Miss Me When I'm Gone

chapter 39



I was dreading arriving at the Willingham Library parking lot—seeing the place where Gretchen had actually fallen. I even considered parking down the road from the library so I wouldn’t have to be in the actual parking lot. But I’d programmed the GPS for the library address, and it ordered me toward the library lot in its clipped, efficient female voice—like a stern mother reminding me of my responsibilities.

I pulled into the lot, took one of the front spaces, then headed straight into the library, without looking around much.



Ruth Rowan—a petite woman in her forties with a soft, mulletlike hairdo—sat me down in her windowless office behind the reference desk. While Ruth herself smelled sharply of soap, her office smelled like old coffee.

“You said in your e-mail that you’re a friend of Gretchen Waters?”

“Yes. And I’m a journalist.”

“I see. And you’re here in which capacity, then?”

Oh, librarians. Always so sharp.

“A little of each, I guess.”

I explained about being Gretchen’s sort-of literary executor, and that seemed to put her at ease a bit.

“I know the police have asked you all about that night. But I was wondering if you’d be willing to tell me about it, too.”

“Are you going to put this information in her book?”

“I’m finding it helps me feel a bit better,” I explained, “to know as much as possible about what happened.”

Ruth nodded. “Fair enough. Shall I start with her reading?”

“Okay.”

“She seemed a little nervous. I mean, she did a good job. But she didn’t seem totally happy to be here. She was . . . maybe . . . uncomfortable. Especially when someone asked her about her second book.”

“What did she say about it?”

“She said that she was in the process of doing a major overhaul of the book. That she wasn’t sure what kind of book it was going to be yet. That she didn’t want to say a lot about it. Which struck me as a little odd. That’s a pretty standard question most authors get, you know? What are you working on next?”

“Maybe she didn’t want to jinx it,” I said.

Ruth gave me a sad look. “Maybe so.”

“Also . . . Gretchen just didn’t really like public speaking.”

“I see. Well, she did a fine job. I’m not saying she didn’t.”

“Did anyone in particular make her nervous?”

“Well, that’s a good question. When she went up to the podium, she said, ‘Oh. Hello,’ to someone as if she recognized a guest she wasn’t expecting. I didn’t see who, it wasn’t clear. I didn’t think much of it at the time, although I did tell the police about it later. And that didn’t seem to make her nervous. On the other hand, there was someone in the crowd who asked her why Tammyland didn’t have hardly anything in it about Kitty Wells. He said anyone who knew anything about women in country music would’ve given a big chunk of the book to Kitty Wells. It seemed like he wanted to give Gretchen a hard time about that.”

“What did Gretchen say to that?”

“She said she appreciated the contribution of Kitty Wells to country music, but that her book was a personal memoir, and none of Kitty’s songs happened to speak to her in the way the others had.”

“And was he happy with that response?”

“No, not at all. But this particular patron isn’t happy with anything. He’s a terrible curmudgeon. He writes a letter to the editor nearly once a month explaining why the school or library budgets should be cut. He likes to attend our events just to poop on them, if you’ll excuse my language. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything personal with Gretchen. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care a whit about Kitty Wells either.”

“So were most in attendance people who regularly come to these book events?” I asked.

“Oh, I recognized about half of them.” Ruth straightened a pile of books on her desk. “We have our regulars, certainly.”

“How many people were there in all?”

“About eighteen or so. Which is pretty good for a book event like this. It’s usually a fairly middle-aged crowd at these things. There were a few young women this time, since Tammyland is a little more of a young women’s book.”

“Any men? I mean, aside from your curmudgeon?”

Ruth sat back in her chair. “Um . . . yes. Two others. A short, bald man. I believe he was the husband of one of the ladies. And one other man, who was by himself. A very tall, middle-aged gentleman. I’d never seen him before. He had what they call ‘big hair,’ which is why I noticed him.”

The description took me by surprise.

“Dark hair?” I asked.

“Yes.” Ruth studied me worriedly.

“With some white in it?”

“I think so,” Ruth said slowly.

“And how long did the event last?” I asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“A little over an hour, if you count the refreshments afterward. Gretchen chatted with several of the attendees, had some wine. Then she and I chatted for a little bit while I locked up the library.”

“You two were the last out?”

“Yes. We were behind the other guests by a few minutes.”

“That was still enough time for most of them to start up their cars and leave, probably?”

“I suppose. As I told the officer who came and spoke to me, I didn’t see Gretchen get into her car. I didn’t see exactly where she was parked at the time. I usually park on the side of the building, away from the main lot. Most of the staff parks there.”

