It took him only a moment to find what he was looking for. The file he dropped on his desk was battered and stained, as if he’d gone through it hundreds of times over the years. He opened the folder, flipped through a few pages, and then jabbed a finger into it so hard, it had to have hurt.
“That’s what I thought!” he said, glancing up at me. “Christine Danvers was adopted by Ida and Boris Priestly.”
The names meant nothing to me.
“Ugh, who names their kid Boris these days?” Amelia asked.
Chester ignored her. “It says here Christine was eight years old when she was adopted.”
“And her real parents?” I asked, wondering what could have caused someone to give up their eight-year-old daughter. There was no way I’d ever give up my children, for any reason. And especially not after I’d gotten to hold them and care for them for so long.
“I was never able to discover that information,” Chester said. “Back when I was looking into Joe’s case, it hadn’t seemed important, so, admittedly, I didn’t look too hard.”
“So, you have no idea why she was adopted?”
Chester shook his head. “I wish I did. I’m pretty sure Christine didn’t have a relationship with her birth parents, though. Joe would have said something if she had.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, especially if Christine’s birth parents were bad people. It’s a natural instinct to protect the people you love.
“I can see if I can dig up the records,” Maya said. “Sometimes that stuff is easy to find online, especially if there was no reason for them to keep it a secret.”
“Someone should talk to the Priestlys,” Chester said. “Perhaps they know something that might help. I talked to them when I first investigated Christine’s disappearance, but things might have changed since then.”
“I’ll do it.” Amelia practically tripped over herself to volunteer.
“I could go with you,” I said.
She shot me a suspicious look, as if she didn’t believe my motives for going with her were pure.
“I want to solve this just as badly as you do,” I said, although I did also want to keep an eye on her. I mean, a killer was still out there somewhere. Perhaps the Priestlys had decided to exact revenge on their daughter’s suspected murderer once he’d resurfaced, thirty years after the fact.
Yeah, it was a stretch, but it gave me a good reason to tag along.
We filed out of Chester’s cramped office, into the main room. Chester seemed energized by the recent revelations, and I had to admit, I was pretty excited myself. Joe deserved justice, for both his murder and for having false accusations thrown his way.
Amelia dropped into the chair behind her desk. “Give me a sec to find an address.” She did a quick search and then wrote down what she found. “Got it.”
Amelia and I were about to head for the door when it burst open and a short, stocky man who appeared to be in his mid- to late fifties strode in. He wore overalls and a faded red ball cap that once had something stenciled on the front—I think it was a sports team—but it had been torn free, leaving behind only a speckled, circular patch in its place.
He looked right past Amelia and me and pointed at Chester. “Leave it alone, old man,” he said. He ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, pushing something around that was pressed between his lip and gums. Tobacco, I assumed.
Chester went completely still. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“The hell you don’t.” The guy had the audacity to spit a dark juice onto the floor, as if he was out on the farm somewhere, not inside a place of business. “He got what he deserved. Both him and that woman of his.”
“Are you talking about Joe—”
Maya didn’t get to finish.
The man spun on her, eyes going hard and dangerous. “No one spoke to you.” He looked her up and down. “Shouldn’t you be trying to cash in your food stamps?”
Maya took a step forward, fists clenching. “Say that again.”
Chester hurriedly moved between the man and Maya, before shooting Amelia a warning look. Amelia was practically seething, and I couldn’t say I was faring much better. The stranger was a real piece of work.
“I think you’d best go, Harry,” Chester said. “I wouldn’t want to have to call the police.”
“Go ahead,” the man—Harry—said. “I’ll just tell them what I saw yesterday.”
“Yeah?” Amelia said. “What’s that?”
The look the man gave Amelia had me close to knocking him out. He leered at her, eyes most definitely not where they were supposed to be.
“Harry,” Chester said. “Did you see something?”
Harry’s gaze lingered on Amelia a moment longer before he finally turned his attention back to Chester. “I did. It’s why I’m here. You’re out there, asking questions that no one should be asking, when I know for a fact what happened.”
He jabbed at the wad in his lip with his tongue, looked as if he might spit again, but thought better of it.
“What did you see?” Chester asked. He was somehow remaining calm. If it had been me and my place of business, I would have decked the guy already.
“It was like the last time. People don’t always see me, but I sure see them.”
My brain snapped into focus. Harry? As in Harry Davis, the man who’d claimed he’d seen Joe Danvers dragging a body and carrying a shovel at night. This man was the reason Joseph had to change his name to Joe Hitchcock. Could he also be the reason Christine fled town?
“Go on,” Chester said.
“I saw him. One of those types.”
Chester visibly cringed and Maya’s teeth snapped tight. Amelia shifted next to me and I put out a hand to keep her from going after Harry. He might be older, but he was still built like a farmer. I didn’t trust that he wouldn’t hit a woman.
Harry went on, oblivious to the tension flowing around the room. “He was lurking outside and I decided to watch to see what he did. Guy waited until Joe”—he practically sneered the name—“got home and then went in after him.”
