“Oough,” she mutters. “No.”
The idea of a new apartment comes to her, but she loves the place she has now. Like Baby Bear’s chair and Baby Bear’s bed, it’s just right. Put more money into the business? Why? Just last year she fielded a $250,000 offer from Midwest Investigative Services to make them an affiliate. With Pete’s agreement, she had turned them down. The idea of moving out of the Frederick Building, with its balky elevator and lazy super, has slightly more appeal, but the downtown location is good, and the rent is right.
Not that I have to worry about that anymore, she thinks, and gives a wild little laugh.
Holly finally realizes she’s roasting and turns on the engine. She rolls down the windows until the air conditioning gets some traction and looks at her list of the people she wants to interview. That gives her some focus, because the important thing is the case. The money is just pie in the sky, and as for the more troubling implication of David Emerson’s bombshell (she remembers her mother calling in tears after Daniel Hailey supposedly robbed the three of them and ran off to St. Croix or St. Thomas or St. Wherever), she won’t think about that now. Later she won’t be able to help herself, but in the here and now there’s a missing woman to find.
Part of her insists she’s hiding from an ugly truth. The rest of her refuses that idea. She’s not hiding, she’s finding. At least trying to.
“Cherchez la femme,” Holly says, and takes out her phone. She thinks about calling Marvin Brown, who took Bonnie’s bike to the Reynolds Library, then has a better idea. Instead of Brown, she reaches out to George Rafferty, the real estate man. Holly explains that Bonnie Dahl’s mother has hired her to try and find her daughter, then asks about the day he and Mr. Brown found Bonnie’s bike.
“Oh my God, I hope she’s all right,” Rafferty says. “Hasn’t been in touch with her mom or dad?”
“I hope she is, too,” Holly says, dodging his question. “Who saw the bike first, you or Mr. Brown?”
“Me. I always get to my properties early so I can take a fresh look. That shop, used to be Bill’s Automotive and Small Engine Repair, looks like a teardown to me, but the lifts still work and the location—”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure the location is fine.” Holly thinks no such thing; since the turnpike extension was opened in 2010, traffic on Red Bank Avenue has thinned considerably. “Did you read the note taped to the seat?”
“I sure did. ‘I’ve had enough.’ If I were the girl’s parents, something like that would scare me to death. It could mean she was leaving, or it could mean, you know, something worse. Mr. Brown and I discussed what to do with the bike, and after we looked at the shop, he put it in his pickup and took it to the library.”
“Because of the sticker on the package carrier.”
“Right. That was a nice bike. I can’t remember the brand, but it was nice. All different gears and such. It’s a wonder nobody stole it. Kids hang around that part of the park, you know. The part they call the Thickets.”
“Yes, sir, I’m aware.”
“And that ice cream place down the way? Kids there, too. All the time. They play the video games inside and ride their skateboards outside. Have you been a private eye for long?”
It’s a term that always makes Holly want to grind her teeth. She’s a lot more than an eye. “Quite awhile, yes sir. Just to confirm, you saw the bike first.”
“Right, right.”
“And how long before Mr. Brown showed up?”
“Fifteen minutes, maybe a little longer. I make it a point to get to my properties early, so I can check for vandalism, plus any damages that aren’t on the sell sheet. Did I tell you that?”
“Yes, sir, you did.”
“So do you think you’ll find her? Any leads? Are you hot on the trail?”
Holly tells him it’s too early to be sure of anything. Rafferty begins telling her that if she ever has real estate needs herself, this is a prime time to buy and he has a wide selection, both business and residential. Before he can get too far into his spiel, she tells him she has another call coming in and has to take it. Actually she has to make one, to the library at Bell College.
My mother lied. Uncle Henry did, too.
She shuts that down and makes her call.
“Reynolds Library, Edith Brookings speaking.”
“Hello. My name is Holly Gibney. I’d like to speak to Lakeisha Stone, please.”
“I’m sorry, but Lakeisha has gone north to spend the weekend with some friends. Swimming and camping in Upsala Village. I should be so lucky.” Edith Brookings laughs. “Can I help you? Or take a message?”
Holly happens to know Upsala Village, a rural community that’s home to lots of Amish. It’s no more than twenty miles north of her mother’s house, where she’ll be tomorrow. She might be able to talk to Lakeisha up there. Tomorrow afternoon, if inventorying the house doesn’t take too long, Sunday if not. In the meantime, perhaps the Brookings woman will be able to help.
“I’m a private investigator, Ms. Brookings. Penelope Dahl—Penny—has hired me to look for her daughter.”
“Oh, gee!” She sounds less professional now, and even younger. “I hope you find her. We’re worried to death about Bon!”
“Could I come up to the library and talk to you? It won’t take long. Perhaps if you have an afternoon break—”
“Oh, come any time. Come now, if you want. We’re not busy at all. Most of the summer sessions have been canceled because of the, you know, the Corona.”
“That’s great,” Holly says. “Thank you.”
As she pulls out onto Red Bank Avenue, she takes another look at that big rock with its view of the street and the drive-in screen a mile or two away. She wonders if Pete Steinman, aka Stinky Steinman, sometimes visited it. It wouldn’t surprise her.
At the Reynolds Library, Holly gets both Edith Brookings (“Call me Edie”) and Margaret Brenner, another of the assistant librarians Penny mentioned. Edie is womaning the main desk, but says they can go in the reading room, where she’ll be able to see anyone who has a question or wants to check a book out.
“I wouldn’t dare if Matt Conroy was here,” Edie says, “but he’s on vacation.”
“Mad Matt,” Margaret says. She pulls a face and they both giggle into their masks.
“He’s not really mad or anything,” Edie says, “but he’s kind of a pill. If you talk to him when he comes back, please don’t tell him I said that.”
“Puh-leeze,” Margaret says, and they do their giggling thing again. When the cat’s away the mice will play, Holly thinks. But there’s no harm in these mice; they’re just a couple of nice-looking young women who have had something interesting turn up on an otherwise sleepy day at work. Unfortunately, they know very little about Bonnie Rae, except she broke up with her boyfriend, Tom Higgins.
“Anything else, you’d have to ask Keisha,” Margaret says. “They were tight.”
Holly plans to do that. She asks for Lakeisha’s phone number and Edie gives it to her.
“Did Bonnie say anything about leaving town?” Holly asks. “Maybe just in passing, like wouldn’t it be nice?”
The two young women look at each other. Margaret shrugs and shakes her head.
“Not to me she didn’t,” Edie says. “But you have to understand that Bonnie keeps pretty much to herself. She’s nice, but not what you’d call a sharing soul.”