I permit him to rant and rave until he runs out of breath—and expletives. Finally, it’s my turn. “Did you ask her about the bracelet?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “That’s what I was gonna tell you. She says she bought it for her niece. The kid was fascinated by the war, you know, that Iraq thing. So Wanda bought her the bracelet as a birthday present. Does that help?”
“In a way,” I reply. But one question in particular cries out for an answer, and so, reluctantly I ask it. “What’s your niece’s name?”
“Oh,” he replies. “It’s Rhonda. But, not Miller, like her old lady. It’s Jeffries. That was the name of my sister-in-law’s first husband—Jeffries. Artie was a real jerk, and the kid’s not much better—a real pain in the ass. Ever since her old man ran off, she started right in…”
I reach over and pick up the manila folder with the pictures of Rhonda Jeffries in it. Such a pretty kid. But, really, what chance did she have? Suddenly, I feel sick to my stomach. But, it passes. On the other end of the line, Frank Lynn is still spewing venom about his wife and her sister. He hasn’t missed a beat.
“Mr. Lynn?” I repeat the words softly. “Mr. Lynn?”
“Yeah?” he says.
“Thank you very much, sir. You’ve been a big help. I really appreciate your calling me.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “No problem. Hey, if you’re ever in Mexico, look me up. We’ll have a drink.”
I hang up the phone without responding, silently thanking God that I’ll never have to make the ride.
The DNA report comes back on the hairbrush, and the results are a foregone conclusion; it’s a match. At long last, we have a victim. There’s work to be done—and I have an unpleasant phone call to make. “Nancy, get me Mrs. Miller on the line.” Then, I look up at the clock, and realize there’s no hurry. No hurry at all.
Chapter 56
Claire Andrews is alone in the house. Her husband is out; no doubt, he’s bowling at Walton Lanes, and probably getting drunk as usual. Don’t wait up for me, he had said, when he had left the house, already smelling of liquor, nearly fifteen minutes ago. Claire knows she has time. She waits patiently by the stove for the water in the kettle to come to a boil. At last, the whistle affixed to the spout shrieks that its contents are ready, and Claire turns the knob to extinguish the blue flame beneath the kettle. She pours the scalding water over the Red Rose teabag in the bottom of the porcelain teacup, drops in a level teaspoon of honey, stirs it briskly, then lifts the cup to her nose, and inhales. Immediately, she is rewarded with the distinctive aroma of the finely cut tealeaves encased within the porous paper teabag. Red Rose. Nothing quite like it, she thinks, and then smiles. Although the house is comfortably warm, she shivers involuntarily at the thought of the task that lies before her.
She moves to the small oak table in the far corner of the kitchen, where a writing tablet and a ballpoint pen lie on its polished surface. They appear innocent enough, but in her mind, they are like venomous creatures waiting to strike. What amazing power these two objects possess. She’s already used them once, but with less than satisfactory results. The first note must have been discarded, she thinks. They probably thought it was from a neighborhood crank, or a mildly deluded person, at best. Well, they won’t ignore this one, she thinks. She picks up the pen, and begins to write in the precise, slightly slanted style that she was taught in elementary school, so very long ago. She writes:
“Dear Chief Davis,
I know you probably thought my first note was some kind of joke, so I can’t blame you for not paying me no mind. But, please believe me. I’m not fooling around and I’m not no crazy person either. I know I was wrong to let him do what he done to those girls, but I was scared. I know that I will have to answer to My Maker someday for what I done, but I hope I can make things right by writing this note.
Do you remember that girl you found out there on Bear Spring Mountain Road? Well I know the man what done it. He killed her. He didn’t do it on purpose but he done it just the same. He always let the others go after he done what he wanted and I didn’t pay it much mind. I can’t give him what he wants. I never could. I know it ain’t right but I figured they was just poor runoff girls that didn’t have nobody and they was just bound to forget anyway. He made them promise not to tell and me too and I know they won’t. But my soul won’t let me forget what…”
Just then, Claire hears a noise, and, for a moment, fears that her man may have returned early. But, it’s just the family cat that has wandered into the room that is scratching at the back door, wanting her to let it out. She places the pen down on the table, rises from her chair, and crosses over to open the door. The air outside is cool and clean, and she wishes she had time to sit on the porch and enjoy its crispness, but she knows she doesn’t dare delay. With a determination borne from years of subjugation and mistreatment, she picks up the pen once more, and resumes writing.
