Consider the Crows (7 page)

“No. Why would he?”

“Did he know her?”

Julie shrugged. “Sure.”

Something was going on here that Susan didn't understand. Handsome Nick might deserve some attention. She fished in her bag for cigarettes and lit one. Julie, with a tiny frown of disapproval, lifted the mug with both hands and took a cautious sip. Susan turned her head to exhale.

“Probability stinks,” a young male at the next table said to his friend. “I miss one lousy question and Egersund gives me a
B.
”

“Well shit, man. She gave me a
C.
”

“Yeah? What'd you miss?”

Susan turned back to Julie. “Did Lynnelle ever talk about her family?”

“Not a lot. She was kind of secretive, but I don't think she liked them very much. She said one time that you can't trust anybody. Not even your own parents.” Julie gave her a wry smile. “Sometimes I can sort of understand that. Not that I don't trust my parents, but sometimes they can be too much.”

“Did she ever seem worried about anything? Or frightened?”

“She did, kind of,” Julie said slowly, as though she was thinking back. “She never said much. I might of been worried living out there all by myself, but that didn't seem to bother her. Well, she had the dog. Not that Lexi'd be much good. I told her that dog couldn't even protect her from the ghost.”

“Ghost?”

Julie pushed hair behind her ear and twisted a strand. “You know, old man Creighton. He died years and years ago and he had pots and pots of money. When I was a kid, we were scared to go near the place because old Creighton's ghost was supposed to be hovering around protecting the money.”

“Did she say why she came here?”

“She was looking for her past.”

How much past could a twenty-one-year-old girl have? “What did she mean?”

“I never figured that out. It's probably in her notebook though.”

“Notebook?” There had been no notebook in the house.

“She was always writing in it. A three-ring binder, blue.”

“Who were her friends?”

Julie lifted the mug and held it between both hands. “Well, Edie.”

“Edie Vogel? Your mother's secretary? Anybody else? What about boyfriends?”

Julie shook her head, lowered the mug and sat peering into it.

Susan could tell she was concealing something; it sat oddly on her fresh-scrubbed face, but Susan felt no further progress was possible until she learned more. Julie looked back up and her eyes were shiny with tears.

“Call me,” Susan said, “if you think of anything else that might help.”

With a nod, Julie rose, clutched the textbook to her chest and edged around crowded tables toward the door.

Susan spent forty minutes looking for Nick Salvatierra. He was no longer at the library; he wasn't in his room at the dorm; nobody she asked knew where he was. She gave it up and walked through the fading daylight and light rain back to the parking lot.

A couple, oblivious of the rain, stood nose to nose in front of the pickup. “Jerk!” the young woman spat. “You'd probably understand me better if I was a football.”

The young man, looking bewildered and guilty and contrite, scooped her into an embrace. Over her shoulder, he glanced at Susan and crossed his eyes. Smiling, Susan aimed a finger at the center of his forehead and climbed in the pickup.

6

T
HE RADIO CRACKLED
and Susan picked up the mike.

“Ben's trying to get hold of you,” Hazel said.

“Patch him through.”

Parkhurst's voice came over, distorted by interference. “In regard Lynnelle's job application. No next of kin listed. Previous address in Boulder, Colorado. Previous employment, ticket seller at a movie theater in Oklahoma City, receptionist for electronics firm, also Oklahoma City. Social security number.”

“No home address or permanent address?”

“Negative.”

Damn. “All right. Get on to Boulder PD. See what they can give us. Contact previous places of employment. Although that'll probably have to wait until Monday. Lynnelle is not Jane Smith. It can't be that hard to track down.”

“Right. And I'll have another shot at Egersund and McKinnon.”

“Be polite.”

It was five-thirty when Susan parked in front of the small white frame with brick trim where Edie Vogel lived. A street light sparkled through drizzle, and moisture dripped disconsolately from the bare-limbed tree in a deep front yard full of dead weeds which straggled across the walk. She tapped on the aluminum storm door; the front door had a heavy glass panel covered by a sheer curtain stretched between two rods. A porch light went on. Edie pulled the curtain aside and peered out, then slid back the curtain; a second or two went by before she opened the door.

