by Lynn Bohart
I didn’t like the guy, but I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.
“Like I said before, he won’t leave his beloved office in D.C., so the FBI is talking to him there. They’re also looking into anyone who is close to him.”
“Why? Do they suspect another Senator or a staff person?”
“Right now everyone is on the list.”
“How would someone in D.C. know where a teenage girl would be at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning all the way out in Washington State?”
“Simple. The senator emailed his daughter the night before. Her birthday was Sunday, and he wanted something delivered to her on Saturday. She told him she’d be at the park all day.”
“Wow. So it could be anybody.”
“Yes. He told at least one member of his staff about the delivery because he had to reschedule it. And the woman he told just happens to be camping somewhere in upstate New York, and we can’t talk to her.”
“Jeez. It’s like you’re blocked at every turn.”
“That’s not all,” he said. “Being the popular politician that Owens is, he’s also had several threatening letters and voice mails recently. The FBI is checking into all of that, too.”
“It’s never simple is it?” I said.
“It would be a lot easier if we at least knew why she was kidnapped. Right now, as far as we know, it could be some random stalker who took her.”
“We watched part of Owens’ news conference last night. He said there had been no ransom calls. Is that right?”
“Not as far as I know. We have the Dunphy’s sitting by the phone. That’s her mom and stepdad.”
“So it could have been someone who took her to…” I stopped as a small chill rippled down my spine.
“Don’t go there, Julia,” he said, cutting me off. “We have an FBI task force set up. Homeland Security is even involved since it involves a U.S. senator.”
“Juuuulia!”
The familiar voice that trailed across the campground like a banshee’s cry made me jerk around. When my eyes focused on the source, I gasped.
“I’ve got to go, David. Believe it or not, Goldie is here. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
We hung up, and I returned to the table to find Doe nearly choking on her last bite of salmon. I patted her on the back to make sure she didn’t pass out. I might have been surprised by Goldie’s sudden appearance, but Doe was stricken.
We watched my neighbor, Goldie Singleton, approach our campsite from the other side of the park. She was accompanied by another Mercer Islander, Aria Stottlemeyer. Not my favorite person.
Goldie waddled up to the campsite, waving her stubby little hand. “Helloooo,” she called.
When she’d made it to the table, I said, “Uh…Goldie, what in the world are you doing here?”
“Did you follow us?” Blair sniped.
Goldie’s eyes perked up. “Good one, Blair. No, we’re goin’ to a genealogy conference in Chicago. Didn’t I tell you, Julia? Aria, here, is quite the genealogy expert.” She nodded towards her companion. “She’s related to the Duke of something-or-other.”
“It’s the Duke of Norfolk,” Aria said with a slight twitch to her lip.
“Really? I had no idea,” I murmured, glancing toward Aria.
That explained her imperious attitude.
Goldie was shorter than me and heavier in the hips. In fact, she carried her weight like a couple of saddlebags, hence the waddle. On the other hand, Aria towered over her like a skinny beanpole. While I found Goldie quirky and entertaining, Aria was another matter. She worked at the Mercer Island post office and enjoyed making other people uncomfortable. She not only liked to comment in public on the few extra pounds I carried, she had once found a way to interject the need for the Mayor to trim his nose hairs at a City Council meeting. How does someone do that?
I gave her a brief smile. “How are you, Aria?”
Her thin lips stretched into what would have to pass as a smile. “Fine. Where are you ladies going?”
“The Aberdeens have moved to Wisconsin,” Rudy replied. “We’re driving their motorhome across country for them.”
Aria prided herself on knowing everything about everyone on Mercer Island since much of the information passed through the post office. Right now her Groucho Marx eyebrows arched in surprise.
“Really? I didn’t realize the Aberdeens had moved.”
Rudy chuckled. “You realize nowadays that most people learn stuff through social media, Aria. Not through the mail.”
She grimaced. “They still have to file a change of address form.”
