In Search of Eden (35 page)

She walked around him and then away without looking back.

He stood and watched her until the trail curved. He continued walking, but it was without the peace the place usually brought him. His thoughts darted like a fretful bird. If Miranda DeSpain was a criminal, he had just put her on her guard. And if she was not, he had a feeling he had made a grave mistake.

chapter
35

B
y morning, Joseph had gotten over his remorse. He was all detective again, and after a brief breakfast at the Hasty Taste, during which he and Miranda DeSpain coldly ignored each other and Henry looked bewildered, he was back at his office, a copy of her Hasty Taste employment application in his hand, ready to find the facts. He scanned it briefly. She had listed only one job, at the Sip and Bite diner in Nashville, Tennessee. Under dates of employment, she had put that she'd begun working there in 1996 and worked until two months ago with the notation “off and on” appearing at the bottom of the page. Sounded like she'd left plenty of room for wiggling.

He called the Sip and Bite. The phone rang six or seven times before it was answered. The woman's voice sounded breathless, and in the background he could hear the clatter of dishes and the chatter of voices and the strains of “Jesus, Take the Wheel.”

“I'm looking for some information on one of your former employees,” he said. “Miranda DeSpain.”

“Who?”

“Miranda DeSpain,” he repeated.

“Just a minute,” the voice said; then the phone was set down
with a clunk. He waited. The song played and ended. “When I Get Where I'm Going” started up.

“This is Myra Jean.” Her voice was smoky, her accent twangy.

“Are you the manager?”

“Manager, owner, you name it. Now, how can I help you? I happen to be a little bit busy here.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I'm looking for some information regarding one of your former employees, Miranda DeSpain.”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name's Joseph Williams. Lieutenant Joseph Williams with the Abingdon, Virginia, police.”

A pause. “Why are you wantin' to know about Miranda?”

“So you know her?”

“Of course I know her. I've known her since she was born. I knew her mama. I knew her daddy. I know her aunt, and I went to her high school graduation. Listen here, what are you getting at? Because she may have been
confused
a time or two, but that girl has never done a
thing
against the law.
Besides,”
she said, her voice tightening with suspicion, “how do I know you are who you say you are? What are you up to, anyway?”

“I'm not up to anything. It's routine,” he said.

“She applied for a job there or something?”

“Something like that,” he said. Then quickly before she could come back with another question, he asked his. “So you know her? She really worked for you? She is who she says she is?”

“Of course she is. She's a good worker, and you're darned lucky to have her, and by the way, I don't exactly
appreciate
what you're
insinuatin'.
I've a good mind to take down your
badge number
and call your
superiors.”

“I'm very sorry,” he said. “I had no intention of showing any disrespect to Miss DeSpain.”

She sniffed. “Well, here's a
tip
for you,
Lieutenant.
The next time you want to get information, try keeping a civil tongue in your head. It'll get you a lot further than that smart-alecky routine you're using now.” With that she hung up the phone.

Thus chastised, he performed the credit check—Ms. DeSpain had no outstanding loans and no credit history. Odd, but some people liked to pay cash.

He checked her driving record. No tickets or accidents in the last six months.

He called the Davidson County, Tennessee, District Court office and asked about any pending lawsuits with Miranda De-Spain named as defendant. There were none. He repeated the process with Superior Court. There were none.

He called Ed Cornwell at the funeral home.

“Oh yeah,” Ed said. “Seems like a real nice girl. She's done a good job so far. Why are you interested?”

By then he was beginning to get the sinking feeling that his unerring instincts just might have erred in this case. “Purely a formality, Ed.”

“Well, let's just see. She listed a prior address in Nashville, and a next of kin as Roberta Thompson, also in Nashville. Says it's her aunt. Put down references of Myra Jean Mayfield in Nashville at the Sip and Bite Restaurant and a Mr. William Cooper.”

Cooper. That was the name on the car registration.

“Thank you, Ed.”

“No problem.”

