Dead Soul (7 page)

“She’s an engineering student over at RMP who went AWOL. Her mother reported her missing about…let’s see…I think it was just before Christmas. One of my officers took the complainant to her daughter’s apartment, got entry from the supervisor. No sign of foul play. The mother wasn’t sure whether any clothes were missing. The daughter’s university-issue bicycle was in the apartment.”

“What was she doing with university wheels?”

“Miss Brewster worked part-time for the campus police force.”

“And she just upped and left without a word to anybody?”

“That’s about the size of it. And the girl has had some medical problems.”

“Such as?”

“Schizophrenia. This isn’t the first time she’s wandered off. But according to her mom, the symptoms have been pretty much controlled for the past three years—as long as she takes her medications.” Parris grimaced. “Bad news is that when Miss Brewster left her apartment, she also left her prescription pills in the medicine cabinet.”

“How’d a schizophrenic get a job with the campus police?”

“I doubt they had access to her complete medical history. Even if they did, they might’ve given her a chance. There are a lot of sick people who manage to function well enough to get by.” The chief of police shook his head. “Are you not familiar with the two or three borderline psychotics working in my own department?”

“Say no more.”

“Thank you. It is not a subject I wish to dwell on.”

“This missing gal own a car?”

“She did. The Toyota was parked right outside her apartment. Dead battery.”

“So the bike’s in her room, her car won’t start. How does she leave town? Hitchhike?”

“Quite possibly. But I should point out that Miss Brewster’s apartment is on the north side of Eikleberry Avenue, between Gish Lane and Arnett Street.”

Moon closed his eyes, visualized a mental map of the small town. “Right across from the bus station.”

“You got it. Grumpy old duffer working behind the counter wasn’t much help—said, ‘Maybe I seed her, maybe I didn’t—damn scruffy college kids are comin’ and goin’ all the time.’” Parris grinned. “He sells lots of tickets. Denver. Rock Springs. Albuquerque. Salt Lake. Wilma Brewster could’ve gone anywhere. But from what you’re telling me, sounds like she ended up in Durango.”

“There been any activity on her credit cards?”

“The kid didn’t hold any plastic. She had a spotty credit record—her Visa was pulled last year.”

“Wherever she’s living, maybe she got some kind of job. Any employment reports on her Social Security number?”

“We haven’t tried that hard to run her to ground. I figured she was hanging out with some friends—or maybe bumming her way across the country.” Scott Parris squinted sad blue eyes at his Ute friend. “Sometimes college gets to be too much. A fair number of these kids get burned out. Some drop out and go home. Others join the Peace Corps—or the Marines. A few, like Miss Brewster, just walk away.” The chief of police scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Maybe Durango PD could turn up something. If she’s still hanging around down there.”

Aunt Daisy was certain the redheaded woman was scared of something. Or somebody. Moon wondered who the young woman might be running from. “This Wilma Brewster, she have a boyfriend?”

Scott Parris shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You have a picture on file?”

“We got a high school yearbook photo from Wilma’s mother. It’ll be in the folder—I’ll get you a copy made.”

“Tell me about her mother.”

“Jane Brewster. Widow. Early to mid-sixties.”

“Where would I find her?”

Parris gave his friend a complicated set of directions.

The tribal investigator scribbled notes on a small pad. “The mother have a job?”

“Mrs. Brewster mostly lives off her Social Security check. But she picks up some work here and there. Whenever she can.”

“What kind of work?”

“Cleaning homes. Laundry. Ironing. But primarily, the woman is a first-rate cook.” Parris held his tongue for a moment. As if he didn’t want to say it. “Before her daughter left town, the old lady spent three or four days a week fixing meals for Senator Davidson.”

The Ute gave his friend a look. “Seems like all roads lead to the BoxCar Ranch.”

The chief of police bristled his eyebrows into a frown. “Charlie—I sure hope this is a coincidence.” He looked up at a cloudy sky. “You hear any more from this Wilma Brewster look-alike, you be sure to let me know.”

“I’ll do better than that—if this redhead contacts me, I’ll give her your unlisted telephone number. Tell her it’s okay to call you any hour of the day. Or night.”

“Thanks, pardner.” Scott Parris felt like he was getting a fever. “And if I should pick up a serious case of the flu, I’ll be sure to cough in your face.”

