18

“ANY OTHER LITTLE items of interest you can tell me?” she asked.

“Nope. No more pizza either.” He wiped his hands on a paper napkin, balled it up and tossed it on the fire. “More coffee?”

She looked at her watch. After eleven. “May I use your phone?”

“It’s in the kitchen.”

The bright overhead light gleamed on white ceramic tiles and white porcelain appliances. Either he was very tidy or he had some efficient person keeping things clean. Maybe she should ask him; her own kitchen could use this kind of attention. The phone sat on the corner of a cabinet and she picked up the receiver and punched in a number.

“Yeah,” Parkhurst said, sounding irritated. Eleven o’clock on Thursday night. Had she interrupted something?

“It’s Susan. I’m headed for the Creighton place. I’ll come by and pick you up in ten minutes.”

“Why?”

David came in with a stack of dirty dishes and put them in the sink.

“I’ll explain later,” she said to Parkhurst and hung up.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay awhile,” David said.

“Sorry,” she said, mind back on track, the investigation taking over.

“Always the cop.” He got her coat and held it while she slid her arms in the sleeves.

*   *   *

Parkhurst lived on Walnut Street in a neat brick Tudor tucked in behind two large bare-limbed trees. He stood on the curb, breathing steam, and he yanked open the door as she pulled up. “What’s going on?” he said as he slid in.

“I’ve been talking with David McKinnon.” She told him about the false floor in the kitchen cabinet.

Snow sparkled under the headlights when they left Hampstead behind and rolled along the unmarked country road, snow tires biting in with a solid grip.

Parkhurst snugged up the seat belt. “Why didn’t he tell us this earlier?”

“He only just remembered.”

“What’s his motive for telling us now?”

“He only just remembered.”

“Ha.”

“You think he had some ulterior motive?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

White teeth flashed in a quick smile. “Not apparent. Anything else he just remembered?”

Like he fathered a child twenty-one years ago? “No.” She gave a brief recap of their conversation.

Arms folded, he glared through the windshield. She darted a glance at him. He seemed angry, fogging up the windows with it. She pushed on the defroster. The pickup plowed through virgin snow at what she felt was reasonable speed given the darkness and road conditions, but it did slide once or twice on the curves. Each time he tensed and caught his breath. At the long driveway up to the house, she made the turn too tight and the pickup skidded. She overcorrected, then straightened and got it under control and plowed on.

“Stop!”

Automatically, her foot hit the brake, the pickup slewed in a half-circle. “What the hell—”

He hit the door handle and took off.

“Parkhurst—”

For a moment, she sat stupidly staring through the open door at the falling snow. Goddamn it. He just teetered over the edge? He’s trying to say something about my driving?

Reaching across the seat, she punched open the glove box and retrieved the flashlight, then got out. Cold wind pinched her face and she tucked her chin in her collar, cinched her trenchcoat and plowed through snow, flicking the light back and forth over his footprints, rapidly filling with snow, leading across the open field toward the woods. She floundered, sliding on hidden weeds and uneven areas. At the edge of the trees, she hesitated. Somehow she’d lost the trail. She cast the light around. Under the trees, the snow was less dense, but if there were prints she couldn’t spot them. Hearing the crunch of a foot against snow, she switched off the light and stood motionless.

“You don’t need to stand there in the dark.”

She flicked on the light and shined it in Parkhurst’s face. “You mind telling me what that was all about?”

“I saw someone.”

“Who?”

“Thought I saw someone.”

“You can see in the dark through a blizzard?”

“No.” His teeth flashed white in a wolfish grin. “But whoever I was chasing could. Disappeared in a wink. Didn’t make any noise either.”

“Police! Stay where you are! Put your hands up!”

“Chief Wren,” she said and briefly held the light pointed up to illuminate her face.

“Oh geez, Chief, ma’am. I’m sorry.” Officer White, dressed like an Eskimo, holstered his gun with a rather shaky hand. “I heard somebody running and then I heard voices.”

“Anything been happening out here?” Parkhurst asked.

“No, sir.”

“You hear anything earlier?”

“Uh—no, sir. A time or two I thought I did. But just the wind, you know.”

“You didn’t see anybody?”

“No, sir. Just you.”

“Where were you a couple minutes ago?”

