As a bleary-eyed Lia poured the morning kibble, a rap at the kitchen door set Gypsy barking. Alma stood on the porch, silhouetted by the barely risen sun as she held up her phone.
At the table, Peter said, “The swamp monster won’t be much of a watchdog if she waits for people to knock before she barks.”
“Hush.” Lia waved Alma in. “I’m making eggs. Are you hungry?”
Alma took the seat opposite Peter. “I ate hours ago. But I thought you should see this.”
Gypsy sniffed at Alma’s ankles, then ran back to her dish before Chewy could start in on it.
Lia paused long enough to ensure canine mayhem did not erupt, then sat. “What is it?”
Alma tapped her phone and set it in the middle of the table. “Susan’s kook of the day.”
___________
Susan’s Snippets with Dixie Langford
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Dixie Langford’s ancient cat’s eye glasses and fuchsia lipstick dominated the screen, clashing with a carrot-colored beehive that had to be a bad wig. Or roadkill. A patchwork jacket in screaming primary colors made faux-Trelawney’s scarves look tastefully subdued. Susan appeared unconcerned that her guest’s multiple assaults against fashion might crack the camera lens.
“Mrs. Mitchell, what did you think when you read about the discovery of Andrew Heenan’s bones last week?”
“Aaron, dear. There’s no such person as Andrew Heenan.”
“Excuse me?”
“His name was Aaron, not Andrew. That’s what his intimate friends called him. To the world he was Elvis, but he asked the people he loved to call him Aaron.”
Susan blinked.
Dixie continued, “I always knew that toilet story was a coverup. Disgraceful, too. Hateful, spreading that around. Of course they had to make something up with his body missing all these years, but they should have been more dignified about it.”
She sniffed, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Susan patted her arm and made soothing noises.
___________
Alma snorted, turning her phone face down. “If Miss Dixie was on speaking terms with Elvis, I have Buddy Holly in my closet.”
“You know her?” Lia asked.
“You know her, too. She lives at Twin Towers. She was there when you painted your murals. Her name is Margaret, and that’s not her hair.”
Lia thought back. “Saffron jogging suit? She didn’t seem dotty.”
“Sharp as a tack, unless she had a stroke since last month—which she maybe did, considering the train wreck she’s wearing.”
“Could she have known Andrew Heenan?” Peter asked.
“Your guess is good as mine.”
“How do you think she hooked up with Susan? Do senior citizens watch YouTube?”
Alma sat back and folded her arms, giving Peter a steady look.
“Point taken,” Peter said. “So Dixie’s a fraud. Poor Susan.”
Lia gaped. “She exposed Jenny yesterday, and now you feel sorry for her?”
“This will blow up in her face, but warning her would be pointless. She has 9,000 hits. That’s all she cares about.”
At the end of a long day, Jenny and Terry paddled to the foot of a dam soaring a hundred feet over her head. The volume of water it was designed to restrain boggled the mind of someone who’d spent the last twenty years in the desert. The need for this giant gate unsettled her. It spoke of lurking menace, danger she expected very few locals ever thought about or were even aware of.
Steve waved to them from the landing, a patch of dirt at the bottom of a long, steep bank. Thank God for him; the canoe was heavy and she dreaded hauling herself up the rutted path. As soon as he’d helped her out of the canoe, he and Terry resumed the good-natured bickering that she suspected was their default form of communication.
When they’d launched the canoe, it had amused her. Now she craved silence and the privacy of her room. She’d promised Detective Dourson to change hotels, but hadn’t had time earlier and was too tired to think about it now. One more day wouldn’t hurt.
Fifteen, twenty minutes in the truck and they’d be back at the launch site. It would be another ten minutes to the hotel, plus five minutes to pick up dinner at Popeye’s. Half an hour, forty-five minutes before she could crash.
She made these calculations, considering the state of her bladder as she examined the cluster of neglected porta potties at the top of the bank. Terry said they were for the workers who periodically dredged silt from the base of the dam.
She could handle another forty-five minutes.
It had been a peaceful afternoon on the water. She hadn’t minded getting out to help Terry drag the canoe over shallow spots, though her sneakers were now a sopping mess.
When they reached the cottonwood, Terry lodged the canoe in the rocks and helped her onto the bank, waiting in the boat. When she returned, he said nothing about her tear-streaked face and continued to say nothing until she broke the silence.
