Chapter Nine

Sunday, November 2008

On Sunday morning, Vicky drove the twenty miles to the nearest rental car lot and parked. Pete nuzzled her neck, caressed her back, and murmured, “All right then. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” She kissed him nicely, with just a hint of tease. “Go. I’ll be busy here.” Pete enjoyed going off on his own, and seemed to like that she did, too. It made their time together very agreeable.

They kissed the kind of kiss that might have gone somewhere if they weren’t in a hybrid vehicle parked next to a gas station at eight in the morning. Pete grinned as they pulled apart. “I got a room in Louisville tonight. It’s about six hours but I’m stopping along the way. I’ll text when I get there.”

He got out, pulled his backpack from the back seat, and walked around to her window. He leaned in to give her a slow stroke along her jaw and one more quick kiss. “Three nights then.”

“We’ll have plenty to catch up on.” Vicky enjoyed the view as he swung his pack over one shoulder and strode toward the rental office. Mm. Okay. She had things to do.

****

A half hour later, she stood on the levee, hands in the pockets of her warm jacket. The morning sun hadn’t yet broken through the fog. Nine years ago, she’d been one of many journalists camped out here after a farmer spotted little Lisa Dee trudging along, bloodied and wearing just one shoe.

Somehow, the landscape seemed prettier back then. Maybe it was the mood—everyone was eager to find out why an unidentified little girl would be alone, miles from a paved road. What led up to that? Where was her family? How’d they get separated? Vicky had hoped to cover a joyful reunion.

Maybe the place seemed prettier then because Vicki was younger, had great friends, and was always around interesting people. She loved, loved, everything about being a reporter for a big market TV station. Getting to talk to people, ask questions, and tell stories. Reporting.

But not much more happened. The day after Lisa was found, searchers found her other shoe. After that, nothing. The search for her family was scaled back, and then it was almost Memorial Day and the end of May ratings. People had plans for their time off. Lisa on the Levee dropped from lead story to nothing after a couple of weeks.

It was the last story Vicky ever covered as a reporter.

Truth be told, the area probably seemed prettier back then because it was early summer. Now, autumn opened the view through the overgrown trees and bushes along the levee. To the east, a sluggish waterway lazed its way south, dark and full of rot fouling the air with the swollen smell of moist decay.

To the west lay soybean fields and the farm owned by the man who had found Lisa on the levee. Vicky would go down that road later, after she made a couple other stops. First, the neighbor lady.

Vicky scuffed her way down the levee back to her car, double-checked directions, and drove on the paved county road until she turned onto one made of gravel and dirt. She slowed so she wouldn’t raise too much dust as she drove through farm fields. Maybe no one cared, but no reason to risk making anyone mad.

She pulled into a wide spot in front of the Beck house. So far, it was much as Google Earth had suggested—a half-mile dirt road leading to a decrepit house and two outbuildings in the middle of open farmland. Flat, with just a few sad-looking trees near the house, and a line of vegetation in the distant back, where the creek must be.

There were no vehicles in sight. She rolled her window down part way, stuck her hand out, and waved as she gently tapped the horn, just in case any mean dogs lived here. She’d never been comfortable around dogs she didn’t know.

She grabbed her tote, got out, and stood inside her open car door, visualizing Kerry’s story about the leather bag on the porch. It was a lonely spot. The house sagged, the paint peeled, and one of three front steps missed a board. A satellite dish sat in the yard. Interesting feature.

The only sounds were rustling leaves and the ticking of Vicky’s car. She’d once asked a mechanic why cars did that. He’d eagerly explained about different materials cooling at different rates. She liked people who could explain how things worked. Connections and consequences.

No one appeared. Vicky leaned in and tapped the horn again.

Nothing.

She slammed the car door, then walked up the steps. The two beat-up wooden chairs on the porch hadn’t been sat in for a long, long time. She turned to contemplate the dirt yard and soybean field. Dust still traced the path of her car.

Vicky knocked. “Ms. Beck? Hello, Ms. Beck?” She knocked again, and again, and again. “Ms. Beck?”

Silence. Dark curtains blocked any view through the lone front window.

“Ms. Beck? Don’t worry, I’m no one official.”

