by Catie Rhodes
“He told me his wife died in childbirth while they were out of the country on a mission. Their poor little baby died, too. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious, I guess.” Maybe the old friend who contacted Gage brought back bad memories. Then something hit me. The letter’s author implied he thought Gage’s wife was still alive. If the guy had forgotten his wife’s death, Gage had good reason to be upset. Even that explanation didn’t satisfy me. The situation flipped and turned in my mind, unable to find a comfortable spot in my thoughts.
Memaw changed the subject when she noticed my contemplative mood. We talked about the festivities scheduled for H & H Week as we ate our ice cream. I rinsed the bowls while Memaw turned off the TV and went to bed.
I went to my room and paced restlessly. I wanted to discuss my life with someone. I wanted Chase. I wanted to call him and go over to his trailer and sit on his couch and talk while he listened. In return, he’d tell me his latest woes, usually something with Felicia barring him access to their son. After, we’d watch old Westerns and make fun of the actors.
Chase had to be okay. If he wasn’t, I didn’t know what I’d do without him. Whose life would I share in such an amiable way?
I powered up my laptop knowing I had to find something to do, or I’d worry about Chase all night. As soon as the computer was ready, I ran a Google search on Michael Gage. First Baptist Church of Gaslight City’s website popped up. I had never looked at the website before.
Michael Gage blogged. I couldn’t believe it. He had posted before and after pictures of his renovations of Mace House. He posted a daily devotional with corresponding Bible verses to study. I noted his picture was conspicuously absent from the website. I hit my browser’s back button and looked at the other search results.
Some results had to do with a radio show on which Gage appeared occasionally. There was also a link to a newspaper article about a gospel television program, which had approached Gage about appearing in a reality gospel show. Gage had declined. I clicked through two more pages of results and found a teenage Michael Gage on an older social media site and a genealogy site, which listed a Michael Gage born in the eighteen hundreds.
I gave up on Gage and ran a search on Jerry Bower in Guatemala. I found Jerry’s Facebook page. Best I could tell, he used Facebook to communicate with other missionaries and his grown children in New Mexico. I wanted to send Jerry Bower a message but what could I ask him? There was no way to describe my actions other than meddling. Michael Gage hadn’t done anything but act interested in me.
I closed Jerry Bower’s Facebook page and ran a search on Sharon Gage. I did a quick read through of each hit, but no Sharon Gage was the correct age or seemed...right. I searched death records and had no luck there, either. Granted, I had no experience with the databases. I was about to give up when one of the hits caught my eye.
Help me find my sister. Sharon Gage…Guatemala…missionary.
I clicked on the link and a full color website came up. It featured a large picture of a light haired woman squinting into the sun. She wore a maternity shirt and looked to be in early pregnancy. The caption underneath the picture read “last known picture of Sharon Zeeman Gage.” I scanned through the website, my body tightening as I read. Sharon Zeeman had married Michael Gage against her family’s wishes in 2000. The couple, in lieu of a honeymoon, went straight to Guatemala to start work as missionaries.
Michael and Sharon stayed in Guatemala for about five years, during which time Sharon was estranged from her family. During the fifth year of the couple’s stay in Guatemala, Sharon sent her parents a letter containing the picture featured on the website. In the letter, Sharon said she was pregnant and wanted to bury their differences for the sake of her unborn child. She and her husband planned to move back to the states in late 2005 to prepare for the birth. Nobody heard from Sharon again.
I clicked through the rest of the website and found no pictures of Sharon with Michael Gage. The Michael Gage I knew had to be around fifty years old. He’d have been forty in 2000. Sharon Zeeman Gage looked to be about my age—pushing thirty. It was possible she married a man ten years her senior.
There was an email link at the bottom of the page. I knew I had a piece of the puzzle of Sharon Gage’s disappearance in Jerry Bower’s letter, but I needed to think things through before I contacted Sharon’s family. I could be opening a can of stink I’d regret.
NINE
THURSDAY started out bad. I woke to an empty house and someone banging on the front door. I stumbled through the house and answered the door yawning. Dean Turgeau stood on our front porch.
