“Did the sheriff’s department search the property?” Tomasetti asks.
“The entire hundred acres,” Harley replies. “Brought in bloodhounds and organized volunteer search parties. Folks went out on horseback. No one found a trace.”
“We followed the story through the weekly newspaper.” Fannie looks down at the register before her and scribbles something. “Saved all the articles.” She opens a drawer, pulls out a frayed manila folder and sets it on the counter. “She was pretty as a movie star.” Sighing wistfully, she peels open the cover and looks down at the yellowed clippings.
I find myself staring at the grainy photo of a fresh-faced girl with brown hair, huge brown eyes, and an engaging smile. A mole on the left side of her chin only adds to the allure of her face.
I glance over at Tomasetti, but I can’t tell if he’s intrigued or indifferent or somewhere in between, like me.
“I see you’re a policeman.”
I glance over at the counter to see Fannie looking down at the registration form Tomasetti just completed.
“I’m with the state,” he tells her. “BCI out of Richland.” He looks at me. “Kate is the chief of police in Painters Mill.”
Harley nods. “I bought a horse there a few years back.”
“We’ve never had policemen stay here before.” Looking intrigued by the notion, Fannie opens a drawer, pulls out a set of keys, and dangles them at her husband.
“Oh. Right.” Harley grabs the keys, crosses to me and picks up my overnight bag. “If you’re ready I’ll show you to your room.”
I set my mug on the counter. “The cider was wonderful, Fannie. Thank you.”
Harley takes us up a steep and narrow staircase to the second level. We pass three rooms with tall, paneled doors. He stops at the fourth and bends to use the key. “It’s our nicest suite,” he says, opening the door and stepping inside.
The first thing I notice is the fire crackling in the hearth and the faintly spicy scent of potpourri. An intricate Amish quilt of red and blue and green covers a king-size bed. The headboard and furniture are antiques, the mahogany-brown stain contrasting nicely with beige-colored walls.
“It’s a lovely room,” I say.
Beaming, Harley goes directly to the closet, removes a luggage rack, and sets my overnight bag atop it. “We usually charge more for this one, but since we’re not busy this weekend, we figured you should have it.”
“We appreciate that.” I wander to the window and discover a breathtaking view of the river.
Tomasetti sets his bag on the bed and I catch a glimpse of his shoulder holster and pistol beneath his jacket.
“You folks going to want some lunch?” Harley asks as he starts toward the door. “Fannie’s quite the cook.”
“Actually we were going to check out that steak house in town,” Tomasetti tells him.
“Ah, The Oak is an excellent choice.” He lowers his voice. “Just between us, their prime rib is better than my Fannie’s.” He goes to the window and opens the drapes further. “When you leave, just make a right on Rouge Road. The Oak is about two miles down on your left, right next to the bowling alley.”
He starts toward the door. “Let us know if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, and then he’s gone.
Across the room, Tomasetti begins to unpack. “You know we’re not going to get involved in that, right?”
“You mean the missing girl thing? Of course not.” I unzip my own bag and begin putting my clothes into the bureau. “We’re here for some R&R, not a twenty-two-year-old cold case.”
“Exactly.”
* * *
Tomasetti and I opt for a walk along the river before driving into town for a late lunch. Donning our hiking boots and jackets, we find the trailhead behind the house and within minutes we’ve been swallowed by thick woods. The calls of cardinals and the chatter of sparrows follow us as we make our way down a wide dirt path. The smell of fallen leaves, and the muddy scent of the river hang in the still air.
I glance at Tomasetti and I see he’s as caught up in the beauty of our surroundings as I am.
“Nice idea, Tomasetti,” I tell him. “It’s beautiful here.”
He casts me a half smile. “You’re not feeling stressed out by all this serenity, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
Taking my hand, he pulls me around to face him and kisses me. It’s a small thing, the slightest brushing of lips, but my heart begins to pound, and I’m amazed that even after three years of knowing him, he still does that to me.
After a moment, he pulls away and stares down at me. “Every time I look at you, the things that happened three years ago … it gets easier.”