Chapter Nine

THE WIDOW

CONCERNED THAT HE MIGHT HAVE TAKEN A WRONG TURN
,
CHARLIE
Moon continued down the weed-choked dirt road. Around a hard left turn, he passed under the brittle arms of a diseased elm and slammed on the brakes. The little-used lane was blocked by a rusted Dodge pickup; the hulk was perched precariously on wooden blocks.

The tribal investigator checked his scribbled notes. This layout was more or less what Scott Parris had described. Between by an orchard of sickly peach trees and a tumbledown barn, there was a small cottage. The dwelling had a pitched roof covered by tar shingles, deathly gray clapboard walls, a redbrick chimney that leaned ever so slightly southward. In stark contrast, the sparkling clean windows were flanked by freshly painted green shutters. The dusty yard had been broom-swept. The overall effect was a melancholy mixture of grinding poverty and stubborn pride.

This has to be the place.

The Ute got out of the truck, approached a sagging porch.

A small mixed breed dog appeared from under the house. After scratching at an invisible colony of fleas and shaking off some excess dust, she yapped dutifully at the intruder. Turned to look expectantly at the front door.

Moon paused to offer a kind word to the half-starved animal.

The mutt responded with a wag of a drooping tail.

A woman, looking a decade older than her sixty-some years, appeared at the door. Jane Brewster wiped reddened hands on a cotton apron. Dark red hair bobbed on plastic curlers. The work-hardened face was flat, without expression except for a hint of don’t-mess-with-me-buster. Only the eyes were alive. Her frank blue orbs engaged the Ute’s dark face. Her voice was tired. “You the Indian policeman?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The visitor removed the black Stetson. “Charlie Moon.”

“The chief of police—Mr. Parris—he told me you’d be stopping by.”

“Hope this isn’t a bad time. I would have called first, but…” Jane Brewster’s telephone had been disconnected.

“I didn’t pay the bills, so they pulled the plug.” She laughed mechanically. “Anyway, don’t worry about schedules. Out here, one time is about the same as another.” She clicked her tongue at the dog. “I expect there’s something you want to talk about.” There was not the least sign of curiosity on her face. “It’s too chilly to stand out here on the porch.” She turned toward the door. “C’mon in.”

The inside of Jane Brewster’s home was like the outside. Well worn, but clean.

At her direction, Moon seated himself at the kitchen table. He accepted her offer of coffee. He eyed the small sugar bowl, decided to do without the usual six teaspoons of sweetener.

After lowering the flame under an aluminum saucepan filled with Great Northern beans, Jane Brewster turned her back on the sooty kerosene stove. She removed the apron, hung it on a nail by the back door. The woman smoothed a wispy tuft of gray hair, sat down across the table from her visitor. “This about Wilma?”

He looked at the cup, nodded.

“Ain’t seen her since last December.” Jane Brewster’s eyes glazed over. “First time she wasn’t home for Christmas.”

“Heard anything from her since then?”

“Not a word.” A half smile. “O’course I haven’t had a phone for a couple of months now.”

He took a shot in the dark. “Anybody else seen her?”

“Oh, sure. Every time I get out, I see somebody claims they’ve spotted my daughter.” She waved a bony arm in a gesture of hopeless frustration. “Hey, Jane—I saw Wilma up in Grand Junction at the Kentucky Fried. Over in Pueblo at a flea market. Down yonder in Salida at the post office.” She rubbed the back of her hand over a moist eye. “I don’t know why she don’t write me a letter.” Her tone and expression had turned bitter. “Maybe because I don’t have no reg’lar work—or any cash money to help pay her tuition.”

“Was she having any problems at the university?”

Jane Brewster shrugged under the oversized print dress. “How would I know—my daughter never told me nothing.” She stared at the Ute. “There’s something else you’ve been wanting to ask me about. It’s all right. Go ahead.”

Thanks for making this easy.
“I understand she was using prescription medication.”

“Wilma was a sick girl. But as long as she took her pills…”

An unpleasant picture was forming in his mind. “Mrs. Brewster, what might happen if your daughter didn’t take her medicine?”

“Most of the time, nothing too serious. Other times, she could get a little crazy. Hear voices—see things that wasn’t there. Sometimes, she’d get pretty excited. One time, when she was still in high school, my ninety-pound daughter punched out her gym coach.” The woman smiled. “He was a pretty big guy, but she broke his nose.” Jane Brewster looked across the table at the Ute. “Where’s this going?”