“You've come about Lynnelle,” Edie said in a flat voice.

Although light spilled from the kitchen, the living room was in darkness and Edie, moving heavily, switched on lamps. She was a sturdy young woman of twenty-two with broad shoulders and brown hair cut into points around what should be a pert little face, but her face was pale and slack with a shadow of despair behind her brown eyes, and the eyes were red and puffy.

Last November, her ex-husband had picked up their two-year-old daughter for the Thanksgiving weekend and never brought her back. After several days of frantic phone calls trying to find them, she came to the police. Susan hated any domestic disturbance—all cops did, too potentially explosive—but snatching a kid made her savagely furious. She'd explained the legalities and Edie obtained a court order stipulating the ex-husband had violated the custody agreement. With that, Susan could put out his description, photo and a pickup alert. She'd also suggested a private investigator. Edie had clutched at that like a drowning woman. Each time Susan saw her she seemed a little thinner, a little more bleak.

A tea kettle whistled in the kitchen and Edie jumped. “I'll just turn off the stove,” she said.

Susan sat in an armchair upholstered with a fuzzy fabric of large pink flowers and green leaves. On the matching couch lay a dog-eared teddy bear and two tattered children's books. A ceramic vase of a sleeping puppy with plastic flowers sat on the coffee table. A child's square wooden stepping block was pulled up close to the coffee table, across the seat was a verse:
This is my stool for watching TV. For brushing my teeth. Or doing a job that's bigger than me.

From the kitchen came the sound of running water and a moment later Edie reappeared. She settled on the couch, feet close together on the floor like a schoolgirl, and arranged the tan plaid skirt over her knees.

“When did you last see Lynnelle?”

“Friday after work we walked to the parking lot.”

“She had plans for Saturday evening, something that was important. Did she mention them?”

Edie stared at her hands, picked at a Band-Aid on one finger, and shook her head.

“What did she say?”

“Nothing really. We just talked. I told her about Dr. Egersund.”

“What about Dr. Egersund?” Finding the body automatically made Egersund a suspect, but Susan was beginning to think they should take a real serious look at the woman.

“Dr. Kalazar was furious with her. She called her into her office, Dr. Kalazar's, I mean, and I heard them through the door.”

“Arguing?”

“More like Dr. Kalazar was reading her out. In this loud voice. Not shouting, but mean and threatening.”

“What did she say?”

“I couldn't hear it all.” Edie hunched her shoulders. “‘How dare you interfere.' And ‘I know what's best for my daughter.' And she said, ‘You better stick to teaching or I'll see to it you won't teach here.'”

“What had Dr. Egersund done?”

“I couldn't hear that part. She came out all mad, Dr. Egersund, with her face all tight and walked real soft right by me without saying anything.” Edie paused. “She better be careful because Dr. Kalazar gets real irritated when things aren't the way she wants and she doesn't give anybody a second chance.”

Grabbing the teddy bear, Edie held it in the crook of her arm and caressed its grimy head. “She didn't like Lynnelle.”

“Dr. Egersund?”

“Dr. Kalazar.”

“Why not?”

Edie gave a quick grin and for a brief moment she was the impudent farm girl with a sly sense of humor. “Lynnelle told Julie she was old enough to make her own decisions.”

Susan could well believe Audrey didn't like that. Audrey kept firm control over everything that was hers, and wouldn't put up with any sort of palace revolution.

The flash of animation disappeared. “It's not right. Lynnelle was a friend. She helped me. Told me I had to keep going.” Edie stared unseeing at the stepstool by the coffee table, her face so sad Susan wanted to track down the ex-husband and string him up by the balls. Jesus, how could a parent damage a child like that?

Tears trickled down Edie's face; she wiped at them with a tissue and blew her nose. “I'm sorry. I can't seem to help it.”

Susan got the impression Edie had said that a good many times recently. “Did Lynnelle ever mention her family?”

