Kerrie wheeled to a position away from the sunlight. “Shortly after I took off, I discovered I was pregnant. Pat said to me that he hadn’t signed up for the woman and kid thing. He stuck with me for a time, then went on the lam after the baby was born.
“Did he have anything to do with her at all?” I asked.
Kerrie shook her head slightly. “She took my last name, your last name; Webb.”
I gave her a strange look, and she said, “Drunk or sober, you were more of a man than Storm ever thought of being.”
“Holy crap, Kerrie. Why didn’t you tell me? I mean, we were in the same county. I could’ve helped out. I mean…”
“Venn, we survived. We didn’t need handouts.”
“That’s not what I meant. If she was mine, I had a right to know.”
She looked at me, and bowed her head slightly. “Be that as it may, it isn’t about you or me. Mandy’s mother is dying and she needs to know. If she comes and visits, great. If not, I tried.”
“What happened to Pat?”
She shook her head and replied, “He went bankrupt. Lost his contracting business and went out of state. I heard he became a merchant seaman, but I’m not real sure.”
“What about Mandy’s husband, Wilkes?”
Kerrie told me he was killed in an auto crash. “He was drunk. Thank Christ he was alone. He rolled over into a ditch outside of Redmond.”
I asked about Mandy’s work and any jobs she might have had, and all the places she’d lived over the last ten years. “I know you said the last you heard from her she was in Iowa. What about before that?”
“She worked at a café in Seattle while she was in high school. She was a waitress. When she graduated she kept the job and went to school at the University. That’s when our differences started to surface.” Kerrie looked tired and I asked her if she wanted to rest. She nodded and said, “Can you come back this afternoon?”
Once again my travel plans were interrupted. “What time?”
I visited the county sheriff department to ascertain if there were any warrants or wants on Mandy Webb Wilkes. Nothing showed up. She had no criminal history. I checked DMV records next and went to her last address in Seattle. The address was now a strip mall with an eclectic array of shops. Somehow I felt I was missing something, or possibly I wasn’t getting all the data from Kerrie.
Vayda answered the door, and I put my index finger to my lips. She looked back over her shoulder, and then stepped onto the porch. She pulled her sweater tighter around her torso. I knew she wasn’t chilled; she was nervous.
“Did you know Mandy, Vayda?”
She shook her head no. “I never heard her talk about any child until a few weeks ago.” She looked into my face and winced.
“What is it?”
“She asked me to call that attorney, Donaldson? He shows up and then the energy in this house gets more forceful,” she said moving her thumb back toward the interior. “It was good one way, and in another it wasn’t.” I looked at her and shook my head. “It gave her a purpose, but it sapped her. I’ve watched her deteriorate quicker since she decided she wanted to find her daughter. If you ask me, that girl is no-count. But, I’ve said too much.”
Chapter Five
The skyscraper loomed over Pioneer Square. On the eighth floor, I entered the paneled reception area of Charles Donaldson, Attorney. My first thought was that the lawyer was just looking for a retainer to keep up his fancy office and fat-cat lifestyle. But then, I don’t have too high of an opinion about lawyers. Those I know personally are okay. It’s the ambulance chasers and publicity whores that give the rest a rotten reputation, I guess. The young and attractive receptionist checked her appointment book after I gave her my name. “I don’t have an appointment.”
It was like her world screeched and came to an abrupt stop. “I only want a moment of Mr. Donaldson’s time. It concerns Kerrie Webb.”
She left her desk and went through a large wooden door that had a “private” sign on it. When she returned, she said sweetly, “Mr. Donaldson will be with you momentarily.”
I expected to see a guy in a three-piece suit, probably tailor-made for a thousand dollars or more, and six-hundred dollar shoes on his feet. So when Donaldson opened his office door and walked toward me, I was surprised to see him in a black cardigan sweater, gray polo shirt with charcoal slacks and black loafers, sans socks. Just before his office door shut, I noticed a set of golf clubs in a huge plaid tripod golf bag standing in front of a massive desk.
“I’m Charles Donaldson. Nice to meet you, Mr. Webb,” he said with a wide grin and an extended hand. We shook and he motioned me to a conference room on the other side of the lobby. “Taffy, hold all my calls. Do you want coffee or a soda?” he asked me. I declined. Of course, the trophy receptionist would be named Taffy.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Webb?” He asked as he pointed to a chair around a large table.
“I’m not real sure what you can do. I just want to make sure I have all the facts before setting out on this adventure.” I saw him sneak a peek at his wrist watch, then pretend to be attentive. “You look like you’re getting ready to leave for your tee time, so I’ll be short. Is there anything I’m missing?”
“Mr. Webb, you aren’t holding me up. And as far as Mandy and Kerrie are concerned, I think you know as much as I do. I know that you were married to Kerrie and that you might be Mandy’s father. Her last known residence is in Iowa. You have the same info I have.”
I stood up and headed for the door. “Kerrie said if I needed any expertise during my investigation that I could contact you. Is that right?”
