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still can’t believe Turner Hastings could’ve robbed the bank.” Larson shook his head, looking bewildered in the glow of a
streetlamp. “She’s the town
librarian.
”
John knocked on the door of the little white cottage. “Hard to argue with a surveillance tape.”
They’d split up the work. Torelli was with Sheriff Clemmons, interviewing family and friends of Yoda and SpongeBob, while
John and Larson had come out to talk to Turner. It had taken a couple of hours to get the search warrant, and now it was close
to two in the morning. He’d bet anything that this street was usually quiet as the grave at this time of night. Tonight, however,
at least four houses had lights on, and a couple of people were standing on their front porches watching him. John rapped
on the door again for the benefit of the neighbors. No one answered. Not a surprise. He hadn’t expected her to be home after
what he’d seen on that tape. He tried the handle for luck.
What do you know?
The door was open. He was conscious of a bizarre anticipation at the prospect of penetrating this woman’s home. Maybe it
was lack of sleep. On the other hand, maybe it was the aftershock of the sexual turn-on he’d felt before when he’d watched
her steal from that safe deposit box. That feeling had truly come out of left field, and he was still trying to analyze it.
“She usually lock her house?” he asked Larson as he pulled out two pairs of latex gloves and handed one pair to the deputy.
“Don’t know.”
John nodded. “Okay. You know not to touch anything, right?”
Larson looked insulted. “Yes, sir.”
John snapped on his gloves, pushed open the door, and flicked on the overhead light. The cottage couldn’t be much more than
eight hundred square feet all told. The front door opened directly into a living room with an old green couch, a nice bentwood
rocking chair, a TV that was at least ten years old, and a couple of plants. The couch was one of those two-seaters with stiff
cushions. It didn’t look big enough to be comfortable for a man, at least not a large man. There was a faint, tantalizing
aroma in the air that he couldn’t quite place.
“She got a boyfriend?” John wandered over to the bookshelves on the other side of the TV. His boot heels echoed on the hardwood
floor. Maybe the interest was simply because she was a woman and a fugitive. But that wasn’t right. He’d dealt with plenty
of female criminals before and never been turned on. Shit, he wouldn’t be a law officer if crime made him hard.
“I don’t think so,” Larson said slowly. “No. Somebody’d know in Winosha if she was dating. I don’t think she’s seen anyone
since she broke up with Todd Frazer.”
“When was that?”
“Four years, maybe? He’s married since.”
“Yeah?” John cocked his head to read the titles in the bookshelf. Jane Austen, Edgar Allan Poe, Faulkner, Barbara Kingsolver,
a whole row of Graham Greene. Huh. He took out
Our Man in Havana,
one of his own favorites. The pages were worn at the edges, and the edition was fifteen years old. She’d obviously read it
more than once.
“What’re we looking for?” Larson asked from behind him.
John put the book back. “Dunno.”
The little cottage wasn’t air-conditioned, and even this late at night it was stuffy from the daytime heat. He could feel
the sweat start at the small of his back and trickle down his spine under his shirt and jacket. He glanced around the room.
By the door was a small table with a mirror over it, probably so she could check herself before going out. He’d passed it
when he’d walked in, but now he sauntered back to it. On the table was a blue-and-green-painted vase and a pair of tortoiseshell
glasses. John frowned. They looked like the ones she’d worn on the bank surveillance tape. She must have more than one pair.
He picked them up and peered through them, grunted, then handed the glasses to Larson.
“See anything?”
The deputy looked through the glasses, as well. “No. Should I?”
“They’re clear.”
Larson glanced again. “So?”
“Most people have prescription lenses in their glasses.”
“Oh.”
Why had she worn them? To make her look more intelligent? He’d heard that some women did that when they were working in male-dominated
professions, but she was a librarian, for God’s sake. He was conscious again of that heat stirring in his groin. Maybe it
was the fact that she was so obviously playing a part. But he’d run across con artists before—that didn’t jazz him. What was
it about this woman in particular? He went back to the TV area. On the couch was a
Chicago Tribune
folded into a rectangle around the Saturday crossword puzzle. He bent to examine it without touching. She’d filled in the
whole thing—in ink.
