Jack’s house was a small one-story with brick facing, and it appeared dark. Not home? She parked anyway, climbed out of the pickup and plowed through snow drifts to the porch. He might be in the back where she couldn’t see a light. She rang the bell, waited and then knocked. Irritated, she plodded back down the steps.
A car slewed into the driveway and Jack got out, slammed the door and hurried toward her. “What’s happened? Lucille—?”
“No,” Susan said with a shake of her head. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I haven’t any news, only more questions.”
“Oh.” He let out pent-up air with a long sigh. “Sure. Okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, brushed at the snowflakes on his face and looked at her uncertainly. “Could I interest you in something to eat? A problem came up at the lab and I haven’t had supper yet. We could get a meal at the Inn. It isn’t far.”
She hadn’t had anything to eat either since her attempt at the Coffee Cup. Maybe food would relax him and he’d be able to answer questions. She said a meal sounded fine.
Fifteen minutes later, she walked into the Wethertime Inn. Jack had led the way and was already chatting with a young blond waitress in a white blouse and long black skirt as if they were old friends. They probably were. In small towns it seemed everybody was an old friend, something she didn’t always remember.
Jack introduced her and Aby, the waitress, smiled. “I know who you are, of course.”
Of course. I’m the only one around who isn’t everybody’s old friend. She wasn’t sure she liked this standing-out-like-a-sore-thumb stuff.
The dining room was dimly lit and almost empty. Only a few people, brave enough or stupid enough to venture out in heavy snow, sat in the curved red-leather booths that lined three walls. The tables in the center, with white tablecloths and flickering candles in red glass globes, were all unoccupied. The ceiling was timbered with wide beams, and the pictures on the rough textured walls were scenes from the Old West.
Aby chided Jack flirtatiously about not being in for so long as she led them to a booth and placed menus in front of them. The candle flickered shadows across his face, highlighting the lines of fatigue and deepening the dark circles around his eyes.
“You look tired, Jack,” Aby said. “Have you been working too hard?”
“Yes,” he said with mock solemnity, and ran a thumb and forefinger down his moustache. “Have to keep scrambling, have to keep on top of the research.”
Aby laughed and floated away.
“What kind of research are you doing?” Susan asked as she opened the menu.
“Plastic hay.”
She looked at him over the top of the menu. “You’re joking.”
“Funny, that’s what my colleagues all say.” He smiled and the smile emphasized the gray tiredness in his face.
“What’s it for?”
“Cattle feed.”
“Plastic isn’t digestible.”
“It doesn’t need to be.”
“It’s a synonym for shoddy. You want to push this fake, shoddy world right into the stomachs of the poor cattle?”
“It’s superior to hay.” He started patting and poking his pockets. “Usually I have some,” he muttered. “It gets in my pockets in some mysterious way. Never mind.”
Leaning his elbows on the table, he spoke like a teacher. “Cows are ruminants. They need roughage. If they don’t get about fifteen percent hay, serious problems develop in the rumen.”
“Rumen, I assume, is the stomach.”
“The first of four. Feed initially gets digested there and then is regurgitated as cud and rechewed.”
Aby floated back and Jack recommended prime rib. Susan settled on tarragon chicken with noodles. With all this talk of cows, she didn’t feel she could look at a slab of red, bloody beef. He ordered prime rib, then handed back the menus and went right on with his instruction. She let him. The lines of strain eased as he talked.
Underneath his easy lecturing manner was a note of steel determination. Obviously, this research was important to him; he believed in it. Plastic hay sounded like nonsense to her, but what did she know? She hadn’t even known that cows had four stomachs.
“Hay doesn’t have the nutritional value of grain, but it’s essential. It forms a floating mat that scrubs the papillae and prevents buildup of bacteria. Otherwise, bacteria enter the bloodstream and cause liver abscesses.”
