Give it more time, she told herself at length. Easier to work with what she had, than realize she had made a mistake and have to lay off people. That notion put aside for the present, she checked her e-mail. There was a message from Dennis Wingate.
I’ve reached a dead end with Tracy Knight.
Carley clicked on Reply and typed, I’ll try to get Rick Bryant’s information.
Two hours until the produce was due. She took out her telephone book and found Emmit White’s number. Mona answered on the fourth ring.
“May I come over for a few minutes?” Carley asked after identifying herself.
“Why?”
“I really can’t talk about it over the phone. Please?”
“Oh, all right.”
The GL’s windshield was flecked with drops when Carley let herself out the back door, and there were a few puddles in the gravel ruts. The Whites lived on First Street, east of Main, in a two-story home of mellow tan brick and blue shutters. “Over here,” Carley heard when she was just a few feet from the wood-stained front door.
She followed a path of round cement stepping-stones through the damp grass to the side of the house, where a colorful garden about twenty-by-twenty was enclosed by a natural-colored picket fence. Birdhouses were stuck on high posts, and wind chimes tinkled from metal staffs. Small puddles glimmered on three concrete benches. A bay window revealed a kitchen breakfast nook, and steps led up to a side door. Mona Bryant, on her knees at a mound of dirt, said without preliminaries, “What do you want?”
To the back of Mona’s denim shirt, Carley said, “Would you mind if we talked face-to-face?”
“Whatever.” Mona rose and turned with exaggerated motions, brushing at the damp knees of her jeans.
“What are you planting?” Carley asked, not that she remotely cared, but in the hopes of getting the intimidating scowl off Mona’s face.
“Sweet alyssum.” No change in scowl.
“This is a beautiful garden. Did you plant it yourself?”
There seemed a tiny softening of the stone-faced demeanor. “Mom started it, before she got sick. She potters in it sometimes, but I tend most of it. She likes to sit out here.”
“You must be a very good daughter,” Carley said, sincerely.
A smile flickered and disappeared. “I’m not as good at this as she was. What do you want?”
Carley took a breath. “Brooke Kimball—I guess you know she lives with me now?”
Mona pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, tapped the end against her palm. “What about her?”
“I’m trying to help her find her cousin. And it would help if I had information on your husband.”
The oath Mona spat out was predictable.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” Carley said. “But Brooke was only eleven when Tracy Knight disappeared. She had nothing to do with what happened. She just wants to make sure she’s all right, or at least have some closure.”
“Closure,” Mona said thoughtfully, and lit her cigarette. Smoke jetted from her lips. “What’s that mean?”
“Well, just knowing what happened, so she can stop thinking about it. We would share the information with you. You might be able to go after your husband for back pay on child support.”
Mona shrugged. “All right.”
“Really?” Carley said.
“If the girl wants closure.”
****
Wednesday after closing, Carley gave in to Brooke’s urging and watched a prerecorded Columbo episode, sharing the sofa.
“I think you’re required to go to bad-grammar school to make your own car commercials,” Carley said during a break in which a Hattiesburg dealer shouted his wares.
Brooke chuckled. “That must be where they learn to say ‘dollahs.’”
In spite of herself, Carley was drawn into the detective show plot, in which a rare-orchid grower murders his nephew after convincing him to pretend to be kidnapped so that they could tap into his trust fund. “This show is pretty cynical about nephews and uncles, isn’t it?”
“Sh-h-h.”
The telephone rang. Brooke hit the Pause button.
“Hello?” Carley said.
It was Dennis Wingate, with bad news. “It’s as if they both dropped off the face of the earth.”
“Meaning, they’re…” She looked at Brooke.
“Not necessarily. In fact, if this Bryant fellow’s trying to avoid child support, they may have ditched the car as soon as possible and gotten new social security numbers. For the right price and with the wrong people, that can be done.”
“So, what should we do now?”
“Well, I can fly out to Jones County when I finish this other case, start from square one. But we’re talking thousands of dollars.”
“No, thank you,” Carley said. “I’ll put a check in the mail tomorrow. How much do I owe you?”
“This one’s on the house, Miss Reed.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“I made enough looking for you to throw in a bonus,” he said. “I hope this case turns out to have a happy ending too.”
“That would be a pleasant surprise,” Carley said, thanking him.
When she related the conversation to Brooke, the girl shook her head. “They can get new social security numbers for the right price? That means lots of money. If Mr. Rick had lots of money, why would he pick her up in a dented old car?”
“Well, if they were going to ditch it later, an old car would make sense. We don’t know how much he had with him. Maybe they had planned this for a long time.”
The girl sighed. “We’re never going to know what happened, are we?”
“I don’t know,” Carley confessed. “But when you don’t have a concrete answer, all you can do is go with the one with the most evidence to support it.”
Brooke did not respond, but turned off the television a minute later and eyed Carley.
“What?” Carley said with heart sinking.
