In Search of Eden, page 26
Call Nashville—check out pending civil cases
Check credit report
Check driving record
Ask Wally and Ed Cornwell what she put on employment applications for former jobs
He sighed in frustration. All of these except one would have to wait for tomorrow. He phoned Wally and asked for a copy of her employment application.
“Is she up to something?” Wally asked.
“If she is, I’ll let you know.”
Wally’s deep-rooted lack of curiosity took over then, and he said he would have it for him in the morning. Joseph stared around the office for a few minutes, then decided to take a walk. He headed for the woods to clear his mind. He would walk a mile or two up the trail.
He was by no means alone in his intentions. It was busy for this early in the season. He walked briskly until he was past the commotion of the other hikers, then slowed his pace and breathed. He was unusually involved emotionally in this whole case of the Irish Travelers, he knew. And he had to admit that Ms. Miranda DeSpain had gotten under his skin. Why? he wondered. It was possible he was wrong about the whole thing. It could be sheer coincidence that she appeared the same time as the plague of crime. She might actually be telling the truth, that she just enjoyed living in different locales for six or seven months at a time and Abingdon was the current in a lifetime of temporary stops. After all, she had gotten a job and found a place to live.
He looked up the trail toward the giant sycamore. It was so huge a man could stand inside the hollow made by the roots. He and David had loved playing in it as boys, and he thought of his brother with pain. He would go back to his mother’s in time to call him tonight. It was the right thing to do. He stared and walked and thought, and for a moment he doubted his eyes, but after he stared a minute longer he realized Miranda DeSpain herself was headed toward him, coming down the trail.
She saw him and smiled, raised her hand in a tentative wave. He nodded but didn’t wave back, and part of him felt angry at himself for being such a curmudgeon. What if she was just a nice girl who couldn’t make up her mind what she wanted to be when she grew up? But what if his instincts were right and she was a trickster, another untrustworthy woman who was nestling her way into his family’s lives and hearts, another part of him answered back. It had happened before, and he thought of the past with pain. By the time they approached each other he was angry again. At Sarah. At himself. At Miranda DeSpain.
“Hello, Lieutenant Williams.” She smiled at him, and he had to admit she was very pretty in a fresh, clean way. Her dark hair swung around her shoulders, her eyes were bright and interested, her cheeks pink with health and exercise. Today she wore a T-shirt and denim shorts. Noticing all that made him feel even more annoyed. He glanced at her feet, which, he tried not to notice, were at the bottom of shapely legs. She was wearing hiking boots. He frowned, remembering the prints near the scene of the mysterious trailer.
“Hello, Ms. DeSpain,” he answered coolly. “What’s the matter? You get tired of pedaling, or did the bike get a flat tire?”
She gave him another smile, and he suddenly felt ashamed of himself. He seemed to bounce between acting like a suspicious parent and an obnoxious child.
“Actually, I arranged for some car insurance,” she said. “When I get the paper work, I’ll bring it by your office so you know you don’t have to keep pulling me over.”
For some reason her transparency annoyed him. “Do you expect me to congratulate you for obeying the law like you should have done in the first place?”
Her smile disappeared and was replaced by a look that was somewhere between irritation and regret. “I don’t expect anything,” she said.
He was a little embarrassed. He tried a lighter tone. “What prompted the change of heart?” he asked.
“Summer’s coming,” she said back with a tight smile. “It’ll be hard riding up and down all these hills.”
“So you’re planning on being here come summertime.”
“You sound less than pleased at the prospect.”
“It’s immaterial to me either way. As long as you obey the law, you’re welcome here. If you don’t, I assure you, I’ll find out.” Well, then. There it was. Out for both of them to see.
The smile went away. Her eyes registered hurt, then anger. “Look,” she said, “I don’t know what your problem is, but I would like you to stop harassing me.”
“Harassing you? Exactly how have I harassed you?”
