Stuart Woods Holly Barker Collection Page 5

  Holly dug out the file. “Came from their home office in Miami; twenty-seven years old, married with a young child, senior loan officer. Would a loan officer know how much money was in the vault on any given day?”

  “Probably not, unless he made it his business to know.”

  Holly turned to the other file. “Emily Harston has been there seven and a half months, a teller. Married, no kids, home address, P.O. Box 1990, Vero Beach.”

  “Kind of funny to have a post-office box as a home address,” Hurd said.

  “Good point.” Holly turned to the next page. “Here we go: twelve Birch Street, Lake Winachobee. Where’s Lake Winachobee?”

  Hurd looked blank. “You got me, but there’re a lot of lakes in Florida.”

  Holly got a Florida road atlas from a bookcase and spread it on her desk. Hurd came and looked over her shoulder.

  “Well, we’ve got Lake Okeechobee, to the southwest,” she said, pointing at it.

  “Florida’s largest lake.” He pointed at a patch of water to the west. “What’s this?”

  Holly took a magnifying glass from her desk. “That’s it; Lake Winachobee; about a tenth the size of Okeechobee.” She looked more closely. “But there’s no town by that name, and only one road going to the lake.”

  “Maybe she lives down that road somewhere.”

  “Could be. Who talked to her?”

  “I’ll find out.” Hurd went into the squad room.

  Holly continued looking at the area of the lake through her glass. Little lines indicated that it was a swampy area.

  Hurd came back with Vicky Berg, one of her po licewomen. “Here’s your interrogator.”

  “Morning, Vicky. You talked to Emily, ah, what’s her name?”

  “Harston. Yes, I questioned her.”

  “What were your impressions?”

  “She’s late thirties, pretty in a plump sort of way, very quiet. And pregnant, I think, unless her weight just made her look pregnant.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She answered my questions as best she could, gave me a good account of the robbery, but she didn’t volunteer anything.”

  “She was reticent?”

  “Yes, much more than the others. All the others I questioned couldn’t stop talking about the robbery.”

  “Did you read anything into that?”

  “Not really. I just thought she was probably shy or not a talkative person. She did strike me as being very bright, though; something in her eyes said that to me.”

  Holly looked back at Emily Harston’s personnel file and read from a few lines at the bottom. “Mrs. Harston appears to be an intelligent person, and she has experience as a teller, having worked at a credit bureau at her former home in Idaho. Her former supervisor there gave her a very good recommendation, said she was honest, good at math and very competent.” Holly peered at the signature at the bottom of the page. “Looks like it’s signed J. Williams.”

  “His signature is on most of the forms. He must be a personnel officer.”

  “Has anyone interviewed Mr. Willams?”

  “Not yet.”

  Holly stood up. “I think I’ll go see him.”

  At the bank, Holly asked for Mr. J. Williams.

  “That’s Mrs. Joy Williams,” the receptionist said. She made a quick call. “She’s in. Just go up the stairs there; she’s in room three-oh-eight.”

  Holly climbed the stairs, walked down a hallway and found the office. A fiftyish woman in a dark suit rose to greet her.

  “Mrs. Williams?”

  “Call me Joy, Chief. Have a seat.”

  Holly sat down.

  “I expect you’re investigating our robbery.”

  “I am.”

  “Well, that’s about the most excitement we’ve ever had around here. I’ve been here fifteen years, and . . .” Her face fell. “Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry. You lost—”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Please don’t worry about it, Mrs. Williams.”

  “Joy, please.”

  “Joy, have you been in personnel for the whole time you’ve been at the bank?”

  “Just for the past eight years.”

  “So you know most of the people who work here?”

  “I know all of them.”

  “What about the newer people, Franklin Morris and Emily Harston?”

  “Frank came to us from Miami, and he’s fitted right in around here. He’s made friends in the bank, and he and his wife go to my church.”

  “Which church is that?”

  “First Baptist.”

  “What about Emily Harston? She’s pretty new.”

  “Yes, but she’s a real good worker. I’ve had very good reports from her supervisor.”

  “Do you know where she goes to church?”

  “No, I don’t. Emily doesn’t live in Orchid Beach, and I don’t think she’s mixed with folks the way a lot of others do.”

  “Her personnel file says she lives in Lake Winachobee. Where is that?”

  “You know, I’m not real sure. I remember when I hired her, she said it was half an hour, forty-five minutes away, depending on traffic.”

  “Do you know her husband?”

  “No, I haven’t met him. We had a company picnic last month—it’s an annual event—and she didn’t come. She said the next day that she hadn’t been feeling well. I think she’s probably four or five months along. Pregnant, I mean.”

  “Do you know if she’s particularly friendly with any of the other employees?”

  “Well, I see her in the bank’s kitchen at lunchtime, and she usually sits alone, unless one of the other tellers joins her. We’ve just got a microwave and a refrigerator and a few tables; most people bring their own lunch.”

  “Is there anyone else at the bank who’s new?”

