by AR Simmons
He thought that “we” sounded better than “I.”
“She couldn’t have had anything to do with it,” Carol Oats said, dismissing his denial. “You should have seen her afterwards. She was worried sick—couldn’t even eat.”
“Ma’am, I’m just trying to find out everything I can about everyone who had contact with the little girl. Someone killed Miss Nash and it’s possible that whoever did that is also involved in the disappearance of—”
“Maybe you should—” she interrupted before stopping in mid-sentence.
Her face was pale. Richard wondered what had alarmed her.
“Did you keep a record of when Katie worked here?” he asked gently.
“I think you better leave,” she said.
“Maybe you could—”
“I said leave.”
She was being assertive, but Richard saw fear in her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you,” he said gently. “I just want to find out what happened to Mancie Allsop.”
The woman withdrew and shut the door in his face. The deadbolt clicked as he turned away.
While driving away, Richard tried to assess his encounter at the daycare center. Was it he or his questions that had alarmed Carol Oats?
Most likely, it’s the situation. A woman she knew is mysteriously murdered and then a stranger shows up asking questions about her. Caution is only prudent.
•••
A mailbox with faded letters confirmed that he had found the home of the last name on Doris Chandler’s list. At the end of a short, gently curved, gravel drive, a shiplap-sided saltbox stood on a hill crest, its high-ceilinged veranda cast in shade, while sun glinted from its tin roof. Old maple trees flanked the drive, their uneven spacing suggesting that some of their number now belonged to the ages. The aura was early twentieth century, mid-level gentry. It perhaps had been the abode (be it ever so humble) of folks who were country rich, work-a-day, lemonade-at-noon, and Sunday-go-to-meeting-without-fail. A high-waisted grandmother opened the door at his knock and peered through the screen door questioningly.
“Hello,” she said as if she had seen him before.
“Hello, ma’am. I’m Richard Carter, a friend of Katie Nash,” he said, more than stretching the truth. “Are you Fiona Platte?”
The woman’s face fell into a longsuffering pained expression. She seemed well acquainted with grief. “I am.”
“Who is it?” came a loud child-like voice from behind her.
“Never mind, Zachary. It’s just a man. I’m going to go outside and talk to him on the porch, but I’m not going anywhere.”
She stepped out and shut the inside door behind her. “My grandson,” she explained with a tight smile.
Daylight didn’t flatter her. She looked weary. The term “timeworn” came to mind.
“It’s terrible what happened to Catherine,” she said. “Are you working for Mr. Adams?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not with the police.”
“Of course. You just said that you were a friend of Catherine’s.”
The white lie didn’t sit as lightly as he thought it would. “I understand Katie—Catherine worked for you sometimes.”
“The fifteenth of every month. That’s when I go see my husband. She takes care of Zachary for me. Being out of the house frightens him. He’s a sweet boy, but … well, he has to be taken care of. I don’t know what’s going to happen to him when I’m gone. I really don’t. There aren’t many people as good with slow children as Catherine was. I suppose he’ll end up in a state hospital. His mother ought to take care of him, but she didn’t want him, even before he was born.”
She smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. “What do you want to know about Catherine?”
“Did she say anything about being afraid of someone, anything that would make you think someone would want to hurt her?”
“Hurt her? No. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her.”
“And she didn’t say anything that made you think she was worried?”
“I don’t recall anything like that.”
“Grandma! I want to come out,” called the boy plaintively.
“I’m coming, Zachary. Don’t you worry. I’ll be right in,” she soothed. “I just have to talk to this man a little bit.”
“Did anyone ever come out with her?”
“Here? No. She was always alone.”
“I want to come out, Grandma,” the boy sobbed.
“Just a minute, Honey.”
“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” said Richard.
He thanked her for speaking with him, eager to release her to take care of the retarded boy.
She visited her husband once a month? In a nursing home no doubt, he mused as he drove back to town. I guess she found taking care of two was beyond her ability.
The old lady had been polite, almost painfully so, but leaving felt like an escape.
•••
He didn’t escape Adams, however. The detective was sitting at the curb when he got home.
“Get in,” he said gruffly when Richard hobbled over to see what he wanted.
“What’s going on?” he asked when he was seated.
Adams slid the car into drive, grimacing as if in pain. “I’m thinking about hauling you in for interfering in an investigation.”
Richard knew that it was a ridiculous charge, impossible to prosecute unless it involved concealing evidence, which he was definitely not doing since he hadn’t found any. Adams was angry, however, so he decided not to rile him further.
“All I’ve done is ask questions. Is that against the law?”
“Carol Oats called in a complaint. That’s the lady who runs the child care place in case you don’t know her name.”
“Complaint? What does she say I did?”
“She said you demanded that she show you her pay records.”
“I asked if I could see the dates when Katie Nash worked there,” said Richard, trying to think of a reason for the woman to have felt threatened. “It seemed to put her on guard for some reason. She asked me to leave, and I did. That’s all there was to it.”
