To Thine Own Self Be True Page 18

  I placed my hand on her elbow. “I’m not mad at you.”

  She sniffled again and once more wiped her nose with her hand.

  Lucy sighed.

  “Okay, then,” Tess said. “Can I have some pie?”

  Crisis avoided, we dove into dessert, Tess taking over the conversation, talking mostly about Smoky, her new book, and how she couldn’t wait to show her school friends her new fleece hoodie. Everything was going well until we were cleaning up the dessert plates. Something about the end of a course seemed to bring out Tess’ zingers.

  “Is Nick coming back?” she asked.

  This time I continued on to the counter without, I hoped, a break in my stride. “Maybe,” I said. “We’ll have to see.”

  Lucy sucked in her lower lip, glancing at me. I hoped she wasn’t about to start in with another lecture.

  “I liked him,” Tess said. “He was nice. You should marry him. Then you wouldn’t be all by yourself after we move out.”

  I breathed in and out very carefully, not sure what to say in the face of love advice from a preadolescent.

  “That’s Stella’s decision to make,” Lucy said. “But I’m sure she appreciates your thoughts.” She seared me with an intense stare.

  “Sure,” I said. “Uh, thanks, Tess.”

  “You’re welcome. Thanks-for-dinner-Mom-can-I-be-excused?”

  “You’re welcome, and you may.”

  Tess flounced from her chair into the living room, oblivious to the issues she had flooded into the kitchen.

  “Well,” Lucy said.

  I nodded. “All right.”

  We busied ourselves with clearing the kitchen of any remaining dinner clutter.

  “I think I’ll join Tess,” Lucy said. “‘Raymond’ reruns are on tonight.”

  She left, and I took a deep breath. I hadn’t been aware of shallow breathing, but apparently I’d been doing it. I walked to the sink and rested my hands on it, staring out the window.

  The barn glowed red in the dusk-to-dawn light’s circle of illumination, and the snow sparkled with ice crystals. Leaning slightly forward I could see the heifer barn, in all its new-built glory. Inside the two buildings, my herd slept or quietly stood, chewing their cuds. Queenie remained in the parlor, ever vigilant in her mission to protect the cows. Beyond the barnyard, in the darkness, lay fields—my fields—dormant now under the snow, awaiting spring and yet another round of tilling, planting, and harvest. Land which had belonged to my parents, and my grandparents before them. Land Howie—my mentor, friend, and partner—had died to protect.

  Now everything was mine.

  And mine alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The phone woke me before my alarm was set to go off. I scrabbled around on the nightstand in the dark, finally getting a hand on the receiver.

  “Whuh?” I said.

  “He’s gone!” a woman cried. “He’s gone! What should I do?”

  “Wolf?” I said fuzzily.

  “Rusty! He’s not here!”

  I pushed myself up on my elbow, trying to clear the fog from my brain.

  “Rusty? Where did he go?”

  Becky—for that’s who it was—sighed loudly, obviously frustrated with my lack of understanding. “I’m saying I don’t know!”

  “He left last night?”

  “Yes.” A sob escaped her. “He was on the phone, then came rushing into the room, said he was going out for a bit, that he might be late. He never goes anywhere I have to worry about, so I didn’t. I woke up twenty minutes ago, and he’s not here.”

  Sleep, again. If only we didn’t have to sleep, maybe nothing bad would happen.

  “The girls?” I asked.

  “They’re fine. I checked on them right away. They’re still asleep.”

  I sat up, leaning my back on the headboard, and rubbed my eyes. “Do you know who the phone call was from last night?”

  “No. But Rusty must’ve called them. I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

  “Have you called anyone else this morning?”

  “Just you. Since he’s been in this thing with you, trying to find Wolf…”

  “And are you using the phone he used?”

  “What? Oh. Oh, no. I could’ve hit redial.” She sobbed again.

  “It’s okay, Becky. There are other ways.” I hoped. “Now, where might he be? Any ideas?”