Papillae. That awful-looking stuff in the supermarket labeled tripe? He intended to make a name for himself in this rigorous work at revolutionizing the feeding of cattle. She wondered how much his determination had to do with proving himself to his father. Jack hadn’t gone into breeding cattle like Otto, but chose chemistry. Like I didn’t want to be a lawyer? Powerful fathers had a lot to answer for.
“The plastic substitute is more efficient. Hay is bulky and heavy, dusty. It has to be ground and mixed with grain and it’s difficult to send through mechanized feed-delivery systems. My biggest problem, aside from constantly running out of funds, is finding the right shape.”
Salad bowls were placed in front of them, and she picked up a fork. “This plastic has to be the right shape?”
“You wouldn’t think so. What do cattle know, right? But that seems to be the case. Originally, I tried disk-shaped pellets. No good. Then cylindrical. No good. Cattle detected them in the feed and wouldn’t eat them. Too slippery, maybe. But I think I’ve got it now.”
“Is it harmful?”
“No, that’s why it’s so great. When the pellets are chewed they get shredded, and after they’re swallowed they float in a mat just like hay. Nothing is absorbed into the bloodstream. I’ve traced it with carbon fourteen.”
He chased a tomato around his plate and finally stabbed it. “After an animal is slaughtered, about twenty pounds of the plastic can be recovered and recycled. What’s lost through elimination is biodegradable. Plastic roughage is cheaper and more efficient than hay. Each animal needs about four pounds of hay per day.”
He popped the tomato in his mouth, chewed and swallowed, then pointed the tines of his fork at her. “Only one-tenth of a pound of the substitute accomplishes the same end. The money saved is tremendous.”
He looked at the fork, looked at her and gave her a rueful grimace. “Are you finding all this fascinating?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said with a smile, and actually she was. Somewhat. People with enthusiasm were infectious, and she thought he must be a good teacher, but all this wasn’t helping her find Lucille.
Aby removed the salad bowls and put down Susan’s chicken and Jack’s prime rib. “I’ve heard Brenner Niemen is back,” she said to Jack. “You two plan to get into some escapades while he’s here?”
“I hope not.” Jack rubbed a knuckle down one side of his moustache. “I think we’re a little too old to be sneaking a calf into the bell tower.”
Aby grinned. “Well, I hope you come in for a meal. It’ll seem like old times.”
“Calf in the bell tower?” Susan said after Aby left.
“Kids. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He shook his head in a half-appalled, half-amused memory of adolescent antics. “You can lead a calf up long flights of steps, but there’s no way you can lead it down. It caused quite a ruckus. The poor thing had to be carried down in a sling, bawling and struggling.”
“You and Brenner are friends?”
“When we were kids. I haven’t seen him for a long time, haven’t even heard from him.” Jack broke open the baked potato and added butter.
“He had some trouble with your father. What was that?”
“With Dad?” Jack looked startled. “Oh, a long time ago. Brenner was paying too much attention to Lucille to suit Dad. She was only fourteen or fifteen. I wasn’t around. I’d already left home and that kind of left Lucille all by herself.” He seemed suddenly to lose vitality and tiredness settled back over his face.
“By herself?”
“Usually it was me that took Dad’s wra
th.”
“You were a rebellious child?”
“I guess you could say that.” He smiled. “I’m sure Dad would.”
That explained Henry’s comment about hero worship, she thought. No wonder Lucille adored Jack, the older brother, bigger and smarter and braver. He must have seemed very heroic, disobeying their father, blazing trails, pushing everything as far as he could and taking punishment with arrogant swagger. Susan wondered if Jack, as she herself had done, had formed an alliance with his mother to get around his father and create enough margin to survive and make choices.
He cut off a chunk of meat, then took a sip of water and looked at her. “You’re not at all like Cathy.”
“No? What was she like?” She’d seen pictures of Daniel’s first wife and knew Cathy had been small and blond and pretty. She hadn’t thought much about her until after Daniel’s death; then she experienced a fierce jealousy, because Cathy’d had twelve years with him.
“She was sweet, kind of quiet. Didn’t Dan tell you about her?”
“I know she was killed when a tree crushed the car she was driving.”
