A Distant Memory

by Traci DePree

  “Dad’s putting the house on the market.” His voice was empty, as if he’d taken one too many blows, and this one was more than he could handle.

  Kate wasn’t surprised about the sale of the house. With a foreclosure looming, she wondered why he hadn’t done it before. Though perhaps he’d been hoping the life-insurance policy would pay out.

  “Says we can’t afford it with what this new job pays,” Brian went on. “I hate moving.”

  “Is he talking about relocating to another town?” Kate hoped the family would stay in Copper Mill.

  “As many times as we’ve moved before, who knows. At least here we have Judy.”

  The comment bothered Kate a little. “You’re really close to her,” she observed.

  “She’s like a second mom to me and Beck. Since Mom died, she’s really been a comfort to Dad too.”

  Since Mom died. The words echoed painfully in Kate’s ears. Had Becky come to believe her mother was dead as well? Kate wanted to ask him how close his father and Judy were, then thought better of it. If they weren’t an item, she didn’t want to upset the boy or plant the idea in his head.

  A mother and daughter paused to admire the sun catchers, and Kate greeted them as Brian excused himself with a wave. After a few minutes, the pair wandered away without buying anything.

  Kate’s eye caught sight of a man on the far side of the park. It wasn’t the man himself who garnered her attention so much as what he was wearing: a purple sweatshirt with contrasting orange trim.

  Kate’s pulse quickened. She turned to the others and said quickly, “Can you manage here for a bit?”

  Livvy nodded, and Kate took off after the man, her eyes trained on that purple sweatshirt so she wouldn’t lose him as she wove through the crowd.

  He was sitting alongside a woman and a baby on a blanket by the time Kate reached him. When he looked up at Kate’s hurried approach, the expression on his face was one of alarm.

  “Is there something wrong?” he said.

  He was a bald man with an ample belly, definitely not the same person in the picture. The purple sweatshirt had a logo of an owl on front, and the letters P.R. in a parchment font.

  Kate paused to explain. “I’m sorry to seem so forward. I’m looking for a missing person.”

  The man glanced at the woman, whom Kate assumed was his wife, as his eyebrows rose.

  “Do you know Sonja Weaver?” Kate asked.

  He shook his head. “Never heard of her.”

  His wife spoke then. “She’s that woman from the paper, isn’t she?” she said. “The one that had Alzheimer’s?”

  Kate nodded, not feeling the need to correct the stranger about Sonja’s diagnosis.

  “That’s just heartbreaking,” she said as the baby cooed from his spot on the blanket where he was playing with a rattle.

  “Why do you ask if I know her?” the man asked.

  “Someone who was seen that day in the area where she went missing had a similar sweatshirt on.”

  He glanced down at his shirt. “This old thing?” he said. “I bought it fifteen years ago.”

  “Where did you get it?” Kate asked.

  “It’s from Pine Ridge College.”

  “You went to school there?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Do you know anyone else who would have a sweatshirt like yours?”

  He shrugged. “Beats me. I guess if they’re a pack rat like I am.” He laughed, and his wife joined him.

  As her heart took on the frantic beat of excitement, Kate thanked him, then made her way back to the booth, where Livvy was giving someone change for a purchase.

  “We sold one of your lamps,” Livvy said excitedly when the customer walked away. Then she raised a brow, obviously noting the Cheshire-cat grin on Kate’s face. “Where did you go?”

  “I saw someone in a purple sweatshirt,” she answered.

  “And?”

  “It’s not the same man, but it could be a lead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Kate stretched her aching back as dusk settled in and vendors started packing up for the day. All of Kate’s lamps had sold, as had Caitlin’s paintings, and many of the sun catchers went as well. Actually, Kate had managed to pull in $1,400. What exactly she was going to do with the money, she hadn’t yet decided. But the arts festival had been a booming success.

  The first thing she did when she got home and put away the remainder of her wares was dial up the Weavers’ cell-phone company. It was a long shot but worth a try. A woman’s high-pitched voice answered once Kate finally got through to a live human being.

