by Gregg Olsen
I say it this time: “Okay.”
“Well, Cass says there’s a youngish woman that matches your description in the store weekly. She said the lady gets her groceries here. She’d do better to go to one of the new big stores in Silverdale. Cheaper by far and a better selection too.”
“Cass?”
“Cass runs the place. Says the woman always pays in cash. Has a pocketful of dollar bills and change. So, anyhow, she didn’t come in this Sunday. She matches the description and I thought I’d check it out for you.”
“Do you happen to have a name for the woman who rents from Joe Bobbsey?” I ask, thinking I’d better be specific. Yes-or-no questions are best.
“Her name is Leann Truitt.”
“Do you have an address for Leann Truitt?”
Ronnie writes in her notebook.
“Yep. You won’t be able to find it without Joe Bobbsey. There aren’t any roads to his cabins. Just a trail through the woods. Not even a trail to some of them.”
“Where are you?”
Lonigan tells me.
“I’m almost in Port Hadlock now. I’ll meet you in a bit.”
“Go to the Nordland General Store and I’ll find you.”
I disconnect the call.
“We got our first good lead,” Ronnie says. She looks excited. It may pan out. May not. Either way, we have to check.
Then we need to run down Robbie Boyd.
Sixteen
On the way, Ronnie gives me an oral history of Marrowstone Island she’s pulled up on her phone. If that thing weren’t so useful, I’d be tempted to pitch it out the window into Puget Sound.
“Marrowstone is named for Marrowstone Point, discovered in 1792 by George Vancouver, a British explorer. He called it Marrowstone because of the hard clay-like soil.”
I don’t tell her to shut up. She’s excited and this seems to be how she blows off steam.
“The census shows 884 residents. There are no cities. Just a couple of state parks. Four hundred and thirty-two households and only ten percent of them have children under eighteen years old. Can you imagine?”
“Wow!” I say.
I’m totally uninterested.
“No resident is under the poverty line. That’s amazing.”
“Sure is.”
We cross the causeway to Indian Island.
Kilisut Harbor spreads out to our left. I see a sign for beach cottages telling me to turn right onto Robbins Road, but that’s the wrong end of the island. I head north where State Route 116 is Flagler Road and follow Kilisut Harbor for a long while before the island makes a big thumb and creates Mystery Bay. According to Ronnie’s GPS, the Nordland General Store is right there at Mystery Bay.
Much of the area has been turned into farmland and vineyards, with a scattering of small businesses and its very own RV park. A road sign for Mystery Bay is coming up, and another, bigger sign for the Nordland General Store. I follow the directions and end up in the gravel parking lot in front of a one-level flat-roofed building. The wood-paneled structure has been added on to several times. The general store is on one side, Mystery Bay Sails and Canvas in the middle, and, on the end, is a post office. A boat rental place is across the street on the bay. All it needs is a gas pump, a garage, and a church for a complete community. One-stop shopping.
Next to the Taurus are a couple of vans loaded with camping gear and kids and older couples who must be the grandparents. The grandparents look frazzled but happy. I don’t know who my grandparents are. On my mother’s side I know my grandparents were awful people that more or less ran my mother off when she was sixteen, pregnant, and scared. I don’t want to know them. On my biological father’s side, I never went down that path. I never cared as long as they weren’t a threat to me or my brother.
Ronnie twists in the seat and looks around. “Didn’t Trooper Lonigan say there was a restaurant here?”
I see signs in the window advertising only Port Townsend microbrewed beer. Pass. I also don’t see a state patrol car. We get out and go inside to find Lonigan.
Inside is nothing like I imagined from the car. It’s spacious, with white-painted shelves and freezer cases stocked with anything and everything a person would need to grocery shop and stock up on beer or wine to boot. There are also household items: toaster ovens, coffeepots, both electric and the old-type percolators, wire potato mashers, hand blenders, dishes and mugs and silverware. Looking out through the front picture windows, I can see the porch with its rocking chairs and benches and a table where kids are playing checkers. On the inside, in front of the window, are a full coal bucket and scoop beside a cast-iron potbellied stove that must date to the nineteenth century. Grouped around and facing the stove and windows are a half dozen wooden chairs. The chairs are heavy, well-made, and well used.
