Vanishing Point (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  “She broke off all contact with the family about that time.”

  “Oh.” Barbara Fredrick looked down into her coffee cup. “That’s a shame. I liked Josie.”

  “Were you a friend of hers?”

  “Not really. She was kind of a private person.”

  “Why’d she leave, d’you know?”

  Fredrick shrugged. “I guess she just needed to move on.”

  “Is there anybody else on staff who might’ve known her well?”

  She thought, compressing her lips. “As I said, she was kind of a loner, didn’t socialize much, but she had one friend on the staff, Debra Jansen. I think she mentioned to me that Josie had moved after the—”

  “After what?”

  Fredrick ignored the question, finished her coffee.

  I asked, “Does Debra Jansen still work here?”

  “No. She retired and moved away about seven, eight years ago. I think she and her husband bought a place up in Grass Valley.”

  Grass Valley—an old Gold Rush town in the Sierra foothills, now a popular destination for both retirees and people attempting to escape the crowded Sacramento and Bay areas. The last time I’d driven through the area, the proliferation of malls and subdivisions had attested to the concept that when you move you take your baggage with you.

  I said, “Do you have a phone number for Debra Jansen, or an address?”

  Fredrick was about to rise from the table, but she paused, looking into my eyes. “No, I don’t. But if you do locate her and talk about your aunt, you should remember this: people make mistakes. Josie’s was a bad one, but mistakes happen.”

  “A bad mistake? Did somebody die?” I didn’t know why I asked that particular question, but I saw confirmation of its answer on Fredrick’s troubled face.

  She looked at her watch, grasped her tray, and stood. “I’ve got to get back. Good luck.”

  Remember this: people make mistakes.

  Josie’s was a bad one.

  “How’s your head?” I asked Patrick.

  “Still hurts. I can’t believe I needed stitches.” He was stretched out on his back on the bed in his motel room, looking pale and squinting in the light from the TV.

  “What in God’s name did you do to that woman?”

  “My assailant? Damned if I know. One minute she was beating me at pool, next she was beating me with her cue.”

  “You must’ve said or done something.”

  He rolled his head against the pillow and winced. “Not that I remember.”

  A rap at the door. I went to answer it, let Hy inside. He hugged me, turned to Patrick, and said, “Still feel like shit, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Women, whiskey, and wildness’ll do that to you.”

  “Woman, beer, and what I thought was a civilized pool game. You talk to the cops?”

  “I did. Seems this sort of episode is business as usual with Crazy Mary.”

  “Who?”

  “The lady who bashed you. She was winning, you wanted to quit, she took offense.”

  “Well, have they arrested her?”

  “No.”

  Outraged, Patrick tried to struggle into a sitting position, but fell back against the pillows. “Why not?”

  “Because she fled the scene, and they haven’t been able to locate her. Plus I told them you didn’t want to press charges.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t. I guarantee it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Crazy Mary is not only a pool shark, but a habitual filer of nuisance suits. Gets into altercations, takes her victims and her sleazebag lawyer to court, and lies—convincingly. She’ll manage to turn this one around, say you sexually harassed her, and keep it tied up in the courts for years.”

  I exclaimed, “I hate litigious people!”

  Hy looked at me, lines around his eyes crinkling in sympathy with my anger. “Me too, McCone, but what’s to be done? Your health plan’ll cover the costs of this doofus’s injuries”—he motioned at Patrick—“and he’ll never mess with anybody like Crazy Mary again.”

  From the bed came a moan of agreement.

  “So now that we’ve got that mess cleared up,” Hy said, “how did it go at the hospital?” He was lounging on the bed in our motel room, a beer in hand.

  “Fine. I have a lead to a friend of Greenwood’s in Grass Valley. Derek’s trying to locate her.”

