What the River Knows (8 page)

“I can understand that.” The juvenile officers told him horror stories more often than he wanted to hear them. “Did you find the letters from Margaret?”

She picked up a stack of papers beside the pitcher. “Right here, Mr. Aylward.” She handed them to him. “They thinned out a bit after the first few months.” She looked down at her hands. “Most of them do.”

He glanced at her, for the first time considering how it would feel to get attached to a group of students only to lose contact with them every four years. Teaching must be harder than he thought in a lot of ways. “I can imagine.” He skimmed the first letter, a chatty note about classes and dorms.

“I also included my responses to her,” Ms. Frank offered. “I compose the letters on my computer, so I don’t tell them the same things over and over.” She looked out the window again. “Each year there are a half-dozen or so that stay in touch for a semester or two.”

He ruffled quickly through the letters until they started to take on a darker tone. “This is the one where she started in with the bad crowd?”

Slipping on a pair of reading glasses from the table, she glanced at the letter. “Yes, and then she stopped in to see me when she came home for spring break that year.” She fingered the letter gently. “She was quite disillusioned by the time the semester ended, even talked about going to cosmetology school instead of psychology.”

He skimmed through this letter and the next. He looked up at Ms. Frank. “She doesn’t mention any names.”

Ms. Frank shook her head. “And she didn’t when she talked to me, either.” She reached for a notepad on the kitchen counter behind her. “But because I know people there, I put two and two together, and came up with some names.”

“Always comes back to math, doesn’t it?” He grinned as she handed him a sheet from the notepad.

“Always, Mr. Aylward.” She pointed out the names with a pencil. “Dr. Athens was the head of the psychology department when she was there, but he retired five or six years ago, and moved to Montana.” She went on down the list. “Mr. Denton graduated two years after Delia dropped out—I have no idea where he went after that, but I’m sure the school would.” She paused, tapping the last name with her pencil. “But I think it was the graduate teaching assistant who got her in deepest.” She leaned back. “His name was Robert Vanderwort. I couldn’t track him down.”

“May I have the list?” She had certainly given him more than he expected.

She nodded. “The letters, too. I made copies for myself.”

He glanced down at the list. “Do you know what happened to the kids she hung out with?”

“The girls in the group home all either moved back with their families or moved on in the system. She never mentioned staying in touch with them, though I guess it’s possible.”

“What about Kyle?”

“Kyle was her best friend from elementary school on, but his family moved away the summer before his senior year.” She shook her head. “That poor boy had an uphill battle ahead of him.”

“How so?”

“He was gay, or at least appeared to be, and that didn’t sit well with most of the folks around here. I think that’s why his family moved.”

“Did she stay in touch with him?”

“I’m sure she did, but she never mentioned him much.”

“Do you know where he moved to?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. He didn’t take much math, mostly music and art classes.”

“Thank you, Ms. Frank.” He stood to leave. “You have given me a lot to go on. I’m very grateful.”

“Just find her killer, Mr. Aylward.” She rose to see him to the door. “That will be repayment enough for me.”

Chapter 14

The car he’d heard roll into Ms. Frank’s driveway belonged to a man who was applying some chemical to the shrubbery surrounding the house. Scott assumed it was a handyman or lawn service, but Ms. Frank walked to the man and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Welcome back, honey.”

Shocked at this further evidence of humanity from someone he had assumed was celibate, Scott checked his watch while walking to the car from Ms. Frank’s front door. Eleven-thirty. It would be at least three hours before he could talk to Dean. His stomach rumbled; the only thing he grabbed on the way out of town was the department car and some bad coffee. He could catch some lunch and read through all the letters more carefully, make some notes, maybe find someone else who knew what turns Delia’s life had taken since Homedale.

He backed the car out of Ms. Frank’s driveway, reviewing his lunch options. The grain elevator/gas station/convenience store near the highway would be fast, probably tasteless, and crowded with more people than he cared to have looking over his shoulder while he read. It was too hot to grab food and eat in the park, which only consisted of a single city block, a shelter house, and a tennis court.

There was Buddy’s at the north end of the two-block main street, a burger and beer joint, with the emphasis on the beer, a cavernous dark room with plywood floors and walls, where covering the bathroom walls with corrugated tin constituted a major upgrade. The burgers were good, but better than the company.