There is no one in the store. “Hello? Anyone here?”
A woman, maybe forty, maybe fifty, shorter than me and heavier than me by about forty pounds, comes up from behind the shellacked wooden counter. She pats her silver hair into place and pulls the loose strands back and twists them into a ponytail.
“If you’re looking for anyone, they ain’t here.” She smiles when she says this, which makes me smile. “Prince Harry and Meghan will be here tomorrow.”
She rubs her hand on her apron and holds it out. “Cass.”
“Megan. And this is Ronnie.” I don’t know why I introduced us by our first names. Reflex. She is Cass; we are Megan and Ronnie.
“I know who you are. Lonigan told me you were coming.”
“He was going to meet us here. I guess he got busy.”
Cass smirks. “Yeah. Busy. Sure. If you say so. I’ve called Joe. He should be here shortly. He’s out breaking arms, collecting rent.”
I notice her expression is more serious when she talks about Joe Bobbsey. She doesn’t like him.
“Do you know about how long he’ll be? We need to show him a picture.”
“You can show it to me if it’s of Leann. She comes in on Sundays. Like clockwork, that one.”
I exchange a look with Ronnie. “The picture is of a deceased woman. You might—”
“Honey, I’ve been around. I’ve seen dead people. Let’s see it.”
I have brought the file folder in with me. I open it and take out a five-by-seven-inch close-up of the victim’s face. Cass barely looks at it.
“Yeah. That’s Leann all right. Poor girl. Poor, poor little thing.” In the next breath: “I forgot my manners. Lonigan said you might want to eat. Even detectives have to eat lunch.”
“We really just need to see Joe and ask some questions.” When I say this, I can see the disappointment on Ronnie’s face. There is a plastic display case filled with pastries and, best of all, big cinnamon rolls smothered in white icing. “But maybe we can have one of the cinnamon rolls you have there.”
“You’ll have time to eat if you want to talk to Joe. He’s on Joe time. He’ll get here when he gets here. I told him to hurry up, but he won’t.” She mutters something I can’t quite hear. “Let me get you a proper lunch.”
Cass disappears through a door. I hear plates clack and smell something heavenly. She’s back in less than a couple of minutes and carrying two platters filled with food.
“Have a seat over by the stove. You’ll have to eat on your lap. Everyone does. It’s kind of a thing here.” She laughs again and I find myself chuckling along with her. I can’t help it. I’ve eaten on my lap in cars for years. Ronnie sits down and accepts her platter and silverware like she’s holding a baby for the first time and doesn’t know quite what to do with it. I dig in.
Meat loaf, gravy, mashed potatoes, corn fried in butter that tastes like it was cut fresh off the cob. Lonigan didn’t lie. It isn’t exactly a restaurant. It’s better than a restaurant.
“How about seconds?”
I wave her away. My mouth is full. My stomach equally so. Ronnie keeps her fingers over her lips and shakes her head. I look at the wall clock. We’ve been
here for twenty minutes. Still no Bobbsey. Cass returns with more coffee, and a bell dings over the door.
“Joe’s here,” Cass says, and goes to the counter.
Joe Bobbsey isn’t anything like I’d pictured him. From the way everyone talks about him, I expected a hick farmer with a round belly and thinning hair, wearing a green John Deere cap and chawing on Red Man. Joe is six feet, 170 pounds, and fortyish, with blond hair touching his collar, blue eyes, and a lumberjack’s beard.
He looks at Ronnie’s plate. “How ’bout a piece of that pie?”
“Fresh out,” Cass says, and leans down, elbows on the counter. She looks like a barkeep in an old Western. She motions with her head in my direction. “You have to talk to them.”
“I don’t have to do anything, Cass. I’m here as a courtesy to Ray. I support the police in my own way.”
