Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)(39)

His first stop was the county clerk’s office. The gal at the front desk was talking on the telephone and making no move to end the conversation.

“You gotta be kidding,” she said into the phone. She looked up but continued talking. “Well, if I was her, I would have given him the boot.”

Mahoney flashed his badge and said, “Archives?”

She waggled her finger toward a long hallway, put her hand over the mouthpiece, and whispered, “Third door on the right.”

Mahoney nodded and disappeared down the hall. Olivia Doyle hadn’t given him much to go on; actually it was more like nothing. No hard facts, just lots of maybes mixed in with a few possibilities. What he needed was one fact—one spot that he could point to and say Anita Walker-Jones was here. From that single spot he could move backward or forward through her life and chances were good he’d find her. But until he located that spot, Anita Walker-Jones didn’t exist.

For nearly three hours Mahoney went from one records division to the next. School Registrations, Property Records, Voter Registration— one by one they produced nothing. The clerks were pleasant enough; they smiled and sympathized, but mostly they said the recordkeeping thirty-plus years ago wasn’t what it should have been. Shortly after one o’clock Jack left the building with exactly what he’d come in with: nothing. After a quick stop at Hamburger Heaven, he returned to the station and tried calling Frances Margaret Jones.

On the fourth ring, a man answered.

“Good afternoon,” Mahoney said. “I’d like to speak with Frances Margaret Jones.”

“Yeah, I bet you would.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the one she’s been running around with, ain’t ya?”

“I’m Detective Mahoney from the Northampton County Police Department.”

“Don’t give me that load of crap! Frances is a married woman! She’s got no business—”

Mahoney was momentarily taken aback. “This isn’t a personal call. I’m trying to find a woman who—”

“Take that trash elsewhere,” the man snarled. “Frances ain’t for sale no more. She’s locked in the bedroom and ain’t coming out ‘til she’s sworn to behave.” With that the man slammed the phone down.

Griffin, who was sitting across the desk and could hear the shouting, said, “Sounds like you’ve been sticking your finger in somebody else’s pie.”

Mahoney rolled his eyes. “Funny, real funny.”

“So who’s your telephone friend?”

“My guess is he’s her husband.” Mahoney chuckled. “I was just following up a lead.”

“On what?”

“Favor for a friend,” Mahoney said. “Remember the Doyle case?”

“Everybody remembers that one.”

“Well, the kid’s grandma asked me to help her find somebody called Anita Walker or maybe Jones.”

“Oh, so that’s Aunt Anita.” Griffin laughed. “And Frances, who ain’t for sale anymore, she knows this Anita?”

Mahoney shrugged. “It’s worth checking.” From the Northampton Station, it took about three hours to get to Wyattsville. “Feel like taking a ferry ride?”

Griffin grinned and grabbed his jacket.





Frances Margaret’s husband had started drinking early that morning, and by the time they arrived he was in a worse than ugly mood. When Griffin and Mahoney rang the bell the door banged open like a hurricane coming through. The man standing in the open door was wearing polka dot boxer shorts and a tee shirt soaked through with sweat.

“What the hell do you want?” he screamed.

“Take it easy, buddy,” Griffin said and flashed his badge. “We’re just looking to ask a few questions.”

Mister Boxer Shorts narrowed his eyes. “If this is about Fran—”

“It’s not about Frances Margaret,” Mahoney cut in. “But we think she might have some information that will help find the person we’re looking for.”

“Margaret? She say her name was Frances Margaret? Margaret my ass!” A spray of spittle flew from the man’s mouth and landed on his chin. “Myrtle; she’s a Myrtle!” He swiped the back of his hand across his chin and finished, “A low-life-tramp-with-no-morals Myrtle!”

Griffin grinned. “I know what you mean, buddy,” he said. “I used to be married to one just like her.”

Boxer Shorts gave a sorrowful nod. “Hell, ain’t it?”

“Sure is,” Griffin replied. “If you want I could have a talk with her, maybe explain how carrying on this way could get her in trouble with the law.”

“She ain’t listening to me; what makes you think she’ll listen to you?”

“She’ll listen.” Griffin made it sound like a threat rather than a promise.

“I guess it’s worth a try,” Boxer Shorts said. He stepped back, motioned them in, then said he’d get Myrtle.

Once Boxer Shorts was beyond hearing range, Mahoney turned to Griffin. “Where’d you get that story?”

“It just came to me,” Griffin said and grinned again. “Anyway, I figured he’s never gonna meet Sarah, so what’s the harm?”