Sometimes, when Max really thought back into her childhood, she wondered if her mother had other reasons for what she did. But in the end, Max always came back to one thing: Martha was all about having fun, and she thought manipulating people was fun.
“Where were you when she disappeared?” Lipsky asked. “You would have still been a minor.”
“Living with my grandparents in California. I’d gotten old enough to cramp her style, I suppose, and her boyfriend at the time—Jimmy Truman—didn’t like me. The feeling was mutual.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere, so Max nodded a thanks. “You might be right,” he continued, “and Jane Sterling is your mother. But proving that is going to be difficult.”
“Sheriff Bartlett said the state would have kept the abandoned car. There might be something in there, evidence that would prove it. Even DNA.”
“I suppose it’s possible. But truthfully? After sixteen years I doubt there’s anything usable in the vehicle.”
She thought much the same thing, but needed to follow through on it. She shifted gears to the other reason she’d wanted to speak to Lipsky. “I learned through my research that there is an inactive FBI investigation into Jimmy Truman. Do you know about that?”
He was clearly surprised she did. “That’s been inactive for years. Yeah, I knew because I’d arrested Jimmy twice when he was a teenager. So the FBI came to talk to me, get my files. But as far as I know, Jimmy has all but disappeared.”
There was a fine line about what to share and what not to share when working with the police on a cold case. So far, Lipsky had been exactly what she expected from an experienced cop. He was interested in what she had to say, but didn’t want to show it. He didn’t know what to make of her theory that Jane Sterling was her mother, but he was open to considering it. And he was intrigued that a local boy might be involved.
She said, “I learned that Jimmy also went by J. J. Sterling. Does that ring any bells?”
“No, but I can run the name, see what pops.”
“What was the FBI investigating?”
Lipsky turned to his computer and logged in. A minute later, he wrote a name and number on a slip of paper. “Special Agent Ryan Maguire. Here’s his number—you can say I gave it to you. But I can’t share anything because it’s not my case, and I don’t step on my colleagues’ toes. It may be inactive, but I don’t know how far he got, whether he found something else, or even if the statute of limitations has expired.”
“I appreciate this,” Max said.
“I’ll run the names—Sterling and Martha Revere—and I’ll also run any Jane Does found in Virginia, Maryland, or Delaware—from April first of that year up through the present. If her body was recovered after a few years, they may not have had much to work with. Bartlett said he’d run his two counties after he talked to you and nothing showed up, but if she died in the ocean—a boating accident or murder or suicide—currents could take her away.”
Max had been thinking about that, but she was pleasantly surprised when Lipsky offered to do it for her. She was running low on resources because other than David, she couldn’t use NET employees on this. Not on a personal case she had no intention of writing or hosting a show about.
“Thank you,” she said. “If you have anyone who fits her description or age, I’ll volunteer my DNA as a sample.”
He nodded, jotted some notes. “May I ask what your next step is?”
“This is a cold case for you—and out of your jurisdiction. Sheriff Bartlett was helpful, but unless I can find something solid to bring to him, I don’t see that he has the resources to assign a detective to investigate my theory. I have a few people I want to talk to, including Truman’s brother.”
Lipsky said, “You may want to tread carefully with Gabriel Truman.”
“You know him?”
It was clear that he was weighing what to say. “Not well, but Maguire has spoken to him a few times over the years about his brother, and my understanding is that neither Truman brother likes cops all that much.”
“I’ll take it under advisement. Fortunately, I’m not a cop and if my mother was still involved with Jimmy Truman when she disappeared, Gabriel may know something about it.”
“And if your theory that she’s been dead for sixteen years holds true, he probably wasn’t involved—he was in the navy. I was still in Northampton back then. If memory holds, Gabriel had a kid and retired from active duty about the same time, though I don’t remember the exact dates. I’m not saying he’s involved or not—just to be cautious.”
“Of course.” She already knew that Gabriel Truman had left the navy in September of that year—months after her mother disappeared. He simply hadn’t reenlisted, so she didn’t think anything was suspicious. Maybe his brother was in trouble or maybe Gabriel wanted to spend more time with his family. Either way, he might have known what Jimmy was up to back then and he may have known Martha.
Max thanked Lipsky for his time, left the police station, and dialed Maguire’s cell phone number. It went to voicemail immediately.
“Agent Maguire, my name is Maxine Revere and I’d like to talk to you about your investigation into Jimmy Truman. I have some information you’ll want to know.” She hung up after leaving her number. If Maguire was still interested in Truman, he would call her sometime today. And if he didn’t? Max would come back to Norfolk and arrange for a sit-down with the federal agent.
Her instincts were twitching. There was something here … she just didn’t know what.
Yet.
Chapter Seven
By the time Max returned to Cape Haven, it was midafternoon. She drove straight out to the area bordering Oyster Bay and located the farm still owned by Garrett Henderson, the individual who found her mother’s abandoned car sixteen years ago. She had tried calling him on her way back to the Eastern Shore, but he hadn’t answered. It took her only a minute to internally debate about showing up without an appointment.
