by Libby Howard
It was close to three o’clock before I finished up the two repossessions and turned my attention to locating Caryn Swanson’s car. I already had the registration from when she’d bought it, and a recent picture from a traffic camera confirmed the make, model, and license plate number. It was her only car, and there was no reason for her to switch plates, so I jotted down the information, gathered the Creditcorp paperwork for later, and locked the office for the day.
Against my better judgment, I drove to the back lot of the MegaMart to stare at the crime scene tape and replay the events from yesterday in my mind. This time there was no eerie shadow, no cold spots, no blue shoe, just a field of weeds leading down to a water and mud filled ditch, all roped off with yellow streamers.
It gave me the creeps, so I drove back around front and parked there. By the time I left, I had enough flour, sugar, butter, chocolate, and spices to start an in-home bakery. I’d also grabbed dried fruit, fresh apples and oranges, and three zucchinis. I was so excited to revisit something I’d always enjoyed that I couldn’t make up my mind which to make first. I foresaw a freezer full of muffins, cookies, and pies in my future as well as an increased waistline.
Once all the goods were in my car, I made the short jaunt on the overpass to the truck stop. Unlike the MegaMart, this place was open twenty-four/seven, and the parking lot here was always full. An abandoned car probably wouldn’t be noticed for weeks, if not months. I drove up and down the lot, finally finding what I was looking for way in the back section where the huge trucks parked when the drivers wanted to snooze without being disturbed by patrons coming and going from the bar, the store, or the gas pumps.
There it was, a red late model Mazda with tags that matched what was registered to Caryn Swanson. Just to make sure, I got out and looked through the windshield, comparing the VIN numbers. This was it. There was a layer of yellow pollen on the car that came from sitting still for more than a day in March when every tree within sight was blooming. Hanging from the rear-view mirror was a set of Mardi Gras beads. There was a cell phone charger plugged into the dash outlet. And there was a purse on the floor of the passenger side of the car, the strap peeking out from under the seat.
“That car’s been here since the weekend.” The man walking toward me had a green polo with a Hallvet Windows and Doors logo on it. His long poufy hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he had a full beard reaching down several inches below his chin.
“Do you know when it got here and who was driving it?”
He shook his head. “Not sure. I came out Saturday night to play darts and saw it then. I don’t usually park here, but I had my box truck from work that night.”
“Do you think anyone else would have seen the owner?”
“Probably not. This is where the big rigs park. They pull in for six hours or so, then pull out. Whoever saw someone arrive in this car would be long gone.”
I stared down through the windshield at the strap of the purse, then picked up my phone to call the police. Hopefully they’d find something here that would lead them to Caryn’s killer.
“Weird place to park a car back here.” The guy scratched his chin. “Mostly it’s just truckers taking a nap, but sometimes a couple wanting to get busy will come back here. If you park behind a tractor-trailer, no one would see you from the road. They’re all sleeping, so there’s no bar traffic coming and going. Lighting is dim. If the couple keeps it quiet, no one would know.”
I wondered if this was where Caryn Swanson had met her killer. I couldn’t imagine a woman choosing a dimly lit, not well trafficked area to meet someone, but perhaps she did this so she’d not be seen, and not overheard. I guess with three or four truckers sleeping nearby, she’d have some confidence that they’d hear her scream and come to her aid if needed.
“Tons of condoms back there,” the guy added. “The truckers complain about it all the time, but the staff here never bothers to clean them up.”
Eww. I wouldn’t want to clean them up either. Ugh.
I thanked the window and door guy for his help and called in the location of the car. It felt somewhat anticlimactic, as though I was missing something important. There was just so much running around in my head right now. Was Caryn blackmailing a client? Was there some high-profile client, or someone who would lose big in a divorce—lose big enough to murder to protect their secret? Why would Caryn meet them here? And why in the world would she meet them at all?
Chapter 17
“Mrs. Carrera?”