“Please don’t think bad about me. I should of told someone a long time ago but he threatened he would kill me if I ever said a word and I believed him. If he finds out that I wrote this note he probably will…”
Claire stops writing. She hears a different sound. This time, there is no mistaking it. It’s not the cat scratching at the back door; it’s her man’s car, and its coming hard and with purpose, up the long gravel drive to the house. Claire hears the sound of the tires crunching on the loose stones. Moving quickly, she picks up the paper and pen, rushes to the stove, opens the door to the oven, and places the objects inside. Then, she scurries back to the kitchen table, sits down, and waits…
Chapter 57
Rick Dawley sits quietly in my office, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Nancy is busy making copies of a poster I’ve prepared, utilizing several of the photographs that Mrs. Miller has given me. Basically, they state that the girl, Rhonda Jeffries, has been missing for six months, and that police are interested in speaking with anyone who may have seen her. We need to begin distributing them as soon as possible. Finally, Nancy comes in with a stack of copies. I’ll have her make more if necessary, but for now, we have enough to get started.
“Rick,” I say, handing him a third of the posters, “what I’d like you to do is start putting these up on bulletin boards wherever you can. Stores, gas stations, schools; you know the drill.” He nods in acknowledgment, and heads out the door with the posters under his arm.
Taking a portion of the remaining posters, I say to Nancy, “I’ll start showing these around myself, and get some out to surrounding law enforcement, so they can do the same. I know it’s a long shot, but we have to start somewhere. By the way, anything on those boots?”
Nancy frowns. “Sorry, Matt. But, so far, all I know is that a pair was sold to someone named Andrews at the Army-Navy store in Liberty, way back in 2005. Other than that, there’s nothing. But, I’ll keep trying.”
Good old Nancy. What a trouper. “Thanks, Nance,” I say. “Maybe we should start contacting those people in the area named Andrews.”
“I can do that.”
“Of course,” I mutter, “I realize that’s a pretty common name, and, it probably won’t get us very far, but…”
“I know,” smiles Nancy, “but, we’ve got to start somewhere, right? Don’t worry; I’ll get on it right away.”
Over the course of the next several days, innumerable phone calls are received in response to the posters. Some callers give their names, but most remain anonymous; either way, we have to investigate every call. One woman suggests that a certain brother-in-law is the culprit, while another hints at an individual being guilty who wasn’t even alive at the time of the murder. One by one, each piece of information, no matter how erroneous, is investigated, but to no avail. It’s beginning to look as if we’ll never solve this crime.
Then, I receive a call from a sobbing Glenda Watson in Binghamton, who tells me she not only recognizes Rhonda Jeffries’ picture on the poster, but that the girl actually worked and lived with her for a
while, before disappearing without a trace. I ask if she would mind meeting with me to discuss what she knows, and she reluctantly agrees, insisting that she doubts she can be of any help. I assure her that I don’t mind making the trip.
Early the next morning, I drive to Binghamton, and meet the Watson woman at a diner, where she works as a waitress, and where – according to her story – she first met Rhonda, approximately six months earlier. The woman appears somewhat frightened, and I have to reassure her that any information she may give us will remain confidential.
“I can’t believe Ronnie is gone,” she says. “I knew she wouldn’t hang around with an old lady like me forever, so I really wasn’t that surprised when she left; we both knew she had to go. I really thought she’d get to her grandparents in North Carolina. But, I never ever thought she’d end up…you know…d-d-dead…” Just saying the word causes her voice to catch in her throat, and soon, tears begin to well up in her eyes. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and hand it to her. “Thank you,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I really liked Ronnie. I know it was silly, but I thought she could be…oh, what’s the use. The whole thing is just too terrible. She was only a kid.”
