by Kathy Reichs
“She was sixteen.” Defensive. “State of Tennessee says that’s old enough to get married. She didn’t want to be here, what was I gonna do?”
“How did Harmony get around?” Vislosky asked.
France waggled an upraised thumb to indicate hitchhiking.
Vislosky’s eyes dropped to her hands. I saw the tension in her neck and shoulders. Despite her distaste for France, I knew the anguish she was feeling at what she was about to say.
A subtle squaring of the broad shoulders, then, “I’m afraid I may have bad news.”
France continued stroking Axel’s back.
“A girl was found dead in Charleston, South Carolina, last month.” Choosing her words ever so carefully. “We have reason to believe that girl may be your granddaughter.”
France remained impassive, not understanding, or not certain how to reply.
“The victim was in her mid-teens and had short, dark hair dyed pink. She stood between five-one and five-two.”
France’s right lower lid began kicking again. “She OD on something?”
“There’s no indication of that.”
“How’d she pass?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss details of the investigation.”
“You said victim. That mean someone killed her?”
Vislosky said nothing.
“Could be it’s not Harmony.” France’s utterance was barely audible over the burbling fish tank.
“It’s possible.” Vislosky cleared her throat. “We need a saliva sample for DNA testing.”
France nodded, looking somewhat dazed.
I got a kit from my bag and, ignoring Axel’s growling, swabbed France’s cheek, then sealed and initialed the vial.
“Do you know if Harmony owned a cell phone or laptop?” Vislosky asked when I’d finished.
“ ’Course she had a phone. This is Nashville, not the backside of Hooterville.”
“Do you know what happened to it?”
“Gotta think she took it with her. What kid would be without a phone these days? Besides, I haven’t seen it nowheres.”
“Do you pay the bill for that?”
“No.”
“Do you know what carrier she used?”
France shook his head, then stood. “It’s Axel’s time to eat. I don’t feed him, he gets fractious.”
Vislosky scooped up her mobile, then laid a card on the table. We both rose.
“If you think of anything, please call,” she said.
“Harmony left a few belongings. Not much. I boxed and hauled some of the stuff when I moved out here.” The devastating possibility of his granddaughter’s death was at last sinking in. “Guess I kept thinking one day she’d turn up, maybe want her things.”
“Any items you have would be useful to our investigation.”
France disappeared, Axel close on his heels, returned a few minutes later with a large cardboard box in his arms.
“I wrote a song about Harmony, not long after she come to live with me. ‘Motherless Little Wren.’ Thought it might make her feel less cross.”
“I’m sure she appreciated it,” I said.
France shook his head slowly. “Riled her something fierce.”
France’s grief was evident now. It coated his words and deepened the creases lining his face. I felt like a ghoul in this act that was forever changing his life. Yet I participated, knowing it was necessary to gain justice for two murdered girls.
“Harmony was always yearning for her mama.” Wistful. “I figured maybe she found her somewheres.”
“We’ll keep you updated,” Vislosky said.
France nodded, arms clasping the stored pieces of a life.
At the door, Vislosky turned.
“You know what else the Bible says is abomination, sir?”
France just looked at her.
“Trimming your goddamn beard.”
We took the box and left.
23
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 11
Vislosky placed the box in the trunk, and we climbed into her car.
“Is that true?” I asked as we buckled our belts.
“What?”
“The Bible forbidding a man to cut his beard?”
“Yeah.”
“Old Testament?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Why did you say it?”
“The guy’s a bigoted wanker.”
I didn’t pursue it. But I was curious about the source of Vislosky’s antipathy toward France. His cavalier attitude toward Harmony’s disappearance? His rejection of Bonnie Bird’s lesbian lifestyle? His twangy musical style?
“Amity House?” I asked.
“Can’t hurt,” she said.
I programmed the Waze dude. His directions took us to a tree-shaded street hosting a mix of private residences and large homes converted for genteel commercial use. An architectural firm. A law office. A children’s theater.
Our destination was a two-story redbrick number with a tile-roofed veranda spanning the entire street side. An enormous live oak spread its branches above most of the sloping front yard. Below the oak, a sign declared, Amity House: A Youth Crisis Center.
Three concrete steps rose from a short walkway to the front porch. We climbed them. Vislosky thumbed the buzzer. A moment, then a voice spoke through a perforated brass plaque.
Vislosky explained who we were and dropped the name Harmony Boatwright.
A short wait, then the door was opened by a woman doing a look-alike for the sheriff’s elderly aunt in Mayberry. Short and stout, plump cheeks, gray hair swept into a poofy updo. She could have been friendlier but only with the aid of powerful pharmaceuticals.
“Dear, dear Harmony.” Chirrupy with anticipation. “Do tell how she is.”
“May we come inside?” Vislosky asked. I wondered if Nashville protocol required a request.
“Ooh.” Aunt Bee quavery. “Of course. Please, excuse my bad manners.”