He nodded and pursed his lips. “This started out as a will and estate deal, and has morphed into a missing person case. My fees are expensive, Mr. Webb. So when you contact me, and I hope you do, I go on the clock,” he said as he followed me to the door. “Kerrie thought she could hire you, instead of using my staff; that’s fine. I’m sure you’re a good investigator. However, when you call me, the meter is running.”
“Are you charging Kerrie for this visit?” I asked him.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I walked to the reception desk, with him behind me. “I want to pay for this visit. How much?” I asked Taffy.
She looked baffled. “The billing department handles that,” Donaldson replied for her.
“I’ve been here for thirty minutes. Is two hundred enough?”
Donaldson bowed slightly. I dropped two c-notes on Taffy’s blotter and walked out.
Bottom feeder. That’s what I thought of the lawyer. I hoped Kerrie knew any time she called Donaldson, she was being charged. I walked to my car in the parking garage and heard the obnoxious beeping of somebody opening their car locks. I looked several rows over and saw Donaldson rush to the open trunk of his two door Mercedes coupe and throw his golf bag in. He sped out of the parking lot with squealing tires as if he were late for a tee time. I grinned.
As I tooled down the boulevard, a cop was giving Donaldson a ticket. I laughed my ass off.
Chapter Six
What was the time from Mandy’s eighteenth year to age thirty like for her and Kerrie? That’s what kept churning in my mind. How good was it? How bad was it? What caused the split? Kerrie was going to have to dredge up the past for me before I could head out. The more info I have the more efficiently I can investigate. I also needed to tell her that she should use Donaldson for her will and estate affairs only. And if she could get out from under him she should think about it. I have a retired attorney that I go to AA with. He could do her business and probably wouldn’t charge her. I’d just toss that out.
I’d been in Washington for a day and a half, and I didn’t know too much more than before I left Los Gatos. The house Mandy had lived in became a strip mall and she wasn’t wanted for anything anywhere. That’s all I knew for certain.
I drove to her last known place of employment, a coffee-house-sandwich shop near the Space Needle. The art-deco tile o
n the front and the ancient glass doors made me think this joint had been around since the thirties or forties. The interior was definitely from that era, but had been retrofitted to look that way. The lone waitress stood up from a stool and grabbed a menu. I motioned with my hand that I didn’t want a menu. “I’ll have a diet cola is all.” The grease and onion smells lingered as did a slight disinfectant aroma from the restroom.
A couple sat next to each other in a booth. They appeared to be doing a little hanky-panky. The coagulating smears of condiments on their plates led me to think they’d been there for some time. The cook and waitress were probably anxious to shut the griddle down and go home. Once in a while the girl would yelp, then giggle.
I stirred the cola with a straw and asked the waitress if she’d worked at this place long.
“Seems like all my life, Hon, why do you ask?”
I told her who I was looking for and why. “Never heard of her. Maybe Pietro knows. Hey Pietro, you ever work with a gal named Mandy Wilkes?”
“Could have. Can’t remember for sure,” he said as he came to the shoulder high counter where the waitresses picked up orders. “She owe ya money?”
I shook my head. “Does the owner keep employment records?” I asked.
The waitress turned to the cook and said, “Well, do ya?”
Pietro was the owner? “How long you been the owner?” I asked him.
“Since ’74, that’s when my father died and I took over.”
I told him I had a picture of the girl I was looking for. I went to the car and brought Mandy’s senior portrait in so he could have a look. When I walked in the door the booth couple was walking out. Their shirts were disheveled and they seemed to be in a hurry to get to the next level. I held the door for them and they walked away with arms around each other’s waists.
Pietro wiped his hands on a dish towel and took the photo from me. He gazed at it for several seconds. I thought I saw a glimmer of something in his eyes. Then he shook his head slightly, not saying a word; then a glimmer again.
“Ya got any idea how many waitresses have worked here over the years? Hundreds, maybe thousands.”
“I’m looking for just this one,” I said pointing to the picture. “Are there any tax records or workers comp forms, anything would be helpful?”
He asked me how far back I was looking. I told him back to the 1990s.
“My old man was a stickler for record keeping and a hell of a lot more organized, than me, though.” My heart was sinking, and Pietro could see this. “I keep records too. It’s just that my files are not as organized,” he replied as he walked back to the cooking area. “You’re welcome to have a look, if you have a mind to.”
My spirit was starting to brighten. “That would be fantastic, Pietro.”
“This ain’t got anything to do with anything illegal, does it?”
“A lady is dying and she wants her daughter notified. Just a missing person case, and this is the last place I know she worked.”
He showed me to a storeroom office next to the restrooms. Inside were gallon cans of food and paper products. I was shocked when he booted up his computer and clicked on Records/Employees. “Pop’s stuff was all hand written. My kid is a computer geek, so he scanned the records to files. You familiar with computers?”
He may be unorganized, but his kid wasn’t a geek, he was a genius. It didn’t take me long to find Mandy’s employment record complete with date of hire, hours worked, raises and her residence. My heart sank; it was the same place that had been turned into a strip mall. Under the heading person to notify in case of emergency was the name Russ Wilkes crossed out, then the name Kerrie Webb, and that too was crossed out and the name Porter Harmon was printed along with a phone number.