“And you didn’t refuse to leave?”
“Of course not.”
“Who else have you been bothering?”
Richard didn’t want to tell him, but had no intention of lying. “Katie Nash’s sister and her brother-in-law. She gave me the names of Katie’s clients, the ones she knew about anyway. So far, the only ones I’ve talked with are the lady at the daycare and Fiona Platte out on—”
“You bothered the old lady with the retarded kid?”
“I talked to her. It didn’t seem to distress her. In fact, you’re the only one who seems—”
“Why are you doing all this?” interrupted Adams.
“You know why. I’m trying to find out what happened to Molly’s little girl.”
“What in the hell does a daycare or an old lady with a husband in the pen have to do with that?”
“In the pen? I thought Mr. Platte was in a nursing home.”
“Wouldn’t you just go ape if it was for child molestation?” said Adams sarcastically.
“Is it?”
“No. He’s in Leavenworth for falsifying a federal flood insurance claim. I wish you’d quit bothering folks that have got enough trouble in their lives.”
He felt like asking Adams where his sensitivity was when he was dealing with Molly, but held his peace. The man could probably be a lot bigger pain than he was being currently.
“Look,” said Adams, suddenly softening his manner. “The Nash homicide doesn’t have anything to do with the disappearance of the kid, okay?”
“How can you be so sure? I mean haven’t you even considered that it might?”
Adams either smiled or had an attack of acid reflux. “Someone killed her to keep her from talking, right?”
“It’s got to be a possibility.”
Adams set his jaw. “No. This was sexual
. We’ve got us a pervert here all right, but not one that’s interested in little kids. Pedophiles don’t do what was done to Nash.”
“She was raped?”
“She was beaten to death. Penetration isn’t requisite to classify a crime as sexual. I think that’s what they told us in class,” said Adams. “I didn’t pay a lot of attention to most of that theoretical crap, but that made sense.”
Richard was getting a fix on Adams now. He had seen plenty like him in criminology classes, experienced cops being forced by superiors, or state law to take P. D. courses. Their attitude: “I’ve paid my fee; now give me my B.”
“What led you to classify the homicide as a sexual attack?” he ventured.
“Oh nothing much,” drawled Adams sarcastically. “Maybe she just laid down for a nap and forgot to wake up. That’s what it looked like at first. Then I noticed a few discordant details that led me to suspect otherwise. Like that she was laying crosswise on the bed—that and her dress was hiked up over her head and her underwear had been ripped off. Then again, maybe she did that all by herself.”
“Sounds like a pose,” said Richard.
“Really? Why didn’t I think of that?”
“And the perpetrator was trying to shock whoever found her. Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know,” said Adams seriously. “What I think is that we got some guy who can’t get it up—a guy who gets his jollies by looking and imagining. Nash wasn’t much to look at, but she was an easy victim because she wasn’t too smart. Probably his first, and I sure as hell hope his last. It’s someone who lives near her, someone she knew and trusted.”
Adams had circled through town and was now headed back toward Richard’s house.
“That’s more than I should let you know,” he said. “The reason I’m telling you is that I want you to stay away from the people I’m questioning about Nash. Whether you believe it or not, you are interfering in my investigation. And I’m not going to have it. You got that?”
“I understand,” said Richard.
“I really want this guy, Carter. It would really tick me off if you screwed things up for me.”
“Got it.”
“Good. Knock yourself out on the disappearance. I hope to hell you find out something. If you do, I don’t think you’re going to like it though, because your little friend is involved. You find out anything, you bring it to me. I want to know what happened to the little girl as much as you do.”
Chapter 5
September 15
Richard realized that he knew nothing about the Molly that used to be. The disappearance of her only child, the breakup of her marriage, and her drug dependence had to have changed her. Discovering how much required legwork. He decided to use her list of acquaintances to track down former employers. She hadn’t flitted from job to job, but had worked in a number of places, most of which knew the value of attractive and personable women.
After dropping Jill at campus, he drove to the first place on his list, The Fishing Hole, a place specializing in you guessed it. As he went to the door, barely limping now, it occurred to him that Molly’s self-proclaimed profession of “waitress and barmaid” had put her into contact with a lot of men, some of whom may have seen a personal relationship where she hadn’t.
His knock summoned a woman wielding a broom who was intent on turning him away—until he mentioned Molly. Then her mood softened immediately. She led him through a darkened dining room with upturned chairs into the back. The kitchen was empty and cold. Catfish houses didn’t do breakfast. Owner, head cook, and manager, Rona Pennyworth, listened to his explanation and then rubbed her hands on her apron before reaching behind to untie it.
“Let’s sit in the dining area,” she said. “You drink coffee, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The old lady folded her apron and placed it on a spotless stainless steel counter beside the fryers and a gleaming coffee urn. She tapped it and handed him a heavy porcelain mug before leading the way through swinging doors back to the equally cool dining room.
