Without a Whisper

"You hear anything, you call me too," Sheriff says.

"Will do Sheriff. Have a nice day," Stephanie says. She removes the sign saying she's on break and resumes work.

I step out first and immediately light a cigarette while still walking. I offer one to Yvonne who declines, and the Sheriff doesn't smoke.

"Anything helpful?" the Sheriff asks.

"Not really, just interesting. If Katie was here for a month, that changes the entire dynamic of her stay," Yvonne says, and I nod in agreeance. "We going to the Lodge next?"

"Yeah," I say, flicking the ash away from myself. I want to read the receipt immediately, but I need to be patient with the Sheriff breathing on me.

"I'll wait a second, we'll leave together. Can be hard to find sometimes. Best to follow me," the Sheriff says. Just in case I decide I need more words in with Stephanie, he doesn't miss me doing it. He went from the most helpful person, to the most suspicious in mere minutes.

"I'm ready now. Just needed a few puffs," I say, squeezing the cherry off. I put the remainder in my empty pack. The Sheriff gets into his car, and I take the driver's seat in our rental.

"What the fuck is going on?" Yvonne asks.

"What does the receipt say?" I ask. I remove it from my pocket and hand it to her. Yvonne takes it and begins to unfold the paper while I back the car up.

"What do you mean what does it..." Yvonne starts to say, looks at the message, and then finally gets on my page. "How the fuck didn't I catch that?"

"You've been riding a desk for too long. She didn't want to say anything in front of the Sheriff," I say, and she reads Stephanie's message to me.

Whisper Lake Boathouse.

"Just when I was thinking he was the only one we could trust," Yvonne says, and neatly rubs the creases off the receipt to take a picture with her phone. "Just in case. What was the deal with Dartmouth that tipped you off?"

"Just like Hunter, Chase went to Dartmouth," I say. "That girl was trying to tell us something. For now, we play dumb."

There is something at the lake, and the lake just happens to be where we're going.

--

Thursday - April 9, 2020: One Day Before

-Chase Kramner-

Deputy Lionel wakes me up fresh and early by calling me through the lodge. Breakfast was being served, and a woman I presume is Morgan, Lance's mother, asks for my order. I only request a bagel so I can get on the road when Lionel arrives in about twenty minutes. Gives me enough time to waddle up the trail and back to the parking lot. While I have her, I ask a few questions.

Morgan is an older woman, early sixties, with the appearance of a fairy tale God Mother. She's short with a cloud of white hair pulled out of her face with hairclips. A face worn down by wrinkles, but I can tell she was quite the beauty in her prime.

"I'm a private investigator," I say, and hand her my card after giving my order. "I'm looking for a girl who came by here some time ago."

"A girl some time ago?" she asks. She has a grandmother voice too. There is a delay in her reply, and she speaks softly with abnormal gaps between words, suggesting something wrong upstairs. I hand her a picture of Katie. "She looks familiar. How long ago did you say?"

"2009," I say.

"That's certainly some time ago," she says, and appears to be attempting to remember with sincerity. "Did she stay here?"

"Lance gave me her invoice. You let her stay for a dollar a day," I say.

"A dollar a...Kathy...Karen...Katie? Katie. Katie, I remember her. Poor thing was carrying a child within her. Had to leave home, girl didn't have two dimes to rub together."

Katie left home flush with cash from selling her stepfather's belongings. Did Katie make her believe she couldn't pay and played on her sympathies?

"You let her stay basically for free?" I ask.

"Not basically, it was free. The dollar a day was solely to keep a record. I didn't have the heart to charge her. Eugene didn't like my kindness, said the girl was a charity case," she explains.

"Eugene?"

"My late husband," she says, and I nod.

"She was here for a month?" I ask.

"Just shy it seems. If it weren't for the receipt, I'd never remember."

"Did she ever tell you anything about why she ran away?"

"I'm sorry, it's been years, and my memory isn't what it used to be," she says.

"Of course," I say, and my phone rings. Lionel is calling. "I need to go. I'd like to ask you more questions later if that's possible."

"Of course, dear. I won't be anywhere else," she replies.

I leave politely and am halfway up the trail when I realize I forgot to get my bagel.