  “Good evening, how can I be of assistance?” the female operator said.

  “I have a question for you,” Kate began. “Is it possible for you to look up information on someone’s phone? Like their schedule or alarms?”

  “Sorry. That information is stored on the handset; it’s never uploaded anywhere, so we can’t access it.”

  “How about a record of calls?” Kate asked.

  “That I could get for you,” the woman said. “Is this for your phone?”

  “No,” Kate admitted. “It’s for a friend’s.”

  “I can only do that for an authorized person on the account.”

  Kate thanked her and hung up. What were the odds that Becky was an authorized user on Sonja’s cell-phone account? Not high, Kate guessed. She hated dead ends, but she still had to follow them in case they led somewhere. So, hoping he was working late that day, she dialed Skip Spencer at the deputy’s office.

  “Hey, Missus Hanlon,” his deep baritone voice came over the line as soon as she said hello.

  “Skip, did you ever get a record of calls to and from Sonja Weaver’s phone?”

  “Hmm,” the young officer said. Kate could hear the clicking of computer keys. “Yeah, we did,” he confessed. “She made one call on her cell phone that day. To Pine Ridge College at 2:37.”

  Kate was on the right track! Whoever the man in purple had been, it was someone from the school.

  “That’s significant, isn’t it?” Kate said, disbelieving that the police hadn’t pursued this lead.

  “It was the number of a switchboard at the school,” he said, answering one of Kate’s unasked questions. “We couldn’t find out exactly who she talked to, so it wasn’t helpful.”

  “But it showed that she was thinking clearly enough to make a phone call.”

  “But not clearly enough to go home,” Skip reminded her. “Are you investigatin’ this, Missus Hanlon?”

  “Yes,” she admitted sheepishly. “I’m trying to find the man in purple.”

  “I seriously hope you do,” he said.

  “Were there any other calls made on the phone in the past few weeks since she’s been missing?” she asked, hopeful that Sonja had used the phone somewhere else.

  “Nope,” Skip said. “The sheriff just had me check on that the other day, after I talked to Willy.”

  That troubled Kate. Why hadn’t Sonja used the cell phone at all? Had she lost the phone? Or had she been unable to call? A sinking feeling overcame her. Dead people didn’t make phone calls.

  Going on the best lead she had, Kate headed to Pine Ridge College after lunch on Monday. Paul tagged along since he had a few stops to make in the larger town as well. Kate figured the odds of finding the man or the silver Passat with KYV on the license plate were like looking for a needle in a haystack, but at that point, all she had was a haystack. At least she knew what kind of car to look for, and hopefully going on a school day would increase the likelihood of its being there. They finished Paul’s errands first, then drove to the school.

  The Pine Ridge College campus was made up of a labyrinth of stone buildings, with parking in front of each. The lots were packed with cars as Paul drove slowly between the rows while Kate scanned for the right vehicle. She and Paul had passed through all the lots and were about to give up when they spotted a car parked in front of the music building in a space marked
“Faculty.”

  “That’s it!” Kate almost shouted as she pointed at the vehicle.

  Paul pulled up behind it. The car was a silver Passat with the license-plate number beginning in KYV. Kate’s heart pounded hard.

  She climbed out and moved around the vehicle to see if it could offer more information while Paul parked the Honda. She quickly jotted down the full license-plate number, then bent to gaze inside the windows. The backseats were piled with boxes of papers that looked to be musical scores, and there were fast-food wrappers as well as half-filled paper cups of soda.

  Paul came up next to her. “Anything that identifies the owner?” he asked.

  Kate knew she’d be able to find the car’s owner based on the full plate number, but since the person was no doubt inside the building at that moment, she wanted to see if they could find him right away. Who knew? Perhaps the last person to see Sonja Weaver alive was in the music building of Pine Ridge College at that very moment.

  Kate felt a flutter of nervous excitement mixed with nervousness as they approached the tall glass doors.

