"She was escorted to Douglas County to have her wound stitched up, and then she'll be evaluated."
I knew he couldn't tell me how long any of it would take. "Thanks."
He hung up.
A breeze came up; I felt a chill on the back of my neck and along my arms. Wishing I'd thrown on a jacket, I was again struck with another inconsistency in Skye's tape. She'd said how dry and hot it had been outside the trailer. Even inside. I remembered thinking how it sounded like she was somewhere in the desert. Maybe she had become disoriented and was talking about an Oak Street in California; that's where she'd said she was from. And the sun shining so brightly had rung a false note. The closer I'd gotten to Elkhorn, the wetter the ground had appeared. It had obviously rained earlier that day.
I tossed the candy bar wrapper into a trash can, licked my fingers clean and brushed a few stray slivers from the front of my khakis. Before getting back into my car, I scanned the directory chained to the phone for the name Blevins. There was no listing.
As I shifted into third gear, I slid the tape into the player to listen to Skye Cahill's story another time.
* * *
When I was first released from the state psychiatric facility, I lived in a hotel. Being surrounded by generic paintings, lamps and furniture, I could logically assess my situation while not being influenced by anything familiar. My sister had put my things in storage, and I didn't even know if I wanted to remain in Omaha after the tabloids got through with me.
But the public does indeed have a short memory, and I managed to lay low, finally settling into a small apartment on Q Street. I found comfort in once again having my own things in my own place.
I made a cup of tea and was wondering what to do next, or even if I should do something, when the phone rang.
"Miss Stanton? This is Dr. Paige at Douglas County. Miss Cahill asked me to call to let you know we'll be keeping her overnight for observation."
"How's she's doing, Doctor?"
"Well, calmer than her previous visits. I think she's finally starting to resolve some issues."
Now I was surprised. "You've seen her before?"
"Oh yes, I was working with her in group until we found Ann."
"Who's she?" I held my breath.
"Her second personality. Why, I assumed you knew. Aren't you Roberta Stanton? The one from TV?"
"Yes. But I don't understand what that has to do with this."
"Miss Stanton, I was under the impression you were somehow related to Miss Cahill." I could hear him shuffling papers. "Yes, here it is. She has you listed as her next of kin, a cousin… on your father's side."
It took me a minute to mentally climb up and down my family tree. "I think there's been a mistake here, Dr. Paige. And even if it were true, why haven't you notified me before this if you thought I was a relative?"
"Miss Cahill has sessions twice a week with me. She is well over the age of twenty-one, and there have never been any problems. Besides, if I remember correctly, you were 'out of town' for about a year?"
He was diplomatic, I gave Dr. Paige credit for that. "Sorry, Doctor, but Ms. Cahill and I just met this morning. We are not related in any way. And the only reason we met at all is because she came to hire me.…" Suddenly I decided I was saying too much about a woman I hardly knew to a man I wasn't sure actually was who he claimed to be.
"Hired you to do what?" he calmly asked.
"That's confidential. Sorry."
"Well, Skye asked me to give you a message and I've delivered it. I guess that's it, then. Have a good evening."
"You, too." I hung up before he could. That always made me feel just a little superior, and after getting the runaround all day, I needed the boost.
Walking back into the living room, I propped myself on the couch. Holding the hot cup of tea between my hands, I studied the mug painted with tiny brown teddy bears, then stared at the blank screen of the television, and I started planning what I would do tomorrow.
* * *
Maybe it's true what they say. That if you think about a problem before going to bed, you'll wake up with the solution. Because while I brushed my teeth, I suddenly knew. I had to go to Ardmore, Oklahoma.
Skye Cahill had mentioned being born in Ardmore. No mention of where she was raised. I could have gone on-line, I guess. But no matter how proficient I became on my new computer, it was still a piece of plastic. Like the phone, I considered it just an impersonal tool. Something told me that if I looked up Skye's past, actually smelled the Oklahoma air, I'd learn something.
After checking my trusty Rand McNally, I figured it was about 570 miles from my front door to Ardmore. With the two hundred-dollar bills my client had paid me still folded in my wallet, I stuffed clean underwear and a few T-shirts into a small suitcase and felt excited at the idea of a road trip.
My Toyota was starting to show its age. A tire on the passenger's side was missing its hubcap. The faux leather interior was split in spots where the sun had baked it during last summer's excruciating heat. But for now I couldn't even think about replacing the blue Tercel. Besides, it ran like it had just glided off the showroom floor. And the best part— it was paid for.
Before heading out of town, I stopped by the hospital. It took awhile, but I managed to snag a nurse.
"It's very important Ms. Cahill gets this," I said for the second time and then handed her the letter I'd written that morning.
"She'll get it, don't worry." She looked at me with such pity. "We're all professionals here; we operate very efficiently."
It took every bit of self-control I could muster not to respond sarcastically. From clerks who couldn't make change to doctors who prescribed the wrong medication even after I told them repeatedly about my allergy to penicillin. The older I got, the more it became clear to me that very few "professionals" did their job the way I thought it should be done.
"Okay then, I guess I'll be going." I started to walk away, knowing in my gut that something would happen to my letter. "Remember…" I started.
"I know, I know. I'll give this to Miss Cahill." The nurse shoved it deep into her pocket and waved me good-bye.
My first impulse had been to distance myself from Skye, at least until I knew a little more about her situation. That went for Dr. Paige, too. In the letter I assured her I was working on her behalf and would return in a few days. Attached was my card with all sorts of numbers where I could be reached. I then pulled out of the hospital parking lot and got on the highway with a clear conscience.
