Haunting Refrain (19 page)

“Nothing.”

They left the car and walked over to the wide plate-glass windows, checking the crowd. “They're pretty busy. How about conjuring up an empty table?” he asked, holding the tall glass door for her.

“You can be assured that I'm no witch,” she said, winding through to a small table in the back.

“How so?”

“Because you don't have any warts on your nose.”

“What luck,” he said, rubbing his nose. “But I do want to know if you've had any more . . . visions?
Insights?”

“I don't know what to call them either.
Venice
says visions. But whatever, it's just been more of the same.” She picked up the menu, practically drooling, and wondered how much money she had with her. She hoped they took charge cards.

A waiter who looked as if he should still be in high school brought an iced cranberry tea for Kate and an Amstel for John, then flipped open a pad and took their order. When John ordered a chicken burrito with green chili sauce, the boy asked, “Extra sour cream, Mr. Gerrard?”

“Yes. Thanks, Scott.”

After Scott left, Kate gave John an amused smile and raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Gerrard?”

“Shows respect.”

“Or age.”

“I considered the possibility, but opted for respect.” He took a long drink of the cold beer.
“Better for my ego.”

“Ah.” She smiled,
then
looked down, using her forefinger to trace a swirl in the condensation on her glass. “Tell me about the Nelsons.”

“Last summer there were three of them.
Mom, Pop, and a sister, Rita.
He was a foreman at a textile mill, Mom stayed home and baked cookies, and Rita was just out of high school, summer job at McDonalds.
Nice, ordinary family.”

His face had a somber, reflective look that puzzled Kate, but from his flat, expressionless tone, he could have been reading the phone book.

Then he added, “Completely unprepared for what happened.”

Kate saw the flicker of pain in his eyes. Behind the emotionless voice, he cared. “I gather you met them. Did you cover the story?”

“Yes. It's not my usual beat. Someone was on vacation, I was handy.
Same thing this time.
Jan’s on
vacation,
and Dave has a broken leg.”

Scott returned with their food.

The sight of the black bean tostada and the faint aroma that wafted under her nose caused Kate's stomach to rumble. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. She took a bite and sighed. “This is wonderful.”

Kate ate steadily, but John managed an occasional comment. When she finished, he said, “I like the way you eat—with enthusiasm.”

Her plate was clean. A satisfied smile lit her face. “I was planning on peanut butter.”

“Then I've done my good deed for the day.” He picked up the check and took a worn leather wallet from the pocket of his jeans. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, thanks.” Since she couldn't pay for either of their lunches, it seemed wise not to argue.

* * *

At John's direction, Kate turned off
Main Street
and followed
Augusta
to
Mills Avenue
. She made several turns into a mill village, where paint and landscaping made gave the houses character. Most were neat and well kept, but at the end of a small street, one stood out like a bag lady at the mall.

“Is that it?” she asked.

He nodded and she stopped at the curb. They got out and stood for a minute, looking at the place. On one side of the frame bungalow, an aluminum canopy shaded a dusty green van.
 
Weed-choked shrubs marked the path to the front door. The blinds were drawn, the curtains closed, giving the house a secretive air.

“It didn't look like this a year ago.” He looked down at Kate. She looked thinner. Murder took its toll on all of them. The shadowed look she had had that night at the
para
group meeting had returned. She moved closer to him, but he knew she wasn't aware of it. He shortened his stride to match hers and took her arm. “I'm not going to mention any of your psychic stuff, but if you have any questions that won't scare them, ask.”

Rita Nelson opened the door for them. “Come in. I told them you were coming.” She gestured toward the darkened room behind her. An older woman with short gray hair pointed a remote control at a softly murmuring television set, and the orange-skinned characters faded away.

The man, slumped in a worn brown recliner, continued to stare at the screen. His hands were folded across his stomach; light from an overhead fixture glinted off his scalp through thin strands of hair.

“This is Kate McGuire.” John said as he stepped into the room. He bent down in front of the woman, taking her hands in his. “Hello, Mrs. Nelson. May I ask you a few questions? I don't want to open old wounds, but something has happened, and I need your help.”

Kate followed him in and, at Rita's nod, slipped into a stuffed chair on the other side of the silent man.

The woman held tightly to John's hands. “I know you don't mean no harm, son, but there’s not no more we can tell. Harlan here
don't
talk to nobody nowadays, and Rita don't know nothing.”

“I'd like to try again, though,” he said, sitting on the sofa beside her without letting go of her hands. “Do you know about the girl who was just found in
Lake
Jocassee
?”

“Heard it on the TV,” Harlan said, still staring at the screen.

“It's possible that the same
person
who . . . took Charlene from you, is responsible for her.” He tried to avoid using the words they hated, words that pierced the heart. He caught Kate's eye and saw that she understood.

