J. Margos - Shattered Image

“Let’s see, the one he had his eye on was a girl named Julie Paine, and her friend was a girl named Frances Miller.”

“Do you know if they both still live in Hempstead?”

“Yes, they do. They were both at Brian’s funeral. Frances is married and has two children now. Poor little Julie never married, and appears to be quite grief-stricken over Brian even still. They were all very good friends then.”

“This is very helpful, Nadine. They may be able to give us the kind of information we need.”

“Yes, they would know better than me really.”

We sat quietly for a few seconds.

“You know,” Nadine said, “the man Brian worked for in Hempstead might be able to help you also. He still runs that same clothing store. It’s called Wolfram’s and it’s in the town square. He knew Brian really well.”

“Oh, that could be helpful, too.”

“Toni, why don’t we go look at some of Brian’s sketches. You’re an artist, and I’m very proud of his work. I’d like you to see them.”

“I would love that.”

We got up and went down the hall to a little room with windows all across one wall. It looked like a study, and with all the windows, it was light even on a gloomy day like that one. The study had become a gallery to Brian’s work. She showed me framed drawings of birds in the wild from all sorts of places. Apparently, Brian would travel to other locations from time to time to study and sketch the birds. The bookshelves were filled with books on ornithology. Suddenly, I noticed one book on the shelf that had the name Ferguson on the spine.

“Oh, what is this?”

“That was Brian’s book. He had a doctorate in ornithology.”

“I had no idea. That explains the bird watching.”

“Yes, but as you can see, he was a really good artist.”

“Yes, he really was. His work is very nice.”

“He just wanted to focus on his art and the birds without the pressure of a high-stress job. It was what he loved.”

Nadine and I talked for a while longer. As a mother, I couldn’t imagine what she had been through and was still going through now. Her husband had died two years ago and we discussed things that only a widow could understand. I thought about this brave woman, carrying on with what was left of her life. She told me that she only had about four months left, according to her doctors. She was enjoying what she had as much as possible, but she was ready, she said, to go to the other side. She said her life was richer now in understanding how precious each moment was. She had a close network of friends and she was maximizing her time with them. I felt better in hearing that, but sad still that this sweet woman was not someone I would have time to know better.

We brought our conversation to a close, I thanked Nadine for the coffee and made up my mind to go to Hempstead on my way back to Austin. Hempstead was only about an hour out of Houston and not really far off the beaten path back to my city. I didn’t know how wild Mike would be about the idea, but I wasn’t some little school-girl, and I thought Tommy wouldn’t object. I was going to do it anyway, because I needed the answers myself. Besides, I was saving them some footwork and they had other cases to work on. That one sounded really good in my head when I came up with it anyway.

As you drive up the coastal plain from Houston toward Hempstead, you move into the beautiful, lush green forests and hidden piney woods of Texas. They make ice cream in a town just up the road where they claim the cows think they’re in heaven. I know why they say that. It is truly one of the loveliest parts of our state, even in the rain.

Once in Hempstead, I found Wolfram’s and stopped in there to see Mr. Wolfram. A salesperson told me he was at lunch and gave me directions to the restaurant. It wasn’t hard to find. Hempstead wasn’t exactly a huge place.

I found him at a nice little diner called Goodman’s. He was seated at a table with two other women and a small child. He was a nice man of about fifty-five, portly with a bald head and a funny gray handlebar mustache.

“Mr. Wolfram?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Toni Sullivan. Nadine Ferguson gave me your name and said you might me able to help me. I’m the forensic sculptor who reconstructed Brian’s image.”

“Oh my! How nice to meet you.”

He stood up and we shook hands.

“Call me Bud, Toni.”

“Nice to meet you, Bud.”

“You’ll be interested in meeting my friends here. These are two good friends of Brian’s. Julie Paine and Frances Holman, she used to be Frances Miller.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. Julie Paine still looked like the young girl she must have been when Brian Ferguson was alive. She was a plain woman with fair skin, a small upturned nose, large, blue eyes with a sad appearance in them and a sweet, but tentative, smile. Her fine blond hair was tied in a ponytail with a green ribbon that matched the shirt she wore. Frances Holman Miller was a large-boned woman with tanned skin and she appeared to be fit. She had short black hair, a long slender nose and deep brown eyes, with an air of confidence Julie seemed to lack.

I shook both their hands, and Bud asked me to join them. It suited me just fine, I was starving for lunch myself. I sat down and ordered something to eat.

“The police asked us if we recognized that other woman who was killed,” Julie said.

“We didn’t,” Frances continued.

“We knew everyone Brian knew,” Mr. Wolfram offered. “He was just a really high-quality person. He really only wanted a simple life here. With his credentials he could have been teaching somewhere, but he wanted to live simply and study birds.”

“Yes, his mother told me. She told me he traveled from time to time to other places to study.”

“Yes. That was how he spent his vacation time. I was very lenient with his time off because he was just such a great guy-such a great friend.”

He looked down at the table. I noticed that Julie looked very sad and upset. Before I could think of anything wonderful to say, a man in police uniform came up to the table. He greeted everyone there.

“Who’s your friend here?” he said, referring to me.

“I’m so sorry,” Bud said. “Toni Sullivan, this is Chief Grant. He’s the head of our police department.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Chief.”

“Toni Sullivan? You’re the artist, the one who did Brian’s sculpture.”

“Yes,” I said, surprised that he could remember my name.

“I met your son, so to speak. He and his partner and I spent some time talking about the case over the phone.”

“Oh, I see.”

“So, what brings you down here?”

“Chief, pull up a chair and join us,” Bud said.

He pulled up a chair, and began asking me questions.

“Your son and his partner asked me questions about Brian and some woman name Addie Waldrep. They faxed me her photo, but she didn’t look familiar to me, and I don’t know any folks around here named Waldrep. They didn’t tell me a whole lot about what was going on, though. Who was this Addie Waldrep, and what does she have to do with Brian?”

Julie looked more upset now. I wasn’t sure if Tommy and Mike would approve of me telling them this, but I wasn’t going to sit there and watch this young woman unravel on me.

“Actually, at this point, we don’t know that she had anything to do with Brian. Her bones were found in a similar manner in Austin, so the police are trying to get any information they can on how and why the killer did these things.”

“I see. Then who was she?”

“She was actually a woman who went missing from a small town not far from Austin. She’s been missing for sixteen years. Another man from her town went missing about the same time.”