Chalmer, a small hamlet with a population of 857, lies ten miles southwest of Hope’s Peak. It is a quiet place, as featureless as the endless, flat farmlands around it.
Bobby Cresswell’s sky-blue Lexus has seen better days. It’s got a gray fender, and one of the doors has a scratch from top to bottom, now turned a rusted-brown color. The car is all he needs; it runs okay, has never died on him, and goes fast. Nancy Flynn has a way of sitting in the passenger seat, window down, shades on, letting the air whip her hair back as if she’s a starlet in an old Hollywood picture. Red Hot Chili Peppers thunder from the stereo, and Bobby beats one hand against the top of the steering wheel, singing along.
He slows at the next turn, a dirt road that leads to a house that has also seen better days—paint flaking off the boards, roof looking like it’s about to either cave in or go flying off with the next strong breeze. It stands solitary against the rolling white clouds on the horizon. Bobby turns the stereo down as they approach, the wheels of the Lexus crunching on the hard dirt as he comes to a stop.
“You sure this is the place?” he asks Nancy as they get out.
“That’s what Nana said. Right here.”
The screen door squeaks on its hinges and a black woman appears on the porch, a white dish towel over her shoulder. She looks to be pushing forty. Her short hair is more gray than black, and she has a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, trailing smoke behind her as she steps out. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Nancy Flynn. This is my fiancé, Bobby Cresswell.”
The woman tips her head. “Good to meet you both.”
Nancy strokes the swell of her stomach. “My nana said I should come out here and see you.”
“Name’s Ida,” the woman says, her gaze moving to Nancy’s bump. “How far along are you?”
“Seven months.”
“Your nana wouldn’t be Katie Flynn, would she?”
Nancy nods. “That’s her.”
“Damn. I knew Katie when I was a little girl,” Ida says, her face suddenly becoming taut. “You’d better come in. I know what you’re here for.”
“Thank you,” Nancy says.
Bobby begins to follow her in. Ida wags a finger at him. “You wait here, mind your car. Make sure it don’t end up with another dent.”
Ida leads the way in. Nancy turns to Bobby and shrugs: What do you want me to do about it?
The house is tidy but old-fashioned. It smells of cigarettes. That, and something sweet. An old TV is on, the volume down low.
“Are you baking?”
“Bread,” Ida says simply. She gestures toward two armchairs. “Sit.”
Nancy does as she’s told. Ida sits opposite, but not before dragging the chair right in close.
“Now, your nana told you what to bring?”
Nancy digs into her bag and produces two twenties and a ten. She hands the bills over. Ida gives them a cursory look and sets them down on the coffee table.
“Let me see your stomach,” Ida tells her.
She lifts her shirt. Ida places both hands on Nancy’s bump, the palms of her hands unexpectedly warm. The woman closes her eyes, as if she’s listening for something only she can hear. The room grows just a bit darker as the picture on the television fades, then comes back. The volume does the same. Nancy does her best to stay perfectly still. Eventually, Ida’s eyes open.
“Boy.”
Nancy can’t help but be shocked. “Like that?”
The woman picks up the bills and fetches an empty jar from the top of a cabinet. She unscrews the lid, deposits the fifty dollars inside, and screws it shut. “If I’m wrong, you come back here in two months and get that fifty back.”
“Okay . . . ,” Nancy says, miffed.
Ida disappears into the kitchen, returning with something oblong, wrapped in red-and-white checked muslin, held together with white string. When she hands it over, Nancy realizes it’s bread, still warm from the oven.
“Is this for me?”
Ida smiles. It looks weird on her face, as if it doesn’t belong there. “No. Your nana.”
The Hope and Ruin Coffee Bar on Turner Street is almost empty, though it’s not unusual to see cops in there so early, going over one case or another. Harper sips her latte and listens to Stu Raley explain his findings.
“Ruby Lane. Same MO as our two girls.”
The photographs attached to the file show her covered in evening frost. In the back of the folder with Harper’s notes is a newspaper clipping:
“SNOW ANGEL” MURDER STILL UNRESOLVED—HOPE’S PEAK PD STUMPED
“It fits the profile like Morelli said?”
Stu nods. “Trauma to the head and face. The position of the body on the ground matches that of Magnolia Remy and Alma Buford. Could be Ruby Lane’s the template for the others.”
“Killing them because they’re similar to her,” Harper says, nodding slowly.
“She was his first kill . . . and she was special.”
“Hmm.” Harper lifts the folder and leafs through the files inside. “Says here she was living in Chalmer, just her and her daughter. No family, other than her mother and father. It’s got interview transcripts with them in here. Her kid must’ve gone to them when Ruby died.”
“Might be worth checking in with them. Track them down, see what they can remember,” Stu suggests. “The records at the station got a bit vague at that part, but I did a printout of what I could find.”
Inside his notebook, he has several pages he hands to her.
Any record from 1995 onward has been computerized—hence the thousands of files stored in the basement. They could be digitized and disposed of, but that would take time and money the department doesn’t have.
Harper reads through what he’s given her. “Says here Ruby’s mother died in ninety-eight, of natural causes. Ruby’s father passed ten years earlier. Suicide.”
She goes back a page and follows the third name associated with Ruby: Ida Lane, born 1976. Harper does the mental arithmetic, making Ida nine years old when Ruby was killed. She works back. Ruby was twenty-four when she died, so she was just fifteen when Ida was born. At first, it’s surprising to Harper that Ruby lived away from her parents, since most teen mothers would prefer to stay close to home. And there is no evidence of the father being involved.
She was just a single mom trying to do the right thing.
Harper flicks through the pages until she reaches the point in Detective Lloyd Claymore’s notes where he mentions Ruby’s daily life. She worked school hours at a dry cleaner’s in Chalmer, renting a one bedroom at the back of a bar.
Working, making sure Ida attended school, doing what she could.
Returning to Ida’s file, she sees there’s not much more. Following the death of her mother, Ida’s residence changed to that of her guardians—her grandparents. From the looks of things, unless the records are severely out of date, Ida lives there still. Harper looks at the name adorning each report.
“Detective Lloyd Claymore?”
Stu consults his notes. “Claymore now resides at Baxter Retirement Home, north of Hope’s Peak. I’ve got the address right here.”
Harper gets up, takes her keys and bag. “Let’s go see what he remembers.”
“What about my coffee? I didn’t even touch it!”
Harper holds the door open for him. “Ask ’em for a cup with a lid.”