She hadn’t expected delicacy from him.
The death of a man she’d known slightly more than a year should not have affected her so much. But with her grandmother’s failing health, Andrew had provided stability and normality. Everything changed after he went missing, leaving her friendless in an unfamiliar city while gran died.
It was comforting to think of the poisoned creek healing around Andrew while he lay buried on its banks. She would have wished for him to remain undiscovered in the peaceful spot, if not for the unanswered questions. The questions had always been there, but coping with gran pushed them into the background, where they’d stayed for thirty years.
Terry said the city would remove the cottonwood at some point. The earth would settle, the wounded ground would teem with life again, and all trace of Andrew would disappear. The thought upset her.
Now she sat between Terry and Steve as Terry pulled his truck next to Jenny’s rented Kia in the city garage parking lot. She stared at the deserted lot. Nothing is so desolate as an industrial area after hours.
Her bladder gave her a nudge. Damn gran’s genes. She needed a bathroom. Urgently. Still, manners were required. She turned to Terry.
“Thank you for making this possible. I suppose I’m morbid for wanting to see where Andrew was buried all these years.”
“You’re the only person with a legitimate reason for wanting to see it.”
“You gave me the privacy I needed, especially after that awful woman posted that video.” Jenny scanned the tree-lined creek bank. No porta potties here. “The curse of a middle-aged bladder. Is there a public restroom near here?”
Steve’s tone was apologetic. “Nothing between here and the highway. You might as well drive back to your hotel.”
The increasingly insistent pressure on her bladder told Jenny that wasn’t an option.
Terry nodded at the blocky building. “They rarely lock the glass door. The ladies’ locker room is halfway down.”
“Will they mind? I don’t want to trespass.”
“It’s not officially sanctioned, but they know. I can show you where it is.”
If she couldn’t get in, Jenny didn’t want two men standing around while she squatted in the bushes. “I’ve caused you enough bother. I’m sure I can find it.”
Terry looked pointedly at the empty lot. “We’ll wait until you get back.”
“Please don’t. I’ll be fine. If the car doesn’t start, I’ll call.”
Jenny waved as they drove off, then approached the entrance, minuscule next to the giant overhead doors. A tiny lobby opened onto an interior sidewalk running the length of the football field-sized garage, fronting offices and utility rooms.
The interior smelled overpoweringly of grease and gasoline, generated by rows of garbage trucks filling the building. Sunlight slanted through high windows, illuminating rivers of dust motes in the gloom. The space hummed with a low, mechanical noise she couldn’t identify.
If parking garages were cause for caution, this was a nightmare. The enormous trucks could conceal a battalion of rapists.
Something clattered.
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
Startled birds flew out of the high eaves as her voice echoed off the walls. Somewhere, water dripped. In the corner of her eye, something darted in the shadows. Cat? Raccoon? Rat?
Too small to worry about.
She called again, louder. “Hello?”
The big bellied trucks sat, silent and ominous, crushing mechanisms stilled, their capacious maws shut.
She crouched, looking under the vehicles for signs of movement, or maybe a pair of legs.
Nothing.
Just her imagination. She walked swiftly, wishing she’d opted for the bushes as she peered in office windows and scanned between vehicles.
Like many public restrooms, the entrance to the ladies’ locker room was a doorless opening. A free-standing wall shielded the room from view, forcing visitors to detour around.
Rows of lockers filled the room, with long benches down the middle of each aisle. Jenny poked her head between the rows as she passed. No one there, though she spotted evidence of human presence: a stuffed bunny atop a locker, a T-shirt draped over a bench, a forgotten jacket tossed on a broken chair.
At the far end of the room she found an opening hung with mismatched, flowered shower curtains. She pushed through to find a maze of curtains in an empty room lined with shower heads, a jury-rigged arrangement to create privacy in a space originally designed for none.
Claustrophobia choked her.
She backed out and found another open doorway. On the far side of a half-dozen sinks, the toilet stalls she’d been so desperately seeking lined the wall, the doors shut or barely ajar.
A noise to her left startled her. She froze, heart pounding, then slowly turned to find her own anxious eyes staring back at her from a mirror.
Has to be rats.
She passed down the long row of stalls, slapping doors open as she went. Empty. Empty. Empty. Feeling silly and with relief seconds away, she stepped into the last stall and locked the door.
