It was a statement, not a query. Auburn sensed that, on the slightest pretext, she was ready to refuse lodging to a couple consisting of a middle-aged white woman and an obviously much younger African American man. He set her straight by showing identification.
"We're trying to trace a Miss Christine Bernish, who stayed here about three weeks ago."
Her attitude changed from mild hostility to mild consternation. “Trace her? What happened to her?"
"That's what we're trying to find out,” said Charlene. “Could we come in?"
She led them over the bare, varnished hardwood floor of the entry hall to a vaulted parlor with a dense aggregation of antique furniture, where a dying fire provided most of the illumination. A smell like incense or Oriental cooking spices floated in the air.
"You have a very unusual place here,” said Charlene. “Are you the owner?"
"My brother and I. I'm Laverne Bott. We're small—only four rooms. No smoking, no children, no pets. But it's something to do.” The smile she gave them conveyed not so much amiability and good nature as a smug satisfaction over private reflections that she would die rather than reveal or share.
Charlene showed her the picture. “My sister was here on the twentieth of February. Do you remember her?"
"I remember her very well. She only stayed one night. She was having trouble with her car."
"That's right. And after she left here she sort of disappeared. At least, I haven't heard from her since. Was she—alone when she stayed here?"
"Oh yes. And she had the whole place to herself. We almost never have guests during the winter."
Charlene was conducting the interview with such skill that Auburn stayed out of it.
"Did she have any phone calls or visitors while she was here?"
"Not that I know of. Our rooms don't have private phones."
"Did she say anything about her travel plans, where she was headed?"
Before each answer, Laverne Bott paused to ponder, as if some special impulse or release were needed before her speech apparatus could glide into gear. “I don't think so. She was tired that night, and wet, because we had a terrible storm during the afternoon. She went to bed early, and she left next morning while I was at the grocery."
"You didn't see her leave, then?"
"Actually I didn't. She just left me a note saying she was going to pick up her car and be on her way."
"What about her bill?"
"She paid in advance. Cash."
"Now I know we're talking about Chris."
"About what time did she leave?” Auburn asked.
"I go to the grocery at nine every Saturday morning and I'm back by ten or ten thirty."
"Did she give you any indication how she was getting back to the garage from here?"
"No. I just assumed she had some arrangement for them to come out and pick her up again."
"You mentioned your brother. Is it possible he saw who picked her up?"
Laverne Bott's face closed like a door. “I'm sure he didn't,” she said. “Felix is a deaf mute. He helps with the cooking and the housekeeping, but he has no contact with the guests."
"I wonder—could we see the room where she stayed?"
"Right through here.” She led the way to a large square room at the rear of the ground floor. “This is our biggest room. Nicest view too."
The room was decorated and furnished in a motley mock-Colonial style whose esthetic appeal, if any, was lost on Auburn. French windows looked out on a veranda, not particularly inviting in March. Beyond it a round pond perhaps twenty yards in diameter reflected, on its wind-whipped surface, the leafless trees on a ridge overhanging the house. Charlene Bernish opened a window and stepped out, and Auburn followed.
A more forlorn scene could scarcely have been imagined. All was desolation and decay. In the middle of a long-abandoned field, a building that might have been a chicken coop had collapsed into a heap of rotting boards. No speck of green showed anywhere in the rank patches of weeds that grew up to the verge of the pond. Possibly because of the dull sky overhead, or from some chemical quality or microbial growth in the water itself, the pond had an inky opacity that frustrated any attempt to judge its depth.
They returned indoors. Auburn lingered after the others had left the room to glance into the wastebasket and the wardrobe and found both empty.
Laverne Bott was saying how sorry she was that she couldn't be of more help.
"Did you happen to keep that note Miss Bernish left you?” asked Auburn.