  “I can’t think of anything. He doesn’t go to bars. He’s not answering at the shop. He wouldn’t be hiding from anything.”

  “Okay.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Are you going to call the cops?”

  “The cops? No. He’d hate that.”

  “He’d hate it more if he was in trouble and you didn’t contact them. Tell them about Wolf and Mandy, and how Rusty’s involved. I’ll call the detective here. I’ll also get in touch with some other people, see if they know anything.”

  “Oh, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do if—”

  “He’ll be fine. We’ll find him. Maybe he had a car accident and is waiting for the tow truck. Maybe he had to stay overnight somewhere and didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Sure.”

  Sure. Then why was my heart suddenly pounding? “I’ll be in touch.” I punched the flash button and dialed Shisler’s number. Thank goodness it was now burned onto my brain.

  Shisler had been sleeping, too.

  “Stella Crown here,” I said. “We’ve got a situation.” I explained Becky’s frantic phone call.

  I heard Shisler rustling around, probably sitting up. “This is Rusty Oldham, the tattoo artist you’ve been asking around with?”

  “That’s him.”

  “You think something happened?”

  “His wife thinks so.”

  “You don’t think he got drunk somewhere? Or he’s with another woman?”

  “You wouldn’t even ask if you knew him. He’s not either place. It obviously has to do with that phone call he made last night. Can you find out who it was to?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Becky will give you whatever permission you need. She wants him back. So do I.”

  I heard more rustling and the murmur of voices, then the sounds of movement.

  “I’m going to the other room so my husband can sleep,” Shisler said. “Now, let’s go over this again. He made a phone call last night, then ran out, saying he’d be late.”

  “And never came home.”

  She was silent. “Okay. Has she called the police in North Wales?”

  “I told her to.”

  “I’ll call them, as well, get them in the picture. Although they know about our case. Everybody in the area does. I’ll tell them how Rusty is involved.”

  “The phone call?”

  “We’ll do what we can.”

  “What can I do?”

  She sighed. “Try to think where he could’ve gone. And pray.”

  I hung up and leaned my head against my headboard for a moment before stumbling out of bed and down the stairs, where I could find my phone book. The light on my phone was blinking, saying I had two voice mail messages. I wondered why I hadn’t heard the rings. I picked up the receiver, punched in my code, and listened to Rusty’s voice.

  “Stella, I remembered what I was going to ask you. Give me a call when you get this, and I’ll fill you in. I think I know someone we should talk to, and I don’t know why we didn’t do it before. I’ll go ahead and set up the appointment and let you know tomorrow. Have a good night.” The message had been left at nine-thirty-eight PM.

  The second one was at nine-fifty-two. “My God, Stella. I think I know. I think I know where Wolf is. I need… Oh, shit.” And he hung up.

  “Stella?” Lucy stood in the kitchen doorway, her face wrinkled from sleep and concern. “What’s wrong?”

  I looked at her, my chest tight.

  “Rusty’s missing. He never got home last night.�
��

  Her eyes widened with alarm. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. But he left a couple of voice mails here that I just now picked up.”

  Her forehead crinkled. “Why didn’t we hear the phone?”

  “They were after I went to bed. Nine-thirty-eight and nine-fifty-something. Were you still up?”

  Her face drained of color. “I was on the phone, talking to my mom. I didn’t think about checking voice mail when I was done. I just went to bed.” She put a hand to her mouth.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, not sure what to say.

  “I’m so sorry, Stella.” Lucy’s voice shook.

  I looked at her. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything to Rusty.”

  “But—”

  “But he said he knew where Wolf was. Dammit, why didn’t he tell me?”

  Lucy’s voice was soft. “What are you going to do?”

  I picked up the phone. “Tell Shisler.”

  “Do whatever you need to. I’ll take care of milking and get ready for the milk truck.”

  Shisler’s number was busy, but I kept punching redial until she answered. I didn’t even wait for her to speak. “Rusty left me a message saying he knew where Wolf was.”

