When Time Is a River

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  “I already told the police I didn’t see her,” he said after looking at the photo. “I’m sorry.”

  Brandy thanked him and hurried on to the next house. The door had a brass knocker mounted just below two small windows. She used it, the sound hollow and urgent.

  An old man answered. He wore a grey cardigan with a mustard stain on the front. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I always used to order whatever any kid was selling. I bought donuts and Girl Scout cookies, those candy bars the Little League teams used to sell.” He paused and shrugged. “But I live with my daughter now. And I’m on social security and a special diet.” His eyes were watery and pale blue, but there was a kindness in them. He started to close the door.

  “I’m not selling anything.” She gave him her spiel. “My little sister is about as tall as a yardstick. Her name is Emily.” Brandy handed him a flyer with Em’s photo.

  “I’m sorry. My daughter already talked to a detective. Your sister’s a cute little girl, but I wasn’t anywhere near the park today.” He shook his head. “All those kids. They give me a headache.” A small dog, some kind of poodle mix, barked and jumped on the old man’s legs. He reached down to pet it.

  “Emily is brave but she’s afraid of the dark,” Brandy said. “And someone might be hurting her right now. Please, just think for a minute. Did you see anything outside your window? A little girl with brown curly hair? Maybe she seemed lost. Or maybe you saw someone carrying a child who looked scared.” Brandy gulped in some air.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t see anything. I was in my backyard most of the day. But you might check with Mrs. Wyatt. Three doors up. Ever since her husband died, she never leaves her house. That woman stays glued to her front window with a pair of binoculars like one of them surveillance cops.”

  “If you remember anything. Anything at all, please call the number on the flyer.”

  “Don’t ring her doorbell,” he cautioned, speaking louder now as if she’d suddenly grown deaf. “She’ll hide. And she won’t answer. But tell ya what. Suppose I call her and say you’re coming. If she wants to talk to you, she’ll leave the front door open.”

  Brandy thanked him and hurried down the steps to the sidewalk. She ran past the next two houses. She’d go back once she’d talked to Mrs. Wyatt.

  In the house next door to Mrs. Wyatt’s, someone played the piano—tenuous, one note at a time, as if searching for a tune. Maybe he was a composer. Ashland was filled with artists, actors and musicians. Artists were kind people. Surely no one who made art would hurt a little girl like Emily.

  When Brandy stepped onto Mrs. Wyatt’s porch, a woman edged the drapes aside and peered out.

  Brandy attempted a smile.

  The curtains closed.

  She heard the heavy sound of footsteps as Mrs. Wyatt crossed the room.

  The door opened.

  Brandy took an instinctive step back. Mrs. Wyatt was the fattest woman Brandy had ever seen.

  “You must be the girl with the missing sister. Mr. Collins phoned and said you’d be coming.”

  Mrs. Wyatt had thick gray curls and wore a pair of khaki pants and a short-sleeved, black shirt big enough to fit a rhinoceros. Her arms were fleshy and thick as tree trunks.

  She grabbed a flyer from Brandy and studied Emily’s photo. “Come inside,” she said, then lumbered over to a sagging blue plaid sofa, pausing twice to catch her breath.

  Brandy fought her revulsion and followed. The dimly lit living room smelled like mothballs, garbage, and fish sticks. The room had the musty, oppressed feeling of a house that never opened its windows.

  Mrs. Wyatt’s belly hung down between her legs when she sat, facing a television that was turned to some cop show, but muted.

  Brandy glanced around. The room looked like one of those places that package and ship things. UPS, FedEx boxes and bubble wrap were strewn everywhere. Piles of receipts littered the coffee and end tables. Newspapers stacked up in the corners.

  “I don’t drive anymore,” she said, as if reading Brandy’s thoughts. “I order what I need.” She shrugged and swept the room with her gaze. “And a lot of things I don’t.” She offered an apologetic smile.

  Through an archway into the kitchen, Brandy saw containers from Pizza Hut and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Brown Chinese food boxes with little wire handles. And delivery bags from Greenleaf and other restaurants on the Plaza were lined up on the kitchen counters.