It was almost dinnertime. I was frantically trying to finish up the Creditcorp case before we headed out for steak, wanting to enjoy my dinner without this mess of a skip trace hanging over my head.
I looked up to see the girl who’d come home with Judge Beck and the kids, the same girl that had come home with them yesterday. I’d overheard something about a joint project, and this time the girls had stayed downstairs; poster board, books, and two laptops spread out on my dining room table.
“Yes, hon?” Honestly, I welcomed the interruption from my futile efforts to locate Richard Gibson.
She bit her lip, coming into the room. The girl had dark brown curls and a golden tan that clearly came from genetics rather than our anemic March sun. She was holding a folded piece of paper.
“I’m Chelsea Novak, Madison’s friend. And…here.”
I took the outstretched paper and unfolded it as Chelsea shifted from foot to foot by my side. Sydney Vaughn. And a phone number. I looked up at the girl in confusion.
“Um, my sister Leah wanted me to give this to you.” She looked nervously back toward the dining room and lowered her voice. “I’m in big trouble for going to that party. Leah is in worse trouble for taking me, but Sydney is her best friend and she’s scared.”
“Leah is scared? Or Sydney is scared?” And scared of what, having her cell phone taken away? Were their parents so strict that they’d be scared of a punishment?
“Sydney. She…” Chelsea looked to the dining room again, her voice practically a whisper. “Sydney was one of the girls. You know, the girls who did…stuff. For money.”
In spite of the vague statements I was starting to connect the dots. “So, Sydney was one of the girls who worked for Caryn Swanson?”
Chelsea nodded.
“Did Leah work for Caryn Swanson?”
“No!” Chelsea looked horrified. “I mean, she was tempted because the money was really good but they guys all wanted weird stuff, and Leah thinks that’s gross.” She looked down at her hands and twisted them together. “Please don’t tell anyone. Madison doesn’t even know. Sydney is Leah’s best friend and she’d never be allowed in our house again if my parents knew. And she doesn’t want word to get out that she did these things.”
I understood. This was the kind of thing that could follow a girl around for the rest of her life. Even if she left Locust Point, any future job in the public eye could dig up this scandal.
“So why tell me? What is Sydney afraid of?”
I was pretty sure she was afraid of meeting the same fate as her madam, but wanted Chelsea to tell me.
“I told Leah because she wanted to know how Judge and Mrs. Beck found out about the party. After Caryn turned up dead, Sydney got scared. She doesn’t want to go to the police because she doesn’t want anyone to know what she did, but she says she knows things that might help find Caryn’s killer.”
No one knew who Caryn’s prostitutes were. Sydney had good reason to keep it that way, and I’m sure none of the other girls wanted to be identified either. Besides the obvious fact that the murderer might kill again if he thought one of them knew his secret, nobody wanted to be known as a whore. Caryn Swanson had owned a successful party planning business. I was willing to bet a good number of her “girls” were from good families—well-connected families—and had jobs that might be in jeopardy if this came out.
“When should I call her?” I folded the paper and slid it under the Creditcorp file.
“Fiv
e in the morning. Sydney is in graduate school and she makes the rounds with the local large-animal veterinarian at six.”
Ugh. I’d be up at that hour, but waking early to do yoga and eat muffins was a whole lot better than waking at five in the morning to go stick your arm up a cow’s butt.
“Thanks,” I told Chelsea. “And don’t worry, I’ll make every effort to keep your secrets.”
I couldn’t promise not to tell, not when a woman had been murdered, but if Sydney had something concrete she could give me, or somewhere I could point the police to, then I could hopefully keep both her and the Novak girls out of this.
Chelsea’s mom picked her up soon after our chat, and Judge Beck hustled the children into the back seat of his sedan, leaving me to sit up front with him. It felt incredibly awkward, riding in a car with people I’d just met, up front with the judge while the kids in the back argued over which station to listen to.
