But back to the problem at hand. She sorted through the newspaper clippings. There were some of music and movie stars, but there were also several to do with infant abductions. They were on the right track; Delores thought she had been abducted as a baby, and it was possible she was right. She’d have to call the chief to see if they had made any progress on that part of the investigation.
She picked up the address book, which was sectioned off with a journal of sorts at the beginning and an alphabetized phone listing at the back. There was some scribbling in the journal, flowers, arrows, and Brock Nibley’s name with a heart around it. It was funny that even though she thought Rhonda had stolen Brock’s affections, she had enlisted Rhonda’s help to figure out the truth of her past. Maybe Rhonda, being the kind girl she seemed to have been, had felt regretful when she realized Delores was hung up on Brock and she had inadvertently interfered in their romance, such as it was. Perhaps she decided to help Delores find her real family to make up for it. It made a kind of twisted teenage logic, but a tragic end for both was the result. Somehow, some way, they were tied together in death.
The phone listing had very few numbers, but Becca’s name was in there as BL; Jaymie recognized the home phone number because it was still the same one for the landline, all these years later. Otherwise, the listings weren’t going to help Jaymie at all because they were just initials: BN, GM, CH, and RW. RW! That must be Rhonda Welch. Maybe the police could confirm the number. All it would prove was the possibility of contact.
Jaymie retrieved the boxes of Rhonda’s stuff from her van and started sorting that, too, being careful to keep the two girls’ belongings separate. Rhonda didn’t keep a diary like Valetta did—or at least there wasn’t one among her things—but she did have a journal where she scribbled snatches of poetry, sayings, and questions about life. Do I know what love feels like? What do I want to be doing ten years from now? Interesting thoughts. There was also a list of goals: Be kinder! Be smarter! Don’t let my heart lead my head. Help and encourage others.
Jaymie stuck a piece of paper in that section to point it out to Petty; it would make a poignant moment in the memorial that would show what kind of girl she was. There were a few lyrics written in from Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time,” which most notably said that if the listener was lost, they could look and they’d find her. That was a good song for the memorial service, Jaymie thought, reading through, a whisper of hope and comfort, an assurance that she’d try and help, no matter what.
As Petty Welch had said, Rhonda was the kind of girl who would help another human in need. The world had lost all that potential because someone wanted her gone for some reason. But why? It didn’t make any sense. How could she, at seventeen, be such a threat that she needed to be removed? Or who had she hurt, even inadvertently? Whose life was made better by her death?
There was no money to inherit, nothing material to gain by her absence. The motive was locked firmly in the past, so far back that memory blurred the edges of the pain for those involved with both girls. Except for Petty, and Rhonda’s mother; they still felt the pain as sharply as when she disappeared. Sadly, the most likely explanation was that Rhonda was killed because she was a good person and had tried to help Delores.
In a mystery movie of the week this is exactly when she would discover something that would make all the puzzle pieces fall into place, Jaymie thought, sighing in frustration. If only she was a heroine in one of those. The phone rang and Jaymie answered it. There was only some breathing. “Who is this?” she asked sharply. Still no one. Just as Jaymie was about to hang up, a voice.
“Jaymie, can we talk?”
The voice sounded familiar. “Who is this?”
“It’s Brock Nibley.”
“Brock?” Jaymie held the receiver away and stared at it, her mind spinning through possibilities, then brought it back up to her ear. “Okay. When?”
“Right now. Can I come over?”
She didn’t completely trust him. But for heaven’s sake, this was her best friend’s brother. She had been in his company hundreds of times; had sat with him at Valetta’s dinner table, gone to the same events, laughed at his children’s antics. He wasn’t going to do anything to her. “Come to the back door, Brock. We can have a coffee.”
“Thanks.”
Just as she hung up the phone rang again.
“Jaymie, Ledbetter here. Got news I want to tell you.”
“Can you come here? I have someone coming for coffee and can’t leave.”