“A tornado came up fast. It happens sometimes.”
“Sweet and quiet” was probably the kind of wife Helen thought Daniel deserved. Susan jabbed a carrot and ate it. “Did Lucille ever discuss her job with you?”
“Not often. She likes to keep things to herself.” He spoke reluctantly, obviously more comfortable discussing rumens and papillae. “Until she’s accomplished whatever it is. Then she likes to dazzle everybody with the results.”
“Did you know about her late-night drives?”
“Drives?”
“She drove around at night, after midnight—one, two in the morning. Her car was seen going out the road toward Vic Pollock’s. Why would she do that?”
He looked puzzled. “I haven’t any idea.”
“Romantic interest?”
“Good God, no.”
She chewed on a piece of chicken. They were now the only people in the dining room; all the others had finished and gone. “Could she have been running some sort of surveillance on Vic?”
“Spying on Vic? Why?”
“Can you think of a reason?”
“No. It doesn’t make any sense.”
It might, Susan thought, if Vic had killed his wife, and Lucille suspected; perhaps suspected Vic shot Daniel because he found out. “Who would Lucille talk to? Friends?”
“Well—” He poked at the baked potato as though he might find the answer there.
Despite Lucille’s hero-worship of her brother, they apparently weren’t very close. She didn’t discuss with him the things that were important to her.
“Sophie,” he said. “She always thought a lot of Sophie.”
“What about a man named—” Susan was going to ask him about Doug, he of Lucille’s office answering machine, when Aby bustled up.
“Excuse me. Jack, there’s a phone call for you. They said it was important.”
He murmured an apology, dropped his napkin on the table and slid from the booth. Susan went on with her meal, and in a few minutes Aby came back.
“Jack said to tell you he’s sorry, but there’s some kind of problem. At the lab? He apologizes, but he said he really had to go and see about it.”
“Problem?”
“Oh, you know, with those cows he’s always going on about.”
“I see.” Susan reached in her bag for her wallet.
“That’s all right. Jack already paid. He said he’d call you in the morning if there was anything else you wanted to know.”
Susan nodded. “Aby, do you know Lucille?”
“Sure. I know Jack better, of course. Lucille’s younger and she was always just one of those little kids.”
“Any idea where she might be?”
Aby shook her head. “Can’t understand what’s wrong with her, worrying everybody like this.”
“Do you know anybody named Doug?”
Aby thought a moment. “No, sure don’t.”
Snow had stopped falling by the time Susan left the Inn, and it was bitterly cold, but the world looked soft, rounded and beautiful in the dark with lights picking out iridescent colors. She headed for home and would be glad to get there; her head ached, her ankle hurt and her nose felt raw. Her mind picked away at the snarl of exasperation and worry about Lucille. You damn fool, where are you?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN Daniel’s office, Susan sat hunched over the desk reading the stacks of reports gathered in the search for Lucille, looking for something, anything that might give a hint where to look next. Her cold was in full bloom and she’d pulled the wastebasket near the desk for tossing in soggy tissues.
Osey had questioned Floyd Kimmell. Floyd claimed he didn’t know anything and hadn’t seen Lucille. Floyd was nervous.
George had questioned Vic Pollock. Vic hadn’t seen Lucille; stuck to the story his wife was visiting relatives. He was belligerent.
Otto Guthman thought he might have some cattle missing. He wasn’t positive, was still trying to get an accurate count. He had no idea where Lucille was, insisted she was fine, she’d be back any time now. Ella Guthman was frantic about her daughter, but couldn’t suggest any place Lucille might be.
Susan arched her back and stretched, then lit a cigarette, moseyed to the window, and yanked on the cord to raise the blinds higher. The glass was fogged with ice crystals on the outside; the sky was gray and overcast. Snow covered the rooftops and the street was a mess of churned-up slush. Three or four people tromped by, all muffled up and trailing streams of vapor.
Why hadn’t anybody seen Lucille in the last sixty-two hours? In a town this size, where everybody knew everybody, where could she hide?
