by Diane Capri
After Flint dropped the phone into his pocket, Mason turned his palm toward the small office and preceded Flint into the room. He settled into the brown leather chair on the opposite side of a battered wood desk while Flint took one of the heavy wood chairs across from him.
This was the kind of meeting in the principal’s office that had instilled fear in students and their parents for generations. An experience Flint had never endured as a kid. There had been no principal at Bette Maxwell’s boarding school. Not enough kids to justify the state paying for one.
“I don’t see how I can help you, Mr. Flint, as much as I’d like to. Laura Oakwood was a nice girl and she’s had a tough life. I’m glad she stands to inherit something after all these years.” Mason rested his forearms on the arms of his chair and folded his hands across his paunch. “But as I said when you called, I haven’t seen Laura Oakwood or Rosalio Prieto since they left Wolf Bend the summer she graduated. Nineteen eighty-eight, was it? Her dad passed not long before that. She didn’t have any other family, far as I know. None that lived here in Wolf Bend, anyway.”
“You seem pretty sure about that.”
“Look around, Mr. Flint. This is a small place. Everybody knows everybody and everything that happens to them, too. If Richard and Selma Oakwood had family left here in Wolf Bend, I’d have known about it.”
“Selma? I thought Richard’s wife was Sally.”
“Sorry. You’re right. People called her Sally. I forgot.” Mason smiled. “She hated the name Selma. But that was the name on Laura’s official school records. I’m not great with names, so I refreshed my memory before you arrived.”
“I see.” So Laura Oakwood had named her daughter after her own mother, which was usually a loving gesture. But she’d saddled the girl with an awkward name that her mother hated. Laura Oakwood was a complicated female, all right. Even before she’d robbed Mildred’s Corner and disappeared.
“So you knew the Oakwood family, then. What can you tell me about them? Anything at all might help me locate Laura.” He’d fed Mason a line of bull that was partly true. The same story he’d told Bette Maxwell. That if he found Laura Oakwood, she’d inherit some oil and gas money. It was a common thing in Texas and encouraged cooperation from people who might not want to gossip. Most people were likely to help the little guy get money from Big Oil and keep it out of the hands of the government.
“Richard came here in the 1960s, I think. To work in the oil fields over in Mount Warren. Jobs were thick on the ground over there at the time. Like so many others, he didn’t have much education or many skills, but he was a hard worker.” Mason leaned back like he was warming up to tell a long campfire story. “Richard wanted a ranch, and land around here was some of the cheapest in Texas at the time. Still is. Of course, that place he got from old Juan Garcia wasn’t ever going to be a working ranch, but he didn’t know that for a while. He fell in love with the girl next door, literally. Old Juan’s daughter, Sally. About a year after they married, little Laura was born. Richard was too prideful to quit ranching for a long time. Poured every penny he made into that old place. He and Sally tried to make the ranch work until Sally got sick.”
Flint let the story seep in through his pores.
Mason said, “After Sally died, seemed like the last straw for Richard. He fell into the bottle and never climbed out. Never tried to, near as anybody could tell.”
“What about Laura?”
“She finished high school. Shy girl, standoffish, I guess. But friendly enough once you got to know her. In a small school like this, all the kids are involved in everything because, well, what else are they going to do besides get into trouble?” He shrugged. “So she was a cheerleader and a debater and she was on the school paper. Like I said, she was a nice girl. Most people felt sorry for her, but she didn’t appreciate the pity.”
Flint understood. The well-meaning people were sometimes the hardest for a kid to take. “What happened after she graduated? Why did she leave Wolf Bend?”
“Well, not much to keep her here, was there? I’d guess Richard was probably pretty hard to deal with before he died. He had a temper. Always had. And drinking didn’t make him any easier, you know?”
Flint nodded. “When did she start dating Prieto? They left town together, you said, right?”