  “You going down there?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure how. Patrick’s in no shape to drive. I considered borrowing his car, but that would leave him without transportation. Besides, I’m not sure it would make it.” Patrick’s car was an ancient Ford Falcon that spent more time in the shop than on the road; frankly, I was surprised it had made it as far as Crescent City.

  “Here’s a solution: why don’t I fly you there first thing in the morning. You could rent a decent car, drop it off when you get back to the city.”

  “It won’t make you late getting the Citation back to Dan?”

  “Nah, it’s only a slight detour. Plus it’ll give us more time together. And now what d’you say to getting some dinner?”

  “Fine, as long as we don’t follow it up with a stop at Tex’s.”

  Monday

  AUGUST 29

  Grass Valley once was the richest gold-mining town in California, but, unlike many, it did not fade into obscurity after the veins of ore were played out. Today it thrives on a combination of high-tech manufacturing, agriculture, and—of course—tourism. While the town has spread far beyond its original boundaries, the central district is filled with well-maintained buildings dating from the 1850s and ’60s.

  I drove slowly along West Main Street, taking special note of a handsome old hotel, and turned onto the appropriately named Pleasant Street, following the directions given me over the phone by Laurel/Josie’s old friend Debra Jansen. Her house was in the second block, a large white Victorian with blue trim. As I started up the wide front steps, a voice spoke to me from the porch.

  “Ms. McCone?”

  I looked up, saw a woman with a pert face and silver hair that fluffed out around her head, the sun’s rays turning it into a halo. “I’m Debra Jansen,” she added. “Come on up here where it’s shady. I’ve made us some iced tea. I always keep a pitcher of it in the fridge on days like this.”

  “Thank you. It is hot.”

  “Ninety-nine today. Actually, that’s nothing for August.”

  “I have an uncle who lives outside of Jackson; he’d agree with you.” I stepped onto the sheltered porch. An assortment of white wicker furniture with floral-patterned cushions sat there, a moisture-beaded pitcher of tea and two glasses on a tray table.

  “Sit down, please,” Debra Jansen told me, turning to the table and pouring. “I was surprised when you called and said you wanted to talk about Josie. I’m not sure what I can tell you. It’s been years since I’ve heard from her.”

  I accepted the glass of tea, drank some, then took out my recorder. “Is this okay with you?”

  “I don’t know why not. But, as I said, I don’t think what I know will help much.”

  “You never can tell.” I turned the recorder on. “When did you last hear from Josie?”

  “She sent a card at Christmas of nineteen ninety-four. She was living in Klamath Falls, Oregon.”

  “Did she enclose a note?”

  “No. She just signed it. It was a special card, though, not one of the kind you buy by the box. A Hallmark with a long message about absent friends. That made me a little sad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the two of us weren’t all that close—at least, not what I call close—and I knew the reason Josie went out and bought an individual card like that was she probably didn’t have many people to send to.”

  “She was a loner, then.”

  “Very much so. Ms. McCone, before we go any farther with this, I must ask you: why are you looking for her?”

  “Her daughter
hired me to locate her.”

  “She has a daughter?”

  “Two. They also haven’t heard from her in many years.”

  “She never mentioned any children. I knew she’d been married and, from a few of the things she said, I gathered he’d been unfaithful to her. But now that you’ve told me about the daughters, it explains her rapport with the children who were brought in to the ER.” She frowned. “But her children would have been young then. Why didn’t she have them with her?”

  “They remained with the husband.”

  “He got custody, after what he did?”

  “It happens.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t!” Debra Jansen’s face grew pink with indignation.

  I moved away from that line of conversation. “Do you have Josie’s address in Klamath Falls?”

  “No. I sent a card the next year, but it came back as undeliverable, so I removed the address from my book. I assumed if she wanted to get in touch with me, she would. But she never did. Do you suppose she died?”

  “It’s possible. Mrs. Jansen, would you mind telling me about your friendship with Josie Smith, from the beginning?”

