“If I did, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. I take it you’ve no idea, either.”
“No, I don’t,” Sally admitted.
“I don’t have much faith in the police,” said Bea, “but at least they’ll be looking for that Miata of hers. Brad held the title, of course. He didn’t want to tell the police she was missing, but I finally convinced him, and he told them about the car. After he was killed, I reported it as stolen.”
Now there was some motherly love. Then again, if Charlie had killed her father and threatened her stepmother, the bonds of familial affection were already pretty much shredded.
This visit had begun to feel like one of Sally’s worst ideas ever. She picked up her purse, rose. “I guess we all do what we can. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help out.”
Bea stood up. “I doubt there is anything that you, or the police, for that matter, can do. In fact, I’ve hired someone to look for her. And in the meantime, all any of us can do is pray that she’ll see her way clear to coming home, whatever she’s done. Charlotte has never been able to take responsibility for her actions. Whatever the consequences, it’s not only about justice for my husband. Charlotte’s soul depends on it.”
Chapter 10
Family Photos
“That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard,” said Hawk Green, the moment Sally finished filling him in on her visit with Beatrice Preston. They were sitting at a quiet corner table at the Yippie I O Café, drinking a fully realized pinot noir and grazing on salmon carpaccio and black bean hummus. “You saw the girl with your own eyes. She didn’t get into that state walking herself into the wall.”
“Obviously not. But for just one second, consider the possibility that Bea’s telling the truth. Or if not the whole truth, then a story with a grain of truth. There’s no doubt that Charlie’s had big problems from an early age. It might not have been Brad who beat her up when I saw her, but kids who’ve been abused tend to grow up into people who expect, even try, to be abused. For all I know, Charlie’s boyfriend was the one hitting her, and she thought that being hurt was pretty much what she deserved.
“As for Bea, she might want to blame Charlie’s problems on heredity, but maybe she’s just in denial about more obvious causes,” Sally said, spreading hummus on a piece of homemade flatbread, and adding a strip of roasted pimiento.
“In other words,” said Hawk, “you think Bea might be crazy enough to have blanked out the beating episodes. Because she let it happen, or because she was a victim too. Or even,” he added, “because Bea herself was involved in the abuse.”
“Any one of those things. Choose your nightmare. Whatever the real story is, it was clear to me that Bea believes what she told me. And she’s got somebody looking for Charlie.”
“Which has got to be bad news,” Hawk said, disgust in his voice. “That woman’s a horror, Sal. She’s a fanatic, who at the very least has been trying to lock up her child in a psychiatric hospital since that kid was really little. She says Charlie’s devious, but where do you think Charlie learned how to manipulate?” Hawk helped himself to a slice of the salmon. “Bea’s a friggin’ Svengali. You saw how her followers reacted to her at the doctor’s office, not to mention the crowd at the church. If Bea Preston has her way, her people will be coming to our house with tar and feathers. You know all that, and even so, she managed to talk you into thinking that Charlie’s the perp, not the victim.”
“She did not!” Sally protested, setting her glass down hard enough to splash red wine on the white tablecloth.
“She made you doubt your own eyes and your instincts. Five more minutes and she’d have had you handing out Bible tracts on Ivinson Avenue. Or at least singing with the gospel choir.”
It was a good thing that Bea hadn’t tried that tack. Sally loved gospel music. “You’re right. I let her control the conversation. I should have been grilling her about every time Daddy came home a little frustrated and took it out on little Charlie. I should have taken her on. I’m so fucking lame,” Sally said.
“Forget about it. Consider it an achievement that you didn’t get furious and piss her off so much that she’d never talk to you again. You have an in with her, and that might be useful. But next time, don’t let her take charge.”
Sally twisted the stem of her wineglass, narrowed her eyes. “That might not be a bad thing. Being underestimated can be a big advantage. And I know now that she’s looking for Charlie. I’m sure,” said Sally, “that Dickie and Scotty will get there first, but what if they don’t?”
