Damsels in Distress (30 page)

“This is dreadful,” the receptionist said, shredding a tissue. “Maybe I can try to reach Mrs. Hartly at the conference. She left the telephone number of the hotel.”

I glanced at my watch. “Yes, please try to call her.”

I tapped my foot as I waited. Any conference worthy of drawing in DHS personnel from across the country would surely be having lectures and meetings by this hour—or at least a breakfast buffet. Mrs. Hartly might be a tad slipshod about her work, having taken two weeks to report Rosie’s absence, but she was there with her supervisor. I watched the traffic, halfway expecting police cars to pull up, when the receptionist replaced the receiver.

“Mrs. Hartly’s not in her room. I left a message, but she may not get it until late in the afternoon,” the receptionist said, shrugging apologetically. “You say this hearing is tomorrow morning?”

“At nine o’clock. We only found out about it late Friday.” I picked up my briefcase and gave the woman a faint smile. “I know you have to abide by departmental regulations. It’s such a shame when other innocent parties are punished by all those faceless bureaucrats in their offices in the state capítol. Nothing we can do, though.”

“You wouldn’t take the file with you, would you?”

“Heavens, no. In fact, I could make photocopies of the most recent pages and be gone in less than five minutes. No one would know that I was even here.”

The receptionist opened a drawer and placed a thick manila folder on her desk. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to visit the little girls’ room. I’ll just be gone a few minutes.” As she left the room, she pushed a button on the photocopy machine, eliciting a blinking green light and a low hum.

I dropped the briefcase on my foot in my haste to open the folder. I took out the top three pages and a small photo paper- clipped to the edge of the cover. Without bothering to glance at the material, I made photocopies, replaced everything, and left the

DHS office. My instinct was to drive to the Book Depot, but I realized that I would have to face Caron and Inez. Sans shopping bag. I continued to Luanne’s shop, Secondhand Rose, and parked in back.

I found her at the counter, reading the newspaper and wolfing down cookies. “How do you get away with a diet like that?” I asked. “It’s not as if you go to a gym every day or run marathons.”

She licked her finger. “Cookies are on my personal food pyramid, along with caffeine, alcohol, and nachos. You look like the secretary of a greasy-haired ambulance chaser. I didn’t realize you were changing careers.”

“Put on some fresh coffee and get comfortable,” I said as I reached for a cookie. “Even if I fast-forward through the dull bits, it’s a long story.”

We’d finished the box of cookies by the time I’d related the tawdry sham at the DHS office. “I haven’t looked at the papers yet,” I added as I took them out of the briefcase.

“Maybe you shouldn’t. If Peter ever finds out how you got them, he won’t applaud your deviousness.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” I said, “but I’m going to, anyway.”

Chapter Fourteen

I
studied Rosie’s photo, then handed it to Luanne. “An unremarkable woman,” I said, “but pleasant. She must have been on her meds when it was taken.”

Luanne nodded. “I could have been in line with her at the grocery store a dozen times.”

I moved on to the first page. “Rosamunde Emerson Neely, born in some obscure town in the county, would have been forty- four next month, parents deceased, only sibling is a brother in Vermont. Married when she was twenty. One child, a daughter who was born prematurely and died. Divorced two years later, whereabouts of former husband unknown, possibly Alaska. History of mental illness starting when she was in elementary school.” I looked up. “Sad story.”

“And probably more typical than we think,” Luanne said. “Where was she working?”

I scanned the page. “Bud’s Automotive Emporium, out on the bypass. Her caseworker found the job and persuaded the owner, presumably Bud, to give Rosie a chance. I suppose I’ll try to talk to him.”

“Bear in mind you don’t know a carburetor from a carbuncle.”

“I doubt it will come up,” I said. “If Caron should happen to call, don’t admit I was here. I told her and Inez that I was going to the mall.”

“You? Going to the mall? Why didn’t you tell them you have a skydiving lesson? That’s more plausible.”

“Humph,” I said, then went out to my car. I sat there for a few minutes, considering Rosie’s life history. She had not, according to the file, been in California, and if she’d had any connection to ARSE, she hadn’t admitted it to her caseworker. Perhaps she had mentioned it to her coworkers, I thought as I drove toward the edge of Farberville. That, and her sudden influx of cash to pay the deposit and rent for the little blue house. It was hard to imagine her stumbling onto a vast blackmarket industry involving auto parts. Then again, carburetors and carbuncles. What did I know?