Edie took a moment before answering. “Not much. I got the feeling she was mad at them about something, but she never said. She did talk about Rose dying though.”

“Rose?”

“Her mother. She had cancer.”

Edie started crying again, head bent over the teddy bear. Susan waited, feeling helpless.

“Why did it have to happen?” Edie's words were barely audible.

“I don't know, Edie,” Susan said in a voice almost as soft.

Edie took in a deep shuddery breath. “I think she was afraid of somebody.”

Susan's ears twitched at that. “Who?”

“She got a phone call and she went all stiff like she was mad and scared at the same time. She said ‘no' two or three times. Not right together, but no and then she would listen and no again. Then she said, you'll be sorry and she hung up real hard.”

Caller threatening Lynnelle? Lynnelle threatening caller? “Who was she talking with?”

Edie blew her nose again. “I asked her. She said she couldn't talk about it.”

“Where were you?”

“At her house.”

“What time was it?”

“Evening. We were going to a movie and the phone rang. She was real quiet after that. We saw the movie and all, but she didn't say much after.”

“What day was this?”

Edie took a slow breath. “Two Saturdays ago.”

“What made you think she was afraid?”

“I don't know exactly. She just seemed kind of scared-like.”

“Thank you, Edie,” Susan said as she stood up to leave. “You've been very helpful.”

Even the drizzle had given up when Susan headed for the station. She needed to talk with George. As late as it was, he'd probably gone home, but she'd leave him a note to see her in the morning.

The police department, a square red-brick building adjacent to city hall, was located near the heart of town on a side street lined with bare-limbed maple trees. George, seated at his desk, raised his head when she ambled in and his glasses flashed from the harsh glare of the fluorescent ceiling fixture.

“You're still here.” She slid up a chair, plopped down and fumbled for her cigarettes.

“Catching up on a few things.” He gave her a long look, then with a sigh dumped the paper clips from the ashtray. “You smoke too much.” A man in his early sixties, wearing a gray suit, white shirt and tie, he was everybody's idea of the kindly grandfather; gentle face with a touch of wry humor, mild blue eyes behind rimless glasses, gray hair bald spot in back. He looked all set to entertain the kiddies with magic tricks. None of this meant he wasn't very sharp. He was a lot smarter than most and his memory was phenomenal. He'd spent his entire life in Hampstead and a big portion of it as a cop. He knew more about the residents then they probably knew about themselves.

“Lynnelle Hames.” Susan clicked her lighter, lit a cigarette, and blew smoke at the ceiling. “According to Julie Kalazar, Lynnelle came here looking for her past.”

“Past meaning relatives here?” He picked up a pen and tapped it thoughtfully against the desk.

“Her mother's name was Rose. She died of cancer.”

George shook his head. “I can think of half a dozen name of Rose, but to my knowledge there's never been a Hames. It's possible she's related to somebody who lived here at one time, now long moved away. Or the Hames could have been married into. If she has relatives here, why haven't they come right out and said so?”

“Maybe they didn't know she was related. Or maybe they—he, she, whoever—killed her.”

“Well now, that's a possibility, I suppose. You got any ideas why anybody'd do such a thing?”

“No.”

“Well then, while you're thinking up fancy plots, I'll see what I can find out about unknown relatives. Any leads to the killer?”

She stubbed out the cigarette and rose. “Not unless a ghost did it.”

“You heard about the ghost, did you?”

She slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “Let me know what you find.”

“You don't want to hear about Howie's ghost? Now, Susan, we'll never make a small-town cop out of you, if you don't learn all this local history.”

“Is this a long story, George? Because I'm tired and I'm hungry and I need to stop at the market before I can go home.”

“Hardly take any time at all. Sit yourself.”

Settling back with a squeak of the chair, he rested his elbows on the arms. “Howard Creighton died eight years ago at the age of eighty-four. For thirteen years prior he was a recluse, closed himself up in that house and fired a shotgun at anybody who set foot on the land.”