  Trying to keep the shock off her face, Brandy gave Mrs. Wyatt her spiel about Emily and waited, eager to get back outside into the fresh air. “Did you see anything?”

  Mrs. Wyatt clutched the hem of her shirt. Her hands were plump and dimpled, her fingernails perfectly manicured and painted hot pink. “I watch people coming and going from the park all day.” Her gaze traveled to the windowsill where a pair of binoculars sat, lenses down, on the ledge. “No one would believe the things I witness.”

  Brandy felt sorry for her. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary this afternoon between 3:15 and 3:30?”

  “I don’t know. I saw a lot of things. What happened to your cheek?”

  Brandy couldn’t waste time being evasive. “An escalator accident when I was three. Did you see my little sister by herself or…” She swallowed. “Or with someone?”

  “I’m sorry about your face. Did you fall?”

  “Tripped over my shoelaces.” Brandy’s gaze found the binoculars again. “Were you watching the park today?”

  “Plastic surgery works wonders. I saw this program—”

  “I’ve had more than a dozen surgeries. The police say our best bet at finding my sister alive is during the first twenty-four hours. Please, Mrs. Wyatt, I’m begging you. Did you watch through your binoculars today?”

  “I don’t have much to do anymore,” she said, lowering her gaze. “So, I watch people.”

  Such a sad life. “That’s great. I was hoping to find someone like you who keeps a lookout for innocent little kids like my baby sister. So, please, Mrs. Wyatt, what did you see today?”

  “It was an unusual day,” the fat woman said. “So much activity. I love music. And there were so many little children. All those bear costumes.”

  “I know,” Brandy said. “Just look at Emily’s photo again.”

  Mrs. Wyatt studied the picture of Emily on the swing for another long moment and then shook her head.

  “Close your eyes,” Brandy said. “Sometimes that helps me remember things.”

  When Mrs. Wyatt nodded, her four separate chins folded in on each other like a Chinese fan. “It was probably nothing.”

  “You never know when something might be important. Did you see her? Was she alone? Or did someone…”

  Mrs. Wyatt opened her eyes. And for the first time, Brandy noticed they were thick-lashed, beautiful and dark, the iris nearly as black as the pupil. “I can’t be sure.”

  “But you do remember something, I can tell.”

  Mrs. Wyatt said nothing.

  Brandy’s hands shook and she couldn’t keep the flyers from trembling. She had to find a common ground, something that would make Mrs. Wyatt trust her enough to tell her what she’d seen. “I’ve been blaming myself for what happened to Emily. You see, she’s my half-sister and sometimes I’m jealous because she’s so perfect. Everyone talks about how beautiful she’ll be when she grows up. And I have these scars that make people turn away from me. Like I’m some kind of freak.”

  The woman’s fleshy face filled with sympathy. She knew what it was like to be seen as a freak. “You’re like a willow branch, so slender and beautiful. Don’t let the scars take your life away.” Her voice was wistful and she kept nodding, as if she understood and felt everything Brandy had ever endured.

  “I did see a person,” Mrs. Wyatt finally said. “A man, I think, in a Pooh bear costume. He put a little girl into a car seat and drove off. What struck me as strange is he didn’t take off the bear head. And it was pretty awkward for him getting into the front seat. He still
had it on when they drove out of the lot. The girl had dark hair, but I can’t be sure she was your sister. And he could have been one of the workers. It could have been his own child.”

  Brandy tried to keep her voice calm. “Could you see what the little girl was wearing? Did she have on a jacket?”

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Wyatt said. “Maybe something red.”

  Brandy had to refrain from leaping into the air. “Like a red corduroy jacket?”

  “I can’t be sure. But I think so.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a station wagon or one of those minivans. A grey or blue/grey color. I’m not good with makes and models.”

  “Do you know what time this occurred?”

  Mrs. Wyatt shook her head.

  Brandy glanced across the room at the television set. “What were you doing? Were you watching a program?”

  “I think it was around 3:30 or so. Oprah was about half over. It was during the commercial break.” She attempted to get off the sofa, but failed and had to rock several times before she stood. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  Brandy tried to contain her excitement. This was an important lead. “But you did help. Would you be willing to tell the police what you told me?”

