Another collector, it appeared!
She climbed out of her van and noticed a man in overalls out by one of the buildings. When he turned, a machinery part in hand, she waved and called out, “Are you Detective Lenny MacDonald?”
“I am. Or used to be, anyway.” He pushed his glasses up onto his seamed forehead and strode toward her, a trim man with very little reddish gray hair left in a fringe around his head, and a lean tanned face wreathed in a smile that was topped by a luxuriant reddish gray mustache. “You must be Jaymie Leighton. Ledbetter warned me you might visit.” His gray eyes twinkled with humor and he smiled.
She smiled back and took his offered hand, greasy though it was. “Is all of this yours?” she asked, waving a hand at the groupings of machinery. As she looked, she began to see some semblance of order. Farm machinery was in one fenced-off area. Old cars were parked in a systematic fashion in a gravel lot to the right of a rusting steel Quonset building. The Quonset’s sliding doors were open, and inside she could see rows of tables with machine parts on them stretching into the distance. “Oh, wait! I know who you are,” she said, eyeing it all. “Do you know Jakob Müller?”
“I sure do. He comes by whenever they need a part for the Müller farm machinery. You know him?”
She felt a blush rise on her cheeks. “I do. We’re getting married in a few weeks.”
“You’re that Jaymie? You’re the gal he’s always gushing about? Well I’ll be.”
He showed her around, and it was as organized as it seemed. After he retired from the force ten or so years ago, he told her, he was able to indulge in his lifelong love of tinkering, and it had become something of a business. “If you don’t mind, I gotta keep working while we talk. I have a lawn mower I need to fix for someone by dinner today ’cause they’re coming to pick it up,” he said, tossing what Jaymie recognized as a mower muffler up in the air and catching it.
“No problem. I’ll follow you,” Jaymie said.
He led her to a smaller outbuilding, a timber shed with barn doors open to the spring breeze. He had a workbench along both sides and one down the center upon which was an elderly Briggs & Stratton lawn mower. He pushed the pair of close-up glasses down onto his nose, turned on the pendant light and leaned over the lawn mower. “So, Ledbetter said you’re kind of helping him on the case of those two girls who disappeared in November eighty-four.” He paused and looked up. “Damnedest thing, you finding Delores Paget and then the MSP finding Rhonda Welch two days later.”
“I know. That was a true coincidence, and without it we may never have connected the two incidences.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The police would have rediscovered the two girls missing on the same day, but without Rhonda’s body . . .” He shrugged. “I hope Ledbetter and his people can figure it out.”
“Finding the two bodies helped. You know, Chief Ledbetter doesn’t mind me poking around, and anything I figure out I take back to him.”
He smothered a smile and just nodded.
“Anyway, my sister and friends knew both girls, so I’ve uncovered some connections that weren’t highlighted at the time. I’d love to tell you about them, if you don’t mind, and then ask you some questions?”
“Shoot. I like to listen while I work.” He pointed a wrench at an old wood-grain tape deck and two speakers on a shelf. “Sometimes I listen to books on tape . . . or CD. Listened to most of Dick Francis that way.”
Jaymie hoisted herself up to sit on the bench opposite his work table, careful to keep her good slacks away from any potential grease spots, and filled him in on what they had learned about Rhonda and Delores being seen talking days before she was sent to the boarding school. “You worked the case at the time,” she said. “What do you think was the biggest impediment to solving it?”
He glanced up. “Interesting question. One problem is that we had no reason to think the two disappearances were connected. The Welch girl was unhappy at school; we knew that from something a friend of hers there said.”
“What friend was that?” Jaymie asked, though she thought she knew.
“Girl named . . .” He frowned and stared down at the motor. “What was her name? Ah! I know . . . Sybil Thornley, or Thornton . . . Thorn-something.”
“Thorndike.”
“That’s it!” he said, pointing the wrench. “She said Rhonda had no intention of finishing her school year at Chance Houghton, that she was leaving. And then the car was never discovered; that led us to believe it was most likely a case of a runaway.”
“But what about Delores?”
He straightened and frowned. “Again, everyone kept saying she was a runaway. Even her teachers said she had been troubled lately over some boy, and that she said she should leave.”
“Teenagers say that kind of thing all the time.”
“Exactly what I told my chief at the time,” he said dryly. “I had two teenage girls at home, and both of ’em were always threatening dire consequences. However . . .” He shrugged. “I tried to get more time on the case but there was a murder/suicide near Christmas that took everything we had. That poor kid’s disappearance got put on the back burner. And Rhonda Welch’s disappearance? That was in a whole different jurisdiction because she disappeared from her boarding school, not her home. We didn’t get a lot of cooperation.”
“Did you search the Paget home?”
“It was searched, not by me, but by other police officers. Evidently not thoroughly enough.” He shook his head. “It’s hard for me to believe her body was there the whole time. I feel like we let that little girl down. It’s hard to look back at the mistakes made. We went back to the investigation over the years but never made much progress.”
“Finding the bodies and the connections between the two girls makes a big difference.” Jaymie looked up at the ceiling of the shed, raw wood with hooks from which hung chains and small engine parts. “Did anything strike you as . . . odd, about the Pagets?”
