When Time Is a River

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  He double-checked the numbers beside the door with the address Daniel had provided, and then rang the bell.

  Light flooded over the porch. Someone peeked out between the lace-curtain panels that covered the door’s window.

  Radhauser waited.

  A small woman, wearing a gray-flowered dress with a peach-colored sweater draped over her shoulders, answered. She had walnut brown hair, streaked with silver she hadn’t tried to hide with hair coloring. A woman secure in herself—one without pretense. Her eyes were kind and the rich brown color of dark chocolate.

  He took off his Stetson. “Are you Kathleen Sizemore?”

  She nodded.

  He removed his badge from his jacket pocket and introduced himself.

  Her eyes widened as she took a step back. Her gaze wandered over his jacket, his jeans, and then landed on his boots. “Are you sure you’re a police officer?” She spoke to him through the screen door.

  “Detectives are rarely in uniform. I’m here to ask some questions about Emily Michaelson.”

  Her brow furrowed. “It’s terrible. I saw Christine on the news. I’ve been trying to call Brandy. Is she all right?”

  “She’s a strong kid. And she’s trying hard to help.”

  Kathleen scrutinized him for another moment, as if trying to determine if he was safe enough to invite inside. “Why aren’t you out looking for Emily?”

  “I am. It’s why I’m here.”

  Her mouth stayed open, as if the full implication of what he’d said dawned on her. “I can assure you Emily is not with me.”

  “I didn’t think she would be. I’m talking to everyone who knew Emily.”

  She opened the storm door.

  He stepped inside.

  “I left tea water boiling on the stove. Would you mind talking in the kitchen?”

  Though Kathleen was probably not any older than Radhauser, he felt as if he were entering his Boston-raised grandmother’s house. Maybe the best way to get Kathleen to open up was to have tea with her.

  Her hands were so white he half expected them to leave a floury print on her skirt as she wiped them. A woodsy smell seemed to linger on her clothes, as if she’d just taken them from a cedar-lined closet.

  As she led him through her house, he took in the details, trying to get a feel for the person who lived here. The living room was furnished with an overstuffed sofa and chairs upholstered in a blue and yellow flowered fabric. Above the sofa hung at least twenty needlepoint pictures, expertly done, framed in dark wood and artfully arranged. His mother and grandmother had done needlepoint. Some of Kathleen’s looked like antiques. Even if she’d purchased them, they told him she was an old-fashioned woman who took pride in her home and in the traditions of her female ancestors. The kind of woman who’d be scandalized by her lover’s affair with his student.

  They passed through what was meant to be the dining room, but Kathleen used it to house her piano, an old mahogany upright that hosted an assortment of framed photographs, most of which he recognized as Brandy. In all of them, she’d turned her scarred cheek away from the camera.

  In the kitchen, he took a seat at a round oak table that looked out on a small backyard. He set his Stetson on it, crown down.

  She gave him a look that said she didn’t approve of hats on the kitchen table and nodded toward an extra chair.

  He’d go ahead and humor her, if it would help put her at ease. He picked up the Stetson and placed it on the seat cushion.

  “Would you care to join me?”

  When he nodded, she handed him a saucer and bone china teacup. Her hand trembled slightly as she placed a matching plate of oatmeal cookies on the table in front of him. What was she hiding?

  After pouring him a cup and covering the teapot with a quilted cozy, Kathleen took the seat across from him. “Are you sure Brandy’s okay? I know she must be terrified and I’m worried sick about her.”

  “You’d be proud of her.”

  “I always have been. Now what is it you want from me?”

  “The answers to some routine questions.” It was a canned reply and Kathleen was astute enough to know it, but too well-mannered to say anything.

  Her gaze found his, and for the span of several heartbeats their eyes held.

  She looked away.

  He could tell by her expression she knew he wasn’t being entirely straightforward. “Do you own a garnet heart necklace set between two diamond-looking stones?”

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t give that necklace to Emily.”

  “Brandy told you about it.”

  She nodded.

  “Did it seem suspicious to you?”

  “I know for a fact Brandy called every parent in Emily’s preschool class, because she did it from my phone. No matter what Christine might be saying, Brandy is a responsible young woman, Detective Radhauser.”

  He said nothing, suspecting he’d get more information from Kathleen if he listened and took a soft-spoken approach. He nodded to encourage her to keep talking.

  “I’m sure Brandy thinks this is her fault,” Kathleen said, a flash of irritation in her eyes. “No doubt Christine’s doing. I can tell you one thing for certain—Brandy is always careful with Emily.”

  “She seems like a responsible kid,” he said, careful to keep judgment out of his voice. “But this time she left the stroller unattended.”

  Kathleen grimaced. “She’s a teenager, and if you ask me, Christine expects far too much.”

  “Brandy says she often meets you in the park and that you never take your eyes off Emily.”

  “She reminds me a little bit of Brandy when I first met her.”

  Radhauser’s radar went off. Maybe Kathleen wanted another chance to be a mother. But if so, what had she done with Emily?

  “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary when you meet Brandy in the park? Someone paying too much attention to Emily? Someone who appeared to be watching her?”