“Remember what you said about me needing proof?” Dean said. His mouth had a grim set to it, and he held his sheriff’s issue uniform cowboy hat in front of him like a shield. He took one look at me and redirected his gaze to the front porch’s bead board ceiling.
“Good morning to you, too. About what?” I rubbed the sleep out of my face and became aware of my attire. Or lack of it. I slept in a cami and short-short set. It featured little cartoon teddy bears. Rather skimpy, and I didn’t sleep in a bra.
“The other day, you said I had no proof you know the whereabouts of Fischer. And you said if I did have proof, I’d haul your ass in to question you.” Dean’s eyes roamed over me before he focused on the area over my left shoulder. “Well, guess what? I’ve got what I need to take you in for questioning. Come on.”
“I’m not going to the sheriff’s office.” My heart did a few half-hearted somersaults before it kicked into overdrive. Sweat broke out on my scalp, itching and tingling. Was this how my Uncle Jesse felt the day they arrested him for murdering his brother, my father?
Something flickered in Dean’s deep blue eyes, and his bluster disappeared. “Let’s not make this harder than it has to be. Just get in the car.”
“No. I want to know—”
“We got a tip from somebody who saw you with Fischer.” Dean leaned on the doorjamb. “You’re lucky I didn’t come out here with an arrest warrant.”
“Are you arresting me?” The words caught in my throat and I coughed hard, nearly gagging.
“Not yet.” Dean stood very still, his body tensed. “But that’s what Sheriff Holze wanted me to do. I assured him you’d come in voluntarily.”
I didn’t understand Dean’s reluctance to arrest me. In front of Dottie’s Burgers and Rings, he indicated nothing would please him more. Why the change of heart? Maybe I should do as he asked.
“I have a job in town later this morning. Let me put on some clothes and brush my teeth.” Desperate for normalcy, I focused on my work schedule.
Dean mumbled something under his breath about maybe canceling the job but gave me an exasperated nod. “Go get dressed. If you run, our relationship is going to take a turn for the worse. Way worse.”
In my bedroom, my hands shook as I pulled on blue jeans and a t-shirt. In the bathroom, I could barely make my trembling hands squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush. Finally, I got my teeth brushed and my hair combed. I went to face Dean at the front door. He looked me up and down and shook his head.
“I’ll follow you to the sheriff’s office.” I grabbed my purse off Memaw’s antique buffet and followed Dean outside to where our cars were parked.
“You’re not going to try to run from me in that hunk of junk, are you?” Dean tried to smile as he stood with his door open.
My lips and cheeks tingled. A roaring started in my ears. Afraid my words would come out garbled, I just shook my head and got into my car.
***
Numb with fear, I stared at the gold lettering on the door to the sheriff’s office. Dean reached past me and held the door open as though chivalry mattered at a time like this. I took a step inside, tripped over the doorjamb, and nearly went sprawling. He caught me by the arm and righted me. Before that moment, I had wondered what it would feel like to have his hands on me. My fantasies bore little resemblance to this moment. Dean’s hard, impersonal grip left me shiver
ing.
Heads popped up and eyes widened as we walked through an open area full of desks and cubicles. The smell of burned coffee mixed with body odor assaulted my senses as a couple dozen eyes drilled into me. All the while, the endlessly ringing telephone threatened my sanity. Dean led me past a row of glassed-in offices situated around the perimeter of the room. We stopped in front of one with an open door.
The office’s occupants made my skin crawl. Joey Holze and bigmouth Hannah Kessler both turned to look at me. Hannah’s expression morphed into wide-eyed, open-mouthed curiosity. Joey—the galling son-of-a-bitch—grinned.
“Sheriff, do you still want to sit in on this interview?” Dean’s tone held a note of sarcasm I recognized from my run-ins with him. I saw a muscle jump in his jaw. Was Burns County’s newest Sheriff’s Deputy less than enamored with his boss? Interesting.
Joey Holze hefted his bulk from behind his desk. He gave Hannah a one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Get on to the house, baby. Your Aunt Carly is cooking fried chicken tonight. She’d be mighty happy for you to join us.”