  Pine Ridge College had been founded in the latter part of the 1800s, and this building had been erected at that same time. It carried that sense of history from the marble floors that echoed with the voices of students to the portraits of past presidents that lined the walls.

  The student union and the bookstore were on the first floor, and the music classrooms and practice rooms and faculty offices were on the upper two floors. A central desk with a sign that read “Information” divided the wide hallway in two. Paul and Kate made their way there first.

  A young man with a husky build and a name tag that read “Aidan” sat behind the desk preening what little facial hair he had in the reflection from his silver cell phone. When he didn’t look up, Paul cleared his throat.

  Aidan said, “Yeah?” before lifting his gaze to Kate and Paul, then as if realizing that he wasn’t talking to an underclassman, amended, “Can I help you?” He added a smile that came off more as a sneer.

  “There’s a car parked out front in a faculty spot; we’re hoping you can tell us whose it is,” Kate said.

  Aidan’s face twisted in a question. “Is it parked illegally? I can get it towed.” He picked up the phone to dial.

  “No,” Paul and Kate said as one.

  Then Kate said, “We just want to speak to the owner. It’s a Volkswagen Passat.”

  Aidan scratched his scruffy chin. “I have no idea what cars the faculty drive. Seems like a lot of them drive those foreign cars though. Subarus are pretty popular too.”

  “You don’t have anything that lists cars with parking permits?” Kate prompted.

  “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure that list is private,” he said. “Though I guess the police would be able to look at it.”

  Kate pulled out the photos in the hope that he would recognize either Sonja or the man in purple. “Do you recognize either of these people?”

  Aidan squinted his eyes as if that would make the image in the woods clearer. “That’s just someone’s back,” he stated, but then he paused over the photo of Sonja. “She looks vaguely familiar.”

  “She does?” Hope instantly filled Kate’s heart.

  “Yeah,” he said, lifting his face first to Kate and then to Paul. “She’s been around here. I’m sure of it.”

  “When? Recently?”

  Aidan shook his head. “A while ago, I think. I don’t recall seeing her lately.”

  “Any idea if she was with someone?” Kate asked, “Or did she come alone?”

  “I don’t know.” Aidan shrugged. Kate noticed a girl in a cheerleading outfit waiting for the young man’s assistance. “Was there anything else?” the young man said, making eye contact with the cheerleader.

  “No,” Kate said, then added, “Is it okay if we ask around to see if anyone else has seen her?”

  “Sure,” he said, not looking at Kate as he motioned for the girl to come forward.

  Kate and Paul moved aside, then turned toward the bookstore.

  “Why would she have been here?” Kate wondered.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she had a friend who worked here?” Paul tossed out.

  “But they’d just moved to Copper Mill. Judy said that Sonja didn’t know a soul in the area.”

  “Maybe she was looking into college for Brian next year?” he guessed.

  The bookstore was a crowded jumble of textbooks and school memorabilia, including a full school-clothing section. Kate noted that the color of the college’s T-shirts wasn’t the same as the sweatshirt in the photo or the one on the man at the arts festival. Those had been more of a Barney purple, of the PBS children’s show, whereas the shirts they sold now were burgundy, a more mature and sophisticated color. She recalled the man at the park saying he’d bought his shirt fifteen years before.

  As they wove through the tiny store, a woman with short, sandy hair and a “manager” name tag scurried past.

  “Excuse me,” Kate said, putting out a hand.

  “Yes?” The woman stopped, then tilted her head back slightly to look at Kate through her low-hanging spectacles.

  “I’m wondering if you can help us,” Kate began, then pulled out the photographs to show her as she explained about Sonja. The woman twisted her mouth as she studied the pictures.

  “We don’t sell this kind of sweatshirt anymore,” she said, confirming what Kate had already concluded. “Discontinued them a couple years ago, when we went with this style.” She pointed to the wall of T-shirts, sweats, and jackets behind her. “Some of the professors still wear them,” she added.

