County Line (10 page)

According to the online directory, there are over seventy-five Whittakers in the area around Farmersville, four times what I found looking for Jimmie in the Bay Area—we didn’t limit ourselves to the initial J. I’m not expecting much, but it gives him something to do.

“Hi, I’m looking for an old friend and wonder if you might be able to help. Her name is Ruby Jane Whit—”

— + —

The San Francisco cops had kept us for hours at the scene of Jimmie’s demise. There were plenty of witnesses, but Darryl ensured Pete and I got the lion’s share of the attention. My explanation for why I’d come to town and what we’d discussed with Jimmie didn’t earn us any points with the pair of sunken-eyed homicide inspectors who had the misfortune of drawing the case. Eldridge and Deffeyes: one short, thick and bearded and the other short, thick and bearded. I couldn’t tell them apart.

“Mister Whitacre was your girlfriend’s brother?” They tag-teamed me in the street outside the bar’s entrance, the flashing lightbars and the murmurs of rubberneckers giving me a headache. Pete waited with a uniformed officer on the opposite corner. I was the lucky one; he had a clear view of Jimmie’s body.

“
His
girlfriend. Well, not anymore. I don’t know, really.”

“You don’t know who’s girlfriend she is.”

“Friend. We’re friends.”

“Mister McKrall says she’s your girlfriend.”

“Friend.”

“And where is she now?”

“We don’t know. That’s why we were talking to Jimmie.”

“James Whitacre.”

“Right.”

“And what did he say?”

“He didn’t know where she was either.”

I knew the cops came off more oafish than they really were. Trying to trip me up, play the fool to see how my story changed as I tried to correct their pointed misunderstandings. But they didn’t trip me up because I didn’t try to hide anything. I shared my worry and confusion, my attempt to reach Jimmie from Portland, my decision to drive down. Obviously they thought I was nuts. After a thorough work-over, they stuck me in the back of a patrol car while they gave Pete the same treatment. The car smelled of urine, but at least it was dark and quiet. I closed my eyes and waited. Apparently Pete was no more useful, though at one point either Eldridge or Deffeyes stuck his beard in the car and told me he’d backed up my story.

Yay.

Eventually one of the beards let me out of the car.

“I called your lieutenant. She vouched for you and your girlfriend’s boyfriend.”

“She’s not my lieutenant. I’m retired.” I don’t know why this point is so important to me. Maybe because it’s so irrelevant to everyone else.

“No one is your anything, are they?”

That didn’t deserve a response.

“I still don’t understand why you couldn’t talk to Mister Whitacre on the phone.” The implication being if I’d called, maybe he wouldn’t be lying in a puddle of his own blood outside a Chinese bakery.

“Like I said, I couldn’t reach him.”

“So you drove all this way on the off chance you’d run into him.”

Given the circumstances, I’m not thrilled by his choice of words. “I have a lot of time on my hands, Inspector.” In his shoes, I’d have questions too. Dead man, hit-and-run, last seen talking to two guys who can offer no explanation for why the victim ran into a busy street. The car involved, a blue Ford Focus, was found a dozen blocks away, the interior on fire. Stolen. All I have going for me is the fact I’m an ex-cop and I wasn’t driving the Focus.

“One more question.”

I don’t
think
he could hear my teeth grind. “Sure.”

“The name Biddy Denlinger mean anything to you?”

That caught me up for a moment. The mysterious Biddy has a last name. “He mentioned the name Biddy, but he didn’t say who they were.”

“Whitacre had a note in his Filofax. ‘Biddy Denlinger, 8:00 p.m.’ He’d scratched it out, but maybe this Biddy showed up anyway. Whitacre wasn’t talking with anyone when you got here?”

“He was alone at the bar.”

“The bartender doesn’t remember anyone but you and your friend either.”

“Pete and I didn’t get here til ten.”

“So I heard.” He sighs. “I’d tell you not to leave town, but gone might be the best place for you.”

“Maybe the San Francisco tourist bureau would think otherwise.”

“You planning on spending a lot of money while you’re here?”

My pension would say no. “Not feeling too welcome, to be honest.”

“A lot of that going around.”

Back in Walnut Creek, Pete offered me his couch. I was awake before sunrise, drinking Pete’s coffee and working the Google on his computer under the cool glow of the grow lights on his wall of plants. By the time Pete woke, I’d found Farmersville, found Preble County Line Road. Found my long list of Whittakers. What I didn’t find is Ruby Jane, except as the owner of record of a small chain of Portland coffee houses. Even the mighty Google has its blind spots.

Pete poured himself coffee and opened the vertical blinds over the sliding glass door. Watery light filtered in across his balcony. “What’s the plan?

“I think I need to go to Ohio.”

“Okay. I’ll arrange some time off work.”

“You’re not coming with me.”

“Try and stop me.” He turned on his heel and left me alone in his living room before I could argue the point. I heard the shower start, and took the opportunity to slip out. When I returned an hour later with underwear and toiletries, jeans and a couple of t-shirts, all in a black nylon pack, he informed me he’d booked us on a red-eye out of Oakland with a change in Denver. We’d get into Cincinnati about seven the next morning.

“Pete, I don’t need a goddamn sidekick.”

“You’re not the only one who cares about Ruby Jane.”

“Moving to fucking Walnut Creek is an odd way of showing it.”

“What are you complaining about? I’m out of
your
way, aren’t I?

“That’s not the point.”

“I don’t have to justify myself to you. And I don’t need your permission to go to Ohio.”

I wanted to argue further, but what was the point? Were our positions reversed, I’d insist on coming.