The door gave directly onto a large rectangular living room. One end contained a mishmash of battered upholstered and wooden furniture arranged in conversational groupings. The other end was filled with tables and chairs, most of the former stacked with boxed games. I recognized Scrabble, Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders. A sideboard held a partially completed jigsaw puzzle, loose pieces scattered around the incomplete center.
Aunt Bee led us to one of the groupings. “Would you like some cookies? Lemonade?”
“No, thank you.” Vislosky and I declined in unison.
Out of habit, we took the couch. Aunt Bee sat in an armchair with ankles crossed, knees splayed but modestly covered by her print housedress and long butcher-style apron.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” Again, Vislosky activated her phone without awaiting permission.
Aunt Bee looked dubious but didn’t object.
“May I ask your name and role with Amity House?” Vislosky began.
“Gertrude Pickle. I know. Both are terrible.” Giggly chuckle. “The kids call me Mama Gertie.”
“Your role here?”
“House mother.”
“Do you live on-site?”
“I have an apartment downstairs. It’s small but has everything I need.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Oh, my goodness. Since I was widowed, nineteen years next month. How time does fly. Can’t imagine what I’d do if I had to live alone.”
As before, I laid the Shady Sam’s photo on the table.
“You remember Harmony Boatwright?” Vislosky asked.
“I surely do. Harmony stayed with us often. I love hearing about our young people, especially when they’ve been away for so long. How is she? Do tell me everything.”
Vislosky and I exchanged discreet glances.
“When was Harmony last here?” she continued.
“Well…” Straining to remember. “It has been a while.”
“A while?”
“Our policy is th
at young people aren’t obliged to sign in or out. The administration feels that requiring formal registration might—”
“One year? Five?”
Pickle closed her eyes and canted her head sideways in thought. It felt as if a full minute passed.
“Yes.” Pickle nodded slowly, doubling her chin count. “I’d say it’s been five years.”
“Why did Harmony come here?”
“For the same reason many young people do. To escape conflict at home. Oh, dear. What’s all this about?” Her brows furrowed as the significance of a police visit finally dawned. “Has something bad happened?”
As Vislosky gave a brief account of the dead girl in Charleston, Pickle’s whole body seemed to curl inward.
“Do you know Digger France?” Vislosky asked.
“We met once or twice.” All chirpiness gone.
“Your impression?”
“Harmless and hopeless.”
“Hopeless?”
“May I see ID?”
Vislosky badged her. Pickle studied the info for so long I thought she was memorizing it. Then, “You’re a police officer. And poor, dear Harmony is, I mean, may be”—her voice trailed off, leaving the awful thought unspoken—“so I suppose it’s permissible to share what I know.”
Vislosky waited.
“In my opinion, Harmony Boatwright was a very troubled girl.”
“Troubled?”
“After her mother left, the child bounced from relative to relative. The family is, well, what doesn’t need saying. Her granddaddy tried, but he was a drinker. And ill-equipped to handle a teenage girl. I’m sure you know that Harmony’s mother disappeared when the child was twelve or thirteen. All Harmony wanted in life was to find her. In my view, she was obsessed with the idea.”
“What makes you say that?”
“We provide Wi-Fi here. Otherwise, some of the children would have no access to the internet. But we don’t just turn them loose. That would be foolish. We make it clear upfront that the browser history on each and every machine is reviewed each and every day. That’s one of my tasks. If any user does anything that breaks house rules, they lose their internet privilege.” Pickle cupped her mouth and spoke in a low, conspiratorial whisper. “You know, like looking at porn and such.”
“What if a kid connects using a private device?” I asked.
“We can’t control that.”
“Did Harmony have her own laptop?”
“I don’t believe so. She used one of the house PCs. That’s how I know she frequented sites devoted to finding missing persons. That poor, sweet lamb ran endless searches on her mother’s name.”
“Can you recall which sites she visited?”
“I’m sorry. It was a long time ago.” Pickle looked genuinely regretful, then her face brightened. “Wait. There was one called MMM. I’m partial to the candy, you know, the little round chocolates? M&M’s? Melt in your mouth, not—”
“Yes.” Vislosky flicked impatient fingers.
“That’s why the name stuck with me.” A bit pouty due to the brusqueness.
“That’s very helpful,” I said, not sure that it was but wanting to placate.
“Harmony mentioned making a friend that way, in some kind of chat room.” Pickle raised a pudgy hand to me, palm out. “But please don’t ask. She never shared a name. Just that this other person was also looking for her mother.”
“Do you recall anything about this cyber-friend?”
Pickle’s response sent adrenaline firing through me.
* * *
“Missing and Murdered Moms dot com.” Vislosky was at the wheel. I was Google searching with my iPhone. “It’s a site for the children of—”
“Missing and murdered moms.” Vislosky cut me off.
“Do you want to hear this?”
Vislosky shrugged. We were both cranky. I was regretting my decision to ride the nine hours with her to Charleston. But Anne had phoned, adamant. She was in crisis mode again and wanted me back ASAP. She’d explained the latest drama, something involving her ex-husband, but I hadn’t really listened.
“The site has a chat room, so Pickle’s intel tracks,” I said.
“Can anyone join in the lively banter?” Disdainful.
