Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) (24 page)

“Not much. I got a call from the authorities last evening, pretty routine questions about her attendance record and so forth. And then I phoned Mrs. Newcomb this morning to see if there was anything we could do to help. She was rather reluctant to discuss the matter. Frankly, I don’t blame her.”

“She isn’t worried?”
 

“The girl is a bit of a troublemaker, I’m afraid. This is not the first time she’s run away.” He paused for a moment, meeting my eyes. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but it’s my opinion that Cheryl is a disturbed child. She’s dishonest and entirely unreliable. There are a number of schools, usually residential facilities, that are equipped to handle children like that; we are not. I suggested to Mrs. Newcomb this morning that she begin exploring the alternatives.”

I’d heard of such places. Some have decent track records, but others are little more than privately operated reformatories. Their charges might learn something about obedience, but I couldn’t believe they learned much about love or trust. Then again, I doubted that Cheryl was learning much about them at home, either.

There was a knock at the door, and Peterson stood. “I know you’re trying to help Jannine, but sometimes you’ve got to face facts. All this poking around and asking questions — it’s not going to change anything.”

“You don’t think Jannine killed him, do you?”

“I don’t know what to think, to tell you the truth. Jannine’s a dear soul. She and Eddie are . . . were, almost like family. But we can never
really
 
know another person. If the police think she’s guilty, then I have to believe she probably is. That’s their job, you know, checking the evidence, solving crimes.”

He’d forgotten the part about burden of proof and a fair trial, but I didn’t feel it was the right time for a civics lesson. I left Jack Peterson to his next parent conference, another grim-looking couple with child in tow, and went off to find Nancy. She was busy typing up a grammar test, but took time out to dig through the yearbook files for a picture of Cheryl.

“I’m glad
somebody’s
doing something,” she said. “Jack Peterson just about bit my head off when he found out I’d bypassed him and called the county directly. He’s not too happy with you either, I might add.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“It was you who started all this.”

“Because I discovered that she was missing?”

Nancy nodded.

Terrific. A young girl in trouble, possibly injured or dead, and Peterson sees nothing but bureaucratic inconvenience. How do people like that end up working with kids anyway?

<><><>

I found the white house across from the school without any difficulty. It was a narrow two-story Victorian with yellow climbing roses by the porch and a low picket fence along the front. A swing set and slide took up one side of the yard, a sandbox, the other. It could have been the backdrop for a Norman Rockwell painting.

And Eva’s mother, who was short and round and rosy- cheeked, looked as though she belonged in the painting as well. She greeted me with a dishtowel in her hands and a host of young children hanging on to the hem of her skirt.

She laughed, and spoke before I had a chance. “No, they’re not all mine.” She rumpled the head of a blond toddler, then added, “Though I’m as fond of them as if they were. Sunshine Day Care. They provide the sunshine, I provide the care. What can I do for you?”

I introduced myself. “I’d like to talk to you about Cheryl Newcomb.”

“Oh dear, she isn’t in trouble, is she?”

“She’s missing.” I explained my interest in the case, relying heavily on my association with Nancy Walker. “The police seem to think she’s run away.”

The oven buzzer sounded from the other room. “Come in, why don’t you? I’m in the middle of fixing lunch for this bunch of rascals, but we can talk while I finish up.”

She sent the children off to wash up, then led me to the kitchen. “Poor Cheryl,” she said, taking a large pot from the stove. “What happened?”

“No one seems to know. She hasn’t been at school all week, or at home. Her mother thought she was staying with a friend.”

“Staying with a friend,” Mrs. Holland humphed. “I don’t suppose that mother of hers ever thought to check
which
friend. You wonder what a woman like that uses for a brain.” She set spoons and napkins on the table, then poured five glasses of milk. “And the string of boyfriends the woman’s had! I’m surprised she can keep their names straight.”

“What about Cheryl’s father? Is he around?”

“She never mentioned him. At least not to me. Eva might know, though.”

“Are your daughter and Cheryl still friends?”

“They don’t see each other very often now that they’re at different schools. Much to my sorrow. Cheryl was always sweet to Eva; she never made fun of her the way some kids did.” Mrs. Holland sighed. “Eva doesn’t have any real friends at the new school, but at least no one teases her either.”

“I get the impression Cheryl wasn’t a model child. Weren’t you worried about her influence on Eva?”

 
“Pshaw. There’s trouble and there’s
trouble.
Too many people can’t tell the difference, if you ask me. Cheryl isn’t going to be on anybody’s list of most likely to succeed, but deep down she’s as sincere and decent a person as I’ve known.”

The youngsters returned, hopping and giggling and jiggling every which way. Mrs. Holland scooped spaghetti onto plastic plates, then set a bowl of crackers in the middle of the table.

“Poor, poor child,” she said again. “And to think she sat right here in my kitchen only last Saturday.”

“Cheryl was here?”

“She stopped by to see Eva. Didn’t stay but about ten minutes. She’d been over at the school. Seeing as how it was Saturday, she was pretty sure Eva would be home, so she came to say hello.”