“We keep it chilly in the morning,” she explained. “When the fryers and ovens are going full blast, it still gets uncomfortable out here and unbearable in the kitchen.”
“I’m comfortable,” he said as they sat. “Thanks for the coffee and taking time to see me.”
“Molly’s a good girl,” she said. “Are you a friend or just working for her?”
It was a good question, one he hadn’t stopped to consider.
“Both, I guess. My wife and I moved in next door to her about a month ago. When she found out that I’d had a little training in criminal investigation, she asked me to see if I could discover anything about the disappearance of her baby.”
“So why are you here? Do you suspect someone at the restaurant, or one of the customers?”
“I don’t have any theories whatsoever,” he admitted, which was almost the truth. He did have a theory, just not one he cared to share. “I’m here to find out about Molly.”
“Why?”
Richard was beginning to appreciate the difficulty of his unofficial status. Policemen didn’t have to explain themselves.
“I need to know what she was like, what her concerns were, and who she associated with before all this happened,” he explained.
“I don’t know much about her personal life. All I can tell you is that she was a good worker and a popular waitress. She turned in more tips than any of the others. The tips are split with the kitchen help and the busers. I got three girls working the floor, two boys cleaning tables, and two cooks. Each girl turns in her tips, I take out half to split with the others, and then return half of what each girl turns in. It’s fair, but some girls complain. Molly didn’t.”
“How long did she work for you?”
“Since … let me see … She came to work about two years ago. She only took off about two weeks when she had the baby. Of course, she quit when the baby disappeared. She didn’t call in, but I guess I can understand that.”
“Was she dependable?”
“You mean did she show up on time? Always. The only time she even called in was when the little girl got sick, and she had to take her in to the urgent care. She took off that day. I went ahead and paid her. I wouldn’t even mention it, but that girl brought her check back after payday and told me I made a mistake. What does that tell you what kind of person she is?”
“How about customers? Did any of them seem … sort of more interested in her than was normal?”
Rona Pennyworth retuned him an amused wrinkly smile.
“Getting flirted with is part of being a waitress. The trick is to keep all the guys friendly without leading them on. You also have to have a thick skin. People treat waitresses about four different ways. They get overly friendly, they get demanding and insulting, they act like you’re a piece of furniture, and some of them treat you like a casual acquaintance. That last one is ideal, and they’re the ones most likely to leave regular tips. It takes a lot of social skill to be a good waitress. They don’t get paid enough. I knew that when I worked tables. Now I understand the other side of it. The restaurant has to turn a profit or everybody’s out of work.”
“So did she have extra trouble with any of the too friendly ones?”
“Not that I know of, but I spend most of my time in the kitchen. Occasionally I come out and talk to a few customers—you know, just to let them know I appreciate the business.”
“Was there ever a time when she seemed worried or times when her behavior changed?”
“Other than when the little girl was sick, no.”
“Did you ever see any of her family or friends at the restaurant?”
“I don’t recall, but like I told you, I’m in the kitchen most of the time. Maybe Jessica or Mark can tell you something. He’s out back loading stock. Jessica should be in any time now. We open at ten-thirty. Those two are the only one’s still here who worked with her. Turnover’s terrible in thi
s business. I sure hated to lose Molly.”
“You say this Mark is out back. Can I go out and talk to him?”
“Sure,” said Rona, standing up. “Come on. I’ll take you through the kitchen.”
A middle-aged woman was dumping cornmeal into a large metal bowl of the sort Richard remembered from kitchen duty in the Marines.
“Hushpuppies,” explained Rona. “We hand make them. Those frozen things ain’t fit to eat.”
As they walked through the stock room, she said, “You see Molly, tell her that I got a job for her if she ever wants to come back.”
She opened a door onto the alley to show him out.
“Mark,” she called out.
An overweight man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, looked up with pained expression as he wheeled a hand truck overloaded with crates marked “fully dressed catfish fillets.”
“This fellow wants to ask you a few questions about Molly.”
“I’ve got to get the rest of this stuff in,” he mumbled.
“Then talk to him while you’re doing it,” she said before reentering the building and leaving them alone.
She hadn’t raised her voice, but her inflection left no doubt as to what Mark’s options were: none.
“I don’t know anything about her,” he grumbled as he wheeled his frozen cargo past and into the open cold room.
Richard followed him inside, wondering if the peevishness arose from the man’s feelings about Molly or just a sour disposition. He extended his hand.
“I’m Richard Carter,” he said, his breath billowing momentary fog in the frigid air. “I’m trying to help Molly find out what happened to her baby.”
“I don’t know anything about the baby either,” said the man, pointedly ignoring the hand.
“Help me out here, Mark. A baby’s missing. All I want from you is a little information. By the way, what’s your last name?”
“Why?”
“I just want to make sure that Detective Adams and I are talking about the same person when we compare notes.”The bluff verged on being a lie, but a comparison of notes could occur should Adams decide to chew him out again.
“Holmes,” he said, turning to face Richard and crossing his arms.