It was past two pm when Devereaux arrived back at Denny's. He joined Larsen in a booth, and Larsen quickly ran down the hotel info. They had a guy checking the rest of the list but everybody on it had come up clean and presently accounted for, except for two of the women the clerk hadn't known. Their next lead had just come on duty. She came over to take their order. Larsen said, "BLT Club for me, and a cheeseburger for my friend. Cashier tells me you worked the swing shift night before last, right...Sheila?" he said.
"That's right. Harry told me you gentlemen were from the government."
"Yes. Federal Bureau of Investigation. We're looking in to..."
"Mr. Longford. What a shameful thing. They were here just the other night. The whole family. They usually come in once a week, and I remember because, well...Mr. Longford is...was...a good man, they say, in the church and all, but he was...well, land's sakes, the man never left a tip. He'd get up and go and Dorothy...that's his wife...would sneak a dollar or two onto the table for me. Happened every time they come in here."
"I see. Doesn't make your job any easier, does it? Did they...did you see Mr. Longford meet or speak with anyone that night, or..."
"No, they sat right there," she pointed at an empty booth, "like they always do. Had their usual. Their daughter was, well...she came out of the bathroom at the end of the meal and seemed upset, but...that wasn't my business to notice, so I..."
"But you did notice?"
"Well, yes. There was this woman sitting over there at that booth who I remember cuz she was not from around here, and also cuz she didn't eat the food I served her. She said it wasn't any good, I don't know, everybody else eats it all right, was a hot turkey on white, but not her. She was nice enough, so I took the plate back and got her some pie instead, and didn't charge her for the sandwich. But I remember she went into the bathroom and then all of a sudden Ellen Longford stood up and went in there too. Then a minute later Mrs. Longford went in to get her because they were getting ready to go. Regular convention goin' on in there. And when Mrs. Longford and Ellen came out Ellen looked all upset, like...I don't know..."
"Did...what about the woman? Do you remember anything else?"
"Well, no. Yes. She came out a few minutes later, ate her pie, tipped me really nicely—two dollars on a four dollar check, and then she left. I watched her leave because she was an odd one, women traveling alone don't pass through all that often. Turned out she walked right across the parking lot to the Inn."
"She was alone? Did you see her meet anyone, here, or out in the parking lot, or..."
"No, she didn't meet a soul. Tell the truth she looked a little sad. She was all alone, and not from around here. I kinda felt sorry for her. You fellas want more coffee? Something else to drink?"
"Water, please."
"I'll have an iced tea," said Larsen. "Thanks for your help, Ma'am."
"You're welcome." She walked away.
"Who is the mystery woman?" asked Devereaux.
"I think her name is Ripken," said Larsen. "And I think she's probably irrelevant. But what I'm wondering is why Mrs. Longford didn't mention they were here? What's she got to hide? I think maybe we oughta run back out there and see what else we can shake outta that tree. Something's just not adding up."
"So let's go," said Devereaux. They took the food to go and ate on the way back to the Longford house. Also, just to cover the bases, Larsen called in and put out a bulletin to watch for a woman driving a yellow moving truck, possibly traveling with a large white dog.
Back at the house they were let in by a worried-looking uniform who nodded towards the kitchen. "She's in there." He mimed drinking from a glass, and rolled his eyes. "Boys are in the TV room." They could hear cartoons blaring from the other side of the house as they headed back to the kitchen.
Mrs. Longford, in a pink housecoat and pink fuzzy house shoes, sat at her kitchen table with a glass of lemonade in front of her. "Mrs. Longford," said Devereaux. "How we doin' today?"
She looked at him. "How do you think?" she said, an alcoholic edge on her. "How would you be doing if...if..." she picked up her glass and drank. "So how's "the investigation" going? When are you going to bring my daughter back?"
"We're doing our best, Ma'am," Larsen said. "You mind if we join you for a moment? We had a couple of things to clear up."
"Have a seat," she said. "Would you like some...lemonade?"
"No thanks, Mrs. Longford," said Devereaux. They sat. She stared at them. Without make-up, she looked frazzled and gaunt.
"So. What? What do you want?"
"Denny's," said Larsen.
