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“When did this happen?”

“Three years ago. No, less. It was in the fall, and had to’ve been right around Thanksgiving, because the last time I saw her—or one of the last, I can’t be sure—the tables in the Belfry all had paper turkeys on them.” A long pause. “When I say no one looked for her, I guess that includes me. Doesn’t it?”

There’s a little more—Holly showed Keisha the photo of the earring and Keisha also confirmed it was Bonnie’s—but nothing of substance, so Holly shuts off her phone. She’s smoked her cigarette down to the filter. She mashes it out in her portable ashtray and immediately thinks about lighting another one.

Keisha hadn’t connected Ellen Craslow with Bonnie Dahl, probably because they disappeared years apart. The connection she made was Ellen and Maleek Dutton, because both were Black. And she was embarrassed, as if telling the story about a woman suddenly being not there made her realize that she wasn’t so different from the people—probably most of them in the city—who didn’t care much about one more young Black man shot at a traffic stop.

But there was a huge difference between a young man shot dead in his car and an acquaintance who just dropped out of the mix. Holly could have told Keisha that, but she had been too full of her own thoughts—troubled thoughts—to do more than thank Keisha for her time and tell her that she, Holly, would get in touch if she had more questions or if the case resolved.

There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for Ellen Craslow’s disappearance. Janitorial work is a skill, but Holly thinks it’s probably a high turnover job. Ellen could have moved on to someplace warmer, just as Keisha said—Phoenix or LA or San Diego. She could have gotten an urge to see her mama again and eat some of her mama’s home cooking. Except she never picked up her last check and Peter Steinman disappeared around the same time. Ellen lived in Lowtown (on the edge), but she worked at the college, which is only a couple of miles from the Dairy Whip. Less, if you cut through the park.

As for Bonnie Rae Dahl, her bike was found in front of an abandoned repair shop approximately between the college and the Whip.

Holly starts her car, makes a careful U-turn, and drives past the campground, where summer vacationers are enjoying themselves beneath the benevolent gaze of Chief Smoke-Um Peace Pipe.

4

It would be a long drive back to her apartment in the city, too long after the day Holly has put in. 42 Lily Court is closer, but she has no desire to spend the night in her dead mother’s house and smelling her dead mother’s potpourri. She registers at a Days Inn near the turnpike and gets a take-out chicken dinner from Kountry Kitchen. She didn’t bring a change of clothes, so after eating in her room, she walks to a nearby Dollar General and buys fresh underwear. To this she adds an extra-large sleep shirt with a big smiley face on it.

Back in her room—not fancy, but comfortable enough, and the air conditioner doesn’t rattle too badly—she calls Barbara Robinson, feeling she has troubled Barbara’s big brother enough for one weekend. Barbara is almost as good at sussing out information on her computer as Holly is herself (she’s willing to admit that Jerome is better than either of them). Besides, she wants to know how Barbara’s doing. Holly hasn’t seen much of her this summer, although Barbara was at Charlotte’s Zoom funeral.

“Hey, Hol,” Barbara says. “What’s going on? How are you doing with your mother and all?” It’s the right question under the circumstances, but Holly thinks Barbara sounds distracted. It’s how she sounds if you try to talk to her when she’s reading one of her endlessly long fantasy novels.

“I’m doing well. How are you?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Jerome had quite a time, wouldn’t you say?”

“He did? What’s up with Jerome?” No noticeable excitement in Barbara’s voice.

“Had to take a woman to the hospital. He was asking her some questions for me and she OD’d on booze and pills. He didn’t tell you?”

“Haven’t seen him.” Distracted for sure.

“As for what’s going on, I’m looking for a missing woman, and came across another one in the process. The name of the second one is Ellen Craslow. I was wondering if you could do a little digging and see if you could find out anything about her. I’d do it myself, but the WiFi at the motel where I’m staying is super poopy. It’s kicked me off twice already.”

A long pause. Then: “I’m kinda busy, Hols. Could Pete do it?”

Holly is surprised. This is a girl who used to love playing Nancy Drew, but seemingly not tonight. Or maybe, considering what she went through last year, not at all.

“Are you thinking about Ondowsky? Because it’s nothing like that.”

Barbara laughs, which is a relief. “No, I’ve pretty much put that to bed, Hol. I’m just really really busy. Kind of under the gun, if you want to know the truth.”

“Is it your special project? Jerome said you had one.”

“It is,” Barbara says, “and I’ll tell you all about it soon. Maybe even next week. You, Jerome, my folks, my friends. I promise. But not now. I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Say no more. I’ll talk to Pete. It’ll give him something to do besides taking his own temperature every fifteen minutes.”

Barbara giggles. “Does he do that?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Are you really doing okay with your, you know, your…”

“Yes,” Holly says firmly. “Really okay. And I’ll let you get on with whatever it is you’re doing. Not to sound like your mother, but I hope some college prep is involved, because it won’t be long.”