Heart of a Runaway Girl

by Trevor Wiltzen

  She served the next batch of meals before taking off her apron and rushing out the door to her car.

  At the town grocer, she bought most of the potatoes in stock. The price was much higher than at her Tacoma supplier, but it was important for the business. Big portions were part of her diner’s charm, her customers appreciated it, and it usually meant more tips for her staff, so she didn’t mind the added cost.

  She loaded her car and headed out.

  Checking her watch, she’d been gone about fifteen minutes, fast for a run that usually took twenty or twenty-five. Kevin would be pleased.

  Then she saw it — a black pickup pulling into the sawmill’s parking lot. She slammed on the brakes, almost skidding past the turnoff. Dozens of vehicles were in the lot, with more than a few new dark pickups, the sawmill being an economic powerhouse in the community, paying good wages to men who liked their toys.

  Mabel rechecked her watch — she had time, so she drove around writing down black trucks’ license plates in her waitressing notebook. By the time she finished, her mood had improved. But she was late, a good twenty minutes. Kevin was beside himself in the dining area, and she got an earful from a couple of impatient customers. She soothed them with her usual charm, but they didn’t leave much of a tip for Kevin and Sally, so she padded the tip jar out of her pocket to keep the staff happy.

  Mabel leaned against the counter, exhausted. She had six more hours here, then about two more hours cleaning motel rooms. The only bright side of today was having the truck plate numbers. Now she just needed the Sheriff to look them up.

  She picked up the phone, and after the fourth ring, a gruff voice said, “Sheriff’s office.”

  Mabel tried to sound chipper, though she didn’t feel it. “Hiya, Dan!”

  “What’s up?” Dan said. “You don’t sound like anyone’s in trouble.”

  “No. All good,” Mabel said. “Got a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I need to know the owners of some vehicles from their license plate numbers.”

  “Why? Folks skippin’ out on their meals?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay, fire away.”

  Mabel smiled to herself and started to list off a few plate numbers.

  “Wait,” said the Sheriff. “You mean to tell me all these customers didn’t pay?”

  “Well…” Mabel hesitated. “Not exactly. These are license plates of black trucks at the mill.”

  Silence.

  “Dan?”

  “Ugh,” Dan protested. “I can’t run those. They didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “Isn’t that what you do for investigations?”

  “This isn’t an investigation. I can’t just run plates if there was no crime.”

  “There was a murder.”

  “And the killer is in jail.”

  “It’s not like that. He’s innocent.”

  Dan sighed. “You need to drop this.”

  “If you could just run me the numbers I can—”

  “I can’t.” Dan’s voice was firm. “It’s illegal.”

  Mabel didn’t respond as she felt like crying.

  “Mabel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Drop it.”

  She breathed out before she said finally, “I hear ya.” Then she hung up.

  “Order up,” Kevin called out.

  Mabel dragged herself from the phone and hobbled over to collect the finished order. She carried it over to the construction workers and left them their meal. She didn’t give them a smile or a bit of pep talk. She just went back to her place behind the counter and felt sorry for herself. This was a terrible day.

  CHAPTER 19

  Friday, October 3

  Off you go,” Mabel said to her kids while clearing away breakfast plates the next morning. Fred jumped up and ran off to finish getting ready for school while Hector grumbled and trailed behind. Feeling blue and short-tempered since talking to the Sheriff, Mabel didn’t think she could help Winston at all, and it was making her surly. Kerry had seemed to pick up on this, periodically eying Mabel throughout the morning routine and remaining in her seat. “You done?” Mabel asked, a note of impatience in her voice. “I have to clear the plates.”

  “What’s wrong?” Kerry asked as Mabel started the wash-up.

  Mabel paused for a second. “Nothing you would understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Mabel half-turned. “I thought you were mad.”

  Kerry blushed. “I was. I’m not anymore.”

  “You want something?”

  Kerry shook her head and blushed again. “I just want to say I’m sorry. I was mad… but at my parents. You were the only one I could take it out on. So… sorry.”