We spend the next fifteen minutes reminiscing mostly about own daughter, who, it turns out, left home when she was only sixteen, for nearly the same reason that Rhonda left her own mother. The only difference is that Glenda never saw her child again and to this day is unsure of her well-being or her location. It’s a sad story, and the best I can do is to try and assuage her guilt and to assure her that I will do everything in my power to find Rhonda’s killer.
“Oh,” says Glenda, as I prepare to leave the diner. “There’s one thing I forgot to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“Her hair. It’s not black any more. First thing I did, when she moved in was to help her bleach it. She’s a blond now.”
“Hey, it’s no problem. I’m just glad you told me.”
“Sorry.”
“Forget it. We’ll just have to use a little Photo Shop to bring the posters up to speed, but it’ll work out.”
“Well,” says Glenda, “I’m still sorry.”
“Honest, it’s no big deal,” I say, putting my arm around her shoulder. “You did just fine.”
I pay my check, and promise to keep Glenda informed, then leave the diner, with the waitress sitting alone at a booth in the rear.
Driving back to Roscoe, I can’t get the image of that poor, distraught woman out of my mind. Imagine; getting a second chance, only to see it snatched away from you by some creep? Nobody ever said life was fair, but some people never even catch a break. If, for no other reason than to salve Glenda Watson’s conscience and to bring peace to her tortured soul, I am more than ever determined to solve this crime.
Chapter 58
Rhonda, some time the previous fall – still day eleven, very late that evening
Bryce pulls back from the girl, holding her by the shoulders, and studies her face. She’s actually quite beautiful, he thinks. Then, he draws her closer, pressing his body tightly against hers, and feeling her ample bosom against his chest. However, she barely responds at all, and it is obvious that she is more than just a little intoxicated. He wonders whether it’s even worth it. As if to answer him, Rhonda snuggles closer, and searches for his ear with her tongue. The decision is an easy one.
He begins the ritualistic exploration of the young girl’s body, moving his hands slowly over her firm flesh. At first, Rhonda seems to respond, and Bryce begins planning ahead, exploring ways in his head to move things along. No need for more alcohol, he thinks; she’s certainly had enough. He laughs to himself, thinking of a joke about necrophilia that might be appropriate in this instance.
As he begins to unbutton Rhoda’s blouse – not an easy task with one hand – he notices a stiffness, a resistance even, and he stops what he’s doing to find out what is wrong.
“Hey kid,” he says. “What’s the problem? I thought you wanted this.”Rhonda mumbles something about “Please, Howie, no…” and for a brief time, seems to relax. Bryce wonders who the hell Howie is, and then decides it doesn’t matter. Maybe she thinks I’m her old boyfriend. Good for me. With renewed enthusiasm, he again starts working on the buttons of Rhonda’s blouse. Without any warning, the girl strikes. She drives her knee hard between Bryce’s legs, hitting him firmly in his genitals, causing him to double over in pain. Immediately, he loosens his grip on the girl, and screams. Then, instinctively, he lashes out with his hand, slapping the girl hard across the face, knocking her backwards across the room.
Rhonda screams, “I told you ‘no,’ Howie!” and charges straight at Bryce, swinging wildly at his face with her fists. Barely managing to sidestep the enraged girl, Bryce again thinks, who the hell is Howie? In an instant, she is on him again. “Hey! I’m not Howie!” he cries, desperately trying to fend off her attack.
“I told you if you ever touched me again I’d kill you!”
Once again, Bryce shouts, “I’m not Howie! I’m Bryce; remember?”
Fortunate for Bryce, Rhonda is not only crying hysterically now, but also appears to be running out of steam. Thank God. The disc jockey maintains a safe distance, and begins talking to the girl in a calming tone, much as one would with a wild animal encountered in the woods. The similarities are strikingly the same. He continues to assure her that he is not the man she thinks he is, all the while exploring ways to resolve the situation peacefully.