  She told him about Kent and the way she’d warned Brandy to be vigilant. “I’m sure I overreacted the last time. It was this past Tuesday. April 20th, the same day those two boys went on that killing spree out in Colorado. Everyone was talking about it. Such a horrible tragedy.” Kathleen paused and shook her head. “I told Brandy no one suspected those boys at Columbine were planning a mass murder either.”

  “Did she make Emily stop playing with him?”

  “No, but she did talk with him.”

  “Do you know his last name?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Look, Detective Radhauser. If I could do something to help find Emily, don’t you think I would? For Brandy’s sake, if nothing else.”

  She had a point. Kathleen didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who’d deliberately hurt someone she obviously loved. “Does Brandy take care of Emily often?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m asking the questions. How often does Brandy take care of her sister?”

  “Nearly every afternoon on school days. And most of the day on Saturday.”

  He heard the resentment in her voice. “You don’t like Christine Michaelson much, do you?”

  She stared at him hard. “It’s a complex situation.”

  He met her gaze, kept his steady. “Unravel it for me.”

  “Have you ever heard that crass saying? ‘The more you stir excrement, the more it smells.’ That’s part of my past I prefer not to visit.”

  He smiled at what it must have taken for her to repeat those words. “I guess that saying is true, ma’am, but this is a kidnapping investigation.”

  “I didn’t kidnap Emily, so I don’t see why you need to probe into my private life.”

  He smiled. “You make me sound like a proctologist. Until she’s found, everyone who had any connection to Emily is a suspect.”

  She sucked her bottom lip under her top row of teeth while she tried to find the words. And when she began to talk, she cl
osed her eyes as if unable to witness herself saying them. “Daniel Michaelson hired me to take care of his little girl. She was three-and-a-half, scarred inside and out. I loved her from the moment I saw her, peeking at me from behind her dad’s pant legs. After a few years, Daniel and I fell in love, too, and planned to marry.”

  She told him what he already knew—that she’d been Brandy’s nanny since she and her father had moved to Ashland. She’d gotten Brandy involved in acting, and had encouraged her singing because Kathleen had understood it was a way for Brandy to grieve her mother; that the three of them had become a family.

  Kathleen paused and shook her head, a look of profound sadness on her face. “Then one day Daniel came home and told me about Christine. He cried. Apologized. Asked for forgiveness.” She paused, met his gaze, and lifted her eyebrows. “The usual clichés and platitudes. As pathetic as it sounds, I probably would have forgiven him. But he told me Christine planned to have the baby and he intended to marry her. Brandy was just fourteen. When I moved out, she stood on the front porch crying and begging me to take her with me.”

  Fourteen. Just one year older than his son, Lucas, had been when he died in the car accident—a vulnerable age, caught between the child and the adult they’d one day become. “I appreciate your being so candid,” he said. Judging from the tears welling in the corners of her eyes, it hadn’t been easy.

  “I found out later Christine had a boyfriend. If you ask me, that baby could—” She took an audible breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually one for gossip.”

  Interesting. Wouldn’t be the first time an old boyfriend showed up looking for his kid. “And you know about this boyfriend how?”

  “I work part-time at the university. I saw them together on campus. It was no secret. Everyone in Liberal Arts was talking about it.”

  “What precisely were they talking about?”

  She pursed her lips, hesitating. “I’ve already said too much.”

  “This is a kidnapping, Ms. Sizemore. A child’s life is at stake.”

  “I wasn’t there. But apparently he confronted Christine in the Student Union, in front of faculty and students.”

  “Confronted her about what?”

  She picked up her linen napkin and wiped her mouth. “About the paternity of Christine’s baby.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know this alleged boyfriend’s name, would you?”

  She lowered her gaze and directed her answer at the tabletop. “I don’t remember.”

  Radhauser knew she was lying. “I think you do.”

  “Are you a psychic as well as a proctologist?”

  “I interview enough people to know when someone is avoiding the truth.”

  She closed her eyes, nodded as if trying to pull a name from her memory. “Glenard,” she said with her emphasis on the last syllable. “It’s Gaelic. Glenard Dewar, like the scotch. He was a student at Southern Oregon University, just like Christine. He’d be a senior now.”

  Radhauser made a note of this new information. “Do you mind if I have a look around your house?”

  “Whatever for? You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with that child’s disappearance.”

  “Where were you between 3 and 3:30 this afternoon?”

  She sat back in her chair and shook her head. “Are you this…this rude with everyone?” She pressed her fingertips against her temples as if checking for an irregular pulse.

  “I’m doing my job. I don’t know anything about you. But some people would say you had motive to hurt Christine.”

  Kathleen picked up her teacup and carried it to the sink. The cup rattled against its saucer.

  “You have a pretty good reason to hate her.”

  She turned to face him, blinked twice. “There’s a price to hating. And I’m not willing to pay it. As for where I was at three o’clock today, a pipe broke at the Little Theater in Talent and our rehearsal was cancelled. So, I took advantage and went to Costco in Medford. Where do you think I got those oatmeal cookies you’ve been scarfing down?”

