Silver's Bones (13 page)

“Have you told him that?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you should. You may be mistaken about what he thinks.”

Her faced scrunched as she continued to cry.

“Mommy? Can I come down now?” a child called from the top of the stairs.

She quickly wiped her face with her hands and called up to her son, “We'll be only a little longer.”

I held up the notebooks. “Well, thanks for these and for your time. I won't keep you.”

She stood. I stayed seated. “Oh, one more thing. How often does Parker bring home flowers?”

She blinked. “What? Why?”

“Is he a romantic man? Stops to buy flowers before he comes home?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, he does. At least once a month.”

“On what day?”

“What day? I don't know.” She was getting annoyed.

“Where does he buy them?”

“I have no idea.”

“I bet you have the days in your diaries. Why don't you check and let me know?”

I winked and put down my card on her coffee table. I left her standing in her living room with her hands on her hips and a look of bewilderment on her face.

 

 

Troy was at his desk
when I returned to the office. He said he had completed Daniel and Barbara Mitchell's interviews.

“Get anything useful?”

“I substantiated that the Gages had a key to the Mitchell lodge at the time of the disappearance.”

“With the earring found in there it could turn out to be important. Did you interview Stillman?”

“He called and said he has agoraphobia and can't leave the farm, and if I wanted the interview, I'd have to drive out to him. Want to head out there with me?”

“What time?”

“He said anytime. He's not going anywhere. Want to watch the Mitchell interviews first?”

“Sure.”

Troy had interviewed Barbara Mitchell first, and like her daughter, she was a petite, classy looking, pretty blonde.

Troy asked about the Ronson property.

“I inherited it from my father, and now it's in my three children's names. They sold off lots to Del Martin.”

“Did you use this property personally?”

“Me, no. I'd only been up here once as a child. My mother didn't like roughing it and neither do I, but my husband and his friends used it for a number of years for hunting and fishing.”

“When did your husband stop coming up here?”

“Let me think—it was maybe fifteen years ago. He had planned to come up for duck hunting, but changed his mind.”

“Why was that?”

“He lost interest. It also may have had something to do with a falling out with Bentley Gage.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Lillian Gage and Daniel's ex-wife, Gloria, have always been good friends. Neither has forgiven me for marrying Daniel, and they've always been very rude to me. I think the last straw was when we were at a friend's wedding.”

“What year was that?”

“It must have been 1997.”

“Go on.”

“Well, unfortunately, the Gages and Gloria and her husband were seated at our table. After a few too many glasses of champagne the women lashed out at me. Bentley had usually stayed out of it, but that night he joined in. He told Daniel he should have stayed home to play with his Barbie doll. Daniel was sick of the wisecracks and smacked him in the nose.”

“Did Bentley Gage fight back?”

“No, he was pretty shocked. And I got Daniel out of there promptly. I half expected the police to show up at our doorstep that night.”

“So that was the fall after the Dawson girl disappeared.”

“Yes, I believe it was.”

“Do you recall where you and your husband were on July 26, 1997, the night she disappeared?”

“I know for a fact we were home that weekend because we got a call from a mutual friend of the Gages telling us that the missing girl was Parker's girlfriend.”

“Name?”

“John Bodine. We've remained friends with him and his wife, Susan, throughout the years.”

“So, did you make any contact with the Gages at that time?”

“Yes, Daniel called Bentley. Daniel said he sounded more concerned about Parker than the missing girl. Maybe that was understandable. I just found it odd. That's all I remember about that,” she said.

“Did you or your husband go up to the Emmaline property after the summer of '97?”

“Daniel and my son Gavin went up in October of that year to remove some of the more valuable things from the property.”

“And they noted nothing awry?”

“No. We knew the sheriff's department had searched our property and lodge for signs of the missing girl. We told them where the hidden key was.”

“A hidden key?”

“It was under a rock near the garage. No one but family knew about it.”

After Mrs. Mitchell's interview, Troy thanked her for coming in and escorted her out and Daniel Mitchell in. Troy asked Dr. Mitchell basically the same questions he had asked his wife and got close to the same answers.

