Authors: Charlene Weir
“Where is Lucille's office?” she asked.
Henry pointed with the pencil. “Across the hall, second door.”
When he made no move to stop her or come with her, she realized he must have searched already and expected her to find nothing.
Lucille's office was a smaller, neater version of Henry's: battered desk, filing cabinet and bookcases. The one grimy window looked out on an alley with tire tracks cut into the snow and across to the rear of Pickett's Service Station and Garage. She watched one of Osey's older brothers stop to light a cigarette before going inside. She didn't know which one; Osey had four older brothers and they all looked alike.
Turning from the window, she blew her nose and then slid open file drawers: paper supplies, folders of notes and expenses, clipped articles attached to typed copy. She pulled one, dated two months ago, and read about Joe Calvin, salesman for a car dealer, moving permanently to Kansas City. Henry had edited it heavily before printing and rightly so, she thought, shoving the drawer shut with a clunk.
The top of the desk was clear except for a computer, a coffee mug bristling with pens and pencils (the mug read, “
NEWS MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH
”), and a telephone with an answering machine. She rewound the tape for incoming messages and pushed the
PLAY
button. There were two hang-ups, then Ella's voice. “This is your mother. Lucille, are you there? I wish you'd call.”
The fourth was a woman with a birth announcement, then another woman, with particulars about an anniversary party hosted by the family of the Marsdens. Fifty years of marriage. Not bad. An unidentified male voice, “Returning your call again. We keep missing.” A repeat call from a more distraught Ella.
Then, “It's Doug.” Very angry. “What the hell's going on? You said the Drake. I've called five times. You're never in, you never return messages. Call me.”
Who was this Doug person? She reset the machine for incoming calls. The Drake. A hotel? She looked around for the phone book, found it on the bottom shelf of the bookcase and turned to the listing for hotels. No Drake. She tried restaurants. Still no Drake.
She wasted some time slipping disks into the computer and scanning the contents. In the center drawer, along with paper clips, rubber bands and Scotch tape, she found a small spiral notebook with five entries. October 27, 2:10. November 12, 1:50. November 29, 1:30. December 27, 12:13. January 5, 12:32, Floyd's truck (underlined, with a question mark).
The two dates and times on the cassette in Lucille's bedroom weren't included. She probably used the tape recorder in the car and later wrote the information in the notebook.
Okay, Susan thought, Lucille took late-night excursions and on these dates she found indications to support her theory. What that theory was, Susan didn't know, but she was willing to bet Lucille was avidly on the trail of cattle rustlers or dumpers of toxic waste.
A tie-in with Daniel's murder was another thing she didn't have, unless he had run across evidence of one or the other. He had seen something that troubled him, that he wanted to talk over with Parkhurst.
She copied down the dates and times, included Floyd's name with the question mark and assumed Lucille had seen Floyd that night but wasn't certain whether he was involved in whatever she was trying to find. So far Floyd was all Susan had that even resembled a lead.
She put her own notebook in her shoulder bag and Lucille's back in the drawer. When she tried to close the drawer, it caught half way and she stuck a hand in to level the jumble. It still wouldn't close. She pulled it out all the way and a crumpled envelope fell to the floor. Crawling under the desk, she retrieved a phone bill, glanced at it, started to drop it on the desk, then sat down and copied the numbers Lucille had called in December.
On her way out, she stopped in the doorway of Henry's office. “You know anybody named Doug? Friend or acquaintance of Lucille's?”
“Nope.”
When she left the newspaper building, an ice-cold wind tore the door from her grasp, and she had to lean hard into it to get it closed. The sky was a dreary gray and rippled like a washboard. Shivering, Susan jammed her hands deep into the pockets of her trench coat and clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.
I hate this weather, she thought as she got into the pickup. Why would anyone live here? She wondered what the temperature was at home. Sixty degrees probably, rain maybe, at the very worst hard rain, but not nine hundred degrees below zero.
