In Search of Eden (17 page)

“My goodness, you sound so businesslike.”

“Hi, Ma.”

“Hello, dear. Will you be here for dinner?”

Pause. “Sure. I'll come for dinner.”

“You'll bring Eden.”

“I'll round her up.”

“Have you heard from her yet?”

“Not yet. She should be reaching the first checkpoint in . . . twenty minutes.”

“Call me if there's a problem.”

“Will do.”

Ruth hung up and put the phone in her pocket, and greatly relieved that Joseph was here and willing to take charge of his light-footed niece, she went inside to start supper.

chapter
16

T
here were sure ways of knowing when spring had arrived in southwestern Virginia, Joseph reflected. Catkins covered the willows and the ash trees, and tulip poplars were full of buds. Under the trees, snowdrops and skunk cabbage gave way to trillium and Solomon's seal. The warm-weather birds returned, and the first people got lost in the woods—this year it was a group of tourists in search of ramps, the wild leeks that grew in patches on the forest floor and were so prized by local people. Joseph had taken a search and rescue team in three nights ago. Although the tourists were frightened and cold, they had been easily found, having left tracks as plain as handwritten directions. But the real sign of spring—the one that never varied from year to year, that arrived on or about the first of April and departed with the first frost of winter—wasn't in the woods or on the lake or in the air. This migration came up Highway 25 from Murphy Village in North Augusta, South Carolina, whereupon the flock split, each one fanning out into the countryside to ply their shiftless trades or sell their worthless wares—in short, to see what poor bumpkins could be fleeced. The true arrival of spring came with the first Irish Travelers.

Their names were few—all Murphys or Gormans, Toogoods, Rileys, Sherlocks, or Carrolls. The men seemed to all be Pats or Mikes, Jimmys or Petes. They carried many sets of false identification and an assortment of license plates from Alabama, Tennessee, Arkansas, and Texas that could be shuffled and switched at will. Some drove commercial trucks and would offer to sell an inexperienced business owner a load of machine parts or tools at rock-bottom prices, always offering an explanation that only the hardest of hearts could resist.
“The man who ordered these died,”
or
“I have to unload these quickly. I just got word my wife has had an accident, and I don't have money to get home.”
The tools, so shiny and new, fell apart at first use. The phone number on the bills of lading was disconnected. They would offer to seal your driveway, repair your roof, trim your trees, exterminate your pests, and either do nothing and charge you top prices or steal you blind on departing. Or all of the above. They preyed on the elderly, on people who trusted strangers. Joseph hated them and had made it his mission to keep his town free of them. He thought of them as vermin that should be poisoned or trapped. They were predators. They didn't belong here.

He stood now with Henry in Ernest Norwood's living room and burned with anger. The old man's white hair stood on end from running his trembling hands through it. The shaking of his head could be either from dismay or from palsy.
Who could steal from someone so helpless?
Joseph wondered again and wished for twenty minutes alone with the perpetrators. Since Norwood's farm was outside the county line and in Henry's territory, he was asking the questions, leaving Joseph to fume in silence. Unfortunately, the description Mr. Norwood provided could fit seven out of ten men—medium height and build with dark complexion. He drove a white utility van. Of course, he hadn't thought to note the license plate number.

“He seemed like a nice fella,” Ernest said, ducking his head in shame. Joseph could imagine how he felt. Useless, stupid, not even a competent human being, much less the vigorous man he
used to be. Mr. Norwood had been a deacon in the church when Joseph was a boy, and he remembered seeing him drive his tractor down the road every day as he rode the school bus home. Mr. Norwood grew tobacco and tied the finest fishing flies around. Joseph had one in his own tackle box, as a matter of fact. He had been strong, hardworking, and kind. It wasn't right that he should be victimized this way.

“He said he had some paving materials left over and if I let him seal my driveway, he'd give me half off. It wasn't until this morning that I noticed my bankbook was gone.”