“Odd? Everything!” he said promptly. “Every damn thing about them seemed odd. Clifford Paget was a ne’er-do-well if ever there was one.”
“My sister said he bragged about stealing from sheds and selling stuff for pot money.”
“No doubt. And the aunt and uncle—”
“Who weren’t, according to the most recent news, her aunt and uncle at all.”
“Really?” He looked up, an expression of surprise on his lean face. His eyes went misty, he thought for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. I hadn’t heard that. What’s the story?”
She told him what she had learned, the connected story of Petty Welch’s information about what Rhonda asked her, how to discover if a child had been abducted.
“I wish we’d known that then. It would have made a difference.”
“You couldn’t have known. Petty only thinks now that Rhonda was asking for help for Delores. At the time she thought that Rhonda was asking about herself, like she thought she might not be her parents’ daughter. Some kids go through a phase of thinking they’re adopted.”
“True. As far as Rhonda Welch goes, I came to the conclusion she must have run off, given what little we could learn from the other police force. If we’d found her car . . . but the killer was smart. Or lucky. Kids run away every single day in this country. I met her dad when we were trying to figure out if there was a connection between the two girls’ disappearance; he was a self-righteous bugger, pardon my French. Blamed his sister for putting ideas in her head about feminism.” He shook his head and bent back down over the machine. “Like a perfect storm keeping us from solving it. There was no Amber Alert back then, but we got sightings from all over the country on both of them. Nothing credible on Delores, but there was a good report on Rhonda and her Ford Falcon.”
“Which we now know is false. She never made it out of Michigan. How did her car get into the river, do you think?”
He straightened and paused, wrench in hand. “I’d need to look at the lay of the land and know ex
actly where the car was found. But I know that island pretty well. Back then there was a parkette on a rise above a deep part of the shipping lane. Kids used to go there to make out, and some got drunk and jumped off the cliff to swim. Daredevils, you know. Closed up in the nineties; couple of houses on that rise now.”
Jaymie nodded. “I think I know where you mean, but I’ve always known it to be a cottage area. Do you think someone could have pushed the car off there?”
“I don’t know, Jaymie. I’m sure the police are trying to figure that out even as we speak.”
“Detective, you said that there was everything odd about the Pagets. What were they like?”
“Jimbo Paget was one of those fellows who look sneaky no matter what they’re saying or doing. And Mrs. Paget . . . she was a piece of work. Critical of Delores in every way. Called her ugly. Called her useless. Made my skin crawl. If I could have arrested someone on suspicion of being mean, I would have locked her up. But it contributed to me thinking that poor kid had every reason in the world to run away from home.”
“Do you think one or both or all three of them are mostly likely to have killed Rhonda and Delores? The chief thinks Delores was killed in the Paget kitchen.”
“Only fools speculate.”
Jaymie bit her lip. She speculated all the time.
He looked up and winked. “But I’m getting to be an old fool myself. Given the way and place she died, I’d say Delores had an argument with Olga Paget and Olga picked up a cleaver and whanged her with it. I’d bet she then roped those two fellows in on it to help her hide the body.”
“That makes sense.”
“Just a guess, Jaymie, not worth more than two bits.”
“What do you think happened to Clifford? Do you believe he drowned?”
He tightened a bolt and tossed his wrench aside. “Nope. Never did. But he was an adult and we did our duty concerning him. Divers looked for him, but he was gone. Pronounced dead. If you ask me he’s somewhere living as best he can with no documents. Look for someone who doesn’t drive and only works under the table.”
“Why would he disappear, though, if you don’t think he killed Delores?”
He shook his head. “You’re asking me to speculate even more. Just want to say . . . I don’t know anything. Learning about Rhonda Welch being dead and about the two cases being connected, likely, changes everything and I haven’t adjusted yet. It’s important not to get hung up on one explanation when the next piece of information you discover could change everything, make you see it from a whole different angle. I only know in my gut, I never thought Clifford Paget was dead, which means Henk Hofwegen was probably lying through his teeth. Ask him.”
“As a matter of fact, the chief is going to be doing that exact thing.”
He told her to come back any time she had another question, and he was sorry he wasn’t more help. He’d think on it. She gave him her number.
Back in her van, Jaymie texted Jakob and asked if she could come over and fix dinner for them. She started toward home but her phone pinged, so she parked on the side of the country road. Better yet, he texted back, meet me to pick up Jocie from school. He had to speak with the principal for some reason, and then he was going to take his daughter over to her oma and opa’s to stay the night. He had an early appointment the next morning, so his mother was taking Jocie to school.
What R U Saying? she asked.
Dinner & evening alone?
Starry-eyed emoji back.
She had a million things to do, but nothing took precedence over spending time with Jakob. Becca was home when she got back, and Jaymie explained the rest of her day after leaving the antique store that morning and her plans for the evening.
“Can you look after Denver and Hoppy?” she asked her older sister.