Joseph hung up the telephone and performed one last check, just so he could lay the matter to rest. He retrieved the telephone number for William Cooper at the address on the registration. It was listed in the Nashville telephone book. He dialed. The phone rang three times and then was answered by a pleasant-sounding man. Joseph identified himself thoroughly, only this time he had a more logical reason to call. He explained that he was curious about the car registration, and he carefully watched his tone.

“You know, I thought of the insurance lapse after she left. I'm so sorry it got her into trouble. We've corrected it now. She sent me the money, and I've added the car to my policy.”

“So she has your permission to use the car?”

“For as long as she needs it,” he said.

“Have you known Miss DeSpain long?” he asked.

“I've known her since she was a baby. Her daddy brought her over and introduced her to me the day she came home from the hospital.”

They chatted a little more, and their conversation confirmed what Myra Jean at the diner had said but added a few details. Miss DeSpain had come home from her wanderings to take care of her mother, who had recently died of cancer. Joseph felt more and more like a heel.

“So she does have a pattern of traveling around?”

Mr. Cooper chuckled. “Oh yes, but I know she'll get it out of her system someday. She's a good girl with a beautiful heart. She'll settle down when the right time comes. Tell her I said hello, won't you?”

“Thank you for your help,” he said quickly. He had no intention of telling Miranda DeSpain he had been calling her neighbors.

He shook his head and wondered where his instincts had led him astray. Then the last nail was pounded into his coffin. Henry called.

“Well,” he said without preamble, “the Travelers struck again. Yesterday a bunch sold and installed heat pumps for two folks out by Glade Spring. Had some worthless parts encased in a Trane exterior. The pumps worked for about three hours, then started to fall apart. The crooks took them for five grand each. When the customers called and reported the problems, of course the phone was disconnected, and the address given was bogus.”

“So when did the money change hands?” Joseph asked.

“Yesterday afternoon.”

About the time he'd been sparring with Miranda on the Creeper Trail. He sighed. An apology was looming large in his future. He hated apologizing.

“But we did find something interesting,” Henry continued.

“What was that?” Joseph asked, the sinking feeling increasing.

“A local resident returned early from vacation and found a
trespasser camping on his property. Of course, by the time we got there he was gone, but this time we got a physical description of the vehicle, the trailer, and the man.”

“So what's the description?” he asked, training his mind back on business.

“The man was around fifty, medium height and build, gray/black hair, weathered face. No distinguishing marks. This time he went by the name of Jimmy Stewart.”

“A comedian.”

“Yeah. The trailer was a new Jayco. The truck was a late model Dodge Ram. Dark green or black.”

“I don't suppose they got the plate number?”

“No.”

“Well, this is definitely a start,” Joseph said. “And nobody who dealt with the guy mentioned a woman?”

Henry was silent for a minute. “Oh. I get it now,” he said. “That's what's going on between you and the new waitress. Why did you think she was in on it?”

Now that he'd had every one of his reasons blown out of the water, he had no intention of reciting his humiliation aloud. “Because I'm a suspicious, distrustful jerk who thinks if a pretty girl is nice, she must have an agenda.”

Henry chuckled. “Don't be so hard on yourself. Maybe she's as forgiving as she is beautiful. And who knows, maybe she'd even be interested in a rusty-hearted fool like you.”

Joseph sighed. He thanked Henry and hung up. He tapped his pencil on the desk, making staccato vibrations, then got up abruptly and picked up his keys. Like his pop used to say,
“If you've got to swallow a frog, it's best not to look at it too long.”

chapter
36

M
iranda finished work by one-thirty, did her cleanup, restocked her supplies, and was out of the Hasty Taste by two o'clock. She had printed out directions last night, filled her tank full of gas, and packed a small cooler containing sandwiches, fruit, and bottled water. She had worn Capris and tennis shoes to work, so there was no need to change. She glanced at the sky and wondered if she should go back to the apartment for a jacket. It was overcast and cool today, and rain was forecast. She decided not to bother. She hopped in the car and headed for Highway 81 east to Wytheville, where she would get on Highway 77 north, which would take her into West Virginia and on up pretty close to Thurmond. At least to the end of the highway, where she would pick up the tangled thread of roads she must follow to reach the abandoned coal town. She felt a little apprehensive but also excited. This was a mystery she had needed to understand for a long time. And who knew? Perhaps there would be some clues here. She had a feeling of festivity and holiday.