“Participation is free, and users don’t have to register for an account. It’s like Zobe or Teen-Chat.”
“Zobe?”
“Never mind. All one does is create a username and sign in.”
“So there’s no way to identify participants.”
“Correct.”
“Can you spot any handles to suggest the far northland?”
Vislosky referred to Pickle’s parting comment, the words that had gotten my adrenals pumping. Harmony Boatwright had told Mama Gertie that she’d befriended a Canadian girl in the MMM.com chat room.
“Not yet,” I mumbled, attention focused on usernames and messages.
diggitydog appeared to be in New Haven. violetdawn posted that s/he was pressing the Albuquerque PD to dig up the neighbor’s garden. foreversearching and neverletgo were arguing the merits of cadaver versus tracker dogs. neverforget and alwayslooking were discussing decomposition rates in water. leftbehind was suicidal, and babysnowflake and uptheanty were talking him or her down.
I was still concentrating when I felt the car turn, then stop. I looked up. Vislosky had pulled into a Burger King.
“Don’t know about you, but this bad girl needs fuel.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Eight forty-five.”
I hadn’t eaten since downing a quick bagel at the Montreal airport. Suddenly, I was starving.
My fries were cold and greasy. The Whopper was a Whopper. But delivery was quick, and we were out in twenty minutes.
“How do you feel about driving through the night?” Vislosky asked.
“Not enthused.”
“Motel?”
“You don’t need to be back?”
“It’s Veterans Day, you know.”
I’d totally forgotten.
“And I took another twenty-four off.”
“You made this trip on personal time?”
“You got a problem with that?”
“No.” Thinking that despite the snippiness and sarcasm, maybe Vislosky wasn’t so bad after all.
The next exit offered a place called the Music City Inn. The sign featured red neon letters and a blue musical staff with green treble clef and orange notes. Digger would have approved.
The office was nondescript, with dingy glass facing the parking lot and knotty pine behind the counter. The kid who checked us in was at least twelve years old and in need of a dermatologist.
Vislosky and I took our keys, which were attached to guitar-shaped wooden plaques, and followed a walkway to our rooms. My Rollaboard didn’t appreciate its bumpy ride over the cracked cement.
Despite my exhaustion, sleep took its time coming. My overwrought neurons offered up images of bedbugs. Of luminol-lit crime-scene pics, bedspreads and mattresses glowing with bodily fluids.
Full disclosure. As a result of my job, I am motel-phobic.
The neurons also offered up zillions of questions.
Was the younger victim in the Charleston container Harmony Boatwright?
Could Boatwright’s cyber-pal be her companion in death? The girl whose DNA linked her to the 2006 Montreal vics?
According to Pickle, Boatwright connected with the Canadian girl through MMM. Did the two ever meet in person? Communicate directly, perhaps by email, text, or phone?
Like Boatwright, the Canadian girl was searching for a missing mom. Was her mother the woman in the Montreal container?
Who was she?
Who was the child with her?
Who killed them?
Who killed the girls in Charleston?
Were they all killed by the same person, though many years and many miles apart?
24
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 12
My eyes flew open.
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Dim room. Rough sheets smelling of harsh detergent. Muted traffic sounds.
Insistent banging.
I looked around. A pale gray rectangle framed what had to be a window.
Then a barrage of synapses. Digger France. The box. Amity House. Gertrude Pickle. The Whopper. The neon notes.
The zillion questions.
More banging.
I leaped out of bed. Nearly tripped over the coverlet I’d jettisoned onto the floor.
Gingerly barefooting across a prickly shag carpet, I put my eye to the peephole. Vislosky was standing outside, balancing a cardboard tray in one hand while pounding with the other.
I cracked the door.
“You sleeping all day, princess?”
“What time is it?”
“Six twenty.”
“Give me ten.”
Vislosky wiggled free a Styrofoam cup. Thanking her, I took it and withdrew.
After donning clean undies and yesterday’s jeans and top, I threw back the drapes. And noticed there was nothing to notice about the beige-on-beige decor.
While performing a quick toilette, I thought about motel rooms. Wondered who mandated the universal lack of charm and originality.
When I got to the car, Vislosky was slamming the trunk.
“Did you go through the box Digger gave us?” As I tossed my overnighter into the back seat.
“I only pocketed the good stuff.”
“Hilarious.” Wondering what Vislosky would classify as good.
“Of course, I didn’t go through the box. Just kept it with me to maintain chain of possession.”
“Should we have a quick look?”
“At headquarters. I want to dot all the i’s. Follow protocol.”
Though anxious to see what France had saved, I couldn’t disagree.
We both got in and buckled our belts.
Vislosky indicated a white paper bag on the center console. “Doughnuts.”
“Aren’t you the early bird,” I said, looking over the assortment.
Vislosky said nothing
“They’re all plain glazed,” I said.
“I prefer plain glazed.”
I took a doughnut and washed it down with the tepid remains of my coffee.
“I like your ride.” I did. It was a Ford Mustang GT. Red. “What year is it?”
“A 2019.”