“Ms. Beck, I’m going to go around the house, okay? Just in case you’re out back.”

“Who are you?” A woman’s clear voice from behind the door. She sounded sharp and suspicious.

“Oh, hello, Ms. Beck. Thanks for answering. My name’s Vicky Robeson. Can we chat for a few minutes?”

“About what?”

“I’m talking with people about local history for a travel article.”

Silence. Then, “Why me?”

“Someone mentioned that you’ve lived here for a long time and might be good to talk with. Just for a few minutes.”

“Who mentioned me?”

“You remember Tom and Beth Wagner? Well, I don’t know what Beth’s name was before they got married. They went to high school with you. I’m staying at their RV park. They said to say hello.”

An even longer silence followed. “This door doesn’t open. Go around back.”

Vicky strolled along the driveway leading to a derelict-looking detached garage. Its doors were closed. An old blue pickup was parked behind the house. A plastic Adirondack chair sat near the steps next to a big wooden spool used as a table.

Vicky stepped up to the small back porch. The door was cracked open an inch. “Hello. I just have a few general questions.”

The floor inside creaked. The gap grew another inch, through which appeared one bright blue eye under straight white bangs. “Who’d you say you are?”

“My name is Vicky Robeson.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“No. Well, I used to be. Now I’m just doing research for a travel article.”

“Travel? Here?”

“Yes, it’s a pretty place, and has an interesting history.”

The door opened wider to show Joan’s skeptical face. “No, it doesn’t. Nothing ever happens here.”

“No? Has your family lived here long?” The Beck name was on property records going back to the forties.

“Since the sixties.”

Interesting discrepancy. Joan did not appear to be a loquacious individual. This was going to take some work.

“Oh, back in the sixties, a lot of this area was swamp, before it was drained for farming, right? Can you tell me about that?”

“You just said everything there is to say about it.”

“Ha.” Vicky put on her most non-threatening look. “There was also that little girl found on the levee nine years ago.”

“That didn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Oh, I know. I’m trying to find a woman who was in the area about the same time.”

Kerry’s mention of a high-end woman’s bag on the porch was enough reason to assume a woman left it there. Now, seeing the place, it seemed even less likely the bag belonged here. So, whose was it? Enough material to bluff. She had nothing else to go on anyway. Yet.

Joan frowned. “A woman in the area? What?”

“She had a really unusual leather tote bag.”

Aha. A flicker of interest. Finally. The door opened enough for Joan Beck to step outside. Short white hair, faded sweatshirt, jeans, boots. She was lean and fit, a good head taller than Vicky. Weathered and outdoorsy. Capable. Wary.

“What woman?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“What’s that got to do with travel? And why are you asking me?”

“She was seen around here.”

“A woman seen nine years ago? How’s anyone supposed to remember that?”

“I know. It’s a long shot.”

“Well, I’m busy.”

“Just real quick—can I get a drink of water? I forgot my bottle.” Vicky made no movement to leave. “Also, the bag was made of dark reddish leather, with a carved bone handle.” At least, that’s how Vicky remembered Rick’s.

Joan paused, then said over her shoulder, “Oh, come on in. Just for a few minutes.”

Vicky followed, grinning inside. Joan no doubt wanted to know what Vicky knew as much as Vicky wanted to know what Joan knew. Still, it was good to get invited in.

An enormous Rottweiler stood just inside the door, every muscle taut and focused on Vicky.

“Oh.” She froze and stifled a gasp. “I didn’t know you have a dog.”

“This’s Ruby.” Joan touched the animal’s back. “Ruby’s a good girl.”

Vicky stayed next to the door. “I didn’t hear her bark.”

“No. We don’t believe in warnings, do we, Ruby?” Joan rubbed the dog’s head. “Come on in, she’s not going to hurt you. Unless I tell her to. Have a seat.”

“Sure, yes. Thanks.” Vicky edged her way to the wooden chair nearest the door and sat, her tote bag on her lap.

Joan opened a brown curtain above the sink, letting in the morning light. That seemed to be a signal. Ruby’s nails clacked as she walked to the table and lay underneath it. Vicky tucked her feet back.

“I just made coffee. You want some or do you really want water?”

