Authors: J.A. Jance
Ali, too, was dead on her feet and ready to be in bed. And this was part of the good news/bad news dynamics of being back home in Sedona—she was always close enough to be called on to help her parents in an emergency—if only for a couple of hours.
“What do I do with Crystal?” Ali asked.
“Does she know how to bus tables or wash dishes?” Edie asked.
“I doubt it,” Ali said.
“There’s no time like the present to learn,” Edie said. “You know where the sweatshirts are. Get one for you and one for her.”
When Crystal emerged from the restroom, her face was scrubbed clean. Except for the still visible bruise on her cheek, she looked altogether better. By then Ali had donned a Sugarloaf Café signature sweatshirt and had another one lying on the counter.
“What’s this?” Crystal asked, picking up the shirt as she slid onto her stool.
“Your uniform,” Ali answered.
“Uniform? What for?”
“For working here,” Ali replied. “If you want breakfast, you’d better be prepared to bus tables and wash dishes.”
“No way,” Crystal returned.
“No work, then no breakfast,” Ali answered.
“But I’m too young to work in a restaurant,” Crystal said.
“You’re too young for hitchhiking and a lot of other things I could mention, but that didn’t stop you,” Ali replied. “Now, put on the sweatshirt.”
Without another word, Crystal unfolded it and pulled it on over her head.
“What do you want to eat?”
“French toast. Bacon. And maybe one of the sweet rolls they have back there on the counter.”
“She’ll have French toast, bacon, and a sweet roll, please,” Ali called to her mother, who had retreated to the kitchen to oversee the grill. Ali turned back to Crystal. “When you finish eating, please clear the dirty dishes off the counter and tables and put them in that plastic dishpan over there. Then please reset the tables with clean silverware and new place mats and napkins. When the dishpan is full, please take it back into the kitchen. My mother will show you how to run the dishwasher.”
Several new customers and the Sugarloaf’s other morning waitress, Jan Howard, entered at once, all of them talking and laughing. Leaving Crystal to wait for her breakfast, Ali stood up, collected an order pad and a coffeepot, and headed off down the counter.
In the next little while Crystal wolfed down an order of French toast and bacon, two sweet rolls, a glass of orange juice, and a glass of milk. Then, pushing her plate aside, she gave Ali a single questioning look before she, too, went to work.
It turned out that, under Edie’s and Jan Howard’s tutelage, Crystal was a much quicker study than Ali would have anticipated. By the time Bob Larson turned up, a little before nine, she had learned to do a credible job of busing tables and running the dishwasher back in the kitchen.
As soon as Bob saw Ali working behind the counter, he came straight to her station. “What are you doing here?” he wanted to know.
“Pinch-hitting for Mr. Lazy Bones,” Ali returned.
Just then Crystal pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen and emerged carrying a tray loaded with clean glasses.
“And who’s that?” Bob wanted to know, nodding in her direction.
“You should probably ask Mom about her,” Ali suggested. “She can tell you the whole story.”
“If she’s speaking to me, that is,” Bob said mournfully.
“She turned off your alarm clock,” Ali said. “She fixed it so you could sleep in. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”
Without another word, Bob turned and headed for the kitchen. “Have you heard anything from Kip?” Ali asked after him.
Bob stopped and shook his head. “Not a word,” he said, then disappeared through the swinging door. A few minutes later Edie emerged. She had shed her cooking apron and had changed into a clean sweatshirt of her own. “You two go on home now and get some sleep,” she said, collecting Ali’s order pad. “I’ll take over from here.”
Shortly after that, Ali and Crystal headed out the door. Crystal was still wearing her uniform sweatshirt, a gift from Edie. As Ali climbed into the Cayenne, she felt as weary as she remembered feeling in years. Once they got to the house, Ali gave Crystal a stack of bedding and directed her to the sofa. Then she handed her one of Chris’s T-shirts to use as a nightshirt. Ali was in the bedroom pulling on her own nightgown when her cell phone rang.
“I’m just coming into Flagstaff on I-40,” Dave said. “How are things?”
“Well, I’m certainly glad to know you took my advice and slept overnight in Vegas,” Ali said. She walked over to the alarm key pad and turned it on. “Crystal and I just finished up helping out with breakfast at the Sugarloaf. Now we’re hoping to get some sleep.”
