The Woman Most Wanted. Pamela Tracy
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friendship.
“Chief Riley doesn’t usually let his emotions rule,” Bianca said a little too casually. “What exactly happened yesterday?”
“He pulled me over thinking I was someone else,” Heather said, thinking to herself that what the chief of police had engaged in yesterday had little to do with emotion and more to do with tunnel vision. “Do you think I look like this Rachel Ramsey?”
“Quite a bit, but not a dead ringer,” Bianca admitted. “I can see why Tom pulled you over. Without hearing your voice, seeing the way you walk, your mannerisms, well, he did what he thought he had to do.”
So, it was her voice, her walk, her mannerisms that Bianca claimed set Heather apart from Rachel.
Their identical looks were still an issue and “dead ringer” was a spot-on description.
Lots of what-ifs filtered through her imagination. In the end, she thought, she really, really, really doubted her dad had ever had a relationship with the likes of Diane Ramsey, but Heather was here to investigate and who knew what avenues she’d need to follow.
“What exactly was Rachel wanted for?”
It took Bianca a moment to answer. “Worst case scenario, first degree murder. Though, there’s a chance it will be accessory to a crime.”
First degree... It didn’t get much worse than that.
“Can you tell me a bit about the family?”
“Well, the Ramseys aren’t—weren’t—natives,” Bianca continued. “Diane just showed up one day in a burgundy-and-black Studebaker, in such bad shape that it puffed dark clouds into the air. Old Albert Turner was the chief then, so he chased her down and cited her.”
“You remember like it was yesterday.”
“Hard to forget. Diane’s antics guaranteed we’d all remember when she turned up in town.”
“What kind of antics?”
“Getting drunk at a Founder’s Day celebration.” Bianca laughed and held up her hand before Heather could counter with “lots of people get drunk” and said, “Let’s just say she couldn’t sing and no one appreciated the burlesque show.”
“Oh.”
“The town’s barbershop quartet were performing. She stood right on top of a big speaker and interrupted them. She was louder without a microphone. Albert Turner had to haul her down. It made the paper. From then on, I’d say she made the paper about four or five times a year. I always felt like she had something to prove.”
“Are any Ramseys still in the area?”
“No, not that I’m aware of. I don’t know if Diane and Rachel’s father were married when they had her, or if they ever got divorced or what. She and Rachel just stayed.”
“In the house over on State Route 4?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Chief Riley said something about it.” Changing the subject by holding up a cinnamon roll, Heather asked, “You make these?”
“No, I buy them from Shelley Guzman. She has a bakery in town.”
Heather’d been in Sweet Sarasota yesterday. She’d picked up a free Founder’s Day muffin—it actually had a plastic school toothpicked into its frosting in celebration of the deaf school that used to be the mainstay of the town. Then she’d purchased three chocolate chip cookies that had smelled only slightly better than the cinnamon roll she was currently eating.
“You met her husband last night. He works for Tom.” Bianca once again was casual. “He’s a cop.”
Guzman. He’d been the big guy who’d challenged the chief of police. “So,” Heather continued, “what kind of girl was Rachel?”
“I,” Bianca said, somewhat sadly, “didn’t know her very well. I don’t have any kids of my own. They didn’t attend church nor did she play with my nephews when they were in town.”
“So all you really know about is Diane?”
Bianca nodded. “And she died just over a year ago.”
It wasn’t the first time Heather heard this. “How?”
“Hard living is what most of the town thinks.”
“Was she young? Old?”
“Why, I guess she couldn’t be that old. Younger than me. I never gave it much thought. She looked sixtyish, at least she did last time I saw her at the grocery store.” Bianca sat back. “Rachel would have been midtwenties, close to your age, which is why Tom must have gotten so flustered. I imagine Diane was fifty or so when she died.”
“Rachel didn’t come back for the funeral?”
“Most of the town thinks either Rachel has no clue her mother passed away, that Rachel didn’t care enough to come back, or that possibly Rachel herself has died. I hope she’s okay. I hope she ran away from here and found a whole better world. Met somebody who cared for her. She certainly was making some of the same mistakes her mother did. Father Joe had us all praying for her.”
“Thank you for sending Father Joe to get me. How did you know I was in jail?”
Bianca laughed. “The phone started ringing. By the third call, I knew it was serious. As for Father Joe, I know just about everyone, and I knew he’d have the easiest time pulling you out of there. In just an hour I’ll be listening to Father Joe’s sermon. You should come with me.”
Heather was tempted. She wanted to talk to Father Joe, but even more, she wanted to visit with the members of the church and ask questions.
Problem was, after yesterday, she was afraid to start.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Heather paid for her small supply of groceries. She’d spoken to the man working behind the meat counter. He looked old enough to have been employed at Little’s for almost thirty years but claimed only five years. She’d talked to the current security guard on duty, and he’d spouted something about privacy laws and paperwork. She’d gone to the manager, who told her the name of the man who owned Little’s and said to contact his secretary.
Then she’d chosen the cashier, who looked closest to her father’s age. Trina Gillespie had been employed by Little’s for over thirty years and thought the name Raymond Tillsbury sounded familiar, but claimed she’d couldn’t remember anything else.
Heather even showed a photo from her cellphone to Trina, but before Trina could say more than “um,” the security guard came over and gave Heather a warning look.
Sunday was not the day to call a corporate office, so Heather added the phone number to her contacts and headed back to the bed-and-breakfast.
She had research to do.
* * *
HEATHER’S PHONE RANG at nine o’clock the next morning. She almost didn’t answer it. She’d paced her room most of the night, unable to sleep and feeling slightly sorry if anyone happened to be in the room under hers. These old Victorians creaked and moaned. Even with the morning sun coming through the window, she felt like she’d just gotten to bed. She wasn’t sure whether to blame it on the time spent in jail, the time spent sitting across from Chief Riley, or spending most of yesterday visiting Little’s Grocery Store and later reading online about the whole Ramsey family.
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