  “Those are the only two,” Williams said. “We don’t have a lot of employee turnover; this is a good place to work.”

  “Joy, can you think of anyone at the bank who may have been having financial difficulties? I mean, a lot of debt, late paying bills, checks bouncing, that sort of thing?”

  “No, I can’t think of anyone. The bank expects its employees to be financially responsible. If an employee had his wages garnished or bounced checks, he’d be in trouble. We’re a bank, after all.”

  Holly stood up. “Well, thank you, Joy. I wonder if you’d do me a small favor.”

  “Sure, if I can.”

  “Would you come downstairs with me and point out Frank Morris and Emily Harston?”

  “Sure, be glad to.”

  Holly followed her down the stairs and stopped at the bottom.

  “Now, look over there at the platform—that’s what we call it—that’s where the bank’s officers sit.”

  “Right.”

  “Frank is at the third desk on the right.”

  Holly found him, a slender, rather handsome man with dark hair and a mustache.

  “And Emily is in the fourth teller’s cage over there.”

  Holly saw the woman, and she was as Vicky had described her: plump and pretty. “Was she at that cage during the robbery?”

  “I believe so; that’s her regular position.”

  “Thank you, Joy. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Do you think that either one of them was somehow involved in the robbery?”

  “Oh, no, Joy, nothing like that. We just always look at the newer employees in a case like this. I’m sure they’re both fine people.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that,” Williams said.

  Holly thanked her for her help and left the bank. Outside, she sat in her car and waited. The bank closed in a few minutes, and she wanted to see where Emily Harston went when she left work.

  Eleven

  EMILY HARSTON LEFT THE BANK FIVE MINUTES after closing time and went to her car, an older, but presentable, pale blue Ford Escort. She got in, fastened her seat belt, backed out
of her space and drove away. Holly, parked on the street nearby, followed her.

  Holly stayed four or five cars back, even though she was driving her usual unmarked car. If Emily Harston was connected in some way to the bank robbery, this was no time to spook her.

  Emily drove to a strip shopping center on the west side of Orchid Beach, parked her car and went into the supermarket. Twenty-five minutes later, Holly watched through a window as she paid for her groceries in cash. She emerged from the store pushing a heavily laden cart and went back to her car. She loaded the groceries, returned the cart to the place provided and drove out of the parking lot, turning west again.

  Holly followed at an even more discreet distance as Emily proceeded across the South Bridge and headed west toward the interior of the state. Twenty minutes later, she signaled left, made the turn and disappeared from sight. Holly slowed as she approached the turnoff and was surprised to see that there were no street signs or signposts at the turn, just a dirt road headed straight south. Holly could see down it about a quarter of a mile, and the blue Escort was no longer visible.

  Holly turned onto the road and drove slowly down it. After a quarter of a mile, the road turned southwest, and there followed another straight stretch. Half a mile later, the road turned south again, and this time, Holly stopped her car, got out, walked to the turn and peered down the road. Another straight stretch lay ahead.

  She got back into her car and drove until she came to another turn in the road, then she got out and looked again. This time she found herself looking down what appeared to be the main street of an old Florida town, no more than two hundred yards away. The street continued past a number of store-fronts on both sides until it seemed to disappear into the lake. She went back to her car and got out a large-scale Florida atlas and found the correct page. The lake was there, but the town was not. She looked at the publication date of the atlas and found that it was less than a year old.

  Holly sat and thought about this for a moment. She had found what appeared to be a town that did not appear on a recent map, which was very unusual. New towns did not pop up all that suddenly in Florida or anywhere else. She was reluctant to proceed into the little town until she knew more, so she turned her car around and drove back toward the highway. She passed no other cars, and she noted that there were no other roads turning off this one.

  Daisy, who had been sleeping soundly in the rear seat, woke up and put her muzzle on Holly’s shoulder. “You have a nice nap, girl?” Holly asked, scratching her under the chin, a favorite place. Daisy sighed sleepily. Holly punched the speed-dial button on her cell phone for Ham’s number.

  “It’s Ham here,” he said.

  “Hey, good dinner last night.”

  “Glad you liked it.”

  “You want to go fishing tomorrow?”

  “Sure, what time you want to come over?”

  “Not there. I want to make a little expedition.”

  “To where?”

  “If you’ll get out a map and look very closely, you’ll find a lake called Winachobee, about twenty-five or thirty miles west of Orchid Beach.” She heard a rustling of papers.

  “That little old thing?” Ham asked. “It’s probably just a mud hole.”

  “It’s not all that little. You must be using a small-scale map.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess so.”

  “I got a glimpse of it a few minutes ago, and it looked fairly substantial. There’s a little town on the shore.”

  “I don’t see the town.”

  “I don’t think it appears on any map; that’s what intrigues me. Why don’t you put your boat on the pickup and collect me early tomorrow morning. I’ll explain on the way.”

  “Okay, you’re on.”

  “See you then.” She hung up. “You want to go fishing tomorrow, Daisy?”