Long ash formed on the cigarette; Susan turned from the window, went back to the desk and tapped it against the ashtray. Near the ashtray sat a small framed snapshot of herself in an orange life jacket, hair windblown, taken on the deck of a friend’s boat. Daniel had liked that picture. She pitched it in the bottom drawer, then sat down and read Parkhurst’s interview with Sophie. Sophie hadn’t seen Lucille, had no idea where she was and thought Parkhurst ought to be looking for her instead of wasting time asking questions. The latest missing cat was still missing.
She put out her cigarette, leaned back and gazed at the fluorescent fixture in the ceiling. Could Sophie be hiding Lucille? According to Jack—and he still hadn’t called, as he had promised—Lucille considered Sophie a friend, and Sophie was certainly unconventional enough. Susan shook her head. No, couldn’t be. Brenner was staying with Sophie. He’d notice. Sophie might hide Lucille, for reasons only understandable to herself, but surely Brenner wouldn’t go along.
Susan wondered about the injured man and checked with the hospital. Still alive. Still no change in his condition. She remembered the phone bill she’d seen in Lucille’s office and shoved around papers to find her notebook, then cleared a space and studied the list of calls Lucille had made in December. Two numbers had been called several times each.
Osey ambled in. “Ma’am?”
She looked up.
“Ben asked me to tell you he’s talking to neighbors about Emma Lou Pollock, trying to pin down more how long she’s been gone and where she might be.”
She nodded. Two missing women? One dead, one missing? Two dead? “Osey, do you recognize either of these phone numbers?”
He bent over the desk. “This here’s the Kansas City News.” He put a finger on the bill. “Don’t know this one, it’s Kansas City too, by the prefix.” He straightened, stepped back and waited.
She reached for the phone, then, aware he was still waiting, said, “Thanks, Osey. That’s all.”
“Right.” He ambled out.
She punched the number he couldn’t identify and got a recorded message. “This is Doug McClay. Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.”
She left her name and both police department and home numbers, then b
roke the connection and cradled the receiver against her shoulder. Doug McClay. Kansas City. She pushed a button to get Hazel.
“Yes, Susan?”
“Hazel, do we have a Kansas City phone book?”
“Sure do. White pages or Yellow?”
“Both, I guess.”
Hazel brought in the phone books and eyed Susan with concern. “You don’t look so good. You should be home in bed.”
“It’s just a cold. As long as I breathe through my mouth I’m fine.” Susan looked up the Kansas City News. Osey was right about that number. And a Doug McClay was listed in Kansas City, with an address on Morganhill Drive.
She called Jack and the phone rang, unanswered. She tried Emerson College and was told Dr. Guthman was teaching a class. Thinking maybe Lucille’s mother would know Doug McClay, Susan phoned the Guthmans’; the housekeeper said neither Ella nor Otto was home.
She thought a moment, then flipped through Yellow Pages to hotels. Hotels, hotels. Drake, Drake. Yes. Drake Hotel. She reached for the phone again.
“Drake Hotel, may I help you?”
“Do you have a Lucille Guthman staying there?”
There was a pause. “Yes. Ms. Guthman is a guest here.”
“Would you ring her room, please.” She let it ring until the receptionist broke in to say, “That number doesn’t answer.”
Susan broke the connection and pushed the button for Hazel. “I don’t suppose you happen to have a street map of Kansas City.”
“I might. Let me check.”
A moment later, Hazel came in and handed her the map.
* * *
IT was after three by the time she found Morganhill Drive, a quiet residential street of mostly new homes, with spindly trees and bare front lots. She had crossed the river into Missouri before she came to Doug McClay’s address.
It was a small two-story house, red brick with white trim and a steep, peaked roof. She pressed the doorbell and waited, then stepped to her right for a try at looking through the window. The curtain covered it completely. Irritated, she rang the bell again. Well, not surprising, since he hadn’t answered the phone, but some people let the machine pick up calls and she’d thought it worth a try.
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