by Nancy Bush
“Burl still around?” Will asked Barb.
“Always. Probably by the coffee machine.”
Which was next to the doughnut boxes. “No other silver Camrys with front-end damage discovered?”
“Not in this county. One in Clatsop County but it was a Dodge Durango and the guy who smashed it up is in jail with his second DUI. Dot says your little friend’s been calling. Pellter with two l’s. Check your voice mail.”
Will punched in the numbers of his phone and waited. Carol Pellter, having been saved from assault and probably death at the hands of Letton, had taken her story public, though her parents were clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing. The media had run the girl’s story of a really bad man trying to get her into his van, and had taken pictures of the outside of the impounded van. But it had been nearly a week since the event, and since Carol was alive and well, the prurient interest of the news watchers had moved on to events with more salacious pictures and tragic outcomes.
Carol, however, was hanging onto her fifteen minutes of fame with all ten fingers.
“Hi, Detective Tanninger,” Carol’s recorded voice stated primly. “I want to help in your investigation. I think you might need me. Could you please call me?” She left her number, speaking it clearly in a precise tone, twice.
Will smiled to himself. Looking forward more to talking to Carol than dealing with Burl, he placed a call to the number she’d given him and ended up with Carol’s prim voice suggesting he leave a message on her voice mail. He waited for the beep then told her it was Will Tanninger returning her call.
Kids with cell phones. It was the norm rather than the exception.
Barb was pretending not to be avidly listening to his every syllable. Will had to push aside the distraction of her laser-like interest in him with almost physical force. God, things were getting bad.
He got up from his desk. “Where’re you going?” Barb asked, swiveling around as he circled toward the door.
“Gonna see Nunce,” he said.
“I’m coming with you.” She bustled to catch up to him and fell in step beside him in the outer hall.
Will’s temper was slow to rile, but Barb had been getting on his nerves for quite a while. He held back a sharp remark with an effort.
Sheriff Herbert Nunce was gray-haired, gray-eyed, tanned and weathered like old leather. He was slim and straight and distracted. He’d gotten the job by being the last man standing: his predecessors had all been promoted or left the sheriff’s office. He’d been sheriff for seven years and he’d gradually spent more and more time on the creeks and rivers that ran through the Coast Range, chasing steelhead and salmon and anything with fins. His interest in law enforcement—never strong, Will guessed—had been displaced so thoroughly that it was hard to get him juiced about any investigation, be it robbery/homicide, or narcotics, or anything in between. Will had written a report on Letton’s hit-and-run but he would bet Nunce hadn’t read it yet. This appeared to be borne out when Nunce greeted him with, “Smithson still sitting outside that hospital room?”
Will nodded. He could’ve reminded the sheriff that Letton’s life could still be in danger, but it wasn’t like the sheriff didn’t know. Nunce just reached for the one part of the investigation he was familiar with.
Burl had been nowhere in sight when Will and Barb entered the room, but now he snaked in around the doorway, an eavesdropper hoping not to be noticed. Will turned to gaze at him dead on, which caused Jernstadt to fidget.
“Burl, we’re having a talk here,” Nunce said, almost kindly. Nunce had wanted Burl out as much as the next man, but like everyone else, still tiptoed around the man’s feelings. The humorous part was that Nunce didn’t want the uninvited talk with Will and Barb much, either, and would probably have come up with an excuse to put it off except it was preferable to interacting with Burl.
“About that pedophile hit-and-run. I know. Did she tell you that I know that family? The LaPortes?” Burl jerked his head toward Barb but his gaze was on Will. “A bunch of loonies. The old man was a pussy. Let his wife run roughshod over him, and she was in a wrangle with the Dunleavys something fierce. I’m from Woodbine, right next to Quarry.” He hooked a thumb at his own chest. “I know Kevin Dunleavy. A straight shooter, if I ever saw one. There’s a longstanding fight over property rights between the families. The quarry’s right between their properties and that crazy psycho Jean was always screaming at Kevin and his brother Rome and the rest of the family. But Jean’s a piece of fuckin’ work, pardon my French, and she made some threat that Kevin should keep his family close if he wants ’em to survive, y’know what I mean? Thinks she’s a psychic, or something, and just goes around predicting shit and acts like it’s not her making it up. Like it’s real or something.”
