by Terry Shames
The two women exchange a glance. “I don’t think she went to church,” Misty says.
“You know she didn’t, Misty.” Carol fixes her with a severe look.
“She was a Baptist at one time,” Amy says. “But she said the church got too strict for her taste, and she didn’t have the heart to look for another church home.”
Carol’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well, Elaine and I were friends,” she says, “but she was a little free-thinking. She might have been better off if she’d met a man through church instead of putting herself out on that website.”
Misty blinks her pink eyes furiously. “Carol, that’s not fair, and you know it.”
Carol sniffs. “I suppose you’re right.”
“You know I am.”
Amy meets my eye, and I can see she’s having trouble stifling a laugh.
I should be amused too, but it’s hard to find my sense of humor with Loretta missing.
Although the women seem eager to please, they have no answers that I find helpful. I thank the women for their time, but it seems wasted. Loretta didn’t play bridge, and as far as I know, she wasn’t interested in birds.
When they’ve gone, Amy’s mood plunges along with mine. “I wish I could be of more help.”
“Do you know where Elaine had her hair done?”
Amy looks blank. “I know she liked the woman who did it, but I don’t know where it was.”
“Did she shop at any particular clothing store in town?”
Amy grimaces. “If she mentioned one, I don’t remember. There were a lot of years between us, and we didn’t dress the same.” She blinks. “Wait. I remember a few weeks ago, she came over for coffee and said she had been to a new store in town and she thought I might like it too. Raven Black or Black Raven or something like that. No. It was Blackbird. I thought it was a funny name for a clothing store.”
As I’m leaving, I get a call from Maria. She is leaving the outlet mall and says she’s discouraged. I tell her to meet me at Blackbird.
“It will take me an hour to get back this late in the afternoon. They might be closed by then.”
“You sound out of breath.”
“I’m walking to my car.”
I tell her I’ll go over to Blackbird and make sure they stay open until she gets there. “I think you might have a better handle on what kind of questions to ask at a woman’s store than I will.”
“Oh, don’t be so squeamish just because they sell women’s clothes. Act like you’d act if you were questioning a man’s clothing store. It’s all the same.”
In my car, I put in a call to Hogarth and ask him whether they have Elaine Farquart’s credit card bills and bank records. “I’m looking for any connection between her and my friend Loretta. It’s possible they went to the same beauty shop.”
“That’s a good thought. Come on by the station. I’m on my way out, but I’ll have Marks get you her credit card bills.”
It’s four-thirty when I get to the Bobtail Police Department. I’m in a hurry. Blackbird closes in an hour. But Hogarth is as good as his word. The duty officer hands me a sheaf of printouts.
I scan them as I’m walking back to my car. “Bingo,” I say. Both women went to the same beauty shop.
I key in the name of Darlene’s Beauty Shop on my phone and see that it’s out on the edge of town. I’m torn whether to go straight there or stop by the Blackbird clothing store. But a call to the beauty shop answers the question. They’re closed on Monday.
I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to talk to the owner. I want to question her now. Hoping she leaves a home number, I dial the shop’s phone, and sure enough the message gives an emergency number. “Yeah?” A man’s voice answers.
“I’m looking for the owner of Darlene’s Beauty Shop.”
“This is her number, but she’s not available at the moment. I can take a message.”
“I need to talk to her pretty quickly.” I identify myself.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I’m her husband. We’re in San Antonio. She’s in a department store. I bailed out, and I’m waiting for her in a coffee shop.”
“How soon will you be back home?”
“We’re going to have supper here at the Crab Shack, so I don’t imagine we’ll be home much before nine depending on traffic.”
“Do you know if she’ll be in the shop tomorrow?”
“Bright and early.”
“Thank you. I’ll talk to her then.”
“Can I tell her what it’s concerning? She’ll be curious.”
“I have a few questions about one of her clients.”