“Coffee’d be great.”

Joan took two good-sized mugs from a white cabinet above the Formica counter and filled them from an ancient percolator. The room was clean, painted pale yellow. It’d been decades since anyone had updated the stove, counters, and cabinets, though the refrigerator was modern and the flatscreen television mounted above the table was high-end. A current model.

“I like your kitchen. It’s homey.”

Joan didn’t answer. She handed one cup to Vicky and used her foot to pull out the only other chair. She sat. She didn’t offer cream or sugar.

“As long as we’re having coffee…” Vicky opened her tote bag and took out a small white paper box. “The Wagners mentioned when you were in high school, there was a bakery that made the best cookies. Howard’s Bakery. I stopped by on the way here.”

Vicky savored the aroma of the amazing oatmeal cookies as she slid the parcel across the table. She knew they were amazing because she’d eaten one on the way over.

Joan opened the box and took out a cookie. “I haven’t had one of these in years.” She took a bite. “Mmm. The best.”

They sat sipping coffee and chewing cookies in silence for a few moments before Joan took an exaggerated, pointed look at the wall clock above the stove. “Okay. I have things to do. What’s this all about, really?”

“I’m trying to find the woman with the bag.” Where there was a woman’s bag there was, or had been, a woman. Presumably.

“So you said. Why?”

“Okay. A friend told me about a woman who was here the same time as the levee girl. I’d never heard about her, and I don’t think the cops did either. I thought I’d ask around.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“My friend talked with you.”

Joan tilted her head. “You’re going to have to give me more than that.”

“Direct. I like it.” No reason not to play it straight. “She saw the bag on your front porch. Like I said, I’m doing research for a travel article. I’m building it around Lisa Dee, the mystery girl on the levee.”

Silence.

Okay, so give a little more. “I was working in St. Louis at the time. I was a TV reporter.”

“I thought I recognized you.”

“Is that why you’re giving me such a hard time? I get it. But her story haunts me, y’know? How’s it possible no one knew that little girl?”

Joan was silent, but she might be starting to thaw. Her face was slightly softer.

“The case has never been officially closed, but after all this time? I want to talk to people who didn’t necessarily want to talk to anyone official. Who didn’t say anything back then or didn’t realize until later what might’ve been connected. Like the girl and the woman.” As Vicky sat back, she put extra friendliness in her eyes. “Or who maybe had very good reason not to talk.”

“And?”

“And I want to talk with the bag’s owner.”

“Fine. Good luck.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I have no idea who she is or where she is.”

“But she was here.” That much was clear already. “How long did she stay with you?”

“Why do you want to find her, whoever she is?”

“I’d rather explain to her.” Vicky raised her last bite of cookie and deadpanned, “Damn fine cookie” and popped it into her mouth.

Joan rolled her eyes and gave a hint of a smile. She squinted at the wall clock. Maybe she had something to get to, but it appeared to be more of a message than a time check.

Vicky followed her glance. “If you’d rather not talk about her, I completely understand. It’s up to you.”

“I don’t want to talk about any of this.”

“I understand. It’s fine either way. I did just show up without any warning.” Vicky leaned forward. “Look. I get it’s hard to talk about this, especially with someone who just appears out of the blue. But it’s been nine years, so whatever was going to happen already has. What difference could it make now if you tell me about her?”

Vicky fiddled with her mug to give Joan time to think. It didn’t surprise her when someone was reluctant to share something private. She was more often surprised by how much people did tell her, frequently far more than she’d be willing to share. She was one-sided that way. Not secretive, necessarily—just keenly aware that once something was shared, the sharer has no way to control how it’s received or what the recipient might do with it.

Joan sat, unmoving, offering no clues to her thinking. She had the brightest blue eyes Vicky had ever seen, and a strong face, framed by a lot of living, that didn’t need words to say, “don’t mess with me.”

Vicky leaned back into her chair. “I get it. I really do. I bet I’d feel the same way if someone asked me.”

“Well, I’m asking. What’s this all about? You tell me why you’re really here, and I’ll think about it.”

