County Line Read online

I can still smell the rotten pear. I feel disoriented, and the cloying scent of lingering rot doesn’t help. Susan rests her elbows on her knees.

  “Were you aware James Whitacre was being blackmailed?”

  My head swims. I stand, cringing, and move to the mantle. The glass of the mirror is darker than the room it reflects. I feel like I’m gazing into a reflection of my own mind. I don’t like that this has suddenly become an interrogation.

  “He had a lot of debt, and not much else. In the last month he sold what little equity he held, but his bank accounts are almost empty. Eldridge and Deffeyes believe he was paying someone off.”

  Ask her about that night on Preble County Line Road. “How much?”

  “Not enough to keep him out of the morgue.”

  “Christ.” But it makes sense, given how twitchy he was.

  “Inspector Eldridge would like to talk to Ruby Jane about the financial arrangement she had with James.”

  I turn, my teeth bared. “That was completely above board. There’s records—”

  “Skin.” She raises a hand. “You have to see this from their point of view.”

  “I don’t have to see anything. She’s a victim here too.”

  “Is she?”

  “Susan. Jesus.”

  “Please, think like a cop for a moment.”

  Part of me knows Susan is right. There are too many incongruities. Jimmie’s drained bank accounts are just one more troubling detail. I think of Mae Whittaker’s financials in the folder Nash shared with me. Add the Denlinger factor, Biddy or Bella or both, and I can see why Susan is asking these questions. Doesn’t mean I like it. I’m feeling bitter and unreasonable, anxious for Ruby Jane and desperate to know where I’ll stand once I find her again. I’m not interested in thinking like a cop.

  “What do you expect from me, Susan?”

  She hears the distance in my voice. She lets out a breath. “At some point, she’s going to need help. She’ll call you, if she calls anyone.”

  That’s what Marcy said, but I’m starting to wonder. If Ruby Jane wanted my help, she could have had it in Ohio.

  “Please call me when she does.”

  I wait until I hear Susan’s car pull away, then I go to my computer.

  Google gives me over twelve thousand results for Bella Denlinger. There’s a Salon Bella in Pennsylvania which must have shown up only because a competing hair salon called Denlinger’s appears on the same business listing site. Lots of Denlinger links, lots of Bella links, none with both. I restrict the search to +Bella +Denlinger. The number of results drops to a dozen or so, most of them iffy internet operations offering background checks—for one easy payment of your life savings and credit limit if you’re idiot enough to give them your name and credit card number. Something called Isabella Farm catches my eye. The link summary mentions Orcas Island, one of the San Juans—a mere two-hundred-and-fifty miles and a ferry ride north.

  I click the link, then sprain my finger on the mute button when twee music starts playing. A picture of a long-necked creature dominates the home page under a florid logo. The background is a muddy-looking watercolor which might be trees, might be moss on rocks. A paragraph of purple prose describes the wonder and beauty of alpaca wool. A row of thumbnail images runs along the bottom of the window, one of which appears to be a woman standing next to one of the beasts. I click the thumbnail. The caption reads, “Bella with Ringo.” She’s a matronly woman, her face lined with capillaries, her hair grey. Her smile is what makes me copy the address and paste it into Google Maps.

  I’d recognize Ruby Jane’s dimples anywhere.

  - 46 -

  Negative Space

  It’s getting late. For now, my shoulder doesn’t trouble me, but I make a mental note to put some Advil in my pocket. I print the Washington State Ferry schedule from Anacortes, plus the maps I’ll need. Then I shower and shave, dress in layers, and skip the sling—hoping I don’t regret it later. I pack a proper bag. Clean clothes for a few days, my phone and charger. A cab arrives to take me to Cartopia. The night is unseasonably warm, the air clear and fresh. Not the breathless soup I left behind in Ohio. I ride with the window down. Overhead, I can see stars.

  I hear Marcy before I see her. “I know it’s true because I read it on the internet, ass breath!” When our eyes meet she waves like she’s flagging a ship at sea. I push through a crowd which smells of alcohol sweat and a half dozen food cart cuisines.

