Killing Beauty

Two

Two

I drove us onto the Bridge of the Gods, the steel-grated cantilever bridge that spanned the Columbia River. The Big River—which acted as a border between Oregon and Washington—reflected the sky today, as if it were a huge lake instead of one of the largest rivers in the United States. My car rattled over the steel grating—I needed to slow down. I glanced in the mirror. No one was behind us. I lightly tapped my brakes.

Beyond the river from us, Hamilton Mountain rose above a forest of Douglas firs. If I turned left, we’d soon reach the entrance to Wanted Lake, where the out-of-town rich people kept summer cabins, and beyond that, the Beautyville Dam. Turning right would take us to Beauty Falls. To the north, the Gifford Pinchot National Forest stretched up to and included Mount Saint Helens and environs.

Once we were across the bridge, I turned right. Hamilton Mountain disappeared as we headed for Beauty Falls on SR 14. I had spent nearly every summer in Beauty Falls when I was a kid, coming out here to get away from Portland on hot summer days. I continued to come back when I was an adult, staying in our family’s cottage—which was definitely not on Wanted Lake—until we sold it a few years back. When I left the force eight months ago, I decided to buy a house in Beauty Falls. I wasn’t sure why. The town was dying or, at the very least, it was in transition.

I could relate.

Story goes Beauty Falls was named after a tiered waterfall that disappeared when the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers built Beautyville Dam in the 1930s. This explanation never made sense to me because the town of Beauty Falls is miles from Beautyville Dam. I’d heard locals say the falls never existed—the name and the story had been concocted by town officials to get tourist dollars.

When I was a kid, an old Chinook woman came to do a program at the library. She told us the falls did exist, but they were hidden from white folks. This part of the world was flush with waterfalls—there’s one at the end of Mystic Trail—so someone could probably point in any direction and say, “The Beauty Falls falls are over there” and somebody would find a beautiful waterfall and believe it to be the “real” Beauty Falls.

Long way of saying, Danella and I didn’t see any waterfalls as we drove into Beauty Falls. What we glimpsed was an old logging town trying to come back from near death. It was basically a commuter town now, with most people working in Portland, Oregon, or Vancouver, Washington. Took about an hour from Beauty Falls to get to either of those cities. The main employer in Beauty Falls was the government—either the feds, state, county, or city, although some people worked at Darby’s Unmanned Aircraft Systems. Or as the locals called them: Drones Are Us.

I turned off the state highway and headed up Rusty Street hill toward the courthouse.

It was foolish to go to Danella’s house if the kidnappers were holding her mother. Or blackmailing her. Whatever they were doing. I had to ignore Danella’s distress about going to the police and do what I thought was right and go to the police. Over twenty-five years as a police officer had enabled me to ignore distress when I needed to: mine or someone else’s.

I turned into the courthouse parking lot. The courthouse and the adjoining jail filled a cream-colored building that took up half a block. The joke was that the prisoners had the best view in the county since the building looked down at the town and across the river at the tree-covered gorge cliffs. I didn’t know if this was true or not: I’d never actually been in this jail. On the other hand, the cops had no view. Their shop was completely windowless. Unless things had changed since I was a kid. I hadn’t been inside the building since I was a teen answering questions about Amanda’s murder.

“That’s the car!” Danella cried, pointing. Then she ducked down. “I told you they knew the police!”

She had pointed to a red Impala parked right in front of the cop shop.

The vehicle appeared empty.

Why would kidnappers go to the sheriff’s department?

“Don’t let them get me,” Danella said.

“I won’t.”

I had history with Nate Gunderson, but I didn’t know enough to say whether he was always the good guy or always the bad guy—could I say that about anyone?—but I didn’t think he would knowingly collaborate with kidnappers.

What exactly was going on here?

What the hell had I gotten myself into letting this girl get in my car?

Crap.

I glanced around the lot while driving slowly toward the exit. The red Impala and a sheriff’s patrol car were the only vehicles in the lot. I had almost forgotten it was Saturday.

I sighed. The smart thing to do was to take Danella into the police, regardless. I wasn’t a cop any longer. I couldn’t act like one. I could imagine my ex-husband going on about how I always thought I knew better than other people. And my ex-CO. His lectures always started and ended like this, “You are either a cop who follows procedures and the rules or you aren’t, and if you aren’t, quit. It would be better for all of us.”

I believed in rules. I believed in the law. But sometimes I had to follow my gut. My ex-partner, Don Langley, understood that. Even when my gut—my instincts—got us into trouble.

I drove out of the lot and onto Ontario Street.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“336 Columbia. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” I said. “You don’t need to cover up, but keep your head down.

I drove up School Street and then turned left and traveled up the hill until I got to Columbia Street. The kid lived only a few blocks from me.

I turned right onto Columbia.

“What color is the house?” I asked. “What kind of car does your mom have?”

