her nervous. She said she wasn’t going to sell the house, though, just in case she didn’t like where she was. She hadn’t moved back and she hasn’t sold it. I think maybe she’s forgotten about it.”

  She fixed what Burgess realized were bright and curious eyes on him. “You were part of that commotion over there last night?”

  He nodded.

  “I heard on the news that there were young girls being held prisoner in the basement.”

  Fuck Cote, he thought, trying to keep his face blank. “That’s why I’m here ma’am. Trying to learn what’s been going on at that house. Hoping you can help me with that. But first, let’s back up. Do you know whether Mrs. Wilson still drives?”

  “It has been awhile since I’ve seen her, as I said. But she came to a library friends meeting a few months ago, and I believe she drove herself.”

  “Do you know what kind of car she drives?”

  “One of those newfangled quiet things. The kind you can’t hear coming?”

  “A Prius?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Have you seen her Prius at the house since she moved?”

  “Oh, sure. See it pretty often, or one a lot like it, coming and going.”

  “Have you seen the driver, if it’s not Mrs. Wilson?”

  “I haven’t seen him. He usually drives right into the garage. But I know who it is.”

  She paused for dramatic effect. Burgess thought she was looking forward to tossing him this nugget.

  “Who is it, Mrs. Samson?”

  “It’s her nephew, Charlie. He’s kind of a reprobate, but Ida Mae has always doted on him.”

  “Mrs. Samson, do you know Charlie’s last name? Is it Wilson?”

  “Why do you know, Detective, I have listened to her talking endlessly about Charlie and the scrapes he got into, but I have no idea whether he’s a Wilson or something else.”

  She tapped her forehead with a wrinkled finger. “Wilson is her married name, of course. I think Charlie is her brother’s boy. Ida Mae and Fred never had any children. So sad. Children are such a comfort in your old age. Do you have children, Detective?”

  “Three. Two boys and girl.”

  “And do they give you pleasure?”

  It was a question he’d never been asked, and one he’d never asked himself. “Yes, Mrs. Samson, they do.”

  But he was here to get information, not give it. “Is there anyone you can think of who might know Charlie’s last name?”

  “Shirley might. She’s right next door. I think she and Ida Mae played bridge together. But why don’t you just ask Ida Mae?”

  She considered, finger to forehead again. “Only doing that might upset Ida Mae, and her heart’s not that strong. That’s another reason she went to that place. Because she was afraid one day she’d end up on her kitchen floor and no one would notice. You can’t be unnoticed in a place like that, even if you want to be.”

  “I’ll be gentle with her, Mrs. Samson. I wouldn’t want to do her harm. May I ask you another question? I’m not keeping you from something?”

  She consulted a slender gold wristwatch. “Nope. We’ve got time. My program isn’t on for another fifteen minutes. What else did you want to know?”

  “Have you seen other cars parking in Mrs. Wilson’s driveway, besides her nephew driving her car?”

  “A couple weeks back there was a van. Charlie was there and he opened the garage and the van drove in.”

  “Anything about the van that caught your eye? A business name, anything like that?”

  She looked off into space, and he assumed that she was trying to recall what she’d seen. “I didn’t get a good look at it. It just whipped up that driveway. The garage was already open, which I thought was odd. It went in and the door closed.”

  “What about when it left?”

  “I didn’t see it leave.”

  “Do you recall what time of day this was?”

  “After seven-thirty in the evening, that’s all I can tell you. I have a program I watch at eight, which is why I didn’t see it leave. But at seven-thirty it’s still light out.”

  Burgess took out a card. He was about to thank her and leave. It was almost time for her program, but he had one last question. “What about other vehicles, besides the Prius and the van?”

  “There was one other. A black town car, like I take to the airport when I go to see my daughter in Pennsylvania. I thought it was odd, because Ida Mae isn’t there and Charlie already has the Prius.”

  “Did you get a look at the driver?”

  “Beyond noticing that it was a man, Detective, and not Charlie, because his hair wasn’t light, I’m afraid I didn’t. My eyes aren’t what they used to be. Maybe Shirley can tell you more. Shirley’s the kind of person who can tell you every piece of clothing a person has on and whether their shoes are worn down at the heels. It would be unkind to suggest this, but sometimes I wonder if she’s not looking out
with binoculars. She’s another widow, like Ida Mae and me. You could pretty much call this ‘widow’s row,’ there’s so many of us.”

