County Line (12 page)

I don’t bother to speak. He knows what he wants, and I figure he’ll get around to it sooner or later.

“You here for business or pleasure, Mister Kadash?”

I’ll be pleased if I find Ruby Jane. Hell knows I got no business here.

“Just visiting.”

“Who you visiting?”

“What’s the problem, officer?”

“Chief. Chief Nash, Jackson Township.”

I wait him out. He leans down and looks in the car, his face expressionless.

“You didn’t say who you were visiting.”

“Still working it out.”

“Asking questions.”

“I’m looking for a friend.”

“Your friend has been gone for a long time.”

“You know Ruby Jane.”

He stands up, tilts his head to the side until his neck cracks. Then he hands me my license and rental agreement.

“I’ve come a long way. If you could point me toward family or old friends of Ruby Jane’s maybe …?” I let my voice trail off. If he doesn’t like me asking questions, one way to stop me is to tell me what I want to know.

“I don’t think she has family around here anymore.”

“Anyone who might remember her, then.”

“What’s your interest?”

“I’m her friend.”

“From Oregon.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t realize she’d moved to Oregon.”

I shrug. “Chief, I’m a former cop myself. I understand what your concern might be. You can call the Portland Police Bureau and ask for Lieutenant Mulvaney, head of Person Crimes. She’ll vouch for me.”

“Him too?” He points a thumb back at his car. I turn for a better look, realize it’s Pete in the back seat.

“What did he do?”

“Got up in Clarice Nielson’s face at the café. Yelling at her and calling her a liar. Clarice ran out of there in tears.”

“Are you going to charge him?”

“Disorderly conduct comes to mind. Criminal menacing if he doesn’t shut the hell up.”

Now that I know who it is, I can make out the scowl on Pete’s face in the shaded back seat of the patrol car. I can’t help but think it’s at least partly my fault for leaving him on his own.

“Listen, Chief. Something has happened, something of a personal nature. I’m sorry he caused a problem. We need to find her.” I don’t mention Jimmie or Chase Fairweather. Dead bodies will only raise his suspicions. As far as it goes, I’d rather he not call Susan. She won’t be happy getting two phone calls in two days from two different jurisdictions to check up on me, especially with the threat of charges hanging over Peter.

“How long were you a cop, Mister Kadash?”

“Over twenty-five years.”

“There’s nothing to be found here. Ruby Jane Whittaker has been gone almost as long as you were a cop. Her whole family has.”

“I know. But we spoke with her brother—”

“James.”

“Yes. James. And he suggested she might have come back home.”

“I’m not sure she ever thought of this place as home.”

“What can you tell me, Chief?”

“Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He returns to his car. First he opens the back door and lets Peter out. They exchange words and Peter nods, lips tight. He walks to the car and climbs in beside me. He doesn’t speak and I don’t push it. I’ve got my eyes on Chief Nash. I can’t see what he’s doing. After a moment he returns and hands me a slip of paper. He’s written a name—Linda Parmelee—and a street address back in town.

“I called her, told her you would be coming by.”

“She can help us find Ruby Jane?”

“If anyone around here can, it’ll be Linda. When Ruby Jane was still at Valley View, Linda was the only teacher who could get through to her.”

“And they stayed in touch.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“One thing. Lock that one in the car. I won’t even cite you if you leave the windows rolled up.” I try to look grateful. Not sure what I’m grateful for anyway, that Peter isn’t in jail or that I have an excuse to talk to the woman alone. “When you’re done, I don’t imagine there will be any reason for you to stick around.”

“I suppose it depends on what we find out, but we’re not looking for any more trouble. Just our friend.”

He frowns, hands on his hips. He turns and gazes toward the high school. A couple of students are watching from the parking lot. Nash puffs out his cheeks and shakes his head slightly. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“I always liked Ruby Jane, more than she realized.”

“So you did know her.”

“Hell-raiser, that one. Great basketball player.”

“What else, Chief?”

“Talk to Linda.” With that, he leaves us.

- 11 -

Bibemus Quarry

“Can you believe that guy?”

“You’re lucky you’re not facing an arraignment.”

“All I did was ask some questions.”

“And send a woman fleeing in tears.”

“He was being dramatic.”

“Have you ever seen a movie? You do not want to piss off a small town cop.”

I have no trouble finding the address on a quiet little Farmersville street named for a tree or a nut. I toss the keys to Pete, climb out.

“I’ll come in with you.”

I shake my head. “You had your chance.”

“Like you’re such a charmer.”

I respond through my teeth. “Be back here in an hour.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“The Germantown Library. It’s on one of your Google Maps.”

“Why?”

“Ask for the yearbooks, look up Valley View, 1989. Girls basketball team.”

He’s silent, maybe picturing the basketball hoop in her apartment. “Ruby Jane’s a helluva shot.”

“Going way back.”

“So?”

