Mommy Said Goodbye

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “Will Calpeno.” Robin let out a low, delicious chuckle. “Oh, dear. You probably didn’t want to know that.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he said, smiling even though she wouldn’t see. “Was it exciting?”

  “It was awful! I was…um, twelve, I think.” Amusement laced her voice. “I didn’t know he had a crush on me. I felt sorry for him because he was short and his mother used to hug him right in front of God and the whole school when she picked him up afternoons. Anyway, he cornered me at a middle school dance, stood on tiptoe and pressed this wet mouth on mine.” She made a gagging sound. “I don’t think I was nice to him after that, although I felt guilty for being so repulsed. The funny thing is, by our junior or senior year in high school, he’d shot up and was actually pretty cute.”

  “But no second kiss for you,” Craig guessed.

  “Heck, no! I don’t think he ever looked me in the eye again.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Okay. Your turn.”

  “I was a late bloomer. I was thirteen before I worked up the nerve to kiss a girl. Rita Wills. Her friends had asked my friends if I wanted to go out with her, and I sent word back that sure, why not? Which meant I danced with her and we hung out together while we waited for the school bus. The pressure built, though, and I knew I had to make a move. I was self-conscious about braces.” He felt old, remembering. Kids were different now. More sophisticated. Probably half of them were sexually active by fourteen or fifteen, not shy about a mere kiss. Not an idea he liked in connection with his own two.

  “Tell me she didn’t wear braces, too.”

  “No, although a friend of mine did get his tangled with a girl’s when he kissed her.” Craig grinned. “The father had to pry them apart.”

  “Killed that romance, I’ll bet.”

  “I think the girl’s father did use the word ‘kill’ at some point.”

  She giggled. “How awful!”

  “No, my first kiss was entirely unmemorable. A peck. No fireworks, no desire to prolong it. She scared me. She broke up with me a few days after that.”

  He loved the sound of her laughter. It was soft, bubbly, almost musical. Pure joy, expressed.

  Perhaps a mile passed in easy silence. Craig caught a few lines of dialogue from the movie the boys were watching. Shanghai Knights, he diagnosed. About their level of humor.

  “You know,” Robin said, “Glenn and I never really talked like this, either. It hadn’t occurred to me before. I’d laugh at myself, but he always bragged. He told glorious stories about triumphs on the football field, or showing up a teacher, or bagging the head cheerleader. He could be funny, so when we first met I thought…” She gusted a sigh. “I actually thought his stories were tongue in cheek. Silly me.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  “Obviously, I thought so.” She sounded disgusted, but then laughed again. “He is handsome. He really was a good athlete. He’d have been drafted by the pros if he hadn’t wrecked his knee. I think in a way that broke his heart. That was his dream, and he was so close…” She fell silent again.

  But the idiot had thrown away an incredible woman and a great son. Craig had no sympathy for him.

  “Tri-Cities,” he announced loudly enough for the boys to hear.

  They peered briefly at the lights reflecting on the Columbia River as they crossed it for the second time today. Seeing a mileage sign, Craig said, “It shouldn’t be more than about forty-five minutes to Walla Walla.”

  The boys cheered and went back to their movie.

  “I’m glad you offered us the ride,” Robin said suddenly, when the highway had become narrow and dark. “The drive has gone really fast.”

  “Yeah,” he said with regret. “It has.”

  He couldn’t let the silence last. Craig felt this hunger to know everything about her. “Tell me about the book you’re writing.”

  This was her dream, he realized immediately when she started talking. Her voice gained animation, hope. She talked about her first efforts and then this young adult novel, a coming of age story set in the early days of logging in the Pacific Northwest.

  “I really love it,” she concluded with a small laugh. “I guess you can tell.”

  “Having something you love rejected must sting.”

  “I sulk for days.” She paused. “But I’ve gotten better with each book and each revision. The editors have been right. I think this might be the one.”

  “Would you quit teaching if you started selling?”

  “Heavens, no! In the first place, not many authors of childrens’ books actually make a living, from what I can gather. Anyway, I love teaching, too. I’d probably run out of inspiration without being surrounded by kids all day. I can do both. I’ll bet I could write a book every summer.”