  He stood and held out his card. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Samson. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “You’re welcome, Detective. You don’t mind seeing yourself out, do you? My program’s just coming on now.”

  He stepped out of the dark, musty house into a bright July afternoon, taking a minute to be present before moving on to Shirley’s house. In two weeks, he and Chris were taking the kids to a rented cottage on a lake. He’d been fantasizing about sitting in a lawn chair and staring out at the water. Maybe reading a book. No phones. No scanner. He didn’t care who got killed, he was going. It kept the pressure on to solve this.

  A civilian, hearing him say this, would be aghast that he thought it would take two more weeks. That was because the public’s ideas about crime solving came from TV. Crimes had to be wrapped up in less than forty-five minutes. He’d had cases go months, even years. As he often said, investigations took as long as they took. But if this ran long, he’d be handing it off to Kyle and Perry. And if Stan Perry thought he was taking off on a honeymoon during the week Burgess had set aside for his vacation? If this case hadn’t been put to bed, young Stanley was in for a big disappointment.

  He tucked away his fantasies about leisure and headed next door to Shirley’s house. It was a small cape like Rose Samson’s, but this one had a wheelchair ramp leading to the front door. Maybe erected for her late husband? Rose Samson had said that Shirley was a widow.

  He climbed the steps and knocked.

  Twenty-Three

  Rose Samson’s neighbor answered her door so quickly Burgess wondered if she’d been waiting for him. She led him to a screened porch looking into a pretty, private back yard with lovely gardens. She offered lemonade and he didn’t refuse. Only when he was settled with a glass in his hand did she ask the reason for his visit. “Are you here about that business across the street at Ida Mae’s last night?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.” He got her full name, Shirley Evans, and her phone number, then asked, “As part of our investigation, we’re interested in the comings and goings at Mrs. Wilson’s house. I understand that she no longer lives there?”

  “Please. Call me Shirley. Ma’am makes me feel ancient.”

  She wasn’t ancient. She might have been in her early fifties and looked great for her age. He wondered why she stayed here watching the neighborhood instead of getting out and having a life. “Shirley, what can you tell me about people or vehicles visiting Ida Mae’s house?”

  She answered with a question of her own. “Is it true that you rescued four little girls who were chained up in that basement?”

  Cote’s damn press conferences. Burgess cursed the man again, questioning why he and Kyle had saved the man. With respect to information that should have been confidential, Paul Cote was like a sieve. Anything he thought would bring him press attention poured right out.

  “I’m afraid that yes, that is true. We’re trying to find out who put them there.”

  She looked at him like he was stupid. “Rose didn’t tell you? Of course it was Charlie. Charlie and that horrible man.”

  “Tell me about Charlie. Do you know his last name?”

  “Well, it used to be Dornan, that’s Ida Mae’s maiden name. Charlie is her brother Parker’s child. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard that he changed it to Wilson, because he wanted to butter-up Ida Mae so she’d leave her money to him. He has two sisters, but Charlie has always been Ida Mae’s favorite. She never made any secret about it. I always felt so for those poor girls. Especially since Charlie is such a rotten person.”

  “In what way is Charlie a rotten person?”

  She poured him more lemonade. “Is what ways is he not rotten? He’s always taken Ida Mae for everything he can get. He has an equally rotten wife who works for some charity that helps refugees but likely doesn’t have a charitable bone in her body, and then they took in that sweet little girl, and I never saw the little darlin’ when she wasn’t bruised and cringing. I never saw anyone hit her, but it had to be him. He’s always been a rat. Or them. I called the state about that child, but you know how they are. They don’t do a thing until the child is dead and then they say they’re sorry and will review their procedures.”

  This was pretty much what Burgess thought.

  “So you’ve seen Charlie’s foster daughter?”

  “Shelley? Oh sure. She used to come with them when they visited Ida Mae. She’d come over and play with my Anita. Anita was older, of course, but she was kind and felt sorry for Shelley, who was such a timid little thing.

  Burgess was struggling to tamp down his anger, because there was more to be learned here. But this was the second person who’d told him that they’d notified DHHS, yet Shelley hadn’t been rescued and now she’d been murdered and mutilated, her body dumped in the woods.

  “Did Shelley use Dornan as her surname?”

  “I don’t think so. She wasn’t adopted, something they never let her forget. She had a different name. I can’t remember what it was. Maybe something beginning with an M.”