She meditated longer than usual over her answer. “I don't know. I might have.” She went to a tall antique secretary on the other side of the parlor, which evidently served as registration desk, cashier's counter, and manager's office. After rooting for a few moments in one or two drawers she produced a long narrow slip of paper torn from a notepad.
Charlene Bernish confirmed beyond a doubt that the brief message had been written by her sister. Turning the sheet over, she found another note, also in her sister's handwriting, consisting merely of a name and a number: Rose Lake 87104. She passed it to Auburn.
"Is there a Rose Lake around here?” she asked, looking from him to Laverne Bott.
"Not that I've ever heard of,” said Auburn. “If that number is a zip code, it's about a thousand miles west of here.” He showed Ms. Bott the writing on the slip without handing it back to her. “Does it mean anything to you?"
"No. Could it be a person's name?"
"It certainly could. We'll have to check it out both ways. It's about the only lead we have so far. If it is a lead."
Charlene Bernish started toward the entrance as if to signal their departure and then whirled suddenly to face Auburn. “My plans are pretty loose,” she said. “What if I just stay here for the night?"
"That's up to you,” said Auburn without enthusiasm. He found the place about as appealing as a military school for wayward youth.
"—If I may?” This to Ms. Bott.
"Oh certainly. You can have the same room your sister had, if you want. I hope you like zingy food. Felix's turtle soup is the specialty of the house. Could I get you anything now—a cup of herbal tea?"
"No thanks. I need to get my car first. It's downtown at police headquarters.” She turned to face Auburn. “If you wouldn't mind?"
By four o'clock Auburn was back at his desk with a few new papers piled to the left and right of the computer keypad. After making a routine call to the Temple Cedars Police Department, he called Records, where he found Patrolman Fritz Dollinger on duty. Dollinger was under political suspension for having put a bullet into the leg of a punk who was threatening to annihilate an aged couple with a fire axe. Although in doing so Dollinger had violated neither the law of the land nor departmental policy, he had outraged the public, or at least that part of it that has a soft spot in its heart for punks. In consequence, he had been required to turn in his badge and weapon pending an internal investigation and meanwhile was doing alternative duty in Records.
Auburn requested background checks on both Bernish sisters, Laverne Bott and her invisible brother Felix, Ellison Trask, and Rose Lake, whether person or place. Then he decided to do some searching of his own on the Internet.
He found about a dozen Rose Lakes—all bodies of water, not people—and ascertained that, if the number on the slip that Christine Bernish had left at the bed-and-breakfast was a zip code, it was somewhere in or near Albuquerque. He called all four of the cab companies in town and learned that none of them had picked up a fare at Crestview on the Saturday in question.
He had turned his attention to other unfinished business when his phone rang.
"This is Greeves at the garage. Was that you I talked to today, with the lady that's looking for her sister?"
"Yes, sir."
"I just thought of something. I don't know if it's any help, but there was another person I took in the shuttle at the same time I took her."
"You mean somebody traveling with her?"
<
br /> "No, no. A guy that brought his car in for some work that same day, and he had to leave for an appointment. I think he's some kind of a doctor. He asked the woman if she'd mind if I took him to the hospital first, and she said it was okay. They got mighty chummy on the way, but I couldn't hear what they was saying, on account of the rain and the thunder."
"Is there any way you can find out the man's name?"
Greeves was silent for an interval. “I doubt it. Somebody'd have to go through all the work orders for that day. I don't even know where they are, and if I did, it wouldn't be no business of mine to mess with them."
Auburn thanked Greeves for the tip and promised to keep his name off the record. He called the service department at the garage and, by means of open-ended questioning and no little finesse, contrived to find the name of the man who had traveled with Christine Bernish in the shuttle van.
According to the city directory, Avram Choutras was in charge of the physical therapy department at Chalfont Hospital. Auburn called the hospital and without identifying himself determined that Mr., not Dr., Choutras was in his office. In a quarter of an hour Auburn was there with him. Choutras inspected his badge politely. He was a tall, athletic man in his middle forties with strongly marked features—distinguished rather than handsome. His head was shaped like an inverted pear and the top of it was bald. As with many men of Mediterranean extraction, his morning shave had worn off around noon.