“Crystal helped out at the restaurant?” Dave asked. “Are you kidding?”
“You’d be surprised how far hunger goes in producing willing compliance,” Ali told him. “You can come by here a little later to pick her up, but give us a couple of hours before you do. Neither one of us has had much sleep.”
“That makes three of us,” Dave said. “I’ll go home, then, too. Give me a call when you’re ready. That way you can wake me up instead of the other way around.”
“How’s Roxie taking all this?”
“Long story,” Dave said. “Let’s not go into it right now.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Ali was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. Sometime later a ringing telephone jarred her awake. “Ms. Reynolds?” a stranger asked.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Your EMS operator. Your system is alarming. Could you please give me your password, and are you all right? Do you need us to summon some assistance? I see on my screen that someone has gained access to your home through the front door…”
Ali reeled off her password and scrambled out of bed, pulling on her robe as she went. She hurried out into the living room. Crystal’s blankets and pillow lay abandoned on the sofa. Her clothes and shoes were nowhere to be seen. Obviously Crystal had taken off on her own. Where the hell had she gone?
“It wasn’t someone coming in,” Ali told the operator. “It was someone going out—a guest going out who had no idea that opening the door would set off the alarm.”
“You’re all right then?”
“I’m fine,” Ali said.
Fine but pissed!
“You’ll key in the end-alarm code then?”
“Yes,” Ali said. “Yes, I will.” And she did. Then she threw on a tracksuit and a pair of tennies and raced outside to the Cayenne. She caught up with Crystal halfway down the hill and pulled up beside her. Seeing Crystal in one of Chris’s ski jackets didn’t improve Ali’s frame of mind.
“There’s nothing like being an ungrateful pain in the ass,” Ali told her. “Just where do you think you’re going?”
“To see my friends,” Crystal returned.
“It’s a school day,” Ali said. “Your friends are all in school. At least they
should
be.”
And you should be, too,
Ali thought. “Get in.”
“I’ll walk over and see my dad then,” Crystal said. Defiance seemed to be the order of the day.
“Not in my son’s ski jacket, you won’t,” Ali said. “Now, either get in the car or I call the cops and have you arrested for petty theft.”
“You wouldn’t,” Crystal said.
“Yes, I would,” Ali told her. “I don’t know what makes you think people don’t mean what they say. Do you see the phone in my hand? Do you see me dialing nine-one-one?”
Crystal favored Ali with a long stare. Finally, with a disparaging shake of her head, she flounced around the front bumper to the Cayenne’s passenger side door and climbed in.
“Take off the jacket,” Ali said, once Crystal was inside.
“Why should I?”
“Because I told you to.”
“But it’s cold,” Crystal objected.
“Too bad,” Ali returned.
Crystal removed the jacket and then flung it into the backseat. “Besides,” she added. “I was just borrowing it. It wasn’t really stealing.”
“You didn’t have my son’s permission to take it,” Ali pointed out. “That makes it stealing the same way taking food or money for sex—even sex you don’t think is sex—is called prostitution.”
When Ali glanced in Crystal’s direction again, she noticed that for the first time the girl’s tough-as-nails demeanor seemed to have crumpled a little.
“Don’t tell my father I took it,” she whimpered suddenly as tears sprang to her eyes. “Please don’t tell him about the other, either—about, you know, the hitchhiking.”
Ali knew full well that Crystal’s running away had been a cry for help. Something was definitely wrong in this young woman’s life. But Ali also knew that she was dealing with a master manipulator, and she had no intention of being routed by this sudden case of deliberately staged waterworks. She didn’t relish having to tell Dave what his darling daughter had been doing, but someone was going to have to tell him—and Ali’s first choice for that job was Crystal herself. Things were never going to get better for Crystal unless she accepted some responsibility for her own actions.
“If you don’t want me to tell him, then you’d better,” Ali said.
“I can’t,” Crystal said softly.
“Why not?”
“Because when he finds out what I’ve done, he’ll probably kill me.”
“And most of the parents I know wouldn’t blame him if he did,” Ali returned. “Seat belt,” she added.
This time Crystal fastened hers without a murmur of objection, so maybe they were making progress. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Where you said you wanted to go,” Ali countered. “To see your father.” And they headed into town.
