Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

The entrance was locked and the man who answered Kerney’s knock wore a dress shirt, tie, and slacks that were badly wrinkled around the crotch from too much sitting. Chunky with a fold of loose skin under his chin, the man flashed Kerney a broad smile.

“I don’t suppose you’re interested in that sweet 480-horsepower tractor out on the lot,” he said jovially after inspecting Kerney’s credentials.

“I’m looking for Calderwood,” Kerney said.

“You’re about twenty years too late. I bought him out but kept the company name.”

“Can you point me in his direction?” Kerney asked.

“He died two years after I took over the business. I guess retirement didn’t suit him.”

“Did he have a wife, children?”

The man’s expression darkened. “Don’t get me started on his wife. When I bought the company I couldn’t afford to purchase the property, so Calderwood gave me a two-year option on the building. His wife wouldn’t renew it after he died. Said she needed the rental income. I’ve been paying for her tour ship cruises and European vacations ever since.”

“How can I find Mrs. Calderwood?”

“She got remarried ten years ago to a retired university professor. Now she’s Mrs. Kessler. She lives on Twelfth Street, not too far from here.”

“Does she have any children?” Kerney asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Can you give me her address?”

“Sure, if you tell me what this is all about.”

“I’m looking for a missing person named Debbie Calderwood. Does that name ring a bell?”

The man shook his head. “You know, I worked for Calderwood for five years before he sold me the business. Never once did I meet any of his relatives or get invited over to his house. Both he and his wife were the most private people you could ever know. They never talked about anything personal. I can’t tell you a darn thing about that family.”

Kerney left with an address for Mrs. Kessler and drove to Twelfth Street. Until 1880, Albuquerque had been a small, predominantly Spanish settlement near the Rio Grande River. Within a year after the arrival of the railroad two miles east of the village, a new town sprang up that soon overshadowed the old Plaza as a center of commerce and business.

Over time, the old and new towns began to merge as the city grew. Anglo merchants, bankers, doctors, and lawyers bought up lots near what was to become downtown Albuquerque, and built grand homes for their families. Those houses still stood in a lovely old residential neighborhood that included Twelfth Street.

The Kessler residence was a Victorian classic with a steeply pitched roof running front to back and exposed timbering on the upper story. It had a Palladian window centered in a wall projection that jutted out above a narrow gabled porch supported by heavy square-cut posts.

Kerney climbed the broad porch stairs and turned the crank of the mechanical doorbell attached to the paneled oak front door. The tinny, weak trill of it made him crank the bell again a bit harder.

A few minutes passed before the door opened to reveal a small, lean, elderly woman with sharp features magnified by a peevish expression.

Kerney held out his badge case. “Mrs. Kessler, I’m with the Santa Fe Police Department.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Mrs. Kessler said, without a hint of humor. “Whatever do you want?”

“I’d like you to tell me what you know about Debbie Calderwood.”

Kessler’s slate-gray eyes registered no expression, but she wrinkled her nose a bit at the mention of Debbie’s name. “Debbie?” she said. “I haven’t seen or heard from her in over thirty years.”

“Is she related to you?” Kerney asked.

Kessler bared her tiny teeth in a tight, polite smile. “Why are you asking me about her?”

“I’m attempting to locate her,” Kerney replied.

“Well, I’m certainly not someone who can help you,” Kessler said, her voice tinged with displeasure.

“Learning about Debbie’s family could be very helpful. I’d appreciate hearing whatever you can tell me.”

Kessler stayed silent for a long moment, so Kerney prodded her a bit. “This is an official police investigation, Mrs. Kessler.”

“Debbie was my first husband’s niece,” Kessler said tonelessly. “Her parents relocated to Arkansas after she finished high school. She stayed behind to go to college and moved into a dormitory on campus. Then she got caught up in all that antiwar, free speech movement that was going on at the time, and started using drugs.”

“You didn’t approve of her behavior?”

“No, we didn’t. Her parents laid the blame for her poor judgment on our doorstep, said we hadn’t looked out for her enough. It caused a rift between my husband and his brother that never healed.”

Mrs. Kessler obviously wasn’t one to forgive and forget. Kerney played into it. “That must have been very unpleasant for you and your husband.”

“Indeed, it was. We tried to help Debbie as much as we could. We gave her things to furnish her dorm room, had her over for Sunday dinners, even paid to have her car fixed when it broke down. All it got us was criticism from her parents, especially after Debbie dropped out of college and ran away.”

“Did she ever correspond with you after she left Albuquerque?”

“Not a word of thanks or anything else,” Kessler said emphatically.

“Young people can be so thoughtless,” Kerney said. It earned him a surprised look of approval. “Did she maintain contact with her parents?”

“I don’t know,” Kessler said as her expression cooled. “After Debbie left, we had nothing more to do with them other than a polite exchange of Christmas cards each year.”

“Are they still living in Arkansas?”

“They’re both deceased.”

“Does Debbie have any siblings?”

“She was an only child.”

“What about a boyfriend?” Kerney asked.

“If she had one, we never met him,” Kessler answered.

“Does the name George Spalding mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Did she ever talk about boys?”

“Not with us,” Kessler said. “She wasn’t close to us in that way.”

“What about girlfriends, or her college roommate?”

She made a bitter face. “In truth, except for the help we provided, Debbie wanted very little to do with us. We were much too conventional and uptight, as she so often liked to remind us.”

“You never met any of her friends?”

“She often brought someone with her when she came to get a free meal. But the only one we saw more than once was her roommate, Helen. She at least had been brought up well enough to say thank you and offer to help with the dishes.”

“What else can you tell me about her?”

“She was from Santa Fe. She was studying art history. My husband liked to tease her about doing something more practical.”

“Have you seen Helen since those years?” Kerney asked.

“Once, in Santa Fe, when I was there for the day with a friend. She was working in an art gallery on Canyon Road. Somehow she recognized me and asked for news of Debbie. They’d lost touch with each other. Of course, I could tell her nothing.”

“When was that?”

“At least ten years ago.”

“Do you remember where you saw her?”

“No, but I do recall we had lunch right next door to the gallery.”

Kessler named the restaurant. It was one of the oldest and finest restaurants in the city.

“Thank you,” Kerney said.

“Why are you trying to find Debbie?”

“It’s a police matter.”

Mrs. Kessler nodded as though it was of no importance and closed the front door.

On the drive back to Santa Fe, Kerney couldn’t shake the image of the rigid, unforgiving Mrs. Kessler from his mind. Surviving a Sunday meal at the Kessler home must have been pure agony for Debbie.