Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“Sounds great. Does your family own the whole village?”

She laughed. “I wish . No, just the house and Cedric’s pen and these back shops. The front shops are owned by other people but they’re not around much. Granny- from the gift shop- died last summer and her family hasn’t decided what they want to do. No one believes the Terrys are going to turn Willow Glen around, but we’re sure going to try.”

“The population sign said four thirty-two. Where’s everyone else?”

“I think that number’s high, but there are other families- a few growers; the rest work down in Yucaipa. Everyone’s on the other side of the village. You have to drive through.”

“Past the trees?”

Another laugh. “Yeah. It’s hard to see, isn’t it? Set up kind of to trap people.” She looked at my plate. I gobbled in response, pushed it away half-finished. She was undeterred. “How about some deep-dish? I baked some just twenty minutes ago.”

She looked so eager that I said, “Sure.”

She set a big square of pastry before me, along with a spoon, and said, “It’s so thick, this is better than a fork.” Then she refilled my coffee cup and waited again.

I put a spoonful of pie in my mouth. If I’d been hungry, it would have been great: thin, sugary crust, crisp chunks of apple in light syrup, tinged with cinnamon and sherry, still warm. “This is terrific, Wendy. You have a bright future as a chef.”

She beamed. “Well, thank you much, mister. If you want another piece, I’ll give it to you on the house. Got so much, my hog brothers are only going to scarf it down without thanking me, anyway.”

I patted my stomach. “Let’s see how I do with this.”

When I’d struggled through several more mouthfuls, she said, “If you’re not the state, what brings you up here about?”

“Looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“Shirlee and Jasper Ransom.”

“What would you want with them?”

“They’re related to a friend of mine.”

“Related how?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe parents.”

“Can’t be a very close friend.”

I put down my spoon. “It’s complicated, Wendy. Do you know where I can find them?”

She hesitated. When her eyes met mine they were hard with suspicion.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing. I just like folks to be truthful.”

“What makes you think I haven’t been?”

“Coming up here talking about Shirlee and Jasper maybe being someone’s parents, driving all the way up here just to send regards.”

“It’s true.”

“If you had any idea who-” She stopped herself, said, “I’m not going to be uncharitable. Let’s just say I never knew them to have any relatives- not in the five years I’ve lived here. No visitors either.”

She looked at her watch and tapped her fingers on the countertop. “You finished, mister? ’Cause I have to close up, do more studying.”

I pushed my plate away. “Where’s Rural Route Four?”

She shrugged, moved down the counter and picked up her book.

I stood up. “Check, please.”

“Five dollars even.”

I gave her a five. She took it by the corner, avoiding my touch.

“What is it, Wendy? Why’re you upset?”

“I know what you are.”

“What am I?”

“Bank man. Looking to foreclose on the rest of the village, just like you did with Hugh and Granny. Trying to sweet-talk all the other deed holders, buy up everything cheap so you can turn it into some condo project or something.”

“You’re a terrific cook, Wendy, but not too hot as a detective. I have nothing to do with any banks. I’m a psychologist from L.A… My name is Alex Delaware.” I pulled ID out of my wallet: driver’s license, psychology license, med school faculty card. “Here, see for yourself.”

She pretended to be bored, but studied the papers. “Okay. So what? Even if you’re who you say you are, what’s your business here?”

“An old friend of mine, another psychologist named Sharon Ransom, died recently. She left no next of kin. There’s some indication she’s related to Shirlee and Jasper Ransom. I found their address, thought they might want to talk.”

“How’d this Sharon die?”

“Suicide.”

That drained the color from her face. “How old was she?”

“Thirty-four.”

She looked away, busied herself with cutlery.

“Sharon Ransom,” I said. “Heard of her?”

“Never. Never heard of Jasper and Shirlee having kids, period. You’re mistaken, mister.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Thanks for lunch.”

She called after me: “All of Willow Glen is Rural Route Four. Go past the schoolhouse about a mile. There’s an old abandoned press. Turn right and keep going. But you’re wasting your time.”

I exited the village, endured fifty yards of potholes before the dirt smoothed and the RURAL ROUTE 4 sign appeared. I drove past more orchards and several homesteads graced by sprawling wood houses and fenced with low split rails, then a flag on a pole marking a two-story stone schoolhouse shaped like a milk carton and set in the middle of an oak-shaded, leaf-carpeted playground. The playground bled into forest, the forest into mountain. Name-tagged mailboxes lined the road: RILEY’S U-PICK AND PUMPKINS (CLOSED.) LEIDECKER. BROWARD. SUTCLIFFE…

I drove past the abandoned apple press before realizing it, backed up, and pulled to the side of the road. From that distance it looked like scrap: corrugated steel sides ulcered with rust and caving inward, mere fringes of tarpaper roof remaining, exposing age-blackened rafters, neck-high weeds scrambling for the light. Surrounding the building was sunken land littered with spare parts, dead-wood, and weeds that had reached the sun, been baked to summer straw.

Turn right and keep going . I saw no road, no entry, remembered Wendy’s distrust and wondered if she’d led me wrong.

I kept the engine running and got out. Four o’clock, but sun was still pouring it on and within moments I was sweating. The road was silent. My nose picked up a skunk scent. I shaded my eyes with my hand, looked around, and finally saw a bald spot in the weeds- the barest outline of a pathway running alongside the press. A shiny depression in the straw where rubber tires had finally vanquished the tangle.

I thought of walking, didn’t know how far in I had to go. Returning to the car, I backed up until I found a dip in the shoulder and nosed down into the sunken field.

The Seville didn’t take well to rural travel; it skidded and slid on the slick straw. Finally I got some traction and was able to negotiate my way onto the path. I nudged the car forward, past the press, into an ocean of weeds. The depression turned into a dirt path and I picked up speed, crossed a broad field. At the far end was a copse of weeping willows. Between the lacy leaves of the trees, hints of metal- more corrugated buildings.

Shirlee and Jasper Ransom didn’t seem like hospitable sorts.

Wendy had thought it unlikely they’d ever been parents, had stopped herself before explaining why.

Not wanting to be “uncharitable.”

Or had she been afraid?

Perhaps Sharon had escaped them- escaped this place- for good reason, constructing fantasies of a pure and perfect childhood in order to block out a reality too terrible to confront.

I wondered what I was getting myself into. Let a Jasper/Shirlee fantasy of my own float by: mammoth rural mutants, toothless and walleyed in filthy overalls, surrounded by a pack of slavering, fanged mutts, and greeting my arrival with buckshot.

I stopped, listened for dogs. Silence. Telling myself to keep the old imagination in check, I gave the Seville gas.

When I reached the willows, there was no place for the car to enter. I turned off the ignition, stepped out, walked under the drooping boughs and through the copse. Heard the trickle of water. A voice humming tunelessly. Then came to the habitat of Jasper and Shirlee Ransom.