Sally put down her wine, reached into her big black bag, pulled out her cell phone, and rummaged a little more, finding a pad of paper.
“Who are you calling?” Hawk asked.
“I want to talk to Aggie Stark,” Sally said. The phone chimed. She’d had it turned off during her visit with Bea Preston, and when she turned it back on, the message symbol appeared instantly. “Oops—wait a minute. I’ve got a message.”
Scotty Atkins. “I’m not getting any answer on your home phone, or at Hawk’s or your office, so I thought I’d try your cell. We’ve been able to open up those email photo attachments from that message Hawk got,” Atkins told her voice mail. “We’d like you to take a look at them, as soon as possible. Call me back.” He left numbers for his extension at the sheriff’s office, and his cell phone.
She reached Scotty at the office, told him they were on their way.
Hawk tossed money on the table, and they made for the door when a voice called out, “Hey, you two. Were you born in a barn or what? When it says RSVP, you’re supposed to respondez.”
Burt Langham. Gorgeously garbed, as usual, in pressed Levi’s, a turquoise linen shirt, red lizard cowboy boots, and a silver bolo tie set with chunks of onyx and coral and turquoise, a work of art that had to have set him back a couple of grand at the Santa Fe Indian Market. Burt and his chef partner, “John Boy” Walton, had just come back from getting married in Massachusetts. They were throwing themselves a Wyoming wedding reception worthy of Barbra Streisand.
“Yipes. My bad manners, honey,” said Sally. “But you just sent out the invitations to the reception last week.”
“Hey, when you’re dealing with the possibility that Congress or the Supreme Court is going to come in and try to void your marriage license, it’s important to proceed with all deliberate speed,” Burt replied. “It’s must-see matrimony. All the local fiends from hell will be there.” Obviously he’d heard about Bea Preston’s eulogy, probably from Delice, his cousin and business partner. “You’re coming, of course?”
Sally gave him a grin. “Are you kidding? If only to see what you and John Boy will be wearing,” she said.
“I’m coming for the food,” said Hawk. “The menu’s a secret,” said Burt. “But I can tell you some of the ingredients.”
“We’ll have to worm it out of you another time,” Sally told him. “We’ve gotta jet.”
When they got to the sheriff’s office, both Dickie and Scotty were waiting for them. They ushered them into a windowless interview room, a place that smelled of sweat and dust and bad coffee. They sat down on folding metal chairs that clattered against the dingy linoleum floor, pulling up to a Formica-topped table. Scotty took out a small digital recorder, set it on the table, and turned it on. Dickie opened a manila file folder, extracted a stack of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch prints of photographs, and laid them out on the table. They both took notebooks from their back pockets and sat down.
Sally stared, appalled.
“They’re all of us,” Hawk said, uttering the obvious.
“Tell us where and when they were taken, as precisely as you can,” Dickie said. No folksy wisdom, no attempt to soften the moment with humor, none of the usual hint of existential angst. All Sheriff Langham, all grim business.
She was a historian. She looked at the photos a moment more, then began to rearrange them in chronological order.
“Okay,” she said. “These
three were taken at the reception after the screening of the Dunwoodie documentary.”
“Identify as many of the people as you can,” said Scotty.
Sally blew out a breath. “This one, of course, is Edna McCaffrey and me. I can’t really see the faces in the background. I’m not sure what time that would have been taken, since we talked several times over the course of the evening. This one,” she said, pointing, “is of Hawk and me talking to Maude Stark and her nephew and niece, Mike and Julie. That was maybe halfway through the reception,” she said. “Our glasses are full, so I guess that server in the corner has just given us all a refill.” She indicated a girl in a white blouse and black pants, carrying a tray full of glasses.
“And this one’s from the same night. Do I need to go into detail?” she asked.
It was a photo of Sally standing alone, back to a wall, a serious expression on her face.
“Try to remember when it might have been taken.”