“Jean LaPorte is deceased,” Will broke in when Burl took a breath. “You’re saying she was a psychic.”
“Pretend psychic. Pretend. She didn’t know her ass from a fuckin’ hole in the ground, pardon my French again, but that didn’t stop her. And now her daughter’s a killer. Doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“We don’t know anything yet,” Will cut in.
“You’re making a ton of assumptions,” Barb said at the same time.
Nunce waved them all off. “Burl, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I’m giving you background.” Burl glared at Will as if it were all his fault. “Haven’t you talked to her?”
“It’s a police investigation.” And none of your business.
Burl stared at Will as if he were speaking in tongues. “Sounds like she didn’t tell you nothing. That why you let her go home?”
Barb said in a long-suffering tone, “Burl, you know we can’t discuss the case with you. If we had enough to arrest anyone for the hit-and-run, we would have done it.”
“I could get her to talk,” Burl said to Will. “I know the Dunleavys.”
“The Dunleavys aren’t part of this particular crime.” Will felt his jaw tighten despite his efforts to not let Jernstadt get to him. He turned to Nunce. “I’ve got interviews on tap.”
“With who?” Burl demanded.
Will brushed past him, Barb at his heels, and Nunce said to Burl, “Why don’t you give me the names of all the Dunleavys.”
Torn, Burl hesitated, really wanting to follow Will and Barb. But Nunce looked expectant.
“There aren’t that many of ’em.”
“Write their names here.” Nunce pushed a piece of paper in Burl’s direction, distracting him, and Will and Barb completed their escape.
“Jesus,” Barb breathed.
“Think Nunce’ll ever tell him to get the hell out?” Will passed by his office, glancing back as Barb slowed by the door, looking longingly his way. He didn’t invite her along and there was no need for her to join him.
“He’d have to grow bigger balls,” she said.
He’d have to grow any balls, Will decided but, as ever, kept his thoughts to himself. Nunce might sometimes be ineffectual, but he was a decent enough human being. Not something that could be said about Burlington Jernstadt. If Will really wanted to get rid of the prick he could go over Nunce’s head, but that came with its own can of worms.
He walked past Dot in reception and stepped out into weak sunshine. Looked like Jimbo was right. The rain was ending.
The white Chevrolet pickup was a couple of decades old and rattled like it was filled with ball bearings. Gemma had to manhandle it into gear, but the yank and pull was both familiar and comforting. The truck had been her father’s, and it had been sitting outside the large garage with the corrugated metal roof behind the house, as ugly a building as the house was architecturally beautiful. Gemma had found its keys hanging on a hook by the back door—along with keys for the filing cabinet and several locks that she still hadn’t identified. Not exactly the tightest security around the old homestead.
She’d holed up inside for nearly a week, familiarizing herself, letting her bruises h
eal, letting herself heal. In that time she’d read nearly every scrap of paper she could find that had to do with the family’s finances, the past year’s calendar of events, the information on both her parents’ deaths. She’d gone through the filing cabinet and rifled through boxes in the attic until her eyes burned and her head ached, and she’d slept a great deal. The urgency she’d felt at the hospital—the need to apparently right some wrong—had eased to a simmer now that she was home. Maybe it was knowing that Edward Letton was still in the hospital, still in a coma. If he’d awakened and been released, she believed she would have heard it on the news, and at any rate, she just sensed that he was still there and for now, at least, she was going to trust her feelings.
She had not found her purse, nor did she have any recollection about her mother’s car, which according to Tanninger, who’d phoned to ostensibly keep her informed, was a silver Camry. That had caused shivers of fear to run up and down her spine. Was that what she’d been driving? If, and when, it turned up would it prove that she’d run down Edward Letton?
