One Last Scream

“Yes,” the sheriff nodded. “For a while there, certain morbid teenagers hung out there to get drunk, but we put a stop to it. That waitress tag probably belonged to one of them.”

“I doubt it. If you knew where I found it-”

“All right, so you want to go out there now and start digging?” she cut in. “Based on what-a hunch? And some tidbit you read in a book of amazing facts about wildflowers indicating grave sites? We can’t do that, Mr. McMillan. First, we’d have to call a judge for a search warrant, which we’d be damn lucky to get by noon tomorrow. We’d also have to notify the current property owner. The ranch was bought by some chemical company in Boise eighteen months ago. A fence was supposed to go up around the place last year, but it didn’t happen…”

She stopped to look at her deputy, who ambled through the doorway. The skinny, dark-haired young man wore a brown uniform and had a goofy-looking buzz cut. Walking around the counter, he carried a small bag and a can of Diet Coke.

“Twenty minutes for a lousy roast beef sandwich?” the sheriff asked him. “What did Sherry have to do? Kill the cow?”

The beleaguered deputy set the bag and soda on her desktop. “They were out of potato salad, so I got you chips,” he muttered.

“Fine, fine, thanks, Tyler,” she grumbled. The sheriff tapped a pile of folders on the corner of her desk. “File these, and then clock out. I don’t want the county paying you overtime tonight. That’s just more paperwork for me. I get more done without you here, anyway.”

Sighing, he collected the files and stepped toward the metal cabinets behind her.

The sheriff opened up the can of Diet Coke. “If you’re serious about this, Mr. McMillan, we can’t just start digging over at the Schlessinger ranch. We need to go through the proper procedures. That’ll take time. Now, I see you there, tapping your foot, and if you’re anxious to get going on this, you have a long wait ahead.”

George squirmed in the chair. What had made him think he could get back to his kids tonight? If the cops actually followed his tip and found some bodies at the Schlessinger ranch, they’d want him to stick around. Hell, it might take days before they even uncovered anything.

“I’ll tell you what,” the sheriff said, reaching into the carryout bag. “You leave Nancy Rae’s name tag with me, along with a number where I can get ahold of you. I won’t charge you with trespassing. And I’ll pass your tip onto the state police in the morning.”

George sighed. At least that freed him up to go home. But it meant waiting for confirmation that Lon Schlessinger was responsible for the disappearance of all those women. George also wondered if the sheriff even took him seriously enough to bother contacting the state police.

“Listen,” she said, obviously reading his hesitation. “The last of those missing-person cases was over three years ago….”

Behind her, the deputy stopped filing and glanced over his shoulder. “I went to school with Sandra Hartman,” he said. “She was the last one-”

“Yes, Tyler, I know,” the sheriff said, dismissing him. She unwrapped her sandwich. “You’ve already told me all about it. I’m not talking to you right now.”

The deputy sneered at her back. Shaking his head, he resumed his menial task.

The sheriff rolled her eyes, then turned to George. “Anyway, my point is, it’s an old case. If the late Lon Schlessinger is somehow involved, and there are indeed bodies buried on his property, nothing about that will change between now and tomorrow morning. I can assure you, Lon will still be dead. And on the off-off-off chance some bodies are buried on his ranch, they won’t be going anywhere, either.”

Frowning, she peeled the wheat bread back and inspected her sandwich. “It can wait until morning, Mr. McMillan,” she said distractedly. “So please, quit tapping your foot. Leave the name tag and your phone number. And let me eat my lousy dinner in peace.”

Ten minutes later, George was parked across the street at Sherry’s Corner Food amp; Deli. He’d left his rental on the far side of the lot, behind a Winnebago so the car couldn’t be seen from the precinct office. He was surprised the Food amp; Deli had shovels for sale, but then it made sense, considering the neighborhood. George bought some Neosporin for his leg, as well as a shovel and pick. He felt like a smuggler carrying them out of the store in full view of the sheriff’s office across the street. He quickly loaded the tools into the trunk of his car.

Shutting the trunk, he peeked around the back of the Winnebago. George saw the deputy come out of the police station. He headed across the road again for another trip into Sherry’s Corner.

“Tyler?” George said, moving toward the store entrance. “Deputy?”

The young man stopped to stare at him. “Hey, you’re still around,” he said, half smiling. “So the bitch didn’t scare you away?”

“No, she didn’t,” George said. “Listen, deputy, how would you like to help solve Sandra Hartman’s disappearance, and maybe make your boss look like an idiot in the process?”

“Well, last I heard, dear,” the old woman said. “They sent Amelia to live with Joy’s relatives up in Canada someplace.”

Miriam Getz was petite with thick, cat’s-eye glasses and short curled hair that was light brown with a pinkish hue, obviously from a bad dye job. She wore a string of pearls and pearl earrings with her lavender sweat suit.

After making a few calls, Karen had found out Clay Spalding’s former next-door neighbor was still alive. But the 84-year-old Miriam was no longer living in Moses Lake. She now resided in New Horizons, a rest home in East Wenatchee, just a fifteen-minute drive from the library.

New Horizons wasn’t on a par with Sandpoint View, but it was pleasant and certainly clean enough. Karen had caught Miriam in the corner of the TV lounge, working on her crossword puzzle. There were about a dozen other residents in the room, watching The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming with the volume a bit too loud. Over where Miriam sat, it was a bit quieter, but her cronies still burst into laughter every few moments.

Sitting down beside her, Karen had explained that she was Amelia Schlessinger’s therapist, and she needed to find out more about Amelia’s childhood. Miriam had heard about Joy Schlessinger’s suicide shortly after the family had moved to Salem. But she hadn’t known Lon had died, too, more recently.

“What about Annabelle?” Miriam asked, putting aside her crossword puzzle.

“I’m pretty sure she’s still alive,” Karen told her. “But I don’t know her like I know Amelia. I’m trying to help Amelia remember certain things from her childhood, especially that incident with Clay Spalding fourteen years ago.”

Miriam shook her head. “Gracious, I’d think she’d be better off not recalling any of it.”

Karen gave her a sad look. “Well, she isn’t, Mrs. Getz-Miriam,” she said quietly. “I think she might need to know. I’ve read some of the newspaper accounts of what happened. It sounds like you know more about it than anyone.”

The old woman nodded. “I suppose I do.”

“I was counting on that, Miriam,” she said. “So, can you tell me about Clay?”

She frowned a bit, then shrugged. “Well, he was this Indian who, excuse me, Native American, who used to work for my neighbor, Isadora Ferris. She was elderly….” Miriamlet out a sad laugh. “Listen to me, I’m probably older now than she was then. But she was a frail thing with Parkinson’s. Anyway when Izzy passed away, she left the house to Clay, along with several thousand dollars. And believe you me, that didn’t go over well with the neighborhood. It didn’t help matters either that Clay let the place go to pot, and after he’d kept it so beautiful while he was working for Izzy, too. It was a sweet, little one-level ranch house. I never could figure out why he didn’t take better care of it. Sometimes, he even put these odd art pieces of his on the front lawn, usually some weird concoction made out of tin cans and wire hangers and Lord knows what else. It could look really junky out there.”

She sighed. “But to be fair, he was a nice, quiet neighbor. He even shoveled my walk for me one winter. And he was very sweet to those twins, too, especially Amelia. He didn’t get along with Lon or Joy. But for some reason, that one little girl liked him.”

Karen nodded. “That’s the impression I got, too. Amelia told me about a little playhouse he had in his backyard. It’s one of the only things she remembers about him.”