Charlie stuffed the money in her pants pocket and closed her eyes when the tears came again, blinked them away. “Thanks,” she said, not looking at Sally. “I really mean it, Dr. Alder. This is the best thing you could do to help me.”
Sally sincerely doubted that. She reached for the phone. “One more time. Please let me call the police and the ambulance. It’s really the smart thing to do.”
“If it were the smart thing to do,” said Charlie Preston, “I wouldn’t be in the shape I’m in. I gotta go now. I’ll be in touch, I swear to God. You don’t know what this means to me. Just promise you won’t call the cops. Please.”
“I can’t make that promise. This is the best I can do,” said Sally.
“Just a couple of days? Please?”
“This is a terrible idea,” Sally said.
“Look. I gotta get going.” The girl got up. She was wearing a snug T-shirt, low-slung jeans, Doc Marten shoes. The knit cap. No coat. Sally heard the wind, howling through the budding branches of April trees, banging loose doors and rattling the window casings, the kind of wind you had to lean hard into, just to stay upright. “Where’s your coat?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” said Charlie. “It’s warm out.”
Right. And Sally was Maurice Chevalier. “You can’t go driving off to who the hell knows where without a coat. Take mine.”
“Really. I’m good. I got it,” said Charlie.
“Goddamn it, Charlie. I must be crazy to let you out of here at all. At least take my coat, and stop acting like a moron,” Sally told her, getting up to go to the closet.
“Won’t you be cold walking outside?” the girl asked, taking the soft black wool coat with the warm liner.
“I’m good,” said Sally. “I got it.”
A few more tears. Sally opened a drawer, pulled out a box of tissues, put it on the desk.
Charlie got up, put on the coat, took a wad of tissues and jammed them in a pocket. She leaned over, pain in every movement, and picked up her backpack. “Thank you,” she said. “You don’t—really, I can’t—anyway, thanks. See you.”
And she was gone.
Sally picked up the phone. She’d agreed not to call Sheriff Dickie Langham. She hadn’t made any promises about the sheriff’s sister.
Delice answered on the third ring. “Oh, it’s you,” she said when she heard Sally’s voice. “I’m waiting for a call from my meat guy. It’s blowing like hell up in the passes, and the truck with my order had a problem somewhere between here and Denver. Hamburger all over the highway.”
“Can you come to my office?” Sally asked. “There’s something I need to talk to you about, and it requires some privacy.”
“I can’t really get away,” Delice told her, “but it sounds like an emergency. Can you come down here?”
“No car,” said Sally. “I’d walk down, but I don’t have a coat.”
Delice was silent a moment. “I’ll pick you up,” she said. “This is something bad, right?”
“Yeah,” Sally answered. “I’m going downstairs now. I’ll be watching for you out in front of the building.”
Ten minutes later Sally was sitting in Delice’s tiny office, hands around a cup of the Wrangler’s terrible coffee, listening as Delice ripped a new orifice in a meat supplier who’d had the bad luck to lose a truck to the balmy breezes of a Rocky Mountain spring.
“I don’t care how many orders this sets you back!” Delice hollered into the phone. “You’re going to get my goddamn stuff up here by dinnertime, or you’re going to start looking into the butcher protection program.” She slammed down the phone, jangling a dozen silver bracelets, took a swig from her own coffee mug, and looked at Sally. “Okay. What’s up?” she asked.
“Charlie Preston,” said Sally.
“She’s supposed to be working four to midnight,” Delice said. “She’s missed some shifts, but she usually calls ahead. What about her?”
“She won’t be coming in,” said Sally.
Delice pursed her lips, thought a bit before she spoke. “She’s got some problems.”
Sally leaned her elbows on Delice’s desk. “The latest problem is that somebody beat the hell out of her. She came to my office, looking like a train wreck. She wouldn’t let me take her to the hospital or call the police. She claimed she knew a doctor who could fix her up, but she needed money.”
“So what’d you do?” asked Delice, eyes somber.
“She seemed like she was at the end of her rope. I gave her all the cash I had.”