Viola, Chewy and Gypsy sat in a row when Peter opened the front door, Chewy no doubt serving as a buffer between the two girls. He bent to pet Viola. Gypsy wriggled her head under his hand, Susan’s damp, mangled scarf dangling from her jaws.
“You have no clue how much joy you give your mom every time you chomp on that thing, do you?”
He straightened, lured by the murmur of voices in the kitchen. Lia sat at the table with Alma, huddled over Alma’s tablet and a pair of steaming mugs. A row of squat electronic devices—had to be the new cameras—sat on the counter. They were nondescript, easy to ignore. If he had one of these in his office he could catch the jerk who kept messing with Elvis.
“Should Gypsy be sucking on that scarf? The dyes could be toxic.”
Alma looked up, her face full of concern.
Lia kept her eyes on the tablet. “He’s baiting me, Alma. Ignore him.” She scooped Gypsy up, extricated the sodden mess from her jaws and dropped it on the floor, then snuggled the pup under her chin. “You can have your binky back in a minute, baby girl.”
Peter heaved an exaggerated sigh, ducked his head into the fridge for a beer. “Upstaged by an incontinent ball of fur.”
Lia said, “Do you know the difference between a puppy and a boyfriend?”
Peter twisted the top off his Pearly Gates IPA. “Besides the tail?”
Lia rubbed noses with Gypsy. “I’ll still hug the puppy after she pees in my shoes.”
Peter checked the pots warming on the stove. Lentils and greens were on the menu. “There go my plans for the evening.”
Alma frowned. “I have to ask—”
Lia put her hand on Alma’s. “Don’t. We don’t want to know what he meant by that.”
Peter took a long pull on his beer. Pup wiggled from under Lia’s chin and stared at him over her shoulder. The dog was laughing at him. He wandered over to the table.
“What have you got there?”
Lia grinned and tapped the screen. “Alma found the missing pages from the Hughes 1987 yearbook.”
Peter toasted Alma with his bottle. “Including you in the circle of trust was a good move. How’d you manage that?”
Alma tilted her head modestly. “I posted a request on several bulletin boards. Someone scanned the pages and send them to me. And no, I didn’t explain why I wanted them.”
Peter dropped into the chair next to Lia so he could see the tablet. “God bless retirees and the time on their hands. So this is the drama club.”
“What do you think?” Lia asked.
Peter pinched out a photo, the requisite group shot of a dozen kids lined up in two rows according to height. He dragged the screen to others, staged shots on production sets, adolescent faces looking twice their age in theatrical makeup, mugging with exaggerated expressions.
The drama teacher stuck with the classics: The Music Man, Our Town, The Crucible. In an egalitarian move, a photo showed stagehands painting a backdrop.
“Big hair, shoulder pads. Madonna and Johnny Depp wannabes. Looks about right to me.”
Lia rubbed the bottom of her chin over Gypsy’s head. “Do any of them look like they hang out with murderous mobsters to you?”
Peter squinted his eyes and pointed at a skinny, freckled boy, “That guy is thinking about the joint in his pocket.” His finger moved to a sad-looking, obese boy painting a backdrop, “And this one is praying he gets to feel a naked breast before he dies. The girl with the worried look is counting the days to her next period. Did you find Jenny?”
Lia returned to the group photo. “For some reason they didn’t put names in the captions. I think that’s her in the front row, third from the right.”
A pretty girl with sad eyes. “She in any of the productions shots?”
“On the next page. Abigail Williams in The Crucible, who condemned John Proctor to death by hanging.”
“Let’s hope she was playing against type. I need to show these to her and see if it jogs her memory.” He pulled out his phone and tapped Jenny’s number. The phone went straight to voicemail. On another call, then. He left a message, hung up, checked the time. 7:20 p.m. “Have you talked to Terry?”
Lia set Gypsy on the floor. Gypsy pounced on the dead scarf, determined to make it deader.
“No, why?”
“Just wondering how the float trip went.”
He helped Lia with the dinner dishes and they took the dogs—with the monster riding high in her papoose—for their evening walk.
“What will you do now?” Lia asked.
“Nothing until I have a chance to show the photos to Jenny.” He checked the time. “Nine o’clock.”
“I can’t imagine why she hasn’t called you back.”
“She might not know I called, or she got distracted. I’m going to try her one more time.”
Voicemail. Peter swiped the screen, ending the call.