Page 5 of Snow Creek

Ruth Turner stands awkwardly next to the desk. She’s lean, tall, gangly and hunches over to sign her name on the register. Not more than mid-fifties, her hair is gray and white and long, swirling into a bun that resembles the wasp nest that hangs over my garage. She’s wearing a long dark dress over a white cotton blouse. Her shoes are black Oxfords, shiny on top yet scuffed in the places where her foot rested as she drove from wherever she came from. She wears no makeup, save for a light touch of mascara on her lashes. Despite her austere appearance, when she turns to greet me her eyes are warm and full of emotion. They radiate a combination of hope and worry.

I reach to take her hand. I feel a slight tremble in my gentle grasp.

“Detective Carpenter,” she says, her eyes now puddling, “thank you for seeing me.”

I don’t like tears. My own or anyone’s. I give her a reassuring smile and move quickly to defuse her emotion. Tears get in the way of truth sometimes. I know that from personal experience.

“Come back here with me, Ms. Turner,” I say. “Let’s see what we can do.”

“Call me Ruth.”

I nod and lead her to a room that we use mostly to interview children. The furniture is colorful, and its walls are adorned with pleasant posters of breeching orcas and lighthouses at sunset. It’s a far cry from the foreboding space of the interview room next door. That one is all white and gray with a decidedly claustrophobic milieu, which is in line with its purpose.

Make the subject uncomfortable.

Help them focus.

Make them want to get the hell out of there.

In other words, get them to spill their guts.

I sit across from Ruth and I take in everything I can about her. Her body language. Her ability to look me in the eyes. Her tics; if she has any. She does. She blinks harder than necessary after each gasp of her story. I can’t tell if she’s trying to wring out more tears or if that’s just how she is.

She tells me Ida, and her husband, Merritt Wheaton, live in the hills above Snow Creek.

It’s an area with a bit of a reputation.

“Off the grid?” I ask.

“Right,” she answers. “It’s something that Merritt wanted to do. Ida didn’t mind. We come from kind of a conservative background. Raised in Utah and Idaho. Dad hand-picked Merritt for Ida.”

I bristle inside at “hand-picked,” but I don’t let on.

“You said on the phone that you weren’t sure when the last time was that anyone had heard from your sister. Yet now you are concerned about her welfare? Did something happen?”

Ruth looks away and blinks hard. “No. Not really.”

“Not really,” I repeat.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Last time I talked to her she was a little off.”

“How so?”

She hesitates before answering. “She disrespected her husband for the way he disciplined the kids.”

Up till then, Ruth hadn’t mentioned any children. She sees the look on my face before I even ask her about them.

“Sarah is almost seventeen and Joshua is nineteen. You know teenagers can be a handful no matter how you raise them. It takes a firm hand to make sure they stay on the straight and narrow.”

I asked for a definition of “firm hand.”

She suddenly seems wary and pulls her arms tightly against her body. A defensive move.

“You probably wouldn’t approve,” she tells me, “but from where we come from, Detective, it has served us well. Our children are taught that there are consequences for misbehavior. Rules provide the structure for a holy life.”

“What kind of discipline?”

“The usual,” she says. “Spankings when small. That kind of thing. Withholding privileges when older. Extra chores.” Ruth fidgets with her wallet. I notice that she carries no purse. She takes in more air and considers what to say. I give her the space, the time to continue. “We are Christian. Good people. We’re not a part of some fundamentalist group that lives in a commune.”

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