Blackbird is downtown, on a block that has been newly renovated. Everything looks modern, lots of steel and glass and bright colors, like stores you see in Houston or San Antonio. I can already see the effect on neighboring areas. Scaffolding is up on a tired-looking building down the block, and a couple of stores have “Closing Soon for Renovation” signs. Bobtail is coming up in the world—or at least in the county.
One step inside Blackbird, and I know I’m lost. A young woman with a head full of curls, who makes me think of what Wendy must have looked like when she was young, glides over to me. She has kind eyes and an amused smile. “How can I help you?” Her tone implies that she thinks I might be lost.
I pull out the photos of Loretta and Elaine Farquart. “I wonder if you’ve ever seen either of these women?”
Her smile disappears, replaced with a somber look. “That’s Elaine. Yes, we knew her. What a tragedy.”
“How about this woman? Her name is Loretta Singletary,” I add, thinking that even if the photo doesn’t jog her memory, her name might.
She studies the photo. “I don’t remember her. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t been here. We get a lot of people in who browse and don’t buy anything. Or she might have been in when I wasn’t here.” Her gaze lingers on me. “If you’re asking about her and Elaine, that’s not good, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.” I muster a smile. “Good deduction on your part. Loretta is missing, and I’m trying to find out if there was any connection between the two women.”
“I never saw the two of them together. But again, that doesn’t mean they weren’t here when I was off.”
I find out that there are three other possible clerks: two who work on weekends and another one who works during the week. “And there’s the owner, Shelly Wycoff. She’s in and out.”
I’ve brought copies of the photos and leave copies with her. “If anyone has seen Loretta, with or without Elaine Farquart, have them give me a call.”
I’m standing outside wondering whether I should ask in any other shops when Maria wheels up. She gets out looking grim and frazzled. “That damn road between here and San Antonio gets worse every time I travel it.”
I don’t like hearing that. Maria is close to her family in San Antonio, and I worry that one day she’ll decide the commute is too much for her and she’ll transfer to the San Antonio Police Department. “It was rush hour,” I offer.
I tell her that the young woman in Blackbird wasn’t able to help.
“But there is one thing.” When I tell her about the connection with the beauty shop, she’s excited.
“Let’s go talk to her.”
I tell her the owner of the shop is in San Antonio and won’t be back until late.
“Let’s see if there are any other clothing stores around here that Loretta might have shopped in.” She glances at her watch. “We have a few minutes before people will be closing up.”
A block away, in a row of older, more traditional-looking stores, we pass a clothing shop that even I can tell sells clothes that probably appeal to an older crowd. We go in and startle a curvaceous woman in her sixties. She’s making a last stand against age with bright lipstick and heavy eye makeup.
I introduce the two of us and pull out the photos.
“Why yes, I recognize both of those girls. Loretta has been coming in here for years. Not that she buys that much, but
she likes to browse.”
“And the other woman?” I ask.
She cocks her head to one side. “Yes, I recognize her. She’s the woman who was killed. Her picture was on the news. But I don’t think she was ever in here.”
“Is it possible that she was here when another employee was workimg?”
“No, it isn’t. I’m the only one who works here. I’m the owner, and I had to let my last employee go last summer.” She turns to Maria. “You probably noticed there are fancy new shops going in. I can’t keep up. I’m going to have to sell, but I’m putting it off as long as I can.”
“It’s a nice store,” Maria says. “I imagine you have long-time customers who will be sorry to see you close up.”
The woman’s eyes widen. She nods and purses her lips. I have the feeling that if she spoke, she’d start to cry.
I tell her why we are asking about Loretta. “Oh, my goodness. She’s missing?” She glances at Elaine Farquart’s photo again, and I see her make the connection that if one was killed, the other might be too. “Did you ever have any conversations with Loretta?” Maria asks. “Not really. I knew she was from Jarrett Creek and that she has two sons . . .” Her voice trails away. “Come to think of it, it has been a while since I saw her.”