"Denny's?" she said. "What about it?"
"You were there that...the night before. You didn't tell us."
"So what? We go most every week. What does that have to do with anything?"
"Nothing, Mrs. Longford," said Devereaux, his tone reassuring. "It's just that...there's a woman who works there who said that you and Ellen...that Ellen seemed upset, and you and her went into the bathroom, and...there was somebody else in there."
"Somebody else in the bathroom? So what? What do you expect, it was a restaurant bathroom. What does this have to do with anything, for God's sake?!"
"The woman who was in there...was it someone you know?" asked Larsen.
"Someone I know? No, of course not, it was some blonde woman, I don't know who she was, she was talking to my daughter when I walked in, and then we left." She started to cry again. "Why are you asking me about these things? What does this have to do with what happened?"
"That's what we're trying to find out, Mrs. Longford. Are you certain this woman wasn't someone you know?"
"Yes, I told you. I had never seen her in my life."
"Do you think Ellen might have known her?"
"Ellen known her? No, of course not. Where would Ellen know her from?"
"Well, you said they were talking, and Ellen did run away a couple of times, and..."
"She never got far. She never got far before Arthur would find her and bring her back and..."
"What kind of discipline did Arthur use on Ellen, Mrs. Longford?"
"What? What do you mean?"
"Did he ever...hit her, or..."
"What are you saying? What are you getting at?"
"Why didn't you tell us she was adopted, Mrs. Longford? That's nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of people adopt children. There's..."
"What does this...there was no reason to tell you that. Arthur didn't...we didn't want..."
"Pardon me," said Larsen, abruptly standing. "But I'm going to talk to the boys now."
"To my boys!? You don't need to talk to my boys," she said. "They don't...they're already upset enough by what happened! They don't know anything!"
"It's all right, Mrs. Longford," said Devereaux, as Larsen walked out of the room. "John is very good with children. He won't scare them. You never know. Maybe they saw something you missed." She was half-crumpled in her seat. Her face had gone heavy with resignation, with fear, with some kind of indeterminate collapse.
Larsen greeted the boys, and sat in the easy chair to the right. They lay on the floor watching a cartoon on the tube. "Which one of you is Jacob, and which one's Jeb?" he asked.
The larger one looked up at him and said, "I'm Jacob, he's Jeb. Are you a Negro?"
Larsen grinned. "That's right, son. A real, live Negro. Not too many of us around here, are there?"
"Nope," said Jacob. "I see 'em on tv all the time, but we don't have any at my school."
"What about at your sister's school?"
"I don't know. She's bigger. She goes to high school."
"She's not really our sister," said Jeb, the smaller one. "I mean she is, but Daddy said she's adopted, so she's not."
"I see," said Larsen, and watched the cartoon with them for a moment. "I wonder if you boys remember anything that happened the other night. The night your sister went away."
"When the bad men hurt Daddy?" said Jeb.
"Yes, that's right," said Larsen. "When
the bad men hurt your daddy. Did you see the bad men?"
"No," said Jacob.
"No bad men," said Jeb. "Daddy went to punish Ellen and didn't come out."
"What do you mean?" asked Larsen.
"You hush, Jeb," said Jacob.
"No. No, I won't hush," said Jeb. "Daddy says to always tell the truth."
"Your Daddy went to punish Ellen?" Larsen asked.
"That's what Daddy always did. When she was bad he'd go in to punish her. He'd lock the door and then come out later."
"And that's what happened that night?"
"He went in and didn't come out. I fell asleep. Ellen went away with the bad men."
"Did you see the bad men?"
"No bad men. Ellen went away."
"Ellen went away but there were no bad men?"
"You were sleeping, Jeb, you don't know what happened!" Jacob said. "You be quiet." He glowered at Larsen. "He doesn't know what he's talking about!"
"How about you, Jacob? Do you know what he's talking about?"
The kid bristled. "No! There were bad men. Ellen was bad, and Daddy punished her. Then the bad men came."
"Did you see them?"
He watched the TV defiantly. "No. But I...but I know they were..." he turned to Larsen. "They killed my Daddy. Mommy says we won't see Daddy again until after we die." He looked at the tv. "I miss my daddy."
