“Shoot,” she whispered. “Have a seat over there.” Whitney motioned to an empty booth by the window. “I can get another waitress to cover me for ten minutes.”
Bette walked to the table.
Whitney bustled to the bar and grabbed the drinks. She delivered them to a table of guys who eyed her appreciatively, as much for her good looks as for their beers, probably.
Whitney stopped next to an older woman wearing the same uniform. The woman glanced at Bette and nodded, giving Whitney a sympathetic pat on the back.
“Are you from Traverse City?” Whitney asked, sliding into the booth.
Bette shook her head. “The Lansing area, actually. My sister’s name is Crystal, and she’s been seeing Weston Meeks.”
“The professor? He got divorced, then?”
“No, he didn’t. He was having an affair.”
Whitney scowled. “Yikes. And now she’s missing?”
Bette nodded. “I spoke with Molly Ward, and she said Tara visited you the weekend before she disappeared. Molly was convinced she found out something about Weston’s wife when she was here.”
“She didn’t tell me if she did. She talked a little about Hillary, but mostly just mentioned she got a bad vibe from her,” Whitney offered. “She talked about Weston a lot. How brilliant he was, about the amazing poetry he wrote. She clearly had feelings for him, but he was married, and Tara is not a homewrecker.”
Whitney’s face blanched. “Not that your sister is-”
Bette held up a hand. “It’s okay. My sister had no idea Weston was married. He never told her.”
“What a rat,” Whitney exclaimed.
“Yeah, exactly. But I’m more curious about his wife, Hillary. Do you have any idea where Tara might have discovered something about Hillary Meeks?”
“No. I can’t imagine where she stumbled across something. It’s not like we spent a lot of time talking to people that weekend. She left early the last day. She ran into town to get a newspaper and some donuts, and when she came back, she was in a big rush to leave. She didn’t say why. She packed her stuff and hit the road.”
“Where did she get her paper and donuts?” Bette asked.
“A bakery called The Bread Box. It’s a block away from here on Washington Street.”
“Hmm… okay. I’m going to check it out. Thanks, Whitney.”
Bette stood and Whitney grabbed her hand.
“Hold on one second,” Whitney pleaded. She ducked behind the bar, emerging a moment later with a slip of paper. “I wrote my name and phone number. Will you call me if you find anything? I think about her every day. I pray every night. Our family needs to know what happened to Tara.”
Bette took the card and promised she’d call.
She walked down the street, glancing in store windows at souvenirs and sweatshirts with slogans like “Yooper’s Rock.”
The Bread Box was a small shop with a fluffy pink cupcake painted on the front window.
Bette walked in to the aroma of chocolate-chip cookies.
“Fresh out of the oven!” a woman said, grinning at Bette. She held a cookie sheet with a purple oven mitt and used her other hand to scoop cookies into a display case.
“They smell amazing. I’m actually here about something else, but I think I’ll take a cookie to go,” Bette told her.
“Oh no,” the woman shook her head, gray curls bobbing. “You have to eat one hot; it’s a special treat to walk in at the precise moment I’ve taken them from the oven. My grandmother called that heavenly timing. If you ignore heavenly timing once, it won’t come again for you.”
Bette smiled. She definitely could use some heavenly timing, and the cookies did smell good. Her stomach rumbled in compliance. Her head had been ignoring her belly lately, but the lady was convincing her to override it.
Bette accepted the cookie the woman handed her and took a bite.
The texture was soft and warm; the chocolate oozed richly against her tongue.
“It’s delicious,” she admitted.
The woman winked at her.
“It’s all in the timing, my dear. Now, what can I help ya with? Birthday cake order? Or” —the woman smiled conspiratorially— “a wedding cake, perhaps?”
Bette sighed and shook her head.
“I wish it was something happy like that. I’m wondering if you were working the morning Tara Lyons came in. She’s the girl who-”
The woman interrupted before she could finish.
“Yes,” she frowned. “This is my bakery. I was here the morning Tara came in. Her family visited me a few days later, hoping I could offer some clue as to her state of mind that day. Unfortunately, it was a Sunday morning at nine a.m. Probably the busiest time of the whole week for me. I sold her a dozen donuts. She was very sweet, but we didn’t chat. I regret that now. I should have spoken to her more, taken the time…”
“Did she buy anything other than donuts?”
The woman nodded and pointed to a stack of newspapers by the door.
“A dozen glazed donuts and a copy of The Mining Journal. That’s our daily paper.”
Bette walked into the Marquette library.
The librarian, a plump middle-aged woman in a blue blouse spotted with little gray mice, sat at a large circulation desk swiping a stack of books across the magnetic strip that would make a buzzer sound if they were carried out of the building.
“Hi,” Bette said, pausing in front of her. Can you direct me to old newspapers? The Mining Journal in particular, from 1989.”
“It would be my pleasure,” the woman said, standing from her chair with a groan. “That chair gets my sciatica flaring up like gasoline on a fire. I keep telling Mrs. Nelson, our director, that we need decent chairs in this library, but every year it’s stripped off the budget. I might get me one of those little cushions you sit on. They’re on the home shopping network every other week and come with a lifetime guarantee.”
The woman chattered on about her sciatica, arthritis and indigestion as they walked deeper into the library. She stopped at a square room with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing boxes of newspapers.
“We keep old copies of newspapers in this room,” the woman said. “The Mining Journal goes back five years, but we also have microfiche for older versions. They’re arranged by year, starting with January. Don’t hesitate to call out if you need me. This place is one big echo chamber. I’ll hear you fine if you need some help.”
“Thanks,” Bette told her.
The woman paused as if she wanted to see what story Bette sought.
Bette wandered away, slowly scanning years until the librarian left.
She grabbed the box that contained the newspapers from 1989. Flipping through until May, she found Sunday the twenty-first, 1989.
“Questions Linger as Anniversary of Murder Approaches,” announced the front-page headline. The photograph depicted a handsome teenage boy with long shaggy hair brushing the collar of his varsity jacket.
Bette read the article, which outlined the case of seventeen-year-old Matt Kelly, found slain in Bishop Park in 1974. The brutal murder had remained unsolved for fifteen years.
It continued on page three, where a full spread was devoted to the details of the case and included several more pictures of Matt Kelly.
Bette examined the images, and her eyes caught on a prom picture of Matt. His date, a young woman with pale-blond hair, looked familiar. Bette studied the woman’s face, the sharp angular cheekbones and thin pale lips. Most startling of all were her harsh gray eyes. The eyes of Hillary Meeks.
Bette read the caption below the image: “Matt Kelly at the senior prom with his date and girlfriend, Greta Claude.”