Heart of a Runaway Girl

by Trevor Wiltzen

  “Right here?” the mother asked in a whisper.

  “Yes,” Mabel said in awe. “Right where you are. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. It just felt right.”

  Mabel smiled at her. “Because you’re a mom. We mothers know these things. But wait here one second, I want to set you two up nicely.” She hurried into the kitchen to dish up three pieces of pie with big scoops of ice cream, then asked the cook to watch the diner and went back to the table, set down plates, and squeezed into the booth beside the husband. “Please join me. On the house.”

  “Uh, thank you… and your name is?”

  “Mabel, my love.”

  “My name’s Jack. Jack Thompson. And this is my wife, Isabelle.”

  “What lovely names,” Mabel said. “Please, go ahead and eat with me.”

  Jack took a big bite, Isabelle only a small one. She looked thin and worn out, and Mabel thought she probably hadn’t eaten much since her daughter’s death.

  “She looks like you. Both of you,” Mabel said.

  “Our daughter Karen?” the woman asked, her voice more than a whisper now but still soft.

  Mabel breathed the girl’s name in and thought about that day in the diner a little less than a week ago. “She had black hair and black eyeliner. And she had a tattoo on her hand.”

  The father spoke up. “What was it?”

  Mabel asked gently, “When did you last see your daughter?”

  Jack and Isabelle shared a pained look before saying, “I’m ashamed to say it, but more than two months back. She, uh, she ran away. We looked, but…” He grimaced, overwhelmed, and then hung his head.

  Isabelle reached out to touch her husband’s hand, and then she picked up the story. “It was the drugs.” She looked at Mabel. “She had gotten into the drugs.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. This place — Blue River — is known for it. We have a bad drug problem.”

  Isabelle asked, “What was the tattoo?”

  “It spelled ‘hope’, written on her knuckles where she could always see it.”

  The father started, shocked at first, and then Isabelle encouraged him, and he rolled up his sleeve to show the tattoo on his wrist. HOPE, it spelled too. Isabelle said to Jack, “Maybe she was on the right path.”

  He nodded, then explained to Mabel, “I uh… I had gotten into trouble when I was young too. I was reckless. A biker. Before I met Isabelle.” Isabelle smiled at him encouragingly. “And she changed my ways. I was addicted to heroin, and I had done some bad things, but Isabelle, she, well, she stuck with me. So, I got this tattoo on my wrist to remind me that I needed to be better, a better person, and get on with my life. I had told Karen that story. Maybe she had met someone as well — someone to help her through a terrible time. Drugs had almost killed me then and now that it affected my daughter too, I…” His voice faded, and then he banged a fist on the table in anger, and Isabelle hung her head. “I’m sorry,” he said finally.

  Mabel reached out to touch his arm until he looked at her. “It’s all right,” she said. “This is a safe place.”

  “I’ve been angry ever since I heard the news about that man, about how he—” He glanced at his wife, “killed her.”

  Mabel didn’t know what to say. She didn’t think Winston had done it, but this wasn’t the time to bring that up. She felt terrible.

  Isabelle broke the silence. “You said you saw her? When?”

  Both parents’ eyes bore into hers. She realized she was possibly the last person to have seen the girl alive — except for the murderer and Winston — and somehow, she thought that carried a lot of weight. “I did. A week ago. She was sitting here like I said. And Winston—” the parents flinched at the name “—was with her.” She paused. “It looked like he loved her, the boy.”

  “Then how could he have done that?”

  “I don’t know,” Mabel said. “The boy has been saying he’s innocent, I’ve been told.”

  “But they arrested him.”

  “I know,” Mabel said, not wanting to contradict them. “It’s just what I saw. They were here that day for a little more than an hour. Yes, the conversation, at times, was heated. But I got the impression that Winston was worried about Karen. Worried about something related to her, that’s for sure. And your daughter, she seemed to be the one in control of the conversation. It’s like she knew what path she was going to take, and he was scared for her.”