She apparently ran through the facts in her mind and couldn’t come up with an answer that held together. “What is it, exactly, that you find so threatening about me?” she asked. “What have I done to make you so hostile?”
He thought about defending himself. Once again he was thrown off balance. And he knew what the problem was. He didn’t have his facts. If he knew the facts, he could answer that question. He wished heartily that it was Monday or that at least he hadn’t encountered Miranda again until he had the results of tomorrow’s inquiries.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I told you. I travel around.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.”
“But is it the whole truth?” he asked, and an expression flashed across her face so quickly he barely saw it before it was gone. Bingo. He had struck pay dirt. The expression he had seen was guilt and a hint of something else. Fear?
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” she said quietly.
This time it was he who felt a flash of some emotion travel through him like a bolt, because as he watched, her face closed. The friendliness and childlike trust just disappeared and was replaced by a mirror that showed him the same cold suspicion he had shown her.
She walked around him and then away without looking back.
He stood and watched her until the trail curved. He continued walking, but it was without the peace the place usually brought him. His thoughts darted like a fretful bird. If Miranda DeSpain was a criminal, he had just put her on her guard. And if she was not, he had a feeling he had made a grave mistake.
chapter 35
*
By morning, Joseph had gotten over his remorse. He was all detective again, and after a brief breakfast at the Hasty Taste, during which he and Miranda DeSpain coldly ignored each other and Henry looked bewildered, he was back at his office, a copy of her Hasty Taste employment application in his hand, ready to find the facts. He scanned it briefly. She had listed only one job, at the Sip and Bite diner in Nashville, Tennessee. Under dates of employment, she had put that she’d begun working there in 1996 and worked until two months ago with the notation “off and on” appearing at the bottom of the page. Sounded like she’d left plenty of room for wiggling.
He called the Sip and Bite. The phone rang six or seven times before it was answered. The woman’s voice sounded breathless, and in the background he could hear the clatter of dishes and the chatter of voices and the strains of “Jesus, Take the Wheel.”
“I’m looking for some information on one of your former employees,” he said. “Miranda DeSpain.”
“Who?”
“Miranda DeSpain,” he repeated.
“Just a minute,” the voice said; then the phone was set down with a clunk. He waited. The song played and ended. “When I Get Where I’m Going” started up.
“This is Myra Jean.” Her voice was smoky, her accent twangy.
“Are you the manager?”
“Manager, owner, you name it. Now, how can I help you? I happen to be a little bit busy here.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m looking for some information regarding one of your former employees, Miranda DeSpain.”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Joseph Williams. Lieutenant Joseph Williams with the Abingdon, Virginia, police.”
A pause. “Why are you wantin’ to know about Miranda?”
“So you know her?”
“Of course I know her. I’ve known her since she was born. I knew her mama. I knew her daddy. I know her aunt, and I went to her high school graduation. Listen here, what are you getting at? Because she may have been confused a time or two, but that girl has never done a thing against the law. Besides,” she said, her voice tightening with suspicion, “how do I know you are who you say you are? What are you up to, anyway?”
“I’m not up to anything. It’s routine,” he said.
“She applied for a job there or something?”
“Something like that,” he said. Then quickly before she could come back with another question, he asked his. “So you know her? She really worked for you? She is who she says she is?”
“Of course she is. She’s a good worker, and you’re darned lucky to have her, and by the way, I don’t exactly appreciate what you’re insinuatin’. I’ve a good mind to take down your badge number and call your superiors.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I had no intention of showing any disrespect to Miss DeSpain.”
She sniffed. “Well, here’s a tip for you, Lieutenant. The next time you want to get information, try keeping a civil tongue in your head. It’ll get you a lot further than that smart-alecky routine you’re using now.” With that she hung up the phone.
Thus chastised, he performed the credit check—Ms. DeSpain had no outstanding loans and no credit history. Odd, but some people liked to pay cash.
He checked her driving record. No tickets or accidents in the last six months.