  Stunned out of her bad mood, Mabel came over to hold the young girl’s hand. “My love, you’ve gone through so much.”

  “So have you.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  “You’re always giving, but you don’t do anything for yourself.”

  Mabel was about to say no, but then realized the truth of it. She gave Kerry a slight, tired smile. “It is hard,” Mabel admitted. “Being a single mom.”

  “And owning the diner,” Kerry said.

  “That, too.”

  “And the motel.”

  Mabel shrugged. “It’s my life. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “So, what’s bothering you then?”

  Mabel sighed, unsure whether to tell Kerry the truth as strange as it was, but she also wanted to build trust with the girl, and maybe this was a way to do it. “I am trying to help that young boy, Winston.”

  Kerry’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak and then abruptly closed it again.

  “Silly, huh?” Mabel asked, expecting a snide remark.

  Kerry frowned and then shook her head. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “Then what?”

  “I thought… well, I guess it doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m glad you’re doing something for you.” Kerry scrunched up her face from a new thought, and said, “Even though, like, you’re really helping someone else again?”

  Mabel smiled tiredly. “It’s what I do.”

  “So, have you found out anything?”

  Mabel shook her head, discouraged. “I’m looking for an owner of a black truck. Winston said Karen — the young girl — got into a black truck. I found a few of them at the sawmill, but the Sheriff won’t match plate numbers to the owners for me.”

  “So? What’s stopping you?”

  “I can’t find out who owns them, dear. I’m stuck.”

  “Did you ask at the sawmill?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Remember? Consuela works there? You know, Lisa’s mom?”

  Of course, Mabel thought. Why didn’t I think of that?

  Kerry smiled as she read Mabel’s expression. “Good thing I’m around, right?”

  Mabel laughed and said, “It sure is. You’re part of the family now.”

  Kerry appeared touched by the sentiment but kept right on. “You got time off this morning?”

  “I’m free till two, surprising enough. I was going to take a nap.”

  “Screw naps,” Kerry said. “Why don’t you go to the mill and find out who owns those trucks?”

  Mabel ignored the cussing and slowly smiled and said, “I think I will.”

  “And I’ll come with you.”

  Mabel gave her a “Not on your life” look. “You have school.”

  Kerry put her hands to her hips. “A girl’s gotta ask, honey,” she said, mimicking Mabel’s tone, and they both laughed.

  Twenty minutes later, after Kerry and the boys had departed on the school bus, Mabel jumped into the car. She trailed the bus for the mile into town before veering off into the sawmill parking lot. The lot was full, and since the sawmill worked several shifts, the appearance of a whole new set of trucks set her back a little. She hadn’t thought of t
hat — the sheer number of people who worked there.

  She parked in the visitors’ lot and headed to the administration offices to see Lisa’s mom, Consuela. Although Consuela had lived in Blue River for the past twenty years, she still had her Venezuelan accent and a bit of Mabel’s sass, too. The two women got along well, though they didn’t see much of each other due to Mabel’s schedule, except when Mabel dropped off her kids for babysitting.

  “Mabel.” Consuela drawled out the syllables and then added in Spanish, “Come, cava?”

  “I’m fine, Luv. How are you?”

  “Perfect,” Consuela purred. “Glorious day making a living.”

  Mabel loved her attitude as always and asked, “How’re the kids?”

  “Oh, you know, Lisa got accepted into beauty school.”

  “Congratulations! She got in.”

  “Yes, my little darling is almost all grown up. She will be moving away to Seattle for at least eight months next year. And you? How are your boys?”

  “Fred is my little man, as per usual, and Hector, well, Hector keeps me on my toes,” she replied with a laugh. “And Kerry is… adjusting. I’m trying to learn her moods, and though we’re having some good moments, it’s when she’s quiet I worry most.”

  “That’s a teen girl for you. You’re just not used to having one. Lisa and I fight all the time, too — it’s normal. So what can I do for you today?”