  Isabelle and Jack looked at each other, and Isabelle smiled slightly. “That sounds like Karen. She knew what she wanted, and boys, it seemed, would do what she said. She was a Daddy’s girl.”

  Jack fought back a sob, so Mabel touched his shoulder until he got himself settled. But he looked broken, almost beyond repair.

  “She obviously looked up to you,” Mabel said to Jack. “With the tattoo and all. It’s like she was going back to you.”

  Jack whispered, “I didn’t know she did that. She musta done it after she left.”

  He looked over at his wife, as did Mabel. Isabelle now seemed the stronger of the two, prim and proper, yet displaying an inner strength, and Mabel wondered why she hadn’t seen it at first.

  “We loved her, you see,” Isabelle explained. “But she was headstrong like me. I don’t know what we could’ve done different, yet every day, I wonder.”

  “We,” Jack said gently.

  “What we could have done,” Isabelle corrected herself. “But I don’t know. It was terrible when she had run away and now, with her death and how she died.” Her voice trailed off, then she swallowed and continued. “Every day, I ask God why she left us, why he allowed Karen to die. And I don’t have the answers. I don’t. But I blame myself. Maybe I was too hard on her, but I don’t know. I relive all our moments together and wonder what I could have done different, how I could have been a better mother. I made so many mistakes.” She blinked back tears and looked at Mabel and gave a soft, pained smile. “But there’s nothing more I can do now.” She reached down then and touched the vinyl cushions of the booth and caressed the fabric. “It’s nice to know my daughter came here. That she had some comfort before her death.”

  Mabel’s gaze dropped to the melting ice cream pooling on her plate, and she felt she had failed Karen and her parents.

  “It’s time,” Isabelle said to her husband. “We should go.” Isabelle and Jack stood up, but Mabel didn’t want them to leave. She held Isabelle’s hand and said, “I’m sorry.”

  Isabelle replied, “There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “I could see she was in trouble. That the two of them were worried,” said Mabel, fighting back tears.

  “Her path was written,” the mother said. “So is ours.” Then Isabelle opened her arms to Mabel, and Mabel stood up to hug her, and then Mabel hugged Jack, and nothing more was said.

  Isabelle guided her husband out.

  The bell on the door chimed twice.

  Mabel stood there unable to stem the tears for several minutes, watching the couple leave. Then their car disappeared down the highway.

  “So help me God,” she said to herself. “I will find who did this to your daughter. I will give you the answers you seek. To give you peace.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Wednesday, September 10

  Mabel was entertaining a group of construction workers finishing up their breakfast. After setting up a dirty joke, she finished with, “‘So the waitress asks, ‘What do you want, luv?’ The customer responds: ‘If you wash your hands, I’ll have the steak.’”

  Two of the guys broke out laughing, while the third, the youngest, looked embarrassed like he shouldn’t be laughing too.

  “Oh, you’re new here, honey. It’s fine.”

  The youngest relaxed and chuckled.

  “All you boys good here?” Mabel asked the group. “You need any seconds?”

  “That’ll be thirds for me, Mabel,” one of them said. “But I’m good.” Everyone nodded assent.

  “Well, that�
�s good, boys. I like to see my customers well-fed, especially at the start of a shift.” She poured their coffees. “Take your time. You got forty-five minutes till shift change. Enjoy your coffees.”

  “Mighty fine,” said Carlos, the foreman, looking into her eyes and taking a sip. “We’ll settle up shortly.”

  “Oh,” she added, waving him off. “Remember, second helpings and the coffee are free, but leave a nice tip for the cook. He’s a young boy who needs it.”

  “Hope you get to enjoy some too,” the youngest worker said, giving her what he hoped was a winning smile.

  “Honey,” she replied, swiping her notebook at him. “I own the place.” Then she flashed her smile to each and made her way around the counter.

  As she wrote up their bill, Sarah, one of her motel cleaners, walked in through the side hallway connecting the motel to the diner. Mabel was surprised to see her. Being a timid woman, Sarah avoided crowded places like the diner. And while Mabel thought all women were pretty, even she thought a doctor should remove the wart on Sarah’s cheek, and a stylist should give her a professional perm. Sarah used a home kit, which left her hair dry and frizzled. Mabel encouraged her to treat herself, but Sarah only said, “Pete don’t like it when I spend money on things. Besides, who am I trying to impress?”

