Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

“No,” Andrea said, though she had heard of a man named Dean.

At approximately 4:50 p.m. on April 17, 1982, I, Dean Constantine Wexler, was driving my car down Richter Street on my way to chaperone the prom. I had to swerve to miss her. She was completely out of it. I don’t know if she was using drugs. I don’t know her well enough to make a distinction. She was only my student for a year. Still, I felt some responsibility as an adult and teacher. I parked my car and got out to check on her. It’s my duty as a teacher to report kids who are not doing well. Emily was wearing a prom dress and said she was going to prom. I only point that out because she was expelled from school months ago for disturbing class. She wasn’t wearing shoes. I didn’t notice a purse. Her hair was disheveled. I told her to go home immediately. She argued with me, and I admit I let my temper get the better of me. I did not want to be around this girl. You have to understand she’s been going around for months accusing complete strangers of impregnating her. If Melody Brickel is saying I pushed Emily against my car, I would say consider the source.

There was yelling. I will admit that. It mostly came from Emily. She started accusing me of all manner of crimes, to which I said something along the lines of, “Watch what you’re saying,” or “There’s nothing for you to say.” I don’t remember exactly because at the time all I wanted to do was get away from her. You’ll have to ask Melody Brickel for her scholarly opinion based on something she claims she witnessed from 200 feet away. They are both very obnoxious and uncontrollable girls. I know that everyone says Emily comes from a good family, but this proves the nature/nurture thing in my opinion. Those kids who live in ultra-conservative bubbles always crack when the real world hits them. I am aware that Emily is in a coma but that has nothing to do with me. I have no idea who the father of her bastard is. I can state emphatically that there is no possible way it’s me. I want them all out of my life. If I could afford to quit my job, I would be helping people who really need it instead of wasting my talents in this godforsaken town. I’ve been instructed to specify what I was wearing that night and it was a black suit and tie, but everyone was wearing black. I swear the contents of this amended statement are true under penalty of law.

Bible asked, “How’d it go with the judge last night?”

“We’ll see if she lets me back in the house.” Andrea wondered why he wasn’t talking about the body in the field. “I made an off-color joke about being glad that Reagan is dead, and she went up to her room.”

He laughed. “You’re all good, Oliver. She’s mellowed in her old age.”

Andrea hated to think what an unmellowed judge would be like. But the judge was not the reason Andrea was running through the forest in her sleep shirt.

“When you say the owner of the diner told you about the suicide, do you mean Ricky Fontaine? The curly-haired older woman who served us last night?”

“Yep.” He shot her the same knowing look that Andrea had given him before. “One of the drivers from the warehouse got to talkin’ at the diner. Said a girl didn’t show up for her shift this morning. Farmhands found her in the field around nine thirty. Might’a took a bunch of pills. They called it into the chief, but the chief did not call your friendly US Marshals.”

Andrea muttered a non-word, because she was afraid a real word might give her away.

“Thissaway.” Bible led her down yet another fork in the trail. He had clearly been out here before. The fact that he’d brought Andrea for a second look had to mean something. He certainly hadn’t brought her for back-up. Neither one of them was armed. Andrea’s ID and Silver Star were inside the motel safe along with her Glock.

The trail dog-legged, then turned back on itself before suddenly opening onto a large rolling field. Sunlight turned the rows of green, spindly plants into a lush carpet. Andrea had never seen fava beans before. She would’ve guessed by the long, waxy pods that she was looking at sugar snap peas or green beans. A greenhouse dipped below the next rise. Glass gleamed in the sunlight. The rainbow-colored buildings in the distance and the festive streamers hanging from the farmhouse’s wraparound porch told her they had arrived at the hippie-dippie farm.

The vibe was considerably harshed by the bright white police tent in the middle of the field. Yellow tape cordoned off the scene, boxing in ten rows of plants, each with about three feet of space between them. An old blue farm truck with oversized tires to clear the plants straddled one of the rows.

As they got closer, Andrea could feel a chill come over her. She had learned two years ago that death had a stillness that reached into your soul. Her heartbeat slowed. Her breathing turned deeper. The sweat on her skin seemed to fade away.

Someone had covered the body with a white sheet. The bright white cotton draped along a curvy hip. The woman had died while lying on her side. From the sweet smell, Andrea assumed she hadn’t been there for more than a few hours, which lined up with what the warehouse driver had said. The body had been found around 9:30.

Bible lifted the police tape and held it up for Andrea. He nodded at the two farmhands. Or at least Andrea assumed the men were farmhands by their overalls and the fact they were both leaning against the beat-up Ford truck. They seemed tense, unlike the three uniformed cops milling around the tent’s perimeter. Two were reading their phones, one had his hands in his pockets; nothing much happening as far as any of them were concerned. She recognized Chief Jack Stilton by his shape. He was leaning into his squad car, radio to his mouth. He had clearly seen Andrea and Bible at the trailhead. His displeasure had traversed the distance like Washington Crossing the Delaware.

“Chief Cheese!” Bible waved his hands in the air. “How ya doin’, buddy?”

Andrea watched Stilton take his time extricating himself from his car. The crowd had perked up. Hands came out of pockets. Phones were tucked away. The farm workers gave each other a wary glance. They were both white males, one approximately late fifties, the other probably mid-sixties. The older guy had long, scraggly hair and a tie-dyed T-shirt that put him squarely in the hippie category.

The younger guy had a cigarette dangling from his lips and a snarl that reminded Andrea of a photo she had seen the night before.

Delaware’s own Billy Idol.

Bernard Fontaine had the audacity to wink at Andrea. She kept her expression fixed. There was a dead young woman on the ground between them. There was another young woman who’d been tossed into a Dumpster forty years ago. Nardo had known them both.

“Chief, you must’a forgot our conversation from last night.” Bible clamped his hand on Stilton’s shoulder. “I thought I asked you to call me about any suicides.”

Stilton’s eyes shifted back and forth between Bible and the covered body. “Well, Marshal, it’s early days. We don’t really know that this is a suicide.”

Andrea gave him marks for brazenness. The tent had been set up to block the public’s prying eyes, but no one was wearing protective clothing. No one was taking photos. There were no markers identifying possible evidence on the ground.

She asked Stilton, “Has the coroner been called?”

“What do you think I was just doing, sweetheart?”

“Why don’t you tell me, sweetheart?”

Andrea heard snickers, which made the situation even more infuriating. No one seemed to be taking this seriously. She’d worked in a 911 call center. She knew the procedure when a dead body was found. The responding officers didn’t put up a tent, call in back-up and tape off the scene before alerting the coroner. At the very least, there should already be a couple of fire trucks on the road, and definitely an ambulance.

And no one—ever—should assume that just because it looked like a suicide the victim had committed suicide.

“She’s just poking at ya, Chief.” Bible rested his hand on one of the tent poles. “I’m guessing this is the hippie-dippie farm you were talking about. No offense.”