  “Minor?”

  She nodded. “That’s it.”

  “Tell me about people and vehicles coming and going across the street.” He added, “If you can,” because he didn’t want her knowing that Rose said she watched the street with binoculars.

  “Well, there was Charlie, of course, driving Ida Mae’s Prius. There was the man I called, to myself, the Limo guy, because he drove a black town car.”

  “Can you describe Limo Guy?”

  “He was about my age, early to mid-fifties. He was taller than Charlie, and had graying dark hair, worn longer than it should have been. It was nice hair, wavy, and I think he wore it longer because he was vain about it. There was a van that came and went sometimes. I think it was one of those ‘rent by the hour’ vans, like you could rent at a store like Lowes or Home Depot, or one of those moving places. I can’t recall what the writing was.”

  “Did you see the driver of the van?”

  “It was the same man each time. He looked Hispanic. Well, maybe I watch too much television, because he looked like a Miami gangster. His arms were all tattooed and he had his hair in a ponytail. He never looked anything but angry. He’d just drive into the garage and not long after, he’d leave. I wondered what he was doing there. He’d always come when Charlie or Charlie’s wife or Limo Guy was there.”

  “Do you have any idea how often the van has come?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve seen it maybe three times this year, at three or four month intervals.”

  “When is the most recent time you noticed it?”

  “Last week. I can’t remember whether it was before, or after, the moving van took Ida Mae’s things away.”

  Despite Rose’s disparaging tone, he was finding Shirley a goldmine. Still, he wondered about a such an attractive person confining herself to her house all day. What was up with that? His answer arrived just at that moment. There was the sound of a motor and a man in a large wheelchair entered the room. To Burgess, he looked to be late teens or early twenties. He was directing the chair with one hand, expertly steering it into a place by the window. He smiled at Burgess and said, “Hello. I’m Deane.”

  “Joe Burgess.”

  “My son,” Shirley said. “And to answer the question you’ve politely refrained from asking, why a woman like me shuts herself up in a house and watches her neighbors?” She hesitated, looking at her son, then said, “Rose probably told you I’m a widow like the rest of them. It’s a misunderstanding. I let them believe it because it’s easier than explaining that my husband, Deane’s father, decided that having a handicapped son was too big a burden and left us. Bought us this nice little house, had the ramp installed for Deane’s chair, and then moved into a condo and moved on.”

  The boy in the chair ducked his head and said, “Bye bye,
Dad.” He grinned at Burgess. “Because of the chair, people assume I’m also feeble-minded. I’m used to it.”

  Shirley smiled at her son. “Deane has his own web development business. He’s quite successful. He employs one full time and two part-time people. And I am insanely proud of him.”

  “You should be,” Burgess said.

  “Also contrary to what Rose probably told you, I don’t spend my whole day in the window. I have a part-time job. But Rose pretty much does, and she feels guilty about that, so she’s made up a fantasy about all of us ‘widows’ sitting around all day watching the street.”

  “Getting back to the comings and goings at Ida Mae’s house,” Burgess said. “You say you recently saw a moving van picking up Ida Mae’s things?”

  “Sometime last week. I can’t be more precise. I’m sorry. But last week, Deane had a health crisis, and we were both focused on that. Maybe someone else on the street can tell you what moving company it was.”

  Burgess nodded and looked at Deane. “You’re okay now?”

  The young man smiled. “As okay as a guy who has to spend his life in this chair can be.”

  Burgess brought his focus back to Shirley Evans. “You referred to the other man you’ve seen with Charlie as ‘that horrible man.’ Why?”

  “Just being a protective mother, I guess. A few times he’s blocked our driveway so the van that takes Deane to work couldn’t get in. I had to go over there and ask him to move his car and he was extremely uncooperative. And unpleasant.”

  “Meaning,” Deane said, “that he told her to go fuck herself, he’d move the car when he was good and ready. I had to call the police…uh, you guys…and they got him to move it. I think he figured we were too pathetic to assert our rights. To some people, wheelchairs automatically mean feeble or vulnerable.”

  At the same time that Burgess was thinking there would be a record of her calls, she said, “I imagine your department will have a record of that. It happened twice.”

  “When?” Burgess asked.

  “Once in June and once in …Deane, when was the first time?”

  “The beginning of April. When we had that freak snow and he didn’t want to use that steep driveway. It hadn’t been plowed.”