“Didn’t she carry any other identification?” Glenna leaned forward to ask.
He read his notes, relieved to be free of me for a minute. “No, Cuddin’ Glenna. Nothing found with her.”
“Not even a pocketbook?” I demanded.
“A bookbag, more likely,” Josheba added.
“Nothing. Just a couple of dollars in one pocket.” I couldn’t blame him for sounding impatient, but I was convinced they had made a mistake.
Josheba spoke before I could. “That doesn’t make any sense. No teenager would be traveling around without a pocketbook or backpack.”
I put in my own two cents’ worth. “Could we at least get yearbook photos of both girls, Carter, to see if the artist thinks it could have been Harriet instead of Inez?”
“I hate to keep harping on this, Miss MacLaren, but her mother identified her. And unless Harriet’s folks report her missing, we don’t have any reason to be looking for her.”
“I could get Harriet’s yearbook picture,” Josheba offered, as though he hadn’t spoken. “I have a friend who teaches at Lanier, where she went through the end of the year.”
Glenna reached out and touched him gently on the knee. “Can you get Clara a copy of the photograph from the paper, Carter? It would save her going to the library to look for it.”
“I can, sure, but the big boss isn’t going to like this.”
“What if you all made a mistake?” Glenna’s gray eyes were darker with worry.
“If we made a mistake, it won’t look good for the force.”
“But when you come up with the right solution, think how impressed they’ll all be,” I pointed out. “Carter, please bring me the picture. If it’s not Harriet, I’ll give up. I promise.”
“I’ll bring it, Miss MacLaren, but if anybody finds out, my name is mud.”
Twenty-Three
Let the wise listen and add to their
learning, and let the discerning
get guidance. Proverbs 1:5
Jake developed a slight fever overnight, and Glenna went to the hospital early Thursday, forgetting all about taking the Buick to a body shop. That was all right with me. I’d had an idea about that.
About mid-morning, Carter dropped by the artist’s picture and a photo of Inez from three years before. I could see a superficial resemblance between those two, and was amazed that the artist could do so well. When Josheba arrived a little later and looked at the drawing, though, she said flatly, “It’s Harriet. The artist did an incredible job. Look!”
As soon as I compared the drawing with Harriet’s picture in the Lanier High School yearbook, I felt like I did the Christmas I learned there was no Santa Claus. Even last night I hadn’t quite believed Harriet was dead. Now, I was sure.
We sat in silence, thinking of the child nobody loved.
I studied her face again, trying to put her features on the spirit child I’d carried with me all those days. It was no good. She was a perfect stranger. “Well,” I said finally, setting the picture aside, “we know when we lost Harriet. We just don’t know how and why.”
“That’s Carter’s problem.” Josheba looked at her watch. “And if I don’t get over to the library, I’m gonna have a problem, too.”
I knew what I wanted to do next. I wanted to find out why Dee hadn’t identified the artist’s picture herself.
The Sykes’s driveway was empty. I almost drove away without ringing the bell, but Julie opened the front door to see who was in the drive, then waved and ran to the car, cheerful in sunny red shorts. Her fingernails were painted to match, and from her ears swung delicate silver spiderwebs with silver feathers dangling from them.
I rolled down my window. “I thought nobody was home. Where’s your car?” I peered up at her, trying to decide if those dream-catcher earrings were like the ones Kateisha had.
“Daddy’s truck got banged up, so he’s borrowing the Miata while it gets fixed. I followed him to the shop, then he dropped me by here a few minutes ago. I wish he’d waited. I found a note saying Mom’s out at Gram’s—probably fighting about college.”
“How do you feel about that?” I asked, genuinely curious.
She shrugged. “I don’t really care. A lot of my friends are going to Bama, so that would be fun, but I haven’t traveled much, so it might be fun to go somewhere else, too. I don’t really have to decide until next year, anyway. I just wish Mama and Gram would stop fighting about it.”