“The sealant was probably water or just plain oil,” Henry said. “Have you called the bank?”

Ernest nodded. He wiped his mouth and shook his head. “I was too late. He cleaned out my account with a check he cashed in Beckley with false identification.” So he had driven across the state line to West Virginia, where no one knew Ernest Norwood from Adam. “They said I might get my money back, but they'll have to look into it.”

“Don't feel bad, Mr. Norwood,” Joseph said. “These people are slick. They make it their business to know how to get people to trust them. We'll get your money back for you. Never mind the bank.” Henry gave him a warning look, which he ignored. If he had to pay it out of his own pocket, he would.

Mr. Norwood shuffled back to his chair, and Henry and Joseph left.

“Don't you think you'd better just cool your engine there, sonny?” Henry asked him as soon as they were out of earshot. “You look like you're about to explode. Besides, you shouldn't make promises you can't keep.”

“I'll keep it.”

Henry gave him an appraising look and said nothing more.

“So where are you going to start?” Joseph asked.

“With the bank in West Virginia, I suppose. Get a description and a copy of the ID. Do a records search. Put out an APB on the car. Keep my eyes open and put out the word that people
should keep their doors locked and not trust anyone.” He looked as disgusted as Joseph felt.

Joseph drove back to the office feeling anger, but underneath it was something deeper, a grief of sorts that he felt every time a crime happened, even though this one was not technically on his watch. It was a disruption, a tear in the fabric of their world, a blot on a white garment, a snake in the garden. He tightened his jaw and felt the grief turn to something uglier. There should be no mercy for people like that. And when he found whoever was responsible, he would show none.

He had a wry twist of humor, thinking that he pitied the next person who crossed his path while committing any infraction of the law. He would have to mind himself or they would become the target for all of his pent-up frustration and powerlessness. He had no sooner formed the thought than a huge silver Cadillac pulled out in front of him, causing him to stand on the brakes to avoid a collision. The driver never even saw him. Shaking his head in disgust, Joseph flipped on the lights and gave the siren a whoop. After a few more seconds the big Caddy awkwardly pulled over to the shoulder.

“Well, for crying out loud!” Miranda said to nobody in particular. “Of all the luck!” She obediently pulled over to the side of the road, trying not to drive Mr. Cooper's late wife's Cadillac into the ditch, then shook her head and gathered her thoughts, all the while glancing in the rearview mirror. A very big, very tall man was unfolding himself from what she now realized was an unmarked police car, and he didn't look any too happy. He covered the distance to her in a few long strides and in seconds was leaning down into her window. Looming over it, more accurately. He had sand-colored hair, greenish gold eyes, and a nice enough face except for the fact that it looked like it never smiled. She pasted on a happy grin herself and tried to look suitably apologetic. He was having none of it.

“You pulled out in front of me back there,” he accused her.
“If I hadn't slammed on the brakes, I would have hit you.”

She didn't like being scolded, though heaven knows she had taken enough of it in her life. She felt her back tense up. “I apologize,” she said stiffly, her chin going into the air in spite of herself. She thought about mounting a defense of some kind but decided the least said, the better. The truth was, she had been so busy thinking about her mission here and wondering where to start that she hadn't even seen him.

“May I please see your driver's license?” he asked with the exaggerated politeness that policemen always have before they write you a ticket.

“Certainly, you may.” She dug around in her purse and found her wallet, then dug around some more until she remembered she had pulled out her driver's license the last time she'd used her charge card and had put it in her change purse. “It's right here,” she said, smiling encouragingly at him. “I just forgot where I put it.”

He glared at her and took it from her hand. He studied it, then glanced at her, studied it some more, gave her another look, turned it over and inspected it front and back, then put it on his clipboard. It was always bad when they brought the clipboard.

“May I see your registration and proof of insurance please?”

Uh-oh. She kept her dismay to herself, though, and gave him another smile. “Well, of course you may.” She opened the glove compartment and dug around. She finally found the registration and handed it over, but the last proof of insurance she could find was dated 1998.

