“I’m not the Shepherds’ favorite person at the moment,” I mumbled.
Some garbled words, and then “... find her soon.”
“Michael, I can only hear half of what you’re saying.”
Finally, he must have emerged from the tunnel because the connection was suddenly clearer. “You’re my favorite person, too. I’ll be by in about ten minutes.”
“I said I’m not their favorite—” But Michael had already hung up.
Well, I’d tried. If they didn’t want me there, they could say so. Besides, I was curious to meet them, and more importantly, to help locate Julie.
Michael made it home in half the anticipated time. “You must have been speeding,” I said, climbing into the car.
He grinned. “Prerogative of the job. Now tell me what you can about Julie Harmon.”
On the way to the Shepherds’, I filled him in as best I could, both about Julie herself and her family situation.
“Do you think she’s okay?” I asked finally. “I mean with what happened at the reservoir...” I took a breath. “I guess there’s no shortage of ways she could be in trouble.”
If I was looking for easy assurances, I wasn’t going to get them from Michael. As a policeman, he knows better than I the countless terrible things that happen to people through no fault of their own.
He gave me a solemn look. “I expect we’ll know more after we talk with the family.”
The Shepherds lived near the high school, in one of the less prestigious parts of town. The neighborhood, although pleasant enough, was a tract development of small and undistinguished houses built in the early fifties. Over the years, owners had remodeled and added on, often replacing the original tar and gravel roof with shingle, or adding brick to the facade. As a result, the houses no longer appeared to be stamped out of the same mold, but the area was still short on charm.
The Shepherds’ house was located on a corner, which gave them a somewhat larger yard than their neighbors. It was obvious that no one in the family enjoyed gardening. Juniper bushes and ivy, interlaced with weeds—that was the extent of the landscaping.
Michael rang the bell and introduced me as “someone from the school.” He used my full name and I cringed, but I was clearly the only one listening. My classroom lectures on art history, however distressing to the Shepherds, were not uppermost in their minds right then. Rather, they seemed intent on enumerating their grievances with Julie’s behavior.
“She’s been nothing but trouble since the day we took her in,” complained Walton Shepherd. The irritation in his voice was softened somewhat by a Texas drawl. “Evidently her mother let her run wild and do pretty much as she pleased. The girl’s never had an ounce of discipline. Doesn’t have the least respect for authority.”
“Now, Walt. It’s not quite that bad.” Patricia Shepherd touched her husband’s thickly muscled arm. “Julie was used to a different environment, is all. She’s learning.”
He glowered at her. Walton Shepherd was not a tall man, but he was solidly built with broad shoulders, short, thick arms, and almost no neck. His complexion was ruddy and his jowls loose. In both temperament and appearance, he reminded me of a bulldog.
“I know you don’t like to speak ill of your sister,” he said. “But facts are facts. Leslie Harmon was a libertine and profligate, more interested in her own conquests than the path of righteousness. If she’d raised that girl properly, we wouldn’t have had any trouble.”
Michael cleared his throat. “May we come in? I’d like to talk with you about your niece. The first hours after a child disappears are sometimes the most critical in terms of leads.”
“We told everything to that other fellow,” Shepherd said. “The one down at the police station.” But he opened the door wider and stepped aside to allow us in.
He ushered us to a lace-draped table in the dining area off the kitchen. Patricia Shepherd followed wordlessly.
The interior was dim, and from what little I saw on my way to the table, dreary and dated. It smelled of a lifetime accumulation of cooking odors and stale air. I took short, shallow breaths to keep from choking.
Once we were seated, Michael took out a notebook and pen. “I appreciate how hard this must be for you,” he said kindly, “and how difficult it must be to remember exactly what happened. But the more you can tell us, the better our chances of locating her.”
Mrs. Shepherd nodded. Her husband crossed his arms. Behind them on the wall was a large painting of Jesus in a flowing, white robe, and on the table beneath, a photograph of a similarly clad Walton Shepherd.
“It’s my understanding,” Michael continued, “that Julie left here about six o’clock Friday evening on her way to the high school football game.”
Mrs. Shepherd nodded again.
“And you’ve seen nor heard nothing from her since?”
“The way I see it,” said Walton Shepherd, with a twitch of his shoulder, “those football games are nothing but an excuse for rowdy behavior. Our son had more sense than to involve himself with such stuff. We try to be fair, though. We allow Julie to attend the home games.”
“We did put our foot down about the dance afterwards,” his wife added. She directed the words to her thumbs, which were folded one over the other on the table in front of her.
Walton Shepherd frowned. “When Julie wasn’t home by nine, we assumed she’d disobeyed us and gone to the dance anyway.” He paused, then added with some bitterness, “Apparently, she did more than that.”
“You think she disappeared of her own accord?” Michael asked.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. The girl will find out soon enough how little life on the streets has to offer. Our rules won’t seem so harsh to her then.”
Michael scratched his chin. “What makes you so sure she’s run away?”
Shepherd shrugged. “She never tried to hide her displeasure at living here.”
“It was a change from what she was used to, Walton.”