Judge Beck finally put a stop to the argument by making an executive decision and putting on classical music. The kids groaned, and Henry made up silly lyrics to go along with Vivaldi. Madison laughed and joined in, and I realized that the judge had been right. She’d gotten over her sulk fairly quickly. I’m sure there would be moments of dark, silent-filled glares in the weeks to come, but overall, Madison seemed like a cheerful teenager. She hadn’t needed prompting the last three days to do her homework, and although she was often glued to her phone, she put it aside and politely participated in conversation when addressed. I’d heard her at dinner with her brother and father, and got the impression she was intelligent, well-spoken, and fully able to hold her own against Henry’s jibs and the judge’s affectionate teasing.
But even so, I noticed that the shirt she’d changed into for dinner was quite a bit tighter and shorter than the one she’d been allowed to wear to school. I wasn’t sure if the judge noticed, or if he was just picking his battles.
I’d expected us to pull into one of the chain restaurants near the big mall just outside of Milford, but Judge Beck drove into the downtown area, parallel parking on a side street where there was barely room for passing traffic to squeeze past the cars lining either side of the street.
Madison squealed. “Beurre Noisette? Dad, are we going to Beurre Noisette?”
The judge shot me a sheepish glance. “It’s not as fancy as it sounds. The kids love their fries, and they do have good steaks.”
Beurre Noisette was more of a traditional American steak house than a haven of French cuisine. The décor was a contemporary black and red with deco-style lighting and light jazz, but they served beer by the pitcher and the steaks were big enough to feed a third-world country. We squeezed into a booth, Henry on Judge Beck’s side, and Madison on mine. Initially the girl was a bit reticent, but she made polite conversation with me, and by the time our crab dip had arrived, she was laughing and chatting away.
Both kids asked about my job, peppering me with questions about how I did my searches. Henry was particularly interested in the overgrown gardens behind my house, while Madison wanted to know if there were ghosts in my attic. I was amazed at what good conversationalists they were and decided I needed to compliment both Judge Beck and Heather on raising such well-mannered children who could carry on small talk better than most adults I knew.
Dinner was amazing. My steak was perfectly prepared, and my baked sweet potato had thick crystals of salt on the skin and a honey-cinnamon butter in the middle. The vegetable medley was crisp and full of flavor, and the triple chocolate cake we all shared would satisfy my sweet tooth for the rest of the week.
I hadn’t had a dinner out like this since before Eli’s accident, and as we ate, I struggled to keep the memories at bay. And failed. This wasn’t the time for heartache, or thoughts of how much had been smashed within seconds that morning of the accident. Eli had loved eating out. There was an Ethiopian place near Stallworth that had been our favorite. If I closed my eyes, I could still see him scooping the food into the spongy buckwheat pancake. We’d fight over the potato stuff, arguing over whether we should get the chicken or the lamb. And after, we’d walk down the street arm-in-arm and look in the little galleries and antique shops that stretched the whole block. Sometimes we’d grab a gelato before heading home. And I’d rest my head on the car window, full and sleepy, watching the street lights go by, confident that Eli would bring us home safely. He’d reach his hand over, and we’d weave our fingers together, the only sound the swish of cars going the opposite way down the road.
“Track practice starts next week,” Henry announced, jolting me from my reminiscence. “From three to six.”
The fork froze halfway to Judge Beck’s mouth. “Every day?”
The boy nodded. “Yeah for the first two weeks, then when we begin the meets, we’re at practice Monday through Thursday.”
Something lost and worn-down flitted across the judge’s face, quickly hidden. “When are the meets?”
“Some weekday nights, some weekends. I have a copy of the schedule—one for you and one for Mom. The first two are at home, then three and four are away.”
I saw the judge count on his fingers and realized he was trying to figure out which were his weekends. He had Monday through Thursday every other week, then alternating weekends right now.
“Where are the first two away games?”
Henry grabbed another forkful of cake. “Damascus and Eastlake. We have two more home meets after that, then a Thursday night at Milford that should be over at eight with Saturday at Washdale High.”
The lost look remained a little longer this time. “What time are the meets?”
