The old man’s eyes returned to hers and there was gratitude in them, but his companion was still doing the talking. She took one look at the too-big sleeveless shirt that was barely covering Faye’s body and took action. Shrugging her big shoulders out of a heavy black cardigan, she held it out. Faye took it, grateful for the chance to cover herself.
“I know Frida won’t mind if we go in and get you a pair of her pants, at least until you can get to your own clean clothes,” she said. “Did he say ‘Doctor’? Thank the Lord you were there!”
“I’m not that kind of doctor. My doctorate is in archaeology.”
The woman hesitated. Faye figured she was thinking, “What kind of good does that do us? What kind of good does it do anybody?” because she frankly was thinking the same thing.
“But what happened?” The woman was wearing a black-checked apron with deep pockets and Faye could see her hands in those pockets, opening and clenching shut.
“All I can tell you at this time is that she was attacked,” McDaniel said, stating something terrible as a simple fact.
“It was that damn boyfriend,” the old man said.
“Which one?” said the woman in the apron. “The new one? The old one? The other old one?”
“She was dressed for a date,” McDaniel said. “Do either of you know who she might have been with? Where they went? What time they went out? When she came home? Whether she came home? Anything at all would be a help.”
“I told that woman that she should give up the men,” the woman said, jamming her hands into her apron pockets. “And that she shouldn’t be wearing the kind of clothes that get their attention. To tell you the truth, Frida is so pretty that she really oughta stop wearing makeup. She needs to hide from all the men that keep coming after her.”
“Ain’t no crime to be pretty. Ever since she was a little thing, Frida was the prettiest, sweetest child.” And now the old man finally broke down, bringing a big, long-fingered hand to his eyes.
Faye pictured the hand grasping the neck of a bass guitar and violated her resolution to let McDaniel do all the talking.
“Sir, is your name Laneer?”
“It is. Actually, my name is Lucius Laneer Billings, but people call me Laneer and you saved my Frida, so you can, too. How did you know my name?”
“I met Kali yesterday, and she mentioned her Uncle Laneer. I’m Faye.” She reached out and shook his hand. “I’m very worried about her. Do you know where she is?”
McDaniel, eager to regain control of the conversation, shot Faye a look that said, “Would you please shut up and let me do my job?”
Laneer paused before answering her question about Kali’s whereabouts. He looked at the police officer out of the corner of his eye, then skipped the answer altogether. Instead, he pointed to his companion and said, “This is Sylvia Cochran, Kali’s candy lady.”
The woman said, “You can call me Sylvia.”
McDaniel had noticed Laneer’s side eye, so he pressed the question. “Do you know where Frida’s daughter is?”
Laneer looked like he wanted to claim he didn’t know but he knew that lying to the police wouldn’t go well for him. “Kali is at my house, asleep,” Laneer said. “Been there all night.”
McDaniel said, “That’s not possible. We found ice cream in a place where Dr. Longchamp-Mantooth says that the little girl likes to play. It hadn’t even melted. She had to have been there just a little while ago, and she may have seen something important.”
Laneer was long-legged and raw-boned. He stooped a bit, but it wasn’t an old man’s stoop. It was the stance of a tall man who had spent sixty or seventy years trying not to look threatening, yet refusing to look subservient.
He paused a moment before speaking. Perhaps it was to gather his thoughts, but perhaps it was to let McDaniel know that he didn’t have full control of the conversation, just because he was an officer of the law. Finally, he said, “I don’t know nothing about any ice cream, but I know what I know. Kali’s at my house and she’s been at my house. She ain’t got nothing to say to the police.”
“Somebody left that ice cream there and I’ve got good reason to think it was your great-niece.”
Ever the persnickety genealogist, Faye said, “Great-great-niece.”
McDaniel didn’t say, “Would you keep your pointless comments to yourself?” but his sharp blue eyes said it for him. This made Faye want to complicate his life, so she did.
“Kali said that her mother loved ice cream,” she said, “Maybe Frida dropped the ice cream sandwich when she was attacked.”
This would have required Frida to be in Kali’s hidden space in the trees or for her attacker to randomly throw the melting ice cream into just the right spot. Faye didn’t necessarily think that these possibilities were plausible. She was just having a moment of seriously disliking McDaniel. And she also didn’t mind taking some of the detective’s focus off Kali, but it would have to return there eventually. Faye did honestly agree with him that the girl might have been watching when her mother was attacked and buried alive.
“Where’s your house?” McDaniel asked to Laneer. “I want to talk to the girl.”
Laneer turned and the others followed him. Faye expected at any minute McDaniel would tell her to go away and let him investigate this crime in peace, but she was resolved to tag along until he did.
Laneer’s house was on the same side of the street as Frida’s, several houses down. The street hugged the curve of the creek, so Frida’s house was invisible from his, hidden by a row of their neighbors’ houses. It was noticeably older than hers, but its siding had a fresh coat of emerald green paint