Jaymie tided up the mess she had created with the piles of teen detritus and put on a fresh pot of coffee. Though she was curious about the police chief’s news, her mind kept returning to Brock. Why call her? What did he want? Even though she had known him her whole life, they were not friends. She didn’t even like him. The only reason he’d seek her out was if he was trying to find out about the investigation into Rhonda’s and Delores’s deaths. But what did it have to do with him, beyond him dating both girls?
The more she thought about it, the more uneasy she felt.
For once the police chief drove his own Queensville Township PD car. He often relied on Bernice to drive him places. Bernice had confided that though it was not an actual position, driving the chief places had definite advantages. It certainly seemed that Chief Ledbetter was mentoring her, in a way. Jaymie felt the same; he clearly liked Bernice and had often commented that she showed great potential to move up the ranks.
But this time he was driving and pulled into the only free space beside Jaymie’s van. He heaved himself out of the driver’s seat and lumbered through the back gate and up the path. She opened the door for him and he entered, then took a seat at the table with a groan. Jaymie looked out the back door as she closed it behind him. A car pulled slowly past but kept going, so, not Brock. Maybe he’d walk over. Or maybe he’d come to the front door; many did.
She poured the chief a cup of coffee while he caught his breath. “Can I get you a slice of banana bread?”
He sighed and shook his head. “Nah, I’d better not. The wife is right. I need to lose some of this,” he said, rubbing his belly. “She’s got all kinds of plans and I don’t want to disappoint her.”
“Have you been married a long time?”
“Long enough,” he said with a wink. “Not my first marriage; the first one only lasted a few years. I was a young cop; that’s hard for the spouse, you know. This one stuck, though. Twenty-three years this June.”
“So you said you had news?” Jaymie watched as Hoppy wiggled over to the chief and waited for a head pat. Denver sauntered through the kitchen, eyed the chief, and disappeared to the front of the house.
“Yup.” He paused and eyed her, watching her expression as he continued. “We found Clifford Paget.”
“You found his body?”
“Nope. We found him alive and well and living in the next township over.”
Eighteen
AFTER HER INITIAL SHOCK, he explained what had happened. “As you know, Henk Hofwegen was in the hospital after being hit by a car. He was drunk as a skunk, stumbled right into traffic. The driver didn’t have a chance in heck of avoiding him. He was banged up pretty bad, but he’ll be okay. When the officer went to talk to him there and ask him about the accident, he said he had something to say.
“Told the officer that back in 1990 or thereabouts—he couldn’t remember the year; he’s a fellow who drinks most days and loses whole months—Clifford Paget told him he needed to disappear because he’d done something awful a few years back. Henk was a little hazy on what exactly he’d done but they were buddies, so he helped Clifford. They went out in his rickety boat and Clifford ‘went for a swim,’ as Henk put it. Clifford then changed his name, moved to another town, and started working under the table for whoever would pay him. He lived with a woman for a while but she kicked him out a month ago and he wound up back on Henk’s sofa. Henk had been sober for a while, I guess, but Clifford being around made him fall off the
wagon, and so he blamed him for getting hit by the car. He wants him out of his life and thought turning him in was the best way.”
Jaymie sat back and digested it all. It was hearsay, she supposed, in a legal sense, what Clifford had told Henk, but it was certainly revelatory that he said he’d “done something awful a few years back.” “Henk doesn’t realize that he’s left himself open for prosecution too? That he filed a false police report, and maybe helped a criminal escape justice?”
The chief laughed, his chins waggling. “He’s scared to death but sticking by his story, which I think kinda speaks to it being legit. And made voluntarily, I might add, after the warning.”
“This may be the solution, Chief.”
“We’ll see when we get Clifford’s statement.”
“It looks bad that he faked his death.” Jaymie looked up at the clock. Why wasn’t Brock there yet? He should have arrived about the same time as the chief.
