“Well, unless I can shift this car into leap, we aren’t going anywhere,” Jessie muttered, eyeing the gridlock ahead. They weren’t even past Safeco Field yet. “Hang in there, Steffie. We should be checking in to the hotel in about a half hour, tops.”
“Y’know, we gotta go home first before we go anywhere else,” Jody said quietly. “Steffie needs her inhaler.”
“Oh, shhhh-” Jessie stifled herself. “Do you know the brand, honey? Can we pick another one up for her at a drugstore?”
“Can’t,” Jody said. “It’s a subscription.”
“Prescription, honey.” She sighed. “Oh, Lord….”
“She really needs it, too,” Jody pointed out. “Mom used to say it was like asking for trouble if Steffie went anywhere without her inhaler. That’s kind of a weird expression. Do you know what that means exactly? Asking for trouble?”
Jessie saw the sign for the West Seattle Bridge ahead, the exit for George’s house. “Yes, I know exactly what it means,” she said.
Biting her lip, she put on her turn signal, and started merging toward the West Seattle turnoff.
Sitting in the crummy little office across the street from Sherry’s Corner Food amp; Deli, the sheriff had I Don’t Have Time for This Shit written across her face.
She stared at George from behind a computer and a pile of paperwork on her big metal desk. Decked out in her brown sheriff’s uniform, she was about forty-five, with short, dishwater-blond hair and a long, narrow, horselike face. Her lipstick was on crooked. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You want me to go over to the old Schlessinger ranch and start digging up their backyard? And this is based on the fact that you were snooping down in their basement and found a name tag with ‘Nancy Rae’ printed on it?”
“Yes,” George said, showing her the waitress badge again. “Nancy Rae Keller; she worked at a restaurant in Corvallis.”
The cut on his leg from the fallout shelter door scraping him wasn’t too serious. But it still stung like hell, and he’d torn his pants leg. He’d cleaned it up in the restroom in the sheriff’s office.
George now sat in a metal chair with a green Naugahyde-covered cushioned seat and sturdy armrests. He imagined those armrests were used to keep a felon cuffed to the chair. But he couldn’t see that happening around here much. One look at the place seemed to confirm that it wasn’t exactly a hub of activity. A map of Marion County decorated the off-white wall, along with scores of police bulletins, many sun-faded, dusty, and starting to curl at the edges.
Yet, the sheriff acted as if she was in the middle of a major crime bust, and he was taking up her time.
“Nancy Rae has been missing for five years now,” George pointed out. “She’s one of several missing-person cases in the area, all young women.”
“I’m well acquainted with those old missing-person cases,” the sheriff said. She waved at the four ugly metal file cabinets behind her. “I have all of the files there…somewhere. I also have all this here,” she said, slapping at a pile of papers on her desk. “And it needs to be processed and filed. Now, I can’t just drop everything and go on an archaeological dig with you in the Schlessingers’ backyard. First of all, you’re lucky I don’t charge you with trespassing, Mr. McMillan. That ranch is private property.”
“Well, I don’t think I’d be the first one to trespass there,” George replied, at the risk of incurring her wrath. “The place is pretty trashed. I saw a lot of beer cans and garbage.”
“Yes,” the sheriff nodded. “For a while there, certain morbid teenagers hung out there to get drunk, but we put a stop to it. That waitress tag probably belonged to one of them.”
“I doubt it. If you knew where I found it-”
“All right, so you want to go out there now and start digging?” she cut in. “Based on what-a hunch? And some tidbit you read in a book of amazing facts about wildflowers indicating grave sites? We can’t do that, Mr. McMillan. First, we’d have to call a judge for a search warrant, which we’d be damn lucky to get by noon tomorrow. We’d also have to notify the current property owner. The ranch was bought by some chemical company in Boise eighteen months ago. A fence was supposed to go up around the place last year, but it didn’t happen…”
She stopped to look at her deputy, who ambled through the doorway. The skinny, dark-haired young man wore a brown uniform and had a goofy-looking buzz cut. Walking around the counter, he carried a small bag and a can of Diet Coke.