Forced to move out of his house in the aftermath of his divorce, Dave Holman had taken up residence in the basement apartment of an old house on Sky Mountain. His landlady, a well-to-do widow with a penchant for traveling, was happy to have a dependable tenant to look after the place while she was off on one of her year’s several cruises or staying for months at her flat in London. Dave, on the other hand, was glad to rent from someone who was seldom around and who gave him very little grief.
Pulling up the steep driveway with its tricky turnaround, Ali was reminded of Arabella’s place. This house was comparable to the Ashcroft’s in size and elevation but the view from that one was three hundred and sixty degrees. This one, built into the hillside, was only one-eighty and looked off to the east.
When Ali stopped the car, Crystal reached for the door handle. “Are you coming in?” she asked.
“Not right now,” Ali said. “Please tell your dad what’s going on. He’s a good man, Crystal, and he needs to know. Let him help you.”
Crystal nodded. “Okay,” she said.
Dave must have heard them drive up. The door to his downstairs apartment swung open and he came striding through it, walking with a cell phone pressed to his ear. As Crystal exited the car, Ali saw a storm of warring expressions distort Dave’s handsome face. He was at once furious and grateful; angry and concerned. As he hurried forward to gather his daughter into his arms, gratitude won the day.
“Thank you,” he mouthed silently to Ali over the top of Crystal’s head.
Ali nodded.
“Will you come in?” he asked aloud.
“No, thanks,” Ali said. “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about. I’d just be in the way. I’ll leave you to it.”
Good luck,
she thought.
You’re going to need it.
H
aving had her whole day blown out of the water, Ali was eager to get back home. She had yet to make any of the cancer treatment calls she’d promised to make on Velma’s behalf, and she had yet to touch Arabella Ashcroft’s diary.
With Crystal safely in her father’s keeping, a relieved Ali turned around and drove back down the mountain. It was early afternoon and almost time for the Sugarloaf to close for the day. Still as she started to drive past the restaurant, she was surprised to see several more vehicles in the parking lot than should have been there at that time of day, including a City of Sedona police car. Knowing that there was little love lost between her father and the local constabulary, Ali made a U-turn and then went back to the parking lot, where she pulled in beside the patrol car.
The
CLOSED
sign was in the window, but the door was unlocked. Ali let herself inside. Her father was seated in the corner booth along with two uniformed City of Sedona police officers. One of the officers was new to Ali. The other one, Kenny Harmon, she did know. As a rookie patrol officer, Kenny had given Bob Larson his one and only speeding ticket—for doing forty in a thirty-five. Kenny’s presence accounted in large measure for the thunderous look on Ali’s father’s face. The fourth person in the booth was a woman. Her back was turned to Ali, but she seemed to be doing most of the talking.
“We’re closed,” Edie Larson called from the kitchen when the bell over the door announced Ali’s entrance. Edie appeared in the swinging door, wielding a mop. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”
“What’s going on?”
Edie jerked her head in the direction of the only occupied booth. “That’s Sandy—Sandy Mitchell. She’s one of the clerks over at Basha’s. She’s also Kip Hogan’s girlfriend. Your dad’s helping her file a missing persons report.”
Ali did know Sandy. She had been a grocery clerk at Basha’s for years. The idea that she was involved with Kip—the idea that anyone was involved with Kip—was news to Ali. No wonder he’d gone to the trouble of having his teeth fixed.
“Kip was supposed to see her last night, only he didn’t show up. She came by here after work today looking for him. That’s when your father finally decided maybe it was time to call the cops. There’s still a little coffee left. Want some?”
“Coffee would be great,” Ali said, accepting her mother’s offer and grabbing a seat at the counter.
“Have you had lunch?”
Ali shook her head. “I thought you were closed.”
“We don’t have to be open for me to make you a sandwich. Tuna? And I’ve got a container of stew for you to take home for dinner.”
Ali nodded. “Thanks,” she said. “A sandwich would be very nice, and Chris adores your stew.”
Edie rolled her eyes. “Why do you think I made it?” she asked.
Seated at the counter in the almost deserted restaurant, it was easy for Ali to hear everything being said at the corner booth.
“So that’s the last time you saw him,” Kenny was saying. “When he came by the store late yesterday morning to give you some flowers.”
Sandy nodded tearfully. “It was our two-month anniversary,” she said.
“Did he mention anything about what his plans for the day might be? Did he mention where he was going or what he was going to do?”