“Is this one rich? Maybe the
police'll
try a little harder this time,” Harlan answered, turning to John. “They didn't find
nothing
, just quit, when we lost our girl.”

“Mr. Nelson, the police checked out everyone they could connect to Charlene. So did
I
. There was never anything to go on. That's why I want to try once more. Maybe we can find a link between Charlene and Kelly Landrum, someone who knew them both.” He placed Mrs. Nelson's hands gently on her lap and sat back. “Rita, can you think of any connection Charlene might have had with Kelly Landrum? She was a business major at Poinsett and worked at the library there.”

“I never heard of her before this.”

“Can you think of anyone whom Charlene wouldn't go out with, someone who was very interested in her?” John asked.

“No. She went out with lots of boys.” Softly she added, “She was real popular.”

He had noticed Rita checking out Kate's bright clothes. The poor kid had a drab gray look. Everything about her seemed dull. “What are you doing now, Rita? Are you in secretarial school?” On a hunch, he asked, “Are you dating anyone?”

“No,” she said quickly, darting a glance at her father. “I'm working at the mill.”

“What the girl's saying is, I
ain't
worked regular in the last year. She's helping to take care of her mother and me.” Harlan, without taking his eyes from the blank television screen, slumped further into the chair. His voice had a rusty, lifeless tone. “Rita's all we got now. She
don't
go out much.”

Kate looked from one to the other and listened, saying nothing.

“Rita, you ought to go on to school like you planned. You're what?
Nineteen?
Twenty?
You should be getting out, enjoying life,” John directed his words to Rita, but the message was for her parents. “I learned a lot about Charlene last year. She wouldn't have wanted you to sit here and do nothing. She would have told you to get on with your life.”

Harlan snapped out his trance. “You stay out of this. Whoever took my first daughter is still out there, and he
ain't
getting the other one. She stays right here, or I know where she is every minute.” His voice rising, he sat upright in his chair and glared. “If we was rich, they'd have done caught the son of a bitch.”

“Harlan!”

“It's all right, Mrs. Nelson. But maybe one of you knows something that can help catch him. You might save the next woman.” He nodded toward Kate. “Do you have any personal items, maybe a gift from a
boyfriend, that
we could see. Maybe Kate would have some ideas.”

“Or perhaps some letters or papers.” Kate spoke for the first time.

“There's—” Rita began.

“There's nothing of Charlene's we're giving out. Nothing we got left that can help.” Harlan stood. “Now you upset my wife and my baby girl. You'd best be leaving.”

“I apologize if I've upset anyone, Mr. Nelson.” John held out his hand. “We'll go now.”

The older man hesitated,
then
shook John’s hand briefly. “Don't mean to be hard on you, son. But
ain't
no one
going to catch that . . .” He looked at his wife and let the sentence trail off.

“I understand, but if you should think of anything, will you give me a call?” John handed his card to Mrs. Nelson.

“Goodbye,” Kate said. She quickly scribbled her home number on the back of one of her cards and slipped it to Rita, whispering, “Please call if you think of anything.”

The girl took the card and looked back at her father. She bit her lip, but didn't say anything.

“You drive.” Kate handed John the keys and got in the passenger side. She wanted to think about the Nelsons, and she figured John wouldn't strip the gears or wreck the car on the way back to the newspaper office. She wondered if he had known those people before. He didn't sound as if he had grown up here, but there seemed to be a connection. His sympathy and caring were genuine, more than she would have expected from meeting them for a couple of interviews.

“You look tired. Let's go for a ride, clear out the cobwebs,” John said. “I know a nice place to sit and think.”

“Okay,” Kate agreed and turned her face toward the window to catch the warm rays of the afternoon sun, content to be a passenger. Her eyes closed, and within seconds, she had drifted into a dreamless sleep.

When the engine stopped she looked around, surprised. “How did we get here? Is this
Paris
Mountain
?”

“Yes, we're at one of the remote picnic areas. You missed the ride.” He handed her the keys, but made no move to get out of the car. “But as it only took twenty minutes, you might want another nap.”

“I'm sorry. I keep going to sleep when I'm with you. I don't know why.” But she did know—she felt safe with him, able to relax.
As long as you're careful what you say.

“I don't want this to sound wrong, because, in an unusual way, you're beautiful. But you have a tense, edgy look. Maybe 'haunted' is a better word.”

She didn't know how to answer a left-handed compliment like that. “Let's go for a walk.”

They left the car and John took her hand to help her down the short, steep bank where the path left the road. She didn’t need the help, but she needed his touch. When the path leveled off, he kept her hand. As the trail wound through woods and over rocks, sometimes narrowing so that they had to walk single file, he occasionally changed hands or held his hand on her back. But always, he kept a reassuring hand on her.

Turning off the main path, they followed a narrow trail beneath a canopy of oaks and stopped to watch three mallards glide down to the water. Kate began humming softly, slightly off key.