“What time was this?”

“A little after noon, if I recall. I asked her to stay for lunch, but she was in a hurry to get home. I can’t imagine why. Her mother wouldn’t have known whether she was there or not.”

“Did she happen to say why she’d been at school?”

Mrs. Holland shook her head.

“How did she seem? Worried, upset?”

“Not really. Mostly she and Eva talked about school and people they knew. I was in and out of the room, so I didn’t hear everything. She wasn’t all bubbly the way she was last time we saw her, though.”

“When was that?”

“Let’s see, it was sometime after the first of the year. I’m sure that’s when she told me she had a boyfriend. When I asked her about him on Saturday though, she looked at me like I was crazy. ‘What boy would ever want me?’ is what she said. Just about broke my heart.”

“Do you remember anything else about Saturday?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Will you ask Eva, see if she does?” I wrote my name and number on a slip of paper. “Anything at all.”

Mrs. Holland promised she’d speak to her daughter that afternoon. “I only wish I could do more,” she said. “I have a warm spot in my heart for that girl. She deserves better than she’s got.”

Chapter 18

Loretta was happy to see me, and even happier to see the box of dog treats I’d picked up at the store on my way home. She pranced at my feet, then plopped herself down near the cupboard and thumped her short tail hard against the linoleum floor.

She was so obviously pregnant I couldn’t believe I’d missed it. I felt like one of those women in the supermarket tabloids, the ones who give birth and then utter in amazement, “And I thought it was just the stomach flu.” For a person trained in logic and keen observation, it was not an encouraging comparison.

While Loretta chewed on her snack, I put away the groceries, then called the vet and made an appointment for the next day. This was as much for my benefit as hers. Nothing short of a fully-equipped canine delivery room would give me real peace of mind. Lacking that, I wanted advice.

Then I made myself a cup of tea and pulled out the photograph of Cheryl. What struck me immediately was how young she seemed. Fresh and unsophisticated in a way many girls her age are not. She was small-boned, with a pale complexion, thin, almost invisible brows, and straight brown hair that hung limply to her shoulders. Her eyes were an unusual shade, almost teal, and her smile so tentative you wanted to smile back in encouragement.

While I sipped my tea, I studied the photo, trying to unlock its secrets. I squinted through half-closed lids, as though that would enable me to read her soul. Then I put the picture into an envelope, hastily scribbled a note to Beverly Silverstein and walked down to the mailbox at the end of the road.

Was I building a castle of sand, finding design in mere coincidence? Possibly. Probably, in fact. After all, it wasn’t the first time the girl had run away. And there were dozens of plausible reasons why she and Eddie might have each, independently, ended up on campus that day.

But then why had Eddie jotted Cheryl’s phone number on his desk calendar that Saturday?

The phone was ringing when I returned from my trip to the mailbox. I scurried to catch it in time, but I might as well have saved my energy. There was a brief moment’s silence, followed by a click. Telemarketing, I thought with disgust. Phones dialing other phones, automatically.

As if to prove my point, the phone rang again. This time, however, it was a honest to goodness call, the woman from Goodwill Industries calling to arrange a pickup date. I’d told her a week ago I would have the boxes ready by Friday. But a week ago the only thing on my mind had been the injustice of Sabrina’s hasty departure.

“I’m sorry,” I told her, “I’ve been so busy with . . . with other things that I haven’t finished going through all the rooms yet.”

“You take all the time you need, darling. You only have one father. Saying good-bye is always harder than we expect.”

I thought of the upstairs bedroom I’d been avoiding, the desk I hadn’t gone back to since finding the cache of letters my father had been saving. The situation with Jannine had kept me busy, but in all honesty, I had to admit it wasn’t the only thing holding me up.

“It shouldn’t be much longer,” I told the woman. “I’ll get on it this afternoon.”

But instead of running off to sort through my parents’ old bedroom, the one my father had abandoned the day my mother died, I pulled out the box Jannine had given me and went through the tavern papers a second time.

The numbers added up, just as they had the night before. Maybe an accountant would see something I’d missed. It was worth a try. There was a chance I could find somebody in town who would be willing to take a look that afternoon. I started to put the pages in order. The two year-end statements, followed by half a dozen sheets of random monthly figures.

It was when I was putting the monthly accounts in chronological order that I noticed Baker Janitorial and Maintenance. It was listed under the column of expenditures for September. $95. That’s why the name had seemed familiar to me when Vicky mentioned it; I’d undoubtedly seen it when I’d gone over the accounts before.

As I was clipping the whole pile together, I happened to glance at the statement for this past April. Baker was no longer listed. Instead, there was an entry for Foothill Cleaning, at a monthly charge of $600.

I believe the old adage “you get what you pay for,” but that was quite a jump.

Out of curiosity I unclipped the sheaf of papers and once again pulled out September. Expenses for April, the most recent month I had, were nearly eight hundred dollars higher than for the previous September.