  “No.” Mrs. Wyatt made her way toward the door. “The police don’t like me. I’ve called them before. They never believe anything I say.”

  “Why not?” Brandy asked.

  She shrugged her massive shoulders. “Who knows? But I won’t talk to them. Not ever again. Besides, I didn’t really see anything that would hold up in court. Lots of little girls have brown hair.”

  “I don’t care about court,” Brandy said. “This is my little sister’s life.”

  About halfway to the front door, Mrs. Wyatt paused and caught her breath. “You could stay for a while if you like. I have some fresh cookies I had delivered from the bakery. You must be hungry.”

  Brandy needed to talk to Radhauser. “Thank you. Maybe some other time.”

  “Did I tell you about my brother’s son? The way he got lost on a camping trip.”

  Quickly placing both hands over one of Mrs. Wyatt’s, Brandy said, “I’ll come back after we find Emily. You can tell me anything you want.” Brandy vowed she’d take out the trash, wash the dishes and do whatever she could to help this woman. Mrs. Wyatt said she loved music. Maybe Brandy would bring her guitar and play some songs. She’d force herself not to think about the smell inside the house or all the empty food cartons.

  Brandy opened the front door. “Thanks for talking to me,” she said, realizing how much it had cost this woman to let anyone inside.

  Chapter Eleven

  Brandy raced up her own street to the driveway, hoping Radhauser was still there. Reporters from the local television and radio stations who’d been loitering on the periphery of their house now swarmed around the porch, pencils and pads at the ready. It was dark now and the yard lit up like a stage set.

  She pushed her way through the crowd to get to Radhauser who was talking to the videographer. Brandy tugged on the sleeve of his denim jacket. “I just talked to a woman who—”

  “Not now,” he said without looking at her. “We’re about to go live on Channel 12.”

  A blonde woman wearing skinny denim jeans, high heels, and a teal blue jacket, finger combed her hair, then turned to Christine. “Are you ready?”

  “Please,” Brandy said to Radhauser. “It’s important.”

  He raised his finger to silence her. “This won’t take long.”

  She backed away, stood over to one side, and watched a photographer angle a camera at Christine. When the flash went off, her stepmother grimaced and turned her head away.

  With video cameras running, Christine stood on the front steps, her eyes red from crying, and made a tearful and heartfelt plea for the safe return of her daughter. She announced the family was offering a $5,000 reward for information leading to her return. “Emily is just a little girl. She’s spunky and full of mischief and life. She loves her Pooh bear, her big sister, Brandy, and Bing cherry ice cream cones. Her daddy and I miss her so much, and she needs to come home to her family.” As if she’d exhausted all her reserve to stay calm, Christine’s voice wavered, rose and fell before it dropped to a whisper. “All we want is Emily’s safe return.”

  Brandy’s stepmother had changed so much in the past few hours that she no longer looked anything like the sassy redhead who’d left to attend her mother’s birthday luncheon. Above them, helicopters hovered, casting their strobes onto the ground like spotlights. With the thump-thump of the rotor blades, Brandy’s shoulders relaxed a little. If Emily were out there alone, surely those helicopters would find her.

  Her father hurried over and stood beside Christine. He draped one arm around her waist to help hold her up.

  Radhauser took the microphone and introduced himself. “At this time, we’ve issued an AMBER Alert,” he said to the reporters. “And a hotline has been…”

  Brandy, too excited to listen, bounced up and down on the balls of her feet and reviewed the things she wanted to say to Radhauser. Hurry up, she kept thinking as he held up the photo of Emily, relating the height, weight and description she’d given him. He slowly recited the hotline phone number. And then, as if to be sure, he said it again.

  As soon as he put the microphone back into the news commentator’s hand, Brandy rushed to Radhauser again. “I think I uncovered an important clue.”

  The blonde commentator straightened the collar of her blouse and flashed her brilliant, toothy smile. “There’s a subdued atmosphere here in the mountainside town of Ashland, Oregon, as neighboring communities join forces in the search for…”

  Radhauser pulled Brandy away from the crowd of reporters. “Be careful what you say. You’ll have those news hounds chasing you everywhere.”