Hannah said nothing. She just goggled at me, her mouth opening and closing in surprise. Sheriff Joey pushed past her and shut the door on her deer-in-the-headlights expression. She disappeared from my sight as Turgeau and Holze hustled me into a small room with a table and three chairs.
“Miz Mace, we got an anonymous tip that you were seen on rural farm road talking to Chase Fischer.” Holze looked down at his notes. “Three days ago.”
“So?” The roar in my ears had softened to a ringing. I tried to reason this out, figure out if they could arrest me. But I couldn’t think. My nervous sweat had dampened my clothes, and I could concentrate on nothing other than feeling cold. I couldn’t quit shivering.
“You’re not denying that you’ve seen Mr. Fischer? Spoken to him?” Dean Turgeau leaned across the table and frowned. I expected to see smug satisfaction in his expression but only saw curiosity and concern. That surprised me.
“I didn’t say that. I just asked why it mattered if I have.” I clasped my hands in front of me, hoping to hide their tremors. It didn’t work.
“It matters, Peri Jean, because that means I can finally get your sorry ass out of my town.” Holze bared his tobacco stained teeth in a shit-eating grin. “That loser killed your trashy cousin, and now you’re aiding and abetting. For all I know, you did the killing. We all know you’re capable of beating up defenseless girls at the senior prom for fooling with Chase Fischer. Even if you didn’t do the killing, I can charge you as an accessory after the fact. That’ll carry the same charges as whatever Chase ends up getting.”
“You don’t have any proof I talked to anybody.” My bluffing skills sucked. I’d never admit they had me. But they did. Hadn’t it always been this way? After the whole town found out about my seeing ghosts, they ostracized me and sent me to a mental hospital. My sense of injustice kindled into rage. I sat back in my chair, fuming.
“Proof? We got this anonymous witness.” Holze tapped the sheaf of papers in front of him. Dean Turgeau crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.
“Well, if your source is anonymous, then you don’t know who it is. If you don’t know who it is, you’re not going to get them to testify in court.” A little ray of hope shone on my gloomy disposition. “And I bet you don’t have pictures of me on the roadside with Chase Fischer, do you?”
Sheriff Joey Holze turned the color of cooked beets. His fat fists clenched. He started to sputter out a comeback, but Dean Turgeau interrupted him.
“What did you and Chase Fischer talk about? That’s all we need to know. It will help us find Chase. If we don’t find him soon, it’ll be too late.” Dean uncrossed his arms and held his hands out palms up, imploring.
“Too late for what?” The stupid questions bought me a second or two to think, and I desperately needed to think before I spoke. My life depended on what I said here in this dingy, sweat-scented room. I just knew it.
“Too late for us to help him if he really is innocent. If this turns into a manhunt, no telling what’ll happen. He might end up getting hurt. Maybe dead.” Turgeau let that hang in the air.
“How can you help him if you’ve found the murder weapon at his house?” I spat out. “Don’t you want to charge him with murder? Send him to death row?”
“Well if he deserves to go to death row—” Sheriff Joey Holze’s eyes sparkled with anger.
“Peri, we are doing everything we can to investigate this case fairly.” Dean didn’t even look at Holze as he interrupted him. “If you’ll just tell us what you and Mr. Fischer talked about, I know—”
A commotion rose outside the interview room. The three of us glanced toward the door. A strident voice neared the interview room. “You can’t just go in there, I don’t care if you’re President of the United States—”
The door to the interview room swung open. Glenda Robbins, secretary to Holze, tried to block it with her body. “I said—”
“Move please, Mrs. Robbins.” That honey rich voice belonged to Rainey Bruce, the same lawyer the Fischers had retained for Chase. Rainey was not only the youngest lawyer in town, but also the most expensive. The former Miss Texas and model towered over petite Glenda Robbins. Glenda, seeming to realize she was at a disadvantage, stepped out of Rainey’s path.
“Sheriff Holze, Deputy Turgeau.” Rainey greeted the men as though she hadn’t just been part of an undignified ruckus. “Have you arrested my client?”