“Twenty minutes for a lousy roast beef sandwich?” the sheriff asked him. “What did Sherry have to do? Kill the cow?”
The beleaguered deputy set the bag and soda on her desktop. “They were out of potato salad, so I got you chips,” he muttered.
“Fine, fine, thanks, Tyler,” she grumbled. The sheriff tapped a pile of folders on the corner of her desk. “File these, and then clock out. I don’t want the county paying you overtime tonight. That’s just more paperwork for me. I get more done without you here, anyway.”
Sighing, he collected the files and stepped toward the metal cabinets behind her.
The sheriff opened up the can of Diet Coke. “If you’re serious about this, Mr. McMillan, we can’t just start digging over at the Schlessinger ranch. We need to go through the proper procedures. That’ll take time. Now, I see you there, tapping your foot, and if you’re anxious to get going on this, you have a long wait ahead.”
George squirmed in the chair. What had made him think he could get back to his kids tonight? If the cops actually followed his tip and found some bodies at the Schlessinger ranch, they’d want him to stick around. Hell, it might take days before they even uncovered anything.
“I’ll tell you what,” the sheriff said, reaching into the carryout bag. “You leave Nancy Rae’s name tag with me, along with a number where I can get ahold of you. I won’t charge you with trespassing. And I’ll pass your tip onto the state police in the morning.”
George sighed. At least that freed him up to go home. But it meant waiting for confirmation that Lon Schlessinger was responsible for the disappearance of all those women. George also wondered if the sheriff even took him seriously enough to bother contacting the state police.
“Listen,” she said, obviously reading his hesitation. “The last of those missing-person cases was over three years ago….”
Behind her, the deputy stopped filing and glanced over his shoulder. “I went to school with Sandra Hartman,” he said. “She was the last one-”
“Yes, Tyler, I know,” the sheriff said, dismissing him. She unwrapped her sandwich. “You’ve already told me all about it. I’m not talking to you right now.”
The deputy sneered at her back. Shaking his head, he resumed his menial task.
The sheriff rolled her eyes, then turned to George. “Anyway, my point is, it’s an old case. If the late Lon Schlessinger is somehow involved, and there are indeed bodies buried on his property, nothing about that will change between now and tomorrow morning. I can assure you, Lon will still be dead. And on the off-off-off chance some bodies are buried on his ranch, they won’t be going anywhere, either.”
Frowning, she peeled the wheat bread back and inspected her sandwich. “It can wait until morning, Mr. McMillan,” she said distractedly. “So please, quit tapping your foot. Leave the name tag and your phone number. And let me eat my lousy dinner in peace.”
Ten minutes later, George was parked across the street at Sherry’s Corner Food amp; Deli. He’d left his rental on the far side of the lot, behind a Winnebago so the car couldn’t be seen from the precinct office. He was surprised the Food amp; Deli had shovels for sale, but then it made sense, considering the neighborhood. George bought some Neosporin for his leg, as well as a shovel and pick. He felt like a smuggler carrying them out of the store in full view of the sheriff’s office across the street. He quickly loaded the tools into the trunk of his car.
Shutting the trunk, he peeked around the back of the Winnebago. George saw the deputy come out of the police
station. He headed across the road again for another trip into Sherry’s Corner.
“Tyler?” George said, moving toward the store entrance. “Deputy?”
The young man stopped to stare at him. “Hey, you’re still around,” he said, half smiling. “So the bitch didn’t scare you away?”
“No, she didn’t,” George said. “Listen, deputy, how would you like to help solve Sandra Hartman’s disappearance, and maybe make your boss look like an idiot in the process?”
“Well, last I heard, dear,” the old woman said. “They sent Amelia to live with Joy’s relatives up in Canada someplace.”
Miriam Getz was petite with thick, cat’s-eye glasses and short curled hair that was light brown with a pinkish hue, obviously from a bad dye job. She wore a string of pearls and pearl earrings with her lavender sweat suit.
After making a few calls, Karen had found out Clay Spalding’s former next-door neighbor was still alive. But the 84-year-old Miriam was no longer living in Moses Lake. She now resided in New Horizons, a rest home in East Wenatchee, just a fifteen-minute drive from the library.