But what she had found among the papers was her medical insurance information, and she’d called hospital administration right away, happy that maybe she wasn’t going to be made destitute by her stay there. At least that was taken care of.
She’d spent most of the last week dwelling on something else, though: what her day-to-day life had been like before the accident. She had flashes of being in her mother’s office and seeing clients, people who wanted a glimpse into their own futures. But she also remembered working at LuLu’s, though those memories weren’t as clear. Maybe her time at the diner was further in the past. Whatever the case, she was driving there now. She felt ready to see people again, though she wondered what, if anything, they’d heard about her and the Letton hit-and-run. She really had no idea how much, or how little, of the information tying her to that accident had been obtained by the media.
LuLu’s was a nondescript, one-story rectangular building with dark green shingled siding, a transparent attempt to put lipstick on a pig. The empty flower beds on either side of the wooden steps that led to weather-beaten French doors didn’t help. Even the green-and-white striped awning above the doors seemed like an afterthought, and maybe not a very good one. But still, seeing the place brought back wave upon wave of memories. She’d loved LuLu’s. Had filled those flower boxes with red petunias. Had worked as a waitress here, though she couldn’t remember her mother on the premises…hmmm…
Gemma pulled the truck into the side gravel lot, yanked on the emergency brake, cut the engine, then as it coughed and shook itself to silence, she headed up the four front steps and stepped beneath the awning to avoid the surprisingly hot sun. The rain had vanished after a couple of drenched days, and now the ground was as hard and dry as before.
She twisted open the right French door, as she knew the left was fixed in place, entering immediately into the main dining room. Straight ahead was a counter with stools and behind it she could see the stainless-steel appliances and paraphernalia of the kitchen.
The familiarity of the place soaked in, right to her core, and Gemma inhaled deeply, feeling more solidly connected to herself than she had since waking up in the hospital. LuLu’s. Her home away from home.
“Hey, sugar,” a female voice called from behind the counter. Gemma looked over and saw a tall, red-haired woman in a beige uniform with a white collar, the front pockets gaping open to reveal notepads and pens. Her large bust was propped up with a sturdy bra and she wore enough eye makeup to open her own department store. She was grinning with delight at Gemma. “You look like hell, honey. Get over here.”
“Macie,” Gemma said, a rush of pleasure flooding her. Macie was the one who ran the diner. Macie was the one who’d treated Gemma like a daughter when Jean was at a complete loss, never flagging in that role even when she had her own child, Charlotte, now eleven.
And Macie was the one who never rolled her eyes in embarrassment or repressed anger when Gemma’s debilitating headaches and memory losses bewildered the young girl.
It all clicked together. The diner was Macie’s, not Jean’s. The LaPorte family leased the premises to Macie, and had for as long as Gemma could remember. Gemma was now Macie’s landlord but she’d spent many happy hours in her youth working as a waitress.
“Good grief, girl, you look like somebody smacked you silly.” She regarded Gemma with real concern. “What happened?”
“I was in a car accident.”
“Woowee. You okay?”
“My face looks worse than it feels.”
Macie cocked her head. “I could show you a thing or two about makeup. Would take care of all them bruises, I do believe. But you ain’t never let me take a mascara brush to you yet, so I think I’ll just save my breath. Besides, you’ve got it under control. Another couple of days or so and no one’ll be able to tell. Anybody else hurt?”
Gemma thought of Edward Letton. “Not that I know of,” she said carefully. “I gotta get down to the DMV. Lost my purse and now I’m driving without my license.”
“That’ll be the time you get stopped.”
“Don’t I know it.” She glanced around. “Charlotte at school?”
“God, I hope so. That child’ll be the death of me if she gets into more trouble.”
“What’s she done?” Gemma smiled, her mental picture of the skinny, tough girl coming into focus. Charlotte wore her hair in a short bob and the scowl on her face said most adults were idiots.