“Yeah. Right. I guess you rent your cabins to honest, God-fearing folks and not to scum of the earth that break into my store or shoplift or get into fights in my parking lot, driving my business away.”
“Cass, I don’t run a police background check on people that want to rent a fishing cabin. I’ve got a business to run, just like you.”
Cass scoffed. “Like me…”
“I guess you check out all your customers. All the people that rent from me come here for supplies. My customers are your customers. So I guess you’re guilty same as me. We’ve been through this.”
“You’re right. Go talk to those ladies. I’m busy.” Cass goes into the back room.
Joe sits in a chair with his back to the windows. He doesn’t introduce himself or ask our names.
“I’m Detective Carpenter. This is Deputy Marsh. If you’re Joe Bobbsey, I need to show you a picture.”
“My name isn’t Bobbsey. It’s Bohleber. Joe Bohleber. My brother is Steve Bohleber. We’re twins. Moved here from Indiana eight years ago and they took to calling us the Bobbsey Twins.”
I stand up and hand Bohleber the picture and say, “It’s not a pleasant picture, but I’m told you might know who this is.”
I watch for his reaction.
He looks at the photo for even less time than Cass. “Her name is Leann Truitt. She rents from me.” His flicker of recognition indicates a melancholy. “What happened to her?”
I don’t explain. “Can you give me her address?”
“I’ll have to show you, and I’m pretty busy right now. Can you come back later?”
“No.”
“Oh. Uh, okay. Do you mean right now?”
“Ronnie will follow you in my car and I’ll ride with you.” I look at Ronnie. I don’t care much one way or the other if she likes it. We have to put on a united front. I can see why Cass doesn’t like him.
“Okay. Why are you riding with me? Do you think I’m going to run or something? I’m not a suspect in whatever this is, am I?”
Joe is the second person in as many days to ask if he is a suspect. It must be catching.
“No. You’re not.” I’m lying now. He just became one. “I just want to ask you questions about your renter on the way. You get us there and you can leave.”
“You’re not going to tear the place up, are you? I run clean cabins. I check them once a week. If they’ve done any damage, they’re out.”
“I don’t think Ms. Truitt will be doing any damage,” I say. And she’s about as out as she can get. It’s interesting that he checks them so often. I wonder if he has a key.
Of course he does.
I hand my keys to Ronnie as Cass brings her a to-go box and whispers in her ear. Cass must think Ronnie is too thin.
I do too.
Seventeen
Parked right out front taking up two spots is Joe’s Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo four-wheel drive. A yellow two-person kayak is strapped to the top. The vehicle is coated in a thin, whitish gray dust. The kayak, however, is dust-free. I get in the passenger seat and immediately catch a whiff of marijuana. Probably more than a whiff. Joe notices that I notice. I don’t say anything.
He could shoot up heroin as long as he takes me to the victim’s house, or cabin, or whatever it is.
We drive north down Flagler for a couple of miles before coming to the opening where Mystery Bay is fed by Kilisut Harbor. I remember what Ronnie said about eight hundred or so people living on the island. I wonder what it would be like to have this type of seclusion. Isolation. Would it help me deal with my life, or socially alienate me even more?
We continue north toward Fort Flagler Historical State Park and turn onto a gravel embankment, then onto a rutted path between farm fields, and then over tall grass toward Mystery Bay.
“Does anyone live with her?” I ask.
He stares straight ahead. “Better not have anyone there.”
“Is that a yes or no?”
“It’s an I don’t know but she’d better not.”
“Does she have a rental agreement?”
“Yep.”
“Do you require a reference?”
“Yep.”
“Do you mind answering with more than a yep?”
“Look,” he says, looking at me for the first time, “I took time out to drive you the hell out here. I’ll send you the rental agreement. I guess it won’t do me no good now, will it?”
“Do you remember who the reference was? Mother? Father? Employer?”
Killer?
“She didn’t say, but I talked to a Jim Truitt. I guess he’s related somehow. Rich guy. I don’t recall how it came about, but I got his phone number and address on the rental papers.”