New Horizons wasn’t on a par with Sandpoint View, but it was pleasant and certainly clean enough. Karen had caught Miriam in the corner of the TV lounge, working on her crossword puzzle. There were about a dozen other residents in the room, watching The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming with the volume a bit too loud. Over where Miriam sat, it was a bit quieter, but her cronies still burst into laughter every few moments.
Sitting down beside her, Karen had explained that she was Amelia Schlessinger’s therapist, and she needed to find out more about Amelia’s childhood. Miriam had heard about Joy Schlessinger’s suicide shortly after the family had moved to Salem. But she hadn’t known Lon had died, too, more recently.
“What about Annabelle?” Miriam asked, putting aside her crossword puzzle.
“I’m pretty sure she’s still alive,” Karen told her. “But I don’t know her like I know Amelia. I’m trying to help Amelia remember certain things from her childhood, especially that incident with Clay Spalding fourteen years ago.”
Miriam shook her head. “Gracious, I’d think she’d be better off not recalling any of it.”
Karen gave her a sad look. “Well, she isn’t, Mrs. Getz-Miriam,” she said quietly. “I think she might need to know. I’ve read some of the newspaper accounts of what happened. It sounds like you know more about it than anyone.”
The old woman nodded. “I suppose I do.”
“I was counting on that, Miriam,” she said. “So, can you tell me about Clay?”
She frowned a bit, then shrugged. “Well, he was this Indian who, excuse me, Native American, who used to work for my neighbor, Isadora Ferris. She was elderly….” Miriamlet out a sad laugh. “Listen to me, I’m probably older now than she was then. But she was a frail thing with Parkinson’s. Anyway when Izzy passed away, she left the house to Clay, along with several thousand dollars. And believe you me, that didn’t go over well with the neighborhood. It didn’t help matters either that Clay let the place go to pot, and after he’d kept it so beautiful while he was working for Izzy, too. It was a sweet, little one-level ranch house. I never could figure out why he didn’t take better care of it. Sometimes, he even put these odd art pieces of his on the front lawn, usually some weird concoction made out of tin cans and wire hangers and Lord knows what else. It could look really junky out there.”
She sighed. “But to be fair, he was a nice, quiet neighbor. He even shoveled my walk for me one winter. And he was very sweet to those twins, too, especially Amelia. He didn’t get along with Lon or Joy. But for some reason, that one little girl liked him.”
Karen nodded. “That’s the impression I got, too. Amelia told me about a little playhouse he had in his backyard. It’s one of the only things she remembers about him.”
Miriam sighed, and fidgeted with her pearl necklace. “Yes, well, he seemed harmless enough, at least I thought so, until that day.”
“Can you tell me what happened?” Karen asked. “Do you remember?”
“As if it was yesterday,” Miriam said. “Around eleven o’clock that Sunday morning, Joy phoned me, asking if I’d seen Amelia. Well, Amelia or Annabelle, I couldn’t tell the difference, but I hadn’t seen either one. I guess Lon had gone searching for her over at Clay’s house earlier, and Clay even let him look through the place. Apparently, Amelia wasn’t there. But wouldn’t you know? Around five o’clock, I looked out my kitchen window and spotted that little girl in Clay’s backyard. She was all by herself, bundled up in a jacket. I saw her come out of that playhouse and duck in Clay’s kitchen door. So I immediately called Joy. Then Lon got on the line. He asked me to come over and tell him exactly what I saw. Well, once I told him, Lon announced he was driving to the police station. He said he’d bring an armed police officer back to Clay’s house. Then off he went, and he took Annabelle with him.”
Miriam removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Well, about twenty minutes later, Lon was back, with Annabelle. The child was hysterical, squirming and shrieking to raise the dead. Lon had his hand over her mouth most of the time. He said he didn’t even make it to the police station, because Annabelle starting pitching such a fit. None of us could figure out what was wrong with her.” Miriam put her glasses back on. “But do you know what I think it was?”
Karen just shook her head.
“It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I think Annabelle must have somehow known her twin sister was in distress. You know how some twins have a certain-thing between them?”