  She quickly told him what she’d learned from Mrs. Wyatt. “It makes sense. Emily wouldn’t be afraid of someone dressed up as Pooh.” She tried to keep her voice calm, to sound like a professional. “Mrs. Wyatt was pretty sure the little girl wore a red jacket.”

  He gave her a look that was a mixture of pity and warning. “Look. The police have already interviewed residents on Granite. And we’ve had a lot of contact with this Wyatt woman. She’s called in dozens of suspicious things she allegedly saw in the park.”

  “What kind of things?”

  He stared at her, as if considering how much to say. “Kids on rollerblades she called aliens. A young couple making out in the back seat. She phoned it in as a rape and murder in the Winburn lot.”

  Brandy squeezed her fists shut as if she could crush his words. “I think she’s telling the truth this time.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “No,” she said.

  One of the reporters shot a worried glance at her, then quickly looked away.

  She lowered her voice. “Don’t do that. Mrs. Wyatt begged me not to tell the police.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Radhauser said.

  The spotlights that made the yard seem as bright as a sunny afternoon went out, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  “It’s not because she’s lying.” Brandy’s voice sounded squeaky and a little too high. “She’s just embarrassed about her weight.” She thought about Mrs. Wyatt stuck in her garbage-filled house, curled up in her own loneliness.

  Radhauser said nothing.

  “I don’t care what you think,” Brandy said. “We should check with the costume shops. See if anyone rented a Pooh.”

  A local newsman carried a tripod and video camera across the front yard to his van.

  Radhauser dropped a hand onto her shoulder. “You’re thinking like a detective, kid. And that’s good. Believe me, I don’t take any leads lightly. We’ll contact every costume shop within a fifty-mile radius of Ashland.” He hurried off to the patrol car he’d parked in their driveway.

  Brandy watch
ed him drive away, then trudged around the side of the house where she could be alone. She tried to keep her mind from skipping ahead to scenes she didn’t want to imagine. The sun had set, casting streaks of purple and orange low in the sky. She sat on the grass with her back against the oak tree outside her bedroom window. When she wrapped her arms around her knees, her limbs felt numb as if they’d fallen asleep. She didn’t care what Detective Radhauser thought. She’d developed a rapport with Mrs. Wyatt and there was no way she’d lie about what she’d seen.

  * * *

  Radhauser needed to find out the extent of Kathleen Sizemore’s relationship with Daniel Michaelson. How she felt about Christine. And where she was this afternoon when Emily disappeared.

  As he drove toward Kathleen’s house, Radhauser couldn’t get the image of Christine and Daniel Michaelson as they stood in front of the news cameras out of his mind. The life had gone out of them. They were two people as absent from themselves and each other as the little daughter they were so frantic to find.

  Radhauser imagined what he and Gracie would look like, standing in front of a wall of reporters, if Lizzie had gone missing. He wished he felt more positive about the hotline, but experience had taught him most of the calls were useless, lonely people in search of attention—or just plain nut jobs like Mrs. Wyatt. But he couldn’t take any chances. Perpetrators sometimes called—seeking the thrill of taunting the police.

  It was dark when Radhauser parked the patrol car in front of Kathleen Sizemore’s house on Vista. What he assumed to be her teal blue Taurus was in the driveway.

  He jogged up a set of concrete steps to a pathway lined with solar lights tucked in among yellow, red and purple flowers. Gracie would be able to identify them all. Radhauser recognized only the daffodils. The beds had been recently mulched and smelled of pine bark.

  The house, one of the garage-less Craftsman bungalows built in the fifties and so popular in Ashland, was set on a hill and painted a soft shade of yellow with dark blue trim. While he was taken in by the neatness of the little house and everything that it said about the woman who lived here, he thought about the old saying, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And he remembered Millie, a waitress in Tucson who’d murdered her ex-lover’s current girlfriend—not because he’d left Millie for this other woman, but because the new woman had hurt Millie’s man in a pretty horrific way.