Larson was looking at the books now, his eyebrows knit over the titles.
John flicked on the TV. PBS. No surprises there. He turned it off again and went into the kitchen, turning on lights as he
went. The kitchen was tiny, as expected, but neat. There was a colorful rag rug near the sink. A small white-painted wrought-iron
table and two chairs stood against the wall. And a calendar with a European landscape hung next to the wall phone. John flipped
through the calendar pages. Nothing was written on them. He picked up the cordless phone and pressed the redial button. The
other end rang thirteen times, and then someone answered.
“What?” an old voice growled.
“This is Special Agent MacKinnon of the FBI. Please identify yourself, sir.”
The line clicked off.
John raised his eyebrows and put the receiver back.
He opened the fridge door. It was full of mostly estrogen food: yogurt, lettuce, apples. But the milk was full-fat, which
was interesting, if unhelpful. Not many people drank whole milk anymore.
“Check the call log on the phone for the last numbers she dialed and the last calls she received. You can try seeing if any
of the numbers match ones she has in her speed dial. After that, search the cupboards and freezer,” he ordered Larson. “I’ll
do the bedroom.” For some reason he didn’t want the other man with him while he was rifling through Turner’s panties.
“Okay,” the deputy said behind him.
John walked into the small bedroom and turned on the only light—a bedside lamp. There wasn’t an overhead fixture in here.
The bed was single. That made him smile. It was covered by what looked like a handmade quilt in all different colors. The
odor was faintly stronger here, although he still couldn’t place it.
He opened the closet door and took a small flashlight from his inside jacket pocket to illuminate it. Rows of dark dresses
and skirts, the twins of the thing she’d worn in the tape. On the floor were five pairs of flat, dark shoes that all looked
the same to him but undoubtedly would have subtle differences for a woman. He parted the dresses to look in the back. Way
in the corner was a pair of red high heels.
He pursed his lips in a silent whistle and hunkered down to pick up one of the red shoes. The toe was cut away, the heel was
thin and long, and the back was nothing but a tiny strap. ’Bout the most impractical pair of shoes he’d seen in a long time,
and they were sexy as hell. He turned the shoe over, shining the flashlight on the sole. On the arch was the size, six and
a half. He checked one of the plain Jane flats. Same size, so they were definitely hers.
He tapped the heel thoughtfully against his thigh. The shoes were at odds with the image Turner projected. From the little
he’d heard and observed about the librarian, he couldn’t see her wearing the red shoes in Winosha. What did she do, sashay
around her house in them when she was alone at night? The mental image had him shifting uncomfortably. He’d always been a
sucker for puzzles—for figuring out how people thought and what made them do the things they did—and for the life of him,
he couldn’t figure out what Turner was up to. Maybe it was simply that: she was a challenge to him. John frowned, put the
shoe back next to its mate, and straightened. There was something more. Something he was missing.
Beside the bed was the usual small table. On hers were a utilitarian lamp, a clock, and a photo frame. John picked up the
frame. The snapshot inside was obviously an amateur one—it was slightly out of focus. It showed a man in his sixties, a wide
grin splitting his red face. In one hand he held a fishing line with a nice-sized walleye dangling on the end. The background
was a lake. John slid the photo out of the frame and turned it over. Sometimes the developer printed the date on the photo,
but not on this one. He slipped it back into place.
The bedside table had a single drawer. It contained a tube of hand lotion, some cough drops, a couple of pens, and a slim
paperback book. John took out the book. The glossy cover was illustrated with the folds of a red satin sheet. He flipped a
few pages and his eyebrows shot up. Good God, female porn. He had a sudden image of little Ms. Hastings curled in her narrow
bed, reading this very book. She’d have on a man’s T-shirt, and her hand would be creeping up under the hem to her—
“Find anything?” Larson called from the kitchen.
John nearly dropped the book. As it was, he had to clear his throat. “Nope. You?”
“Not unless you consider ten cans of sardines a clue.” Larson sounded disgusted.
John smirked, dropped the book back in Turner’s drawer, and closed it. “What about the call log?”
“The last call was from Tommy Zucker. Old guy, lives north of town.”
“Good work.”