  Daisy made a compliant grunting noise. Holly swore sometimes that the dog could talk.

  Her cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Stone. Are you on the road somewhere?”

  “Yeah, I’m a few miles west, heading back toward Orchid.”

  “You want to see my airplane?”

  “Sure, when?”

  “How about right now?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on the Piper ramp at the Vero Beach airport.”

  “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “The tail number is November one, two, three, tango foxtrot.”

  “I’ll find you.” She punched off and took a right on Highway 1.

  Stone Barrington was standing next to his new airplane, talking to another man as she pulled up. “Stay, Daisy,” she said, and got out of the car.

  Stone introduced the man as his instructor, then the man left. “Climb in,” he said.

  She walked up the airstair door and into a leather-upholstered cabin. Four seats in club style made up the rear portion, and she climbed forward into the copilot’s seat.

  Stone followed her and sat in the left seat. “What do you think?”

  “It’s beautiful; it even smells beautiful. Awful lot of gauges and instruments, though. I’m used to simpler airplanes, like Cessna 172s.”

  “It’s a much more complicated aircraft,” Stone said.

  “When do you fly her home?”

  “Probably the day after tomorrow. My first flight went well.”

  “Let me run something by you.”

  “Okay.”

  She told him about following Emily Harston and about the little town she discovered.

  “Seems strange, doesn’t it?” Stone said.

  “Yes, it does. Have you ever run across anything like that?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Could you call the guy in New York and see if you can find out anything more about the place these people lived, the ones who disappeared?”

  “Sure, glad to.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d call me at home tonight and tell me what you find out. Ham and I are going out there tomorrow.”

  “Ham?”

  “My father. He’s a retired army master sergeant and a fisherman. We’re going to poke our noses into that place, on the pretext of looking for some fishing, and see what we can see.”

  “This is all very interesting. I’d want to come, if I wasn’t flying again tomorrow.”

  “Maybe next time,” she said. She looked at her watch. “Well, I’d better get back to the station.”

  They both got out of the airplane.

  “She’s a lovely color, too.” The airplane was a rich cream on top and a deep red on the bottom.

  “Thanks. Holly, I think you ought to be very careful tomorrow. Don’t press your luck in this place.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Good idea. I’ll do that.”

  They shook hands.

  “I’ll call you tonight after I’ve called New York,” he said.

  “Thanks, Stone.” Holly got back into her car and, with Daisy, drove back toward Orchid Beach.

  Twelve

  HOLLY REACHED HOME AS THE SUN WAS SETTING over the island. Preoccupied with thinking about the little town she had found, she entered the house expecting Jackson to be watching the evening news with a drink in his hand, and the cold darkness shocked her.

  She found a light, fed Daisy and let her outside, then went and sat in Jackson’s chair, feeling bitterly lonely. She flicked on the news, just to have some noise in the house, but the screen was a blur in her mind, and so was the sound.

  Then Daisy scratched on the door, and Holly went to let her in. She stood, looking out at the sea reflecting the dying light in the sky, and she thought it made the water look as if it were lit from underneath. She loved this time of day. Sometimes she’d lure Jackson away from the TV, and they’d sit on a dune with a drink and watch the light die.

  She was surprised by a hunger pang and went to the fridge to see what she could have for dinner. She settled for a frozen meal,
since Jackson had pretty much cleaned out the fridge in anticipation of their honeymoon absence. She sat in front of the TV while a rerun of Law & Order played. She’d seen it already, and even though she had, she wasn’t able to follow the plot anyway, in her present state of mind. She seemed unable to organize coherent thoughts about anything, and her mind wandered. Fragments of days with Jackson played around in her brain, and sex entered into the mental pictures. She would never make love again, she was sure. After Jackson, what would be the point?

  The phone rang, and she picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Stone.”

  “Oh, hello.” She had forgotten she had asked him to call.

  “I talked with the ex-trooper personally this time, but he wasn’t able to help much. This group, this religious sect that disappeared, apparently did so in an orderly fashion. I think I mentioned before that they had sold their property and their vehicles. In the months after the bank robbery, the trooper ran a check to see if any of their driver’s licenses had been transferred to another state, but nothing turned up.”

  “Did they actually look for these people?”

  “Yes, but not very hard. After all, they had no hard evidence against the woman who had been a teller, and she had resigned from her job and had given two weeks’ notice, so there was no question of her running from the law. These people left the state the same way thousands of others move, except they didn’t leave a forwarding address. The only mail they received after their departure was junk mail, so they had apparently closed out all their accounts—phone, electric, etcetera—and paid whatever was due. No bill collector or lawyer turned up looking for them. The trooper was unable to find out what means of transportation they had used to leave town. One day they were there, the next they were gone.”

  “What sort of area did they live in?”

  “A county of small towns and farms. The group owned a sizable farm, but they sold it. They left it in perfect order for the new owner, complete with a tractor and other essential equipment, so apparently they didn’t plan to take up farming again in another location.”

  “It’s just a total blank, isn’t it?” she said.