The boy shrugged. “Depends. Most start at seven or eight in the morning and go until five. Longer once we get to the county and state competitions.”
Madison was watching her father intently. “Softball starts the week after, but I don’t think I’m going to play this year.”
“No, you’re doing softball.” Judge Beck shook his head, like he was trying to clear his thoughts. “You love softball and your coach thinks you might wind up with a scholarship if you keep playing like you did last season. You’re not giving up softball.”
“But my practices will be from five to eight, after the baseball team practice,” Madison pointed out.
The judge winced. “You’re not giving up softball. We’ll just have to work around the schedules.”
I could practically read his thoughts. Drop the kids off at school. Pick one up, then go back for the other later and figure out how to work dinner into the equation. Homework. Conflicting home and away meets and games on the weekends. And I’d seen the work Judge Beck brought home with him each night. How late was he up in his bedroom working, papers spread everywhere?
For a brief moment, I was relieved I hadn’t had to go through this. And as much as I was tempted to jump in and offer to help him out, this wasn’t my family, and it wasn’t my problem. If he was going to be a single dad with half custody, he was going to have to figure it out. Women did it all the time, and I’ll admit I felt a bit of vindication for my gender watching him struggle over the very logistical issues women everywhere dealt with on a daily basis.
“Are we still going shopping Sunday?” Madison asked. “It’s Mom’s weekend, but she said you could take me.”
“Mrs. Kay offered to go with you.”
I saw a flash of disappointment in the girl’s face before her expression composed into one of bland neutrality. It reminded me so much of her father. “That’s all right. We’ll do it some other time.”
It wasn’t his weekend? I’d forgotten, and just assumed I’d be filling in for an hour or two while he did something with Henry. I couldn’t imagine Heather giving up even a few hours of her weekend, which meant Madison must have asked to have her father take her. And he’d shuffled that task over to me. What a jerk. I knew guys were sometimes clueless about this sort of thing, but it had to have hurt Madison terribly.
I pulled back my foot and let it fly, kicki
ng the judge hard in the shin. He jumped, giving me a “what-the-heck” look.
Shopping, I mouthed, jerking my head toward Madison.
His what-the-heck look changed to one of horror. I knew spending two hours with a teenage girl looking at makeup and t-shirts was probably close to being drawn and quartered, but this was his daughter. I glared at him, once again jerking my head toward Madison.
“Oh, no, honey, I’ll take you,” he announced. It sounded the same way someone might say “I love eating pickled herring” or “no, that dress doesn’t make you look fat at all.” “I’ll take you. I just thought maybe you would prefer…someone else. Like someone who’s a woman.”
Madison gave him that raised eyebrow look. “You don’t want to do it. You don’t want to go.”
“No, I do want to go. I really do. I can’t wait to go.”
Okay, that was going a bit too far. Madison must have realized it, too. Her lips twitched and she hid the smile behind a napkin. “Good. It’ll be fun. There are some new stores I want to go to, and Nicole says that Total Tart has some really cute skirts they just got in. I want to check out the eyeshadows at Beauty Station, too, and maybe look at some purses if we have time.”
Judge Beck’s eyes glazed over. He glanced at me, desperation on his face. Look elsewhere, buddy. I’m not saving you.
The rest of dessert was spent discussing which electives the kids wanted to take in the fall, and where they wanted to go for summer vacation. I got peppered with questions about what Taco liked to eat, about the house across the street with the washing machine and broken lawnmowers in the yard, and if I planned on getting the hot tub up and working sometime soon.
By the time we got home, I was full and happy. I hadn’t felt this happy in a long time. Every now and then I’d see a bluebird at the feeder, or feel Taco’s purr under my hand, or wake up warm and snug in my bed and feel a contented sort of happy, but this was different. This felt like my cup was brimming over. It felt like maybe I needed to go shopping and buy a bigger cup. Like maybe a giant soup-bowl sized mug, or one of those never-enough-coffee type mugs.