  Shisler inhaled sharply. “Where?”

  “He didn’t tell me. He hung up. He sounded wild.”

  “And you have no idea?”

  “Just what we’ve talked about before.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” She hung up.

  I glanced at the wall clock. Four-thirty AM. Not a time one welcomed phone calls, but folks would have to understand. I grabbed the phone book and found the number for Mickey and Jewel Spurgeon. Mickey answered immediately, his voice hushed.

  “Mickey? Stella Crown.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Rusty’s not there, is he?”

  “Rusty? Why would he be?”

  “Because he’s not at home, and Becky doesn’t know where he is.”

  “What?” His voice rose.

  “He didn’t call you last night, did he?”

  “No. No. Oh God. Not Rusty, too.”

  “Any idea where he might be?”

  “What? No. No idea. Oh, God. I gotta tell Jewel.” He hung up, apparently dropping the receiver right back onto its cradle, from the sound it made. I hung up on my end, feeling guilty and sad. I thought about calling Bart or Lenny, but neither of them knew Rusty, and all I would accomplish would be to roust them out of bed.

  I grabbed the phone book again and looked under restaurants. Giovanni’s, of course, was not yet open, and I didn’t know Giovanni’s last name. I left a message on the restaurant’s answering machine, turned on for call-ahead orders, and hoped the big Italian would get the message. I hung up and stared blankly at the phone book.

  “Were there any calls he was supposed to make for you?” Lucy asked. “About Wolf and Mandy?”

  “No. No, I don’t think so. Not that I can remember.” I sat at the kitchen table and rested my face in my hands. He did say he thought of someone we should talk to. Who was it? Not Gentleman John. We talked to him already. Tank? He hadn’t been along when we’d stopped at Mary Detlor’s on Christmas Eve.

  What if Tank had Rusty? What if he really was taking revenge on all the artists who refused to offer him leniency? Was that enough of a reason for kidnapping and murder? I guessed if one was cracked enough.

  “Here.” Lucy set a glass of orange juice in front of me. “Drink this before you pass out or something.”

  “Thanks.” I downed it and looked in the phone book for Mary Detlor. I called her house but got no answer. I checked the listings for a Matthew Snyder. There were a few of them, but no way to know which was Tank. Oh well. I started dialing, angering a few sleepy folks, until my “Tank?” got the right response. He wasn’t any happier than the other people I’d wakened. I hung up without saying anything and crossed my fingers he didn’t have caller ID.

  “Found him?” Lucy asked around a bite of toast.

  “I did. So I’ll go check out his place, in case Rusty’s there.”

  “Think you’d better call Shisler and tell her?”

  Oh. “Guess I should.” I dialed her number again and got a busy signal.

  Grabbing the phone book, I looked up John Greene. There wasn’t a listing under that name, but there was one for Gentleman John’s Tattoos. I dialed the number, but got only an answering machine with an automatic voice telling me to leave a message. I hung up.

  “Want some toast?” Lucy asked.

  I shook my head. My stomach was already rebelling against the orange juice.

  “If you’re going to check out Tank’s place,” Lucy said, “you might want to put on some pants.”

  I looked down, surprised to see I was still in my underwear. Good thing I had a housemate. At least for a few more months.

  I went upstairs, put on the necessary items of clothing, and came back to the phone, where I tried Shisler again, getting through this time.

  “Matthew Snyder?” Shisler said. “I’m already sending someone by his place to check it out. But it’s good to know he’s home and not at Mary Detlor’s. I’ll let them know.”

  “And Gentleman John?”

  “We’ll go by there, too. See if he’ll talk to us.”

  My brain was scrambling for ideas. “What else can I do?”

  “Let me know if you think of anything else.”

  “Keep me informed?” I asked.

  “As much as I can.” She hung up and I stared at the receiver.

  “What’s your plan?” Lucy asked.

  “Not sure. I’ll call Becky again, let her know what’s happening.”