  Not many people had two gifts. “I’ll be rooting for you.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice had a tiny hitch, as if he’d actually moved her. Maybe she hadn’t had too many people rooting for her.

  Not likely, he told himself. She must have plenty of friends. For all he knew, she dated regularly. He hadn’t figured out a way to ask that yet. How could he, when he had no right to care about the answer?

  “Boys,” he said over his shoulder, “I do believe we’re here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE ROOMFUL of grocery clerks shook their heads. One contributed, “I’ve seen her picture in the paper. But she never shopped here that I know of.”

  “Thank you.” Ann nodded at the manager, who had gathered the crew that had worked the morning Julie Lofgren disappeared.

  Outside, she crossed another business off her list. She’d started two days ago with the stores where Julie had been a regular customer. Nobody who worked at any of them remembered seeing her the morning of her disappearance. Now Ann was moving on to stores where Julie might have hoped not to be recognized.

  The whole idea was a long shot. In a year and a half, people moved, changed jobs. The one clerk who’d waited on her might have gone to join her boyfriend in Sacramento by now.

  Ann might find the right one, who wouldn’t recognize Julie. Or she might not have read the newspapers about the missing housewife, and therefore might not have pinpointed the day in her memory.

  Heck, it might turn out that Julie had run to the store for milk and eggs so her family didn’t have to grocery shop for a couple of days. She might have gotten a pedicure so her feet were sexy for her lover. The possibilities were endless, and most would offer no clue to where she’d gone.

  Nonetheless, Ann moved her car to the main street, parked and went into the first small store, a gun shop. Hey, you never knew.

  The bearded, tattooed, potbellied proprietor looked wary at the sight of a cop but took the photo and studied it. He handed it back, shaking his head.

  “Never seen her outside the Times.”

  Two hours later, she’d seen a lot of heads shaking.

  “Nope. Sorry, ma’am. I mean, Officer.”

  On that last morning, Julie Lofgren hadn’t bought a gun, an ice-cream sundae or a new windshield for her van. She hadn’t bought dog food for a nonexistent dog, vitamins from the health food shop or a cholesterol-laden breakfast at the café.

  She hadn’t gone to the farmer’s supply, the bakery or the furniture store.

  A few of the proprietors knew her. She apparently did shop at the health food store occasionally, for example, and had taken troops of kids into the Taste Treat for ice-cream cones.

  But, “Not that day.” More head shakes.

  Half a dozen antique stores later, Ann was down to the AM/PM market and the side streets. Nobody at the AM/PM had the slightest idea who had worked there a year and a half ago. Ann couldn’t think of anything—except maybe a map—that Julie might have bought there that would shed any light on her whereabouts anyway.

  Ann checked with several dental offices—no cigar—and a place that gave karate lessons. The consignment shop that sold baby and children’s clothes seemed like a long shot, given Cra
ig Lofgren’s likely income, but Ann asked at every single open business. No, Julie hadn’t felt compelled to snap up a used playpen or toddler-size overalls.

  The Volunteers of America thrift store occupied an old house. Ann climbed the steps and went in, ignoring the miscellany of battered and cheap furniture that filled the front porch.

  She’d have to give up for the day soon; she shouldn’t have spent this long. Knowing that Diaz was working twice as hard to make up for her absence was an itch she couldn’t ignore. Ann didn’t like owing him in any way.

  A sweet-faced, elderly woman with blue hair sat behind the glass counter filled with costume jewelry. “Oh,” she said brightly, after finding her glasses to peer at the photo. “Mrs. Lofgren gave to us regularly. Bags and bags of children’s clothes, always in wonderful condition. We were so grateful to her!”

  Ann explained her mission, concluding, “Is there any chance she brought in a donation that morning?”

  As if it would do any good to find out she had.

  “We felt so dreadful when we read about her disappearance. Oh, dear, let me think. Was it Edith…? Or Myrtle…?” She pushed herself to her feet. “Myrtle!” she bellowed, in a voice that had Ann’s eardrums quivering, like a trampoline recoiling from a bounce.