Bud’s Automotive Emporium was housed in a massive metal building with a flat roof and numerous flashing neon signs. Cars and trucks of all species were parked in the gravel lot. A portable sign announced a hot deal on radiais. A handwritten sign in one window proclaimed free popcorn on Fridays. Men, mostly in creased caps, were coming and going, carrying boxes or cumbersome grease- encrusted objects (carburetors, most likely).

I am always leery of men in caps, especially those with cigarettes dangling from their lower lips. They are indeed the salt of the earth, these men who construct houses and farm and raise livestock and repair things for those of us who are inept. Most of them are gentlemen, as chivalrous as any knight. Others of them spit, snarl, and brawl. I can rarely predict which are which.

Therefore, it was with some trepidation that I entered the store. Aisles stretched in both directions. Everybody seemed intent on his personal quest, be it a spark plug or a battery. It was clearly a male mileu. I wandered around, avoiding minor collisions, until I spotted a man in a khaki jumpsuit with an embroidered patch above his pocket. A tightly cinched belt did little to constrain his belly, which hung over his belt like an impending avalanche.

When he finished talking to a man with a drooping mustache, I approached him. “Hi,” I said, “I’m looking for Bud.”

The man grinned affably at me. “Old Bud, Bud Junior, or Buddy, who’s Bud junior’s boy? Buddy works in the stockroom.

Well, he’s supposed to work, but he ain’t got the balls to do more than push a broom. Most of the time he hides out on the dock, reading some fool comic book.”

“Whoever’s in charge of hiring,” I said.

His grin dissolved. “I hate to break it to you, little lady, but we ain’t looking for no one right now.” He took his time studying me, letting his eyes wander down my chest to my admittedly attractive legs. “Damn shame, although I don’t reckon this sort of place is what you’re looking for. Lot of our customers want advice about transmissions or whatever they’re working on.”

“I’m interested in a previous employee.”

“You from the government?”

I shook my head firmly. “No, I’m not. I’m trying to help the family of a women who worked here a couple of months ago.”

He did not look as though he believed me. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his neck while he decided whether or not to throw me out onto the parking lot gravel on my derriere. “I reckon you can have a word with Bud Junior. He’s in the office. Should be, that is. If you’ll pardon me, I got a customer waiting.”

“Thank you,” I said to his back, then went down an aisle and eventually found the office in a far corner. I had no idea what to expect as I opened the door. File cabinets dominated the walls, all piled high with ledgers and catalogs. Framed certificates citing the employees of the month hung on the wall. The majority of them were slightly askew. The man seated behind the desk was wearing a pastel blue suit and a striped green tie. His hair was slicked down, his chin far from prominent, his eyes alarmed. “Yes?” he gurgled as if no one had ever dared to breach his sanctuary.

“Are you Bud Junior?” I asked.

“Who are you?”

I felt as if I’d shown up with an assault rifle. I quickly sat down and crossed my ankles. “I’m trying to help the family of Rosie Neely. I understand you gave her a job earlier in the summer?”

“Is there a problem?”

Good heavens, I thought, maybe there was some sort of blackmarket scene in progress, and I was suspected of being from the FBI or the 1RS. “Not that I know of,” I said. “I was hoping I could speak to some of her coworkers.”

“About what?” he squeaked. “We didn’t fire her, you know. She just stopped coming to work. Has she filed some kind of claim or grievance against us? Surely not sexual harassment? Some of the fellows call women ‘hon’ and ‘sweetpea,’ but they don’t mean anything by it. She and I worked late a few nights, but I swear I never laid a hand on her. It’s her word against mine, you know, and I’m a family man and a deacon at my church. Are you a lawyer?”

I wished I’d changed into jeans and smeared oil on my face. “I am not a lawyer, Bud Junior. Rosie was killed in an accident. All I’d like to do is talk to any friends she might have made while she worked here.”

“Oh,” he exhaled, rocking back in his chair. “Why, I’m real sorry to hear about her passing away. She was a good worker, and polite. I was thinking after a year or two I might move her up to the accounts receivable department. All the time she was here, she never was late or took a sick day.” He pressed his fingertips together as if preparing to pass judgment from the bench. “I suppose you might talk to Toffy Sue in the parts department. The two of them used to eat lunch together in the break room.”