Vicky held Joan’s eyes for a long moment. Joan was hard to read. People sometimes said that about Vicky, though she considered herself reasonably expressive, unless she didn’t want people to know what she was thinking. Like right now, as she chewed over what level of truth to share. “I told you. I covered the story of Lisa.”

Joan crossed her arms. “It’s not going to be that easy. Tell me why you’re so interested. And I don’t believe this crap about a travel story.”

“I really am working on a travel article. But I also knew someone involved with the case.”

“You’re talking about Rick Carr.”

“Oh, you know Rick? How’d you know I meant him?”

“How do you think?” Joan’s voice was even.

When in doubt, don’t commit. “I’m not sure.” There. Brilliant response.

“Why do you think I brought him up?” Joan’s eyes probed.

“Because he has the same kind of bag. Do you know where he got it?”

“How well do you know him?” Joan’s voice was low and clear, neutral.

“He was a cop and I was a reporter. We’d see each other on stories.”

Joan raised an eyebrow. Clearly, Vicky had to share more to get her to talk. “Mostly from work. Then I ran into him one day. Funny, I just told my friend this story. This was right around when they found Lisa, the little levee girl.”

Vicky recapped the liquor store encounter.

Joan gestured “get on with it” with her coffee cup. “And? You’re sitting on Rick’s porch getting a little loose…”

“Not really loose. I wasn’t, anyway. He told me about putting down his dog. We talked about work.”

Vicky paused and sipped her coffee. They had gone inside. She’d leaned against the doorway, next to his bag and paperwork on the table. His face reflected in the window when he filled a glass from the tap. He looked beat down. She knew exactly what that was like, to let yourself sink deep into how bad you feel.

“So were you seeing each other?”

“No. The closest we ever got to anything personal was when we hugged—once.” Vicky tried not to think about two sad people in need of human comfort. Then her shock at what followed. No reason to say any more about The Rick Bag Incident.

“Anyway, he had the same kind of bag as this mystery woman. Do you know who makes them?”

“That’s it? You hugged?”

“With our jobs it wasn’t a good idea to get involved.”

“Did he say that, or did you?”

“Ha. We agreed.” Vicky liked drawing information out from people, but it was uncomfortable being on the other end. Enough. Joan clearly wanted to know something specific about Rick. She was older than him, but they were from the same rural area. Were they friends or foes or lovers, or insignificant to each other? Interesting.

“Why are you asking about Rick?” Vicky raised her eyebrows and tilted her chin in light challenge.

“Why are you asking about this woman?” Joan set down her coffee cup. “This is my life here. I need to know what you’re after. You didn’t really tell me what happened with Rick. Don’t forget I know him, too.”

Why does she care about what might have happened with Rick? “This is more about the woman. It could be coincidence that she and Rick had the same bag. But she was here, right here, at the same time as Lisa.”

Joan gazed at Vicky before she gave one sharp nod. “Okay. A woman was here. Why do you want to talk to her?”

Vicky exhaled softly. Inside, she did somersaults. Her hunch about the bag had paid off. “She and Lisa must have been connected. Had to be, two people showing up way out here, at almost exactly the same time. Did the cops ever even know about her?”

“Let me see some recent work.”

“Sure.” Vicky pulled out her phone. A single bar. “It might take a minute.”

She finished tapping and set it down. “While we’re waiting, I’ll just tell you. I’m planning to write about the mystery of Lisa. I’m putting a travel spin on—”

“Did it come up yet?”

Vicky checked her screen. “No. It’s just one article, but it’ll give you the idea.”

“I’ll get my computer.” Ruby got up from under the table, followed Joan to the doorway, and sat just outside the kitchen.

Joan murmured something to the dog when she returned. She placed a sleek laptop on the table, flipped it open, and spelled, “R-O-B…?”

Nice laptop. “E-S-O-N. Vicky Robeson.”

Joan clicked keys and scanned the screen. Vicky assumed she was Googling her and regretted not updating her online presence lately. She wanted to ask for Joan’s wi-fi password but that might be pushing it.

After tapping and reading for several minutes, Joan closed her laptop. “All right. But I still don’t get why a travel magazine would care about this.”

“The way I—”

Joan put her hand up. “I already decided, okay? You’re right. It was a long time ago.”

Vicky leaned forward, barely breathing.