Good question.
“A young woman matching your daughter’s description has spoken to my aunt. It was in Durango.”

A faint spark of hope glimmered in the pale blue eyes. “What’d she say?”

Another good question.
“Not a lot. But it sounded like she wanted to talk to me about something.” Moon gauged his words with care. “Far as you know, could she have left town because she was afraid?”

The woman’s eyes flashed blue fire. “Afraid of what?”

“I don’t know. A boyfriend?”

“Wilma didn’t tell me about any boyfriends.” She cast a wary glance at the tribal investigator. “Aside from the fact that she spoke to your aunt, why’s an Indian cop interested in my daughter?”

“I’m working on something for the tribe. When Senator Davidson was assaulted, one of our people was killed.”

Jane Brewster rubbed a callused finger over a stubborn crease in the blue and white oilcloth. Her rough-edged voice took on a defensive tone. “What does that have to do with my Wilma?”

“Probably nothing. But I know you did some cooking for the senator.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“That, and the possibility that the young lady my aunt spoke to might be your daughter.”
Mostly, I’m just shooting in the dark.
“There must be a reason this young woman wants to talk to me.” The tribal investigator slowed to a trot before jumping the next fence. “When you worked at the BoxCar, did your daughter ever drop by to visit you—maybe help with the cooking?”

She coughed up a bitter laugh. “Wilma couldn’t boil a thimble of water if she had a blowtorch.”

“So she was never on the ranch with you?”

The hardworking woman rubbed rough palms together. “Sometimes when I couldn’t get a ride out there, Wilma would drive me over to the BoxCar. Other times she’d come pick me up when my work was done. But she never stayed long.”

“When was the last time she was at the ranch?”

Jane Brewster studied her hands for a long time. As if she had never really seen them. When the examination was complete, she looked up at the Ute. “It was the last time I saw her. She drove out to pick me up that afternoon. It was the Thursday before Christmas.” She closed her eyes to concentrate. “That must’ve been on the twenty-first.”

“Anything else happen that day? I mean—anything unusual.”

Mrs. Brewster smiled without mirth. “Yeah. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was my last day at the BoxCar. And it was just three days later—on a Sunday—the senator got crippled and his driver got himself killed.” She looked through a cracked windowpane at nothing in particular. “Patch Davidson was in the hospital off and on for almost two months. I never got called back to work. Guess that rich man found out he could get along fine without me.”

“Tell me about that day when your daughter came to pick you up.”

A listless shrug. “Nothing special. She showed up. I finished cleaning up the kitchen. We left. Next day, she went to work at her university job. Wilma was a part-time campus police officer. Wore a spiffy uniform. Rode around on a shiny bicycle.”

Outside, the bored dog barked at nothing. The shack was surrounded by acres and acres of nothing.

Moon accepted a refill on his coffee.

She watched him drink. “You have any idea where my daughter’s holed up?”

There was no point in mentioning Rio Hondo. “She’s probably staying with some friends.”

She anticipated his question. “If she has any friends, I don’t know who they are.”

The tribal investigator stared at the surface of the black liquid.

Her elbows on the table, the woman leaned forward. “You find my Wilma, you tell that girl to come see her mother.”

It’s time to go.
Moon thanked her for the coffee and conversation. At the front door, the Ute fished a thin wallet out of his hip pocket. Hesitated. The F-150 was running on fumes, and there would be six dollars left for gasoline. He gave the woman his last twenty.

She looked at the greenback, then at the tall man. “What’s this for?”

“Expenses.” Moon avoided the intelligent blue eyes. “If you hear anything about your daughter—or think of something I need to know—I expect you to go into town. Find a pay phone, call me.”

The woman opened her mouth to speak, said nothing. The reddened eyes teared up.

Embarrassed, Moon turned away. “Well, I better be getting on down the road.”

Jane Brewster found a hoarse voice. “I don’t know. I never took nothing from nobody that I didn’t earn. I just don’t think it’s right to—”

“Sure it’s right—think of it as a bribe.” He flashed her a smile that lit up forty acres of twilight. “And you’ll earn it. From time to time I’ll drop by and make a nuisance of myself.”

She showed him a careworn face that had once been pretty enough to inspire foolish young men to hang around her father’s front porch. “You’re quite a sly fellow, Mr. Moon.”

He tipped the John B. Stetson. “Call me Charlie.”

She crumpled the bill in a fist. Watched the slender man make long strides toward his pickup.