He’s referring to the murders of his wife and two children by a career criminal. It was a horrific tragedy that nearly killed him, too. He’s come a long way since then, but sometimes the rage and the grief still eat at him, like a cancer that’s fooled him into thinking it’s gone into remission only to flare up when he least expects it.
“You’re healing,” I whisper.
“You’ve been a big part of that, Kate.”
“Thank you for saying that.”
He grimaces. “I don’t know if this makes sense, but there are times when I can’t remember their faces or the sound of their voices. That scares me because there was so much good. I mean before … I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want them to disappear.”
“They’ll always be part of you.”
“One of the hardest things to accept when someone you love dies is that life goes on. It’s like a river that never stops.”
“Tomasetti.” I set my hand against his jaw and turn his face toward mine. “They’d want you to be happy. You know that, don’t you?”
He gives me a wry smile. “I think they’d approve of you, Kate.”
The words warm me with unexpected force and for a moment I have to blink away tears. For the first year or so that we were involved, he kept that part of himself—that dark, killing grief—locked away inside a place I could never reach. I know it was wrong, but there were times when I felt as if I could never compete with the kind of love he had for them or heal the gaping wound left on his heart. Sometimes I felt like an interloper.
“I hope so,” I whisper.
“I mean it.” Never taking his eyes from my face, he brushes his lips across mine. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you. I know
I
haven’t been easy.”
“I’ve never been one to walk away from a challenge,” I tell him. “Especially when I want something.”
He smiles at me, then takes my hand and we start down the trail. We’ve walked about a quarter of a mile when I realize the path is now running parallel with the river. Another hundred yards and we’re walking along the riverbank.
Tomasetti’s stride falters. “What’s that?”
I follow his gaze. Next to the trail, something yellow and red snags my attention. “Not sure.”
We approach the object. Nestled within the tall yellow grass between the trail and the river is a small shrine of sorts. I see faded silk carnations and fern leaves tucked into a vase. A good-size stone has been set partially into the ground. The façade is etched with a simple inscription:
In loving memory of Angela Blaine.
“Maybe this is where they found the clothes of that missing girl.” Tomasetti looks out across the churning black water as if expecting to see her standing on the opposite bank.
“I wonder who put it here,” I say, thinking aloud.
“Someone who cared about her.” He tosses me a wry smile. “Or maybe Harley put this here to keep the legend of their ghost alive.”
I elbow him. “Has anyone ever told you you’re cynical?”
“Just about everyone.”
It’s a silly, charged exchange. But it’s fun and we grin at each other like a couple of idiots. “What do you say we get back to the B and B and then grab some dinner?” he says after a moment.
“I think that’s one of the best ideas you’ve had all day.”
* * *
Half an hour later we’re standing on the sidewalk in front of The Oak, which is erected inside a refurbished railroad car and wedged between an Irish pub and the Buckeye Lanes bowling alley.
“One-stop shopping,” Tomasetti mutters as he opens the door for me. “Bowling, food, and booze.”
“And not necessarily in that order.”
The aromas of grilled steak, baked potatoes, and yeast bread greet me when I step inside. A short waitress with red hair and big round glasses converges on us with a smile and takes us to a booth. We sit facing each other, a candle flickering on the table between us.
“I’m Sandy,” she says as she snaps down two menus. “You folks visiting from out of town?”
“Painters Mill,” I tell her. “We’re staying out at the Maple Creek Inn.”
“Oh! You’re them cops.”
Tomasetti gives her a how-the-hell-did-you-know-that look. I smile because, a small-town native myself, I know how quickly news travels.
“We are,” I tell her.
Tomasetti picks up the menu. “Cops on vacation.”
“I hear you’re interested in the Maple Inn ghost.”
“Well, not exactly…”
The waitress continues as if she didn’t hear me. “Angela Blaine’s mama worked here for almost six years. In fact, Patsy was working here with me the day her girl went missing.” She sighs wistfully. “She’s been dead going on two years now. Lifestyle finally caught up with her, I guess. But she was my best friend and I can tell you she suffered a lot when little Angie disappeared. Everyone thought she was a bad mother. Granted, she had her problems.” The waitress lowers her voice. “She liked pills, booze, and men, which is a bad combination if you ask me.”