"I'm looking for some information about a Christine Bernish,” said Auburn.
"If you'll spell that for me I'll pull her record."
"I don't think you have a record on her here. She's the woman who rode with you in the shuttle from the garage three weeks ago Friday."
Choutras did a classic double take and the cleft in his chin deepened. “I don't think I ever heard her name.” He shut the door of the office. “What about her?"
"She seems to have disappeared the next day. I'm looking for hints as to where she might be now."
Choutras closed his eyes in reflection. “I remember she said she was from out of town, but I don't remember where. She had a big brown leather suitcase with her. Her car conked out on the interstate—started grinding or something.” He opened his eyes again. “The last I saw of her, she was in the van with the grease monkey from the garage, on her way to a hotel."
"Did she happen to mention anything about her travel plans?"
"Not to me. Mostly we talked about the weather, and what a rotten time it was to have car trouble—cold, dark, and wet, with the danger of being struck by lightning thrown in for good measure. And I remember she told me she was a nurse."
After asking Choutras to get in touch if he remembered anything later that might help in tracing Christine Bernish's movements, Auburn returned to headquarters.
The official tally of Rose Lakes was now up to thirty-one—four of them in one state—but the nearest one was at least two hundred miles away, and if that was where Christine Bernish had been headed when she turned up here, she didn't know how to read a map. The search for a person named Rose Lake had yielded nobody locally, though Dollinger insisted there had once been a bartender of that name at the Lead Nickel. No Social Security number had ever been issued to a person named Ellison Trask.
Lieutenant Savage, on his way home for the day, checked with Auburn to see what he had done so far on the disappearance case. “I'm making about as much progress as a one-legged grasshopper,” Auburn told him. “The trail stops cold on Saturday, the twenty-first, after she picked up her car at the garage."
"Is it established that she did pick up the car?"
Auburn thought hard. “I'd say so. Somebody would have noticed by now if it was still sitting on the lot. The papers seemed to be in order. But I'm not sure how she got from the bed-and-breakfast to the garage that day. She didn't call a cab, and the guy that would have picked her up in the van from the garage—name of Slats—isn't at work today."
"Do you know his last name?"
"I can get it."
"What do you want to bet it's Slats Nugent?"
"Our cleaning guy?"
"Sure. He works about five jobs to keep himself in beer and pizza and lottery tickets. I just saw him downstairs about ten minutes ago."
"It couldn't be that easy."
Usually Auburn took the back stairs to the first floor, but since he was traveling with Savage he rode the elevator. They found Nugent in the janitor's room in the basement, savoring a final loaf before knocking off for the day. He readily confessed to working Saturdays at the garage, but couldn't remember picking up anybody at Crestview, and didn't recognize the picture of Christine Bernish.
"I think you'd better take another look at the folks at that bed-and-breakfast,” Savage suggested as he headed for his car. “Sounds like the place might be dangerous—especially for people named Bernish."
"What do you think? Search warrant?"
"Sure.” Savage looked at his watch. “You can probably find a judge over there if you hustle. Find him first, and then start working on the application."
Auburn didn't even go back upstairs to get his coat before dashing across the street to the courthouse. He did, however, straighten his tie before approaching the only judge remaining on the premises and applying for a warrant to search Crestview. Having obtained it with only the usual difficulties, he set out again for the bed-and-breakfast, stopping on the way for a quick dinner.
Charlene Bernish's car was parked in front of the hotel. Laverne Bott answered his ring and wordlessly admitted him to an atmosphere thick with clove, basil, and other pungent scents. He found Charlene in the parlor using the telephone. She ended her conversation almost immediately.