“Yup, but I’m not jumping to conclusions.”
“I have some things I’ve been thinking of, Chief.” She hesitated; she didn’t want to talk about Brock until she’d seen him.
But the chief heaved himself up. “I’d love to hear what all you’ve been looking into, but right now I gotta get back to the station. Can it wait?”
“Actually, yes, it can wait. I’d like to think on everything, but my mind is so scattered right now with the shower coming up tomorrow.”
“Maybe we can get together Monday or Tuesday. Gimme a call.” He headed toward the door but then turned back again and eyed her. “You waiting for someone? Is something going on, Jaymie?”
“Nothing, Chief. I’m nervous today, I guess. About tomorrow.”
“I know you don’t like being the center of attention, kid, but your sister will be there too, and if I’m right she’s one who deals well with the spotlight.”
Jaymie smiled as the police chief left. He knew her better than she would have expected.
Even without having anything specific planned, the day was full. Becca had arranged for a facial and then a hair appointment for both of them in Wolverhampton, which she chose to tell Jaymie about a half hour before the first scheduled time. Then she was aghast when Jaymie confessed that she was going to go with the vintage wedding dress option Heidi had provided, so after their facial she dragged Jaymie to three different clothing stores in the faint hope that something—anything, it seemed at times—would please her sister better. She even tried to bribe her by saying she’d buy it, no price too high.
There was nothing. Every dress was either too tight, too fancy, too long, too white, too . . . something. And shimmying in and out of unflattering dresses for hours at a time was exhausting, as was the attitude of one of the shop associates (only one; the other two were very nice!), who was bored and blasé, needing to be asked several times to take away the discarded gowns. After three shops in as many hours and then their hair appointment—which hadn’t gone well because the hairdresser tried to coil Jaymie’s hair up in a tight French roll, giving her a headache—they were finally back in Becca’s comfortable car on the way home from Wolverhampton. Both of them were grumpy and tired.
“You’re going to regret it, Jaymie. Honestly,” Becca said, for maybe the fourth time. “This is your one wedding. Can’t you at least consider that you may be going wrong about the dress?”
“Becca, no! For the last time, I am completely and utterly happy with the dress Heidi found for me. Nothing I’ve tried on comes even close. I didn’t expect to like it, but I do and it fits beautifully. You haven’t even seen it, so how can you say you won’t like it?”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t like it.” There was silence for a moment, but irritation shimmered from Becca in waves, and finally she burst out with, “But you said it’s from the seventies, not a decade that inspires confidence in bridal fashion design.”
Jaymie stayed silent, unwilling to mention that she didn’t think the dress was intended as a wedding dress when it started its life. Resentment at her older sister’s usual high-handed bossiness started to creep into her.
Becca glanced over at Jaymie in the passenger seat. “I want the best for my sister,” she said, her tone softer, almost pleading.
Taking a deep breath and rejecting anger, Jaymie said, “I’ve made up my mind and that’s my final word on the subject. Please, no more!” She decided to change the subject and told Becca about the bag she had retrieved from the garbage, making her laugh by relating her exchange with the garbage collector. “It did turn out to be Delores’s belongings, and must have been from the months before her death. There’s a picture from your sixteenth birthday party that fall.”
“I remember now! Dad had copies of the photo made and told me to give one to each of the kids who were there. It was all girls except for Johnny Stubbs and Brock Nibley; there were Val and Dee, of course, as well as Delores, Tami, and some other girl . . . can’t remember her name.” Becca was silent for a few miles. As they entered Queensville, she said, “It’s all so sad. I know we’re coming up on happy times for us, but I keep thinking of Rhonda and Delores, how they were cheated out of all this.”
“Me too. Becca, tell me more about what Brock was like back then?”
“Why?” Her older sister glanced over at her. “You don’t suspect he had anything to do with it, do you?”
“I don’t know. But tell me what he was like anyway.”