She searched memory. “I’d say that would have been late-ish in the evening, after we’d talked with Mike and Julie about Charlie Preston. It was a great evening for the Dunwoodie Center, but what they had to say worried the hell out of me. Kind of put a dent in my mood.”
“That’s right,” said Hawk.
She looked at him.
“I remember the moment. I was talking to somebody and I glanced over and saw you standing there. The caterers had started clearing up, and it occurred to me to try to talk you into going home, but I knew I’d never get you out of there before everyone left. So I let it pass.”
He had a kind of radar where she was concerned. The thought warmed her, enough to keep going.
“These,” she said, indicating the next two pictures, “were taken at that demonstration outside the doctor’s office. That’s Hawk and me, standing around, obviously. You can see Bea Preston behind us, leading the singing. I don’t recognize anybody else in this one. In this second one, we’re helping Maude, who’s escorting the patient into the building. I couldn’t tell you who all those angry people are, shoving in on us, but I think that big blond guy was singing hymns with Bea Preston before he started pushing Hawk around. You’ve probably got some of them ID’d, since you’ve been investigating the explosion, right? Or should I say, the prank?” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Hell of a lot of damage for firecrackers, Sheriff.”
Dickie glanced up from writing in his notebook. “My kids get enough explosives every Fourth of July to blow Albany County off the face of the earth. Somebodyhauled a derelict car into the parking lot and blew out the windows. A piece of malicious mischief, but not exactly an abortion clinic bombing.”
“Right,” said Hawk. “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.”
Dickie gave him a bland look. “We’re still checking it out.”
“I really don’t like this one,” Hawk put in. “That’s the Laramie High stadium, at a track meet. The girl we’re talking to is Aggie Stark.”
They both looked at Scotty. “We’re keeping an eye on her” was all he said.
“She’s a nice kid,” Dickie added. “Not much on talking, though.”
Sally chose her words. “I’m glad you’re looking out for her. But kids are funny about who they will and won’t talk to.”
“We’ve had that experience,” Scotty said dryly. “Which is why we aren’t forbidding you from talking to her. We want to know anything, and everything, she tells you.”
“Fair enough,” said Sally.
“Not to mention that we’ve pretty much given up on trying to get you to butt out completely,” said Dickie. “So we guess we’ll just use you in our cynical, fascist way.”
“Let’s finish up with the photos,” Scotty said. He hated time-wasting banter. Possibly, he hated banter of all kinds. Sally had a decided fondness for banter, which made it all the more amazing that she sometimes felt little ripples in her innards when she heard Scotty Atkins’s voice on the phone, or he walked up to talk to her, or looked right into her eyes.
“Do I need to go into detail about this one?” Sally said, pointing to a picture of herself and Dickie, standing in front of the apartment building where Billy Reno and his roommates were being evicted. “You probably can identify more of the people in this one than I can. Not a big deal, considering that the only people I know here are you and me. Oh—there’s that blond guy from the demonstration. I guess that’s worth mentioning.”
Dickie nodded. “And this last one?” he asked.
“Pretty crappy quality,” said Sally.
“You can barely see Hawk and me through the crowd. But from the way we’re standing up against that wall, the looks on our faces, that was the afternoon of the memorial service for Brad Preston.”
“That’s right,” said Hawk. “That’s us. That photograph was taken at the Sanctuary of the Inner Witness. And sent to me by email just a couple of hours later. This is very fucking creepy,” he finished.
“These were obviously taken with a digital camera,” Sally said. “Do you think it was one of those cell phone thingies?”
“Could be,” Dickie said.
“Well, that certainly narrows it down,” said Hawk. “Nowadays, everywhere you go there are sixty people talking on cell phones.”
Chapter 11
The Cavalcade of Humanity
Sally got up Saturday hoping she might just happen upon Aggie Stark on her morning run. What runner wouldn’t be out on a day like this, one of those perfect mornings that almost had you thinking that spring in Laramie was like spring everywhere else—bright, warm, balmily breezy, alive, full of promise. Before long, the tulips and daffodils just poking their shoots up would burst into nodding bloom. On a day like today, you could almost forget that there was a fifty-fifty chance that the famed spring gales would rip the blossom off any flower foolish enough to show its head, if a hailstorm didn’t hammer it flat first.
