He drew little arrows pointing at the name, wondering why he couldn’t let the guy go. It was wrong to be thinking of him. This was exactly the sort of tunnel vision that screwed up investigations. Too often hunches were proved wrong, and yet cops and journalist could spend months, years, trying to pin the guy they had a bad feeling about for a crime he never committed.
Hazel
Hazel carried a crate of cucumbers from the back of a pickup truck.
“Here, let me,” Abe called, hurrying over.
She shouldered him out of the way and cocked her head back toward the truck.
“Grab the beets if you want to help.”
He snatched the wooden crate of beets and hurried to catch up with her.
At first, they were both silent, pondering the same question - Have you heard anything?
Hazel spoke. “I talked with her dad last night. He said he met you.”
“He’s a nice guy. I spoke with Liam, too. Orla’s cousin.”
“But you haven’t found anything more about Orla?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
Hazel dropped the crate of cucumbers on a long wooden table. She put a little cardboard placard on the front that read ‘Cucumbers 5 for $1.’
She faced Abe, waiting.
“Do you know a guy named Spencer Crow?”
Hazel frowned, glanced at the vegetables as if searching for the name, and then shook her head.
“Doesn’t ring any bells. Did he have something to do with Orla’s disappearance?”
“I’m not sure. He’s the guy I mentioned who drove the gold sports car. Something about him…”
“The Devil.”
“What?”
“Sorry. I was just thinking back. The day we realized Orla was missing, I pulled the Devil from the tarot. I draw a card for the girls every day.”
“And the Devil means what?”
“Someone who’s up to no good. Not always. It’s symbolic, it can mean a lot of things, but that was my first impression. As soon as I saw the card, I sensed it portrayed a man with ill intentions.”
“And you think Spencer’s the guy?”
“No.” Hazel shook her head, arranged the beets sideways, and then turned them back straight. “I don’t know who it applies to, but it’s possible. Why was he in the park?”
“He told me he stopped to pee.”
“But you didn’t believe him?”
“No. And I usually have a good sense of people. There was something about him.”
“I’ll ask our roommates,” Hazel sighed. “Unfortunately, if I didn’t know about him, they probably won’t either.”
Abe nodded.
“I’d like you to meet Liz Miner. Susan Miner’s mom. She’s been working with me on this case for a long time. She’s kind of my right hand, or maybe I’m hers.”
“Sure,” Hazel agreed. “Anything to help find Orla.”
Abe
Abe pulled his car off on the side of the road. A high iron gate, doors open, stood at the end of the tree-lined driveway for 311 Sapphire Lane in Lake Leelanau. The driveway curved, blocking the house that lay at the end.
The mailbox did not contain a name, only the numbers 311. He stared at them, a flicker of something trying to surface in his mind. Had he visited the house before? No. He would have remembered.
“Can I help you?” A woman’s voice startled him.
He put a hand to his brow, blocking the sun.
She looked at him from the rolled-down window of a black Cadillac Eldorado. Her dark hair was pulled away from her lined, but pretty face. He saw the sparkle of a diamond earring in one earlobe. In a word, he would have called her elegant.
“Hi. Is this your home?” he asked.
She watched him behind dark sunglasses.
“Yes, and you are?”
He held up his press badge, always dangling from his neck for moments such as these.
“Abraham Sevett. I work for Up North News.”
Her expression did not change.
“And you’re here because…?”
He glanced at the mailbox, and then at the woman. The man was surely her son, based on the resemblance around the nose and cheekbones.
“I’m researching historic homes on the peninsula, and I stumbled across yours. I wasn’t going to trespass. I thought I might see it from the road.”
She took off her glasses. He saw the same startling blue eyes he’d stared at in her son’s face. And like his, they had a coldness, maybe even an emptiness.
Abe glanced down the deserted road, unease settling in.
“It’s not a good day for me,” she said finally. “Give me your card. Perhaps I can give you a tour when it suits.”
“Umm sure, yeah.” He searched his pockets, came up empty, then jogged back to his Rambler, again looking sad and grimy next to the shiny Cadillac she drove. He pulled a coffee-stained card from his cup holder and returned.
She took it in her manicured hand, nails painted with a clear polish and sharp, as if she filed them to points. She slid the card in the visor, pushed her sunglasses back onto her face, and turned into the driveway without another word.
Abe
After Abe picked up a printed copy of Spencer Crow’s driver’s license, he drove to Hazel’s house.
“Hi,” she said when she opened the door to find him on the porch.
“I’ve got a picture of Spencer Crow. Have a minute?”
“Yeah, sure.” She stepped onto the porch and took the paper.
“Never seen him,” she sighed. “311 Sapphire Drive,” she read aloud. She cocked her head to the side and frowned. “3-1-1,” she said again. And then her eyes widened as she looked at him. “Three-eleven.”
“I’m sorry, what?” But then he stopped. It was the odd time of night they’d both awoken at. Except now, he’d awoken at 3:11 a.m. for the last six nights.
“It’s happened since that first night,” she said. “And the night I dreamed of Orla, I think I woke up at three-eleven that night too. I didn’t look at the clock until I was back in my room. It said 3:14 then, but I bet you anything.”
Abe sighed, took the photo back, and folded it in half.
“Abe,” Hazel said, touching hand. “What can it hurt to open your mind a bit? Hmmm…? Maybe we’re getting clues, and…”
“From who, Hazel? From what? God? The Devil? You think there’s a God sending us little clues but allowing young women to get snatched from the street, brutalized, murdered? He has the time to wake us up in the middle of the night, but not to stop a homicidal maniac from killing in the first place?”
He threw up his hands and stomped down the porch steps, half tempted to kick over the pot of pink flowers near the sidewalk. He resisted.
“Abe,” Hazel called out. “Wait, okay?”
She followed him down, her long red skirt swaying. “Come in and have dinner with us. Jayne made chicken salad. Calvin brought over a cherry pie. You need a break. You look exhausted.”
He bit back his angry words. The words that would imply she should be doing more herself. He had obsessive tendencies, and yeah, he also had his reasons, but people had to go on. That was the truth of life, no matter the trauma, injustice, devastation - people had to go on.
He brushed his hands back through his messy hair and nodded.
“Yeah, okay. I could use dinner that’s not from a can.”