I was so busy wondering whether Julie had any idea of what college was for besides having fun, I nearly didn’t notice when she looked down the drive, frowned, and repeated, “I wish Daddy had waited.”
“Why?”
“When he called Gram this morning—he calls her every morning, you know, just to be sure she’s okay—well, today she asked him to come over on his lunch hour to look at a new tree she’s gotten. He could have taken me, too.”
“I’ll take you,” I offered, feeling like a low-down sneak, but absolutely delighted that Julie was making this so easy.
“Would you? That’s great!” She went back to grab her pocketbook. As she rounded my car, she stopped to touch the front fender. “Boy, what happened to your car?”
“I had a little accident last night. Say, which garage does your daddy use? I’d like to get this fixed before my brother sees it—it’s his car.”
She climbed in and slammed the door, then scrabbled through her pocketbook and handed me a card. “I picked this up while I was waiting this morning. He must be good. Daddy uses him all the time.”
“Thank you,” I murmured triumphantly as I started my engine. That card almost made up for having to drive all the way out to Wynlakes—which seemed like halfway to Georgia.
“I like your earrings,” I broke into her chatter a little later. “Where did you get them?”
“I—uh—” She gave me a sharp look. “They were Gram’s. They’re called dream catchers. Aren’t they pretty?” She shook her head so they’d dance.
I just knew she was lying, but this wasn’t the time to press her. We were at the entrance gate to Wynlakes, and I needed her to get us past the security guard.
As it turned out, I didn’t. The guard cheerfully waved us through without a question. So much for security. Montgomery isn’t a very dangerous place anyway. Except for Harriet.
“Wynlakes is named for Winton Blount, the man who gave the land and money for the Shakespeare Festival,” Julie told me, taking her great-grandmother’s place as tour guide. “Isn’t it simply gorgeous?”
It was far newer and more lavish than I would feel at home in, but the homes and grounds would be beautiful when the trees grew a bit. Nora’s house was what I think they call French something or other, a large gray stucco house with a soft green lawn. Like William’s, her yard had lots of healthy flower beds. She also had several Bradford pears, a couple of dogwoods, and an unplanted oak, roots balled in burlap. I wondered why anybody as savvy about plants as Nora was planting a tree in midsummer.
Nora herself welcomed us wearing a stunning mist green linen shirt and matching pants, but her cheeks were red and her eyes snapped with anger. She gave us a strained smile.
“Miss Laura brought me out,” Julie said, stepping into the cool elegant hall like a princess.
“I needed to see Dee,” I explained.
Nora hesitated, then stepped back. “Come on in. Julie, ask your mother to come. She’s in the kitchen.” From her tone, I suspected they had been arguing again, but Nora couldn’t have been more gracious as she led me into her ivory and gold living room. In the morning sunlight her gold jewelry glittered and her red hair gleamed.
“I love your necklace,” I gushed as I took my seat. “I used to have a silver one something like it. Do you ever wear silver?”
Nora lightly touched her flaming hair. “With this coloring? Never.”
I tried not to let my elation show. “I also couldn’t help noticing your tree. We’re in the nursery business—”
“—and you’re wondering why I’m planting just now. A friend was digging that tree up to put in a new carport, and I couldn’t bear to just let it die without giving it a chance. Of course, even if it lives, it won’t be much to look at until Julie has grandchildren.”
I gave her an approving smile. “You have to care about the future to plant an oak.”
Dee joined us right then, worried eyes seeming out of place with her casual khaki skirt, scarlet top, and sandals. Her nails also matched her shirt.
She looked puzzled to see me, but perched on the edge of an ivory brocade chair. “Were you able to get those CDs to Harriet’s friend?”
“If not,” Julie spoke from behind her chair, “I hope you kept them for me.”
“Kateisha was overjoyed to get them,” I told them.
“Not as overjoyed as I was to get rid of them,” Dee replied.
“Oh Moth-er!” Julie moved to a chair between us.
“I came to show you this.” I held out the sketch to Dee, and scarcely breathed.