  Myrtle was even older, surely not five feet tall, her face a mass of wrinkles. In her starched blue apron, orthopedic shoes and polyester slacks, she made her way between racks of women’s dresses and men’s sports coats.

  “Did you call me?”

  “Do you remember us talking about Julie Lofgren? Her being in here right before she disappeared?”

  “Right before” would probably turn out to be a week before, Ann thought with resignation. Nonetheless, she had to follow up.

  “Yes, but it wasn’t me who was here.” Myrtle pursed her lips, which had the effect of making them disappear. “Let me think. Was it Lavinia? Or Edith?”

  Both women were reasonably certain Edith was the one who had excitedly told them about seeing Julie. They called her and explained. Edith Safford—a widow, they murmured confidentially—said she’d be glad to talk to Ann, who thanked the two women and walked five blocks back to her car.

  Edith lived up the hill, in a tiny house with a white picket fence that was collapsing. Yet her garden was carefully tended, with bright, spiky asters and dahlias in fading bloom in beds along the fence.

  Edith was a little younger than her fellow volunteers, but not by much. She was developing the hump of osteoporosis, and had to peer up at Ann when she answered the door.

  “Why, you don’t look like a policewoman!” she exclaimed. “Come in, come in.”

  “In major crimes, we rarely wear uniforms.”

  “Oh, it’s not that. You’re just too young and pretty!” She chuckled. “But I do realize women don’t wait to join the force until they’re plump and forty.”

  Actually, they were more likely to have left it by then, Ann reflected. Starting a family often brought about a change in career.

  “Thank you for the compliment,” she said. “Now, about Julie Lofgren…”

  “Oh, that was so terribly sad!” At a shuffle, Edith led the way into her minute living room, where a love seat took the place of a couch, the arms covered with crocheted doilies. “Would you care for a cup of tea? Or coffee? I only have instant, but…”

  “Thank you, but I’m afraid I don’t have time.”

  She had to make time to hear all about that sweet Julie Lofgren—wasn’t she so pretty? and so young to have something so awful happen to her. She even heard about the darling baby clothes—they didn’t even look worn!—that she’d donated.

  “Why, I remember one exquisite midnight blue velvet dress with lace trim that must have cost $100, and she admitted her little girl had worn it only once, for a photography sitting! She even showed me the picture. Her daughter was so cute!”

  Ann felt her eyes glaze. She guessed Abby Lofgren was cute enough, as children went.

  “I understand you saw her…”

  “Of course, her little boy was so handsome, too! Just like his father. She showed me his photo, too. A fine-looking man. I was shocked to hear that he might have hurt her.”

  “We haven’t determined whether he was involved in any way in his wife’s disappearance. We’re still pursuing our investigation.”

  “But she’s been gone for so long!” Edith gazed at her with watery, disappointed eyes. “I’ve read that with the Internet and all, tracing people has become easy. And if she were dead, wouldn’t her body have…well, floated up or something by now? Like that horrifying case in California?”

  “Yes,” Ann said with eroding patience. “I would have expected to find her body by now. That’s why we’re once again investigating Mrs. Lofgren’s last few days, to see if we can’t find a clue to what happened to her.”

  “But nobody talked to me before.”

  “Can you please tell me when you saw her last?”

  “Why, I thought you were here because you knew! It was that morning.” She bent forward. “I would have called 911, but I read in the paper that a neighbor saw her arriving home after she shopped at VOA. So I wasn’t the last person to see her.”

  Excitement charging her, Ann asked, “You’re certain?”

  Edith’s face crumpled in confusion. “That I wasn’t the last person?”

  Deep breath. We all get old.

  “No,” Ann said. “I meant that she was in the thrift shop the morning she disappeared.”

  “Oh, yes! We all discussed it the next morning, after we heard the news. Yes, I’m quite sure.”

  Shopped. She hadn’t donated, she’d shopped.

  Carefully, Ann asked, “Mrs. Lofgren didn’t bring in a donation that morning?”

  “No, although she assured me she had some bags almost ready to come. ‘Brett is shooting up,’ she said. ‘He outgrows clothes as fast as I can buy them.’