“Do you recall being asked permission to search the lodge at that time?”

“Yes, and I told them where we kept a spare key.”

“Did anyone else know the location of this key?”

“No, sir.”

“Had you given anyone else a key?”

“Bentley Gage had one, but after the wedding, I asked for it back. When we closed it up that year I moved some things out. I found beer cans on the property, so I think his boys were using it for drinking parties. I had a gate installed after that.”

“When was that?”

“October of 1997.”

With that, Troy ended the interview.

“What do you think?” he asked me.

“I don't think the Mitchells were involved, but I'd contact John Bodine to verify they were home at the time of Silver Rae's disappearance. Tommy Odegard's in town for the week, and I have interviews with him and Lucky Holmgren set up for this afternoon.”

“Did you get hold of Aubrey Gage?”

“No, and I may have to drive to Duluth to get the interview,” I said.

Troy glanced at the clock. “It's noon. Ready to meet an agoraphobic?”

 

Chapter 14

I
set the GPS system on my phone to guide Troy to the Stillman farm. Just as we were rolling out of town, Troy said, “So, Sheehan, why haven't you told me you had a brother who died?”

“Who told you that? Adriana?”

“Yeah, she said you've had a lot of loss for your age. A little brother and when you were sixteen your two grandpas died suddenly, only a few months apart? Jesus. Said you have trouble disclosing to families because of all those traumatic deaths.”

I stared straight ahead, my jaw clenched.

“Man, your little brother drowned when he was six and you were supposed to be watching him? That sucks. What were you—nine at the time?”

I glared at him. “Shut the hell up.” My heart was pumping like I'd run a few blocks.

“I had a cousin who died in a car accident when I was eight. I didn't sleep well for a year thinking I was next. I imagine the guilt was pretty tough on you.”

I raised my voice. “Did you
not
hear me? Shut the fuck up.”

“Okay, fine. Jeez. That stuff can eat a guy up. I'm just sayin'.”

Some time passed before he spoke again. “So, who's on the top of your suspect list at this point? There's something about Gage I don't like.”

I took deep breaths.
Focus, Cal.
Besides, I should be angry with Adriana, not him.

I shared what I'd learned from my interviews. “We'll have to go through the list of people Jenny Deitz remembers to be at the party. Parker's brother Sawyer was one of them.”

“Huh. Wonder if he's a big crybaby like his brother. Man, how long is it going to take to interview all these people?”

“We'll plug through it. I'm hoping Tommy Odegard and Lucky's inter­views this afternoon give us something.”

  

 

The Stillman farm
was two
miles west of town. I hadn't realized what a large operation their dairy business was. A Stillman Dairy sign was mounted above the double doors on an expansive, white pole barn. There were several other smaller buildings on the farm, including two houses: the original farmhouse and a small rambler. A number of vehicles were parked in the yard including milk trucks, delivery trucks, and autos. A milk truck rumbled in behind us and drove up to the side of the pole barn. I noticed an older, red Ford F-150 in great condition parked outside the farmhouse.

A skinny old guy wearing white coveralls and a faded John Deere cap appeared out of the pole barn and, using a cane, navigated toward us. His upper body leaned to one side as he walked. We exited our vehicle and introduced ourselves.

“Edgar Stillman,” he said.

“Stillman Dairy” was embroidered in blue on his clothing. His white hair ruffled in the breeze like bird's wings. The side of his cheek bulged with chew.

“This is where the actual dairy operation is located?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. My dad moved it out here from Prairie Falls thirty years ago. The building in town is just the store.”

“Is Candy your daughter?” I asked.

He spat a dark glob on the ground. I cringed thinking about chewing tobacco contaminating the milk.

“She is. My three kids all live on the place and work for the business.”

I'd met Candy at the store when I checked out Eleanor Kohler's alibi the morning of her husband's murder. Candy was one hostile woman. Now I understood—it had to do with Wesley's connection to the Dawson case.

“Wesley, Candy . . . your other child is . . . ?”

“Byron.”

“What's the order of your children?”

“Byron, Candace, then Wesley.”