--

Careless Whisker is what you get when a small-town kid goes to the big city and tries to replicate a hipster coffee shop. The walls are decorated with local art, which I immediately notice is drawn by the same person, and the covers of vinyl records. The one most prominently displayed is the album Make it Big from Wham! The song Careless Whisper is from that album, hence the name for the café. That was Katie's favorite album too. They also have sponsored a few youth sports teams for soccer, girl's volleyball, and boys wrestling.

A barista is making beverages behind a long counter, and I can hear a commotion from the back. A swinging door is pushed open by a second, and larger, woman with a tray of pastries she places on display. The combination of the smells produced by espresso and pastries is making my mouth water.

"What can I get you?" the young woman at the counter asks. Stephanie is stitched onto her shirt.

"Give me a minute," I say, and review the menu written on a large blackboard. Normal menu items are written with white chalk, seasonal is green, specials are orange. The standard coffee, Americano, salted caramel everything, and cappuccinos are present. I keep it simple with a black coffee and a croissant.

"Nice album," I say, and she follows my pointed finger to Wham!

"Careless Whisker," she says with a giggle. "My cat walked over the album and I got the idea for the name."

"Cute," I say, and remove cash from my wallet to pay. "How long have you lived here?"

"All my life," she says, taking my cash. "Except two years of college in Pittsburg. Came back, expanded my mom's bakery into a café. Mom still bakes."

"So, you were here, say, ten years ago?" I ask. Something about me asking, especially about ten years ago, makes her uneasy.

"You could say that, I guess," she says, and her ability to make change slows down. "Why are you asking about ten years ago?"

"Katie Rodgers," I say, and the coins in her hand slip out and spill on the ground. I use the name I must assume she would have known her as.

"Umm, what?" she says, and removes herself completely from my sight by crawling for the change.

While she's on the floor, I place a picture of Katie on the counter. Stephanie returns with my change and drops it again when she sees the picture.

"Keep it," I say, and she is flustered as hell. "I'm not going to ask you if you remember her. Just what you remember."

"I don't..." she starts to say but stops pretending. "Why do you want to know?"

"I'm a private investigator," I say, and try to hand her my card, but she just stares at it without taking it. I'm about to retract my hand when the large woman from the back snatches the card. Mom is a redhead with long hair, Stephanie is a brunette with a bob.

"No soliciting. Didn't you see the sign?" she asks. Her stitching says Evelyn.

"Not selling," I say. Evelyn looks at the card, and I watch her eyes slowly raise back up to me. She tucks the card into a pocket of her apron and leans over the counter.

"What're you here for then?" Evelyn asks. Her hand sticks to the picture of Katie on the counter, and she picks it up to eye level. "Katie?"

"She's been missing since 2009..."

"...if her stepfather sent you, you could march your ass right out that door," Evelyn says, and stabs her finger in direction of the exit. She knows about Tom and seems convincingly protective of Katie even ten years later.

"He didn't..."

"...well, someone did," Evelyn says. She digs her hand into the pocket of her apron and finds my card to read my name before returning it. "Mr. Kramner."

"The detective who worked her case when she disappeared hired me. Did Katie ever come here?"

"Door," she says, dropping the picture of Katie on the counter, and points to the exit.

"Don't you care why she never came back?" I ask, and she grabs my collar and damn near pulls me over the counter.

"Mom," Stephanie says, motioning in our direction, but hesitates. Her mother keeps a full fist of fabric from my shirt.

"I cared more about that girl than her own family. I gave her a job so she could get to going where she needed to go. She ate dinner at my home three nights a week when she was here. Yeah, I care that she never called, but that's what life is. People promising you shit they don't deliver on," she says, and lets me go. "Get out."

"I paid for coffee," I say.

"Get your cup, and beat it," Evelyn says, and stomps to the ovens in the back.

Stephanie slowly takes an empty cup and pours coffee from a pot. She secures it with a lid and places it on the counter for me to take.

"I'm not working for her stepfather," I say, and she looks down at the counter. "Something happened to her, and I will find out what."

"Katie was here, then she wasn't. That's all I know," Stephanie says. The bell rings behind me, and I turn my head over my shoulder. Sheriff Knight enters the shop, and Stephanie swipes the picture of Katie off the counter, causing it to gently fall downward to the floor. How instinctual that was for her, is alarming.

"Morning all," Art says, making his way to me on his cane.

"Morning Sheriff," several patrons say.