Her stomach growled and she realized she hadn't eaten yet today. Food had never been high on her list of important things. On the job, she'd grabbed a quick meal as she could. At home, she'd gone with the frozen dinner, cheese and bread routine. Cooking took up a lot of time that could be used for something interesting. Since Daniel's death, even though she felt hungry, she found it hard to eat. It was two-thirty and so far today she'd had only coffee. From Main Street, she turned left at Second and pulled up at the Coffee Cup Cafe. The sign above the door pictured a gigantic gold cup with mud-colored contents sending up billowing clouds of steam on which bounced happy doughnuts and sandwiches.
Inside was blessedly warm. A row of booths ran along the fogged-over front windows, and opposite was a counter with stools. Except for a couple in the end booth and a man hunched over the counter brooding at a plate of french fries drowned in catsup, the cafe was empty.
She slid into a gold vinyl booth, and a young woman with short brown hair and a snubbed nose, “Phyllis” stitched on her gold uniform, came up with a smile and a menu.
Susan asked for coffee and lit a cigarette while she studied the menu. Once she'd met Daniel here for lunch; he claimed this place served the best barbecued beef ever made.
When Phyllis brought the coffee, Susan ordered a barbecued-beef sandwich, then wriggled out of her coat. The heat, so welcome when she came in, was now overwhelming and made her nose drip more. Rubbing a clear spot on the fogged glass, she watched the people going by, heads down, bent into the wind. A small boy, submerged in a red parka, grinned at her and stuck his tongue out. She smiled back and gave him a hideous grimace. His mother, with a yank on his arm, towed him away and she was left making gargoyle faces at an affronted matron.
Phyllis slid a plate in front of her, asked if she needed anything else, then left her responsible for a barbecued beef sandwich. She stared at it. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. She cut it into quarters and remembered she didn't like barbecued beef. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Phyllis and the other waitress murmuring to each other, with now and then a glance in her direction.
She set her teeth. Talk away, she thought grimly, picked up a piece of the sandwich and took a bite. She chewed, then had a panicky moment when she was afraid she couldn't swallow. She gulped hot coffee, pushed the plate aside.
A few minutes later Phyllis brought the check and laid it on the table. “Excuse me, Mrs. Wren,” she said hesitantly. “But Pam and I were talking. About Lucille? We heard, you know, that you were looking for her, and ever since Bess broke her leg she hasn't been coming in to work. My Aunt Bess? She owns the cafe?”
Susan nodded, not sure what she was nodding at.
“Well, Pam and I thought maybe you'd like to know. I wasn't sure it was important, but she said I ought to tell you anyway, because it might be, you know.”
“Tell me what?”
“About Bess, and her seeing Lucille's car.”
You need to watch that paranoia, Susan thought. “When did Bess see the car?”
“I don't know exactly. Different times, I think.”
Susan's hopes fell. Any number of people had seen Lucille's car at different times. What she wanted was someone who had seen it Monday night. She thanked Phyllis and took down Bess Greeley's address and directions so she could find the woman.
CHAPTER TEN
THE temperature had dropped even lower when she left the cafe, and snowflakes, whipped by the wind into mad frenzy, whirled around her exposed face with malicious intent. As she opened the pickup door, the side mirror reflected a black scarecrowlike figure with flapping coattails dart around the corner of an office building across the street and disappear down the driveway. Oh hell, what now? She slammed the door, crossed the street and tromped down the driveway to a small parking lot.
Four parked cars sat there gathering snow; there was no figure, either scarecrow or human. Apparently, Sophie could disappear at will. Movement behind the shrubs along the back of the building caught her eye.
“Sophie?”
Agitated trembling of the shrubs, and the old woman rose through the froth of snow like a spirit from the vasty deep. The long black coat covered her from her chin to the toes of her laced boots; the black watch cap covered forehead and ears. Only her cheeks and sharp nose were visible and red from the cold. She carried an orange-and-yellow tapestry bag that bulged and weighed heavy on her arm.
“What's in there, Sophie?”
The bag roiled. Sophie clutched it to her chest and the churning increased. “Ha. My knitting. Excuse me, I need to find my nephew.”