“I bet you’re happy to get away,” Goldie said, changing the subject. “After what you just went through with that maniac.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how you were able to get outta that basement, Julia. I woulda peed my pants.”
Doe got up. “I need to get something inside.”
I watched Doe return to the motorhome with Tinker Bell right behind her. Doe could only tolerate Goldie’s unbridled energy and quaint remarks in small doses. Apparently, she’d reached her limit.
“So…what are you guys traveling in?” I asked, not really interested.
“Oh, oh,” Goldie uttered. “Aria has a camper truck.” She whirled around and pointed across the green space to a brown, three-quarter-ton pickup sitting in a campsite on the other side of the playground. It had a camper shell on it that extended over the truck cab.
“That looks cozy,” I said. No it didn’t, I thought. I’d last about half an hour in such close quarters with the two of them. “Where’s Ben?”
Ben was Goldie’s husband and our neighborhood conspiracy theorist.
“Oh, he’s home takin’ care of the gnomes.” She snorted a short laugh, as if she’d just told a joke.
Goldie lived on about an eighth of an acre and had hundreds of gnomes on her property, both inside and out. Her house was called the Gnome Home by neighbors, and kids loved to sneak onto her property to move them around, I assumed just to drive her crazy.
“What about Betsy?” Rudy asked, suppressing a smile.
Betsy was Goldie’s shotgun, which she’d used in February to shoot holes in my hand-stamped copper ceiling. To be fair, she’d done it in order to stop a man from killing me. But, while I appreciated the rescue, I still mourned the loss of my pristine ceiling.
Goldie frowned. “I wanted to bring Betsy, but Ben made me leave her at home. He was afraid I’d get in trouble carryin’ her across state lines.”
“Good call,” Rudy said.
“Besides, everyone within a thirty mile radius will be safer,” Blair said with a sweet smile.
“Another good one,” Goldie said, laughing.
I stood up. “Well…it’s good to see you guys. I hope you have a great trip. We need to get dishes done,” I said, beginning to stack plates.
Blair and Rudy took their cue and jumped up to help.
“Yes, you guys have fun at the conference,” Rudy said. “We’ll see you back on the island.” She headed for the motorhome with the empty salmon platter in her hands.
“Oh, sure, sure,” Goldie said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Well, you guys have a good trip.”
“You, too, Goldie,” I said. I gave her a quick wave. “Drive carefully. And enjoy the conference.”
“Tell the Aberdeens to make sure and get that change of address form in,” Aria said with a scowl.
Goldie and Aria left, crossing the playfield back to their camper. We huddled up in the Hulk, watching them go.
“Great,” Blair said. “Now we’re stuck in here all evening.”
“Who’d have thought we’d run into them?” Doe said, flopping into one of the swivel chairs.
“So, I guess no campfire tonight,” Rudy lamented.
“Not unless you want company,” Doe said.
I glanced at her. “After my mishap with the marshmallow, maybe it’s better anyway.”
CHAPTER TEN
W
e spent the rest of the evening studying the map, discussing our route, and calculating how much time we might have for sightseeing. April called late to fill me in on things at the inn.
“I miss you,” she said. “Especially because the visiting children have decided this is just one big playground.”
I chuckled. “Patience, my dear friend. Patience.”
“You don’t understand. They literally think the inn is their playground.”
There was a scream in the background and the sound of running feet.
“What was that?” I asked in alarm.
“Madeline!” a voice called out before April could answer. “Stop that! Preston, come here right now.”
“Emergency! Emergency!” a tinny voice squawked in the background.
That last one was Ahab, our African grey parrot. His utterance was followed by two sets of high-pitched screams and then loud female crying.
“What in the world is going on?” I demanded.
“I told you,” April whispered into the phone. “The Butlers have the son and daughter from Hell. I mean it. And the Griffins have an eight-year old boy that makes Attila the Hun look like Bambi. Add to that a sixteen-month old baby who is teething and we’re in never-before-charted waters.”