“Right there stuck to the well.”

Parkhurst nodded. “Get back to it. We’re going to take a look around.”

“Yes, sir.”

Susan and Parkhurst tromped through the woods, shining flashlights around and found nothing.

“Apparently didn’t leave any footprints either,” she said dryly as they mushed back to the house.

“It’s snowing,” he said.

“You imagined it,” she said.

“Yeah, maybe. I saw a shadow and then it was gone.” He unlocked the door, reached in for the light, then waited for her to go in ahead of him. Leaping around after shadows seemed to improve his mood.

It was colder inside the house than outside. The cabinet, built into the wall beside the ancient gas stove, was five feet high, two feet wide and two feet deep. It had three shelves with a few cans, mostly dog food and a twenty-five-pound bag of dry dog food on the floor.

They scooped up the cans, removed the shelves and knelt to peer at the floorboards. She held the light while Parkhurst tapped the boards and, leaning on a palm, put pressure on various spots. The boards seemed solid.

“You suppose McKinnon looked in here before he told us about it?”

“Just figure out how to get in.”

“If we don’t find anything, McKinnon got here first.”

“What’s this prejudice you have against David?”

Parkhurst took the light from her, squeezed his shoulders inside and stuck his nose inches from the baseboards. He grunted, backed out and straightened up on his knees to get a pocket knife. Carefully, he inserted the blade behind the baseboard and wiggled it gently, then applied more force. The baseboard popped out.

“Not nailed in,” he said and pulled out the other three.

The floorboards, fitted tightly together, lifted easily. They looked at each other with smug looks of congratulation and then practically slugged each other aside to see what they had.

Notebook. Ordinary blue-gray three-ring binder. Lordy, Lordy, what have we here? She got her hands on it. The space, only about two feet square, also had bills, checkbook, letters from Shelley, canceled checks and a scattering of receipts for paid bills and purchases.

“Why didn’t we find this before?” she said.

“You want to kick me a few times? Then I’ll go kick Osey a few times.” He made neat little stacks, as he separated bills, letters, receipts. “Why’d she hide all this stuff away?”

“I think she was secretive by nature. It probably appealed to her to have a secret hiding place. And maybe she didn’t want stepfather Herbert going through this.” Susan picked up the binder. “Let’s get out of here before we freeze to death.”

They gathered everything up, placed it in a paper bag and left.

*   *   *

With Parkhurst right behind her, she trudged through snow toward her house.

“You ought to leave a light on,” he said.

“I didn’t plan on coming in this late.” She unlocked the door and flicked on the kitchen light. Mess, big mess. Dirty dishes, full ashtrays, table littered with books and papers. No telling what kind of chaos the kitten had added.

Parkhurst’s eyes held a glint of amusement as though he was aware of her discomfort. With a glance at the table, he said mildly, “Maybe the other room?”

She led him through the dining room, turning on the light as she went, and was relieved to see the kitten hadn’t destroyed the living room in her absence. Lynnelle’s binder clutched to her bosom, she stood looking around, feeling like a hostess caught unaware and wanting to make apologetic noises. Shit, this isn’t a social call. So what, if he thinks I’m a slob.

She dropped the notebook on the coffee table and switched on lamps at either end of the couch. “Drink?” she asked, slightly less than gracious.

“Sure.” Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it over the back of the easy chair and pushed up the sleeves of his white cable-knit sweater.

In the kitchen, she shed her trenchcoat, clinked ice into two glasses and tipped scotch over it. She sipped from one and grimaced, dumped it in the sink and put water on for coffee. When the tea kettle shrieked, she spooned coffee crystals in a dirty mug and added hot water.

Resting on his heels, Parkhurst crumpled newspaper under logs in the fireplace and struck a match. Great. Those were the papers she was saving to read when she got the chance. She handed him the scotch. He smiled tightly, lifted the glass in her direction and took a sip, then picked up the binder and settled cross-legged with his back to the fire.

She joined him, legs also crossed Indian-style, fire warming her back and read over his shoulder.

The first page, ordinary lined notebook paper, was dated June 13.

TODAY I AM NOBODY

Parkhurst looked at her, raised his eyebrows and turned the page. “My past is a shoebox,” he read aloud.