“You saw who killed Joe?” I asked. I hadn’t meant to speak, but it just sort of popped out.
“I did.” Harry grinned like he’d done something he was especially proud of. “And I plan on letting the police know it too. Facts are facts. Joseph Danvers killed his wife, and he, in turn, was murdered, just like he should have been years ago.”
“Did you actually see it happen?” Chester asked, but Harry was done answering questions.
“Stop poking around where you don’t belong,” he said. “There’s nothing for you to discover out there that we don’t already know. Keep at it, and the next thing you know, you’ll end up like the others.”
“Is that a threat?” Somehow, Chester’s voice remained calm and cool. His eyes, however, were blazing.
“Take it how you want.” Harry spat again. “But don’t come crying to me when something happens to you.” He glanced around the room. “All of you.”
And with that, Harry Davis waltzed out.
“That guy’s a real jerk,” Amelia said.
“And a liar,” Maya said. “Did you hear what he said to me?”
Amelia crossed the short space and wrapped Maya in a hug. Both of them were trembling, and I wouldn’t doubt that if Harry were to walk through the door again, neither of them would hold back.
“I’ve got to make some calls,” Chester said. He turned and walked into his office. Just before he closed the door, I caught a glimpse of the look on his face.
He looked terrified.
Amelia broke her hug with Maya and cleared her throat. She glanced at me briefly before heading to the door. “Come on, Mom,” she said. “Let’s go talk to Mr. and Mrs. Priestly. We need to figure this thing out before that jerk manages to ruin someone else’s life.”
9
Amelia and I sat in a small, tidy eat-in kitchen. The room smelled of flowers in bloom and was bright and airy
, despite its small size.
“Here you are.” Ida Priestly poured tea into three mugs before returning the teapot to the stove. “I prefer my tea to be hot, never mind the weather.” She crossed the room and sat down gingerly across from us. “Now, you said you wanted to talk to me about Christine?” Her eyes misted briefly before her pleasant smile returned.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” I said, sipping my tea. It was piping hot and had an odd flavor, as if I were drinking liquid potpourri. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but left an aftertaste I could have done without.
“It’s never too much trouble talking about her.” She blinked rapidly as she brought her own teacup to her lips. Ida was in her eighties, and looked every year of it. Her hand shook ever so slightly, yet she managed to not spill a drop of her tea as she sipped. “She was a beautiful child, grown into a beautiful adult.”
“Was it difficult adopting her?” Amelia asked. “Considering. . .” She blushed.
Ida smiled. “Because I’m an old white woman? It was. My husband and I never did care one lick about skin color. It’s what’s inside that counts.”
“I wish everyone thought that way,” I said, remembering Harry Davis’s comments. I had a hard time believing that people like that still existed.
“Me too, dear, me too.” She ran her hand over the tablecloth, smoothing out ripples. “Christine was a good child. And when she lived here with us, I made sure she understood where she came from, who she was. She didn’t need to change to be more like Boris or me. It wouldn’t have been right to ask her to do so.”
“Did you know her parents?” Amelia asked. “Her birth parents, I mean.”
“No, I didn’t.” Ida’s face clouded over. “But from what I hear, it wasn’t a good situation that brought Christine to us. It never really is, is it?”
“Often, no,” I said.
“She was scared when I first met her, terrified, really. I thought for the longest time it was because we were new to her, strangers. I eventually realized it went deeper than that. Something happened in that girl’s life that traumatized her. I never did get it out of her, but I suppose I didn’t press too hard. She was my baby and I didn’t want to hurt her or add to her distress.”
Amelia and I shared a look. It was Amelia who spoke. “Do you think whatever happened when she was little was why she left town?”
Ida’s face transformed into a blank mask. “What do you mean? She went missing years ago, and the police believe her dead.”
“Her husband didn’t kill her,” I said. “Joe was innocent.”
“I always knew that,” Ida said. “I went to the police myself to tell them they were wasting their time looking into him, but they refused to listen.” She shook her head. “That poor man. Hounded until he left Grey Falls, then murdered when he returned. Someone needs to pay for that.”
“That’s what we’re hoping to accomplish,” Amelia said. “We want justice for both Joe and Christine.”
Ida picked up her tea, but her hand was trembling so badly now, she couldn’t bring it to her lips. A little slopped over the side, onto the tablecloth, as she set it back down.
“Oh dear,” she said, rising quickly. “I made such a mess.”
I watched her as she scurried around the kitchen. Her movements were furtive, almost frightened, and I was pretty sure I knew why.
I waited until she’d cleaned up the mess and sat back down before I spoke.
“You knew Christine was alive, didn’t you?”
“I always believed so.” She refused to meet my eye. “Not quite a mother’s instinct, but something akin to it.”
“It’s more than that,” I said. “You knew for a fact she was alive. You knew she left town on her own. Do you know why?”
Ida picked at her nails. Her mask fell away and I could see the fear in her eyes. She didn’t want to look up, didn’t want anyone else to know.
I reached across the table and rested a hand on her own. “We want to help.” And then the kicker. “I met Christine’s son.”