  Mabel, in all her eagerness to get here, hadn’t thought this part through. She wanted to tell Consuela the truth but didn’t want to put her in a position, so she compromised and opted for a white lie. “I need your help. A customer left his wallet on the table, but there was no identification inside. Sally got the license number as he drove away and thinks he might work at the mill.”

  “Oh, no problem,” Consuela replied. “I can put a note on the community board.”

  “Oh, um… no, I’d like to make sure he gets it right away. I would hate to lose my purse, you know? Do you have a list of staff plate numbers? I don’t mind looking and have time.”

  Consuela reached into a filing cabinet and pulled out a binder. “Tell me the number, and I’ll look it up for you.”

  That wouldn’t work. Mabel wanted to match several plate numbers to names, and one plate wasn’t enough. As the seconds passed and not knowing what to say, she paled, feeling caught in a lie.

  Consuela picked up on her discomfort right away. “Oh, you look ill, dear. Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

  “Actually, that would be nice.”

  Consuela got up and made her way to the kitchen, leaving the binder behind.

  Mabel saw an opportunity and called out, “I’ll just check quickly, no mind!” Then flipped open the binder. Fortunately for her, Consuela had listed the trucks and their owners alphabetically, so Mabel found a total of ten black trucks, five more than she knew of, and while keeping an eye on Consuela’s return, scrawled out the owner’s names into her waitressing notebook. Just as she finished, a hand fell on her shoulder. Mabel jumped in fright, causing Consuela to spill the glass of water onto the carpet.

  “You’re jumpy as a rabbit, dear!” Consuela said. “You sure you’re all right?”

  Mabel grabbed a box of tissues from the table and then dropped to her knees to mop up the mess — and pocket her notebook. “Oh fine, fine,” she said.

  “You got what you needed?”

  “Yes,” Mabel said, blushing from her guilt. “And sorry about all this—” Apologizing for more than the spilled water, though Consuela wouldn’t know why. Mabel stood up abruptly, smiled awkwardly, and fled, imagining Consuela’s inquisitive gaze burning the back of her neck all the way to her car.

  CHAPTER 20

  Monday, October 6

  Afew days later, the school bus pulled up, the kids piled out, and Mabel met them at the front door. While Fred walked into Mabel’s open arms, Hector tried sneaking past, but she pulled him in for a hug too — he didn’t resist too hard, even smiling when she kissed his hair — and then Mabel wrapped Kerry in for one last bear hug.

  After the boys had kicked off their shoes and run upstairs, Mabel told Kerry, “I followed up on your idea.” Kerry looked confused, so Mabel added, “About the mill. I talked to Lisa’s mom.”

  “Oh, rad! How did it go?”

  Mabel showed her the list. “I got ten names. Five I scratched off right away, and Sarah, one of my cleaners, said this one — Greg Waterton — is a family man near retirement, so he’s out. These other four I’m following up with. So, can you do a favor for me and watch Hector and Fred for an hour?”

  “Why-y?”

  “Cause I’m going to tail them to their homes to see where they live.”

  “Oh, wow, badass.” Kerry then paused a beat and smiled slyly. “So… what do I get for it?”

  Mabel gave her a “Don’t test me look” but gave in anyway. “The car. But when I get home.”

  Kerry pumped her fist in delight. “Yes,” she said as she flopped down on the couch.

  “And only to Lisa’s,” Mabel added.

  Kerry shrugged, smiling, and then put on her headphones and dragged over her math textbook. Mabel didn’t begrudge Kerry’s time at Lisa’s since Kerry’s study ethic and grades were fantastic, and she hoped they would rub off on Hector somehow. Now, with the home being in somewhat good order, Mabel grabbed the car keys and left.