“Just leaves in the middle of her last class. She’s done it four times already. Just walks out. School’s only about two miles from the diner, so she takes off and shows up here. Meanwhile, I get calls from the administration.” She flapped a hand. “They threaten her with detention and black marks and the whole enchilada, but it doesn’t faze her. She told me the teacher’s a bore.”
Gemma’s smile grew. Charlotte was everything she’d ever wanted to be, at her age. She felt bonded to the child as if they were sisters.
That thought brought her stomach a funny wave of discomfort.
If anything should ever happen to Charlotte…
“Macie!” an impatient male voice called from across the room. A guy in a plaid workshirt, jeans, and workboots was holding up an empty coffee mug.
“Hold on to your knickers, Captain. I’ll be right there.” To Gemma, she murmured in an aside, “Still thinks he’s the only one in the place.” She sauntered toward him, snagging the coffeepot from a plugged-in burner on her way.
Gemma sat at the last booth in the row, which was wedged into an alcove, and ordered a sandwich. Her favorite spot. She’d spent a lot of hours at the diner, either working or seated at this very table, catching a meal in between shifts. This was the epitome of normality. This was the arena of her fondest memories.
“Did you ever find that guy?” Macie asked when she had a spare moment. She set the coffeepot back on the burner and sent Gemma a questioning look.
“Which guy?”
“The one you were chasing? The one you had to stop?”
Gemma stared at Macie as one of the other waitresses, whose name tag read Denise, brought Gemma her turkey on rye. She felt slightly strangled, like she couldn’t get her breath. “The accident knocked things out of my head.”
“The accident?” Macie gave her a oh, come on look. “Since when do you need an excuse for your on/off brain. You know it works better than most.” She shot the man she’d called Captain a searing glance. “A case in point…”
“What guy did I have to stop?”
“You tell me, girl. All I saw was you getting all worked up and tearing outta the diner lot like you’d seen a ghost. I thought it was that guy sitting in the booth by the door ’cause you waited till his vehicle was outta sight before you ran to your momma’s car.”
“My momma’s car…” Gemma repeated, her heart jerking. So, it was true…
“Well, it wasn’t your car, now was it?” Macie declared.
“I guess not.”
“Hon, you told me yours was on its last legs, so you sold it. Don’t you remember?”
“Kind of,” Gemma lied.
“Well, no matter.” She shrugged it off. “You said you were just driving your momma’s temporarily. It’s kind of a wreck, to be perfectly honest. Jean sure didn’t know how to take care of things. Sorry, hon, bless her soul, but your momma was kind of in her own world. Best thing she ever did was adopt you. Really about the only truly selfless thing she did, but then we know how that turned out, don’t we? What are you gonna do about her business, now? Sally Van Kamp was asking if you were ever gonna call her back.”
“Not sure I have her number,” Gemma murmured. She felt bombarded with information, yet Macie was only telling her the kind of information she’d craved to learn. Psychic readings. That’s the business Macie meant. Sally Van Kamp wanted a psychic reading from Gemma. All of Jean’s clients had tenaciously hung in there whether Gemma wanted to tell them their futures or not.
“She said she left it on the machine.”
“Oh.” There were messages on the house voice mail but Gemma hadn’t known how to retrieve them.
And then as soon as that thought crossed her mind, the series of numbers to access them came to her as if they had always been there. Her on-again/off-again brain, according to Macie. This was beginning to feel like normal for Gemma.
I’m a freak. Accept it and move on.
“You gonna come help me out again? I had two high school kids but since school’s started they don’t have any time to give me. Always want summer jobs, but they whine and whine if they have any social activity at all.”
“I’d love to.” Gemma seized on the idea. Working at the diner sounded…good.
“Yeah? Well, you put yourself together for a couple more days. Get rid of the remnants of that eye.” She held Gemma’s chin and moved her face from side to side. “Honey, you just bashed yourself good, didn’t ya?”
