Stacks of her books sat in the corners, on the dresser, on the chest with his socks and underwear. He should gather all those books and dump them at a library sale. The day after she’d gone missing, he’d started going through them looking for a pointer, a hint, suggestion, anything to give him a direction to move in. Hell, he’d hoped for a phone number penciled in the margin, along with a name and address.
He’d found lots of crap. Scribbles in margins, underlined passages, stuff about abusive, controlling males. A loser of a wife who locked herself in the bathroom. Idiot husband would smashed the door in. Mitch sat up, took a glug of beer, and glanced at the bathroom door. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been so mad about when he’d put a fist through the thin panel.
No point in sitting around here feeling sorry for himself. Tipping the bottle, he finished it off, tossed it in the trash, and rummaged through shelves in the garage for the large trash bags. Bag in hand, he went through the house gathering dirty clothes, threw the bag in the car, and headed for a laundry. After dropping them off, he went to a grocery store, the same one Cary had shopped at the day she disappeared.
People went in and out. Everywhere he looked he saw her. Slender women with long blond hair; some had a child with them and he’d feel a sharp stab of pain. Jesus, if they’d had a baby, he’d have something of her besides all those goddamn books! Wandering aimlessly up and down aisles, he picked up two apples, two oranges, bologna, bread, cheese, two cans of soup. That ought to hold him for a while. For good measure, he threw in a few frozen dinners.
Some broad seemed to be following him. Everywhere he turned, she’d be staring at him. Not bad-looking, thirties, brown hair, little on the hefty side. Just when he found the beer and got two six packs in the cart, she approached him.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Aren’t you Cary Percy’s husband?”
“Mitch Black,” he said.
“Oh, right. Black. I thought she said her name was Percy.”
Maiden name. What the hell was she doing using the name Percy? People didn’t sneak around saying their name was something it wasn’t unless they were up to no good.
“You don’t know me, but I’m Velma Dowler. I met Cary at Sylvia’s. The exercise place? I saw you pick her up there once. She’s such a nice person, always a smile. I’m just really sorry about … you know, her disappearing and all. Has there been any word?”
Mitch shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about Cary with some nosey bitch looking for dirt, but he didn’t want to blow her off, in case she knew something.
“It’s just awful. First Kelby takes off for Kansas and then Cary disappears. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Kelby?”
Velma looked flustered. “Oh, well, you know, Arlette said that awful trial just took so much out of Kelby, all the gruesome details. And having to listen to that awful torture and all, but nobody’s heard from her, and now Cary. Gone, just like that.”
“Who’s Kelby?” Cary met someone and ran off with him! He checked that Sylvia’s place when Cary wanted to go and she hadn’t lied to him, it was just for women. But women had friends and relatives. Acquaintances.
Velma gave him a fish-eyed look. “Arlette’s friend, really.”
He knew it. He knew that Arlette bitch was trouble. “What’s Kelby’s last name?”
“Oliver.” She took a step back. He’d asked too strong.
Mitch told the Velma broad it was kind of her to be concerned, but he had every hope of finding Cary alive and well. And he was, damn well, going to make it his business to find out all there was to know about Kelby Oliver.
17
Susan sent a baleful glance at her in basket, opened her mouth slightly, and moved her jaw back and forth in an attempt to make her ears pop. They did pop, and they crackled and they fuzzed over, but nothing made an ounce of difference on her hearing. Fluid in your ears. It takes time for it to be absorbed. Timing is all, and right now was the time to go home. A soggy mind does not clarity make. Just as she yanked open the bottom drawer for her shoulder bag, the phone rang. Damn. The phone seemed to have a malignant tracking device that sensed when she was about to defect. She sighed, punched a button, and picked up the receiver.
“It’s her,” Hazel said, “the one who called about her sister.”
Susan searched through sludge in her brain, which took a while, but she finally got to the datum. A sister who didn’t return calls. “What’s the sister’s name?”
“Kelby Oliver.”