  “You still going to see Bergman later?”

  Something twinged behind my eye. In all the excitement I’d forgotten about my meeting with the lawyer-tattoo artist.

  “I’ll go as long as I can’t do anything else about Rusty.” I considered the meeting. “Who knows? Maybe Bergman has information about Rusty and that’s why he wants to meet me.”

  “What time did Rusty leave last night? Before or after Bergman’s phone call?”

  “Long after. Bergman called close to seven-thirty, and Rusty’s voice mails were a couple hours later.” Probably not connected.

  I called Becky and told her what had happened so far. “Did you call the cops in North Wales?” I asked her.

  “Yes. They’re coming over.”

  “Good. The detective from here is calling them, too. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  She sobbed. “Just find my husband. Find my Rusty.”

  I told her I’d do my best. What I didn’t say was that I was already batting zero.

  One body modification artist dead. Two missing.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lucy had the cows clipped into their stalls by the time I made it to the barn. She glanced up when I entered the parlor. “I’ll take care of this if you want to keep looking for Rusty.”

  I knelt to rub Queenie’s ears and nose. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “How about that tattoo guy you went to see with Rusty and Nick? What was his name? Gentleman John?”

  I grimaced. “Yeah. Shisler’s sending people to check him out. I’m not sure what they can do at any of these places, though. Tank’s house, Gentleman John’s. It’s not like they can go barging in without a warrant.”

  “Look for tracks in the snow? Ask neighbors?”

  “I guess.” I stood up, breathing deeply in and out. “Should I get the feed?”

  Working with the cows is usually a calming process, leaving my mind free to wander or organize thoughts and details. That morning autopilot wasn’t working. I’d missed my target on three feed bowls, tripped over a pipe, and slipped in manure, dumping our bucket of soapy water, before Lucy had finally had enough.

  “Inside,” she said. “Or to your office. You’re
not helping here.”

  She was right. I was a mess. I went inside, took a shower, and forced down some Rice Krispies. It still wasn’t even seven. Way too early to head toward the meeting with Bergman. But I knew someone who was awake.

  A cop answered the door at Rusty’s house. “Help you?”

  “I’m a friend of Rusty’s. Can I see Becky? Mrs. Oldham?”

  He glanced behind him, then gestured me into the foyer. “I’ll make sure it’s okay.”

  “Stella?” Dreama stood in the hall, her face white beneath her shocking orange hair.

  “Know her?” the cop asked Dreama, pointing his thumb at me.

  Dreama nodded, and I took that as an invitation to enter.

  “You holding up all right?” I asked when I reached her.

  She didn’t respond.

  “Where’s your mom? Hey. Dreama. Your mom?”

  She blinked and tilted her chin toward the living room. The off-white room. “In there. With the cops. Rose is with her.”

  Her eyes rolled and I grabbed her elbow, squeezing. “Hang in there, Dreama. Come on, let’s get you sitting down.”

  I led her into the kitchen and perched her on a stool, her elbows on the counter. I stood beside her until I was sure she wasn’t going to fall off, then stepped to the refrigerator. I found a can of Pepsi and opened it, setting it in front of her. “Drink.”

  She looked at it blankly, but obeyed, taking a sip.

  “You happen to know who your dad called last night?” I asked.

  She stared at the microwave over the stove, her hand tight around the Pepsi can, but shook her head slightly.

  “Gentleman John?” I said. “A guy named Tank? Dennis Bergman?”

  “Bergman?” She jerked her head back and looked at me. “Why would Dad be talking to him?”

  “About Wolf and Mandy? I don’t know. I’m brainstorming.”

  She licked her lips. “Bergman wouldn’t have anything to do with this. With Dad. He’s a good guy.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. Farley’s the bad one.”

  And now I wasn’t sure about that.

  “What would you say if I told you Farley almost pulled out of the tattoo bill?”

  Dreama turned toward me. “What? I haven’t read anything about that.”