Mason closed his eyes and tilted his chin, as if he was thinking back. “I want to say they were dating in her last year of high school, but it could have been before that. He’d already graduated, I know that. He wasn’t the kind of kid who wanted college. He was looking for work and not having a lot of luck. That’s always a frustrating thing, no matter how old you are.”
“Tough country out there.” Flint tilted his head toward the window to the hot, dusty world outside. “Anybody go after them when they left? Try to find them? Bring them back?”
“Why would anyone do that?” Mason’s eyes met Flint’s. He shrugged. “Look, Wolf Bend’s no place for young people. Never has been. There’s nothing to offer them here. Laura’s father might have been the only one to try to bring her back, but he was already gone, too. She wasn’t close to anyone else. Not close enough, at any rate.”
“You said her mother was Juan Garcia’s daughter. What about the Garcia family? Wouldn’t they have tried to find Laura and bring her home?”
He shook his head. “Afraid not. The rift in the Garcia family goes way back.”
“How about Prieto’s parents? Weren’t they interested in getting him back?”
Mason looked down at his hands and seemed to mull something around in his head for a bit. He cleared his throat and met Flint’s gaze. “Rosalio wasn’t the best apple in the barrel over at the Prietos, I’m afraid. They’re a fine family. God knows, they tried. And he might have grown out of his rebellious phase eventually.”
“But?”
“I’m not saying he was running from the law when he left here, because I don’t know why he left.” Mason cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “But the police chief was about to put him in jail again. He’d have been convicted again, and this time he’d have served a couple of years, probably.”
“What crime did he commit?”
“Stole a car. Went joyriding in it. Wrecked it.” Mason raised his gaze. “The usual hijinks that boys his age do when they’ve got a girl and pals they want to impress and no job and too much time on their hands.”
Flint nodded. He recognized the truth in that story. “Had Rosalio ever done anything like that before?”
“A few times, he’d been in trouble. Drinking. Petty larceny. Fights. But nothing quite that serious.”
“What caused him to escalate to grand theft auto?”
“Well,” Mason cleared his throat again, “he’d fallen in with a drifter. The guy was older. Not a good influence.”
“Do you know his name?”
Mason shook his head. “I’m not good with names.”
“What happened to the drifter?”
“He wandered out of town right around the time Laura and Rosalio left.” Mason looked down and then up again. “Some folks said they might have all left together.”
Flint nodded and resisted the sarcasm that sprang to mind. “You said there were more members of the Prieto family living here. Are they still around? I’d like to talk to them, if they’re willing.”
“Won’t help much. They don’t have a lot of lost love for Laura Oakwood. They blame her for leading him astray, although I’ve always thought it was the other way around.” He shrugged again. “Anyway, Rosalio’s younger sister, Teresa, works over at the diner. She might be there today. The others have all scattered. Like I said, there’s not much Wolf Bend has to offer people these days.”
“You said Richard Oakwood moved here in the 1960s. Any idea where he lived before?”
“I’m not sure I ever heard.” He pursed his lips and frowned a few moments. “Canada, maybe?”
Flint noticed the time on the big clock on the wall behind Mason. He leaned forward.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, but I need to get going. Do you still have any files for Laura Oakwood or Rosalio Prieto from back then? There might be something in them that I could use to help me find her.”
“Like what?”
“Like a birth certificate for her parents or other forms that showed where they were born. So I can check with the extended family to find Laura.”
“We don’t keep files after about five years.” Mason shook his head. “We send the transcripts in to the state, though. State of Texas might have more information on the Oakwoods. Did you check?”
“We didn’t have any luck in Austin, I’m afraid. And immigration was pretty lax back then, too.” Flint stood. “Thank you for coming in today, Mr. Mason. Can I call you if I think of anything else?”
“Like I said, I’m glad to help Laura, if I can. When you find her, give her my best, will you?”
