“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen her name in my records.”
My shoulders fall, and I bite back a swear. These last three days have shown me detective work is not my forte. In fact, it’s safe to say I would never want to investigate anything.
Vandella leans in, glancing around. “But I know someone who might know.”
That’s how I ended up at an old dogtrot shack deep in the woods off Louisiana Highway 528. Vandella gave me directions I almost didn’t believe could be real.
Drive out past the old apostolic church, then take a right at the Miller’s house the county hauled away last year. Keep going until the pavement ends then go two miles and take a right. When you pass a row of four dumpsters, you’re almost there. The dogs will let you know you’ve arrived.
The only wild card was the house the county hauled away. If it weren’t for a mailbox still standing in front of a concrete foundation and a partial brick chimney, I might’ve missed it.
Now, I’m in my car facing the low house standing in a clearing surrounded by pine trees. It’s built of weathered gray wood with a wide opening between the two sides. The tin roof is rusted. It smells like pine needles and wet ground, and at the sound of my vehicle, all five of the dogs hanging around the place start barking. Two are little, a Yorkie and a chihuahua. Another looks like a lab mix, and the other two don’t even get up from the porch, a bloodhound and a Rottweiler. I’ve got my eye on those guys.
Opening the door, I stand out of my car and call across the weedy yard. “Odessa Graves?”
All of the dogs start barking again, but the bigger ones don’t move. It almost feels like a joke. After a minute they start to quiet down, and I call again, louder.
The smaller dogs dance around, barking so hard, I’m worried they’re going to pop out an eyeball.
I’m trying to decide if I should risk going to the door when a craggily voice breaks through behind me. “Stop that racket!”
Stepping back, I see the hunched figure of an old woman with wild hair. Her pale skin is riddled with lines, and she’s wearing a faded dress as gray as her hair. A polished wooden cane is in her hand, and I can’t tell if she uses it to walk or as a weapon.
She makes good time to where I’m standing, shading her eyes with a bony hand. “Who are you?”
It’s not your usual Southern hospitality greeting. This is old-school, deep woods, get off my land.
“Does Odessa Graves still live here?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Deacon Dring… from Texas.” She doesn’t have a gun as far as I can tell, but I still hold up both hands. “I’m trying to find some information on my grandmother. I hope Ms. Graves might be able to help me.”
Her brow pulls together, and she shakes her head. “Don’t know any Drings.”
“Her name was Kimberly Allen. She would’ve been here about seventy years ago… pregnant? Vandella Landry thought you might know her.”
The old woman starts for the house, and all the dogs flock to her, tails wagging. “I don’t know about any pregnant women.”
“Please Ms. Graves. It’s really important I find out what happened to her. If you know anything—”
She stops and looks over her shoulder at me. “You a lawyer?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You work for the TV station?”
“No.”
“You makin’ a movie?”
“No… None of that.” I step away from the car, one careful step towards her. “I’m trying to find a missing uncle or aunt… it’s for my family.”
Her eyes narrow, and she studies my face for what feels like a very long five seconds. I do my best to show her my sincerity.
“You’re too rich to be a policeman.”
“I’m just… a businessman.” Close enough.