"Morning Sheriff," Stephanie says, but her gaze is more evasive with him than it was with myself. There is some distressing history between these two.

"Chase, getting a head start on me?" Art says, and I turn to face him fully. I can feel the tension radiating from Stephanie, and it started the moment the Sheriff and his cane walked in. I turn away from him, exhale to put on a game face, and pick up the coffee.

"Just getting coffee. Haven't even asked a question yet," I say, and take a sip. The coffee is surprisingly good. "Wow that's good. Thank you." I drop a five-dollar bill into the tip jar and walk away from the counter with the Sheriff in tow. "Getting anything?"

"I had a cup at the station. Let's get to work," Sheriff says, and directs me to a table. After we sit down, he pulls out rolled up sheets of paper from his pocket and tries to spread it out flat on the table. "Mort is a piece of shit, but he keeps decent records. Only one receipt of him working on a Buick Skylark."

Katie Grossman, or Rodgers, seeing how she was consistent in that lie, lost all four tires to the pothole, and damaged the undercarriage, cracking the fuel line. Total bill was $1470.

"Highway robbery, I know," Art says. I look at the next document for the police report when the car was reported stolen. "A detective from your neck of the woods came looking for it not long after the GTA was filed. A detective Blanchard. By then, the girl was long gone."

Blanchard was only able to get me the name of the town and the repair shop. Better than nothing.

"You talk to him?"

"I was on medical leave because that's about the time my deputy shot me on accident," he says, holding up the cane. "If someone talked to him, it was Lionel." He dropped me off and went back on patrol. I thought he was younger, but he's old enough to be working this job for over a decade. I need to have a heart to heart with the man when he drives me later today. "Run me through what you got so far."

"Katie runs away from home, steals a car that isn't reported for two months. Takes the exit headfirst into a pothole and gets stranded here for repairs. A month later, the car is fixed, and she leaves. That's it."

"She didn't have the money on hand to pay for repairs?" he asks.

"That's the thing, she should have had the money" I say, and he leans back into his chair some. "When she left, she stole some of her stepfather's electronics and pawned them. Those receipts tell me she had almost $3000."

"How'd she go bankrupt that fast?"

"Good question," I say. Evelyn had let it out that Katie worked here during her stay, but I don't think it's a good idea to let the Sheriff know I was told that. Not if Stephanie's reaction to his presence is any indication.

"Wish I could be more help," Art says.

Where did all her money go? Why did she take that exit? Why is Stephanie so scared, and Evelyn so confrontational? What the hell happened to Katie Grossman?

"Anyone you'd recommend I talk to?" I ask. Art thinks for a moment. Enough time for me to take a drink and place the cup back on the table.

"Stephanie was likely too young. Maybe her mom Evie. She does the baking in the back," Art says, pointing toward the swinging door behind the counter. Evelyn steps out to restock pastries and gives me a death glare when she notices I didn't leave. The woman slaps the pan on the counter when she's done and walks around.

"Morning Evie," Art says.

"Arthur," she says, and looks at me. "I thought I told you to get."

"He's got some questions about..." Art begins but is cut off.

"...don't care. Katie left ten years ago, not a word since. Satisfied?" she asks. When neither of us reply, she leaves without another word.

"I thought you said you hadn't asked questions," Art says.

"Like I said. She didn't give me the chance," I say. Art stares at me. A long, calculated stare. His face relaxes, and he stands up.

"Lionel is on call if you need to get somewhere. Just give him a ring when you need a lift," he says. The Sheriff leaves the documents on the table and uses the cane to support his way to the door.

I stand up to leave as well, looking toward Stephanie who looks away when our eyes meet. Her mother leans out from the door again and gives me one last warning.

Stephanie knows something, but I can't ask it here. Not with her mother, or the Sheriff, nearby. I collect the documents but leave my cup behind after writing my number on the side.

--

Mort Senior calls to let me know the car will be ready first thing in the morning. I say I'll pick it up at noon and hang up. After being forced to vacate the coffee shop, I start the real grunt work of investigating; talking to people.

I go business to business and knock on doors. Every random passerby is asked if they remember Katie Grossman. I surprisingly get a few who remember her working at the bakery years ago. Some male teenagers just tell me she's hot and laugh at me. Lionel drives me to several homes along the outside of town, but not luck. He drives me back to the downtown area, and I try to think of what I want to ask him. I need a little more time, or more information, before I figure out how to approach him.