“Gave her your coat too, huh?” Delice said. “The really cool one you got last fall on sale at Bloomingdale’s. The coat I want to kill you for.”
“It’s just a coat,” said Sally.
Delice nodded. “I’d probably have done the same. And I’m not just saying that to be reassuring. Sometimes there isn’t much choice.”
“I couldn’t keep her in my office,” Sally said.
“Uh huh. If they’re gonna run, they’ll run. I can tell you two things. One is that you’ll never see that money again.” Delice drank a little more coffee.
“It wasn’t a loan,” said Sally.
“The other thing is that there’s a better than even chance you’ll never see Charlie again,” Delice told her.
“I know. That’s what worries me. She was really messed up, Dee.”
“Yeah. I can imagine,” Delice replied. “But at least she admitted she needed a doctor, and had some idea of who she could go see. How much do you know about her?”
Sally shook her head. “Very little. She’s bright, but frustrating. She misses lots of classes. She works for you.”
“She’s also been a tough case since she was a little kid. She ran away from home, probably not for the first time. Her father and stepmother reported her missing, and a trooper picked her up hitchhiking on I-80, just west of Green River, in the middle of a snowstorm. She was half frozen to death, but from what I heard, she wasn’t exactly oozing gratitude for the ride. She clammed up and wouldn’t talk, and they took her straight home. After that, she just fell into trouble, a couple of shoplifting incidents, and a real problem with running away.”
“How do you know so much about her?” Sally asked.
“Last year, the parents gave up and agreed to temporary foster care. She was living with Mike and Julie Stark when she came in here asking for a job. She had that look in her eye—wounded but brave. I like that. I hired her on the spot. Mike and Julie filled me in on the background later.”
“Mike and Julie Stark? Maude’s nephew and his wife?” Sally asked.
“Yeah. Nice people. They’ve got a fourteen-year-old daughter, always wanted more kids but couldn’t have them, so they take in foster children now and then,” Delice explained.
“So did Charlie keep running away because she was being abused at home?” Sally asked.
“She didn’t talk about it with me,” said Delice, “and the Starks didn’t go into detail. But it’s what I suspect. For their part, the parents claim they’ve tried everything, but she’s an incorrigible juvenile delinquent who runs with a rough crowd, a pathological liar and thief.”
Sally thought a minute. “From what she said, it sounded like she was living with her parents again.”
“For about the last month, yeah. I don’t know what happened, but I guess, somehow, they managed to talk her into coming home. I know they bought her a car—maybe that had something to do with it. Bradley Preston has bucks.”
“Bradley Preston?” Sally frowned. “The name rings a bell, but I can’t place him.”
Delice made a face. “He’s a heap-big bwana corporate lawyer and a pompous jerk. You’d never know I had to kick his ass out of my bar twenty-some years ago.”
“Wait a minute. There was a guy who used to hustle pool and hassle waitresses. Bad Brad. Used to work as a roughneck on drill rigs, right? You’re not saying he’s Charlie’s father?” Sally said,
“Same guy, but different M.O. Quit the oil patc
h, went to law school, married and divorced his secretary when she ran off and left him with a three-year-old kid. Faster than you can say ‘rebound,’ he married an upright Christian woman and got born again. He represents insurance companies who want to deny claims to little old ladies and Cub Scouts.”
“He was a rude bastard, back in the day. I recall him getting a huge snootful of Yukon Jack, reaching across the bar, and ripping the T-shirt off Lizzie Mason when she was in the middle of making a tequila sunrise,” said Sally.
“And that,” said Delice, “was the last time he set foot in my place. Stupid son of a bitch.”
Nobody messed with Delice Langham.
“What about the stepmother? If the father is a batterer, where does this good professing woman fit in?” Sally asked.
“Who knows? Beatrice is probably too busy minding other people’s business to notice,” Delice said with a sneer.
“So she’s that kind of Christian,” said Sally. “Maybe she just doesn’t want anything to do with the leftovers of Brad’s first marriage.”