He snickered. “That’s for sure.”
“I take it you and your sister weren’t close,” Michael said.
“Julie’s mother was my half-sister,” Patricia Shepherd offered by way of explanation. Although she’d raised her gaze, her fingers were still tightly laced. “We shared the same father, but little else. And I used the word ‘shared’ only in the most basic sense. Leslie saw far more of him than I did.”
“Leslie was the child of a second marriage?” I asked.
Mrs. Shepherd nodded. “Leslie and I barely knew each other growing up, but after college we made an effort to get to know one another better.” She paused. “It was a disaster. We were very . . . different.”
The furnace clicked on with a rumble, although the house was already quite warm.
“How did Julie end up here with you?” Michael asked.
“Leslie was killed in a boating accident last spring.” Walton Shepherd blew his nose on a large, stained handkerchief. “We’re all the family she has. A matter of some significance—which the girl seems inclined to overlook.”
“Her father’s dead as well?”
Patricia Shepherd lifted her chin. “According to Leslie, he died before Julie was born. But she’d never said a word about him while he was alive, so I have my doubts.”
Walton Shepherd laughed harshly. “I have no doubts about it at all, myself.”
“How long has Julie been living with you?” Michael asked.
Shepherd ignored the question. His eyes narrowed. “It’s women like Leslie Harmon who’ve brought moral decay to this fine country of ours. Women who think they can stand alone, who imagine they’ve no need for a man or God.” This time Shepherd’s Texas twang did nothing to soften his words. He spoke with such ferocity I half expected a bolt of lightning to follow.
“But we couldn’t simply turn our backs on the child,” Mrs. Shepherd protested. Her voice was as soft and tentative as her husband’s was strong. “It’s our duty to see that she’s looked after properl
y.”
“The sins of the mother are in her blood. She may be your kin, Patricia, but she’s in the Devil’s grasp all the same.”
His words brought a chill to my heart, a spasm of foreboding that left me shaken. I was afraid he might well be right, but not in the sense he’d intended.
Chapter 5
At Michael’s request, Patricia Shepherd showed us Julie’s bedroom, which was located near the front of the house. It was a small room with peeling paper and heavy green drapes. A single bed with a quilted tan spread was pushed against the far wall. A desk, a bookcase, and a five-drawer bureau lined the walls to either side. Hardly feminine or youthful, but surprisingly neat. Obviously Julie didn’t share Libby’s conviction that clutter spurred creativity.
Michael stepped inside. “We’d like to look around, if we might.”
Patricia Shepherd nodded. “Of course.”
“Have you removed anything since she’s been gone?”
“No.”
He opened the closet door and surveyed the contents. “Any of her clothing missing?”
“Not that I know of. But I’m not sure I’d know one way or another.”
“How about money?”
She blinked. “Money?”
“Cash you and your husband might have had around the house. Is any of it missing?”
Patricia Shepherd drew in a breath. “I never thought to check my purse. I don’t make a habit of carrying much cash, though.”
“Did Julie have any money of her own?”
“Quite a bit. Everything that was her mother’s, including the life insurance proceeds. But it’s all in trust. We give her spending money when she needs it.”
“There’s no way she can access it on her own?”
“Not until she’s eighteen.”
Michael pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of the waste basket. “You the trustee?”
She nodded. “Although Walt handles the details. I’ve never understood much about investments and such.”
He smoothed the paper, then tossed it back into the trash. “What day is your garbage service?”
“Friday.”
“They came this morning?”
She nodded again.
“So any notes Julie tossed out last week would already have been picked up.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Michael sat down at Julie’s desk, which looked to be vintage maple, circa 1950, and began sifting through the drawers. After a cursory check, he nodded in my direction.
“Why don’t you have a look. Since you know Julie, you’re more apt to recognize anything of significance.”
While Michael inspected the rest of the room, I made a more careful check of the desk drawers. Pencils, papers, art supplies, school work, and chewing gum. No surprises.
And no indication of where Julie might have gone. In fact, with the exception of the drawing pencils and charcoals, there was nothing in the least personalized about the contents.
“Is this her mother?” Michael asked, picking up the silver-framed portrait from the dresser.
Patricia Shepherd nodded. “You might have seen her on television if you watch the news. She was quite successful, but that kind of life has its price.” There was an edge to her voice that sounded like disapproval, although it might have been envy.
“Does Julie still have friends in New York?”
“I imagine so.”
“Close friends?”
Patricia Shepherd smoothed her collar. “She did receive a few letters.”
“How about calls?”
“We don’t hold with squandering time on the telephone.”
Michael sucked on his cheek, gave the room another sweep with his eyes. “What about a computer?” he asked.
“In our son’s room. There wasn’t space for it here.”
“Your son lives at home?”
“No, not anymore. But he comes home for meals fairly often. And laundry.”
I started to smile at the last comment, then realized that her voice held not the slightest trace of humor.
“Where’s your son’s room?” Michael asked.
“At the end of the hallway.”