He called the Davidson County, Tennessee, District Court office and asked about any pending lawsuits with Miranda De-Spain named as defendant. There were none. He repeated the process with Superior Court. There were none.
He called Ed Cornwell at the funeral home.
“Oh yeah,” Ed said. “Seems like a real nice girl. She’s done a good job so far. Why are you interested?”
By then he was beginning to get the sinking feeling that his unerring instincts just might have erred in this case. “Purely a formality, Ed.”
“Well, let’s just see. She listed a prior address in Nashville, and a next of kin as Roberta Thompson, also in Nashville. Says it’s her aunt. Put down references of Myra Jean Mayfield in Nashville at the Sip and Bite Restaurant and a Mr. William Cooper.”
Cooper. That was the name on the car registration.
“Thank you, Ed.”
“No problem.”
Joseph hung up the telephone and performed one last check, just so he could lay the matter to rest. He retrieved the telephone number for William Cooper at the address on the registration. It was listed in the Nashville telephone book. He dialed. The phone rang three times and then was answered by a pleasant-sounding man. Joseph identified himself thoroughly, only this time he had a more logical reason to call. He explained that he was curious about the car registration, and he carefully watched his tone.
“You know, I thought of the insurance lapse after she left. I’m so sorry it got her into trouble. We’ve corrected it now. She sent me the money, and I’ve added the car to my policy.”
“So she has your permission to use the car?”
“For as long as she needs it,” he said.
“Have you known Miss DeSpain long?” he asked.
“I’ve known her since she was a baby. Her daddy brought her over and introduced her to me the day she came home from the hospital.”
They chatted a little more, and their conversation confirmed what Myra Jean at the diner had said but added a few details. Miss DeSpain had come home from her wanderings to take care of her mother, who had recently died of cancer. Joseph felt more and more like a heel.
“So she does have a pattern of traveling around?”
Mr. Cooper chuckled. “Oh yes, but I know she’ll get it out of her system someday. She’s a good girl with a beautiful heart. She’ll settle down when the right time comes. Tell her I said hello, won’t you?”
“Thank you for your help,” he said quickly. He had no intention of telling Miranda DeSpain he had been calling her neighbors.
He shook his head and wondered where his instincts had led him astray. Then the last nail was pounded into his coffin. Henry called.
“Well,” he said without preamble, “the Travelers struck again. Yesterday a bunch sold and installed heat pumps for two folks out by Glade Spring. Had some worthless parts encased in a Trane exterior. The pumps worked for about three hours, then started to fall apart. The crooks took them for five grand each. When the customers called and reported the problems, of course the phone was disconnected, and the address given was bogus.”
“So when did the money change hands?” Joseph asked.
“Yesterday afternoon.”
About the time he’d been sparring with Miranda on the Creeper Trail. He sighed. An apology was looming large in his future. He hated apologizing.
“But we did find something interesting,” Henry continued.
“What was that?” Joseph asked, the sinking feeling increasing.
“A local resident returned early from vacation and found a trespasser camping on his property. Of course, by the time we got there he was gone, but this time we got a physical description of the vehicle, the trailer, and the man.”
“So what’s the description?” he asked, training his mind back on business.
“The man was around fifty, medium height and build, gray/black hair, weathered face. No distinguishing marks. This time he went by the name of Jimmy Stewart.”
“A comedian.”
“Yeah. The trailer was a new Jayco. The truck was a late model Dodge Ram. Dark green or black.”
“I don’t suppose they got the plate number?”
“No.”
“Well, this is definitely a start,” Joseph said. “And nobody who dealt with the guy mentioned a woman?”
Henry was silent for a minute. “Oh. I get it now,” he said. “That’s what’s going on between you and the new waitress. Why did you think she was in on it?”
Now that he’d had every one of his reasons blown out of the water, he had no intention of reciting his humiliation aloud. “Because I’m a suspicious, distrustful jerk who thinks if a pretty girl is nice, she must have an agenda.”