“Or maybe it’s easier for her just to see nothing. You know how it goes. Family members look the other way so it doesn’t come down on them.” Delice picked up a pen and drew circles on her desk blotter.
“Or maybe she’s convinced herself that the kid deserves what she gets,” Sally said.
Delice put down the pen, sighed heavily, looked up. “It happens,” she said.
“I’m feeling better about giving Charlie the money,” said Sally.
“And the coat,” said Delice. The wind was really kicking up by now, pounding the dingy little window of Delice’s office with dust and gravel from the Wrangler parking lot. “She’ll be glad she’s got that coat. It’s getting really evil out.”
Acknowledgments
Once again, during the time I’ve been working on this book, I’ve been the recipient of more love and friendship and support than I deserve. I’m grateful to the friends who’ve kept me sane despite my own best efforts: Karen Anderson, Mim Aretsky, Beth Bailey, Audie Blevins, Melissa Bokovoy, Hal Corbett, Katie Curtiss, Paul Hutton, Nancy Jackson, Katherine Jensen, Catherine Kleiner, Monica McCormick, Les McFadden, Maria Montóya, Judy Morley, Jessica Moseley, Harriet Moss, Greg Nottage, Craig Pinto, Richard Sanchez, Ernesto Sanchez, Wendy Schmidt, John Schmidt, Bev Seckinger, Jane Slaughter, and Laura Timothy. A special word of thanks to Chris Wilson, whose generosity, eye for beauty, and love of life are an inspiration.
Writers owe a lot to the people who make books possible. Thanks to Kay Marcotte, Lindsay at Bookworks, Bonnie and Joe at Black Orchid, and the incomparable Barbara Peters at Poisoned Pen for encouragement and great events. To my splendid agent, Elaine Koster, and wonderful editor, Carolyn Marino, thanks for your continuing faith in me. To Tara McDonald, Jon George, Yolanda Martinez, Helen Ferguson, Dana Ellison, Barbara Wafer, Cindy Tyson, and Scott Meredith, thanks for smoothing out the kinks and keeping me on the forward path, in just about every way.
Thanks to the Scharff, Levkoff, Swift, Bort, and Broh families, especially Cheryl Swift, scientist, environmentalist, feminist, and sister. To Peter, Sam, and Annie, I am endlessly grateful to you for keeping the ship afloat in stormy seas. To my brothers and sisters, who’ve put up with me longer than anybody else: I love you very much.
About the Author
VIRGINIA SWIFT teaches history at the University of New Mexico. She also writes nonfiction under the name Virginia Scharff. She lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
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Praise for
BYE, BYE, LOVE
and
VIRGINIA SWIFT’s MUSTANG SALLY
“Virginia Swift threatens to do for Wyoming historians what Janet Evanovich has done for New Jersey bounty hunters.” Stephen White, author of Warning Signs
“Richly character-driven... As much a perceptive and entertaining social comedy... as it is about solving a couple of murders... Swift has a lot to say, some of it quite funny...But the characters come across not as caricatures but as real people, filled with nuances and internal contradictions.”
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Mystery lovers are in luck... Bye, Bye, Love is a craftily plotted tale fusing Sally’s joy in the music of her youth and the gorgeous Wyoming countryside with her need to scratch the detection itch.”
Madison Capital Times (WI)
“Swift’s forte is comedy of manners, frontier style, and her vest-pocket view of Laramie’s outspoken individualists.”
New York Times Book Review
“Frank, funny, and erudite, [Sally’s] a woman to watch.”
Denver Rocky Mountain News
“Appealing...Readers should enjoy the ride.”
Publishers Weekly
Books by
Virginia Swift
BYE, BYE, LOVE
BAD COMPANY
BROWN-EYED GIRL
Forthcoming in hardcover
HELLO, STRANGER
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Virginia Scharff
Excerpt from Hello, Stranger copyright © 2006 by Virginia Scharff
ISBN-13: 978-0-06-054332-7
ISBN-10: 0-06-054332-9
EPub Edition © October 2011 ISBN: 9780062133557
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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