She’d dressed professionally when speaking with Lipsky—gray slacks, heels, and an attractive silk blouse. But she was trekking out again into a quasi-marsh, and figured a farmer like Henderson—soybeans, according to the county maps—would be dressed to work. She didn’t want to look like what she was—a New Yorker “roughing it” in rural Virginia. She had no intention of lying to the man, but wanted to make him comfortable enough to speak to her.
She pulled over to the side of the road. There had been no traffic—she hadn’t passed one car in the last five minutes—and took off her blouse. She had a button-down plaid shirt that matched her slacks—she should have brought jeans with her today, but she’d been a bit preoccupied. One of the drawbacks of chronic insomnia was forgetting the little things. But with the shirt and changing her heels for sturdy flat boots, she didn’t feel completely out of place.
The farm didn’t have a website and the only thing she could learn about Henderson was by reading a local agricultural magazine. His family had been growing crops here for two hundred years, and thirty years ago, after his father died, he and his sister got into soybeans and aquaculture—specifically, raising clams in the high saline areas on the Eastern Shore. The photo of him was old—at least ten years based on the caption—but he looked ancient then. However, a basic internet search confirmed he was alive and well.
After her quick change, Max drove the half mile down to the Henderson farm. The entrance to the farm marked the end of the paved road. The dirt and gravel road led to where Martha’s car had been found, another quarter of a mile away.
She’d considered that maybe someone on the farm had been involved with Martha’s disappearance, but (mostly) ruled out Garrett Henderson. Even sixteen years ago he was old, and if he was involved in something illegal, killing Max wouldn’t be his first course of action. He would deny, claim he didn’t know anything, or that he didn’t remember, and hope she went away. Making Max disappear would be a lot harder than Martha.
Martha had cut everyone out of
her life. And while Max wasn’t always good at keeping her friends close, she had a few she trusted. There were people who would miss her, who would look for her and ask the right questions.
The Henderson farm wasn’t gated or fenced—fences probably would be difficult to maintain because of the winds and storms that blew through here so often. The drive went right through the middle of the land, which had been recently tilled but didn’t appear to have anything growing. Max knew next to nothing about agriculture but supposed it was too early to plant soybeans. The large farmhouse sprawled with two distinct add-ons, and a porch that looked recently repaired. It was simple and inviting and appeared well maintained. Two barns were in the back, one that didn’t look like it could withstand high winds and the second new and modern. Grain silos and a garage completed the spread, along with land as far as she could see.
She stopped her rental car along the edge of the drive where it ended by the house. She got out, heard machinery in the distance, but didn’t see anyone.
She walked up the porch steps and knocked on the wood-framed screen door. Two little dogs came running and barking to the screen followed by an old and slow golden retriever. The wonderful scent of cinnamon drifted out of the door.
“Stop, stop!” a female voice commanded. The dogs continued barking for a moment, then ran around in circles.
A woman about fifty, with wide hips and eyes so bright blue they shined through the screen, smiled at Max. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Garrett Henderson.”
“My father-in-law or my husband?”
“I suppose I don’t know.” The police report had Garrett Henderson at this address. “Whoever lives here.”
That perplexed the woman, who said, “Come on in, we’ll get everything straightened out.” She opened the door.
The dogs ran around Max’s ankles twice, then ran back into the house.
“Ignore them. They’re harmless, just noisy. If you don’t mind we’ll talk in the kitchen, I’m making dinner and cookies for a bake sale at the high school tomorrow. My youngest had to run for student body president and win, and she has me baking and volunteering and driving every which way. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. She’ll be off to college in the fall and I’ll officially be an empty nester. By the way, I’m Beth Henderson.”
“Maxine Revere. How many kids do you have?”
“Eight. Yes, I know, no one has eight kids anymore, but it was fun, and there are two sets of twins in there. Never a dull moment. Gary and I moved in here with his dad after his mom died a few years back. We only had the youngest two left, and Dad needed the help. Gary has worked for him for thirty years, but Dad just can’t keep up the house like he used to, and I was worried about him. He took Mom’s death so hard. Having Molly and Wyatt around was good for him.” She smiled. “I’m just chattering away. Please sit.” She motioned to a large rectangular table that took up the center of the expansive kitchen.
“You could feed an army in here.”
Beth laughed. “We have, we have. Thanksgiving is always an adventure. I have fresh coffee—Gary tells me I need to cut back, but I’d never get anything done without coffee. And besides, there are worse habits than coffee—Gary smoked for twenty years before he finally quit.”
“Coffee sounds wonderful.”
The woman bustled around the kitchen, poured two mugs and put them on the table, then returned with creamer and a sugar bowl. “Help yourself, I need to get the cookies out.”
There were already four dozen cookies cooling on metal racks. Beth pulled two trays out of a huge oven, placed them on the stove, and put two more trays in that she’d already prepared. She set a timer, pulled a plate out of the cupboard, and arranged six of the cookies—snickerdoodles, Max suspected—and put them in front of Max before sitting down.
“Now, what do you need with my father-in-law or husband?”
Max sipped the coffee, then explained who she was and why she wanted to talk to the person who found the abandoned car sixteen years ago. She decided telling the truth would get her much further with these people, and it was clear as she revealed her story that Beth was both sympathetic and interested.