  But upon arriving at the mill, Mabel had cut it almost too close to shift change, as trucks were already pulling in and out of its parking lot. She parked on one side of the highway in the direction of town to get a better view of license plates. Soon enough, a black Dodge Ram emerged from the lot. But it turned away from Mabel and though the plate number matched with one of her suspects — Don Sigmundson — she couldn’t turn around in time, so had to wait for several more departing trucks before a black Ford pickup turned to her side of the highway. Its license plate matched to a Petar B. Having written only his first name in her rush before Consuela had come back that day, she had been extra curious about him, so she whooped in delight and then pulled out behind.

  Her initial excitement ebbed slowly into anxiousness as Petar eventually turned off the highway onto a back road feeding scattered farms and acreages. As the only two vehicles on the road, she had to keep a fair distance between them except when he disappeared around blind corners when she had to speed up to catch him.

  After Mabel had nearly lost him twice, Petar turned into wilder, more forested terrain on a twinned gravel road. Most properties in this area were hidden behind deep woods with only the odd keep out sign and barbed wire fence to prove someone lived in these wildlands. This region housed Blue River’s most eccentric characters, folks who took pride in living off the land as lords of their domains. Most were notorious hunters who lured deer and moose into backyards and then shot them while perched on their porches drinking beer or smoking weed. Larson had several marijuana farms hidden out here, too, and most honest folks avoided this area.

  When Petar drove into the last gravel driveway before the forest ridge beyond, Mabel held back until his truck disappeared inside. Then she slowly edged up and found no welcoming family name on the gate, just a no trespassing sign hanging on a rusted barbwire fence. She killed her engine and got out, the door chime momentarily breaking the unnerving quiet of the woods.

  The gravel driveway leading deeper into the woods was rutted, narrow, and partly overgrown with errant branches of poplars and pines. Flies and mosquitos lurked in the underbrush. Mabel had seen her share of dump properties driving in, and she suspected this would be another. And though she was nervous and a little scared, she did not want to waste the long drive here without checking things out. She carefully walked into the man’s forested land.

  A creaky door shut in the distance. Mabel froze, heart thumping, ready to flee if anyone walked towards her, but the ferocious mosquitos and renewed silence convinced her to keep moving. As she rounded a bend, a house appeared through the foliage
as she had imagined, a shack with a pine shingle roof covered in moss and fallen leaves and a weathered front porch with a pile of split wood on it. The shiny new black truck parked out front looked out of place on this dilapidated property. Two other beaten-down trucks were on the edge of the gravel drive, one likely used for parts, another splattered with mud.

  Mabel briefly considered knocking on the front door and just talking to Petar, but folks out here did not take kindly to strangers, and it sure wasn’t safe for a woman to be on a man’s property alone, let alone a murder suspect’s. She’d just take a quick peek into the truck’s cab to see what she could see and get out.

  She kept a nervous eye on the house — the shack’s windows were grimy but revealed wooden shelves filled with jars, animal traps, and metal tools; it was a loner’s house for sure and that fact brought her no comfort. She peeked into the truck’s cab but didn’t see much. She tested the door handle — it was unlocked — and opened it carefully.

  The door springs creaked. She cringed and blindly prayed, ‘Dear Lord, don’t let him see me,’ as she fearfully peeked at the shack.

  No movement — she slowly breathed out. Then she eased into the truck’s cab, and while keeping watch on the shack’s windows, searched the packed glove box, and found right away the man’s registration, but it was torn and covered in dust like it had been unused for some time. After taking out her waitressing notebook, she jotted down his full name, Petar Brzila, noticing he had a California address and an expired five-year-old registration. That’s odd, she thought.

  She dug deeper into the stuffed glove box, crammed full of papers, screws, nails. “Oh my God!” she whispered as she pulled out a knife.

  Its sharp edge glinted, but it was its serrated back that nauseated her. She could only imagine what that would do to a human body like Karen’s — she shuddered.

  Afraid of what Petar would he do to her if he found her on his property, she got out, keeping the knife as evidence.

  A low, deep growl sounded behind her.

  Her knees almost buckled as she peered back at a big, ugly boxer, about twenty feet away, blocking her exit. It growled and bared its teeth.