But what will I do if I lose the key?
With that thought, Harper takes it out of her pocket, hooks it on to her car keys. She starts the car and lets it run for a moment as she puts her cell in its dock on the dash. Almost immediately, the screen flashes the first few words of a new text message. She swipes the screen.
It’s from Stu:
Call me when U R done today. Let me know how it goes.—SR
Harper smiles, tapping a quick reply onto the phone’s on-screen keyboard.
Ok. Any developments YOU call ME Btw I put the files back. I will give you the key or we can make a copy.
The land is flat, brown, and green. Every shade of nature you can imagine, all of it subdued, laid-back. A haze settles permanently upon the horizon. Dust thrown up off the roads looks like muddy smoke.
Harper crosses the railway track that borders Chalmer. An old Dean Martin number comes on the radio: “Powder Your Face with Sunshine.”
It makes her think of her childhood, something she’d rather forget. To that end, she switches the radio off and drives the rest of the way in silence. The main street feeds the rest of the little town like a major artery pumping blood to every extremity. Chalmer branches off of Hope’s Peak in such a way that Harper finds it hard to understand why it’s a separate entity from its bigger counterpart.
She parks outside the sheriff’s office.
“Hey,” Harper says to the officer at the front counter. She removes her sunglasses and sets them down before producing her ID. “I’m looking for a bit of info on one of your residents.”
“That so?”
“Yes. Ida Lane. I think she lives out on the—”
The deputy raises a hand to stop her. “I know Ida. She in trouble or somethin’?”
“No, no. I just want to ask her a few questions relating to a case I’m working.”
“Aha. I see. You want something . . . unofficial,” he says.
Harper glances left and right—she’s the only one in there. “Why the games? Can you tell me something or not?”
“Afraid not.”
Harper grabs her glasses, and starts to leave. She gets as far as the door.
“If you want to know about Ida Lane, you need to talk to Hank Partman.”
She turns back. “Partman?”
“Outside, turn left. He owns the little store down there, Past Times. Sells collectibles and such. Talk to him,” the deputy says, returning to whatever he was writing before she walked in. Harper opens the door and walks out, frowning back into the quiet sheriff’s office.
She gets the feeling this is very much one of those towns. Not that there’s something fundamentally wrong here—just that it’s slightly off-kilter. Like the deputy on the desk.
In her two years living in Hope’s Peak, she’s never had cause to visit Chalmer, and there’s a flavor of the weird that’s hard to miss.
Past Times is a dusty place, with a bell on the door, crammed full of merchandise. A withered old man comes out from behind a counter with a cash register on top.
“Afternoon,” Hank says, flashing a set of perfectly straight false teeth. “Can I help you with anything?”
She shows him her ID. The smile fades, just a little. “I’m looking for some info.”
“Information on what, exactly?”
“On whom. I’m told you’re a man in the know when it comes to local matters,” Harper says.
Hank Partman leans against the counter, his ego stroked. “I’ve been known to be quite knowledgeable, yes. To whom are you referring then?”
“Ida Lane?”
“Oh,” Partman says, looking down, smile nothing but a distant memory now. “I doubt there’s much I’ll be able to tell you that you don’t already know . . .”
“Really? That’s a shame,” Harper says, unconvinced. She decides to turn on the charm, put her feminine wiles to good use. “I bet there’s quite a bit a man like you could tell me. A respected member of the parish, and all that.”
Partman blushes. “Well, of course there was her poor mother’s murder . . .”
“Yes.”
Partman removes his glasses and uses the end of his tie to clean the lenses. “Then her grandpappy killing himself the way he did,” Partman says with a shake of the head.
“How did that happen?”
“Oh, he hung himself. I believe it was poor Ida found him,” Partman explains, a distinct note of sadness in his voice. “He was swinging back and forth. She never really stood a chance, poor thing. It’s no wonder she’s the way she is now.”
“Does anyone see much of her?” Harper asks.
“She lives out there in the house she grew up in, right on the edge of Chalmer. Hardly says boo to anyone when she pops into town. Does come in here from time to time, though.”
Harper frowns. “Really? What for?”
“This and that. Bought a typewriter off me a few months back. You know, the manual type. She came in last week, got a replacement ribbon for it. Lucky I had some in stock. They’re hard to get these days. I think she likes to live simply. I was surprised to hear she even had a TV. No video, though.”
“Friends? Anything like that?”
Partman shakes his head. “Not that I know of. I think Ida’s happy living on the outskirts, where it’s quiet. She buys a lot of records off me sometimes.”
“Records?”
“Vinyl. Twelve inches. Old stuff, you understand.”
It never ceases to amaze Harper the little details people remember. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”
She starts to leave, and Partman comes out from behind his counter. “Miss Harper?”
“Yes?”
“People around here respect her privacy,” he says, his eyes full of sadness. His voice drops to a soft whisper. “I think they pity her . . . and they maybe even fear her. Just a little.”
“Fear her?”
“Just a little.”
“Why?”
“Ida is different. You’ll see when you get up there. It really was tragic, what happened to her. To be honest, I’m a little surprised she hasn’t followed in her grandpappy’s footsteps by now.”
The house could do with a coat of paint. Maybe two.
Harper gets out of the car and immediately sees movement from inside.
A black woman in her late thirties pushes through the screen door and walks out onto the porch. “Hey.”
Harper walks to the front steps leading up to the porch. “Hi, I’m Detective Jane Harper. Would you be Ida?”
“I would. Why d’you ask?”
“May I speak with you?” Harper asks.
Ida shrugs. “Sure.”
When Harper gets to the porch, however, Ida shows no sign of going back indoors. “Hey, uh, can I see some ID first?”
“Oh, yeah,” Harper says, handing it to her.
“Okay.” Ida gives it back. “Do you want to sit out here? It’s awful hot inside and I don’t have a fan since my last one decided to die on me.”
“I’m fine either way,” Harper says, sensing the woman’s initial reluctance to invite a stranger inside. “However you like.”
Ida leads her to a swinging chair around the side. The bolts holding it in place look rusted and old, but when Harper sits in it, it’s sturdy enough. Ida sits at the other end, pulling a cigarette from a pack.
“Care for one?”
“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”