  What a shame, Mabel thought. Like most Blue River women, the poor dear was more a husband’s wife than her own woman.

  “What can I do for you, Luv?”

  “Can I talk to you please?”

  Mabel had to lean in to hear with all the diner conversation behind her. “Of course,” she replied, wiping her hands on her apron and following Sarah into the hallway decorated with black-and-white photos of Blue River’s past: frontier loggers cutting down trees; the first sawmill men running logs through the mill; the old town mayor driving a sleek Chevrolet Bel Air at the highway inauguration; color photos of the construction workers building the mine.

  Sarah asked, “Is there anything wrong with Room Seven?”

  Mabel tried to recall who the tenant was. Sally had signed him in: a new worker who’d been here only two weeks, and since he hadn’t eaten at the diner yet, Mabel hadn’t seen much of him either, which was kind of strange, her motel such a tight community and all. “No. Why?”

  “Well, nothing’s changed.”

  “I don’t understand, dear.”

  “Well, I cleaned the room last week. And then I come back today, and nothing’s changed. All his gear is where it was left.”

  “Is he just neat?”

  “No ma’am. I make sure all the rooms are just right, with the right creases in the sheets, fresh soap in the dish, and a new roll in every bathroom, like you want, but nothing was touched.”

  “Hmm, that is strange,” said Mabel. “Let me see.”

  With the unpaid bill in hand, she glanced back. The men had settled in again, drinking coffee and chatting. She had time. It wasn’t far, anyway. Room Seven in her two-level, L-shaped motel was the closest room to the diner on the main level, facing the highway. The short hallway they were in led past the motel desk and right to Room Seven outside.

  Mabel led the way, took out her motel master key, and entered. The early morning light cast her profile deep into the darkened room, so she flipped on the main switch to see better, and it was just as Sarah had described. Spotless, except for the man’s dirty duffel bag and soiled clothes slung over the chair and in the closet. Mabel wiped her finger along the kitchenette countertop, and then showed Sarah a bit of dust.

  “I haven’t cleaned anything yet, ma’am,” Sarah said, a little defensive. “Why clean a room as clean as this?”

  Mabel nodded. She opened the fridge and found rotten food and a milk cartoon going bad. She said, “At least we can empty the fridge. I don’t want food spoiling.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mabel went to the bathroom, and again, it was as Sarah had described.

  “Something else was funny here last week.”

  Sarah was the type who needed prodding, so Mabel asked, “What’s that?”

  “There was blood.”

  “Blood?!”

  “Yes ma’am, on the counter here and in the sink. Not enough to cause a mess, but more than just a shaving nick if you know what I mean.”

  The sink was spotless now, Sarah being good at her job. Mabel said, “That is strange. When did you do it last?”

  “Last Thursday. Beatrice was home with a sick kid, as you know, which is why I come in, being casual and all.”

  Mabel nodded. The day after, the poor girl, Karen, had been murdered. She went back into the main room and casually looked through the man’s things, not wanting to snoop but wanting to figure this out. An empty knife scabbard was on the duffel bag. It was covered in dried mud and broken pine needles, like his work boots, sitting on a mat by the door. Mabel turned to Sarah and said, “Okay, thank you, dear. It was right to tell me.”

  “Maybe he went home on a shift change and left his things?”

  Mabel shook her head. “They take all their gear. The company doesn’t want to pay for an empty room, and they’re usually pretty good about telling me.” She thought about it some more. “Hmmm, I know they just extended shifts again to meet a deadline, and the men are busy,” she said, tapping her fingers against her leg. “Okay. You’re right. No need to clean here. Go finish up with the other rooms. I’ll ask Carlos what’s going on here.” She patted Sarah’s shoulder as she left.