Bloody hell. Sophie had somebody's cat in the bag. Probably something ought to be done about it. Susan had promised to uphold and enforce. And she used to laugh when Daniel came home fuming about Sophie and spending half his time with irate people and their damn cats.
“There he is,” Sophie said, and called, “Brenner!”
Coming up the driveway, emerging from the falling snow like the hero in a movie, was a man in a tan overcoat. The theme song from
The Third Man
came to mind and she wondered why, all of a sudden, everything reminded her of old movies.
Up close, he
looked
like a hero, blond hair blown by the wind in disarray across a high forehead, a clean-cut face and an air of city polish.
“This is Dan's widow,” Sophie said with a crafty look. “Our new chief of police.”
Brenner Niemen regarded her with surprised pleasure, as though she were the very person he wanted to meet. He smiled. Oh yes, very handsome indeed.
“Haven't seen him for ten years,” Sophie said with asperity. “My own nephew, and I'd never even have recognized him. Too busy to visit his old auntie.” Growls and grumblings came from the orange-and-yellow tapestry flouncing around under her arm.
“Sophie,” he said. “Give me the bag.”
She scowled. “You're interfering.”
He held out his hand. With a hiss of resentment, she relinquished it. As he opened it, a highly indignant white cat shot out, raking his hand in launching a jump. Swearing, he dropped the bag. The cat streaked across the parking lot.
“You ought to be more careful.” Sophie bent to snatch up the bag. “I have to get home. This storm's going to be a bad one.” She marched off, black coat fluttering around her ankles.
Brenner watched her with a harried look. “Probably going after the damn cat again.” Taking a handkerchief from his back pocket, he held it against his bloody hand. “I feel guilty as hell for being away so long. I had no idea Sophie had deteriorated so much. I don't know what I'm going to do about her.” He smiled a rueful, appealing smile.
She felt herself smiling back.
“The cats are one thing,” he said. “Then there's her habit of wandering around by herself, anywhere, any time of the day or night. She's an old lady,” he said with exasperation. “I'm terrified she's going to hurt herself.”
“I can appreciate the problem. Are you staying long?”
“As long as I can. I only planned a quick trip down and back. I've got a business deal that needs attention.”
“Where do you live?”
“I move around a lot. Right now, Kansas City. You must be cold standing here, and I'd better go find Sophie before she gets into more trouble.”
He led her across the street to Daniel's truck.
“What business are you in?” she asked.
“Oh, I do a little bit of everything,” he said lightly. “Anything that might turn into money.” Then he sobered. “Any word on Lucille?”
“How did you know I was looking for her?”
“Sophie told me.” He opened the truck door for her. “I'm very sorry about Dan.”
“Did you know him?”
“In a place this size,” he said with a small smile, “everybody knows everybody.”
She got in the truck and, with a murmur of nice-meeting-you, he strode away through the falling snow. From the side window, she watched him, a veritable picture of a man worried about an elderly relative, worried about the difficulties she posed, worried about what she was doing at this moment.
Why this squirmy, uneasy feeling that something had slipped by that she should have noticed? Probably just this lousy cold. She shook her head, pushed the heater to high, switched on the windshield wipers and mushed off to find Bess Greeley.
Five miles outside of town, the small white frame house sat just off a narrow road. Bess opened the door with a big smile of welcome. She was a large-boned, stout woman with brownish hair and wore a loose red-and-blue flowered dress that zipped up the front. She had a cast on her right leg. “Come in, come in. Would you look at that snow? You must be near froze. Come in.”
Awkwardly, she maneuvered herself with crutches into the living room. “I'm just so pleased you came. I'm downright tired of my own company. Now you just sit right down over there, right by the furnace and warm yourself up.”
Susan sat on the dark green couch with lace doilies across the back and arms. Doilies were everywhere, ruffled and starched under table lamps, flat on chair arms and the top of the upright piano covered with framed photos. It reminded her of Grandmother Donovan's living room, crowded with too much large furniture, knickknacks and family snapshots everywhere. Even the plaster religious icons seemed the same. Her grandmother's had always terrified her as a child.