“What animals do you raise?” Troy asked.

“Besides dairy cows? Hogs and chickens. Now can we cut the bullshit and get to it?”

I smiled. “Sure. We need to talk to Wesley,” I said.

He spat again. “You showing up here means my son's still a suspect. They had nothing on him fifteen years ago, and you won't find nothin' now, either.”

“Is he around?” Troy asked.

“Of course he's around. You haven't heard he was persecuted to the point where he can't even leave the damn place now?”

Troy said, “That's why we're here.”

“Well, come on in.”

The screen door squeaked as we stepped inside a small porch that led into a large kitchen. The place was clean, orderly, and anything but fancy. A plain-looking woman with long, brown hair was standing at the sink washing sweet corn. It was unusual to see someone her age (maybe thirty-five) wearing an old-fashioned housedress and apron. And yet she had a pink sparkly head­band holding her hair back. Three pies sat cooling on the counter, and I smelled a chicken dinner in the oven. My mouth started watering.

Wesley looked much the same as he had fifteen years ago. He sat at a desk in the corner of the room. When we entered, he rose and glided toward us as if on ice skates. He wore tan pants and a white undershirt.

Edgar gestured for the woman to leave and for us to sit at the large oval table. The woman stopped to turn off the burners under the large pots on the stove before she left the room. For some reason I was uneasy, like when I was called to a residence on a domestic. You never knew what lurked in the shadows.

Edgar and Wesley sat across from us. Troy told the men we were taping the interview and gave the necessary information. He had Wesley state his name and address. Wes had a rather whiney tone to his voice—odd for a thirty-four-year-old man. My grandmas would call him an “odd duck.”

“Wesley, we reviewed your interview when you were first questioned in the disappearance of Silver Rae Dawson,” Troy began. “Sounds like you were fond of her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you know her?”

“Their dairy farm was on my route.”

“How many times a week did you stop there?”

“Three.”

“Where were you the night Silver Rae went missing?” Troy asked.

The old man banged his fist on the table. “He was home with us. Why do we have to keep telling you people that?”

“Mr. Stillman, how 'bout if you go about your business and let us talk to Wesley alone,” Troy said.

Edgar's chin jutted forward. “Maybe I'll get hold of our attorney and he won't talk to you at all.”

“It's your call, Wes,” I said. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The hard way involves taking you in.”

“Pa, go,” Wesley said.

Edgar shook his head and groaned as he pushed himself to an upright position. “Don't say I didn't warn ya.” He let the screen door bang as he left.

“So when was the last time you talked to Silver Rae?” I asked.

“A couple days before she disappeared. When I picked up the milk she came out to talk to me.”

“What day was that?”

“Thursday.”

“What did you talk about?”

“This and that. Nothin' important.”

“In the video clip you were questioned about a laceration on your hand. Do you remember how you sustained that injury?” Troy asked.

“You mean how did I get cut?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I picked up a small piece of wood on the ground. It looked flexible so I bent it round my finger. It cut me. Happened Friday before she disappeared.”

“From what the file said, you had quite a cut. You should have had stitches. Why didn't you go in to the doctor?' I asked.

“We don't go to the doctor for every lil' thing. Like I said, it happened the day before. You can ask my pa.”

“Is your mother still living?” Troy asked.

“No, she died in 2000 from cancer.”

“Are you familiar with Lake Emmaline and the area surrounding it?”

“Never been on the lake. Just drove by.”

“You also picked up milk at the Summers's farm? Correct?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And you knew Silver was babysitting there that Saturday night?”

His eyes moved in a jerky circle while he was trying to pick his words. “Okay, she did tell me she was babysitting, but I didn't know where.”

“You knew how to find out. You could have followed her. Right?” Troy said.

“But I didn't. When I saw her boyfriend was with her I went home.”

Wait a minute.
“So you were in town that evening and saw Silver Rae pick up the boys?” I asked.

“The hotel's across the street from the store. I saw them when I delivered eggs into town.”

“So you followed them?” I asked.

“No, I went home.”

“You neglected to mention that in the first interview,” I said.

