told me last night, she was dead set on getting away and she didn’t want the police involved.”
Maggie drained the last dregs of coffee from her cup and stood up. “I’m going up to her room,” she said, “there might be some clue there.”
She walked into Julie’s room and faced a kaleidoscope of shifting emotions: tenderness, panic, fear and anger. The room still smelled of Julie’s shampoo and the fragrance of her soft skin. Her rumpled bed looked like it might still be warm, as if Julie had just arisen. Books and magazines were stacked on the dresser, piles of papers and notebooks littered the floor. Julie was always studying, reading, writing--what, Maggie was never quite sure. But she had always respected her daughter’s privacy and never given into the temptation to go through her things.
Now, she might have to violate that policy.
Maggie looked for the tiny cloth purse that Julie carried. It was small enough to shove into most pockets and usually contained only lipstick, driver’s license, and a meager supply of cash. The purse was not in its usual spot on top of the night table. Maggie turned on the table lamp. Beside it were stacks of Julie’s favorite magazines: National Geographic, The New Yorker, and Science. On top of the magazines Maggie noticed a torn envelope with Julie’s small cryptic handwriting with a goodbye note. Cursing the fact that her glasses were downstairs, she squinted and held it under the lamp. For one exhilarating nanosecond she imagined that the answers to all her questions would be in these few penciled sentences. But her optimism was short lived. Julie had told her nothing at all.
She yanked open the drawer of the night table where Julie kept a journal with a swirl of bright colors on its cover, and her passport. Both gone. There was no use investigating any further. Julie had taken whatever secrets she carried in her heart, along with her passport.
Jed came to the door. “Find anything?”
Maggie held up the envelope. “Just this, a note saying she’s leaving and not to worry. And her passport’s gone.”
“That should be a relief; at least you know she had some sort of plan.”
“A plan that involves leaving the country.”
“So what? She’s lived all over Europe. The girl’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, she’s proven that.”
“But she was broke when she came back. She had thought she might get a scholarship or some financial aid if she got into med school, but I don’t think she had more than a couple of hundred dollars in the bank. That’s why she was working for Kevin. Something’s terribly wrong, and yet I’m afraid to go to the police right now.”
“Then you’ll have to resign yourself to just sitting tight and waiting to hear something.”
“No, I don’t have to, there’s something else I can do.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve thought about this all night. I can hire a private detective to look for Julie and find out about Kevin. I never thought much of him, and he certainly wasn’t Julie’s type.”
“A private detective? I’m not sure they even have one in Lewiston.”
Maggie went into the bedroom for a phone book. “Look here.” She pointed to a small advertisement in the yellow pages: Basinki Investigations. Licensed. Bonded. Insured. Confidential Consultations. “See,” Maggie pressed her finger on the advertisement and looked at Jed. “There’s one right here in town, and believe it or not, I went to elementary school with this guy.”
“I always thought private investigators were something you read about in detective novels that take place in L.A. or New York. Even when Connie was running around with her mysterious lover, it never occurred to me to hire one.” Jed turned away from Maggie and watched a squirrel nibbling at a piece of corn on the feeder he’d placed on the deck.
Maggie said, “It does seem a bit melodramatic for ordinary
Rodney Stark, David Drummond