Time of Departure (14 page)

I sat down quickly.

 

18

Anna Fenwick's tidy bungalow sat in comfortable seclusion on treed acreage abutting Ocala National Forest, just outside Silver Springs. Marc and I had arrived at exactly four o'clock in the afternoon, as previously arranged by telephone, and found our elderly hostess waiting for us on the veranda.

We were sitting on an ornate couch in the lady's living room. As instructed, I was wearing a brightly colored summer dress, with my hair in a ponytail. Today was the first time I had ever seen Marc in a suit. As clichéd as the phrase seemed when it first ran through my mind, there was no arguing that he looked very distinguished … like someone you'd meet at an embassy dinner. At this moment, however, the overall effect was somewhat degraded by the spectacle of the poor man sipping herbal tea from a china cup with a handle two sizes too small for his fingers.

Anna Fenwick occupied a straight-backed chair across from us. It was difficult to estimate her age. My best guess was late sixties. Her pale skin was free of age spots, which probably meant that she'd been careful about exposure to the sun throughout her life. Her most arresting features were her large blue eyes and her snowy white, perfectly executed 1930s-style finger wave hairdo. Her elegant attire appeared years out of date, yet not a whit out of place among the antique furnishings of her home.

A large crucifix hung on the wall behind her.

She was telling us about the property at Bronson.

“It was fifty-five acres. We lived near one corner of the property in an old farmhouse. The house was already old when my daddy bought it. Torn down now. Daddy tried growing tobacco, but he couldn't make it pay. My late husband and I sold off most of the property not long after Daddy passed away. We kept those last few acres ‘for a rainy day,' as my husband used to say. Then those highways people came to see me last year.” She paused. “I told all this to those two policemen who came here.”

“Did the detectives ask you about family members or friends you had when you were growing up?” Marc asked.

“No. They just said a body had been found on that property. They wanted to know the last time I'd been there.” Her face became animated. “The older man—the one with the reddish face…”

“Mr. Lipinski?” I asked.

“Yes. That one. He made it sound like he thought
I
had buried the body, for goodness' sake! He apologized for his tone later on, and so he should have!”

Marc nodded sympathetically. “Those officers told Miss Talbot that you hadn't visited that property for several years.”

Nice touch,
I thought.
Mrs. Fenwick is an old-fashioned lady, so he refers to me by “Miss.”

“The last time was probably ten or twelve years ago,” she replied. “My husband showed one of those real estate persons around the property. At the time, we were considering selling it. It was a hot day, so I waited in the car.” She looked at me. “The younger policeman asked if they'd noticed anything during their walk, which I thought was a perfectly silly question. I expect my husband would have said something if they'd found a dead body!”

I smiled and tried to redirect the discussion. “Mrs. Fenwick, do you, or did you, have any brothers or sisters?”

Her clear eyes studied me. “No, dear. I was an only child.”

“In that case,” Marc said, “Miss Talbot and I are wondering if you remember the names of any playmates you had while you lived there … any girlfriends, or perhaps boyfriends you might have had when you were in your teens.”

She thought for a moment. “There was my best friend, Rosemary. We were inseparable from the age of seven. We stayed friends right up until she passed away last year—had the cancer, poor thing. And there were my cousins. They lived close by and were always visiting.” She stopped. Her eyes had been on me while she was answering Marc. Now she seemed to lose her train of thought. She regarded me silently for a few seconds and then said, “You seem very young for this type of work, dear.”

“I'm thirty-one.”

She was thoughtful. “You must ready yourself.”

“Ready myself?”

“Yes. For the sorrows to come.”

An uneasy silence descended on us. I was about to ask the woman what she was talking about, but Marc quickly interjected.

“It would really help us if you could remember full names. And, also, the names of any of your neighbors.”

Mrs. Fenwick hesitated. “Rosemary's last name was Roberts. Her married name was Henning. Then there was…” She trailed off, perplexed. “I have some photographs. They will help me remember.”