Julie reached ahead of her mother and took the picture. “Hey, that’s good! But I’m surprised Harriet didn’t make them put in that little mole just under her eye. Her beauty mark.” She drawled the last sentence out sarcastically.
Dee took the picture from her and Nora moved over to join her.
“Who did this?” Dee demanded. “And when? Have you found her?”
Now that I’d come right down to it, I wished I’d left it up to Carter to tell them. “A police artist drew it. It’s a picture of someone they found in a cemetery June tenth. It was in the paper. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.”
Julie gave a little squeal and her earrings danced. “Harriet’s dead?” She took the picture back, looked at it quickly, then thrust it at her mother as if she couldn’t get rid of it quick enough. Dee pressed one hand to her mouth and looked positively sick.
“June tenth, you said?” Nora said thoughtfully. “We left for the mountains Friday afternoon the seventh—William, Dee, Julie, and me—and stopped our newspapers for the next week. This is dreadful, MacLaren, but I am glad they’ve finally found the child. It was time.”
“It was past time,” I said angrily.
Dee narrowed her eyes and poked one cheek with a cerise-tipped finger. “I can’t be positive it’s her, though. It looks very much like her, but—they didn’t take a picture?”
I was past being nice. “It was too late for that.”
“Oh!” Her eyes flew to Julie. “Honey, would you get us something to drink? Real Cokes, with lots of ice?”
“You just want to get rid of me,” Julie protested angrily.
“Julie!”
“Okay, but you’ll have to tell me everything later.” She flounced out.
“I’ll come with you,” Nora offered. We heard them talking softly in the kitchen.
“Where did they find her—this person?” Dee asked in a low voice as soon as Julie was out of earshot.
“Under a bush in Oakwood Cemetery.”
“What was she wearing?” It sounded like one last desperate bid for hope.
“Black jeans, black sandals, and a black T-shirt.”
Dee covered her mouth with her hand and moaned. “Oh, Laura, Harriet always wore black. Even her fingernails. Part of the fight she and William had was over whether she could dye her hair.” Her eyes were stricken. She leaned back against the chair and closed them, and tears seeped from beneath her lashes. “I should have tried to find her.”
Maybe I ought to have patted her hand and told her everything was going to be all right. The thought did cross my mind. But then my eyes lit on Harriet’s picture again, and all my sympathy dried up. “How long was she gone, again?”
Dee opened her eyes and numbered the days on her fingertips. In a sudden shaft of sunlight they seemed dipped in blood. “She was there Sunday while we were at church—that must have been the second. She took her bathing suit and some shorts. She came back Tuesday while I was shopping and getting my nails done, because I’d left some clean clothes on her bed and they were gone.”
Julie came in and haughtily deposited a tray with two tall glasses of iced Coca Cola on the mahogany coffee table. She handed me a drink and a green paper napkin, then sat down with the look of somebody who has paid her dues and plans to stay.
“Were you home that Tuesday, Julie?” Dee asked. “The one right after school was out? I can’t remember.”
Julie jumped and flushed. “Tuesday? No, I told you. I was with Rachel.” She threw her grandmother an anxious look, but Nora didn’t notice. She was considerately rising to adjust the blind so the sun wouldn’t be in my eyes. Julie started to babble. “Rachel and I were at our house on Wednesday, though. Remember? You went strawberry picking. Harriet didn’t come by that day at all.”
“And I was up at the lake all week,” Nora added, lifting a glass of something clear to her lips.
Julie gave her another anxious look, but said nothing. Instead, she leaned toward her mother. “Weren’t there some things gone on Friday, too? While you were at that women’s luncheon and we were at the movies? I think you said so.”
Dee buried her face in her hands. “I can’t remember. It seems so long ago! But I hate to think that any child who’s been left in my care…” Her voice trailed off. I noticed she did not say “any child I’ve loved.”
“What happened to her?” Julie asked. Nora threw me a silent plea not to supply sordid details.
“I don’t know,” I told her honestly. I didn’t add that the police didn’t, either.
