Marcia Muller - Vanishing Point

I said, “My name’s Patsy Newhouse, by the way.”

“Barbara Fredrick.” She extended her hand. “How’s it going so far?”

“Okay. This is a nice place, people are friendly. My aunt always said so.”

“Your aunt worked here?”

“Yes, maybe you remember her-Josie Smith. In ER.”

“Josie?” The smile took on a frozen quality.

“She started here the year the hospital opened.”

“… Right. But she left a year later.”

“D’you know where she went after that?”

“She’s your aunt, and you don’t know where she is?”

“She broke off all contact with the family about that time.”

“Oh.” Barbara Fredrick looked down into her coffee cup. “That’s a shame. I liked Josie.”

“Were you a friend of hers?”

“Not really. She was kind of a private person.”

“Why’d she leave, d’you know?”

Fredrick shrugged. “I guess she just needed to move on.”

“Is there anybody else on staff who might’ve known her well?”

She thought, compressing her lips. “As I said, she was kind of a loner, didn’t socialize much, but she had one friend on the staff, Debra Jansen. I think she mentioned to me that Josie had moved after the-”

“After what?”

Fredrick ignored the question, finished her coffee.

I asked, “Does Debra Jansen still work here?”

“No. She retired and moved away about seven, eight years ago. I think she and her husband bought a place up in Grass Valley.”

Grass Valley-an old Gold Rush town in the Sierra foothills, now a popular destination for both retirees and people attempting to escape the crowded Sacramento and Bay areas. The last time I’d driven through the area, the proliferation of malls and subdivisions had attested to the concept that when you move you take your baggage with you.

I said, “Do you have a phone number for Debra Jansen, or an address?”

Fredrick was about to rise from the table, but she paused, looking into my eyes. “No, I don’t. But if you do locate her and talk about your aunt, you should remember this: people make mistakes. Josie’s was a bad one, but mistakes happen.”

“A bad mistake? Did somebody die?” I didn’t know why I asked that particular question, but I saw confirmation of its answer on Fredrick’s troubled face.

She looked at her watch, grasped her tray, and stood. “I’ve got to get back. Good luck.”

Remember this: people make mistakes.

Josie’s was a bad one.

“How’s your head?” I asked Patrick.

“Still hurts. I can’t believe I needed stitches.” He was stretched out on his back on the bed in his motel room, looking pale and squinting in the light from the TV.

“What in God’s name did you do to that woman?”

“My assailant? Damned if I know. One minute she was beating me at pool, next she was beating me with her cue.”

“You must’ve said or done something .”

He rolled his head against the pillow and winced. “Not that I remember.”

A rap at the door. I went to answer it, let Hy inside. He hugged me, turned to Patrick, and said, “Still feel like shit, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Women, whiskey, and wildness’ll do that to you.”

“Woman, beer, and what I thought was a civilized pool game. You talk to the cops?”

“I did. Seems this sort of episode is business as usual with Crazy Mary.”

“Who?”

“The lady who bashed you. She was winning, you wanted to quit, she took offense.”

“Well, have they arrested her?”

“No.”

Outraged, Patrick tried to struggle into a sitting position, but fell back against the pillows. “Why not?”

“Because she fled the scene, and they haven’t been able to locate her. Plus I told them you didn’t want to press charges.”

“What?”

“You don’t. I guarantee it.”

“Why not?”

“Because Crazy Mary is not only a pool shark, but a habitual filer of nuisance suits. Gets into altercations, takes her victims and her sleazebag lawyer to court, and lies-convincingly. She’ll manage to turn this one around, say you sexually harassed her, and keep it tied up in the courts for years.”

I exclaimed, “I hate litigious people!”

Hy looked at me, lines around his eyes crinkling in sympathy with my anger. “Me too, McCone, but what’s to be done? Your health plan’ll cover the costs of this doofus’s injuries”-he motioned at Patrick-“and he’ll never mess with anybody like Crazy Mary again.”

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.”

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 is hot.”

“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?”