  Mabel came back into the diner as Carlos and his crew were getting organized to leave. He flashed his best smile as she waved him over.

  “Afraid I was going to dine and dash?” Carlos teased her. A motel resident as well, he regularly signed off on the entire crew’s tab staying at the motel and was probably sweet on her too, but she paid that no mind.

  “No worries,” Mabel said, handing him the bill. Then as he bent over the counter to initial it, she asked, “Hey, what’s going on with the newbie in Room Seven? I didn’t sign him in, it was Sally who done it. His name is Bill Jordan.”

  “Oh yeah. Guy got injured on his own time and had to go to the hospital. Stupid.”

  “Oh dear, is he all right?”

  “I don’t know, some sort of hand injury and some minor scrapes, I guess. I needed that guy, and he cost me some time. But it’s probably a good thing in the long run. He was only here a week and didn’t really fit in. Always buggered off at night and didn’t hang with the boys.”

  “How many days ago was that?” Mabel asked, not asking what day of the week, since for the construction crews, days were described as numbers to match how many days passed since they’d been on shift. Most crews worked twenty-one days on, seven off, for months on end.

  “Oh, about seven days back. Six or seven, I think. It’s been a hard haul making up for a lost man.”

  Seven days was the night of the murder, she thought. She didn’t like that one bit. “Can you check for me? What day it was? I don’t want to charge the company a room when no one’s using it.” Not why she wanted to know, but she didn’t want to throw out shade just yet.

  “Yeah, sure. Anything else?”

  “All his stuff is still in his room.”

  “Ugh, typical greenhorn,” Carlos growled. “I’ll get someone to clear it out. We’ll ship it back to him as I don’t think I want him here.”

  Mabel touched his arm. “No need. I can do it.”

  He brightened noticeably at the touch. “That makes my life easier. Thanks. And sorry about not telling you. I should’ve, but like I said, it’s been really busy, short a man.”

  “No worries, dear,” Mabel smiled.

  Carlos left, and her smile faded as she considered what was at stake. While she was good at reading people, the short time Bill Jordan had stayed at her motel meant she never really got a good look at him to know what he was capable of — including murder.

  CHAPTER 12

  Thursday, September 11

  The Sheriff belched as he sat
down on the stool, pounded his fist against his chest to knock out a second one, and then tossed his files onto the diner counter.

  “Tough day?” Mabel asked, pouring him a coffee.

  “This damn paperwork is too much.” He slid his bulk over to grab the sugar. “Let me tell ya—” he opened the folder “—I thought scooping the Staties on this was a good thing, but now they’re laughing. All this paper-pushing ain’t worth it. Serves me right I guess, trying too hard.”

  Mabel peeked at some photos mostly hidden under the forms but couldn’t make much out, so she prompted, “Is this the Winston case? I never did hear the details.”

  “Pretty bad,” he said absently as he bent over the forms to get to work.

  “I got time. I ain’t that busy tonight.”

  Dan glanced around. “Place looks full to me.”

  Mabel whipped her cloth at him in a playful way. “Sally’s got it covered, I don’t have much to do.” Which was no accident. Dan came here every Thursday to do his paperwork, so Mabel had scheduled Sally on purpose to give herself time to ask Dan some questions.

  “So?” she drawled out after a pause. “If you already caught him, why all this paperwork?”

  “Procedure.”

  Mabel waited for more, but Dan kept working.

  “So where is he now?”

  “The black fella?” Dan asked absently.

  “Winston Washington,” she corrected with a frown.

  “Oh, up in Seattle’s King County Jail. Buster’s boy, Sam, works up there as you know.”

  “Any visitors?”

  Dan stopped writing, a little annoyed at being interrupted again. “For the Washington kid?”

  She tried to sound breezy. “Yes. I mean, how does someone get a visitor in jail anyway?”

  “Easy. Anyone can see anyone. You sign up for visitor’s hours, wait a bit, and they bring the cons out in a room.” He bent over his work again.

  “So, anyone can visit?”

  “Yes, Mabel.” Dan looked up, irritated. “Even you could visit him if you want.”