He slipped off to have a look at the computer. I didn’t hold out much hope that he’d find anything useful. In truth, I didn’t hold out much hope about any of it. If Julie wanted to run away, my guess would be that she’d have planned it carefully. And if she didn’t want to be found, she wouldn’t be.
But that possibility was better than the alternatives. What if she’d been accosted? Or been snared, unsuspecting, into some dangerous course of action? Julie was bright, well traveled, worldly beyond her years. And yet, she was only fifteen. Old enough to think she could handle anything; young enough that she couldn’t. A prime candidate for tragedy.
“Any luck?” I asked when Michael returned.
He shook his head. “Looks like more school stuff. No modem, not much in the way of software at all.”
Patricia Shepherd had vanished after showing Michael to the computer. We found her in the driveway talking to her husband, who was tinkering under the hood of a shiny new pickup.
She pulled at the sleeve of her sweater. “’Maybe if you hadn’t—”
“Don’t you be lecturing me, woman. I’ve got no stomach for that rubbish.”
“But Walt, if she—”
Their voices were low and serious. They stopped speaking and stepped apart as we approached.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Walton Shepherd asked between clenched teeth.
“I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just hoping to pick up on something that might give us a lead.”
“And did you?”
Michael shook his head.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t waste too much energy on this. Wouldn’t create too much of a furor about it, either. It will only go to her head.”
Patricia Shepherd looked uneasy. “She might be in trouble, Walt.”
He grunted. “Making-trouble, more likely.”
Michael stepped forward. “Mr. Shepherd, your wife is right. You seem to think Julie ran away. But that’s only one possibility. I don’t want to frighten you unduly, but this may be more serious than you think.”
Shepherd leveled his gaze at us. His mouth went through a series of twisting and chewing motions, as though he were practicing some new form of facial exercise. Finally, he went back to his tinkering.
“Have you checked with Julie’s friends?” Michael asked.
Mrs. Shepherd drew her mouth tight. “She doesn’t have time for a lot of friends.”
“They’re a worthless lot of hooligans, in any event.” Walton Shepherd’s voice drifted out from under the hood of the truck. “Like that spic kid who kept bothering us, what was his name?” Shepherd paused, pulled his head out, and looked at his wife, then answered the question himself. “Mario, that was it. Kid had an accent that sounded like he’d just crossed the border from taco land. Those people think they can come here and live off the rest of us.”
Mario’s father and his uncles operated a commercial cleaning service. I thought it unlikely they lived off anything but their own sweat and hard work. I would have said so except that it wouldn’t have changed the man’s thinking. Besides, I was more interested in learning about Mario’s friendship with Julie, if that’s what it was.
“What did you mean about Mario bothering you?” I asked.
“Dropping by, calling, offering Julie rides. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings so we had to put a stop to it ourselves.”
“Julie found him annoying?”
Mrs. Shepherd brushed the air with her hand. “He may be a nice enough boy,” she replied crisply, “but he isn’t the sort we want her mixing with.”
I thought back to Mario’s appearance at my classroom door Friday morning. I tried to replay in my mind the unspoken exchange between the two of them. There was definitely a tension there, but I’d sensed a bond as well, or at leas
t an understanding. Had I misread the situation?
“How about other friends?” Michael asked.
“Well, let’s see, there’s a girl in her history class. Julie borrowed her book once when she’d left her own at school.” Patricia Shepherd looked to her husband for help, and got none. “Oh, and the girl who called here this morning. Her name is Skye, if you can believe it. When Julie first mentioned her, I thought she might be Indian, but Julie assured me she wasn’t. Her mother is a teacher at the school.”
This last comment was directed to me, so I nodded. Apparently Skye had passed an acceptability test that Mario hadn’t, which I thought spoke volumes about the stupidity of the whole approach.
“Was she going to meet anyone in particular at the football game?” I asked.
Mrs. Shepherd misunderstood the question. “Oh no,” she said, pulling in a breath as she spoke. “We don’t allow Julie to date.”
“I think Ms. Austen was speaking more generally,” Michael explained. “We’re going to want to talk to people who saw her Friday night. If you could give us names, it would save some time.”
“Austen?” Patricia Shepherd’s eyes widened and her voice took on a guarded quality. “What did you say your connection to the school was?”
Suddenly, I wished I’d told Michael the full story. “I teach there.”
“What subject?”
I swallowed. “Art.”
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Shepherd’s hands fluttered for a moment and then settled on her chest.
“Oh, my,” she said again, looking in the direction of her husband.
Walton Shepherd emerged from under the hood just then, and I braced myself for a verbal assault. At least, I was hoping it would be only verbal. There is a decided advantage to having a heated discussion in the presence of a police officer.
“Art.” He spat the word like a wad of chewing tobacco. “Thought your name sounded familiar, you’re that teacher warping the kids’ minds with smut.”
I looked toward Michael then back at Shepherd. “You don’t understand. I’m—”
Shepherd’s steely gaze was no longer fixed on me, however, but on the vintage red Mustang that had pulled up in front of the house. A young man toting a white canvas bag got out of the driver’s side and slogged up the walkway.
Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery) Page 4