  “Skin, you’re back from—Wait. Did you go somewhere?”

  “Still looking for Ruby Jane.”

  “Tell her to hurry up. I haven’t had a day off in forever. There are bills I can’t pay, and that Joanne keeps calling. She leaves a message at each of the shops every day.”

  “She’ll be home soon.” I don’t know why I say that. I have no idea how much longer Ruby Jane will be gone, or if she’ll ever come back. Marcy squeezes to the side to make room on the bench next to her. I pluck a Belgian fry from the cup in front of her.

  “Marcy, listen. I have a favor to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Any chance I could borrow your car for a couple of days?”

  “Have you seen my car?”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong with your ride?”

  “Stolen, dumped in a creek.”

  “That sucks.” She noshes a fry, then jostles a woman next to her. “Frieda, didn’t your car get stolen?”

  “My brother set it on fire playing with flares at Josh’s party last weekend.”

  “That was such a great party.” Marcy turns back to me. “Shit happens to cars, man.”

  I draw a breath. “I could rent a car, but it’s the middle of the night.”

  She suddenly jumps up. Fries scatter across the table top. “Fellsner, you son of a bitch! Fuck you!” She laughs and flips a pair of birds toward someone in the crowd.

  “Marcy.”

  “What?” She sits back down, her face flushed and excited. “Right. The car.” Her eyes get thoughtful. “This will help you find Ruby Jane?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When you want it?”

  “Right now, if I can get it.”

  “Damn.” She fishes in her pocket, pulls out a ring of keys. “My place is on Fifteenth about a half block south of Morrison. There aren’t any other Gremlins anywhere around.”

  “Gremlin?”

  “It’s purple.” She grins at my alarm. “Hey, you asked for it, man.”

  “I appreciate it, Marcy.”

  — + —

  I can’t remember the last time I saw a Gremlin in the wild. Must be three decades since they went out of production. There’s rust on the hood and front quarter panels, broad patches of primer, and no evidence it ever had wheel covers. The interior smells like clove cigarettes. The vinyl seats are cracked, the carpet worn in patches to metal. I almost flood the carburetor, but the engine catches. I stop for gas before I get on the interstate, and cross the Columbia River ten minutes before midnight. The first morning ferry out of Anacortes to Orcas is at six o’clock. The Gremlin hits a wall at sixty-six miles per hour, fast enough as long as I don’t have to pee more than once.

  A full moon leads me north. The highway is empty and dark. Every now and then a semi-rig barrels past me. As the adrenalin buzz gives way to tedium, I roll down the window and let the rush of wind hold my eyelids up. I try not to think, try not to run through the possibilities ahead. Instead, I focus on the modest landmarks which serve as milestones on the trip north: Cougar, and the road to Mount St. Helens, the goofy right-wing billboard at Napaville, the capitol dome. Traffic picks up after Fort Lewis, but not enough to slow me down. Sixty-six, pedal to the Gremlin metal. Clouds gather over the Tacoma dome. The shadow of Mount Rainier forms a negative space on the horizon. Even though I slept all day, a shadow of exhaustion begins to overtake me. I feel as though I’m driving into a void. But as the miles pass and night lengthens, the shadow melts into stars. Words die on my lips, over and over. As
my sight swims past Safeco Field and the Space Needle, I imagine others with me. Sometimes it’s Jimmie, his mouth forming hollow shapes in the darkness. Sometime it’s Pete, or Chase Fairweather. Chase speaks in misspellings, Pete in accusation. Susan wants to know what I think I’m going to accomplish.

  Whatever I can.

  When Ruby Jane appears, she looks out the passenger side window, her shoulder curved away from me. She smells of apples in the darkness, stronger than clove cigarettes. I drive and drive and drive.

  At Mount Vernon, ten miles from the landing, I fill the tank again. The chilly, marine air perks me up. It’s four-thirty, time enough for a cup of coffee before I continue through Anacortes to the ferry. There’s a line already, mostly early season tourists. At the ticket booth, I offer my debit card and hope it runs. I’ve lost track of how much money I’ve spent.