“Okay, please hear me out. Dad has a long chain with a hook that he used to pull shingles up onto roofs. And his old aluminum fishing canoe is still in the shed too. It’s light enough for two people to carry. He’s got life vests too. If we could get it back there, you could paddle while I drag the chain and see if it catches on anything.”
Carley pulled herself to her feet. “I think you’ve had enough Columbo for tonight.”
The girl looked up at her, blinking tears. “What can it hurt? Chief Dale won’t arrest his girlfriend for trespassing.”
“I’m not his girlfriend. And making spectacles of ourselves would be worse than being arrested.”
“Please, Carley. If I could just know for sure that Tracy’s not down there, then I could stop thinking about it.”
Folding her arms, Carley said, “Okay. I’ll compromise. I’ll ask Dale about taking a boat back there, if you’ll allow me to give him the real reason.”
“No way,” Brooke said.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m afraid of him.” She glanced at the front door.
“You have no reason to be,” Carley said wearily. “I know you get tired of hearing the hero bit, but it’s a fact that the man risked his life to save who-knows-how-many women from a serial killer. I’m going to bed.”
She was at her bedroom door when she heard the sniff behind her. She turned.
“So, he’s just gonna get away with it,” Brooke said miserably.
“Look,” Carley said as gently as her battered patience would allow. “I’m sorry Tracy never contacted you. It was wrong of her. But just because people treat us well, doesn’t always mean they’re good people. Sometimes it means they’re using us.”
****
“You’ve sure made my life easier,” Dale said at the counter Thursday while paying for his spinach wrap and soup. “I can hardly remember what it was like to have to pack my own lunch every day.”
Carley smiled and handed over change from his ten. “Thank you.
”
After a glance toward the occupied tables where the patrons were absorbed in conversations, he leaned a fraction closer and lowered his voice. “We had a call from a private detective a couple of days ago, looking for information on Tracy Knight and Rick Bryant.”
“Um-hmm?” Carley said with sinking feeling. So certain that the adulterous couple were far away from Mississippi that she had given Mr. Wingate all the information he needed, she had not considered that he might try to get more from local authorities.
But then, why would Dale assume she had hired Mr. Wingate, and not Mona Bryant?
Evasive action seemed best. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he’s from Sacramento.”
Carley sighed. “Brooke misses her cousin, and wants to make sure she’s all right.”
“I figured that. I’m just wondering what he found out. He refused to agree to keep me posted, and as the person in charge of the search when they disappeared, I’d like to know for the record.”
That made sense. And filled Carley with relief. She leaned a bit closer herself. “He thinks they may have changed their identities. And as much as I like Brooke, I’m not willing to pay him to chase that theory.”
“Of course not.” He nodded. “You did what you could.”
****
When the Underwoods walked into the café with Marti Jenkins at half-past three Saturday, Carley spared them the early-dinner, late-lunch joke. She visited their table after Danyell took their orders, and sensed from Marti a coldness not related to the overhead vent.
“Business is obviously going well, Carley,” Vera said.
“It is,” Carley replied, smiling. “How about the woodworking business?”
“Buzzing along,” Clifford said, which made everyone, including Marti, smile.
Steve, clad in a plaid shirt that brought out the bronze of his skin, asked, “But are you enjoying yourself?”
“Very much. You know, for years I thought teaching was my calling.”
“From what I hear, it still is.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Brooke Kimball,” he said, and his mother nodded.
“Why, thank you,” Carley said, and warmth from their smiles stayed with her through the rest of the day.
She happened upon Steve again in Henderson’s parking lot the following afternoon, while Brooke was still with the Hudsons’ at an after-church covered-dish dinner. Stashing one bag into a maroon Honda Accord, he said, “I always bring a quart of their chicken salad back to my apartment. I’m hooked on it.”
Carley smiled. “There are worse addictions. Have you ever tried it on raisin bread?”
“Are you joking?”
She shook her head. “I can tell better jokes than that.”
His laugh was nice, spontaneous and warm. “I believe you.”
“Hi, Carleyreed! Hi, Mister Steve!”
They both waved at Neal, pushing a loaded cart for Mrs. Oswald of Timeless Collectibles.
“Do you come to town every weekend?” Carley asked before realizing how much that sounded like a hint. Well, wasn’t it?
Steve’s dark eyes were studying her, as if wondering the same thing.
Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush! she ordered her cheeks.
“I’m afraid not,” he replied at length. “Dad bit off more than he could chew by promising a cupboard before the end of the month. We finally finished late last night. I’ll probably not be back around until Thanksgiving.”
“Of course.” Mortified, Carley took a backward step, nodded, pushed her purse strap back up to her shoulder. “Well, it was good seeing—”
“I don’t suppose you’re able to get away for any USM home games?” Steve asked tentatively, as if feeling a bit awkward himself.
Carley’s embarrassment evaporated. “I’m afraid Saturdays are our biggest days.”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “I need to get back to Hattiesburg and grade papers, but I have time for coffee and dessert over at the Old Grist Mill….”
“What about your chicken salad?”
“I’ll just bring it inside.”