We enter a wooded area and the Jeep slaloms between the towering firs. I can see a blue strip of horizon like dashes and dots in the distance: Mystery Bay.
“And I don’t remember the address,” he says. “She might have a copy inside if you want to look. I got a key.”
He isn’t telling me everything, so I press him for details.
“Do you know Jim Truitt?”
“No. Never heard of the guy. Why don’t you bother him instead of me?”
“You just said he’s rich. How do you know that?”
He doesn’t respond. I don’t say anything but I’m going to find Jim Truitt. And I’m going to send a deputy to Joe’s house to get the rental agreement. I don’t want him sending it to me on “Joe time,” as Cass put it.
The Jeep comes out on a narrow dirt road. A clearing with a log cabin is dead ahead. I look back to see if Ronnie was able to navigate the rough terrain. I don’t see my car but the way through the trees should have new tire tracks through it. I hope my Taurus isn’t in a shallow ditch with a busted axle. I’m relieved when she pulls up beside us.
I don’t plan to go inside the cabin. In fact, I don’t even want to walk around the cabin. This might be where the murder took place. She was bound, beaten, and sexually assaulted. I have personal knowledge of that kind of sicko. Now that I have one victim, I have to search for others.
I take Joe’s key to the cabin, and Ronnie writes all his personal contact information in her notebook. He lives on Flagler Road, so he won’t be hard to find. She writes his license plate number and vehicle description and asks for his driver’s license. He is a little testy but becomes really nasty when I tell him the cabin and area is now off-limits until Crime Scene releases it. I promise he’ll get his key back and the place won’t be trashed. He doesn’t believe me.
While we wait for Crime Scene techs to arrive, Ronnie puts Joe in the Taurus and records a statement. I listen in: she asks all the right questions. She doesn’t make the mistake some investigators make and try to be chummy or too authoritative. She lets him ask questions and she lets him answer his own questions.
Smart.
Before I let him leave, I ask, “Where is your twin brother now?”
He shakes his head.
“You don’t know, or you won’t say?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “He took off right after Leann rented the cabin. Been a while since I heard from
him.”
“Did you tell my deputy where he lives? A phone number? Some way to find him?”
Ronnie shakes her head.
“Why not, Mr. Bohleber?”
“I’m not my brother’s keeper. He has half this business, but he just packed up and took off. He didn’t tell me where he was going and, to be honest, I don’t want to know. He’s left me with all the work and he’s still getting half the proceeds.”
“What bank?”
He just looks at me.
“I’m not going to ask again, Mr. Bohleber. If I have to get a warrant, I’ll have to consider you a suspect and this will get much messier.”
Ronnie hands him her notebook and he writes it down.
“There,” he spits out. “Is that all? Can I get back to work?”
“Sure,” I say. “After my deputy gets some images of your tire treads.”
He makes a face, and Ronnie does as she’s asked.
When he drives away, she takes more photos of the tire tracks in the damp earth.
I call Sheriff Gray with the update. Ronnie gives me the exact GPS coordinates from her phone, and I pass them on. I ask the sheriff to send another deputy to Joe Bohleber’s house to get the rental agreement. I ask if he will run criminal records on Leann Truitt and Jim Truitt. He agrees but he sounds a little hesitant. I give him Joe Bohleber’s date of birth and tell him about the twin thing with Steve.
Next I call Joe.
“I thought we were done,” he says.
“Not yet,” I say. “I’ve got a deputy coming to your address to pick up the rental agreement. He’ll write you a receipt for it.”
“I wasn’t planning on going home.”
“Sorry,” I say, although I don’t mean it at all. “A deputy is already on his way and you’ve been so cooperative.”
“I’ll be at home,” he says finally. “But I ain’t waiting long.”
I end the call, and Ronnie and I cordon off a large area around the cabin with yellow-and-black crime scene tape while we wait for Deputies Davis and Copsey to arrive. It’s a surprisingly short wait, which is good. The deputies widen the perimeter with another roll of tape.