*   *   *

Marc and I sat on either side of Anna Fenwick at her dining room table while she slowly turned the tattered pages in an old photograph album. Marc was taking notes as Anna identified the people in the photographs. Our agreement was that she would name as many people as she could and we would go back over the names with her later and find out what, if anything, she could tell us about where they lived then, and where they were now.

Assuming any of them were still alive, that is.

Many of the photos were in black-and-white, and a lot of them had been taken in and around the same two-story vernacular farmhouse. Apart from a scattering of scenery shots, mainly showing planted fields, most of the pictures were posed shots of men, women, and children of all ages, all of them white. A number had apparently been taken on some special occasion, or perhaps after church, because the subjects were dressed in what appeared to be their Sunday best.

Mrs. Fenwick tapped a photograph. “That's Charlie Baxter. His father used to beat him something terrible.… That's Benny White … and there's Cousin Harlan … and Cousin Doris … she was a bit strange … and, oh my goodness, that's Theresa McCall! I forgot all about her! She and her brother were playing with matches out in the barn and nearly burned it down. My daddy was pretty angry about that.”

“What was the brother's name?” Marc asked, writing quickly.

“Uh … Alex, I think. He was older. He didn't come around much.”

“Alex McCall?”

“Yes. I'm pretty sure it was Alex. Or … Alec.”

She turned another page and pointed. “That's Rosemary. Always skinning her knees, that one! She was a real tomboy.”

I had a sudden thought. “Mrs. Fenwick, would you mind if we photographed the pages of your album? Having the pictures might help us later.”

“Of course not, dear! Did you bring a camera?”

“No. But my cell phone has a built-in camera.”

“Oh, I think I read about those phones! What will they think of next?”

I got up to retrieve my phone from my purse. I returned to the table and stood next to Mrs. Fenwick, ready to start again on the first page she had shown us. I happened to glance down just as she leaned forward. Her high-necked blouse gaped slightly. I saw she was wearing a necklace that had been hidden from our view.

It wasn't exactly a necklace.

It was a rosary.

I knew it was a rosary because I could see a small silver cross and what looked like a Miraculous Medal. But that wasn't what froze my attention.

The rosary beads were crab's eye peas.

I lowered myself back onto my chair. “Forgive me, Mrs. Fenwick, but I just noticed your necklace.”

Her hand went to her throat. “Not a necklace, dear. It's a rosary. When I look in the mirror, I'm reminded to pray.”

I shifted my eyes to Marc, signaling, and then back to Mrs. Fenwick.

“I'd like to ask you about the beads,” I said. “They're quite unusual.”

She reached into the back of her blouse and undid the clasp. As she handed me the necklace, I saw Marc's eyes widen.

“They're called rosary peas, dear. They grow wild. And that is an original Miraculous Medal. It was struck in 1832!”

I laid out the necklace on the tablecloth. “Did you string this yourself?”

“Of course, dear. My mother taught me. It isn't difficult.”

“Can you tell us where you found these peas?” Marc asked.

Anna Fenwick looked confused. “Where I found them?”

“Yes. Do you remember?”

“I didn't find them. Harlan gave them to me. He grew them.”

Marc's body seemed to stiffen. He tapped the photo album. “Do you mean your cousin, in the photos?”

“Yes.” She started turning pages.

“Do you remember when he gave these beads to you?”

“Oh, goodness! It must be twenty, twenty-five years.” She pointed at a color photograph. “That's Harlan.”

Marc and I both leaned close to look.

He was about thirty years of age. His long body was whipsaw thin and dressed in stovepipe slacks, a white dress shirt, and a narrow dark tie. He was leaning against a gray 1970s-era Plymouth. His teeth gleamed in a “say cheese” smile, but it was his eyes that caught my attention.

They stared blankly at the camera, conveying not the slightest glimmer of humanity.

I felt the skin prickle on the back of my neck.

 

19

“Harlan Richard Tribe, born June tenth, 1943. Never married. At one time, he owned a restaurant up on North Main. It was called The Lobster Pot.”