Because Loretta had started wearing more youthful clothing.
Tomorrow will be a week since Loretta disappeared. In the evening when it’s time to check on my cows, I realize that I’m too distracted to do a good job. If something was wrong with one of them, I’d hardly notice. I’ll call Truly Bennett tomorrow and see whether he’s home yet and hire him to do a thorough job of examining them.
On our evening walk, Dusty and I pass by Loretta’s house, and I think again about the man I disturbed inside. There was no way to figure out who he was. No fingerprints. I got no visual on him—just that he had some strength and moved faster than I did. It was dark when I encountered him. He had parked a car around the corner, but he zoomed away before I could get there.
I’m staring at the house when the neighbor on the west side comes out on the porch. He waves at me, and I walk over to greet him. He’s a lanky widower with barely a wisp of hair on is head. He wears thick glasses, but he still peers at me as if he has trouble seeing. His hearing is almost nonexistent, but if you yell you can get through to him.
“Hey, Irwin,” I say.
“No need to yell,” he says. “He points to his ear. Got me some hearing aids.”
“That’s good. How are they working?” I go up on the porch with Dusty.
“Pretty good. I had to get them so I could talk to my grandson on the phone. His mamma told me he was tired of yelling at me. Else I wouldn’t have bothered.”
“Well, maybe you can help me out. I guess you know Loretta is missing.”
“That’s why I come out here. I wanted to tell you what I seen.” He gestures toward Loretta’s house.
My heart quickens. “What’s that?”
“Last Tuesday morning, I come outside to turn on the sprinkler, and I seen Loretta back her car out of her garage and drive away like her tail was on fire.”
“Which way did she go?”
“Toward town.” He nods toward the east, where the highway runs through town.
“But you didn’t speak to her.”
“No. I probably wouldn’t have anyway. She was in a hurry. You know Loretta. Always busy, always running here and there.”
“Did she have a suitcase with her?”
“No, sir. That came later.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tuesday evening, I put on my sprinkler and got to watching TV and forgot about it. At 11:00 p.m., I remembered, and I came outside to turn it off. Somebody was coming out of Loretta’s place in a big hurry, carrying a suitcase.”
“A man?”
He scrunches up his eyes and looks over toward Loretta’s house. “Dressed like a man, but . . .” He draws a breath, and I wait while he gathers his thoughts. “Something about the way he walked put me in mind of a lady.”
“Tell me how he was dressed. Or she.”
“Slacks. A shirt, maybe tan or brown. And a baseball hat.”
“Could you see if the hat had a logo?”
“It was too dark, and it all happened fast.”
“Why didn’t you call me to tell me this?”
“I only heard at church this past Sunday that she was missing. I suppose I should have called after that, but . . .” He shrugs. “Figured it was her business if she’s gone off with a man.”
I think again of the man I caught here. At least I thought it was a man. Irwin doesn’t see very well, which could account for his uncertainty. “Have you seen anybody hanging around here in the past few days who you don’t recognize?”
“Only her son. He comes outside to smoke. I can understand that. If he smoked inside, Loretta would have his hide.”
“Anyone else?”
“You’re thinking somebody might break in and steal something with her away?”
“Not sure. If you happen to see anything unusual, though, give me a call.”
CHAPTER 21
Tuesday morning Dusty is frisky, and when we go down to check on the cows, he dashes around like a wild dog. He manages to scare up a squirrel and chases off into the woods after it. Between his frantic barks, I hear it in the trees, chittering. He won’t come when I call him, and I have to walk back into the woods and haul him back by the collar until we’re close enough to the house that he forgets about the squirrel.
I’ve been thinking I need to put time in training him. He’s a smart pup, and Maria keeps scolding me and telling me he’ll be unruly if I don’t train him now.