I sense Tomasetti holding his tongue; he’s no fan of gossip, especially when the subject of said gossip isn’t around to defend herself.
“I hear the prime rib is good,” I say, hoping to ward off an unpleasant exchange—and any more talk about the missing woman.
“Best in town.” Oblivious, the waitress pulls out an order pad. “Angie was a sweet kid. Pretty and smart, such a happy little thing. It’s a damn shame what happened to her. Seems like yesterday that she was running around here, changing out the salt and pepper shakers for her mama.” She clucks her tongue. “Everyone knows that son of a bitch Tucker Miles done it. And he got off scot free. Just ain’t right.”
Tomasetti sets down his menu a little too hard and gives her a direct look. The waitress doesn’t seem to notice.
I set my hand over his. “We’ll have the prime rib,” I say quickly.
“Awesome.” She grins and scribbles on her pad. “You want horseradish with that?” Her grin widens. “Guaranteed to burn your lips off.”
I hear Tomasetti mutter something beneath his breath and I say quickly, “On the side.”
“Coming right up.” Giving us a final grin, she rips the top sheet from her pad and hustles away.
The prime rib lives up to its reputation, and Sandy was right in that the horseradish is hot enough to burn off your lips. It’s a good thing Tomasetti and I like it spicy. When we’re finished, he leaves her a decent tip and we head toward the door. We’re nearly there when I hear, “Hey, you cops!”
Turning, I see our waitress rushing toward us, a wad of what looks like newspapers in her hand. “Glad I caught you before you got outta here,” she says breathlessly.
Tomasetti looks longingly at the door.
I look down at the papers in her hand. “What’s that?”
“These are all the newspaper clippings from when Angela went missing,” she says. “With you being cops and all … I thought you’d want to see them.”
“We’re not interested,” Tomasetti says point-blank.
Undeterred, she focuses her attention on me. “A lot of people around here thought them Barney Fifes down at the sheriff’s department didn’t do a very good job of looking for her. They thought her mama was a piece of trash. Half of them damn cops had been in her bed and most of them paid for what they got. That don’t mean that innocent girl was like her mama and it doesn’t mean she don’t deserve justice. Take my word for it, they wadn’t nothing alike.”
Feeling as if I’m somehow betraying Tomasetti, I take the papers.
“Hold on a sec.” Sandy pulls the pen from behind her ear and scribbles something on her order pad. “I know you ain’t interested, but if you change your mind, this is Tucker Miles’s address. Piece of shit lives in that old trailer home on the edge of town. Drinks all day and don’t work half the time.” She rips off the sheet and shoves it at me. “If you go out there, I wouldn’t turn my back on that ball-scratching son of a bitch. He’ll stick a knife in it or else shoot you.”
I take the sheet and tuck it into my pocket without looking at it. “We’re probably not going to get involved.”
She tightens her mouth. “Well, I’ll feel better knowing I tried.”
She turns to leave, but I stop her. “Who put that marker out there by the river?” I ask.
“I did,” she tells me and walks away.
* * *
“Kate, we’re not going to get into this murder thing.” Tomasetti slams the door of the Tahoe and we sit there a moment looking at each other.
“I know,” I tell him.
“We have two days here. I’d rather spend them in bed with you than tromping around some damn trailer with a psycho inside.”
“I agree completely.”
“Then stop looking at me that way.”
“What way is that?”
“Like justice matters, goddamn it.”
Frowning, he starts the engine. Neither of us speaks as he idles through the parking lot and turns onto the highway. In the opposite direction of the bed-and-breakfast.
“I thought we were going back?”
“Detour.”
“Where to?”
Sighing, he tosses me a yeah-right look. “The Willow Run RV Park is right down the road. Since we’re only a couple of miles away…”
I nod, trying not to smile. “So we’re just going to talk to him, right?”
“And try not to get our asses shot off.”
* * *
It only takes a few minutes for us to reach the mobile home park where Tucker Miles resides. The Willow Run RV Park is nestled in a treed area and partially obscured by a wooden privacy fence that’s badly in need of repair. At first glance everything seems rustic and quaint, the kind of place where your grandparents might park their RV for the summer. The instant Tomasetti turns into the park, all semblance of charming grinds to an abrupt halt.