I couldn’t have been more grateful to Pietro and the waitress. “I just hope you can connect them, man. Life’s too short to be beefing with family. Glad I could help,” he said as he shook my hand.
I called the number for Porter Harmon and got that irritating signal that comes before the voice, announcing the number is no longer in service.
A search of the local phone directory on my laptop computer didn’t show a listing for Porter Harmon. I saw a library and parked my rental car and went in. The reference books were in a stack near a computer room. I picked out a phone book and scanned for Porter Harmon. The third book had his name and address. The telephone number was the same one that had been out of service. And as luck would have it, once again the address was the same as Mandy’s that had been turned into a strip mall. But, at least I had a new identity to work with. I felt that progress was made. That was until I got back to Kerrie’s house.
Based on the look Kerrie gave me when I mentioned the name Porter Harmon, you would have thought I’d broken wind at a formal dinner table.
“What?” I asked. We were at her kitchen table.
Composing herself, Kerrie asked, “Where in the world did you come up with that name?”
I told her about the employment records at the café Mandy once worked at and that Harmon was on the emergency contact info for Mandy.
“Who was this Harmon, Kerrie?” I asked. “Is that who Mandy took up with after Wilkes?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” The clock in the hallway bonged three times.
There was an uncomfortable quiet that lasted minutes. “Did you find anything else?” Kerrie asked softly. I told her about the address Harmon and Mandy shared. Kerrie nodded slightly.
“What was Mandy like as a teenager? Was she a good student? Did she get into trouble?” I asked.
Kerrie put her hand up as if to say slow down. “Let’s stay on course, Venn,” she told me.
That’s where I thought I was, on course. “Listen, Kerrie, the more data I have before going on this hunt, the easier it’ll be. The best clue I have was her last place of employment and a name of a known acquaintance. That ain’t much, but it’s all I got,” I announced with wide spread arms. “Do you have anything else?”
She shook her head and then took in a raspy breath of air and said, “Just that she lives in Mason City, Iowa.”
I told her I was flying back to California in the early morning, and in two days I’d be on a flight to Des Moines.
“You’ll keep me posted, won’t you?” Kerrie asked.
I assured her that I would call her right away with any updates.
Chapter Seven
After landing in Des Moines International, I got on a Delta prop job for a short hop north. I was taken with the lush looking farmland below with its interesting patterns of yellow, green, and brown and the sun glinting off aluminum silos. A short time later the plane descended into Mason City, Iowa. For those into rock and roll trivia, Mason City Municipal Airport is where the plane carrying Buddy Holly, J.P. Richardson (The Big Bopper), Ritchie Valens and pilot Roger Peterson took off from shortly after one in the morning, the “day the music died”, February 3, 1959. The Beechcraft Bonanza was found in a field near Clear Lake, Iowa later that morning. The Winter Dance Party Tour had just played its last venue, The Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake. The three stars that chartered the plane wanted to get home quickly after almost a month on the road; they never made it.
I hummed to myself “Bye bye, Miss American Pie” constantly as I walked to the car rental counter. Nowhere inside or outside the airport was there any mention of the crash that fateful night. No plaque, no pictures, nothing; bad business for airports to mention crashes, I guess.
Before going to the car park area, I stopped at a payphone and scanned the directory. The Mandy Wilkes listed had just a phone number and there wasn’t a Porter Harmon listed.
I was struck by the beautiful clear air as I drove away from the airport. The heartland, this northern Iowa, was more beautiful than I ever imagined. The traffic became lighter the farther away from the airport I got. Then it picked up again as I got closer to the downtown area.
My room at the Clarion was sufficient and appeared clean. During my ins
urance career I’d become somewhat of an expert on hotels and hotel rooms. Most properties my company insures are luxury locations in resort destinations; this was as good as Iowa had, and it was fine. From the information brochures in my room, I learned that Mason City was thriving with industry that included row crop farming and food production. Green technology, medical care, and home products industry rounded out the economy. Mason City was also the home of Meredith Wilson, the musician and playwright who penned the musical, The Music Man. And of course the infamous plane crash the day the music died.
Chapter Eight
I entered the River City Café and sat down at the counter to have breakfast. The joint was about half full. Men in overalls sat at Formica tables lingering over coffee after breakfast, their ball caps pushed back, exposing more of their creased and craggy faces. I got a cursory look and momentary silence, and then the chatter started again. All the men were big and brawny with huge hands and hairy knuckles. I got the impression this group met each morning at the same time and had on-going conversations. They seemed to be of retirement age and in no hurry to be anywhere. They’d probably worked hard all their lives on land that was passed from generation to generation.
The waitress, a splinter of a woman with red hair, pointed to the menus stacked next to the napkin dispenser and poured coffee for me. “The specials are on the white board, Shug,” and then went to refill the farmers’ cups. “Where ya from?” the cook asked through the shoulder high opening as he moved plates to be picked up.
When I said “California,” the place got real quiet.
“What brings ya here?” one of the men at the table asked.
I told them I was looking for someone, and another asked if I was from the police.
“No. It’s nothing like that. I’m looking for the daughter of a friend of mine.”
I was shocked when nobody asked who I was looking for right away. Finally one said, “Who is it?”