Page 11 of Snow Creek

By the time we get back to the office and try the number for La Paloma, the administration staff is gone for the day. I ask Ruth where she’s staying for the night.

“I can’t stay,” she says.

“You’re going back home?”

“My husband wants me back tomorrow. I’ll have to drive all night as it is.”

I don’t understand this woman’s loyalties at all. Not even a little. Her sister might be missing and she’s going to leave before she finds out anything?

I don’t try to persuade her.

“How can I reach you?”

“Here’s my address.”

She hands me a card.

“A PO Box?”

She casts her eyes downward. “Our phone service is spotty.”

“I thought you have satellite and internet?”

“My husband has an account; I suppose I could give that to you. You’ll only call in an emergency, correct? He’s very busy and doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

I know that there is nothing I can do with Ruth Turner. At least not now. I’ll need her later if her sister and brother-in-law are missing.

“That’s fine,” I tell her. “I’ll be sure not to mention the mascara. Don’t you worry about that. I want to find Ida and Merritt and that’s all I want.”

We both know what I’m doing.

She gives me a cool stare and scribbles more contact information on the card. “There,” she says.

I stand and let her leave.

I don’t like it when people light a fuse and then get out of the way. If you want to find out something you need to stay on it. Never let go until you get where you need to be. Until you do what you need to do.

Tony Gray is leaning back in the world’s oldest office chair with his eyes closed. The chair has been repaired so many times that it appears to be upholstered with silver vinyl. On closer inspection, it’s clearly the work of a man who sees duct tape as the end-all, be-all. He’s well past early retirement, is married to a nurse he met at the hospital when he had a mild heart attack. He’s twenty pounds, maybe thirty, overweight and despite his constant complaining about dieting, I’ve never seen him eat anything that resembled doctor’s orders.

He’s either asleep or he’s succumbed from the empty contents of the Taco Bell bag that takes up the space in front of him.

“Sheriff,” I say.

His eyes flutter.

He bobs to alertness. “Detective. Just resting my eyes. Long day.”

“Tell me about it. It’s after six.”

He looks at his watch. “So it is.”

I fill him in on my adventure into the hills above Snow Creek with Wintergreen Ruth.

“I’m more of a peppermint guy myself.”

“Good to know.”

“Did I tell you about the time I went up there to arrest a bunch of freaks who were molesting their livestock?” he asks.

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