At last, Rhonda appears to be somewhat rational. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m really sorry. For a minute I thought you were my stepfather.”
So that’s who Howie is, thinks Bryce. “What’d he do,” he asks, “rape you?”
“No,” sighs Rhonda, keeping her distance. “But, that’s about all he didn’t do.” She crosses the studio, and sits down hard on the sofa. “That’s why I left home—because of Howie. The last time he tried something, I hit him with a beer bottle. I think I might have killed him.”
Bryce sits down a respectable distance from the girl, and reaches cautiously for her hand. She instantly yanks it away, shouting, “And don’t think I wouldn’t do the same thing to you—Bryce!”
“Hey, Kid,” he whispers, “take it easy. I’m not Howie; remember? I’m not gonna do anything unless you want me to.” Fat chance on that, he thinks. “Why don’t you just try to take it easy for a minute, so we can figure out what we’re gonna do here. Okay?”
Rhonda glowers at him for a moment, and then her face softens. “All I want to do is get someplace where I can catch a bus to North Carolina—so I can see my grandparents. I promise, I won’t tell anybody about tonight.”
Bryce looks at the clock on the wall, which shows the time to be just past four. Hell, he thinks, this night is over. “Tell you what,” he says. “How about you just chill out for a couple of hours. Both of us. We’ll get a little shut-eye, and, in the morning, I’ll drive you over to Roscoe—so you can catch your bus. What do you say? Deal?”
Rhonda considers his offer. She’s in no condition to leave, and it would be nice to get some sleep. “Okay,” she says. “But, if you try any shit, I swear I’ll tell the cops you tried to rape me. I’m only sixteen, and you know what that means.”
Yeah, thinks Bryce, it means I was a dumb shit for even picking you up. “No problem,” he replies. “You can have the couch. I’ll take the chair. Maybe we can get a few hours of sleep before the sun comes up.”
Within a few minutes, the girl is fast asleep on the couch, her thumb jammed into her mouth like the baby she really is. Bryce, meanwhile, sits in the chair in the dark, his eyes wide open, and his mind whirring like a computer. It won’t be long before daylight, and he has decisions to make.
Chapter 59
East Branch, NY – 1963
Red has never before felt this way about a girl. He’s always been able to find female companionship; being athletic, tall, and good-looking, girls are naturally drawn to hi
m. There’s not a Saturday night that he can’t be found down in East Branch, sharing an ice cream soda with one girl or another. But, this one is different. She really gives the “butterflies” inside his chest, whenever he sees her. She’s the one. He’s certain.
In the beginning, he just observes the girl from a distance, imagining what it would be like to hold her in his arms. He conjures up visions of the two of them, picnicking along the Beaverkill, or, better yet, fishing. Just the thought of being that close to her causes him to become aroused. Damn girls, he thinks. They sure know how to get to a guy. Her parents probably wouldn’t approve of him, especially if they knew about his drinking. So far, he has managed to keep it a secret, just between he and his “special” buddies. Red doesn’t see it as a problem, but it will be—some day.
Young people in East Branch don’t generally stay in East Branch for long. With not much opportunity for work locally, most high school graduates tend to enter the military (if they’re male), or go away to college or nursing school (if they’re females). But, Red is different. Oh sure, he’ll most likely take a turn in the service. But, that’s where his plans go in a different direction from those of his classmates. There’s only one job in the world that Red wants, and that’s to be the Chief of Police of Roscoe. Right now, it’s old Harley Cooper who’s Chief, with his smarty-pants daughter, Nancy, as his secretary. She was three years ahead of Red in school, and the two have never cared much for one another, but Harley has always liked Red, and has promised him a job as a patrolman, if he can get some experience in the service. It’s a promise Red is counting on—almost as much as he is certain that he will marry the thirteen-year old girl he covets so very much. He lets her name roll off his tongue—“Claire Andrews.”
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 21