Oliver. Right. The woman who had inquired about a guiding miniature horse. Was she blind? “Put her through.” Susan pressed the receiver against her ear and pushed up the volume.
“She still hasn’t called me,” the woman said in way of a hello.
“Your name, please?”
“Why do you people always ask for my name? It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that Kelby doesn’t answer her phone or return calls. It’s been nearly five days.”
Five days? Who panics when a phone call isn’t returned by five days? “Ma’am, unless you give me your name, I can’t help you.”
“What kind of stupidity is that?”
Susan pinched the bridge of her nose where her sinuses were beginning to throb. Something weird was going on here. If her brain didn’t have fluid sloshing around in it, maybe she could figure it out. “Where are you calling from?”
Long silence. “I’m not supposed to be doing this.”
Doing what? “You’re not supposed to be calling the police?”
“No.”
“Why is that, ma’am?”
Another long silence. “She’s had some—difficulty lately and I’m worried.”
“What kind of difficulty?” Mental? Physical?
“I’m not supposed to say.”
What the hell? Susan tucked the phone between chin and shoulder. She didn’t know if this woman actually was Oliver’s sister. The only thing coming through clear was the caller’s frantic need to talk with Oliver. Without identifying herself. Susan’s headache was getting worse. “Does she have vision problems?”
“Vision prob—what is wrong with you people! She could be dead on the floor and you’re talking about glasses?”
“Have you had an argument with your sister?”
“No!”
“Is there some reason she’s avoiding you?”
Silence.
“Ma’am?”
“It’s just that—look, I’m worried. Could you just please check and see she’s all right.”
“Yes, ma’am, but if you want me to get back to you with that information, you’ll have to give me a number where I can reach you.”
“Just find her and tell her to call.” A click and then the dial tone.
Some kind of weird identity theft? Attempted scam of some kind? Complicated family situation? Families produced the most virulent, convoluted, and tangled emotions that were impossible to figure out unless you knew the history. Susan pressed a button for Hazel. “Have someone take a ride out and talk with this Kelby Oliver.”
“You think she’s dead on the kitchen floor?”
“I think she’s ducking calls.”
Hazel laughed. “It’s what I’d do if I had a sister like that. I’ll send Ida. And hope she doesn’t get anybody killed.”
Susan looked at her watch. “Where’s Marilee? You’re supposed to be gone.”
“I’m out the door.”
“Me, too.” Susan put in three more hours of chipping away at the pile on her desk. Enough. Her head pounded like a jackhammer. Scooting back the chair, she picked up her empty mug and wandered along the hallway to the small kitchen behind and filled the mug, then she wandered farther along the hallway to Parkhurst’s office and planted herself in the chair by his desk. “Hi, sailor. Got any nylons? Chocolate bars?”
He leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “You look terrible”
“Water on the brain.”
He retrieved his gun
in the shoulder rig from a desk drawer. “Let’s go,” he said as he slipped it on.
“Where?”
“I’m taking you away from all this.”
“Oh, goody. Where you taking me?”
“For a drink.”
“Forget it. In my condition, a drink would have me dead on the barroom floor, like what’s his name in that poem.”
“Play your cards right and I’ll get you a giant box of chocolate.”
“Oh. Well now.” She trailed him to the parking lot, got in her pickup, and followed him to the Holiday Inn. Just what kind of drink did he have in mind? She parked beside his Bronco. They went in and walked through the lobby to the coffee shop. The waiter herded them into a round, padded booth in a corner and handed out menus.
“Hot tea,” she told him when he asked if they wanted anything to drink. Parkhurst asked for iced tea.
When the tea came, she took a cautious sip that burned all the way down her raw throat. “Any reason why we’re here?”
“Kelby Oliver. Of Berkeley, California.”
A stab of homesickness caught her. Four years in Kansas, but still a misplaced San Francisco resident. “I left my heart in…”
“What do you know about her?”
“Not much,” he said. “She stayed here one night. Checked in, checked out. June twenty-seventh.”
