woman’s voice answered, “Who is it?”
“Merrie,” Sheriff Carmichael called out again as he began slowly pushing the door open with his palm. “It’s Deputy Skip, from the sheriff’s department.”
“Deputy?” Constance asked softly.
“It’s nineteen seventy-five in here,” he answered.
“What?”
He didn’t get the chance to explain further. The sound of frantic footsteps was already coming from the other side of the door, and it was suddenly ripped fully open from within. A woman roughly Constance’s height all but tackled the sheriff in a tight hug, her demeanor having suddenly shifted from fear to excitement.
Her hair was a shoulder-length shag of chestnut, streaked ever so slightly with a few strands of gray. She was pretty but definitely looked close to her chronological age, even if she wasn’t dressed to reflect it. It was hard to miss that she was clad in a long sleeve, knee-length pleated dress. It was dark blue with a stark white collar, and looked like an adult-sized version of something straight out of a seriously retro clothing catalog for children.
“Deputy Skip!” she said, joy rampant in her voice as she continued to hug him tightly. “I knew you’d come to see me today. You always do. I told Miss Martha you would, but I don’t think she believed me.”
“Oh, I’m sure she believed you, Merrie,” he replied, giving her a grandfatherly squeeze. “You know how Miss Martha is.”
“Unpleasant,” she announced as she released her grip on him and stepped back.
“Listen to you,” he chuckled.
Just as one would expect of a ten-year-old child, she widened her eyes and rolled them as she cocked her head to the side and muttered a long, drawn out, “It’s true.”
He winked. “You’re right, it is. Just don’t tell her I said that.”
She giggled at their shared secret.
“So, Merrie,” Carmichael continued, gesturing to Special Agent Mandalay. “This is my friend, Miss Constance. I was telling her about some of the people here in town, and she thought that you sounded so interesting that she asked if she could meet you.”
Merrie glanced at her but held her position close to the sheriff. After a moment she said, “Umm… Hi.”
“Hi,” Mandalay replied with a smile. “I like your dress.”
“Thank you. Miss Mavis made it for me. I picked out the pattern and the fabric myself.”
“It’s very pretty.”
“Are you a deputy too? You don’t look like one.”
“No, Merrie, I’m not,” Constance answered. “But I’m a kind of police officer. I work for the FBI. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes,” she said with a nod. “My daddy used to watch it on TV, but it’s not on anymore.”
Constance was actually familiar with the old show, even if it was somewhat before her time. “Did you watch it too?”
“Sometimes. Do you have a badge?”
Constance nodded. “Yes. Would you like to see it?”
“May I?”
Mandalay withdrew her badge case and opened it with a practiced flip. Merrie inched closer and peered carefully at the credentials. “Cool…” she muttered. After a moment she looked up and smiled. “Do you have a gun too?”
“Yes, but I can’t really show it to you. It’s only for emergencies.”
Merrie nodded. “Where are you from, Miss Constance?”
“Right now, I live in Saint Louis.”
“Saint Louis! Have you ever been to the Gateway Arch?”
“Yes, I have. Where I work downtown isn’t very far from it, as a matter of fact.”
“Did you ever go up inside?”
“Yes.”
“Is it cool?”
“Yes it is. You get to look out the windows and see everybody running around like ants down below.”
“You’re so lucky. I’ve only seen pictures,” Merrie offered. “Daddy said he would take me to see it for real someday. Maybe even this summer.”
Constance glanced over at Sheriff Carmichael and shot him a questioning look by way of furrowing her brow. In response he gave her a barely perceptible shake of his head. Focusing back on the childlike woman, she said, “That sounds like it will be fun. They have a theater underneath where they show a movie about how they built it. Make sure you see that, it’s really interesting.”
“So, Merrie,” the sheriff spoke up. “Would you mind if we came in and visited with you for a little bit?”
“That would be fun,” she told him, stepping back so they could enter. “Do you like The Captain and Tennille, Miss Constance?”
“Yes, I do,” she replied as she followed the sheriff into the room. In truth, she wasn’t really sure if she did or not. If the earlier noise was any indication, however, she was probably leaning toward not. But there was really no percentage in saying as much.
“Me too,” Merrie said. “And I really like KISS, but Sister Conran from school says they play Satan’s music.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I will say they do look a little scary.”
“I don’t think so. I think they look really cool. How about Supertramp? Do you like them?”
“Definitely,” Constance agreed. Finally, that was some classic rock she could get behind.
Beyond the door, the room looked much like any average ten-year-old girl’s bedroom-provided one stepped back in time thirty-five years. Stuffed animals were piled on the bed, and what appeared to have once been a small stack of teen idol magazines were haphazardly spilled across the floor nearby. There was even a pinup page of a teen heartthrob from one of the publications taped to the wall. It was faded and had definitely seen better days, but it was still recognizable. All together the tableau formed a solid, visual indicator that Merrie Callahan’s mind was forever stuck in that tween wasteland between childhood and puberty. Not only that, it was frozen at its own arbitrary moment in time, much like the town of Hulis itself-yet another oddity to be added to a growing list of things that were perplexing about this case.
In the corner of the room was the source of the earlier music, and it became readily apparent why the quality had been so lacking. A black vinyl disk that showed visible scratches, even at a distance, was spinning on the turntable of an old, all-in-one stereo system. With the volume turned low, now only a tinny background noise issued from the rectangular speakers sitting on either side of the unit. And even it was almost overwhelmed by the hissing sound of the stylus scraping in the worn grooves of the record album.
“Pink or purple?” Merrie questioned without warning.
“Pink or purple what?” Constance asked, shooting another questioning glance at Sheriff Carmichael, who simply nodded.
Merrie repeated the question in more detail. “Do you like pink or purple?”
Mandalay shrugged. “Both, I suppose.”
“Pick one,” Merrie insisted.
“That’s hard… Okay. Pink. Why?”
“You’ll see.” Merrie scurried over to a chest of drawers and rooted through a clear plastic box that was resting on top. Momentarily, she returned with a small bottle in her hand that she was shaking vigorously as she seated herself on the edge of the bed. “Come here. I’ll do your nails.”
Constance glanced at her hand. Long nails were one of the fashion accessories she didn’t cultivate. She kept them trimmed short, otherwise they didn’t get along very well with the trigger guard on the. 40 caliber Sig Sauer that was riding on her hip. She silently debated for a second, then stepped over and draped her coat across the footboard of the bed, then took a seat next to Merrie and held out her right hand.
“I like your shoes,” Merrie said as she started brushing pearlescent pink lacquer onto Mandalay’s nails.
“Thanks,” Constance replied. “I just bought them.”
“I’ll get new shoes soon,” Merrie said. “I always do for Christmas. They won’t be fancy like yours. They’ll be