  “Of course not. There isn’t a great deal to tell.” She stood, poured us more tea, and returned to her chair. “I joined the nursing staff at what was then Seaside Hospital in nineteen-eighty. In eighty-six, the county leased it to Sutter Health, with the provision that a new hospital be constructed, and when it opened in ninety-two, we moved to the new facility. It was larger, and quite a few new people were hired; one of them was Josie. I’d see her in the cafeteria, always alone, always reading. She looked so sad and vulnerable. So one day when I saw she had a favorite book of mine—Steinbeck’s East of Eden—I plunked myself down and asked if she liked it. She did, and it turned out we liked quite a few of the same books, so we began talking about them during our lunch and coffee breaks.”

  “Did you see her socially?”

  “Occasionally we went out for drinks after work. When my husband was working night shifts—he was in law enforcement, a deputy with the county sheriff’s department—we’d sometimes go to dinner. I never went to her home, though; it was a studio apartment, and I gathered it was too small to entertain in. Once I had her over to the house for dinner, but it wasn’t too successful an evening; my husband didn’t like her, and she must’ve sensed that because she turned down my next—and last—invitation.”

  “Why didn’t your husband like her?”

  “He couldn’t pin it down. All he could say was that there was something ‘hinky’ about her. Suspect, you know? I had to respect his feelings, though, so after Josie turned down my second invitation, I kept my family life and my relationship with her separate.”

  “Did you also feel there was something ‘hinky’ about her?”

  “No. While my husband was used to dealing with criminals, I was used to dealing with sick and injured people; I knew that what he sensed in Josie was her underlying sadness.”

  Sadness, yes. But the hinky feeling was also valid. Your husband sensed a woman on the run.

  I said, “You were at Sutter Coast when Josie made the mistake that caused her to resign?”

  Debra Jansen nodded.

  “What’s your take on that?”

  “It was an honest mistake any of us could have made—any day, anytime. Nurses, doctors, it doesn’t matter—the potential for deadly mistakes exist, and sometimes they happen.”

  “And this one . . . ?”

  “Josie was on the ER in October of ninety-three when a patient who had sustained bad lower-body burns in an auto accident was brought in. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in an emergency room or watched any of the TV shows set there, but when trauma victims arrive, it can get pretty hectic. They were starting an IV, and Josie grabbed a bag of dextrose, rather than saline. The patient went into cardiac arrest and they couldn’t bring him back.”

  “And she resigned.”

  “Yes. She was deeply shaken by what she’d done, told me she’d never get over it, and that she didn’t deserve to be a nurse anymore.”

  “And soon after that, she moved away.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see her before she left?”

  “Once. We met for a drink at a motel bar on the highway. Not one of the places that the folks from Sutter Coast frequented. She didn’t want to see any of them.”

  “What happened at that meeting?”

  “We talked about what was going on in my life. She said she was leaving town. I asked her what she’d do; she said she didn’t know, but it wouldn’t be nursing. She didn’t even know where she was going, she was just planning to get in her van and drive. She had a garage sale the following weekend and got rid of everything that wouldn’t fit in the van, and then she was gone.”

  I was listening to her, and yet I wasn’t, trusting the tape to do my job while I entertained a frightening possibility. I reached for my glass, drained the iced tea left there.

  I said, “I won’t take up too much more of your time, Mrs. Jansen, but I wonder if you remember anything about the patient who died because of Josie’s mistake?”

  “I’m not likely to forget. The man’s wife was litigious, and it took the hospital’s lawyers a long time to reach a settlement. They were a couple traveling through on their way to a family reunion in Seattle. Collingsworth, was the name.”

  “And where were they from?”

  “Somewhere down south. He was a retired chief of police, as I recall.”

  “Was his full name Bruce Collingsworth?”

  “That sounds right.”

  Bruce Collingsworth—Roy Greenwood’s tennis partner, who had been chief of the Paso Robles force when Laurel disappeared.

  I was willing to bet his death was no accident.