Sheriff Joey Holze wheezed and gasped. Between the gasps, he said a few words, none of which made any sense. “Been seen with Fischer…she’s a bad kid anyway…always been trouble.”
“Ms. Mace came here to answer some questions on her own accord.” Dean stood and squared his shoulders.
“That so?” Rainey raised her eyebrows at him. With her high cheekbones and glowing mahogany skin, she resembled an ancient queen more than a small town lawyer. She had the upper hand and knew it. Before Dean formulated an answer, she turned to me. “Do you want to stay here? Answer more questions?”
“She don’t have no money to pay you.” Joey had rallied and now stood next to Turgeau. His massive chest rose and fell as the excitement took its toll on him. I wished he’d have a heart attack.
“I’ll front her the money.” The voice came from outside the door, but I recognized it all the same. Bigmouth Hannah Kessler had come to my rescue.
Joey turned to her, his eyes widening. His mouth opened with a pop as he tried to think of words for the kind of traitor his niece had just turned into.
“I won’t let you railroad her again.” Hannah stared down her uncle, who had the good grace to hang his head.
“Get up.” Rainey grabbed my arm and dragged me from the chair. My body went limber as relief flooded through it. I wanted to hug Rainey, but settled for letting her drag me from the sheriff’s office. Behind us, Holze could be heard screaming at poor Glenda for letting Rainey into the interview room.
Once we were out on the sidewalk, Rainey hustled me to my car. Hannah followed close behind.
“Get in this car and drive away from here. Do not ever go anywhere with them alone again. Call me if they arrest you.” Rainey looked down her nose at me. “And if they do arrest you, keep those fists to yourself.”
I glanced down at my battle-scarred hands, my trophy from the years I’d endured schoolyard bullying. Rainey pressed a card into my hand and turned to Hannah.
“My bill will be in the mail.” The former Miss Texas’s smile reminded me of a lioness watching a gazelle at dinnertime. Embarrassing Holze and Turgeau had not sated her ruthless side.
Hannah gave her a stiff nod. Rainey stomped down the sidewalk and cut across the street to her office on the courthouse square, probably on her way to find someone to terrorize. She earned her reputation as the most formidable lawyer in town. Hannah turned to me, eyes wide, and her cheekbones bore hectic spots of red. I tried to imagine how Dean would feel about her taking my side. M
ight make for interesting pillow talk.
“Thank you. I won’t forget this.” I held my hand out for Hannah to shake. She closed her long, slender fingers around mine, and I wondered if I should let go of the negative parts of our past.
“Maybe we can go to lunch?” Hannah’s smile had less confidence this time.
I shook my head. “Got work. Gonna be late if I don’t get my butt in gear.”
A deep flush spread out of Hannah’s collar and darkened her face. She walked away from me. My face heated, the skin tightening. What a crappy way to reward someone who had just gotten me out of a serious jam. I wrapped my arms around myself as I watched Hannah retreat. All these years, I considered Hannah a jerk. But maybe I was the jerk.
I went to the job I had scheduled and worked on autopilot, insides jittering from the close call at the sheriff’s office. My boss for the day noticed my distraction and showed her unhappiness by engaging me every chance she got. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t focus.
Sheer terror for Chase hacked away at my nerves. Finding Low_Ryder was the key to getting him out of this mess, and I was stuck. I still didn’t understand the vision I had the day Rae died. That picture in the sketchbook had to be Low_Ryder. Had to be. Turgeau might be interested, but with no name to go with the picture, what could he do? Continue hunting for Chase is what. And after the scene at the sheriff’s office, I didn’t look forward to our next encounter.
Hannah’s help confused and surprised me. She hadn’t meant to hurt me when she told people how I’d found her Christmas presents. But she had. Then, she ignored me for twenty years. I didn’t understand what she wanted from me now, but I didn’t want her to hurt me again.
I finished the work, collected my pay, and headed home, my head buzzing with problems that had no immediate fix.
***
Memaw called while I was on my way home and said Benny Longstreet wanted to pick up the travel trailer within the hour. He’d lined up a cleaning service to make it usable again, but he needed to get it to them before day’s end.