But the interview wasn’t a total waste of time. Now he knew Laura Oakwood was related to old Juan Garcia and Richard Oakwood might have emigrated from Canada. Scarlett must have chased the Garcia lead down already and found nothing. But she hadn’t looked in Canada for Richard Oakwood’s family. Perhaps Canadian records would be better than the ones Scarlett had already checked in Texas.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Flint left with Mason through the back door of the school. After Mason drove away, Flint pulled one of the disposable cell phones out of his pocket to call Scarlett.
Drake should have returned to Houston about an hour ago and delivered the original medical records for Laura Oakwood’s baby. Scarlett would have seen the low hemoglobin report. She’d also have examined the blood reports from the crime scene. By now she’d have figured out what any follow-up hemoglobin report on the baby revealed.
The phone fired up but registered no cell signal. Maybe the school complex was in a dead zone. Flint looked around for a tower. He didn’t see any. Surely there was someplace in this town where he could make a cell phone call.
He walked from the parking lot to the front of the high school, turned south across the side street, and walked through the pulsing heat to the end of the next short block.
The sign on the front of the only building likely to hold a jail cell and the post office sat across from the church and declared itself “Wolf Bend, Texas, City Offices.”
He’d briefly considered dropping Jeremy Reed with the sheriff and lodging a formal complaint for the attempted assault. Reed had shot at him, after all. Locking him up for a couple of days would keep him out of the case until the deadline passed.
He’d like to ask the sheriff about Rosalio Prieto, too. The sheriff was probably the one who notified the next of kin when Prieto died. He might be willing to say more than the information in his files that Scarlett had already collected.
If there was a sheriff or a chief of police, he wasn’t on site at the moment. There were no cars in the lot. And still no cell signal registering on the burner phone.
Flint crossed Main Street and walked north. The city park was quiet. A few kids playing across on the other side of the park. The general store and the grocery store were closed. Only the diner and the gas station seemed to have business hours late on Sunday.
Flint checked the phone along the way, but no signal registered.
If the follow-up blood test was done on the baby, Scarlett should already be checking hospitals in Texas and Mexico. But would she be checking in Canada?
He shut down the phone and returned it to his pocket.
Flint walked into the Wolf Bend Diner and stood in the doorway a moment. Cool air felt welcome on his overheated body. He pushed his sunglasses onto his head and scanned for a place to sit.
The diner was nice enough. It had been decorated a few decades ago, but it was clean and tidy. More than a dozen steel tables with green laminate tops and green vinyl-padded chairs were strewn about the open room’s cement floor. Four of the tables were occupied. Maybe they’d come for dinner before Sunday-night church.
A long counter ran along the right side of the diner. Steel bar stools, with seats covered in the same green vinyl padding as the chairs, lined the floor on one side of the counter. On the other side were the usual walkways, food displays, working countertops, and a window through to the kitchen in the back.
Everything about the diner, and the town, seemed like a movie set for a 1960s-era film. Edward Hopper, the American realist, might easily have painted the place and he’d been dead since 1967.
There was no hostess stand and only one waitress. She was the right age, about forty-five, Flint guessed. Dark hair pulled back in an elastic band. Dark eyes. Slender. Maybe five seven or so. Her uniform was a pair of khaki slacks and a polo shirt the same green color as the diner’s vinyl seats.
Flint found an empty table near the front window and sat facing the door. The waitress came over after five minutes with a glass of water, a plastic menu, a brown plastic mug, and a coffeepot.
She put the water and the menu on the table. “Coffee?” Her voice was pack-a-day husky. Stale cigarette smoke lingered on her breath.
“Yes. Thank you.”
She poured the coffee and put it in front of him before she pulled a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin from her pocket. “Special’s meatloaf today. It’s pretty good. Joey learned to make it from his grandmother. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Side salad. $6.99.”
“Sold.” Flint handed her the menu.
She held it against her chin for a moment. She must have known every resident of Wolf Bend, and he didn’t number among them. “You came in on that helicopter, didn’t you?”