“It’s light green, the house,” Danella said. “We’ve got a blue Honda. And a dog. Preppy. I hope my mom has been feeding him twice a day. He’s got to eat more than once. He’s little, but he gets hungry. Maybe that’s why he gets hungry.” She sounded nervous. Must be a talker when she got nervous. Common trait among criminals. Maybe among people in general.

I saw the green house—Danella’s house. 336. A dark blue Chevy van was parked in the unpaved drive. I glanced around. Dark gold Nova parked in front of a yellow house where a man mowed the lawn. The Nova looked familiar. At the house kitty-corner from the green house, a teenage boy was shooting hoops in his drive. Nothing and no one stirred at the green house.

“Whose van is that?” I asked.

I heard Danella rustle behind me as she slowly raised her head and peeked out the window.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not Mom’s. Where’s Mom’s car?”

No garage.

Now what?

I drove to the next cross street and then turned right and went down the road a bit and parked.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

“We aren’t doing anything,” I said. “What’s your mother’s name?”

I turned off the engine.

“Maggie Green,” Danella said.

“Get back under the blanket,” I said. “I’ll be right back. Don’t leave the car.”

“I won’t,” she said from under the blanket.

I left the windows open a couple inches, and then I grabbed the religious pamphlet and my gun and got out of the car. Locked the car and opened the trunk. I tucked my gun into a hidden pouch near the wheel well. Shut the trunk. Then I straightened my clothes and ran my fingers through my hair.

I flexed my facial muscles and practiced smiling. It seemed like the religious people who knocked on my door were always smiling, and I was about to pretend I was one of them spreading the word. That was my cover in case I needed one.

I strode down the sidewalk until I got to Columbia Street. I turned the corner, looked up the block and saw the backup lights on the blue van come on in Danella’s drive. I walked faster. Didn’t want to run. Didn’t want to spook whoever was in the van.

They were backing out. Could see a figure in the passenger side, but the face was turned away. Short cropped black or dark brown hair. A barber cut. Most likely a man. The figure turned and looked in my direction. It was a man, white, about forty years old. Didn’t look at me. Turned away again. The van pulled out onto the street and drove away from me.

I hurried up the street to the house, walked down the drive, then knocked on the front door. The front curtains were open, and I didn’t see any activity inside. I started to put my hand on the knob when suddenly the door opened.

“Katie, what are you doing here?”

Debbie North stood on the other side of the door. She was an old acquaintance of mine who cleaned houses for a living. That must be why she was wearing long green gloves. She glanced at the pamphlet in my hand.

I smiled and quickly put it in my pocket. “Someone left it on my car,” I said. “Hey, a friend of mine lives here, I think. Is she here?”

Debbie opened the door wider, and I could see the living room. The nondescript furniture reminded me of something I’d see in a hotel room.

“Her name is Maggie Green,” I said.

“I’m not sure,” Debbie said. “Darby’s pays the bills and the tenants usually don’t stay long. I’ve got a memory like a sieve. I only met her once. But whoever she is, she’s not here any more.”

Debbie turned away from the door, and I came inside and closed the door behind me—using my foot—and then quietly turned the dead bolt to lock it—using my shirt sleeve. If anyone had been watching, they’d probably suspect I was about to commit a crime. Fortunately, Debbie wasn’t looking.

She took her gloves off as she walked into the kitchen. I glanced around. I didn’t see any personal items anywhere. Danella said they’d only moved to Beauty Falls a few weeks ago. If they hadn’t put away any of their belongings, where were the boxes?

“Darby’s?” I asked.

“They own this place,” she said. “Use it for their new big shot hires some of the time. I come in once a week when someone is living here, but I was on vacation when the last hire moved in. I came on my regular day last week, and she asked me to come back this week.” Debbie turned on the kitchen faucet and ran her hands under water.

“So she works at Darby’s?” I asked.

“I figured,” Debbie said, “but we didn’t talk about any of that. She had told me where the key would be if she wasn’t here—they won’t let me have a key even though I’m here once a week. I thought about telling her Darby’s wouldn’t like her hiding the key under the stone rabbit in the back where anyone could find it, but, what the hell, none of my beeswax. There’s nothing to clean. Her clothes are gone. The kid’s, too. I guess they left sometime between then and now.”

“I just saw a van here,” I said. “Who were they?”

Debbie dried her hands on a dish towel on the fridge handle.

“Just some guys,” she said. “Got the wrong house. But I’ll have a story to tell at the Timbers tonight.” She laughed.

I looked at her.

“Haven’t you heard about the men in the blue vans?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“You should come down to the Timbers,” she said. “You’d see a lot of old friends.”

“And a lot of old drunks,” I said.

“I hear that,” she said. “But they’ve got great food now.”

“Really?” I said. “I usually walk down to A&J’s and get something from the deli.”

“Get a social life, woman,” she said. “You ain’t gonna get that at the grocery store deli.”

I laughed.