I hesitated, not wanting to sound pushy or critical. I wasn’t blaming her for not walking Gretchen to her car.

“So you didn’t see any of cars in the main lot?”

“I caught a glimpse. As I came down the steps. But then I circled around to the side.”

“Were there a lot of cars in the lot?”

“A few.” Ruth sighed. “There are usually a few, even when the library is closed.”

“Why’s that?”

Ruth shrugged. “There’s often overflow from the Dragon Buffet half-price nights. We don’t enforce patrons-only parking. It’s usually not a problem, since our lot’s pretty big and we don’t have a lot of patrons around dinnertime anyway.”

“So what kind of cars did you see there that night?”

“I described what I remembered to the officer who came.”

“Can you tell me, too?”

Ruth looked frustrated. “Well, okay. I don’t have a photographic memory. I don’t remember everything. But there were a couple of SUVs. As usual.”

“Do you remember the colors?”

“One tan—a really huge one. One was smaller and a dark color. I don’t quite remember. There are lots of SUVs in our town. There might have been more than two. It wouldn’t have been remarkable to me. There was a black VW Bug, I think. And there was a cute orange compact car. I noticed that one because I’ve been wanting one of those myself. I test-drove a Honda Fit recently.”

“Okay,” I said.

“There was a pickup truck near the back of the lot, close to the Dragon Buffet side. Blue. Kind of old-looking. But that’s all I remember.”

“There were more cars than that, though, you’re saying.”

“A few, yes. Those were the ones that were memorable to me the next day, when the police questioned me. I certainly didn’t remember any license plates, or anything like that that would’ve been of great use to them.”

“Do you know if the police tracked down other patrons who’d been at Gretchen’s reading? People who were leaving the lot the same time as her?”

“Yes. I gave them the names of the patrons whose names I knew. I don’t know how much they were able to tell them. I know that Susan Sparks—she’s one of our regulars at the readings—before she pulled out, she saw Gretchen head down the stairs to the 7-Eleven, which she thought was a little surprising, since it was dark by then. But you know, it’s really not that odd. I’ve done it—after my shift is over, swing down there for a quart of milk or a Diet Coke.”

“Are those steps down tricky?” I asked. “Dangerous?”

“They are a little steep, yes.” Ruth glanced at me, then out the window at the parking lot. “I tend to hold on to the railing. You could . . . um . . . go out there and see for yourself. If that would help. Or have you done that already? On your way in?”

“Um . . . no. I haven’t. I suppose I should.”

Ruth nodded. “I am sorry about Gretchen. She was clearly a kind and interesting young woman. It must be difficult for you.”

“Yes,” I said.

She glanced at my belly. “Would you like me to go out there with you?”

Often I was exasperated by the pregnancy-inspired concern, but this time I was grateful for it.

“Okay,” I said.



Ruth Rowan and I stared down the cement stairs together, silent for at least a minute or two. The steps were cracked in a few spots, with dandelions growing out of them. At the bottom, the black pavement looked relatively new, with fresh white lines for the 7-Eleven parking spaces. I looked beyond the pavement and watched an elderly man in a driver’s cap emerge from the store with an armful of ice. I didn’t wish to focus on the spot where Gretchen had lain bleeding.

“Do you know where Gretchen was parked?” I asked, turning to Ruth.

“Yes. Not far from the steps. That space, I believe.” She pointed to a space a few feet from the steps. “The police had this area blocked off the week after it happened.”

“So she probably was headed for her car, and then saw that there was the 7-Eleven down there, and decided to grab a snack.”

I didn’t look at her, but instead at the patchy grass on either side of the cement steps leading down to the lower parking lot.

There was a simple metal pole railing running alongside the stone steps. I stood on top of the first step and gripped the railing. It was scaly with chipped paint and rust, and it moved toward me when I pulled it—a little wobbly, but firmly in the ground.

“Why are these stairs even here?” I asked.

“That used to be a town building as well,” Ruth explained, pointing at the 7-Eleven. “So these stairs connected them. But since the town sold the building about fifteen years ago, the steps haven’t been maintained by the town.”

I nodded.

“You know it was a bit rainy that day, right? I believe it was kind of muddy. Slippery. So . . . so before they found her purse, we thought that may have contributed. Maybe it still did.”

“Maybe,” I said softly. It certainly would make it easier for someone to push Gretchen, if that’s what she meant.

Ruth gave me a robotic pat on the upper arm. I got the feeling she was grasping for the right thing to say. I decided to relieve her of that burden and let her go back to her job.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I’ve seen enough. Thank you for coming out here with me.”

Ruth didn’t react immediately. For a few minutes, we gazed down the steep stairs together. Then she walked me to my car.