  The card works, forty-four bucks. I take my ticket and find my lane, one of more than a dozen, some assigned to the inter-island ferry, some to the Friday Harbor express, some to Victoria B.C. The terminal building is at the far end of the holding area, next to the docks. There’s a snack bar inside. The Gremlin wheezes and coughs when I shut off the engine. I hope it will start again. I climb out, stretch. A mist hangs over the water, the sky is clear overhead, a cold, deep blue splashed with faint stars. The moon has set. A radio plays in a nearby car, a voice arguing with itself in the still morning. Someone coughs. Others shuffle toward the terminal.

  At the edge of the lot, the ground drops away quickly to the water, the bank overgrown with grass and twisted scrub. There’s no real beach. Gentle waves lap the rocky flat. A figure walks across the rocks, a man hunched inside a dark jacket. He pokes his toe in the water, shakes it off. I pause.

  He looks back toward me and stops, then turns and comes my way. I wait while he climbs the bank, his breath huffing and white. He almost stumbles at the top of the bank, swings his arms for balance. I catch his hand, pull him up to the pavement.

  “Long way from Walnut Creek.”

  Pete’s expression is blank. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “I had a chat with Eldridge and Deffeyes.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “Same thing Detective Mulvaney told you, I assume. Denlinger is Bella’s maiden name.”

  “They told you where she is?”

  “She wasn’t hard to find.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  Mist scrapes along the rocks at water’s edge, not quite fog. He rolls his eyes and starts toward the terminal. “Get some coffee and then go find out if Ruby Jane has been to see her mother. You coming?”

  - 47 -

  Bibemus-aux-Orcas

  The San Juans are a cluster of islands north of the Puget Sound in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, all but a cork between the Washington state mainland and Vancouver Island. Hilly and forested, they’re a popular destination for sea kayakers, campers, bikers, and whale watchers. Two years earlier, I visited Friday Harbor with Ruby Jane and Pete. Happier days for all of us, during the bright holiday before their relationship disintegrated under the weight of Peter’s doubt and Ruby Jane’s certainty. We never made it to Orcas Island, despite talk of climbing Mount Constitution. Victoria, across the strait, was a greater lure.

  Pete hadn’t been in a talkative mood in the terminal, so I left him to brood until departure. Once we’re underway, I find him on the upper deck, outside at the bow. We look out across the water. The route will take us through narrow channels between the tightly clustered San Juans. It’s easy to imagine a time when the islands formed a single landmass. Erosion and changing sea levels have conspired to separate them. The fresh, salty air clears my head. Gulls pace the vessel. Some land on the guard rail, alert for a dropped pastry or scrap of fried egg sandwich. Far ahead, a pelican dives, then lurches above the peaks of the waves, its pouch heavy. Around us, others gather in anticipation. Tourists, mostly. Families on a long weekend getaway. Men and women in biking gear, calves like carved stone. One guy raises a camera with a lens longer than my arm, points it at the shores ahead, but never takes a picture. Beside me, Pete is still. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s angry he found me, or surprised. Perhaps he hoped to find her before I would. Perhaps this was to be his chance to rekindle a love he let die.

  He’s the first to speak.

  “I suppose we can drive up together.”

  “I printed a Google map.”

  He actually smiles. “I’m shocked.”

  “I didn’t expect to run into you.”

  “No.” The smile fades. “I don’t imagine you did.”

  The ferry stops at Lopez Island, then Shaw. Shortly after, I hear the announcement for those debarking at Orcas to return to their vehicles. Pete and I agree to meet in the hotel parking area across from the ferry landing—I’ll ride with him to Isabella Farm. It’s early, not yet seven-thirty. Neither of us has the patience to wait for a decent hour. Inside the Gremlin, I smell apples and cloves. The ignition screeches, and moments later, I’m following others over the pier and onto the island. I quickly pull in to a narrow lot and leave the car under a “Hotel Parking Only” sign. Pete is waiting for me. He drove up from Walnut Creek in his miniature Japanese pickup, designed to get good mileage yet capable of hauling a load so long as it consists of a heap of feathers. I wish I had my rental with Miss Tom-Tom. The cab smells of compost.