“Thank you very much.” I stood up and headed for the office door.

“Any time you need auto parts, give me a call. I can give you a ten percent discount,” he called before I could close the door.

I found the counter of the parts department and waited while various men transacted business for unknown items that were designated solely by long numbers. Heads were scratched. Cigarettes were stabbed out in an overflowing ashtray. Receipts were studied. Thick spiral notebooks were consulted. I received a few looks, but apparently auto parts were more intriguing. I was about to disrupt the flow of activity to inquire about Toffy Sue when a short, rotund woman with fiercely bleached hair came out from the narrow metal aisles and slapped down a small box.

“This should do the trick,” she said to an emaciated young man with a pony tail.

They examined it more closely, then he nodded and left with it. “Help you?” the woman said to me.

“I hope so. Are you Toffy Sue?”

“I reckon I am. And yourself?”

“A friend of Rosie Neely’s family,” I said in a low voice. “Is there somewhere we can talk for a few minutes?”

“Rudy, I’m taking five,” she said, then came around the counter and motioned me to follow her.^Once we were in a room with battered couches, vending machines, and a coffeepot with a thick layer of crust in the bottom, she said, “What’s this about her family? Is some relative taking an interest in her after all these years? That brother up north somewhere?”

I told her what had happened and why the police believed they had identified the body. “It’s not official yet, but there isn’t really much doubt,” I concluded gently.

Toffy Sue lowered her head for a long moment, then blotted her eyes with a tissue and met my gaze. “Yeah, she used to swear her jaw ached whenever it was about to rain. That’s how she knew when to bring an umbrella when she came to work. Nice woman, never said a bad word about anybody. We used to have lunch in here when we had the chance. Poor, sweet Rosie. God bless her.”

“I know she quit working here rather suddenly. Do you know why?”

“She told me that she’d been offered a better job. She was gonna get room and board, along with a decent salary, all for looking after some disabled woman. Not bathing or feeding her, just doing the housework and shopping. It sounded too good to be true, and I told her as much. Said she ought to check out this woman before she gave up her job here. But Rosie wouldn’t listen.”

That explained the finances—someone other than Rosie had paid the deposit and rent. “Did she say anything about this disabled woman? Did she mention how they met, or where?”

“Not much,” said Toffy Sue, her brow crinkling. “Rosie was at a café, and this woman just sort of struck up a conversation. The woman insisted on treating her to lunch, and got around to offering the job. Rosie was so excited when she told me that I thought she was gonna pee in her pants. This boardinghouse where she lived was noisy and dirty, and she was afraid of a couple of the men who lived there. Rosie wasn’t a looker, if you know what I mean, but she was pretty in her own way. I kept urging her to try some lipstick and mascara, but she wouldn’t.”

“Did Rosie say anything else about the woman? What she looked like? Where she was from? How she could afford the house and Rosie’s salary?”

“Nothing that I recollect.” Toffy Sue got to her feet. “I’d better get back. Rudy gets real pissy if I take off more than a few minutes. Of course, it doesn’t matter when he takes the parts catalog and spends half an hour in the can. Men!”

“You mentioned that she was afraid of some men at the boardinghouse. Did she have a reason?”

Toffy Sue sighed. “No, she was too timid for her own good. One of them glanced at her in the hallway, and the other held open the front door one morning when she was going to work. That’s all it was.”

“You’ve been a great help, Toffy Sue,” I said. “One last question, please. Did Rosie ever mention being interested in the Renaissance?”

“Say what?”

“There’s a group that likes to dress up in medieval costumes, long gowns and armor, things like that. There was a Renaissance Fair this last weekend.”

“I saw something on the news about that. No, Rosie liked to read romance novels and watch game shows. That’s one of the reasons she was so pleased about her new job. Damn shame, just when things were looking up for her.”

I returned to my car and considered what I’d learned. Rosie was not using the name Angie for some nefarious purpose. She had most likely not called Lanya, since she could scarcely carry on an intelligent conversation about ARSE. She was not the woman Edward had met in California four years earlier. Rosie was pretty much summed up by what was in her file at DHS.