“She had a teammate too.”

“I don’t need to go to the goddamn library for that.”

“Pete.”

“What?”

“You could have stayed in California.”

“Fuck you, Skin.”

He tears away before I reach the sidewalk. I hope the bastard doesn’t wreck my goddamn rental. I didn’t take the supplemental insurance.

The house is a well-kept two-story Federal, blue-grey paint with off-white shutters. A pair of old hickory trees grow in the narrow front yard, just breaking out in leaf. The grass is trimmed, the flower beds tended. There are two mailboxes and two doorbells next to the glass-paned door. Inside, I can see a foyer with a single door, and a stairway leading up. I press the button marked
PARMELEE
.

After a moment, the door inside the foyer opens and a woman looks out. When she sees me, she comes to the front door.

“May I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Parmelee?”

“You must be the gentleman Chief Nash called about.”

She’s a handsome older woman dressed in sharp-pressed khaki slacks and a blue button-down blouse. I have to look up to meet her gaze. Her grey hair is bobbed, her skin lined but clear. I try a smile not too obsequious and tilt my head to de-emphasize my neck.

“I understand you were friends with Ruby Jane Whittaker.”

Her eyes are dark and they narrow slightly. “I was her teacher a long time ago.”

“Has she stayed in touch with you?”

“What’s this about?”

I’m growing weary of repeating the same sad spiel, hoping someone will show a little mercy. If I still carried a badge, or had ever bothered to get a private detective’s license, I might flash credentials and intimidate my way to answers. But all I am is dipshit Skin, oddball on the doorstep asking impertinent questions of someone who probably hasn’t seen Ruby Jane in twenty years. “She’s been out of touch. We’re worried about her.” Even as the words spill from my mouth, I know I sound like an idiot.

“Who’s ‘we’? I don’t understand what you expect from me.”

“Folks from work, mostly.” I repress a wince.

“You work with her?”

“I don’t work for her myself at the moment. She owns a number of coffee shops in Portland, and after I retired I worked behind the counter for a while.”

“You’re a retired what, then?”

“I was with the Portland Police.”

“Has Ruby done something wrong?”

“Not at all. We’re friends. I’m worried about her, me and … several others.”

“So you came all this way from Maine looking for her.”

“Oregon, actually.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I know she grew up here, so I came. But as far as I can tell, she no longer has family in the area. Chief Nash suggested I talk to you.”

She purses her lips. “I’m not sure I can help you.”

I’ve chased a wild goose across a continent and all I’ve gotten for my trouble is wet feet. I’m not ready to give up.

“What do you remember about her? Was there someone she was close to, someone who might still be in the area?”

She shook her head slowly. “Mister—?”

“Kadash.”

A shadow passes over her eyes, as brief and fleeting as a wisp of cloud across the sun. It’s enough, and she realizes I caught it. “Mister Kadash.” She blinks and looks away, then sighs. “I suppose you should come in.”

“I appreciate it.”

“She won’t be happy with me.”

“You can tell her I broke you down through skillful interrogation techniques.”

She frowns, quick and tight-lipped. “She said you were a smart ass.” I follow her inside.

The living room is walled with books, the shelves interrupted by a pair of wide windows and a framed
Bibemus Quarry
print, the same one hanging on Ruby Jane’s wall. Museum Folkwang, Essen. I wonder if Mrs. Parmelee is the source of her interest in the Impressionists.

Mrs. Parmelee gestures toward the couch. “I suppose you’d like some coffee.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Of course it is.” She stops and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, she attempts a smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be short.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll make some coffee. Give me a moment.”

She leaves me and I sit on the couch. The room doesn’t appear to get much use, except for a leather chair in one corner with a brass floor lamp looking over its shoulder. There’s a stack of newspapers on the floor on one side, and a small table on the other with a couple of books and a pair of reading glasses. I catch the faint scent of lemon furniture polish. A mantle clock ticks on one of the bookshelves.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Parmelee returns with two cups of coffee. She sets one on a coaster on the cherry coffee table. “Do you take cream? I can get some.”

“Black is good.”

I sit back, try the coffee. It’s good. I wonder if she picked up a few tips from Ruby Jane.

She sits on the edge of the couch next to me, khaki-clad knees pointing my way. “So.”

“So.”

“This is a bit awkward for me.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I’m worried about Ruby Jane.” The ticking seems to grow very loud. “You’ve seen her?”

She studies her coffee cup. “She’s gone now.”

“But you talked. You know what’s happening with her?”

“Her situation here was always … complicated.”

I sip coffee and wait for her to continue. Despite what I said to Pete, I’ve never been a skilled interviewer. My manner is too brusque, and my presence too discomfiting. Susan was the one to ask the questions when we were partners. But one thing I learned over the years is sometimes the thing to do is sit back and shut the hell up. Most people ache to fill the silence.

But she turns it around on me.