Henry chuckled. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Maybe she’s as forgiving as she is beautiful. And who knows, maybe she’d even be interested in a rusty-hearted fool like you.”
Joseph sighed. He thanked Henry and hung up. He tapped his pencil on the desk, making staccato vibrations, then got up abruptly and picked up his keys. Like his pop used to say, “If you’ve got to swallow a frog, it’s best not to look at it too long.”
chapter 36
*
Miranda finished work by one-thirty, did her cleanup, restocked her supplies, and was out of the Hasty Taste by two o’clock. She had printed out directions last night, filled her tank full of gas, and packed a small cooler containing sandwiches, fruit, and bottled water. She had worn Capris and tennis shoes to work, so there was no need to change. She glanced at the sky and wondered if she should go back to the apartment for a jacket. It was overcast and cool today, and rain was forecast. She decided not to bother. She hopped in the car and headed for Highway 81 east to Wytheville, where she would get on Highway 77 north, which would take her into West Virginia and on up pretty close to Thurmond. At least to the end of the highway, where she would pick up the tangled thread of roads she must follow to reach the abandoned coal town. She felt a little apprehensive but also excited. This was a mystery she had needed to understand for a long time. And who knew? Perhaps there would be some clues here. She had a feeling of festivity and holiday.
She had searched MapQuest with the only Thurmond address she could come up with, a river rafting outfitter. Apparently the two thousand census had listed eight inhabitants. It would take approximately two and a half hours to drive there, according to the directions. She set out, enjoying the scenery.
The southwest of Virginia was lovely, especially in the spring, in spite of the gray day. The land was a series of undulating green waves, the fields turned and newly planted, the trees lovely in their lace of tender new leaves. The dogwoods were blooming, along with redbud, and the pink and white blossoms dotted the hillsides, peeking shyly from beneath the larger trees. Behind them the Blue Ridge Mountains, soft blue mounds, stood silent guard.
She pulled off the road and ate her lunch. The traffic picked up. She went through the Big Walker Mountain Tunnel near Wytheville, then through the longer East River Mountain Tunnel that went on for just over a mile. It was odd, knowing she was under the mountain. She felt a sense of oppression in spite of the yellow tiles and bright lights, and oddly, emerging from the tunnel on the other side in West Virginia, it didn’t abate but grew in intensity the farther into the state she went.
It was still lovely country, with a fierce and rugged beauty. But as she passed Beckley and left the interstate for smaller local roads, her uneasiness grew. The mountains rose up on either side of her, jagged and sharp. They blocked out the sun, what little there was, and the woods beneath them looked wild and lonely and cruel. These were the kind of woods of evil enchantments and fairy tales, of witches and lost children.
It began to rain and darkness fell. She turned off the highway and drove through small pockets of houses perched between the riverbank and the mountain. The roads were very narrow and winding. The buildings were put so close together it reminded her of beach property. The town, such as it was, was divided on both sides of the river with the railroad tracks running along the banks. She imagined what it might be like to live here. Everything felt tight and cramped and heavy and dark. She rolled the window down and took a few deep breaths. She thought of her mother. Had she lived somewhere near here?
She came to the New River and looked down warily as she crossed the bridge. The tree-covered mountains rose up beneath her. The muddy river made a lazy S with the black starkness of train tracks beside it, a coal tipple and a black trestle going across the narrow part. So here was Thurmond. She drove between a few buildings and parked the car, got out, and looked around. There was not much to see. The Internet had told the truth. It was a ghost town. The only things left were various industrial-looking structures she presumed had to do with coal or the railroad, which seemed to be the only two industries the town had ever had. There was a brick bank building, abandoned. A line of other brick buildings, presumably the famous saloon and rooming house, were now hollow shells. She walked to the trestle and peered down at the churning muddy river. She didn’t know if some trains still ran, so she decided not to walk across. There were a few more dilapidated buildings made of brick and stone, all covered with weeds. In the field beside the tracks was the rusted hulk of a car with kudzu trailing out of its broken windows.
