Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(57)

The pounding came again, this time more insistent.

“Go away,” she called. It had to be Ronnie.

“Ma!” he shouted. “Ya gotta come see this!”

“What?”

“Ma! Come quick!” He pulled open the door, his face a mask of excitement and concern.

“Okay, hold your water, hold your water,” Marjorie said. She got up from her chair and followed Ronnie into the living room, where the TV set was blaring.

Ronnie gestured frantically at the television. “It’s that lady,” he cried. “The same one who organized the doll show last Saturday. She’s on TV!”

“Shit.” Marjorie sat down hard in one of the chairs.

They both watched, a little stunned, as Portia Bourgoyne posed with Muriel Pink in the woman’s neat-as-a-pin kitchen in Hudson, Wisconsin.

Portia was doing a quick recap: “Mrs. Pink is the woman who organized the doll show where Susan Darden supposedly met the vendor who is suspected of abducting little Elizabeth Ann Darden.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” Marjorie said.

Portia peppered Pink with questions, and as the interview progressed, Pink seemed to remember more and more. She even seemed to be intimating that she definitely did remember seeing Molly, the doll lady, who was the prime suspect in the Darden baby kidnapping.

Ronnie thrust out his chin. “This ain’t good, Ma. You really screwed up.”

Marjorie held up a hand. “Shut up.” She wanted to hear the rest of the interview.

The Pink woman blathered on as Marjorie watched with growing rage and ever-narrowing eyes. This woman could be trouble, she thought to herself. If the police come back and question this woman, it could be the end for us. For me anyway.

“Ma, don’t ya think . . .” Ronnie started.

Marjorie tuned him out as the camera moved in close on Portia Bourgoyne. “Here at Newswatch 7,” Portia said, looking smug, as if she’d already scored a network anchor job, “we feel this information will be critical in helping solve such a horrific crime.”

“That’s what you think,” Marjorie said to the TV.

The TV cut back to the anchor desk, where a blow-combed anchorman gazed steadily into the camera and said, “On a related note, the baby found in the woods outside of Cannon Falls . . .”

Marjorie’s heart was jolted for the second time in two minutes. “What!” she exploded. “What did I just hear?”

Ronnie frowned as Marjorie extended a hand toward the television set and listened to the story. When it was over, she grabbed the first thing she could lay her hands on—an amber glass ashtray with a Budweiser logo—and hurled it at Ronnie’s head. Cigarette butts exploded everywhere as it caught him squarely in the right temple.

“Ma!” he yelped.

“You left that baby in the woods near Cannon Falls?” Marjorie shrieked. She was on her feet and screaming, hopping up and down like a crazy person. “What the hell were you thinking? You were supposed to bury it!”

Ronnie held up a hand. “I can explain everything.”

She folded her arms across her scrawny chest. “This better be good.”

“Do you remember when I went to pick up that bobcat carcass from that hunter down in Red Wing?”

“Not really, but go on. I want to hear your whole stupid story.”

“It was just a couple of months ago, right after that other baby died. You wanted me to bury her, but it was too cold. We had that early ice storm and the ground was already frozen. Even the pickax would just, like, bounce back at me.”

“Lazy,” Marjorie said. “You stupid lazy boy. So you’re telling me you took the kid along with you? To Red Wing?”

Ronnie was nodding now. “I thought I was just being, you know, practical. But Red Wing is kind of . . . populated. More populated than here anyway. So I drove farther west, until I came across this woodlot. How was I supposed to know that a couple of dumb-ass hunters would stumble upon the thing? I couldn’t, right? I mean, I couldn’t know that.”

“Huh,” Marjorie said. She didn’t want to hear any more of his excuses. She had too much to think about.

Ronnie touched a hand to his forehead and winced. “Jeez, Ma. You really clobbered me.”

“Shut the hell up, Ronnie. You’re the one who screwed things up. Now I gotta think for a while.” Marjorie got up and walked out of the room. Her voice trailed after her. “I have to figure out what to do.”

Retreating to her craft studio (if you could even call it that), Marjorie grabbed her tweezers and resumed working on the doll’s eyelashes. She nipped and poked for another ten minutes until she had them just about perfect. The whole time she worked, her brain skittered along, planning, scheming, trying to calculate the odds. She knew the Cannon Falls kid probably wouldn’t present that much of a problem. If Ronnie had left it in the woods like he said he had—and she had no reason to doubt him—they should be fine. Animals, rain, wind, and snow would have erased any little bits of telltale evidence.

No, the real problem, the major dilemma Marjorie faced right now, was talky old Muriel Pink. Muriel Pink, who had started flapping her lips once they poked a TV camera in her face. Because as sure as God made little green apples, the cops were gonna go back and talk to that old bitch again.