“They never asked.”

“Can you tell the woman who was in the kitchen that we want to talk to her?” I asked.

A look of concern washed over his face, but he got up and called, “Alda!”

She must have been in the next room listening because she was in the kitchen in two seconds flat. She stood at the counter with her arms crossed.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Alda Stillman. I'm Byron's wife.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Twelve years.”

“Where are you from?”

“Wadena.”

“Get Byron. We want to talk to him.”

“He's not home.”

“Then have him call us,” I said.

We handed her our cards.

As we were about to leave Wesley followed and asked, “Aren't you going to ask me who I think kilt her?”

“Who's that?” Troy asked.

“Her boyfriend.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I didn't like his eyes and she didn't like him bossing her around.”

“When did you see him boss her around?”

“At the Dawsons'.”

He pulled a yellow, tattered newspaper clipping from his pants pocket. He lowered it enough for us to see it was Silver's photo.

“I prayed every day to my savior, Lord Jesus Christ, that she'd be found. Now I pray you can prove her boyfriend was the killer.”

“What if he's not?” I asked.

“He is.”

“How can you be so sure?” I asked.

“God told me.”

“When?” Troy asked.

“Every day.”

 

 

As we pulled out
of
the driveway I said, “What do you think?”

“That he's one sick son of a bitch.”

“Fifteen years ago he didn't mention he saw her at the hotel with Parker. Why is he telling us now?”

“Because God tells him Parker did it.”

“Or he wants to shift the blame,” I said. “I'm calling Ralph. See what he thought about him.”

 

 

We stopped at Dotty's Café
to grab lunch. Dotty's was one of those restaurants right out of the fifties with black-and-white checked linoleum and red vinyl booths. Even though no one had been allowed to smoke in there for years, the smell still lingered and mixed with the odor of greasy food. The food was good, the prices reasonable, and Dotty served free pie to law enforcement officers. She said it was her way of thanking us for putting our lives on the line every day.

Dotty and her husband, Harry, were large people. He cooked. She managed. Rumor had it one winter when the snow drifted as high as the roof, Harry ran the old Ski-doo on the roof, where it remained perched.

Troy had the special of the day, tater tot hotdish, and I had a club sandwich. After we were nearly finished eating, Dotty waddled over and placed a piece of peach pie in front of each of us. I took a bite and said, “Mmm, haven't had peach pie in a long time. Dotty, you make the best pie around.”

She chuckled. “Cops are an appreciative lot.”

Grabbing a chair from the nearest table, she pulled it up to our booth. She placed her elbows on our table and her hands on her chin.

“So, who did it?” she asked.

“You tell us,” Troy said.

“I'd put money on the prissy doctor boyfriend,” she said.

“Any evidence to back up that theory, Detective Dotty?” I said.

“It's always the boyfriend or husband,” she said. “Hey, by the way, Cal, congratulations on your marriage.”

“Thank you.”

“And so, Troy, heard you're dating this one's ex,” she said.

A shit-eating grin crossed Troy's face as he nodded. If Dotty knew, everybody knew.

“She like your new haircut?”

Troy's ears turned crimson. “She says she does.”

“Huh . . . a classy broad like that? Well, you best mind your manners or you'll be like Columbus—history.”

He was at a loss for a comeback. I smiled inside. Dotty never failed to embarrass someone. I was glad it was Troy today and not me.

 

 

On our way back
to
the department, I said, “So, why didn't you man up and tell me about you and Adriana?”

“I don't know. I guess I was waiting for her to drop my ass.”

“How did you two hook up anyway?” I asked Troy.

“The night of your wedding we ran into each other at Buzzo's. She was out with the girls.”

Buzzo's Bar: where the food was greasy, the drinks were strong, and if there wasn't a Minnesota or Wisconsin sports event on the big-screen television, country western blared from an old-fashioned jukebox.

“Is there a woman I dated you
didn't
try to date afterward?” I said.

Troy snorted. “What? Are you serious? Are you talking about Naomi? Because I was with her first.”

“Criminals don't count. Besides, she asked us both out.”