"Chris's lawyer,” she explained. “He's got this idea she's being held somewhere for ransom.” Although Ms. Bott had disappeared into the kitchen, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Chris is worth millions, you know. Have you found out anything?"
"Not really. We can't trace either Ellison Trask or Rose Lake, and the driver who works Saturdays at the garage didn't come out here and pick up your sister."
"Couldn't she have called a cab?"
"No, I checked that too."
She sat down on a spindly settee, deep in thought. “But she had to get there somehow. I mean, the car's gone, isn't it?"
"Apparently it is, but we have no indication how she got away from here to the garage that Saturday morning. Or if she did."
Charlene Bernish's eyes grew round at that, and they nearly popped out of her head when Auburn told her about the search warrant. “Do you really think something happened to Chris here?"
"I think we'd better find out. This is where her trail seems to stop."
Laverne Bott, summoned by Auburn's knock at the kitchen door, received the announcement of the proposed search with taciturn disgust. “You're practically accusing me of doing her in, or spiriting her away somewhere."
"Not at all. I understand you weren't here when she left that Saturday morning. There may be some trace here that you've overlooked yourself—"
"What kind of a trace?"
"We won't know until we find it. I'm not going to damage anything, and there aren't any other guests here to bother. It shouldn't take very long, unless I have to call in an evidence technician.” Or, he added to himself, drag your pond.
"What do you want me to do?"
"To start with, I'd like to talk to your brother."
Her anger was building like a case of indigestion. “You might as well talk to that spinning wheel. I told you this afternoon Felix is a deaf mute."
"But he's not blind, is he? And I assume he was here that Saturday morning while you were at the grocery, since you had a guest on the premises. I'd like to find out if he knows how she traveled from here to the garage to pick up her car. How do you ordinarily communicate with him?"
"A little signing, a little writing. A lot of telepathy. Come on."
Laverne Bott's silent partner, a man of enormous girth dressed a
ll in black, was washing dishes. He shrank back at their approach with a shyness amounting almost to alarm. Laverne reassured him with a gesture, and explained what was going on with a few more. In response to Auburn's queries, relayed by her, he shook his head with the exaggerated vigor of one whose only voice is body language and mime.
Auburn started his search outside, where dusk was already gathering. He found no bloodstains in the tumbledown barn, no charred bones in the outdoor fireplace, no telltale traces at the margin of the pond. Charlene Bernish retired to her room while he went slowly and carefully over the interior of the house, with Laverne Bott sighing and snorting at his heels. The dust in the attic made him sneeze and the mildew in the basement made him wheeze, but still he pressed on. At last only Felix Bott's room remained to be examined. This proved to be a sort of annex to the parlor, harboring unlikely bits of furniture and a prodigious collection of paperback novels.
Throughout his career Auburn had found more useful evidence in wastebaskets than anywhere else, and here he hit the jackpot. The torn and crumpled scraps of paper in Felix's trash were all printed advertisements and circulars, of no apparent relevance. But among them lay an empty metal tube, like those in which toothpaste and ointments are packaged. The top of the label read “Kaestner's Artist Quality Watercolor Paints,” and on unrolling the tube Auburn exposed the rest of the label and revealed the color: Rose Lake, Cat. No. 87104. He showed it to Ms. Bott.
She shrugged at him and signed to Felix, who signed back. The tube had come from the wastebasket in the room Christine Bernish had occupied. Why was it now in Felix's wastebasket? Because when he was doing his chores he had the habit of dumping one wastebasket into another, and only emptying the last one if it was full to overflowing.
Auburn found Charlene in the parlor reading the evening paper. “I think we can put away the maps,” he said, showing her the tube.
"It's a pigment, isn't it! Why didn't I think of that?"
"Does your sister paint?"
"Yes, of course she does, and I'm sure she has paints and brushes with her. Maybe I should have told you that before, but, well—she's rotten at it. No talent worth mentioning, and not enough taste, or objectivity, to realize it."
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