John ambled across the room to her dresser. On it was a jewelry box with a few inexpensive necklaces and a tarnished silver
charm bracelet. He pulled out a drawer and found cotton panties and plain white bras. Another drawer held socks, all neatly
paired and rolled. He ran his hand under the clothes and around the sides of the drawers. In the sock drawer, his hand struck
a cold piece of metal. John drew it out. It was a man’s steel watch, the band expandable. He turned it over. On the back was
engraved
“Russell Turner, 1955.”
John walked back to the photo on Turner’s bedside table. Sure enough, the guy holding the fish had a on a steel-colored watch.
’Course, it was impossible to tell from the small photo if the watch was the same one, but he’d be willing to bet a month’s
pay that it was ol’ Russ holding that fish.
Larson appeared in the doorway. “Should I do the bathroom?”
“Yeah. Wait a sec, though.” John flipped the photo around to face the other man. “Know him?”
“Yes, sir.” Larson took a couple steps into the room. “That’s Rusty Turner. He was Turner’s uncle.”
“Was?”
“He died about three, no four, years ago.” The deputy scratched the back of his neck. “It was a big scandal. Mr. Hyman caught
him embezzling from the bank and had to fire him.”
“Really.” John’s eyebrows raised. “But Hyman didn’t mind hiring Turner part-time?”
Larson shrugged. “Wasn’t Turner’s fault. Besides, it happened four years ago. Mr. Hyman’s a forgiving man.”
“But is Turner Hastings?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” John put the photo back. “You finished in the kitchen?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get to the bathroom.” The younger man backed out of the room.
John returned to the bureau and pulled out the second row of drawers. He found sweaters and jeans. At least she owned some
casual clothing. The next drawer had pajamas—all in flannel. This woman was in dire need of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. At
the back of the drawer was a little denim drawstring sack. John opened the strings. Needles spilled into his palm from the
sack. Pine needles. And all at once he identified the smell in her house: pine. Not the overwhelming artificial scent found
in household cleaners, but the faintly acid green smell of fresh pine. He held his palm up to inhale, and suddenly he could
picture the blue mountains of Wyoming. Carefully, he slid the pine needles back into the little sack, retied it, and replaced
it in the drawer.
John looked around the room. The only thing left unsearched was a small desk in the corner. He pulled out the wooden straight
chair and sat in front of the desk. It was an antique, made of dark wood on turned legs, with two small drawers on either
side and a wide drawer across the bottom. The middle section folded up and back to reveal a writing surface that could be
pulled out, along with a row of pigeonholes.
John pulled out the bottom drawer. It was filled with loose snapshots, scattered like leaves beneath a dead tree. He stirred
the pile with his index finger. Here was a black-and-white of a woman with a baby and a small boy. There, a young man in the
black robe and mortarboard hat of graduation. Russell Turner was in several, his face always red, always smiling. John stirred
the pile again and found a small photo of Turner herself. She looked maybe sixteen or seventeen, dressed in shorts and a halter
top, sitting on the wide wooden steps of a house. She smiled shyly at him from the photo. Her eyes were tilted at the corners
and green, like a cat’s. John looked at the snapshot for several seconds, rubbing his thumb lightly over Turner’s small face.
He replaced the snapshot, shut the bottom drawer, and pulled out the right-hand drawer. Inside were her checkbook and a box
of blank checks. He turned to the balance in the checkbook. She was the type to meticulously balance her checkbook as she
wrote a check. According to the last line, she had $1,056.73 in her checking account. He found a savings account, as well,
with over five thousand dollars in it.
The pigeonholes held a box of paper clips, some pens and pencils, a calculator, and two unpaid bills, one from Visa and one
from a gas station. On both credit card accounts the previous balance had been paid off. Unless Turner had a lot of outstanding
debt not apparent here, she hadn’t robbed Hyman’s safe deposit box for the money. Interesting.
John pulled out the last desk drawer, the left-hand one, and found a small black datebook. He flipped through it and smiled.
She’d obviously started the year with good intentions. January and February had lists and dates filled in, March and April
had tapered off, and by August the pages were blank. He turned back to the front page, where the owner had the option of filling
in pertinent information. Turner had still been in her good-intentions stage when she’d done that page. All the spaces were
filled in—including the one for her cell phone.