Amanda Stevens - The Innocent

Sam Burke started to say something, but Abby smoothly waved him off. “Did you walk east on First and then south on Peachtree, or did you take Maple down to Mimosa and then cut over to Peachtree?”

Fayetta scowled. “Does it matter?”

“Sara Beth was picked up from school by her father’s secretary, Luanne Plimpton. According to Miss Plimpton, after they left the school grounds, she drove west on First Street in a silver Lincoln Town Car. We think they may have been followed from the school by Sara Beth’s abductor. If you were walking east on First, toward Peachtree, you might have met them. You could have seen the car.”

“I don’t pay much attention to automobiles,” Fayetta said doubtfully. “Although there was a time when I coveted a Studebaker Papa owned. It was a beautiful car, and it rode like a dream. He never let me drive it, of course, because Mama said that driving wasn’t a seemly pastime for young ladies.” She paused, flashing Abby a knowing look. “I’m sure you must find me hopelessly old-fashioned, Abigail. You Cross gals have always pretty much done as you pleased, and driving cars was the least of it.”

A faint heat stole over Abby’s face. She glanced at Sam Burke who was gazing back at her with…what? Curiosity? Disdain?

More like impatience, she thought. He had little use for all this idle chit-chat, and she knew if she didn’t make headway soon with Fayetta, Agent Burke was liable to try and strong-arm information from the poor woman.

“As I said, the car Luanne Plimpton was driving was a silver Lincoln Town Car. It’s a pretty big car,” Abby added. “Do you remember seeing a car like that on First Street yesterday afternoon?”

Fayetta shook her head. “No, but I didn’t go down First Street. I took Maple over to Mimosa, like you said. It’s a little out of the way, but it’s shadier. I can’t take the heat like I once could. They say once you’ve suffered a heat-stroke, your tolerance for the sun is weakened.”

“What about your return trip? Did you come back the same way?”

“Yes, although by that time of day, First Street has a little shade, too, but I like to look at Inez Wentworth’s garden. She grows roses, you know, but in this heat, you don’t get much of a bloom—”

“What time did you get home?” Abby cut in, her own patience slipping a bit.

“Why, Abigail,” Fayetta said in a wounded tone. “You may have inherited the Cross disposition for trouble, but I know your mother and certainly your Grandmother Eulalia taught you better than to interrupt your elders.”

Abby sighed, running a hand through her damp hair. She avoided Sam Burke’s dark gaze because she knew if her patience was running thin, his had evaporated altogether. “I’m sorry, Miss Gibbons. It’s just that time is of the essence here. We have to find those little girls, no matter whose feelings we may trample on. Those children have to come first. I know you agree.”

Fayetta gave her a grudging nod. “Of course. Ask your questions, Abigail, but I still don’t see—” She stopped herself this time and clamped her lips together, as if that were the only way she could remain silent.

“What time do you think you left the cemetery?” Abby asked.

Fayetta sighed. “It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to the cemetery. That is, if no one stops to talk with me and no one did yesterday. I visited with Mama and Papa for maybe another fifteen minutes, no more, because the heat was so unbearable.”

“So at 3:30, or thereabouts, you were already heading back home on Mimosa. Did you see anything unusual, any strange cars in the neighborhood? Anything at all?”

“No, nothing like that. Except…” Fayetta paused. “I don’t know that I’d call it unusual, because from what I hear, those kids are always getting into some kind of mischief or other. But Tami Pratt’s boys almost got hit by a car. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“What happened?” Sam Burke was gazing at the poor woman so intently, Abby almost felt sorry for her. Fayetta’s fanning became even more vigorous.

“They were on those blasted skateboards.” She looked extremely indignant. “And you know how kids are with those things. A body’s not safe on the street. I don’t know why something can’t be done.”

Abby refrained from pointing out that there were worse activities for kids to engage in than skateboarding, but she’d heard about the Pratt boys. At thirteen and fifteen, Marcus and Mitchell had already been in a little trouble. Trespassing, vandalism—kid-type pranks that all too often escalated into more serious incidents. Abby jotted their names in her notebook.

“What happened?” she asked.

“They started to cross the street at the corner of Mimosa and Maple, whooping and hollering, not paying any attention to where they were going. When they got into the middle of the street, a car came tearing down Maple. It missed them by only inches, I mean. The two boys started yelling at the driver and shaking their fists, but I think it must have shaken them up pretty badly because they took off like a pair of scalded dogs on those skateboards.”

“What about the car?” Sam Burke queried. “Do you remember the color?”

“Of course. It was white, just like my Papa’s Studebaker.”

“Do you remember the make or model?”

She looked at him as if he were from a different planet.

“Was it old or new?” Abby supplied. “Ford, Chevrolet…”

Fayetta seemed at a loss. “Well, I don’t think it was old,” she finally said. “But I can’t swear that it was new, either. And I don’t know one brand of car from the other. Except for Studebakers. But you don’t see many of those these days.”

“What about dents or scratches, anything about it that might have stood out in your mind?”

She shook her head. “No. It was just a white car.”

“Two-door or four-door?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“Did the driver get out of the car?” Agent Burke asked.

“No, but I imagine he was shaken up as well. You know how people like to sue these days, and from what I hear, Tami Pratt doesn’t have a nickel to her name since that no-good husband of hers took off with Wanda Jean—

“How long did the driver remain at the intersection?”

“No more than a second or two. Then he drove off like the devil himself was after him.”

“He?”

Fayetta hesitated. “I say he. I guess I still assume all drivers are men, but that’s not the case these days, is it? It could have been a woman.”

“You didn’t get a look at the driver’s face?” Abby asked.

“There wasn’t time. It all happened so fast, and I think he was wearing a cap or something. I was more concerned about the child in the back seat. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt. It’s a thousand wonders that poor little thing wasn’t thrown clean through the windshield.”

“YEAH, RIGHT, you’re an FBI agent,” Marcus Pratt jeered an hour later when they’d tracked the boys down and Sam had introduced himself. As their mother had suggested, Sam and Abby had found the boys skateboarding at an abandoned gas station a few blocks from their home, blithely ignoring the No Trespassing signs posted in conspicuous areas.

“What makes you think I’m not FBI?” Sam asked.

“Because you’re way too old, man. I bet you couldn’t chase down a crook if your life depended on it.”

“We can’t all look like Agent Mulder,” Sam said, nodding toward the “X-Files” T-shirt the younger boy wore. He glanced at Abby and saw that she was trying hard, without much success, to hide a grin. She would find this amusing, he thought dryly, especially after he’d come down so hard on her after the interview with Fayetta Gibbons.