Becca agreed, so Jaymie took Hoppy for a long walk, knowing he’d be content to use the backyard that evening for his ablutions. Becca was gone to dinner with Valetta and Dee when Jaymie got back, so she left a note explaining the animals’ nighttime ritual, and said both animals could sleep in her room, but Hoppy would require help up the stairs. Then she packed an overnight bag. She didn’t know if she was spending the night with Jakob, but better to be prepared than not.
• • •
THE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL was a 1960s low building constructed of glossy red brick and surrounded by a grassy playground and paved parking lot. It was the school Jaymie had attended, though Becca and the others had gone to an older school that was now light industrial space. She parked in a visitor’s spot and headed directly to the principal’s office, which had a waiting room outside of the actual office. Jakob, who was thumbing through a magazine while sitting in one of the hard vinyl chairs, stood when he saw her.
“Hey, what’s up?” she asked after sharing a brief kiss.
“I’m not sure,” he said, a worried frown on his face. “I have to meet with the principal.”
Sybil Thorndike ducked out of her office, motioned to Jakob, and led them back in. She was an energetic woman about Becca’s age with graying, neatly curled short hair and glasses on a long chain around her neck. She wore sensible loafers and a skirt suit and had a file in her hand. “Mr. Müller,” she said by way of greeting, and she pointedly looked at Jaymie as she sat down.
“This is Jaymie Leighton, my fiancée. We’re getting married in June. She’ll be Jocie’s mom.” He smiled at Jaymie and took her hand.
“Interesting,” she said, and laid the file open on her desk, then folded her hands on top. “Mr. Müller, there was an incident on the playground today. Jocie pushed a boy.”
“That doesn’t sound like my daughter,” he said.
“Nevertheless, one of the parent volunteers saw it happen.”
“What does Jocie say?”
“That’s the problem. She won’t say anything.” A bell rang out in the hall and Sybil glanced up at the clock. “She’ll be meeting us here, along with the parent volunteer.”
Two minutes later Jocie entered, a mulish expression on her round face, her rosebud lips set in a frown. She was guided by a young woman in yoga pants and a brightly colored tunic top, her blonde hair up in a high ponytail. Jocie’s eyes lit up when she saw Jakob and Jaymie, but she didn’t say anything, just moved to stand between their chairs.
Introductions were made and the mom, Dina, explained what she saw. Jocie apparently had a conflict with the boy, one of her classmates, and she ran at him and pushed him into a puddle.
“What had he done to her?” Jakob asked, his gaze slicing back and forth between the mother and the principal.
The young mom bridled. “Not a thing! I don’t tolerate bullying on the playground. He likes her. She’s one of his favorite people.”
Something wasn’t right, Jaymie thought, as she watched the young woman’s face. There was something she wasn’t saying.
“What’s going on, Jocie?” Jakob asked his daughter, pulling her close. He ducked his head and looked into her eyes as she stared down at her pink running shoes. “Did you push that boy down?” She nodded. “Is it true? Does he like you?”
She shrugged.
“Is it okay if I step in, Jakob?” Jaymie asked, and he nodded. She turned and asked Dina, “Why do you say he likes her?”
Her expression was full of uncertainty; she looked back to the principal.
“Go ahead, Dina,” Principal Thorndike said.
“You can tell when a little boy likes a little girl,” Dina said.
“How?” Jaymie asked.
“Jaymie’s not Jocie’s mother,” the principal explained to Dina. “But she’s marrying Mr. Müller and will be Jocie’s stepmom soon. She doesn’t have kids of her own yet.”
Jaymie took a deep breath to keep from retorting. There would be time for that later. Right now . . . “So, Dina, how can you tell the boy likes Jocie?”
“He shows it in little-boy ways, you know?”
“And that is . . . ?” Jaymie had a feeling where this was headi
ng.
“He pulled her hair,” Dina said, looking away and shifting in her chair.
The principal’s eyes widened but she clamped her lips together in a tight line. This was clearly news to her.
“What did you do about that?” Jaymie asked.
“I told him he shouldn’t do it.”
“Did Jocie say something to you?”
“She told me what happened. I told her that he pulled her hair because he likes her.” She gave a nervous laugh. “It’s what little boys do.”
Jakob took in a deep breath, but Jaymie had it covered and took his hand, squeezing it. “And I’ll bet he pushed her, too?”
Dina shrugged. “I didn’t see it.”
“But she told you it happened?”
She nodded.
“And did you then tell her again that he did that because he likes her?”
“It’s true! That’s how little boys are,” Dina said, her tone defensive, arms crossed over her chest. Her gaze slewed among the principal, Jakob and Jaymie, but she didn’t have any support. “I have little boys. If you don’t have kids, you don’t know. That’s what little boys do. They’re more . . . you know . . . physical than little girls. It’s their way.”
The principal was still silent, just watching and listening.
Jaymie considered what to say, how to not over- or under-react. “Dina, what I’m hearing is what has been told to girls for a long time, that boys will pinch and push them and pull their hair because they like them. Maybe I haven’t had children until now, but isn’t that exactly when little boys need to be told . . . no one pinches or pushes or pulls hair? It’s not nice and it’s not how we show people we like them. I think that boy owes Jocie an apology.”
Leave It to Cleaver (A Vintage Kitchen Mystery Book 6) Page 17