The third option hadn’t existed when he grew up there. Debbie’s Diner sported blue checked curtains and a neatly painted doorway across the street from the mercantile. He decided to risk the unknown.

The ceiling fans washed cool air over him the instant he stepped inside. His nagging hunger moved up a notch to raging as he smelled fried chicken, with a hint of apple pie wafting around the room. The only waitress in the place, a dark blonde who could have been anywhere from 28 to 48, nodded at him. “Sit anywhere you like.” She smiled as she followed him to a table in the corner away from the door, but next to a window. “You beat the crowd.”

He opened the menu as she placed a big glass of ice water on the table for him. “Do you have a really big lunch crowd?”

“Comes in waves.” She shrugged. “Farmers whose wives work come in early for coffee and breakfast, then the retirees show up and stay till about ten.” She waited while he studied the menu. “Lunch bunch starts trickling in about now and may run till two. Then the after-school crowd hits, and suppertime starts about five-thirty. We close at eight.”

“You work every shift?” He wavered between the meatloaf and the fried chicken. Though the chicken fried steak sounded good, too.

“Some days.” She looked up when another customer entered the restaurant. “My sisters and I own and run this place. Be right back.”

She approached the customer, no one he recognized, but then the town and its inhabitants had changed as much as he had since he left. “Hey, Al.” She poured another glass of water. “What’ll ya have today?”

“What’s the special, Debbie?” He headed toward a table near Scott, but a row away from the windows.

“Same as it is every Friday, Al. Meatloaf.”

“Better give me the chicken fry, then. No one else can make meatloaf like Sarah could.”

She touched his shoulder as she set his water on the table. “I know, Al.” She turned back toward Scott. “Have you decided what you want yet?”

“What do you recommend?” Scott tried to ignore Al watching him, even though he reflexively noted a description: six foot, two-thirty, blue, gray and balding, fifty-five to sixty.

“Special’s always good.”

“Never had a bad meal in here,” Al offered. “Just go for whatever you’re hungriest for.”

Scott hadn’t asked for the recommendation, but he should have expected it in a town as small as Homedale. He closed his menu. “I’ll try the fried chicken, then.”

Debbie picked up his menu. “Coming right up. What would you like to drink?”

“How about iced tea?”

“In just a jiffy.” When she returned with his tea, she set a cup of coffee on Al’s table, without him ordering it.

“You passin’ through?” Al offered, sipping his coffee.

“Not really.” Scott laid the letters on the table, hoping the view of him working would discourage Al. “Had some business here.”

“Good, we need some business.”

Scott was reading the letters, when Al interrupted again. “Gonna be a record-breaking hot day today.”

“Looks like.” Scott bent over the papers once more.

“Hey, Mac.” Al spoke, this time addressing a man wearing blue jeans and a seed company baseball cap. Scott looked up, recognizing Ed McNeal, President and General Manager of the local co-op, though grayer and heavier than Scott remembered.

“Hey, Al.” He pulled out the chair opposite Al and sat. “You gettin’ that old press operating again?”

“I don’t know.” Debbie placed a large cola in front of Ed. “It may be too inefficient to deal with. I might keep it as a museum piece and invest in a nice computer printer.”

Mac shrugged. “Whatever. It’s just good to have another business in town.” He gulped his soda, no straw for him, and swiveled his head around the room. His gaze landed on Scott. “Aren’t you one of the Aylward boys?”

Scott was deep into the second letter. “What?”

Mac turned his chair toward Scott. “Aren’t you one of the Aylward boys?” He tilted his head. “I mean, you bear a lot of resemblance to Dan Aylward.”

Scott swallowed hard. “Dan was my dad.”

Mac stood and thrust out his hand. “Fine man he was.” Scott stood and let Mac envelop his hand in a huge paw. “You must be the baby.”

Great,
thirty-two years old, and they still think I’m a baby
. “Yeah,” he nodded. “I’m Scott.”

“How’s your mom gettin’ along now?”

“She’s living with my oldest brother Dennis in Ohio.” He cleared his throat. “She’s doing fine now that her hip has healed.”