Maybe because it has been a week since Loretta disappeared, I feel a particular sense of dread as I walk back toward the house. I think of all the times I’ve walked back just in time to meet Loretta coming to my front door with baked goods. I always enjoy seeing her familiar face, smelling and sampling the results of her hard work, and sharing a cup of coffee and a bit of morning news with her. It’s satisfying above and beyond eating the baked goods. It’s about knowing someone for a long time. I have never really considered how early she must get up to do the baking. Does she do some parts of it before she goes to bed? Does she set her alarm and get up in the wee hours and then go back to bed while dough rises?
Another thing I never thought about is that it must be expensive buying all the ingredients. Why does she do it? It has to be a labor of love. And to think that I have never thought to pitch in financially. I take her out to dinner occasionally—at least I used to before I met Wendy, but that hardly makes up for it. I’ve taken her for granted.
It’s only seven-thirty, and Darlene’s Beauty Shop opens at ten, so I have time to kill. When Hogarth told me that Elaine Farquart’s body was found, he described the location. I want to go out and see the spot for myself. Not that I think I’ll find anything that the Bryan and Bobtail officers haven’t already gone over, but I want to get a sense of the place.
As usual, Dusty is thrilled to go for a ride. I take my pickup instead of the squad car because it sits up higher and I can see more. It’s a beautiful day, and I have the windows down. Dusty sticks his head out the side window and lets the breeze flap his ears back.
Hogarth described a couple of markers, and I slow when I see an abandoned shed on the left-hand side of the road. He said a quarter of a mile beyond that is a culvert, and 200 yards farther is where Elaine’s body was found. He said I’d see yellow tape that they put up for the crime scene. Sure enough, there it is, looking jaunty and waving in the breeze. It has been affixed to a couple of pipes stuck in the ground.
Other than the yellow tape, the site is desolate. This is not fertile ground, and the whole area is overrun with knee-high weeds, interspersed with a few hardy wildflowers—long leggy white ones, a few stray bluebonnets, and tiny, pale buttercups. There are no buildings close by. I feel hopeless surveying the landscape. There are miles and mi
les of this kind of acreage in the county. Loretta could be held anywhere.
I make Dusty stay in the car. There’s not a lot of traffic on the road this early, but what traffic there is goes fast. Dusty is still a youngster, and I don’t want to worry that he’ll wander out onto the road. But he doesn’t like being confined and starts barking when I shut the door.
I walk up and down the graveled verge fifty feet in each direction, scanning for anything odd. There’s litter along the road—mostly cans and bottles and a couple of yellowed advertisements. And there’s a dead possum that has been here long enough that he doesn’t stink anymore.
I try to picture what happened to Elaine Farquart. Was she put out of the car and thought she was being let go, and then her kidnapper came back and ran her down? Did she escape and try to run out onto the road, hoping to flag down a driver who would save her? In the weedy, hard-packed ground off the road, I see no tire tracks or drag marks, no stirred-up ground that would indicate she struggled with anyone. Finally, I give up and get back in the pickup, feeling frustrated. Dusty seems to sense my mood. He nuzzles up to me and licks my hand, then lies down in the seat, his eyes trained on me. I drive farther on, seeing a farmhouse here and there and a few small storage sheds. My impulse is to go knock on doors and peer in windows, but Hogarth said they questioned people in the houses closest to where the body was found.
I’m at Darlene’s Beauty Shop, on the west side of town, when the doors open. Maria wanted to come with me, but she had a meeting set up this morning with the former employer of the man she suspects of murdering the victim in the cold case.
The shop is in a wood-shingle house painted white with green trim. The yard is surrounded by a picket fence, with a small sign out front that looks hand-painted. As I approach the door, I wonder whether I should have waited until Maria could come with me, but I don’t want to waste time.
Dusty usually stays outside with no trouble, but this morning he whips inside the salon the second I open the door, tail wagging and frisking around like he has been here a dozen times. There’s no one in the front, so I call out. A woman in her forties wearing a tight dress with a smock over it and block-heeled shoes comes out from the back and immediately zeroes in on Dusty.