An old shoebox covered with dust way at the back of my mother’s closet. Rose’s closet. From now on I’ll call her Rose. She lied to me. Everything was a lie. All those times she told me she loved me and I was so special. Lies! How could she do that to me! I’ll never trust anybody again!

Looking over his shoulder, Susan could see that the handwriting had deteriorated as numbed bewilderment boiled over into rage. Adoption papers were clipped to the next page, followed by an old letter addressed to Rose. Lynnelle had underlined several sentences. Susan leaned closer to decipher the scrawl.

Rose, I know how much you want a baby, but there’s an awful lot of risk in adopting. I wish you’d think about it more. You never know what you’ll get. What kind of people does this baby come from?

“Aren’t people wonderful,” Parkhurst said sourly.

They were sitting so close their knees were almost touching and she was acutely aware of the smell of him, a clean smell of soap. She stretched her legs out straight and thought he knew exactly what she was doing. She reached over and flipped the page.

The altered birth certificate had the name of the hospital where Lynnelle was born and the name of the attending physician. Mother—Rose Vivien Hames. Father—Richard Alan Hames. The date, time of birth, sex of baby and weight. Below was a copy of the original birth certificate. Mother—Karen Hart. Father—unknown.

“Ah.” She squinted, leaning even closer. “Karen Hart. That sound like anyone we know?” She turned her head to glance up at him.

He was looking down at her. Firelight threw shadows across his face, highlighting his cheekbones, leaving his eyes in darkness. A pulse fluttered in his throat. The fire snapped with a shower of sparks. She jumped, smiled—it felt like stretching a mask—took the notebook and plopped it on her thighs. Parkhurst sipped scotch.

She read aloud.

Had a big fight with Herbert. He tried to tell me Rose loved me. She only did what she thought was best. He’s so sorry I had to find out this way. He’s so sorry I’m so upset.

June 14

It’s almost midnight and I’m writing this in bed. I’ve been thinking all day. I have to find my mother. Karen Hart. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll tell Shelley so she won’t worry, but no one else and make her promise never to tell Herbert where I am. Not even her mother.

June 17

I did it! I did it! Here I am in Oklahoma City. City of my birth! I waited until Herbert went to work and then I left. I’m staying in a motel. Not a very nice one, but it’s okay. I can’t wait for morning. First thing I’m going to buy a car with the money Rose left me. Then talk to Dr. Gorman who delivered me. Maybe he even knew my mother personally. Like a friend of the family or something. Maybe he knows where she is!

June 18

Got a car! My very first car! It’s yellow. Only good thing today.

Dr. Gorman isn’t even here any more. He died two years ago. Nobody at the hospital knows anything or they won’t tell me anything.

June 19

I went to see Mr. Lavery, the attorney. I made an appointment so he’d have to see me. But he couldn’t tell me anything. I guess I believe him. He seems okay and acted like he’d like to help me and everything but he said he didn’t know anything at all about my mother. Only her name. I already know that. I won’t give up.

June 22

I didn’t know I could be so lonely. I’ve been thinking a lot about Rose. I thought I hated her, but I don’t anymore. I wish she were here so I could talk to her.

July 4

Fire crackers. Seems like I don’t have much to celebrate.

July 12

I have a job! Receptionist at Belker’s Electronics. And I found a place to live. Only one room but it’s all mine. I even bought furniture—a sleeping bag and a lamp. That’s all I need anyway, plus some dishes and stuff. And best of all I have a telephone. I called Shelley. Was she ever surprised. She promised to write to me.

July 24

Drove to Clayton today. Hardly anybody still there that I used to know. The Johnsons and the Meyersons. They were real surprised to see me and said how sorry they were about Rose.

I’ve written to everybody I could think of. All Rose’s friends and her cousins and everybody. Nobody seems like they want to talk about my adoption. They didn’t know anything about the girl. That’s what everybody calls my mother. The girl. Maybe that means she was very young. Everybody asks why I want to know all this. Forget about it. It doesn’t matter. Rose was your mother. Get on with your life.

Aug. 5

Herbert found me! Shelley told. Everybody always believes him when he looks so sincere and says how much he loves me. He loved me all right! I hate him! I hate him! I told him to leave me alone. I never want to see him again.