“And you know this because—?”
“She used a fictitious name.”
Susan looked at him. “How do you know that?”
“She had a credit card in the name of S. D. Turney. She was nervous enough that it made the receptionist suspicious. He went out and checked to see if the license number she’d given him was the number on her car.”
“And was it?”
“Yeah. The kid wondered if maybe it was a stolen car, so he checked on that. Emerson student. I think maybe he’s thinking of writing screenplays. The car was registered to a Kelby Oliver and it had not been reported stolen.”
A waitress, another Emerson student, young, blond, tanned, with “Tami” stitched over the pocket of her shirt, came up. Parkhurst closed the menu he’d been perusing and placed it on the table. “What can you tell us about Kelby Oliver?”
Tami smiled. Perfect teeth. “I can tell you what she had for breakfast. Two eggs poached, whole wheat toast, and coffee.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes. Sat over there. All by herself, didn’t talk to anybody.”
“What can you tell us about her?” Susan said.
Tami tapped her perfect teeth with the eraser end of the pencil. “Umm. Tired. Worried. Nervous. Like she didn’t get any sleep. Bags under her eyes. Slow about answering stuff like ‘Would you care for some more coffee?’”
“Did she say anything about what she was doing here? Or where she was going?”
“I asked if she was staying long and she said no, she was just passing through. She had this kind of inward look, staring off into space and sort of having to pull herself back when I asked what she wanted. Something on her mind, probably a guy.”
“Why a guy?”
Tami stuck the pencil behind her ear. “She’d look up real quick, like, if a man came in.”
“Physical description?”
Tami rolled her eyes as an aid to thought. “Average, I guess. On the short side. Blond hair. Had this intense look. Like maybe she’d been sick.”
“Sick,” Susan repeated.
“Yeah. You know, thin, like she’d maybe lost weight, and kind of pasty-looking. Sort of haunted eyes.”
When Tami left with their order, Parkhurst looked at Susan. “Haunted eyes?”
Susan wondered if Tami’s major was English lit and she’d been reading the Brontes. Over dinner, frogs’ legs for Parkhurst, grilled chicken breast for her, he told her how far he’d gotten tracking the speeding teenagers who’d caused the accident. Watching him eat the rear ends of frogs made her slightly queasy. She pushed her plate aside.
* * *
When she got home, the heat inside the house made her think of Death Valley. She turned on the window cooler. Getting out while the house cooled and the thought that exercise might help her sleep better moved her into a walk. Nearly eight-thirty, with warm breezes and mosquitoes. She slapped at the back of her neck and walked slowly, letting thoughts amble through her mind. Why had Kelby Oliver used a ficitious name? Why wouldn’t she call her sister? Would Ida make a good cop?
Late evening light slanted through the maple leaves. Shouts and laughter from the young girls playing tennis floated on the humidity in the air. Through the fading light, Susan spotted Jen sitting alone on a bench, looking like a sprite that might flit away at any moment. Blue shorts, cheerful, red-striped tank top. Typical teenage garb, but her misery made it all seem wrong, pulled all the brightness from the autumn light and made the shirt seem dark. Her pain was so deep Susan could almost feel it in the air.
“Hey, Jen. Mind if I join you?” Could this child possibly be fourteen now? Time did those tricky things that made you unsure of when things occurred and ages got blurred.
Jen shrugged without looking up. “Sure.”
A more unwelcoming invitation couldn’t be imagined. Susan perched on the end of the bench. Jen, looking as forlorn and desolate as a lost kitten, had a book open on her lap, her backpack on the bench beside her. Her misery was so palpable Susan was pulled into it. Complete and utter absorption of despair that only an adolescent can fall into weighed over them both and squeezed the oxygen from the air.
Jen stared at a page, the very picture of being engrossed in the story and not wanting an interruption. Susan knew she wasn’t reading, and also got the message. Go away and leave me alone. When did Jen turn in to such a teenager? “Why aren’t you playing tennis, Jen? Aren’t you feeling well?”