Several people exchanged nods and greetings with either Carley or Steve as they trailed behind the hostess through the vast dining room. Carley only recognized some faces by sight, either from the streets or in her café. She was relieved when the face she had hoped not to see did not materialize. This would probably reach Dale’s ears, sooner or later, but she did not care to have his brokenhearted expression casting a pall over the afternoon.
And for the same reason, she was glad when the hostess laid down menus at a small table back in the corner.
The Old Grist Mill’s specialty was warm peach cobbler with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Carley had had it twice before, but it was no less of a treat. Still, owning a café had ruined her ability to dine casually. She found herself looking around, mentally testing the service and atmosphere.
“You feel guilty for sitting?” Steve asked, stirring creamer into his coffee.
“How did you know?”
“You have an expressive face.”
“I never realized that. Is that a bad thing?”
“No, not at all.” He smiled back. “Unless you play poker.”
He asked about the day-to-day operations of the café, and she asked about his lectures. Time flew by, and it seemed like only a few minutes had passed when the waitress was taking their dishes and asking about refills on his coffee and her tea.
“No, thank you,” Carley said.
“Yes, for me,” Steve said. “And the check too, please.”
“Don’t you have papers waiting?”
“After this. Promise to make me leave. But maybe you’re in a hurry to get back to Henderson’s?”
“Not at all. Just need eggs and milk. One of the benefits of owning a café is that we have so many meals there that it cuts down on personal cooking and shopping.”
“What made you decide to invite Brooke to stay with you?”
“Well, her having to ride her bike through the rain. You know how far out she lives.”
“Yes.” He nodded, spooning sugar and creamer into his refilled cup. “I once went out there to drive her cousin, Tracy Knight, over to Jones County to visit her relatives. Her great-grandmother was very helpful when I was writing my thesis.”
“On Jones County.”
Surprise briefly crossed his face. “Yes. Specifically, my thesis was that the anti-Confederates living there were more interested in supporting the Union than forming their own independent republic, as is commonly thought.” He clucked his tongue at himself. “Sorry. This isn’t a classroom.”
“No, I’m interested,” she said, meaning it. “May I read it?”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“I’m flattered. I’ll bring it Thanksgiving. And then…maybe you’d enjoy seeing some of the places I wrote about? They’re not too far for a day-trip.”
“I’d like that,” Carley said.
“Really?”
She smiled. “Why do you look so surprised?”
“I didn’t think I looked surprised. I thought I looked pleased. I assumed you and Chief Parker were…”
“Just friends.”
The distaste that entered in the brown eyes at his mention of Dale’s name brought back memories of the two other times Carley had witnessed the same. “You don’t care for him, do you?”
He took a sip of coffee. “I’m sure he’s a decent guy, but no, he’s not on my Christmas list.”
As much as she would like to flatter herself, she suspected the dislike had a deeper reason than Dale’s interrupting two conversations. Partly to shut up Brooke’s voice in her head saying I told you so, partly for her own curiosity, she said, “May I ask why?”
“Sure. I know a very nice person who adores him, but he hardly gives her the time of day.”
Marti, Carley thought.
“I can’t help but
think if she were as beautiful as other women he’s dated, he would give her a chance.” He set down the cup, gave her a worried look. “I hope I didn’t just offend you.”
By calling me beautiful? Carley shook her head.
****
When Brooke arrived home from church, she was oddly silent, except to say that she’d had a good time, and that those old people sure could cook. All afternoon Carley expected the other shoe to drop, to be drawn into another debate. But the girl spent most of the day at the kitchen table with pencil, paper, and Practical Algebra, in preparation for Friday’s TABE—Test of Adult Basic Education—to determine if she qualified for online GED courses.
“Everything okay?” Carley asked before going to bed.
Brooke, chewing on her pencil eraser, nodded. “Um-hmm. Sleep well.”
Chapter 30
When Brooke had not risen by ten the next morning, Carley lifted the girl’s notebook and counted seven pages of equations and fractions written in haphazard fashion, as well as a pretty decent sketch of a rabbit in one corner.
The telephone rang while she was rolling meatballs. She grabbed a paper towel to pick up the receiver.
“I have to run to JCPenney and return a catalog order,” Aunt Helen said. “Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll treat you to lunch?”
“That sounds nice,” Carley said. “But I have a busy day ahead. I’ve already started a pot of spaghetti sauce, and this afternoon I’ll be interviewing some high school kids to share Brooke’s job.”
“Hmm, have you anything there Brooke can make her own lunch with?”
“Well, yes.” Odd, that her aunt would not suggest simply inviting the girl, as the two seemed to be building rapport. “I brought some leftover minestrone from work Saturday.”
“There you are! Just wrap whatever you’ve done so far for the refrigerator. We won’t be long, and when we return, I’ll finish the spaghetti for you.”
“Well, okay,” Carley said. “But I’ll pick you up.”
She did not know if creeping along below the speed limit was peculiar to her aunt, or if it just came with aging in general—like crow’s feet—but she wanted to ensure returning in time.
A Table By the Window Page 31