In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(42)

Tracy didn’t see the point in that. “How long have you lived here?”

“Me? My entire life.”

“Have you heard of a couple of companies called Columbia Windshield and Glass, and Columbia Auto Repair?”

“Sure.”

“You have? I couldn’t find either one online. I was assuming they’re out of business?”

“Oh, yeah. They’ve been out of business for some time now,” she said. “Shortly after Hastey Senior passed.”

Tracy recalled that name from the article on the reunion and pulled out the newspaper, finding the photographs and the caption. “Hastey Devoe?” she asked, handing the woman the newspaper.

“That’s young Hastey. The father owned both businesses. They were side by side, out on Lincoln Road. His wife closed both businesses shortly after Hastey Senior died.”

“Is his wife still alive?” The chance that Devoe’s wife would have any information about two incomplete invoices was slimmer than none, but Tracy knew that small businesses in small towns were often family affairs, and the wife could have also been the bookkeeper.

“I really don’t know. Last I heard she was living in a nursing home in Vancouver and had Alzheimer’s or dementia.”

“What does the son do now?”

“Hastey Junior? He works for Reynolds Construction, I believe. At least I’ve seen him driving one of their trucks around town. Don’t ask me what he does though.”

Tracy considered the newspaper photograph and caption. “Would that be Eric Reynolds’s company?”

“That’s right.”

“Does Hastey Junior still live in town?”

“In the house he grew up in, over on Cherry.”

Tracy made a note on her notepad and thanked the woman. As she stepped away, the woman said, “You might try Sam Goldman. He might have copies of the paper.”

“Who’s he?” Tracy asked.

“Sam was the publisher of the Sentinel. Publisher, reporter, photographer. He and his wife, Adele, did just about everything. He’s retired now. We call him Stoneridge’s unofficial historian.”

“Where would I find him?”

“They live over on Orchard Way,” the woman said, already reaching for a pen and a pad of paper to jot down an address and directions.

Minutes later, directions in hand, Tracy descended the front steps of the library. As she did, she noticed the white police vehicle parked around the corner, only partially hidden behind the trunk of a cottonwood tree.




Following the librarian’s directions, Tracy took a right at the end of the block. Rather than stay straight for a mile, however, she took the next right, then turned right a third time and slowed. She stopped behind the cottonwood, which the police vehicle had vacated. It was now parked in the spot where Tracy had parked, at the foot of the library stairs. A Stoneridge Police officer was shuffling up the concrete steps, hands on his utility belt.

Her presence in town had been duly noted.

She pulled from the curb and drove out past the elementary school, occasionally glancing in the mirrors, though she didn’t expect to see the police car. The officer didn’t need to follow. He’d know soon enough where Tracy was going, and why.

Orchard Way was a quiet street of barren trees and wires sagging between telephone poles, but no street lamps or sidewalks. It wasn’t unusual for the older towns. As residents moved farther away from the city center, they focused on essential utilities like electricity, phone, and gas and sewer. Street lamps and sidewalks were far down the priority list, and often never installed.

Tracy parked just off the asphalt, alongside a white picket fence that would need painting after another winter. The fence enclosed a narrow stretch of lawn, split in two by a concrete walk leading to a single-story A-frame home. A satellite dish protruded from the roof like one large ear.

She pulled open the screen and knocked, then closed it and stepped back. There was a window to the left, but no one looked out before the door rattled open. A woman Tracy estimated to be in her late sixties or early seventies pushed open the screen. “Can I help you?” Her voice was tentative—strangers did not likely come knocking often—but not unfriendly.

“I’m looking for Sam Goldman,” Tracy said. “Evelyn at the library gave me this address. She said he might be able to tell me about Stoneridge back in the seventies.”

The woman frowned, but not in a displeasing manner. “Well,” she said, “Sam would know.”

“Who is it, Adele?” The man who came to the door was no more than five six, with a head of curly dark hair, graying at the temples. He adjusted his sturdy black-framed glasses as he looked at Tracy with a bemused, curious expression that made his eyes sparkle as if he held the world’s biggest secret.

“Evelyn over at the library said you could help this woman,” Adele said.

Sam Goldman peered at Tracy. “What’s this about, friend?”

“I was hoping to get some background on Stoneridge—what it was like here in the seventies. I understand you’re sort of the town historian since the fire in the library.”

“September 16, 2000,” Goldman said, his voice becoming more animated. “A three-alarm blaze. We could see the smoke from our offices on Main Street. I thought Timmerman’s ghost had returned and the whole town was going up in flames again. Most excitement we’ve had since Dom Petrocelli punched out Gordie Holmes at a town council meeting in 1987.”