“Good.” Mac stepped back to the table with Al as Debbie placed the meatloaf special in front of him. “That house and ground was just too much for her to handle alone.” He resumed his seat. “Al, this boy was once one of our fastest running backs here. His oldest brother was a basketball letterman and his middle brother was a track star.” He cut off a bite of the meatloaf. “You know, Scott, Al here is from New York City.”

Scott pulled out the department laptop and plugged in the air card, hoping the conversation would end. He wanted to get busy researching the names Ms. Frank had given him.

Mac kept talking. “Yep, Al married a gal from here, and finally brought her home.”

“Home to die.” Al’s comment was so quiet that probably only Scott heard him. Scott looked toward him, but Al had his head bent over his plate, moving the green beans around with his fork.

“What’re you doing with your life now, Scott?”

“I’m a detective with City PD.”

“You workin’ today?”

“Doing some follow-up to an investigation.”

“Nothing happens here, so we don’t need a detective. Sheriff’s office is our PD. Makes us one safe community. In fact, it’s part of our sales pitch on TV: so safe we don’t need a police department. Brings us a few new folks.” Mac went rolling on, giving a complete rundown of the changes since Scott’s mother sold her house and moved away. All Mac required of Scott was the occasional nod or “Uh-huh.”

Debbie brought his meal, and Scott concentrated on eating the excellent fried chicken and even better home-made rolls. When Debbie came back to refill his tea, he requested another roll, though he knew he’d have to run an extra half-mile to mitigate this meal. It tasted surprisingly similar to the meals he’d eaten as a boy, even though he didn’t want to admit that he had missed such food.

Finally, Mac stood and Debbie brought him another cola in a to-go cup. He left a ten on the table. “See ya later, Debbie, Al. Good to see you again, Scott.”

He left the restaurant, shaking hands and greeting people as he went. Scott shook his head. “He should run for office.”

“Oh, he did.” Debbie took his plate. “He’s mayor now.” She picked up Al’s plate, barely touched. “Sorry, Al.”

He patted her hand. “It’s okay, Debbie.” He sighed and looked out the window. “It gets easier all the time, but I’m not over it yet, either.”

“You never will be, Al, but it’ll get to be something you can live with.”

Debbie walked away, and Al sat with his coffee, looking at something far beyond the window he stared through. Scott tried to concentrate on his Google searches, but something about Al got to him. He looked up, and his movement intercepted Al’s gaze.

“New York City, eh?”

Al focused on him and smiled. “Not originally, started in Connecticut and worked my way to the
Times
.”

“
New York Times
, I assume, not the
Homedale Times
.”

Al nodded. “Reporter, then editing, then management.”

“And somewhere along the way you met a girl from Kansas.”

Al picked up his coffee cup and moved to Scott’s table. “She came to New York to dance and act, but she needed a part-time job.” He leaned back, deep in his memories. “Those were the days before computers, so she wound up in our typing pool. I eventually assigned everyone else’s stories to other gals, so she typed only mine.” He sighed. “Then I made it legal and permanent.” He ran his fingers around the rim of the cup. “We had two boys, both in college now, and life was good.”

“Then she got sick?” Scott spoke softly.

Al nodded. “We came back most summers and holidays for visits, and I talked about retiring here and starting my own paper, but the timing was never right. Then when they discovered the cancer, time seemed too short.” Debbie brought a pot to refill Al’s cup, and Scott turned over the cup that sat at his plate. She filled his, too. “It was too short. She fought for two years, but lost her battle a year ago. Year ago next Thursday.”

“That’s hard.”

“Yeah.” Al looked up to meet his gaze. “You said you were with PD, following up on an investigation?”

“Murder of Delia Enfield.” Scott’s instinctive wariness around the press rose up.

“How is that connected to Homedale?” Al’s practiced nose for news made him ask.

“She grew up here.”

“I didn’t know that. It didn’t say it in any of the newspaper articles.” Al shook his head. “Reporters not doing their jobs thoroughly enough.”

“Well, we didn’t put out any info the family hadn’t already given them. She wasn’t born here.”

“So you are tracking the hometown girl’s roots within your own?”