From the bed came a moan of agreement.
“So now that we’ve got that mess cleared up,” Hy said, “how did it go at the hospital?” He was lounging on the bed in our motel room, a beer in hand.
“Fine. I have a lead to a friend of Greenwood’s in Grass Valley. Derek’s trying to locate her.”
“You going down there?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure how. Patrick’s in no shape to drive. I considered borrowing his car, but that would leave him without transportation. Besides, I’m not sure it would make it.” Patrick’s car was an ancient Ford Falcon that spent more time in the shop than on the road; frankly, I was surprised it had made it as far as Crescent City.
“Here’s a solution: why don’t I fly you there first thing in the morning. You could rent a decent car, drop it off when you get back to the city.”
“It won’t make you late getting the Citation back to Dan?”
“Nah, it’s only a slight detour. Plus it’ll give us more time together. And now what d’you say to getting some dinner?”
“Fine, as long as we don’t follow it up with a stop at Tex’s.”
Monday
Grass Valley once was the richest gold-mining town in California, but, unlike many, it did not fade into obscurity after the veins of ore were played out. Today it thrives on a combination of high-tech manufacturing, agriculture, and-of course-tourism. While the town has spread far beyond its original boundaries, the central district is filled with well-maintained buildings dating from the 1850s and ’60s.
I drove slowly along West Main Street, taking special note of a handsome old hotel, and turned onto the appropriately named Pleasant Street, following the directions given me over the phone by Laurel/Josie’s old friend Debra Jansen. Her house was in the second block, a large white Victorian with blue trim. As I started up the wide front steps, a voice spoke to me from the porch.
“Ms. McCone?”
I looked up, saw a woman with a pert face and silver hair that fluffed out around her head, the sun’s rays turning it into a halo. “I’m Debra Jansen,” she added. “Come on up here where it’s shady. I’ve made us some iced tea. I always keep a pitcher of it in the fridge on days like this.”
“Thank you. It
“Ninety-nine today. Actually, that’s nothing for August.”
“I have an uncle who lives outside of Jackson; he’d agree with you.” I stepped onto the sheltered porch. An assortment of white wicker furniture with floral-patterned cushions sat there, a moisture-beaded pitcher of tea and two glasses on a tray table.
“Sit down, please,” Debra Jansen told me, turning to the table and pouring. “I was surprised when you called and said you wanted to talk about Josie. I’m not sure what I can tell you. It’s been years since I’ve heard from her.”
I accepted the glass of tea, drank some, then took out my recorder. “Is this okay with you?”
“I don’t know why not. But, as I said, I don’t think what I know will help much.”
“You never can tell.” I turned the recorder on. “When did you last hear from Josie?”
“She sent a card at Christmas of nineteen ninety-four. She was living in Klamath Falls, Oregon.”
“Did she enclose a note?”
“No. She just signed it. It was a special card, though, not one of the kind you buy by the box. A Hallmark with a long message about absent friends. That made me a little sad.”
“Why?”
“Because the two of us weren’t all that close-at least, not what I call close-and I knew the reason Josie went out and bought an individual card like that was she probably didn’t have many people to send to.”
“She was a loner, then.”
“Very much so. Ms. McCone, before we go any farther with this, I must ask you: why are you looking for her?”
“Her daughter hired me to locate her.”
“She has a daughter?”
“Two. They also haven’t heard from her in many years.”
“She never mentioned any children. I knew she’d been married and, from a few of the things she said, I gathered he’d been unfaithful to her. But now that you’ve told me about the daughters, it explains her rapport with the children who were brought in to the ER.” She frowned. “But her children would have been young then. Why didn’t she have them with her?”
“They remained with the husband.”
“He got custody, after what he did?”
“It happens.”
“Well, it shouldn’t!” Debra Jansen’s face grew pink with indignation.
I moved away from that line of conversation. “Do you have Josie’s address in Klamath Falls?”
“No. I sent a card the next year, but it came back as undeliverable, so I removed the address from my book. I assumed if she wanted to get in touch with me, she would. But she never did. Do you suppose she died?”
“It’s possible. Mrs. Jansen, would you mind telling me about your friendship with Josie Smith, from the beginning?”
“Of course not. There isn’t a great deal to tell.” She stood, poured us more tea, and returned to her chair. “I joined the nursing staff at what was then Seaside Hospital in nineteen-eighty. In eighty-six, the county leased it to Sutter Health, with the provision that a new hospital be constructed, and when it opened in ninety-two, we moved to the new facility. It was larger, and quite a few new people were hired; one of them was Josie. I’d see her in the cafeteria, always alone, always reading. She looked so sad and vulnerable. So one day when I saw she had a favorite book of mine-Steinbeck’s
“Did you see her socially?”
“Occasionally we went out for drinks after work. When my husband was working night shifts-he was in law enforcement, a deputy with the county sheriff’s department-we’d sometimes go to dinner. I never went to her home, though; it was a studio apartment, and I gathered it was too small to entertain in. Once I had her over to the house for dinner, but it wasn’t too successful an evening; my husband didn’t like her, and she must’ve sensed that because she turned down my next-and last-invitation.”
“Why didn’t your husband like her?”
“He couldn’t pin it down. All he could say was that there was something ‘hinky’ about her. Suspect, you know? I had to respect his feelings, though, so after Josie turned down my second invitation, I kept my family life and my relationship with her separate.”
“Did you also feel there was something ‘hinky’ about her?”
“No. While my husband was used to dealing with criminals, I was used to dealing with sick and injured people; I knew that what he sensed in Josie was her underlying sadness.”
I said, “You were at Sutter Coast when Josie made the mistake that caused her to resign?”
Debra Jansen nodded.
“What’s your take on that?”
“It was an honest mistake any of us could have made-any day, anytime. Nurses, doctors, it doesn’t matter-the potential for deadly mistakes exist, and sometimes they happen.”