The Miata purred up and parked on the crowded drive. Through the living room window I saw William climb out of the driver’s seat, look angrily at Dee’s Mercedes, and run toward the door. He stopped in the living room archway and gave Dee a worried look. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve got Julie’s and my itinerary planned for our little trip,” Nora told him with dignity, “and I wanted to discuss it with Dee.”
“Can’t you leave that alone until we can all sit down and talk about it?” he demanded.
Nora silenced him with a wave and continued, “But before we finished talking, MacLaren arrived to tell us something dreadful about Harriet.”
He noticed me for the first time. I regret to say, he swore.
“William,” Dee protested. “Look!” She held out the picture and burst into tears.
“Get some tissues, Julie,” Nora commanded. The girl hurried from the room.
William took the picture and studied it. Nora stood beside him, just touching his arm. “So?” William demanded. “It’s a good likeness, but what does it prove?”
“That’s a picture of a young girl killed last month up in Oakwood Cemetery,” Nora told him softly.
“An artist drew that from the—remains,” Julie added, bringing a whole box of tissues as if she couldn’t be bothered to pull out one or two. She tried to sound real concerned, but the avid look in her eyes betrayed her. Miss Pris got her nose out of joint when her cousin moved in, I thought, and isn’t too sorry she was permanently removed. Which, coupled with the earrings, raised a disturbing possibility.
Dee dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. “She was dead, William. Too long for anybody to even identify her. I just knew we should have looked for her. I knew it!”
“You don’t know anything, Kitten,” he said gruffly. “Those police artists just draw what they like—somebody they’ve seen recently, maybe—and nobody can tell them it’s wrong. This could be any number of girls. It doesn’t have to be Harriet.”
“But, honey, she was wearing clothes like Harriet’s, and she was found the week after you and Harriet had that big fight.”
“You hush!” William’s ruddy face grew suddenly mottled.
Dee’s eyes widened in bafflement and she appealed to Julie. “What did I say?”
Julie gave her a look of scorn. “Figure it out for yourself.”
Nora bent over me. “Perhaps you’d better go now, dear.
We’re all so upset—”
I stood. “It’s time to get upset,” I told them all angrily, “and it’s time to call and report Harriet missing. That way the police can make a proper identification.”
“And we can all get on with our lives,” Nora agreed. “It’s certainly past time.”
Armed with the name of William’s favorite body shop and the knowledge that his truck was at that very minute being repaired, I took Jake’s car by on my way home.
The garage was a small concrete building, badly in need of paint, but restful. Its walls reflected the morning sun. Wildflowers bloomed in tall clumps of grass that miraculously poked their way through cracks in the pavement. I parked close to a stall where a blue backside was bent over the front fender of a red pickup truck, approached the truck, and checked out the fender. “Looks like they hit somebody,” I said pleasantly.
“A tree, he told me.” That stringy old man had probably been around the garage almost as long as it had stood. “Something I can do for you?”
I checked the card Julie had given me. “Are you Mr. McGuire?”
“Yessum, that’s me.” He wore his grease-stained chino shirt and pants with dignity.
“Is that William Sykes’s truck? His daughter gave me your name.”
He nodded. “Yep. Skidded in the storm last night. Needs a coupla dents removed.” He spoke in fragments rather than sentences, as if more accustomed to silence.
I pointed toward the Buick. “I’ve got a similar problem. Something skidded in the rain and hit me. Any chance you could make that good as new?”
The practiced hand he ran over my dents was oil-black in the seams and gnarled, as if it had worked with cars too long to ever be clean again. “Can’t get to it till tomorrow, and I’ll probably have to get a new fender and back bumper. Don’t make cars like they used to. And it sounds like you’ve got a problem with your rear end alignment, too. That’ll need fixing.”
“Whatever,” I told him. “Just work as fast as you can. The car belongs to my brother, and he’s getting out of the hospital in a day or two. He won’t be able to drive for a few days, but I don’t want him fretting over his car.”
When Did We Lose Harriet? Page 18