We were sitting in our boardroom. Sam was holding the photograph of Tribe that we'd borrowed from Anna Fenwick, but he wasn't looking at it. He was staring straight at me while Marc continued the briefing.

“It's a Thai place now. Before that, he ran some waterfront dive over on Cedar Key.”

“Cedar Key is in the red zone, Sam,” I said, pointing at the jeopardy surface map on the table in front of him.

Sam didn't bother to look. His eyes stayed locked on mine. “Where is this man now?” he asked.

“He has a place on Northwest Thirty-second,” Marc replied. “Small house on half an acre. As far as we can tell, he lives alone.”

“Where did he live in the late '70s?”

Marc slid a packet of documents over to him. “I got those from the Levy County Records Clerk. Back in '71, Tribe bought twenty acres near the mouth of the Suwannee—also in the red zone. He lived there until the mid-'80s.” Marc paused and then added, “The interesting thing is … he still owns the property.”

We watched while Sam skimmed through the documents. When he was finished, he raised his head. He ignored Marc and fixed his gaze back on me. “Any record?”

I shook my head. “Annie ran his name. He's clean. The Cedar Key Police have him as a victim, back in '78. Apparently, he took a bullet during a robbery.”

Sam cocked his head. “Seventy-eight?”

“Yeah. It was after all the abductions.”

“Snead confirmed that the Jordan girl's bone marrow tested positive for this crab's eye toxin?”

“Yes … and that Jane Doe's was negative.”

“Meaning no toxin? Not a trace?”

“That's right. She was killed with a gun. At first we thought she was the reporter who went missing.”

“But no dental match.”

“Right.”

Sam pushed his chair back. “You might have something … or not. We'd need a lot more than this to get a warrant.” He stood up. “Mr. Hastings … thank you. I'm sure you can find your way out. Claire … my office, please.” He wheeled and left the room without a backward glance.

Marc looked at me. “That went well.”

I didn't respond. My mind was already leaping ahead to the reaming I was about to get.

Marc started gathering up our papers. “Call me later and tell me how bad it was.”

*   *   *

I was driving home. I had a pounding headache, probably because I'd been grinding my teeth for the last two hours. I sure as hell was in no mood to speak to anyone.

Especially Marc Hastings.

But I could feel him watching me. Reproaching me.

Damn him!

My cell phone rang. I didn't need to check the call display. I knew it was him. “What do you want?”

“Temper, temper,” he said. As usual, his voice was infuriatingly calm.

“I'm risking my job! Have you considered that?”

“Yes, I have. But this is bigger than that.”

I blew up. “Are you fucking kidding? I have a great job and I'm good at it! All your manipulations just about destroyed everything I've worked so hard to—!”

The blast of a car horn cut my rant short. I had been so busy yelling, I hadn't realized my car was angling into the next lane. I dropped the phone and swerved back. The other driver gave me the finger as he blew past. I signaled, pulled to the shoulder, and stopped.

I took a few deep breaths and picked up the phone. “You still there?”

“A problem with the neighbors?”

“I suppose you're going to tell me the make and model of that car!”

“I'm not that good. But I will tell you this: A time is coming when you will understand everything. On that day, you will remember my words.”

“What words?”

“Ignorance
was
bliss.”

He waited to see if I had a reply.

I didn't.

“Now, please tell me what Sam Grayson said.”

“He made me promise that we would back off. He ordered me to give everything to CID and step back.”

“Claire…”

“My job's on the line!”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet? Where have I heard that before?”

“Claire! Listen to me! You're not done yet!”

My jaw tightened, and I could feel my headache getting worse.

I disconnected and dropped the phone on the passenger seat.

 

20

The night was exquisitely quiet.

My television and cell phone were off. The street outside was silent, and the couple next door had finally taken their argument off their patio and back inside.

I was sitting in semidarkness, sipping Chianti from a tumbler and thinking about how to go about explaining to CID what Marc Hastings and I had discovered. Specifically, I was thinking about how I was going to convince Ted Lipinski that the lead to Harlan Tribe was worth following. I was still groping toward a strategy when the enveloping silence was shattered by a ringing telephone.