She spent forty minutes listening to Neil Young songs, pounding pavement, contemplating mortality and renewal, but didn’t catch sight of Aggie. So once she’d returned, stretched, and made herself a cup of coffee, she got on the phone. Aggie herself answered.
“Didn’t see you out running,” Sally said.
“It was my morning to lift weights and do aqua-jogging in the pool,” said Aggie. “The trainer won’t let us run every day. He says it’s too hard on our joints.”
Hoo boy. If only somebody had given Sally that advice at fourteen, she might not be walking around on knees that crackled like fraternity bonfires on homecoming weekend. “Say,” she began. “I just wanted to know if there’s any chance you’ve heard from Charlie.”
Aggie hesitated.
“I’m worried as heck about her, Aggie,” Sally said. “She could be in really big trouble. She needs to know she’s not all by herself.”
Aggie made a decision. “Yeah. She called yesterday. She wouldn’t tell me where she was, but she wanted to let me know she’s okay,” she said. “She said she missed Beanie.”
“What else did she say?” Sally said.
Another pause. “Well, she said she had a place to stay, and that she’s got a job. She’s already gotten a paycheck. She told me she bought some great shoes.”
Sally thought a minute. “Great shoes? She’s probably not in Wyoming,” she said.
“Duh,” said Aggie.
“Aggie, did Charlie have friends in Colorado? Or anyplace else you can think of? She’s probably crashing with somebody she knows.”
Another pause. “Um, okay. She told me once that Billy Reno’s got a lot of friends in Fort Collins. Once when we went shopping down there, she wanted to go see them, but my mom said we didn’t have time. Charlie was kind of ticked off. She told me she wished she could just move to Fort Collins. She was sure she could get a job somewhere in the mall.”
An opening. Sally probed. “Honey, is it possible that’s where she is now?”
Sally heard Aggie swallow. “I don’t know. Maybe. I guess
. She said she’d been down there and hung out with people, and that it was pretty cool.”
Sally wondered what “pretty cool” meant in Billy Reno’s set. From what she’d heard, and from her own misspent youth, she could imagine: a bunch of wasted kids sitting around on thrift shop couches, listening to eardrum-shattering music, getting loaded one way or another. When you started the day stoned, and made every effort to stay that way, each repetition was a little more disappointing than the last. You spent a lot of time in a low-grade daze, with a low-grade headache and a very low level of motivation. Some people got stuck that way.
“So you’re worried about her too,” Sally told Aggie.
“No kidding,” said Aggie.
“Maybe it would be good to go down to Fort Collins, and do a little shopping,” said Sally. “Cruise the mall, maybe have lunch at that Mexican place. You interested?”
“Well, um, as a matter of fact, I’m going down there today with my aunt Maude,” said Aggie.
Maude, going to the mall? This was a woman whose idea of fun was shoveling compost, not cruising the sale racks. “Maybe I could tag along,” Sally said.
“Okay with me, but you’d better ask Aunt Maude,” said Aggie. “We’re supposed to leave in an hour.”
Sally called Maude. “I hear you and Aggie are going shopping. I’m coming with you,” she said.
“How’d you know?” Maude asked.
“I talked to Aggie,” Sally said, without explaining further. “What’s the deal, Maude? You hate shopping.”
“Your kind of shopping, yes. Who in their right mind browses Victoria’s Secret just for fun? I need to get a watch battery at Sears,” said Maude. “That’s my kind of shopping.”
“What’s going on, Maude? What do you know that I don’t?” Sally asked.
It took Maude a minute. “Ordinarily, I’d rather save this conversation for the car. I don’t really like to talk about this stuff on the phone,” she said, “but I don’t want to discuss this in front of Aggie.”
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