“He said he needed to deliver some furniture. Then he was going up to the Rim, but he didn’t have to say so,” Sandy added. “He always goes up there on Tuesday afternoons. I was upset about what had happened with those kids earlier. He offered to put the trip off until today, but I told him he should go ahead. People were counting on him. I told him I’d be fine. I needed him to go so I could write up the incident report.”
“What incident report?” Ali asked her mother.
“There were some college kids up for the day who came into Basha’s yesterday expecting to buy booze. They came through Sandy’s register and were all bent out of shape when she carded them and wouldn’t let them buy,” Edie explained. “They were still at the store and giving Sandy grief about it when Kip showed up and shut them down. Kip can be pretty intimidating on occasion.”
Ali regarded that as a bit of an understatement. Even with new teeth and carrying a bouquet of flowers, Kip Hogan would have been scary as hell.
“We usually meet up at an AA meeting on Tuesday evenings,” Sandy was saying. “That’s where we met—Alcoholics Anonymous. He wasn’t there, though, and he didn’t come by later, either. I worried about it some overnight, but this morning, at work, when I heard about Mr. Larson’s Bronco being found, that really scared me. Kip knows how much Mr. Larson loves that car. He’d never do anything to jeopardize it, especially not considering the way the Larsons have treated him. He told me once they were more like family than his own family.”
“So Mr. Hogan does have family then?” the cop asked.
“I guess,” Sandy answered.
“Any idea where we might find those family members?”
Sandy shook her head. “He never said.”
Kenny, pen in hand, turned to Ali’s father. “Did Mr. Hogan ever mention to you where he was from?”
“No,” Bob answered. “Not to me, anyway.”
“You think he had something to hide?”
“If we live long enough, we all have something to hide,” Bob Larson said.
Ali could tell from her father’s tone of voice that Bob was fast running out of patience.
“Where was his driver’s license from?” Kenny asked.
Bob glanced guiltily at his wife before he answered. “He told me he had a driver’s license,” Bob said. “I guess I never actually saw it.”
“You just took his word for it?”
Bob looked pained. “I had hurt my leg,” he said. “I needed someone who could drive for me.”
“Good lord!” Edie muttered under her breath, taking a seat next to her daughter. “There’s no fool like an old fool.”
“So you don’t even know what state it would have been from or whether or not it had been suspended.”
Bob shook his head.
The other cop seemed content to let that one go. “Forget it, Kenny. You told us he doesn’t have a cell phone, Mr. Larson. Is there a chance that he might have made any long-distance calls that showed up on your bill—calls that might lead us to some other people who know him or who knew him in the past?”
“I don’t remember that he did,” Bob replied.
“Believe me, if there’d been an unexplained call on the phone bill, your father would have remembered,” Edie told Ali in a pained whisper. “He goes over every line of every bill every month, but he couldn’t be bothered with asking whether or not Kip had a driver’s license? As soon as the cops leave, I think I’m gonna kill the man and be done with it.”
By the time Edie’s rant was over, the cops were ready to leave. “This doesn’t give us a whole lot to go on, but we’ll see what we can do,” Kenny said. “You say your Bronco’s still up at Franco’s Garage?”
“It’s still there,” Bob answered. “Along with the goods Kip was supposed to drop off at the homeless encampment up on the Rim. They evidently weren’t good enough for the creep who took my tools, gas can, and spare tire.”
As the two cops left, Edie followed them to the door and locked it behind them. She went over to the booth where Bob was still sitting with Sandy, who had burst into tears. “Where could Kip be?” Sandy wailed. “Something terrible has happened to him. I’m sure of it.”
Edie slipped into the booth next to her and put her arm around Sandy’s shoulders. “I’m sure the cops will do everything they can to find him,” she said kindly. “Won’t they, Bob?”
“Absolutely,” Bob agreed, but only after Edie nudged his ankle under the table. “Of course they will.”
Sandy turned her tearstained face in his direction. “Do you think so?” she asked. “Really?”
“Definitely,” Bob declared with what sounded like absolute confidence. “No doubt about it.”
A few minutes later, when Bob stood up to walk Sandy out to her vehicle, Edie turned to her daughter. “So, where’s your charge?” she asked.
“Dave’s home now,” Ali said. “I dropped her off with him.”