Jen shrugged. “I’m okay.” She scrunched further in on herself and slapped the book shut, but not before Susan saw a spot that looked like a raindrop. Jen hooked a forefinger and rubbed it under the eye that betrayed her. Gaze averted, she poked around in the pockets of her backpack and found a tissue which she squeezed in her hand.
“What is it, Jen? Tell me what’s the matter?”
A long shuddering sigh. “There’s nothing you can do.” The words were so soft Susan had to lean closer to hear.
Hot anger built in Susan’s chest along with a fierce urge for revenge. Who hurt this child? Impotence followed, bringing a sinking feeling that this was one of those teenage things she couldn’t do anything about. She was only Jen’s friend, an adult friend at that, and only God and other teenagers had access to the teenage world. “Jen?” she whispered.
Jen looked up, eyes bright. “It’s just this book.” She flipped open the book and stabbed at a page. “I have to finish. It’s due today.”
She had much to contend with. Parents divorced a couple years ago. Grandfather’s mind slipping away into Alzheimer’s. Mother who didn’t like conflict, dripped pretty pink paint over strife and pretended everything was rosy. She invested most of her time and energy in the new husband and Jen was left to fend for herself.
“What’s the book about?”
“The railroad.” She showed Susan the cover.
“Are you interested in the railroad?”
“I’ve been reading to Grandpa. Sometimes reading calms him down.”
“Do you like reading to him?”
“Mostly he doesn’t recognize me. Do you ever have nightmares?”
There was a wealth of meaning in the question Susan couldn’t interpret. She wasn’t good at this, she wished Hazel were here, or George or even Osey. “Sometimes. How about you? You ever have nightmares?”
“Grandpa does. He wakes up screaming.”
“He had some horrible experiences—”
“He was tortured. Beat up, shocked on his—you know.” Jen touched her lower abdomen. “Made him pee on himself. And forced to stand naked in the snow for hours.”
“He talks about this to you?”
“Jews were forced to wear them.”
“How did he survive that?”
“I don’t know, Jen. He was very brave.”
“What’s it like to be brave?”
What the hell kind of question was this? What was going on in this kid’s life? Susan leaned back, stretched out her legs, and hooked her elbows on the back of the bench. “I thought we were friends.”
“So?”
“So friends talk to each other. Friends tell each other what’s bothering them. Friends ask each other for help.”
“You can’t help.”
“You never know.” Susan stared at her ankles and wiggled the toes of her shoes. “Come on, Jen, let me try.”
Jen shook her head, brown eyes apprehensive that Susan might blunder into whatever the problem was and make it worse. “I gotta go.” Jen got up like a decrepit old person about to take her last breath, and slumped off, a picture of total dejection.
Susan crossed campus, went to Eleventh Street, then up Walnut and home. Despite the exercise, troubled sleep brought the usual dreams. This time Jen was in them. Gunfire. Somebody shot. She needed to find out who. Dear God, please not Jen.
There! Body face-down! Dead.
She knelt to turn the victim over. Before she could see who it was, she woke.
18
After five days with no sign of Cary, Mitch began to seriously believe she was dead. Her car parked at Albertson’s was the last trace of her. The crime scene guys had gone all over the vehicle and come up empty. Traces of blood on the front seat, a smear on the steering wheel, but not enough to indicate serious injury. She simply disappeared. When he dealt with grieving parents whose daughters went missing, or boyfriends whose girlfriends disappeared, the first response was another female pissed off at parents or boyfriend and teaching them a lesson by taking off, sunning herself on the beaches in Baja to let them simmer, then coming home.
The whole department came through for him, piled everything they had in the search and there was not one trace of her. The rage that seared through him the first two days had pretty much burned itself out and now he missed her. He got mad all over again when he didn’t have clean socks, or he had to get his own dinner, or there was no beer in the house, but mostly he just felt hollow inside.
Edge of Midnight Page 11