  Heat rose on the back of his neck. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. “Did you see anyone you knew there?”

  “Not that I recall.” She held her hands out in front of her. “Are you going to handcuff me and read me my rights, Detective Radhauser?”

  “A little girl is missing. And her life may be in danger. I have to check out everything and fast. The first twenty-four hours are crucial.”

  “Go ahead. Look anywhere you want. Then maybe you’ll start searching in a place Emily might actually be.”

  He checked the guest room that doubled as a sewing room, the bathroom, and Kathleen’s bedroom. He opened closets and looked under the beds. Before he returned to the kitchen, he pulled down the ladder that led to the attic, jerked the long string that turned on the light, and climbed the stairs, Kathleen only a few steps behind him.

  She stood with her back pressed against a supporting roof beam while Radhauser searched the attic.

  Elaborate costumes hung from the rafters. He recognized Tin Man and Lion from The Wizard of Oz. Elizabethan costumes and fancy sequined gowns sparkled in the light from the single bulb. The attic smelled like mothballs.

  On the off chance that Mrs. Wyatt was telling the truth this time, he needed to question Kathleen about the costumes.

  “Did you make these?” he asked.

  “Running a small theater and giving acting lessons doesn’t pay the bills. I make a little extra money now and then sewing costumes for local theater groups.”

  “Were you asked to make any costumes for the Children’s Health Fair?”

  She shook her head.

  “Have you ever made a bear costume?”

  She cocked her head and stared at him. “Not so far. But I suppose I could if you need one.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Radhauser found the apartment building five blocks from the university, parked in a gravel lot, trudged up the three flights of stairs, and stopped on the landing of a small complex outside Apartment 3-B. He looked down into the beer-can littered courtyard and then rang the bell.

  A tall, broad-shouldered young man answered. He had dark reddish-blond hair that hung over his collar—and deep-set eyes the color of new leaves. His eyebrows, even redder than his hair, had a funny arch to them that gave him a look of perpetual astonishment. He wore charcoal gray flannel pajama bottoms with zebras printed on them and a black and white striped rugby shirt. His feet were bare.

  “Are you Glenard Dewar?”

  The kid smiled, showing big white teeth that took over his whole face. “Depends on who wants to know. You’re not with the FBI or IRS, are you?”

  Radhauser showed his badge. “I have a few questions I need to ask you.” He tucked his badge back into his jacket pocket and took off his Stetson.

  Glenard didn’t appear to be fazed by a visit from the police. He opened the door and gestured for Radhauser to enter. The apartment smelled like cigarette smoke and something deep-fried. “What’s this all about?”

  “Christine Michaelson,” Radhauser said.

  “Has something happened to Christine? Is she all right?” he asked, genuine concern on his face.

  “She’s okay.” Radhauser did a quick scan of the scene. The apartment was a studio, typical student fare, with a small, cluttered kitchen in one corner, a twin bed that doubled as a sofa near the sliding glass door that led to a four-by-eight foot patio, and a small wooden table with four chairs. Two tall bookcases were crammed full of paperback novels like Moby Dick, The Scarlet Letter, and For Whom the Bell Tolls. Row after row of textbooks, from Intro to Philosophy to the complete works of Camus and Nietzsche. It looked as if he’d kept every textbook he’d had during his four years at SOU—a fact that told Radhauser Glenard wasn’t paying his own way through college.

  A bag of partially unpacked groceries from the Ashland Co-op sat on the square table.

  Radhauser tried to keep himself from being judgmental. This could have be
en his son’s apartment, he thought, as he tried to imagine Lucas as a college senior—living alone—maybe in a studio like this one near the University of Arizona campus in Tucson.

  Glenard paced across the kitchen, his hands jammed into his pockets. “If Christine is okay, then what’s this really about? Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  Radhauser pulled out one of the chairs, sat and took out his notebook. “Christine’s two-and-a-half-year-old daughter was kidnapped this afternoon.”

  “Oh no. That’s terrible.” He pushed the groceries aside, pulled out the other chair and sat. He shot Radhauser a questioning look. “Believe me, I’m real sorry Christine is going through something like this with her kid. But why are you wasting time talking to me about it?”

  “I understand, Glenard, that you used to date Ms. McCabe.”

  “If you don’t mind, I prefer to be called Glen.”

  “Did you date Christine McCabe?”

  “All through high school. And most of freshman year at SOU.”

  “So, she was your girlfriend?”

  The lines on his face softened. “It depends on who you ask.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I thought she was.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Glen settled his gaze on Radhauser, then drew it away—a movement Radhauser usually associated with guilt. But, if what Kathleen had told him was true, maybe it hurt this kid to talk about what really happened with Christine.

  Radhauser suspected Christine had locked some major pain inside Glenard Dewar. And he wondered how far this jilted lover would go to pay her back.

  “It means I didn’t know she was banging old man Michaelson.”

  Radhauser had to give the guy credit for his honesty. “I’ll bet that hurt.”

  Glen shrugged. “I’m over it.” His voice went soft and his hangdog expression conveyed something different than his words.