At the courthouse at the end of downtown, I find a bench and take a breather. I've been at this for six hours, and my stump feels the rawest it ever has. My lotion is in the room, so all I can do is change the sock over the stump.

While I rest, I take the time to think about Katie. She was here for a month. She might have even sat on the bench I'm currently sitting on. Sixteen and scared shitless of something, dead broke, pregnant, but getting by from the generosity of strangers in a town like this. Evelyn giving her a job and Morgan giving her a home. Mort fucking her over because every story needs a villain. Then she just leaves. Something about that last part, sounds like the least credible component of the entire story.

I call Jenn, but it rings to voicemail. I leave her something brief and generic and hang up. Several minutes pass and I try to work up the energy to continue working. What I miss the most is my stamina. This used to be the most enjoyable part of my job. I loved the physicality of going place to place, talking to people, getting information, and trying to find out what it all means. I feel like an old man past his prime, and I'm only thirty-five.

My phone chimes, and I look at it, expecting Jenn, but it's not. It's a number I don't recognize. The message says 'Whisker, ten after closing'. Stephanie? I didn't see their sign for hours, so I return to the job and discretely peek while I walk by. She closes at ten o'clock.

--

I call Lionel to come pick me up and drive me back to the lodge. After Stephanie's reaction to the Sheriff, I don't want him tracking my movements and who I'm talking to through Lionel. That alone makes me reluctant to even talk to him. I have spent all day trying to discern the best line of questioning that limits suspicion.

"You been a deputy long?" I ask. After my deliberation, I decided masking questions as banal road talk was best.

"Thirteen years," Lionel says. "How long you last before your leg?"

"About eleven," I say. "Medically retired as a sergeant for special investigations."

"Fancy," he says.

"Mostly as a liaison with federal agencies and a case auditor."

"Close any big ones?"

Busted pretty much the entire Irish and Russian Mobs in the city. Discovered a serial killer had framed five men for murder, forcing all the cases to be overturned and two of the men released from prison.

"Nothing worth talking about," I say. I'm usually not this humble but talking about that eats the time I have for this conversation. "How'd the Sheriff get the cane? He said someone shot him."

"That was my brother on accident when he was deputy with me," Lionel says. "We used to play this game on traffic stops when I'd approach one window and he'd approach the other. Play the repeater," he says with a laugh. That's a classic. "Cleaning his service weapon at his desk. Didn't remove the mag before he started. About ten years ago."

"What kind of gun?" I ask.

"Same one I got. Glock17," he says, then laughs a little.

"What's funny?" I ask.

"That's the story the Sheriff is going with. My brother didn't shoot him, accident or on purpose. It's a story he made up and the rest of the town ate whole without chewing. Lance resigned to take care of our mother. I played scissors and got to stay on. Sheriff tells that story so he doesn't have to tell the truth."

"What is the truth?" I ask.

"No idea. I'm thinking maybe his ex-wife did. About the time they fell apart. Easier to say a dumb deputy did it. Make it a little funny so the medicine goes down," he says, and looks toward me. "Anyway, what are you packing? I heard you tell the Sheriff you got a gun."

"Glock44," I say.

"44? Is that the caliber?" he asks.

"Glock44 shoots .22 long rifle," I say, and he looks at me out of the corner of his eye with bemusement. "I know, .22, do I keep it in my purse? Can't argue with the shot group. Fails to chamber the first round in the mag now and again, but pretty solid gun."

"I don't begrudge a man for his gun tastes. Most of the city folk we get around here -- when we get them -- you'd think a gun could turn into a snake and bite 'em," he says. "Even if you keep it in your purse."

I watch the sign for the lodge as we drive past it.

"Were you the one who talked to Detective Blanchard when he came looking for the car?" I ask. Lionel takes a moment to understand the question and asks me to repeat it.

"That girl's car? The one she stole?" Lionel asks.

"Allegedly."

"Yeah, I talked to him back then. Told him what we told you. Gave him the name Katie Rodgers, and that was that. Hadn't seen her or the car for some time, so we didn't have much to tell him," Lionel explains. Blanchard did the bare minimum and let it go cold. Best case, he got a photocopy of her driver's license, found it was a fake, and that's all she wrote. Blanchard wasn't looking for Katie; he was looking for a car.