She had searched MapQuest with the only Thurmond address she could come up with, a river rafting outfitter. Apparently the two thousand census had listed eight inhabitants. It
would take approximately two and a half hours to drive there, according to the directions. She set out, enjoying the scenery.

The southwest of Virginia was lovely, especially in the spring, in spite of the gray day. The land was a series of undulating green waves, the fields turned and newly planted, the trees lovely in their lace of tender new leaves. The dogwoods were blooming, along with redbud, and the pink and white blossoms dotted the hillsides, peeking shyly from beneath the larger trees. Behind them the Blue Ridge Mountains, soft blue mounds, stood silent guard.

She pulled off the road and ate her lunch. The traffic picked up. She went through the Big Walker Mountain Tunnel near Wytheville, then through the longer East River Mountain Tunnel that went on for just over a mile. It was odd, knowing she was under the mountain. She felt a sense of oppression in spite of the yellow tiles and bright lights, and oddly, emerging from the tunnel on the other side in West Virginia, it didn't abate but grew in intensity the farther into the state she went.

It was still lovely country, with a fierce and rugged beauty. But as she passed Beckley and left the interstate for smaller local roads, her uneasiness grew. The mountains rose up on either side of her, jagged and sharp. They blocked out the sun, what little there was, and the woods beneath them looked wild and lonely and cruel. These were the kind of woods of evil enchantments and fairy tales, of witches and lost children.

It began to rain and darkness fell. She turned off the highway and drove through small pockets of houses perched between the riverbank and the mountain. The roads were very narrow and winding. The buildings were put so close together it reminded her of beach property. The town, such as it was, was divided on both sides of the river with the railroad tracks running along the banks. She imagined what it might be like to live here. Everything felt tight and cramped and heavy and dark. She rolled the window down and took a few deep breaths. She thought of her mother. Had she lived somewhere near here?

She came to the New River and looked down warily as she crossed the bridge. The tree-covered mountains rose up beneath her. The muddy river made a lazy S with the black starkness of train tracks beside it, a coal tipple and a black trestle going across the narrow part. So here was Thurmond. She drove between a few buildings and parked the car, got out, and looked around. There was not much to see. The Internet had told the truth. It was a ghost town. The only things left were various industrial-looking structures she presumed had to do with coal or the railroad, which seemed to be the only two industries the town had ever had. There was a brick bank building, abandoned. A line of other brick buildings, presumably the famous saloon and rooming house, were now hollow shells. She walked to the trestle and peered down at the churning muddy river. She didn't know if some trains still ran, so she decided not to walk across. There were a few more dilapidated buildings made of brick and stone, all covered with weeds. In the field beside the tracks was the rusted hulk of a car with kudzu trailing out of its broken windows.

The train depot had been turned into a visitor center. She walked toward it and went inside. This, at least, was a little comforting. A pleasant woman in her fifties greeted her. She could smell coffee brewing. The air-conditioning in here made her shiver. She looked at the antique furnishings and followed the self-guided tour. She learned that in its heyday Thurmond had boasted a hotel, a meat-packing plant, a drugstore, a bank, a department store, and several restaurants and boardinghouses. Twice as much commerce had come through Thurmond as through Richmond, Virginia, and Cincinnati, Ohio, put together. Fourteen passenger trains had passed each day. But then the thirties came, and with them the Depression. It had hit Thurmond hard. Things recovered during World War II, but by the seventies, when diesel locomotives came into wide use, Thurmond officially died.