Ida’s eyes snapped closed and her lower lip started to tremble. She turned her hand so that she could grasp mine.
“Is he all right?”
“He is,” I said, hoping it was true. I hadn’t heard from him or Detective Cavanaugh since they’d left my house. And if Harry followed through on his threat to tell the cops that he’d seen Erik snooping around Joe’s place, who knew what was happening. “He came to Grey Falls to meet his father. He arrived too late.”
“Did you know Christine had a son?” Amelia asked Ida.
The older woman’s nod was jerky. “I did. But I never met him.” She took a big breath and when she exhaled, she seemed to deflate. “I knew Christine ran, but I didn’t know why she did or where to. She never gave me an address or a number where I could reach her. It was hard, to say the least.”
“But she contacted you somehow.”
“She did.” Ida pulled her hand from mine and rose. She left the room briefly and returned a few minutes later carrying a small fire-resistant chest. She set it on the table between us. “It’s unlocked.”
I turned the chest to face me and flipped open the lid. Inside were postcards, at least a hundred of them. Careful not to bend or tear anything, I picked up a stack and sifted through them.
There was no return address on any of them, and they were all postmarked from different states. The messages were always brief, and gave away nothing about Christine’s location. But they did tell me one thing: She loved her mother.
“I’m not sure if she moved around, or if she had other people send those for her,” Ida said. “I tried to look for her; I really did. She asked me not to, of course. A few of them say so.”
I sorted through a few more until I found one. I read it out loud. “Don’t look for me. I’m happy. If you see Joe, please tell him I love him. We’ll be together again, I swear it. Love, C.”
A tear rolled down Ida’s cheek. I was forced to wipe one of my own from my eye.
“She never did find him, did she?” Ida asked.
“She did,” I said. “But she got sick. You do know . . . ?” My chest tightened at the thought that I might have to tell her that her daughter was dead.
Ida nodded, saving me from the unpleasantness. “I received a letter. She sent it just before she died, telling me it was her time. I’d show it to you, but—”
“It’s personal,” Amelia said.
“I wish there was something in it that told me why this had to happen; I truly do. Boris, when he died . . .” She pressed her palms into her eyes as if she could force back the tears. “He never understood. His heart was broken when she left. I don’t think he ever recovered.”
I tried to imagine how I’d handle it if one of my kids ran away without telling me why. I couldn’t do it. It would have broken my heart, just as it had Boris’s. I would have done anything to find them again, even if it was against their wishes.
“Did you ever find any clues about why Christine left?” Amelia asked. “Or come up with any theories?”
“No theories,” Ida said. “But there was a man.”
Both Amelia and I sat up straighter. “What man?” I asked.
“He came to Boris and me a few weeks after Christine vanished. He didn’t buy into the rumors that Joe killed her, and I know I didn’t do a very good job concealing that I knew something. Back then, I was so worried, I couldn’t keep the concern out of my voice. I’m sure he suspected something, but he never outright said it.”
“Did you know the guy?” Amelia asked.
“Never saw him before that day. He was, let’s just say, not exactly my type. He was older than Christine, but not by much. I thought maybe they were friends or perhaps they had dated once without my knowledge, but the more he talked, the more I realized she wouldn’t have had anything to do with him. He was prejudiced, if you get my meaning.”
Amelia and I shared another look. Even though neither of us spoke, I could
read the name in her eyes. Harry Davis.
“What did he look like?” I asked.
“Like anyone else, I suppose. Tanned arms, like he worked on a farm.” She tapped her bicep, as if hinting that the tan stopped there. “He was a bit aggressive when he asked after Christine, as if he was desperate to find her. I was glad when he was gone, and glad that I never saw him again until recently.”
“You saw him again?” Amelia asked. “Where?”
“Here.” She tapped her table with her index finger. “Came to my door, asking me what I knew about Christine and Joe. I slammed the door in his face. At my age, I don’t need to deal with people like that. It’s bad for the heart.”
“Did you ever catch this man’s name?” I asked.
“I wish I had.” Ida leaned forward. Her gaze was intense. “Christine was scared of something when she left. I can almost guarantee that this man was part of the reason why.”
* * *
After our chat with Ida Priestly, Amelia dropped me off at my car outside Chester’s office, but declined to come home with me.
“I want to help Maya look for Christine’s birth parents,” she said. “They might be able to help fill in the gaps on her past.”
I left her to it and drove home, thinking about Ida and her relationship with her daughter. I couldn’t imagine going thirty years without seeing one of my children, only getting postcards.
And then to find out they were going to die, and never getting a chance to be with them or say goodbye.
It hurt too much to even think about it, let alone live it.
I was so lost in thought, I didn’t notice there was another car in my driveway until I was parked beside it. It wasn’t Erik’s brown sedan, or any other car I knew. I looked from the strange vehicle to my front door.
That’s when I saw the woman marching toward my car.
“Thief!” She kicked my bumper with her Crocs-covered foot. “Petnapper!” Another kick, this one to the door of my van.
I almost opened the van door, but thought better of it. I rolled down the window instead. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
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