  I was speeding toward Sacramento on Highway 99 when my cell rang. I fumbled the unit out of my purse, which lay on the passenger seat.

  “Yeah, Shar. What d’you need?” Derek, returning the call I’d made to him before leaving Grass Valley.

  “A couple of things. Seems Laurel Greenwood was living in Klamath Falls, Oregon, under Josie Smith’s name, in December of ninety-four. Will you see if there’s a current address for her in that area?”

  “Closing in, huh? Sure thing. What else?”

  “This is a lower priority, but still important. See if you can come up with any information on a death at Sutter Coast Hospital in Crescent City in October of ninety-three. The deceased’s name was Bruce Collingsworth.”

  “You want I should call you, or e-mail the info?”

  “Neither. I’m on my way back to the office, should be there in two, two and a half hours.”

  “See you then.”

  I broke the connection, dropped the phone on the passenger seat. Checked my rearview mirror for highway patrol cars and, when I didn’t see any, pressed harder on the accelerator.

  It was after six when I got to the pier. Traffic on Interstate 80 had been brutal in both Sacramento and the East Bay, and I’d hit a major snag in Vallejo as well. As I passed Ted’s office, he called out to me, but I kept going to Derek’s. Mick was the only one there.

  “If you’re looking for your top research man,” he said, “he’s waiting for you in your office.”

  Mick looked a little sullen, and the absence of his usual cheerful greeting told me I was at the root of his displeasure—probably because I’d cut him out of the investigation. Normally I would have asked him what was wrong and talked the problem through, but right now I was in too much of a hurry. Let him stew for a while; maybe he’d work it out on his own.

  “Thanks,” I told him, and headed for my office.

  Derek was in my armchair, staring out at the fog. When he heard me come in, he started and got up, looking guilty.

  I said, “Usurping my place, are you?”

  “Shar, I’m sorry—”

  “That chair’s not sacrosanct, you know. And it’s not even all that comfortable.” I dumped my
purse and briefcase on the desk, dragged another chair over, and motioned for him to reclaim his place. “You get an address for Josie Smith?”

  “My property search for Klamath Falls shows she’s owned a house at one-thirteen May Street since March of nineteen ninety-five. Taxes’re current. The stuff on that death in Crescent City is in the top file in your in-box, and I also e-mailed it, just in case. It’s pretty routine. The guy was badly burned in a freeway crash, and then he was accidentally administered the wrong IV by a nurse in the ER. No follow-up on the story, except a brief item saying the hospital had settled with the widow for an undisclosed amount.”

  “Thanks. I want you to keep on that one. The widow may still be alive; check the Paso Robles area first.”

  “You’re close to solving this one, huh?”

  “No—we are. Has Patrick come in or called?”

  “He spoke with Ted this morning and said he’d be in tomorrow. Told him a wild story involving a woman and a pool cue.”

  “It was wild. I know, because I was there.”

  “Then it’s true. Ted thought he’d made it up.”

  “It’s true, all right.” I went to the desk and buzzed Ted. “Will you check with the airlines and find out when the next flight to Klamath Falls, Oregon, leaves? And while you’re at it, ask about the current regs about bringing a firearm on board.”

  Disapproving silence.

  “Just do it. Lecture me later.”

  When I turned back to Derek, he was standing. “You taking off now?” I asked.

  “If you don’t need me. I’ve got a dinner date, but I’ll keep my cell on in case you have to get in touch.”

  “You seeing Chris?”

  He shook his head. “New lady.”

  So Chris and Derek’s involvement wasn’t serious. Well, that meant I didn’t have to worry about Jamie getting her tender young feelings hurt.

  “Have fun,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  The intercom buzzed as Derek left the office.

  “The last flight for Klamath Falls on any airline left at five-thirty,” Ted said. “Your next option is Horizon Air, at six-thirty tomorrow morning. Arrives at eleven-oh-four.”