"I know, son. I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry. I hope we can find the people that did it, and make them go to jail for a long time for what they did. That's all we can do. We're gonna get 'em." He stood. "Well, thank you, boys." Lost in cartoon land, they ignored him as he left the room.
Back in the kitchen he found Devereaux drinking coffee, and Mrs. Longford still working on her lemonade. She looked at him. "Well?"
He shook his head. "They were nice, but...thankfully, they slept through whatever happened that night. They're good boys, Mrs. Longford." He looked at Devereaux. "Well, Morris, I think we ought to be going." Schmoe stood. "Mrs. Longford," said Larsen, "I'm sorry about the way we talked to you before, but...we have to find things out however we can, and...sometimes being pushy like that is the only way to do it. Please accept my apologies." She glanced up at him. Her face looked ready to break.
"Let me know when you find her. That's all that matters," she said.
"Goodbye, Mrs. Longford," said Devereaux, and they left the room and walked out of the house.
They climbed in the car and headed back towards downtown. Larsen picked up the cell phone and punched in a number. "Yo Harris, Larsen here, what's up?" He listened for a minute, then put down the phone. "Well God damn," he said.
"What?" asked Devereaux.
"A state patrol cop pulled over a woman driving a yellow Ryder rental truck about fifty miles north of here yesterday at eight thirty in the morning. A blonde, thirtysomething woman. He didn't write her name down because it was a non-infraction stop, but he looked at her license, and recalls it was something like Ripley. There was a white dog in the car—and a teenage girl."
"Holy shit! That's our party."
"But how'd they get together?"
"God knows. Maybe she picked Ellen up at the side of the road. Maybe Ellen hijacked the truck. Maybe the woman did the dad and kidnapped the kid. Who knows? What was that name? Ripken. Have someone get Ryder on the phone and let's find out who the hell is Lucy Ripken!"
Using a credit card trace from Ryder in NYC the feds by three o'clock in the morning had put together Lucy's trail from New York to Tremonton. From Tremonton, she headed west, stopping for gas once, food once, and, oddly enough, for a windsurfing break in the town of Hood River in the Columbia River Gorge. The two of them had spent the night in a hotel in Hood River. Larsen had requested a file on Lucy Ripken but someone in the DEA had put a hold on that request, and so by six am they didn't know much more than what they'd known since the middle of the afternoon the day before. Sitting around the goddamned local yokel police station waiting for the information in a state of high agitation, Larsen and Devereaux couldn't help but wonder what in the hell did the DEA have to do with this? Was there something more than met the eye to this Ripken woman? What was the meaning of the meeting in the bathroom at Denny's?
At noon the next day a call came in from a DEA guy in New York asking for Larsen. Larsen had been on the phone east and west since seven am, trying to trace the truck, but for the moment it had fallen off the screen. "Who the hell is this and why aren't you telling me what I need to know about Lucy Ripken?"
"Whoa, whoa, podner," said the guy. "My name's Ipswich. Harold Ipswich. And to whom have I the pleasure of speaking?"
"John William Larsen, FBI, Chipwich. What the fuck are you people doing, sitting on this Ripken broad?"
"Ipswich. My name is Ipswich. And this Ripken broad as you so rudely call her happens to be a friend of mine, and she's helped me out more than once. So..."
"So all the more reason we should find her and find out what the fuck is going on!"
"Why don't you tell me what is going on?"
Larsen gave him five minutes of murder and mayhem in Tremonton. "Damn," said Ipswich. "Well, not to worry, Lucy Ripken didn't kill anyone."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I said so, you fuck. She's my friend. She wouldn't kill anybody. Trust me."
"Fuck you. What I want to know is if she lives in New York what the hell is she doing out here anyways?"
"She's moving to Seattle. She left Manhattan a couple of days ago. Look, if I tell you where she's going will you..."
"We're not making deals here, Chipwich. She's got a kid with her whose father got stabbed to death two days ago. At the moment there are no other suspects."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the kid did it or your friend Ripken did it."