He read the registration, then looked down at her with a frown. “This vehicle is registered to William Cooper of Nashville, Tennessee.”

“He's a friend of mine,” she explained. “He loaned me the car.”

The policeman frowned again, then went back to his car. He stayed gone for ten minutes or so, then came back and handed her the registration.

“So you found out it wasn't stolen?” All right, some of the sweetness may have been wearing a bit thin by then.

He didn't answer her. He was busy writing. He tore off the ticket and handed it through the open window.
Failure to yield right of way. Failure to provide proof of insurance.

“Since you're just passing through, I'd appreciate it if you would proceed to the city hall and pay this fine right now. And you'll have to schedule a court date.”

“A court date! What for?”

“Failure to yield doesn't have a preset fine. It can be a misdemeanor or an infraction. The judge will decide.”

She opened her mouth to speak but didn't get a word out before he continued.

“Go down to the next intersection, turn right, then make another right and park in the visitors spot in front of the town hall right by the statue. I'll follow you just to make sure you don't get lost.”

She shook her head in disbelief and started to protest, but on seeing his suspicious expression, she thought better of it. She didn't know why she had ever thought him attractive. “Suit yourself,” she said smartly and rolled up the window. No need to be overly polite anymore. She did not look at him, just stared straight ahead. After a minute he went back to his car. She started up the Cadillac and drove very, very slowly—well, maybe even more slowly than she should have. She plodded along at about ten miles per hour. Another whoop of the siren nearly made her jump out of her skin.

“Do you want another ticket for obstructing traffic?” His voice came echoing over the loudspeaker, turning heads and drawing stares and not a few smiles.

“What traffic?” she hollered back, but thankfully he couldn't hear her. She drove at twenty-five the rest of the way, then parked in front of the city hall. He pulled in behind her car so she couldn't back out. Well, of all the nerve. She gathered up her purse and ticket, along with what remained of her dignity, and
walked up the stairs. She could almost hear her mama scolding her.
You walk around with your nose in the air, all high and mighty, and somebody'll bring you down a peg or two.
She stepped inside the swinging door, and it was only then that she looked back. He was watching her, and he gave her a little salute with two fingers. Well, of all the cheek. Her face grew hot with anger. Of all the things in the world she couldn't stand, arrogant men were at the top of the list, and arrogant policemen were even worse, she now knew. She thought about going down there right now and telling him what she thought, but on second thought, she didn't want to spend the night in jail. With a longsuffering sigh, she turned toward the desk and followed the signs to schedule her court date.

chapter
17

H
er dealings with the criminal justice system finished for the time being, Miranda came out of the courthouse and looked around furtively before climbing into the Cadillac, ready to proceed with her search. The only problem was, she had no idea where to begin. She drove up and down the quaint streets for a while, a little nervously, expecting the whoop of a siren to blare out at any second.

She left the town center and entered the outskirts, happy to put a little more distance between her and the police headquarters. On each side of the highway were green pastures and fields and rolling hills. A green-and-yellow John Deere tractor went slowly by in the opposite direction. She shook her head, marveling at the irony of it all. Middle of nowhere, Virginia! That's where she had ended up. She had wandered all over creation in her footloose days, and now she realized she had been looking for her child in every little face she saw. But it was plain to see that she needn't have been wandering to Minnesota and Maine and New York and Los Angeles. The only clue had pointed here all along. This was where she should have been looking, just two hours' drive away from her home.

Abingdon, Virginia. It hadn't been hard to find. She had bought a travel atlas and located it easily. It was about twenty miles northwest of Bristol in southwestern Virginia, within a stone's throw of Tennessee, Kentucky, and West Virginia. She supposed it wasn't a random choice that Mama had picked the adoptive parents from here. She and Aunt Bobbie had grown up somewhere close by. Were there relatives still living near here? She supposed the answers to the questions had died with Mama. They were things she never talked about.