“Okay. Your mystery woman. I’ve never told a soul a word of this.” Joan glanced at the clock and took a sip of coffee before continuing. “It was late. I’d just finished supper.”

Joan explained she was working in town at the time, as a cashier at the grocery store. That was before she got a job transcribing legal notes at home. She was a certified paralegal now. Vicky got the distinct impression Joan didn’t particularly like being around people and handling legal paperwork fit her solitary nature better than selling bread and milk and cigarettes.

“I didn’t have a dog then. There was a noise at my back door and when I opened it, a woman stood there. Her face was bruised and swollen, like she’d been beat up.”

Vicky didn’t move or take her eyes off Joan.

“I asked if she was okay, and she no more than opened her mouth than she fainted right there on the back porch.”

“And you took her in?”

“I put her on the couch. She woke up when I dabbed at the blood on her forehead, checking to see how hurt she was.”

“You didn’t take her to the doctor? Call for help?”

“It’d take too long. And she wasn’t so bad off. Cuts and bruises, but nothing broken, as far as I could tell.” Joan shrugged. “She wouldn’t say what happened.”

“How old was she?”

“She looked young, late teens, early twenties. She had the bag strapped across her body.”

“How long was she here?”

“Just that night.”

“Hmm. What else did she say?”

“Just what I told you. I cleaned and bandaged her up a bit. She wouldn’t get out of her clothes to take a bath. She had some soup. I fixed her a bed on the couch. We watched some TV before bed.”

“That’s it? She didn’t say anything else?”

Joan picked up her mug. “In the morning, we had coffee on the front porch. I was getting refills when she ran into the kitchen, half-yelling, half-whispering that someone was coming. She begged me not to tell anyone about her. She took off toward the creek, limping but moving fast. A few minutes later your friend knocked on my door. Guess she told you about that, so you know the rest.”

“She didn’t say anything about a little girl?”

“Nope.”

“Did you tell the cops about her?”

Joan crossed her arms. “No.”

She seemed to be daring Vicky to ask why not, so she did. “Why not?”

“She begged me not to.”

“What about the cop who was here? You told my friend he might’ve overheard you say something.”

Joan shrugged. “That was separate. He came around asking about the little girl before the woman ever showed up at my door. I was about to make him coffee when I noticed my best knife was missing.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“I didn’t know who took it, or why. I wasn’t sure what was going on, so I kept quiet.” Joan paused. “I’ve had my differences with cops. I don’t talk with them if I don’t have to.”

Sure would like to know more about that. Maybe later. “After the woman ran off, did you think about telling the cops? You know they’d have wanted to talk to her.”

“She begged me not to. She didn’t want anyone to find her.” Joan dropped her voice to almost a whisper. “And when we were watching the late news, there was a story about the little girl being found. And she kinda squeezed her hands together like she was praying, and said, ‘Thank God.’ I figured if she’d wanted to come forward, she would’ve. She knew the girl was safe.”

“I can see that.” Though not entirely. A person would have to have a very good reason to sit on this info all this time. And to tell it now. “I wish we had her name, so we didn’t have to call her ‘the woman.’ ”

“There’s more I didn’t tell you.”

Of course there was. “There is?”

“She had blood on her. It wasn’t all the way dried.”

“Was she stabbed?”

“More beat-up than cut, but she wouldn’t let me check her. I don’t think the blood was from her.”

“She fought back.”

“And she might have won. She got away, anyway.”

“You said the last you saw she was running out your back door?”

“Her name was Alisa. She didn’t say her last name.”

“The last time you saw Alisa, she was running out back?”

“I told her to wait for me at the creek, that I had to go to work but I’d take her somewhere safe later. It was dark by the time I looked for her.”

“She wasn’t there?”

Joan shrugged.

“What was in her bag?”

Joan pursed her lips.

“Come on, Joan.”

“Back off.”

“Okay, how’d you know Rick had the same kind of bag?”

“He had it with him, sitting right there where you are.”

“Rick was the cop in your kitchen?”

Joan got up and went to the percolator. “What’s it matter?”

“Just curious. What’d he say?”

“He said a girl was found walking up by the Willets place.”