Pete spent the day on his computer, making his print-outs and offering up obscure data points about Farmersville. Elevation: 879 feet. Population: 937, down by four percent since the 2000 census. Seat of Jackson Township in Montgomery County. Local high school: Valley View—home of the Spartans—halfway between Farmersville and nearby Germantown. One web site revealed there have been five documented ghost sightings in town.

Around midday, I called Susan. Her tone was that of a disappointed grandmother learning her little cherub has been skipping school. Eldridge and Deffeyes had said little, except they were getting nowhere on Biddy Denlinger; didn’t even know if Biddy was male or female. I could tell she’d joined them in the
Skin is out of his mind
camp, but she admitted the growing body count raised a question or two. She even admitted to visiting Uncommon Cups for a chat with Marcy. When I told her we were going to Ohio she paused for a long, pregnant moment before suggesting we try to stay out of jail.

— + —

We leave I-75 at Franklin, make our way north and west. Urban gives way to rural, though small towns materialize every few miles. Trees alongside the road struggle to stand upright in the heavy air. I stare out the window, mystified by large brick planters shaped like baskets in the broad front yards we pass. The world feels compressed and sleepy to me, from the sluggish Miami River to the clapboard houses and eroding concrete silos along Carlisle Pike. I find myself wondering who lives in a place like this, and I guess I say so out loud without realizing it.

“The world doesn’t fucking end east of Eighty-Second and south of Powell.”

“Just saying.”

“You act like you’ve never seen a barn. Christ, you’re worse than a New Yorker.”

Maybe it’s me.

Beyond Germantown, the road dips and climbs through scrubby woodland and open fields, with occasional big houses on giant lots. “Look, Pete. A barn.” We pass the high school and I’m tempted to stop. It’s been on the order of twenty years, I estimate, but someone might remember Ruby Jane, or know if she still has family in the area. But I decide to continue on to Farmersville. A couple of miles later we climb a gentle rise and we’re there.

“Now what, Detective? Gonna roust us some rubes?”

Good grief. “How many Whittakers do you have left to call?”

“About a hundred.”

“There were only seventy-five to begin with.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“So what do we do?”

“We get some lunch.”

“It’s not even ten o’clock.”

“Breakfast then.”

“That’s your plan? We fly three thousand miles and your big idea is breakfast.”

“Sooner or later, someone who knows RJ is bound to go out to eat.”

“If anyone around here even remembers her.”

“You could have stayed in California.”

Farmersville is a rubber stamp pastoral village slipping into senescence. Saltbox houses on small lots mix with two-story brick or lap-sided commercial. The sunlight is sharp and metallic, the air earthy. I criss-cross the village at a crawl; the core is roughly six blocks by four, a quiet grid with minimal activity. A couple of guys chat outside U.S. Bank, kids play during recess at the elementary school. Trucks kick up fermented dust as they leave the grain elevators on the west side of town. I find what I’m looking for on Center Street: a bakery and café dripping with folksy charm. If we’re lucky, it’s full of Chatty Cathys with long memories.

The café is cozy, a little overwarm. There are a few tables, and a glass case filled with baked goods. At one table, a man stirs a corner of toast in a puddle of egg yolk on his plate. At another table, a couple talks over muffins and coffee. In addition to breakfast, the bakery offers wedding cakes, catering, and baking workshops. Pete and I wait at the hostess podium until a young waitress with egg-shaped eyes and a big smile asks us if we’d like a table for two. I turn my head to hide my neck and let Pete confirm. She leads us to a spot in the front window, hands us menus, and offers us coffee while we’re deciding.

I say yes to coffee and then add, “We’re in town for the day looking for an old friend.”

“A friend?” Her teeth are like sugar cubes.

“Do you know a Ruby Jane Whittaker?”

“No.”

“How about any Whittakers in the area?”

The corners of her mouth turn down a little, but she doesn’t hide her teeth. “None that I can think of.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I turn to my menu.

“Where you from?”

“We drove up from Cincinnati.” Nothing to be gained from mentioning the redeye from California.

“You drove up from Cincinnati?”

I eye Pete across the table. He deflects by ordering scrambled eggs, bacon, and whole wheat toast. I ask for two eggs over medium and a blueberry muffin from the case. The waitress leaves us to sit in weary silence and contemplate the view out the window.

A few minutes later, another woman approaches with coffee. “Missy said you’re looking for someone.”

“Looking for breakfast first.”

“You came to the right place.”

She’s tall, six feet and some, with straight hair the color of India ink pulled behind her ears by a stretchy hair band. Her face is shaped like a spear tip, her cheeks sharp, her lips thin. The end of her nose aims east into low earth orbit. I put her in her mid-thirties, which would make her about Ruby Jane’s age.

“Maybe you can help us out. My name’s Thomas Kadash. This is Pete.” I stick my hand out.

A crease appears between her plucked eyebrows. “If I can.” She switches the coffee pot to her left hand and shakes. Her fingers are long, her skin cold and dry. She doesn’t offer her name.

“Do you remember a Ruby Jane Whittaker?”

Her thin lips tighten for a second. “Doesn’t ring a bell, no.”

“You sure? It’s been a while. She went to high school here.”

“When did she graduate?”

I don’t know, but Pete does. “1990.” Chock full of secret knowledge.

“That’s when I graduated, but I don’t remember anyone by that name. Why are you looking for her?”

“It’s a family matter.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.” She waits, as if she expects me to elaborate. I smile and thank her.

When she’s gone, Pete catches my eye. “She was lying.”

“You think?”

“She knew who we’re looking before she came over. Missy must have told her.”

“You’re assuming that toothsome dingbat could remember RJ’s name all the way back to the kitchen.”

“She was probably flustered by being interrogated by the Elephant Man.”

“Now you’ve hurt my feelings.”