“Who’s crying right now?”
“That’s Madeline. She’s eleven and won’t need to go to college because she has a bright future as a grifter.”
I choked on a laugh. “April! You’ve got to be kidding. She’s only eleven. You think she’s a con artist?”
“Ooooh, yes,” April whispered. “She pits the boys against each other and then bats her big brown eyes at her mother and plays the fool. Right now, she’s working her mother big time in the living room, staining your beautiful carpet with her fake alligator tears.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I said.
“You have no idea. Besides all of that, the dogs have been imprisoned in the guest house because these kids don’t know how to walk. It’s not in their vocabulary. They run everywhere, and the Doxies chase them, nipping at their heels. All we need is a lawsuit because one of the dogs finally connects with an ankle.”
Her description kept me chuckling. “I’m glad you put the dogs in the guest house. How is Ahab doing?”
“He’s picked up Madeline’s high-pitched scream. Somehow it’s different than his siren sound. It scares the hell out of me. We moved his cage into the kitchen to keep him away from the kids, but I broke my favorite mixing bowl this morning when he let out a shriek.”
“I’m sorry, April. I wish I could be there to help.”
I heard her sigh on the other end. “No, you don’t. And I’m glad you have an opportunity to relax. Listen, I really just wanted to tell you that Mr. Fidelio said he can’t break ground on the reception hall for another week or so. A project he’s working on in Federal Way had some problems. I’ll let you know when they get back to it.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’d like to be home for that, anyway. And I’m sorry I’m not there to help you. I bet you’re not sleeping much.”
“Sleep? What’s that?” she said with a chuckle.
“All right. Hang in there, and don’t get run over by a runaway kid.”
She chuckled. “Got it. Maybe you could send me a Navy Seal or two for support. Take care and have a good trip.”
We said our goodbyes and hung up.
I went to bed that night picturing Navy Seals rappelling down the side of the inn with night vision goggles ready to corral the kids.
÷
The next morning, we left early enough to miss seeing Goldie and Aria. I felt badly that we were avoiding them. After all, Goldie was my neighbor. And then I considered Doe’s nerves and decided it was the right good choice.
As a nod to Blair, we pulled off into Billings so she could visit the place she had met and consummated her relationship with her current husband. All she did was get out of the Hulk and have us take a picture of her in front of Joe’s Bar & Grill. But then she had us take a picture at the motel next door in front of number 14. The whole event was a little bit of a letdown, but she texted the pictures to her husband and then giggled helplessly when he responded.
No one asked about the exchange.
We followed I-90 South to Fort Smith and then took a side trip to the Bighorn Canyon National Recreation Area as planned. Blair volunteered to make lunch and brought bologna sandwiches to a picnic table overlooking a deep, wild canyon, framed by an upland prairie. It was a clear, sunny day with a warm breeze. I’d brought the binoculars Caroline had loaned me and used them to study the awe-inspiring red rock formations.
“Look over there!” I said to my companions.
I handed the binoculars around so everyone could view a pair of bighorn sheep standing precariously on an outcrop of rock that hung over the winding river below.
“Watching them gives me the same feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I see you wearing heels,” Blair said with a smirk, handing the binoculars back to me.
“Funny,” I responded.
We took a few pictures and then climbed back aboard the Hulk and hit the road. As we crossed the border into the northeast corner of Wyoming, we threw open the windows to allow the crisp, pine-scented air to fill the RV.
It was just after three o’clock when we pulled into the historic town of Buffalo, Wyoming, driving under a banner for the Clear Creek Summer Fest scheduled for mid-July. As we rolled down the main street, I snapped a picture of a life-sized bronze sculpture of a rodeo rider ready to tie a calf, with his trusty horse holding the line firm.
When I realized we were passing a string of antique stores, I called out to Blair. “Wait! Can we stop?”
“Sure,” Blair said. “I’ll see if I can find a place to park.”