  “Do you know specifically who would have one?” Kate asked, glancing at Paul.

  “It’s so hard to say,” she admitted. “I have a copy of the college directory, though, which has names with pictures.”

  Well, it was better than nothing. “That would be great,” Kate said.

  The manager disappeared into her office and came back out with the thin volume in hand. The directory contained a listing of all the faculty members, a photograph of each of them, their experience in their particular fields of study, and what classes they taught at Pine Ridge College.

  Kate held the book between her and Paul so they could examine the photos together. At one point, they came across William Johnson, chair of the music department. Since those classrooms were just upstairs, it would make sense that he’d park in the faculty section.

  “That name is familiar,” Kate said.

  “William Johnson?” Paul quirked a brow. “I’d say that’s a pretty common name.”

  “Yeah, but...” Kate tapped her finger on her chin. She noted that the man had bright red hair, and he looked to be slightly built. He was the perfect candidate to be the man in purple.

  Kate took the book to the manager and showed the photo to her. “Would he be the type to wear an old sweatshirt?”

  The woman laughed out loud, then nodded. “Dr. Johnson’s whole wardrobe is from a secondhand shop. He’d definitely be a possibility.”

  “And what sort of car does he drive?”

  “I think a Volkswagen. Why?”

  KATE AND PAUL TOOK THE STAIRS to the third floor, where the music faculty’s offices were housed. The doors along the hallway were decorated in posters for upcoming recitals and ensemble performances. Some held Post-it notes to the teachers or whiteboards with notes scribbled on them. Dr. Johnson’s door was a collage of photographs of students playing instruments.

  Kate drew in a breath as she met Paul’s gaze. Who was this man they were about to meet? Sonja’s killer? Her abductor? Brad’s hired gun? Or just an innocent bystander?

  “Maybe we should call the sheriff,” Paul said.

  “We can always call later if we need to,” Kate assured him.

  Paul seemed reluctant, though he made no move to call the sheriff.

  What did they know of the man in purple? Nothing really, other than he’d likely been at the park the same day Sonja had b
een. And perhaps that she had called him. That was hardly reason to panic.

  Finally she gave Paul the okay, and he knocked on the door.

  “Just a minute,” a deep voice answered from inside. A few seconds later, the door squeaked open, revealing the office’s crowded, cluttered interior. Piles of papers grew from the floor and the desk amid music stands and instrument cases. A guitar was propped in the corner, keeping watch over the chaos.

  Dr. Johnson gazed over the top of his glasses and said, “Are you looking for someone?”

  “Actually, yes,” Kate said, studying him. He was trim and looked to be in his mid- to late forties. A scar traveled his right temple just above his ear and into his hairline.

  “We’re looking for a person who might know the whereabouts of a missing woman,” Paul began.

  The professor straightened. “A missing woman?” he repeated.

  “Sonja Weaver,” Kate said.

  Dr. Johnson’s face went instantly pale, and he clasped his hands together near his mouth. “Sonja? I hadn’t heard,” he admitted.

  Kate wondered, with all the newspaper accounts, how he could have missed the story, though she knew that artistic types sometimes lived in their own world.

  “She’s one of my piano students,” he added.

  No one had mentioned that Sonja was taking lessons, so Kate was equally surprised. “How long had she been taking lessons?” she asked.

  He motioned for them to come in and take seats. There were two small wooden chairs in the office. Paul moved a pile of papers off of one and offered it to Kate, then he took the other for himself.

  “A few months,” he answered. “She started shortly after Christmas, a kind of Christmas gift to herself, she said. She was a good student too.” He paused, frowning.

  “How did you meet her?” Kate asked.

  Instead of answering, the man said, “I can’t believe this. Do they know what happened to her?”

  He sure seemed surprised, Kate thought. Could he be putting on an act?

  “We were hoping you could help us with that,” she said.

  The professor seemed confused. “What would I possibly know?” He met Kate’s eye, passing her a look that Kate couldn’t quite pin down.