“Does he know what she’s been up to?” Edie asked.
“Crystal’s supposed to tell him.”
“What if she doesn’t?” Edie asked.
“Then I’ll probably have to,” Ali allowed. “I don’t want to be stuck in the middle of it, but I’ll do it if I have to.”
Edie clicked her tongue. “It’s going to break Dave’s heart when he has to take her to a doctor to have her tested for STDs.”
Ali looked at her mother in surprise. She had always been baffled by her mother’s uncanny ability to see everything and know everything, and the fact that Edie Larson was conversant on the subject of sexually transmitted diseases seemed to be another case in point.
“Crystal told you what she’d been up to?” Ali asked.
“She didn’t have to tell me a thing,” Edie Larson returned. “All I had to do was look at her. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”
By four that afternoon, Ali had made several calls to California. Then with Sam curled contentedly on the couch beside her, Ali was ready to reply to Velma Trimble’s e-mail:
Dear Velma,
I’m so sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. Things have been crazy around here. I’ve spoken to several doctors in your general area. The one that’s getting the highest marks is a concierge medical practice in Costa Mesa called Cancer Resource Specialties. I guess you’d call them a cancer care clearing-house.
You pay a set fee to join their practice, and none of that fee would be covered by either insurance carriers or by Medicare. Cancer Resource then provides routine medical care. After all, people with cancer still get the flu. On the cancer front, however, they arrange for referrals to appropriate specialists all over the country. They help organize appointments with oncologists, arrange for scans and MRIs, put patients in touch with surgeons, pain management specialists, and whatever else may be needed. In other words, you pay them to know all the stuff you need to find out right now when you don’t have the time or the energy to track it all down on your own.
The woman who started Cancer Resource is an internist named Dr. Nancy Cooper. I met her several years ago at a luncheon and found her to be very impressive. She got involved when she realized how dealing with the ins and outs of a cancer diagnosis can simply overwhelm both the patient and the patient’s family. Her whole focus is trying to coordinate care and smooth out some of those rough spots.
As I said at the beginning, this service is relatively
expensive, but I have no doubt it’s well worth whatever she charges. Her fee scale is listed on her Web site. Check it out. If this is more than you can afford, let me know and I’ll see what other options may be available.
A
LI
With that out of the way, it was only natural for Ali to turn to the blog. The cutloose mailbox was brimming over with comments, all of them dealing with her last post, the one she had written just after she had learned of Crystal’s disappearance. Without knowing the girl had been found, Ali’s readers were still hanging in limbo—still waiting to hear. Scanning through the outpouring of commentary, Ali was interested to see that responses often touched on opposite sides of the same story.
Dear Babe,
My father was an abusive drunk. My mother was a doormat who would never say a word when he lit into us kids with a belt or a spoon or whatever else came readily to hand. I thought nothing could be worse than staying where I was, so when I was fifteen I ran away from home. How wrong I was. By the time I was eighteen I’d had three abortions and was strung out on heroin. I’m clean and sober now, but I also have hepatitis C and am HIV positive. My father sobered up years ago. My younger sister says he’s a different person now. She thinks I should come home—that I should forgive him and let bygones be bygones. It’s not fair. He got his life back. Mine is over. I hope your friend finds his daughter before it’s too late. I hope it’s not his fault that she ran away.
D
AWN
Ali studied that one for a long time. There was so much hurt in the words, she hardly knew where to begin in crafting a response:
Dear Dawn,
The life you have is the life you have, and it isn’t over until it’s over. Don’t give up too soon. And your sister may be right. Forgiving your father may make it possible for you to forgive the other person in your life who needs forgiveness—yourself.
I think your comment is an important one, and I’d like to post it on the blog, but I won’t do so without your express permission. Please let me know.
B
ABE
The next one came from the parent of a missing child.
Dear Babe,
I’ll be praying for the girl’s safe return. My daughter Sally disappeared when she was twelve—on January 11, 1966—forty-one years to the day before your friend’s daughter went missing. That’s why, when I read your post, it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. We still don’t know what happened to our Sally or if she’s dead or alive. Part of me knows that she’s dead—has always known that she’s dead. But another part of me still hopes that someday the front door will slam open and she’ll be standing there saying, “Mama, I’m home.”
Please let us know if your friend’s daughter returns safely.
L
OU
A
NN