“Anyway, the men in the blue vans are Beauty Falls’ answer to the Men in Black helicopters. Because of the drones. It’s probably all paranoid stuff. Although I tell ya, these guys did look like feds. Weren’t wearing suits, but they might as well have been. Stiffer than my ex. And I gotta tell ya—”

I put up my hand and laughed. “I don’t want to think about Tony and his . . . stiffness.”

Debbie laughed. “You should. About the only thing good about the marriage.”

“You mind if I look around?” I asked.

“Why? Something up?”

I shrugged. “Just want to poke around.”

Debbie looked at me. We had known each other casually for nearly thirty years or more. Finally she said, “Knock yourself out. I’ve got to do the bathroom. Might as well since I’m here.”

Debbie left the room. I took the dish towel from the fridge and used it to open one cupboard door after another—no sense leaving my fingerprints all over. Besides a few plates, bowls, cups, the cupboard was bare.

“Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard,” I murmured as I leaned over and opened the bottom cupboards. A few pots and pans. Walked to the fridge, opened it. Empty except for a single lemon on the top shelf. I slid open the butter hood. Instead of butter, I found three Bigfoot Fruit Leathers—cherry, apple, and raspberry—flat as bookmarks, shaped like footprints. I took them out of the fridge and slipped them into my back pocket.

I glanced in the plastic garbage can next to the stove. It was empty. I stepped into the living room and called down the hall, “Deb, did you empty the kitchen garbage?”

“No!” she called back. “It was already empty.”

Either Maggie Green hadn’t left in a hurry, or she—or someone else—had carefully covered her tracks.

I looked around the living room. Didn’t find a trace of anything, not even dirt under the couch cushions. Walked down the hall until I came to the open door of a small bedroom. The walls were blue. The floor was covered in the same beige carpet as the rest of the house. Child’s bed with mattress. No sheets or pillow. Small dresser, painted blue. I stepped inside the room and opened the dresser. Empty. Closet. Empty.

If Danella had lived here—like she said she had—where were her things?

On my way out of the room, I pressed my fingers on the wall above the light switch. The paint was dry, but my fingers stuck to it, just slightly. I leaned in: couldn’t smell anything. Either they used no-VOC paint or else it had been painted long enough ago that it had outgassed.

I walked past the bathroom where Debbie was scrubbing the sink. She glanced at me and then looked back at the sink. “Don’t know why I’m doing this,” she said. “Place is scrubbed clean.”

I walked to the second bedroom. The shades were down so I switched on the light. This room was empty. Didn’t have a bed, dresser, piece of lint. Looked like it had just been vacuumed.

Switched the light off and walked back to the bathroom.

“Were their things here when you stopped by last week?” I asked.

Debbie turned around and leaned against the sink. “Yeah,” she said. “There were a few boxes they hadn’t unpacked, but their things were around. Now it looks like no one lived here. Kind of weird. And rude. She didn’t even leave a note. Darby’s better pay me, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Did you meet her daughter?” I asked.

She frowned. “Daughter? I thought she had a son.” She shrugged. “No, I didn’t meet her kid. She didn’t show me around since I’ve been cleaning this place for years. The room is blue. Don’t they paint boy’s rooms blue and girl’s rooms pink? I mean I’m assuming that room was for her kid.”

“Anything seem strange about her?” I asked.

“No. She was intense, like all of those engineering types from Darby’s. I figured that must be what she is. Either that or Christopher Darby’s mistress. I heard he’s got an eye for da ladies. Anyway, the engineers think we’re all Podunk here, so they barely look at us. Not that she was like that. Maybe she was; maybe she wasn’t. I don’t know. But she was in a hurry. Why you asking questions? You think something’s wrong?”

I shook my head. “You know me,” I said. “Old cop habits die hard. I better get going. Might be better if no one knew I was here.”

She nodded. “Better for me, too,” she said. “They might ask me how I dared to let you in. They’re all paranoid at Darby’s. They did a background check on me so I could clean some of their rentals. I told them I was bonded, but they wanted to do their own thing. If what they’re doing there is so peaceful, why are they so suspicious?”

“Corporate espionage,” I said. “Can make or break a business.”

“That’s right,” she said. “You worked white collar for a while. Did you like it? Better than working with whores and drug addicts, eh?”

I laughed. “When I was working white collar, I was still dealing with whores and drug addicts. They just dressed better.”

Debbie shook her head. “Of course. What a stupid thing to say. Like I don’t know the suits are more crooked than anyone else.”

“Yeah, there are good guys and gals everywhere,” I said. “I better get going. See you around town.”

She nodded and turned back to the sink.

I returned to the kitchen and put the towel back on the handle of the fridge. I hesitated. The towel now had my DNA on it. DNA was better than a fingerprint in court these days. So what? I hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t like I had kidnapped anyone. Every innocent person said s**t like that.

“Idiot.” I grabbed the towel again, used it to open the front door, then balled it up in my hand and hurried down the drive and onto the street.