Harold was silent for a moment. How the hell did Lucy get into this one, he wondered. And why did I step into the middle of it? That crazy dame. "Well, look, I know Lucy didn't do it. She's just not capable, you understand? You gotta...there must be something or someone else...involved. What's the story on the kid?"
"You don't want to know, Ipswich. Look, just tell me where she's going. I believe you. We think it's a random meet, somehow. But we've got to find the girl, and we are pretty certain she was last seen in the Columbia River Gorge, with your friend."
"In the Gorge? Yeah, that sounds like Lucy all right. She's a windsurfing nut. OK. Look. Her mother lives in Portland, Oregon. I don't know the address but there can't be that many..."
"Thanks, Ipswich." He hung up. "You asshole," he said to the phone, and stood up. "Let's go, Schmoe," he said. Larsen wanted this one for himself, and he had enough seniority to take it. "We're going to the West Coast." En route to the airport in Salt Lake City he called the office in Portland and told them to look out for the truck.
Later he would ask himself why he didn't give the Portland people everything—didn't tell them that Lucy Ripken's mother lived in Portland—because by not giving them everything he allowed Lucy and Ellen to slip away. He told Schmoe it was because by then he knew what had happened, or at least the bare bones of it, and he wanted the bust for himself. Yet in his heart he knew the real, secret truth: he wanted to save this girl when he busted her, and he would have to do it himself to do it right.
CHAPTER SIX
SISTER LORETTA
Wakened by the wind keening through the streets of Hood River, Lucy contemplated a dawn sailing session. Then rolling over she saw the baby-soft face of Ellen Longford, a silvery thread of saliva linking her mouth to the pillow, and decided against it. She rose in the pale light, dressed, packed her bag, and went out. She and Claud hiked the hilly, windblown streets for an hour. When she got back to the room Ellen had not moved. Lucy shook her shoulder gently. "Hey, it's nearly seven. Time to get up. Got to go."
"Nrrr," Ellen murmured, brushing at Lucy's hand. "Shleep."
"No. No more shleep," Lucy said firmly. "Let's go." She shook her harder. When nothing h
appened she patted the bed, and said, "Up here, pup." Claud jumped on the bed, stood over Ellen, then bellied down next to her. He sniffed, then nuzzled her ear.
Her eyes popped open, then softened. "Hey puppy," she said. "How are you?"
"He's fine, thanks," said Lucy. "How 'bout yourself?"
Ellen sat up. "Oh my God." She put her hand to her mouth. "Lucy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I don't even remember what happened. What did I do?"
"Near as I can tell you met up with some guys in the parking lot while I was sailing. They gave you drugs. I don't know if you volunteered or they slipped it into your soda, honey. And then, when you were loaded...well, I found you in your underwear in the back of a VW bus."
"In my underwear? Like, with no clothes?"
"That's right, Ellen. Bus belonged to a guy named George. Guy about twice your age. Apparently he's famous around here for..."
Ellen jumped out of bed abruptly and ran for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Lucy heard her throwing up. Then water running. She emerged five minutes later, somewhat revitalized. "Sorry, I..."
"It's all right, Ellen. You messed up. It was my fault if I made you feel you had to leave, but you were pretty dumb to get wasted with some guy you'd never seen before." The matter of fact tone seemed to be working, for both of them. Lucy knew it was a way of not flying into a rage, but she also felt the rage. Stupid kid. "I checked through your stuff. Looks like it's all there, but you'd better see for yourself. And then get ready to roll. We've got a big day ahead of us. I'll be downstairs getting some breakfast." She grabbed her bag, then stopped at the door to look at Ellen more carefully. "You all right, honey?" she said softly.
"I...I guess so," the girl said plaintively. "I'm sorry I let you down, Lucy. I didn't mean to. I just...I don't know..." Her eyes filled with tears. "Please don't be mad, Lucy." The tears flowed. Lucy dropped her bag and went back to her.
"It's all right," she said, holding her, stroking her hair. "It's gonna be all right." Softly she repeated this mantra for about five minutes, until Ellen calmed down. Until Lucy calmed down. Ellen is not your alcoholic father, Lucy, she said to herself. No need to act like you already gave her a thousand chances and she failed them all.
Utah: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 7) Page 9