“It was my father-in-law, I remember him talking about it, and that was years before we moved in here. I’m sorry that I don’t remember the details.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to, and honestly, I don’t know if he would, either. It’s been a long time.”
“Dad is eighty-one, but there’s nothing wrong with his memory, trust me. He refuses to retire, even though Gary has taken over most of the day-to-day production issues. But Dad is the face of Henderson Farms. My son Richard is finishing up a master’s program in North Carolina, and he’ll start taking over for Gary. Dad is very happy we’re keeping the farm in the family.”
Max liked Beth, and she already liked the Henderson family. To have such an amazing legacy was uplifting, and Beth seemed genuine. Max had a bad habit of instantly judging people, but most of the time she was accurate in her assessment. Beth was what Max’s grandfather would have called, “the salt of the earth,” a cliché, perhaps, but there was always some truth behind clichés.
“When will he be back?”
“He’s just out in the far field taking soil samples. Dad is very hands-on. We plant in less than four weeks.” She looked at an old-fashioned clock above the doorway. “He’ll be back in thirty minutes or so, if you’d like to wait. He’s the proverbial early to bed, early to rise. You’re welcome to stay for dinner—six on the dot.”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
Beth laughed. “Nonsense! I always cook too much. And between Dad, my aunt—she lives in town, but comes out here for dinner more often than not since her husband passed—and Gary, maybe they can help figure out what happened to your poor mother.”
Max had never considered Martha a “poor” anything, and certainly not a victim. But the Hendersons had been around for a long time. They probably knew the Trumans, they knew the sheriff, they might have even come across Martha.
“I would like that, thank you very much.”
* * *
By the time Garrett Henderson walked in with his son Gary, it was nearly two hours later, and Max wondered if Beth just didn’t really concern herself about time. Beth chatted with her, had her cutting green beans and then tossing a salad, as if she and Max were lifelong friends. Max had rarely met anyone who didn’t either want something from her or didn’t trust her. Or both. It usually took her years to get close to someone, her college roommate the one exception to the rule. Even David and she had more than a year of uncertainty before she began to rely on and trust him more than anyone.
She didn’t want to leave. This was the type of family she’d dreamed about growing up in, the foolish dreams of a lonely child. It wasn’t that the second half of her childhood with her grandparents was bad—it wasn’t. She had everything she needed or could want, and in her own way her grandmother loved her.
But the Hendersons were the kind of family Max had coveted: large, extended, full of home cooking, and laughter.
There was certainly plenty of activity, even though most of the kids were out of the house. Molly, the youngest of the clan, had run in, grabbed a cookie, kissed her mom, waved to Max, and said, “Can I miss dinner? Please? Bitsy, Neil, and I need to finish our government project.”
“Tonight? When is it due?”
“Friday.”
“Molly, can’t you meet after dinner?”
Molly frowned. “Okay,” she said, “but can I skip the dishes? Please?” She looked at Max. “We wrote a play and each of us is a branch of government. I’m the judiciary.”
“That sounds like fun,” Max said.
“It is. We just need more rehearsing. Neil is the executive branch and he can’t remember anything.” Suddenly she and Beth burst out laughing.
“You eat, be polite, I’ll excuse you early,” Beth said as she stifled her giggles. “Wash up.”
“Love ya.” Molly kissed her mom again and ran upstairs.
“That girl, she gets away with everything. The baby of the family, and she knows it.”
“She’s full of energy.”
“Do you have children?”
“No,” Max said.
“You’re young, you have time. I had Garth—that’s Garrett the fourth—when I was twenty-four. I met Gary in college, we married a month after we graduated, and Garth was born eighteen months later. I know, women are having kids later now, but truly, by the time Molly came, I was done.” She laughed and Max didn’t know what she was laughing about.
“Here,” Beth said and handed her a stack of plates with utensils on top, “put these around. We have a dining room, but I prefer eating in the kitchen.”
There were six plates. Max put one at the head of the table, and then three down one side and two down the other. The table could have comfortably sat fourteen people.
Gary came in and kissed his wife, then turned to Max. “I apologize for running in and out earlier, but you wouldn’t have wanted to shake my hand after what Pop and I were doing.”
He extended his hand.
“Maxine Revere. Your wife was kind enough to invite me to dinner.”
“She’s not a tourist,” Beth said, “she’s looking for information, and she’s a sweetheart, so I want you and Dad to be on your best behavior.”
Sweetheart. Max couldn’t wait to tell David that someone had called her a sweetheart.
It made her day. Hell, it made her year.
“I’m always good,” Gary said and slapped his wife lightly on her rear end.
She hit his hand but was smiling. “Please carve the roast.”
Gary, also grinning, walked over to the counter where a pot roast was resting on a cutting board. He took out a knife, sharpened it, and sliced proficiently.
Beth left the room. Gary asked Max, “Where do you live?”
“New York,” she said.
“Upstate?”
“Manhattan.”
“Manhattan.” Suspicious, or was that just her paranoia? “Don’t get a lot of Manhattanites here.”
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