6

THE 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.”

“Anybody killed?”

“Nope, salt pellets. Left a few kids with sore behinds. Everybody knew he was crazy, but he was one of ours, so we made room for him, like happens in small towns. His folks were farmers and when they died, he got the farm, which turned out to have oil under it, and he already had a going tractor business.”

“You saying he was rich? Then why did he live in that shacky house?”

“I’m getting there, just be patient. The man was a genius with machinery, invented some kind of carburetor for tractors. He married and had one son late in life who was supposed to be big and strong and carry on the business. Except the son—Lowell, his name was, after his mother’s father—wasn’t much good with machinery. He wanted to play the violin.”

“You’re making this up.”

“God’s truth. Old Howard was blustery and gruff, and didn’t see eye to eye with Lowell about most things. Lowell’s mother left him some money when she died—some kind of female troubles—and Lowell was the one who bought that house so he could get away from Howie. Besides the trouble with his father, he was having a love affair with his music teacher and folks were beginning to talk.”

Susan snorted. “Was she the church organist or something?”

“Close.” George hooked a finger over his glasses, slid them down and looked at her over the top. “Mr. Spenski was the choir director.”

“Oh.”

“You can imagine the kind of scandal that caused. Lowell’s life was made miserable. One Halloween night he up and hanged himself in that little house.”

“That’s a ghastly story, George. I assume the ghost is going to turn up here soon.”

“After his son’s suicide, Howie started getting peculiar. He sold out everything and moved himself into that house. Rumor was he hid all the money out there somewhere. When he died, nothing was found. That’s when the ghost stories started, eerie noises and strange lights flickering. The idea was that old Howie’s spirit was guarding the money.”

George leaned forward with another squeal of the chair and rested his forearms on the edge of the desk. “The reality of it was treasure hunters, creeping around trying to find buried gold. Nobody ever did and after a time it all faded away, including Howie’s ghost.”

“Does any of this have anything to do with Lynnelle’s death?”

“Well maybe not, unless she stumbled across the gold and somebody killed her for it, which does sound like a heap of nonsense, doesn’t it?”

“Did Creighton have any relatives?”

“Well now, there’s something a mite interesting maybe. One nephew, his wife’s sister’s son, who lived in Boston at that time.”

“What’s his name?”

George smiled. “I wondered if you’d get around to that.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Attorney by the name of David McKinnon.”

*   *   *

At ten past seven she set off for home, thinking about David McKinnon. She couldn’t believe in buried treasure and strongly doubted, even if it existed, that it had anything to do with Lynnelle’s death. David had found the body, and he had moved it; that always roused suspicion and, as an attorney, he knew better, but his reason was tenable. He’d inherited the land and hadn’t bothered to mention it, but he may have thought she already knew about Uncle Howard.

As she waited at a red light, she rubbed her eyes and told herself it was too early to speculate. She’d only just begun. She didn’t even know anything about the victim yet. What past did this child have? Where did she come from? What happened in her short life that led to murder?

The light turned green and after a moment of unawareness, Susan drove on. Much of her fatigue came from a sticky feeling of negligence.

Let’s not get carried away. That instant bond she’d felt with Lynnelle, sensing they shared feelings of abandonment and loneliness and isolation were all in her own mind. Maybe it had been nothing but projection.

Halfway home, she remembered the cat and with an irritated sigh backtracked to Erle’s market for kitty munchies and flat cans of liver and fish.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled the pickup into the garage, grabbed the grocery bag and hurried to the house, hoping the damn kitten was all right; she’d been gone a long time. Snapping on the kitchen light, she plunked the bag on the table. “Cat? Where are you?”

In the doorway to the living room, she looked around with appalled disbelief. Ashes had been excavated from the fireplace and spread across the silver-blue carpet. Smudged paw prints covered the blue flowered couch and oak tables. The kitten, black as a coal miner, high-stepped toward her with its tail erect, nattering delight at her arrival.

“Ooh,” she muttered darkly, “your days are numbered.”