  Her patience getting thin again, Ann tried to steer her back to the facts. “Did she buy something that morning?”

  “Yes, indeed! She said she’d gotten involved with community theater. You know there’s quite an active one in Salmon Creek. Why, they just did a lovely job on Crimes of the Heart.”

  Ann unclenched her teeth. “What…did…she…buy?”

  Looking startled and even affronted at her brusqueness, the elderly VOA volunteer said succinctly, “Hippie clothes.”

  “Hippie clothes?” Her mind was racing, connecting the dots. Volkswagen van, long-haired man waiting. Husband unable to tell police what clothes might be missing from his wife’s closet.

  Edith gave a stiff nod.

  Ann leaned forward. “This could be very important.” She paused while Edith unbent. “Can you describe what she bought?”

  The elderly volunteer couldn’t describe every item, but she did remember there were a couple of pairs of low-cut jeans frayed at the hems, a black crocheted shawl, a man’s shirt and a purse. A drawstring suede one with fringe.

  “Oh, and sandals. Used Birkenstocks. She seemed quite delighted with them.”

  Craig Lofgren’s wife had bought an entirely new—well, secondhand—wardrobe only an hour or two before vanishing.

  “Thank you,” Ann said, rising. “Thank you very much. You have a remarkable memory, Mrs. Safford.”

  She blushed and disclaimed, but was clearly pleased with her part in an ongoing police investigation.

  Ann departed with her notes and vindication.

  “WOW!” Robin touched her throat. “I think I’m hoarse.”

  “Wouldn’t be a shock.” Across the dinner table from her, Craig grinned. “You should have heard yourself screaming, ‘Kick it! Kick it!’ The way your foot was going, I’d have had bruises if I’d been standing in front of you.”

  She made a face. “I get excited.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Mom always screams.” Malcolm licked the last ice cream from his spoon. “I barely hear her, though.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, great,” she muttered. “I’m wasting my voice.”

  “Yep.”

  “Brett?” she asked hopefully.

  Craig’s son shook his head. “When I’m playing, Coach is, like, the only person on the sidelines I notice.”

  “Me, too,” Mal agreed.

  Robin threw her hands in the air. “I’ll shut up from now on.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” Craig teased.

  “Yeah.” With regret, Malcolm set down the spoon. “I bet you can’t.”

  “What?” she exclaimed in mock—and maybe real—indignation.

  Looking extraordinarily handsome in a heavy navy blue Polo shirt, Craig cocked a brow. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let this go any further.”

  She sniffed, “If I choose to accept a bet from my own son…”

  “You’ll spend tomorrow sitting on your hands. With tape over your mouth. During the semifinals.” He paused for effect. “And maybe the finals. Where’s the fun?”

  Dang it, he was right. Whatever they said to the contrary, she could sit placidly watching the game, if she had to. She just didn’t want to.

  “I enjoy cheering you on. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “Nope.” Her son gave her a sunny look. “Are you guys done eating? ’Cause Brett and I are ready to go back to the room.”

  “You can’t swim for a while.”

  “We know. But we can watch TV, can’t we?”

  “Well, sure.” She looked at Craig. “Are you ready?”

  “Why don’t we stay and have another cup of coffee? Sitting on a hotel bed watching television on Saturday night doesn’t appeal to me.”

  “Me, either,” she admitted. “Go ahead, guys. Here.” She bent and rummaged in her purse. “Take my key. Just don’t go anywhere until we get back, okay?”

  They agreed and shoved their chairs back with the social aplomb of mountain gorillas invited to the Plaza.

  “Oops!” Malcolm said, when a waitress had to dodge with a tray of dinners. “Sorry!” he added hastily, before bolting.

  Robin turned her head as if she didn’t know them.

  After a day spent at the soccer fields—the boys had won three games—she and Craig had decided to eat at Jacoby’s, a restaurant across the parking lot from the Best Western hotel. Jacoby’s was in what appeared to be an old railroad depot, with one dining room in a railroad car. The boys had turned pleading eyes on the hostess, who had laughed and seated them in the narrow car.