Brock, Becca told her, as they arrived home, unpacked the few things they had bought in Wolverhampton and made a very late lunch, was one of those people who always seem out of step with everyone else. “I guess nowadays you’d say he has social issues. He’s not very intuitive, you know? Even less so than most men I know. Weird for a real estate agent, but I think he makes it work for him. I’ve seen him in action when we bought the property for the store; he manages to sell homes fairly effectively and he won’t take no for an answer, which is good when he’s negotiating for you. His real weakness is that he can’t see himself as others see him.”
“But he’s never been violent, as far as you know?”
Becca paused with a forkful of salad midway to her mouth and stared across the table at her younger sister. “Not in the least. What would make you ask that?”
“Just curious.”
“He’s kind of a wimp, I think. At least he was back in high school.”
That didn’t comfort Jaymie as much as it should. She kept thinking that even small creatures, like rats, if cornered, will turn and bite viciously.
Becca headed over to the antique store to do some work arranging stock. Using some less-expensive tinned pink salmon, Jaymie worked on the loaf recipe and came up with something that was actually pretty good and budget-friendly, tasty served with a creamy mushroom sauce. She took pictures, then retreated with her laptop to her bedroom and wrote the “Vintage Eats” column. Just as she hit Send on the email to Nan with the article attached, the phone rang. It was almost dark. Maybe it was Jakob, she thought, picking it up.
“Hey, Jaymie? This is Sybil Thorndike. I hope you don’t mind me calling?”
“Not at all. What’s up?”
“I’ve been thinking of nothing but Rhonda since we talked yesterday. I went back through, in my mind, a typical Thursday. Our day was regimented at Chance Houghton, so much so that any time of the day I could tell you where I’d be. Thursday in my senior year was math, Spanish, physics, and then lunch. I had a study period after lunch, and that’s when I helped Rhonda get some time on the student phones. You were supposed to sign up ahead of time, but she didn’t know that so I helped her bribe two kids to use their call time.”
“And you heard some of what she said?” Even if it turned out that Clifford Paget was the killer, it would still be helpful to reconstruct the two girls’ last few hours, to support whatever conclusion was reached. If he did murder Rhonda there was still the question of how he came to do so, where she was and why she died.
“Yes, I remember now. You know, I had
a dream last night about Rhonda. She was standing there with the phone in her hand—it was one of those old heavy black handsets with the coiled cord; you’re younger and probably don’t remember—and saying, ‘Sybs, I can’t get through to him!’”
“Is that what she actually said?”
“Something pretty close. She was going to pick up some friend—”
“Delores Paget?”
“Maybe. She didn’t say her name. But first she was going to go see Gus.”
Jaymie’s heart thudded. Gus had dropped from her radar, but given their relationship he was still a suspect in Rhonda’s murder. “You’re sure of that?”
“I’m positive that was her intention, anyway.”
“So she called him?”
There was silence for a moment as Sybil pondered. “Wait a moment . . . I’m trying to get it straight. It was so long ago. She made a few calls, but not all of them connected. The first one was to her aunt at work.”
“Petty Welch,” Jaymie said.
“I guess. It was her work number. Rhonda left a message, but I don’t know what it was and I don’t know why she was calling her.”
“She likely did intend to go see her. I’ve found out that Petty intended to visit Rhonda at school, but maybe that didn’t suit the two teenagers’ purpose. We think she was going to pick up Delores and go to Detroit, enlist her aunt’s research skills to help her new friend find out what happened to her parents. Who were the other calls to?”
“I don’t know for sure, but she said she was going to go see Gus.”
“You’re sure she intended to see him that afternoon?”
Sybil was silent for a moment. “I can’t swear to that. I’m not sure. All I heard her say was, ‘we have to talk.’ She could have said that to anyone.”
“But you said she also told you that she couldn’t get through to him.”
Leave It to Cleaver (A Vintage Kitchen Mystery Book 6) Page 19