“I did.” No reason to deny it.
“We don’t want any trouble.” Her voice trembled.
“Nor do I. Why would you think otherwise?”
“Order up!” Joey, the cook, yelled through the open serving window behind the counter.
“I’ll be right back with your food.” She returned to the counter and spoke to Joey. She delivered an order to a guy sitting alone at a table in the back and refilled coffee for several diners on her return trip.
When she had everyone satisfied for the moment, she swooped past the kitchen and then headed his way, carrying a brown plastic bowl for the small green salad doused with ranch dressing in one hand and the rest of his meal under congealing gravy on a separate plate in the other hand.
She placed both on the table and sat across from him.
“After you eat, you should go. Joey has already called the police chief at home and he’s on his way.” Her tone was quiet, earnest. She didn’t want to be overheard, but she wanted him to leave.
“Is this how you greet all visitors to Wolf Bend?” He picked up the fork and tasted the meatloaf, which was surprisingly good. He hadn’t realized he was hungry. When had he last eaten? Steak in London? “This is great meatloaf.”
“Meatloaf’s been on the menu every Sunday since Sam Houston was a pup.” Briefly, the frown left her face and something like pride replaced it. “When you’re the only game in town, everybody’s counting on you.”
“Well, Joey’s grandmother must have been an amazing cook.”
“She was. She and her husband owned this place until they died. She did the cooking and he did the serving.”
He nodded and took a few more bites. He glanced at the plate. He’d eaten more than half his food already. He put the fork down and looked across the table. “Speaking of family, you’re Rosalio Prieto’s sister, aren’t you? Teresa, right?”
She gasped and her hand flew to cover her mouth.
He reached over and placed his hand on her forearm to keep her from bolting. “What kind of trouble do you think I’m likely to cause, Teresa?”
“Why are you interested in my brother after all these years? Can’t you let him rest in peace?” He could feel her trembling under his palm.
“I’m looking for Laura Oakwood. Dan Mason over at the high school told me you might be able to help me because she left town with your brother.” He lower
ed his voice so she had to lean in to hear him. Given the small town and Teresa’s age, she and Laura Oakwood must have known each other. He took a chance on the rest. “She was your best friend, wasn’t she? You knew they were planning to leave Wolf Bend. You knew where they went, too, didn’t you?”
Teresa’s eyes widened and a frown settled across her features. She tried to pull her arm away, but he tightened his grasp.
“Joey called the police chief, Teresa. I don’t have a lot of time before he gets here. If we’re not going to have any trouble,” he didn’t raise his voice, but he put more urgency into it and squeezed her arm a little tighter, “I need you to help me find Laura Oakwood.”
“I don’t know where Laura is. I haven’t heard from her since before my brother . . . died. We didn’t know where they went.” She stopped for a breath and her lip quavered. “I swear. I told those other guys I didn’t know where she is. It’s the truth. Didn’t they tell you?”
So she thought he was with Paxton and Trevor. Maybe even their boss or someone worse than the advance team. Not a bad assumption. No wonder she was scared.
He willed her to calm down a bit. Odd that Mason hadn’t mentioned that Paxton and Trevor had already been around. Even if they didn’t interview him, Mason should have known they’d been asking about Laura Oakwood. Why didn’t he mention it?
“Mason said there was another friend of your brother’s. A man. A drifter. Mason said Rosalio and Laura might have left town with him.” Flint cocked his head when he saw her nostrils flare.
“Leo. My brother’s name was Rosalio, after my grandfather.” Her tone softened again. “But those of us who loved him called him Leo.”
“Did Laura call him Leo, too?”
Teresa nodded. “She loved Leo. More than the rest of us realized.”
Flint nodded. “The guy who left town with them? Mason didn’t know the guy’s name or anything about him.”
“John David, he said his name was.” She caught her breath. Her chin quivered. “He was bad news. He had them both wrapped around his little finger, though.”
“How’s that?”