Blair found a space on a side street under a row of trees big enough for the Hulk. I marveled at her ability to parallel park that thing without so much as a scratch to the surrounding cars.
We grabbed our purses, put a leash on Tinker Bell and headed back down the sidewalk.
The town was filled with tourists who were strolling in and out of shops, consuming enormous ice cream cones, or sitting on benches enjoying the hot summer afternoon. I spent a glorious hour and a half browsing through two antique stores, making several strategic purchases. Doe followed me around, holding Tinker Bell in her arms. She made only one purchase, a lovely old sterling silver necklace with three blue topaz stones.
On the way back to the RV, I stopped in a small bakery to buy some treats for later. We returned to home base, where I unloaded my bags and spread out my finds on the dining table. They included an old sheriff’s badge, a spittoon, two rusty branding irons, a lethal-looking vintage hay knife, a couple of rusted horse bits, and the pièce de resistance, an old photograph circa 1900 of a group of ranch hands castrating a bull.
“I’ve always wondered how a male can do that to another male,” Blair mused, staring at the old photo.
“What do you mean?” Doe said, missing Blair’s point.
“Cut their…”
“Got it!” I cut her off instead.
Doe chuckled. “Well, I’ve never seen anyone spend money so fast. All I found was something for my sister-in-law’s birthday. Julia, on the other hand, emptied the store.”
“I did not. I just knew what I wanted as soon as I saw it. I can already picture the vignette I want to create at the inn with a couple of old wagon wheels I have.”
The ground floor of the inn was peppered with a host of antiques for sale. It was a big part of our business. Every couple of months I created a display by the front door as a way to showcase items that could be grouped together. The thought of a western scene, perhaps with a bale of hay or two, was quickly forming in my mind.
“What’d you get, Blair?” I asked.
“A paper,” she said, plopping down on the sofa. She snapped open a copy of USA Today. “I wanted to check on Owens’ daughter. See if they’ve found her.�
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“You didn’t do any shopping?”
She glanced up, creasing her perfectly penciled brows. “I’m not into antiques or souvenirs. Now, if there’d been a Tiffany’s in town, I would have been there in a heartbeat.” She flipped one of the pages.
I turned to Rudy. “What about you? Find anything interesting?”
Her eyes lit up as she held up a dusty old book. “First edition of The Great Gatsby.”
“Oh, my God, are you kidding?”
I reached out to take it carefully out of her hand.
“It’s missing the dust cover, a couple of pages, and the binding is mostly ripped off, but I don’t care,” she said with a Cheshire Cat grin.
“You scored big-time,” I said. “Good for you.”
“Humpf,” Blair snorted from behind us.
We turned to her.
“What is it?” I asked.
“The kidnapping story has already been relegated to the third page. Apparently they haven’t found her.” She looked up at me. “This is interesting, though. It says the police have finally interviewed her boyfriend, Dylan. Apparently, he remains a person of interest because he doesn’t have an alibi for the morning she went missing.”
“That’s good. I mean at least they’ve found him. When I talked to David yesterday, he was still in the wind.”
“Don’t they say if you don’t find a person who has been kidnapped within the first 72 hours or so, the likelihood they’ll be found alive drops dramatically?” Doe asked.
“Actually, it’s only 48 hours,” I replied. “After that, the trail can go cold and they may never be found.”
“Then I feel really sorry for that girl’s family,” Doe said. “I can’t imagine what they’re going through. And we can only pray that someone somewhere sees that girl and reports it.”
“Does the article say anything about a woman who works for Owens?” I asked. “The FBI wants to talk to her, but she’s camping somewhere in upstate New York.”
Blair scanned the rest of the article. “Here’s something. Owens’ staff has all been interviewed except one assistant who is on vacation. A Roberta Stephens. She’s apparently backpacking in the Adirondack Mountains with her boyfriend. The FBI is hoping she’ll call in. It gives a phone number.”