* * *
The trip was an easy, uneventful one. Turning on the radio, I caught up on world events, switching stations as soon as one faded out and another came in clearer. Country music and sermons seemed easiest to find the farther south I got. It was technically winter, mid January. But other than the trees looking scratchy and bare, that day was a clone for one in early spring or fall. I had gotten by for months with a light fleece jacket, and now had to pull my sunglasses out of the glove compartment as the glare from other cars reflected into my eyes.
After hearing the tinny twang of one too many soulful guitars, I slipped Skye's cassette into the tape deck and listened to it for the fifth time in two days.
It took about eight hours to get to Ardmore, and I was pooped when I crashed onto my bed in the Okay Motel off Highway 35.
* * *
I slept for ten hours straight. Waking up early the next morning, I walked next door for breakfast and got into an easy conversation with the waitress. Between snapping her gum and scratching her head, Fern finally remembered the Blevins family.
"Lived here my whole life. But can't say as how I remember an Edward. There was Doreen, her twin boys Joe and Beau. Over to the other side of town was Fat Gator and his mama, Beatrice.
"Fat Gator?" I asked, trying not to be rude.
"Called him that on account of his summer jobs down at Disney… on the Jungle Ride. An' him also bein' a bit… oversized."
I stirred the grits around on my plate, wondering who ever thought to serve the white mush like it was real food. "What was Gator's legal name?" I asked.
"How 'bout that. I don't know. Hey, Dot!" she shouted to the hostess with the sixties hairdo. "You know what Fat Gator's Christian name might be?"
"Edward," she shouted back.
I couldn't believe my luck. What were the odds of coming up with a hit first time out? I quickly thanked the cosmos and pushed for a little more. "I don't suppose you'd know where he lives." When she cocked a suspicious eyebrow at me, I added, "I'm a friend of his daughter's."
"That man did have a passel of kids. But you're not gonna find ole Gator home, I'm afraid."
"Oh?" I looked up from my breakfast.
"He got hisself killed 'bout ten years back. Yeah, it was right about the time I started workin' here."
I had dreaded a day schlepping myself around from newspaper office to library to county records, and here all had been eliminated while I talked to Fern. She knew everybody's business and wasn't afraid to tell what she knew. Praise the Lord and pass the information!
* * *
By the time the lunch crowd started showing up, I had a map sketched on a paper napkin giving me detailed directions to the murder scene. Fern couldn't remember ever meeting Skye. But as she told me many times, Fat Gator was a "genuine lady's man." When I smirked, she assured me, "Gator could get real ornery, 'specially when he was drinkin'. But when that man was sober, he was a real sweetheart. He made a lady feel special, know what I mean?"
Blevins and Fern had gone all through grammar school together until Gator dropped out in the seventh grade. She wasn't sure what had become of his trailer or even if it was still hooked up on the lot outside town close to Enville, near Lake Murray.
Fern had also been kind enough to give me the name of the chief of police, his age, marital status and year of graduation. She warned me he was a snot at eleven years of age and was still one. That I shouldn't expect much more out of him than a grunt. I checked in with him before driving the ten miles south toward the lake.
* * *
When I had heard the word "lake," my brain did a free association: speedboats, skiers, cottages, wooded areas, concession stands, motels. But those were summer images and this was winter, a weekday. The skiers were in school or at offices. The only thing lit up in front of motels were their vacancy signs.
After finding the dirt road, I drove for a few minutes hoping my tires wouldn't blow out. My body jiggled up and down on the seat while I held tightly to the steering wheel, forcing my car to stay in the deep ruts. Just when I was getting ready to find a clearing to turn around in, I saw a large silver mailbox leaning to one side from too many side swipes. The name, painted sloppily in red paint, read: BLEVINS. I made a hard left.
There was the trailer exactly the way Skye had described it. The only discrepancy was the rusted lawn chair sitting in front of the single step. I didn't see any vehicles parked in the area, and as I got out of my car I reexamined the copy of the newspaper story Chief Jackson had given me. Contrary to what Fern had said, the chief had been gracious and very helpful. I could tell the unsolved murder had haunted him for years.
As I put my hand on the dirty knob, the door was yanked out of my hand.
"What the hell do you think you're doin'?" a frightened woman wearing a floral printed house dress asked. "This here's private property. You cain't go prancin' up to someone's private home and walk in pretty as you please."
"I'm sorry." I fumbled in my purse. Flashing the suspended license, I said, "I'm a private investigator working for Miss Skye Cahill."
"Let me see that." The woman grabbed my ID and brought it closer to her face. "This here's no good, missy." After looking me up and down, she finally said, "But if you say Skye sent you, I guess I can hear ya out. Come on in here." She stood back and motioned impatiently for me to enter.
The inside of the trailer wasn't anything like Skye had described. But then, if Blevins had been murdered ten years ago, there had to be some changes made. Chief Jackson had gone on and on about what a bloody scene the trailer had been after the murder. My eyes scanned the floor for traces of scarlet. But, in sharp contrast to the disheveled woman wearing grimy tennis shoes, the interior was immaculate.
"Can I offer you a cup of coffee?" she asked.
"That would be nice."
While she filled two cups she asked my name.
"Roberta Stanton, I'm from Omaha."
"So how would you hook up with Skye, her livin' out in Los Angeles?"
I took the cup she handed me and seated myself on the leather sofa.
"Well, that's kind of a long story, Mrs.…?"
"Sorry, I'm Beatrice."