It’s two in the morning. I keep thinking about all those times when he loved me. And told me never to tell. Our special secret. He did those things because he loved me so much. Why didn’t she protect me? She should have protected me. I hate him!

“Not real fond of stepdaddy.” Parkhurst tipped an ice cube in his mouth and crunched down hard. “Bastard.” He set down the glass and took the notebook. Bending over it, he read:

Sept 1

My birthday. I’m 21 years old. I wonder if my mother is thinking about me. Shelley called. All I did was cry. She said I should get myself a birthday present. Something very special.

Special! Special! Special! I got a dog. Alexa is the most beautiful, sweetest dog in the whole world. Went to the animal shelter. Terrible sad place. I wanted to take them all. Alexa knew I came for her. As soon as she saw me she made this big commotion. Both of us just thrown away. Now we have each other!

Silently, he glanced through several pages, muttering, “Nothing but passages of discouragement and despair. Ah, things are looking up.”

Oct 14

I got an idea. I saw a movie this evening and I got so excited I wasn’t even paying attention. It was about putting ads in the personal columns of newspapers.

Oct 15

I did it! I did it! Would anybody with information about Karen Hart, who had a baby on September 1, twenty-one years ago please contact me. Can’t wait to get a paper with my ad.

“Got five responses.” he said, running a finger down the page. “None of them what she was looking for. Here.”

Nov. 22

Gladys Shumacher rented an apartment to my mother! She’s pretty old and kind of nosey. She has a canary she calls Billy and she was putting newspapers in the cage. She said something just drew her eye to my ad. So she saved it and then thought about it for a long time and finally something just told her to answer. Lucky for me!

Two girls, she said rented the apartment. Real polite and quiet. One of them was pregnant and Mrs. Shumacher thought she was about fifteen. She called herself Karen Hart. Mrs. Shumacher gave me this sideways look, like she knew what that meant. But she couldn’t really tell me much except no mail ever came addressed to Karen Hart. Hardly any mail ever did come, but if any did it was addressed to

“Well, well, well,” Parkhurst said.

“What?”

“Addressed to Carena Gebhardt.”

“Let me see that.” Susan grabbed back the notebook, thinking this Three Stooges routine was ridiculous. She continued from where he left off.

The letters came from some place in Kansas. Mrs. Shumacher couldn’t remember where. And she thought there was something from the University of Oklahoma.

Carena Gebhardt is my mother!

The sentence, written over and over, covered an entire page.

Susan quickly skimmed through the following pages. Lynnelle obtained a copy of Carena’s birth certificate giving her the names of Carena’s parents and an address. Attempts to reach the parents by phone and letter were unsuccessful. They had moved away and she didn’t know where. For a time she seemed stymied again and then she made repeated visits to the University of Oklahoma. Carena Gebhardt had attended. From old yearbooks in the school library, she discovered that when Carena graduated her last name had changed to Egersund. Lynnelle fired off letters seeking a copy of a marriage license and finally got one. Carena Gebhardt had married Gerald Egersund.

Now she had another name to search and again a long period of no progress. Finally, simply for the sake of activity, she began looking up Egersund in phone books at the public library. Since it was an uncommon name, fortunately for her and her phone bill, she didn’t find many. One listed in Tulsa turned out to be Gerald Egersund’s mother. She told Lynnelle Jerry was teaching at the University of Colorado.

Parkhurst moved closer. Susan positioned the notebook so he could see better. She kept skimming. His breath brushed her ear. On September 9, Lynnelle packed up her clothes and her sleeping bag and her dog and moved to Boulder where she poked into the life of Gerald Egersund.

Parkhurst tapped the page. “Here we come to Egersund’s kid.”

September 13

I have a brother! Neat! Neat! Neat! His name is Michael.

Susan nodded, and ran her gaze down the page. Lynnelle found another secretarial job and started hanging around campus, frequenting the student union and the library, chatting with students, deliberately placing herself in Michael’s path.

September 24

Today I met my brother. I like him! I like him! I didn’t tell him. It’s fun knowing things nobody else knows.

“Indeed she liked him,” Susan said. “Wrote down every word he said, where they were at the time, and what he was wearing.”

At the end of November, Lynnelle loaded up her VW again and came to Hampstead. Having finally found her mother, she was suddenly hesitant and afraid, and couldn’t bring herself to confront Carena Egersund. She looked for a place to live and ran across the Creighton place.

