The Innocent. Amanda Stevens
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“Why, thank you…Mr. Burke, wasn’t it? Such a gentleman,” she said to Abby. “A trait one finds all too rarely these days.” Her blue gaze skimmed Agent Burke’s dark suit approvingly. It wouldn’t matter to Fayetta that he had to be melting in this heat. He looked dignified, and Fayetta came from an era where appearances meant everything. Abby suspected the woman would be wearing hoop skirts if she could find some.
As it was, her starched floral shirtwaist looked fresh and crisp, as if she’d donned it only moments before her callers had arrived. In comparison, Abby felt like something her cats had dragged in. The jeans and T-shirt she’d put on that morning in anticipation of tramping through woods and vacant lots had definitely seen better days. She could feel Fayetta’s ladylike disdain rake over her as smoothly as a butter knife on cream frosting.
Fayetta handed her a glass of lemonade, and Abby gratefully accepted it, resisting the urge to touch the icy glass to the back of her neck.
“So tell me, Abigail. How is your mother? I haven’t seen her in church in ages. Is she still feeling under the weather, poor dear?”
“Mama died three years ago, Miss Gibbons. Don’t you remember? You played the organ at her funeral.”
The blue eyes clouded momentarily, then cleared. “Yes, of course. ‘Amazing Grace,’ wasn’t it? That was always Papa’s favorite. I wore my navy dress, and Trixie Baker did my hair that morning, but I didn’t like the shade. It was too brassy, but Trixie insisted it made me look twenty years younger.” Fayetta patted her impossibly blond hair, pulled back and done up in an elaborate bun—the same style she’d worn since the beginning of time. “An outrageous lie, of course, but one is never too old to enjoy a compliment.” She glanced at Agent Burke hopefully.
She’d seated him in the wicker rocker next to hers. Abby had been relegated to the porch steps, perhaps because of her age, but more likely because Fayetta, even though a spinster, was well practiced in the age-old Southern-Belle tradition of jockeying for the most desirable position next to an attractive gentleman.
But Fayetta needn’t have troubled herself. Her subtle coquetry was lost on Agent Burke because he was no Southerner and, Abby suspected, at times no gentleman. He didn’t quite grasp the expectations of an afternoon call, social or otherwise. He leaned forward, his expression almost stern as he dispensed with the niceties. “Miss Gibbons, we’d like to ask you some questions about the little girl who disappeared from Ferguson’s Drugstore yesterday afternoon.”
Stung by his abruptness, Fayetta sat back in her rocker, fanning herself vigorously with a fan from Grossman’s Funeral Home. “What’s this all about, Abigail? The police have already been here. I told them I didn’t see anything. I wasn’t even home when that poor child was taken. Don’t you think if I’d witnessed anything suspicious, I would have hollered all the way to Kingdom Come and back?”
“This is just routine,” Abby soothed. “We’re talking to everyone who lives on this street. Sometimes people remember things after the initial interview. We came to your house first, that’s all.”
Fayetta gave her a narrowed look. “Have you talked to Gertie Ellers? She’s always got her nose stuck where it doesn’t belong.”
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Ellers is in Biloxi with her daughter and grandchildren. She won’t be home until next week.
Fayetta gave a very unladylike snort. “I declare, I don’t know how anyone could put up with that woman for a whole week. Her daughter must have the patience of a saint is all I can think—”
“Miss Gibbons, these questions are very important,” Agent Burke said impatiently.
The rocking stopped. The fanning ceased. Fayetta shot Abby a look as if to say, How dare you bring this ill-mannered lout to my home?
“Two little girls have gone missing,” Abby explained. “We’re doing everything we can to find them, but we haven’t had much luck so far. I’m sure you’ll forgive us if we sound a little…abrupt.”
A pause, then after a moment, the rocking and fanning resumed. “It is a terrible tragedy,” Fayetta conceded. “But I don’t see how I can help.”
“We’re just trying to establish a routine for this street at the time of day that little Sara Beth went missing. If we get people to think about their whereabouts and activities, they may remember something that can help us.”
“But I already told Sheriff Mooney I wasn’t home. I left for the cemetery at three. Just like I did today. Just like I do every day.”
Sam Burke started to say something, but Abby smoothly waved him off. “Did you walk east on First and then south on Peachtree, or did you take Maple down to Mimosa and then cut over to Peachtree?”
Fayetta scowled. “Does it matter?”
“Sara Beth was picked up from school by her father’s secretary, Luanne Plimpton. According to Miss Plimpton, after they left the school grounds, she drove west on First Street in a silver Lincoln Town Car. We think they may have been followed from the school by Sara Beth’s abductor. If you were walking east on First, toward Peachtree, you might have met them. You could have seen the car.”
“I don’t pay much attention to automobiles,” Fayetta said doubtfully. “Although there was a time when I coveted a Studebaker Papa owned. It was a beautiful car, and it rode like a dream. He never let me drive it, of course, because Mama said that driving wasn’t a seemly pastime for young ladies.” She paused, flashing Abby a knowing look. “I’m sure you must find me hopelessly old-fashioned, Abigail. You Cross gals have always pretty much done as you pleased, and driving cars was the least of it.”
A faint heat stole over Abby’s face. She glanced at Sam Burke who was gazing back at her with…what? Curiosity? Disdain?
More like impatience, she thought. He had little use for all this idle chit-chat, and she knew if she didn’t make headway soon with Fayetta, Agent Burke was liable to try and strong-arm information from the poor woman.
“As I said, the car Luanne Plimpton was driving was a silver Lincoln Town Car. It’s a pretty big car,” Abby added. “Do you remember seeing a car like that on First Street yesterday afternoon?”
Fayetta shook her head. “No, but I didn’t go down First Street. I took Maple over to Mimosa, like you said. It’s a little out of the way, but it’s shadier. I can’t take the heat like I once could. They say once you’ve suffered a heat-stroke, your tolerance for the sun is weakened.”
“What about your return trip? Did you come back the same way?”
“Yes, although by that time of day, First Street has a little shade, too, but I like to look at Inez Wentworth’s garden. She grows roses, you know, but in this heat, you don’t get much of a bloom—”
“What time did you get home?” Abby cut in, her own patience slipping a bit.
“Why, Abigail,” Fayetta said in a wounded tone. “You may have inherited the Cross disposition for trouble, but I know your mother and certainly your Grandmother Eulalia taught you better than to interrupt your elders.”
Abby sighed, running a hand through her damp hair. She avoided Sam Burke’s dark gaze because she knew if her patience was running thin, his had evaporated altogether. “I’m sorry, Miss Gibbons. It’s just that time is of the essence here. We have to find those little girls, no matter whose feelings we may trample on. Those children have to come first. I know you agree.”
Fayetta gave her a grudging nod. “Of course. Ask your questions, Abigail, but I still don’t see—” She stopped herself this time and clamped her lips together, as if that were the only way she could remain silent.
“What time do you think you left the cemetery?” Abby asked.
Fayetta sighed. “It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to the cemetery. That is, if no one stops to talk with me and no one did yesterday. I visited with Mama and Papa for maybe another fifteen minutes, no more, because