Joan took a long time with the coffee refill, her back to Vicky. “He asked for coffee. I was about to make it and noticed my knife was missing. I might’ve said something then.”

“About the knife?”

“Maybe more like ‘what the hell.’ Who knows.” Joan returned to the table and sat down. Ruby returned to her spot under the table. “I told him I didn’t know anything about a little girl. And I didn’t. Don’t.”

“You knew Alisa and Rick had the same kind of bag.”

“Not until later. Alisa showed up hours after he left.” Joan made a little hmph sound. “He sat there, all polished up and acting official. I started thinking about how much I hated his pa. I told him to leave, that we’re not going to have coffee and act like friends, ‘cause we’re not. His daddy dragged Mama and me back here, the one time we had a real chance of getting away. Our one chance to have a normal life.”

There was a faint quiver in Joan’s voice. Vicky willed herself not to speak, not to move, to just listen.

Joan’s jaw tightened. “His pa stood right there in his sheriff uniform telling Mama she needed to stay home. Said Bill Beck was a decent guy and he’d be more careful about his drinking. What a sick joke. Anyway, Rick left, and later that evening Alisa showed up.”

“Wow. I can understand why you’d be mad. How old were you when you and your mama tried to run away?”

“Twelve.”

“That must have been incredibly hard.” No wonder Joan didn’t go to the cops. She probably identified with Alisa.

“So.” Vicky acted as though something had just occurred to her. “When Alisa ran off, she left the bag on the porch. Where my friend saw it.”

Joan dipped her chin once, fast, more of a jerk than a nod. “I forgot about it until it was too late.”

“And you still have it. Can I see it?”

Joan eyeballed Vicky, then stood and left the room, saying only, “Wait here.” Ruby returned to the doorway and stared at Vicky, who didn’t move from her seat.

Several minutes went by before Joan returned, carrying a box wrapped in a plastic garbage bag. “I’ve kept it ever since that day.”

Vicky barely breathed.

Joan picked up a dishtowel and brushed off dust. She opened the bag and removed a cardboard box. “I hid it away in case she ever comes back.”

She opened its flaps and took out a package wrapped in brown paper, about the size of a mostly full ten-pound sack of potatoes, but not as heavy.

Joan carefully undid the wrapping. “I’ve wondered if this could ever be evidence against me somehow."

Inside was a tote bag, made of a rich dark leather, deep brown with the slightest hint of crimson. Its flap was held in place by a two-inch long toggle hooked into an intricately carved, ingeniously simple handle. It was gorgeous.

“Against you for what?” The clasp resembled old Chinese ivory carvings. The bag did remind her of Rick’s, as she remembered it, though this one was not quite finished. The flap had a raw edge, and one side of the strap wasn’t knotted like the other.

“I don’t know. I kept it anyway.” Joan undid the clasp and opened the flap. She tilted the bag so Vicky could see what was in it, then used the dishtowel to take out each item and place it on the table.

There wasn’t much: a wood-handled kitchen knife, covered with what looked pretty much exactly like old, dried blood; something that resembled a desiccated potato; and a silver hair clasp tarnished nearly black.

“That’s my knife,” Joan said unnecessarily. She picked up the hair clip. “I think she was filing down this end, maybe to make a weapon.”

“She used your knife, instead.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“How’d she get it? She was in your kitchen before she stabbed someone?”

“Hell if I know. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Do you think she and the girl were together?”

Joan started packing up the bag and its contents. “Probably.” Her movements were abrupt. “Okay, that’s enough. I have things to do.” She stood up.

“That’s a lot. I think I can understand why you kept it to yourself.” Not entirely, though. Keeping the bag might bolster the mystery woman story, sure, but there’s got to be more to it. “I can’t imagine how anyone could hold it against you for helping her. Do you know who makes these bags?”

“There’s no reason for you to repeat any of this.”

Vicky tilted her head. She’d made no promises. “I’m glad you decided to talk with me.” Though she still wondered why she had. “I’m going to keep trying to find Alisa. If you think of anything else, will you call me?”

When Joan didn’t reply, Vicky put her card on the table and stood up. “Well, guess I better get going. Thanks for everything. I’ll keep you posted if I do end up writing anything.”