  Orcas is shaped like a pair of saddle bags. The ferry docks at the southern end of the western pouch. There’s a small village at the dock: terminal building, a few shops and restaurants, plus the Orcas Hotel on a grassy rise overlooking the harbor. Killebrew Lake Road runs past the hotel, then turns north and becomes Orcas Road, the main route between the landing and Eastsound Village at the island’s northern hinge.

  We won’t be going that far. According to Google’s cartographers, Isabella Farm is inland between Mount Woolard and Dolphin Bay on East Sound, the body of water which all but splits the island south to north. We follow Orcas Road for several miles through a forest of oak, lodgepole pine, and fir trees, and past small farms and pastures. At intervals, tall aspens gleam against the darker trees of the forest. Soon we turn, and leave the tourist traffic behind. The road climbs and winds for a mile or two, and then we turn again down a narrower road which curves back south. A vista opens before us, a view of East Sound, sapphire blue and white-capped beneath a clear sky. Across the sound, the green slopes of Mount Constitution rise.

  “I can understand why someone might want to live here.”

  Pete grunts. We make another turn and lose the view as we drop through meadows glinting gold, white, and pink with wildflowers. At the bottom of a long slope, the trees return as the road bends sharply west. A fenced field appears, and a sign. The painted blue letters are weathered to almost the color of the silvered wood. Isabella Farm. Pete stops the car.

  The field rises toward the house, dotted with patches of phlox, yellow lupine, and blue gilia. Swallows dart over the grass, snatching insects out of the air. A long-necked, shaggy creature grazes up near the top of the field. Pete gestures.

  “Alpaca?”

  “According to the web site.”

  A lodgepole fence borders the field and extends past a low barn to the left of the house. Fir trees and a broad oak shade the house, none taller than the rocky escarpment which rises beyond the barn.

  “It’s like Bibemus.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The painting.”

  After a moment, I see the recognition in his eyes. He compresses his lips, as if he’s angry I made the connection first. The resemblance to Cézanne’s painting is fleeting. The Isabella Farm bluff is darker and draped with bushy ferns. Still, the grounds appear scooped out of the hillside.

  “It must have been a quarry at one time.”

  The two-story, lap-sided farmhouse has a broad front porch, weathered grey, the roof is more moss than cedar shake. The front porch dips, reminiscent of my own. The flowerbeds are weedy and overgrown, but
someone has mowed the patch of grass between the field and the driveway, which crosses in front of the porch.

  Pete turns to me. “I don’t see her car.”

  “The driveway goes around to the back.”

  “She won’t be happy I came.” He says it like the notion only that moment occurred to him.

  “She may not be happy either of us came.”

  “Maybe we should have called the police.”

  “And tell them what?”

  “They could check things out, at least.”

  “So can we.”

  “Cops have guns.”

  “Pete, relax.”

  Preble County Line Road must weigh on him. I feel a strange sympathy, or a pity. But there’s no changing the fact Pete made his choice long ago. If Ruby Jane has moved on, to me—or to no one, as seems most likely—it’s not because she didn’t give him every chance in the world.

  He parks at the foot of the front steps and kills the engine. The sudden quiet fills with the sound of wind in the firs and the bleat of the alpaca. Birds call from the trees on either side of the house.

  The front door opens. A woman steps out onto the porch. Pete draws a quick breath, but relaxes just as quickly. She is too young, too pale, too tentative—one of those translucent redheads with paper-thin skin stretched tight over blue veins. Her face is dotted with freckles. She’s wearing jeans and garden clogs, a yellow button-down shirt open to the waist over a white t-shirt, sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm. Pete and I get out of the car.

  “May I help you?”

  Pete lets me take point. “We’re looking for Bella Denlinger. Did we come to the right place?”

  She grabs her right elbow and looks off into the distance. “You’re looking for Bella?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve come to the right place, I suppose.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “You could say that.” She rolls her head and hunches as though uncomfortable in her own skin.

  I move to the foot of the steps. “We’ve come a long way. Perhaps you could tell us what’s going on.”