Found a house to live in. All by itself out here. Been abandoned. Looks lonely. Just like me. I figure I fit right in. Ha ha. Plenty of room for Alexa. There’s a creek and the woods are great.

She settled in, explored the woods with the dog and spent long periods of time by the creek. On the tenth of December she got the job at Emerson.

Clerk-typist. Not very grand. But I can be near My Mother.

She began to watch Carena Egersund, follow her, drive by her house periodically.

Parkhurst raised an eyebrow. “Maybe the good teacher was up to something she didn’t want known.”

“Like what?” Susan asked skeptically and read aloud of Lynnelle’s friendship with Edie Vogel.

She’s nice. I like her. We talk. She told me about her little girl. Kidnapped by her ex-husband! How could anybody do that! She’s really worried all the time. I wish there was some way I could help her. She says I help just by being her friend. She’s hired this private detective. It costs a lot of money, but she says it doesn’t matter how much it costs. All she wants is her little girl back. I kind of told her about Herbert.

“Kind of,” Parkhurst muttered.

And she told me about the house, the man who killed himself. I can sort of understand. I’ve felt that way. You just think you can’t go on.

Scanning again, Susan quickly ran past general thoughts about people Lynnelle knew, pep talks with underlined sentences berating herself for not having the courage to approach My Mother. She mused about her friendship with Julie and letting Julie use the house to be with Nick.

What would Julie’s mother do if she knew!

“Motive of sorts for young Julie,” Parkhurst said.

“Maybe.” Susan shook her head dubiously. “Nice polite child. Well brought up. Life very much regulated by her mother. Doesn’t feel right.”

Parkhurst snorted. “Feelings yet.”

Jan. 14

Today Lexi chased a fox. Good thing she didn’t catch it. It probably would have beaten her up. I saw Julie’s father down by the creek. With a woman. He seemed like such a nice man. I was wishing I had a father like him. I don’t think I’ll tell Julie.

Susan tapped the page with a fingernail. “This a pattern with Keith?”

“Surprises the hell out of me. I’d think he’d need to ask permission.”

Herbert found me. He won’t leave me alone. Shelley promised.

“Good old Herbert,” Parkhurst said. “Doesn’t give up easily, does he?”

I’m afraid Nick is keeping drugs here somewhere. I won’t allow it!

“What about Nick?” Susan asked.

Parkhurst took in a long breath. “Hard to say. I can see him mad at the girl and offing her, but how did Audrey get mixed up in it?”

“Good question. She must have known something about Lynnelle’s murder. What it could be or how she could know it is another good question.”

“Easily answered if Keith did the killings. Get rid of Lynnelle and his wife and live happily ever after with girlfriend Terry Bryant. Works the same way for Terry. Fits even better.”

Susan nodded reluctantly. She hoped it wasn’t that way. Not Terry, not Jen’s mom, but wanting didn’t make it so. Turning the page, she read,

I found a secret hiding place! It had this note in it.

The note was a sheet of typing paper, yellowed with age that had one sentence printed neatly in the center.

I wish it could have been different.

Susan’s throat tightened as she read the calm desolation in the single sentence.

“By damn, a suicide note,” Parkhurst said.

“Did you know him? Lowell Creighton.”

“Before my time. Poor bastard.”

I feel so sorry for him. I know about when things are so awful and you can’t stand it and there’s no way out.

The last entry was dated February 13.

Herbert was here again, all sloppy and crying and promising and pretending to love me. I hate him! I hate him! If he doesn’t leave me alone I’m going to ask Mr. McKinnon to get him arrested.

“Let’s make it Herbert,” Parkhurst said. “I’d like that slime-bag locked up.”

“There’s the little matter of Audrey.”

“We’ll think of something.”

Closing the notebook, she brought her knees up and rested her shoulders against the hearth. Parkhurst did the same. The silence grew heavy. She was aware of his quiet breathing and noticed she had adjusted her own breathing to match his. The clock on the mantel ponderously struck twice.

He looked at it, jumped up and shrugged on his jacket. “I think I better split.” He left abruptly. A second or two later there was a soft tap on the door. She opened it.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said with a dry smile, “but I don’t seem to have a car.”