“Twin telepathy,” Karen said, nodding.
Miriam nodded, and patted Karen’s knee. “That’s what I think it was. Anyway, poor Annabelle was carrying on so badly, they locked her in her room.”
Karen squinted at her. “The child was upset, and their way of handling it was to lock her in her room?”
“My sentiments exactly,” Miriam whispered. “But Lon ruled the roost in that household, and he’s the one who locked Annabelle in the twins’ bedroom. Then he fetched his hunting rifle and called up the police. He told them he was headed over to Clay’s house to confront him and get his little girl back. All the while, Annabelle was screaming and crying behind that locked door. My heart just broke for her.”
Miriam clicked her tongue, and shook her head. “I told Lon I didn’t think the gun was necessary. I kept saying, ‘Let the police handle it, for goodness sake!’ I was so worried Amelia would get hurt. But Lon couldn’t be stopped, and out the door he went. I followed him down the block. Joy stayed behind. Lon was almost at Clay’s house when I heard the sirens. Two police cars came speeding up the block. Then, over all that noise, I heard screams.
“I turned toward Clay’s house and saw that pitiful little girl climbing out a side window and crying for help.” Miriam closed her eyes and put a liver-spotted hand over her mouth. “All she had on was her underwear. I just get sick when I think about it. After that, everything happened so fast: the sirens, tires screeching, all the policemen shouting, and that poor, sweet child running across the yard, practically naked. And this was November, mind you. Clay came out the front door, and he started to run after Amelia. That’s when Lon shot him. I remember how in midstride, Clay suddenly flopped back and fell on the ground.”
Miriam let out a long sigh. “Then Lon threw his rifle down, and Amelia ran into his arms. She was hysterical, crying, but Lon kept rocking her and telling her, ‘You’re safe now, baby.’”
“And Clay Spalding was dead,” Karen murmured.
Miriam nodded. “I think he died in the ambulance on the way to Samaritan Hospital.”
“What about Amelia?” Karen asked. “I understand she was never really the same after that day. I hear her parents had a very hard time with her.”
“Well, it might have been more gradual than that,” Miriam said. “I know she was giving Lon and Joy some problems even before that Sunday. So Lord knows how long Clay had been-p
awing at that poor little girl. I heard stories later that he had Polaroid snapshots of Amelia, undressed.” She shook her head. “Anyway, if she had problems before that day, well, you’re right, they just got worse and worse after that. She tried to run away several times. I remember once, talking in the front yard to Joy and the twins, and a pickup truck came speeding up the block, like a bat out of you-know-where. I said to Joy something about how they could kill somebody, driving that fast. And before we knew it, Amelia broke away and ran into the street smack dab in front of that pickup-on purpose. The driver almost had an accident, swerving to avoid her. Four years old, and she was trying to kill herself. Can you imagine? Lon and Joy kept her home most of the time after that, and they didn’t take visitors. I hardly saw her. Then I heard they sent her to stay with Joy’s relatives, a cousin, I think.”
Karen imagined Lon’s solution to Amelia’s problems was to lock the tormented girl in her room most of the time.
“What about the sister?” she asked.
“Annabelle? Oh, she was very well behaved. I don’t think they had any problem with her.” Miriam rubbed her chin. “No, the only time I ever saw her kick up a fuss was that afternoon before the shooting. And then later, I remember noticing her in her bedroom window, looking out and crying. I guess she’d seen the whole awful thing. But she didn’t act up or anything after that, not like her sister.”
Karen reached over and put her hand on Miriam’s bony arm. “Did Lon run into any legal trouble for the shooting?” She winced a little. “I mean, even if it seemed justified, some people might say he took the law into his own hands.”
Miriam frowned. “Well, I know there were some concerns. But Lon cooperated with the police a hundred percent.”
“Did a doctor ever examine Amelia to determine whether or not she’d actually been molested?”
With a pained look on her careworn face, Miriam shrugged. “I really don’t know. But they found her clothes in Clay’s bedroom. And in the kitchen drawer, they found a wallet and a necklace belonging to a woman who had been missing for nearly a month, a waitress.”
One Last Scream Page 33