Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(63)

An hour, I decided. I’d spare an hour and do a little digging into the Kendalls. Then I’d go back to my own work.

The microfiche blurred before my eyes as I consumed article after article about the disappearance, the family statements, the investigation. It was interesting that the Kendalls had never wavered from their claim that their daughter was dead, had harmed herself. Not until Fake Callie came onto the scene.

I called up a photo of Callie and another of Fake Callie. There was a resemblance, I thought, squinting at the screen. But more of a “You remind me of a girl I knew” way. The more I looked, the less Fake Callie looked like real Callie. And that bothered me.

Wouldn’t her parents have known? If not by physical appearance, then by gaps in the imposter’s knowledge of family history. How had Fake Callie convinced the Kendalls that she was their long-lost daughter?

They’d rented an apartment for her in Philadelphia. Far away from their home, even farther from Bootleg Springs.

I drummed my fingers on my lips. If they’d believed Fake Callie’s story, wouldn’t they have wanted to be close? To make up for all those lost years? The parents had seemingly given up hope of ever seeing their daughter alive again from the beginning, despite the lack of evidence. Wouldn’t they have been overjoyed that she was still alive and reaching out to them?

Nothing about the situation sat right with me.

A thought fluttered in, took root.

On a whim, I pulled out my phone and ducked outside. It was hotter today. July arrived in a matter of days. The town was already decorating for the Fourth. Swathing everything that didn’t move in red, white, and blue bunting.

Opting for the shade, I walked down the library steps and took a seat on a bench under a yet-to-be-swathed oak. I dialed, waited.

“Shelby Thompson! What are you doing on the other end of my phone?” my old friend and former supervisor from Allegheny County Children Youth and Families demanded.

“I’m doing a little research down here in the great state of West Virginia, Amanda, and I could use a hand with something.”

“Name it, sweetie.” Amanda had been my supervisor during my brief tenure as a social worker in Pittsburgh. She’d even come to the hospital’s emergency department the night my career came to its disastrous end.

“Do you still have friends at the state level in Virginia?” I asked.

“Sure do.” I could hear the click of her fingers on the keyboard as she multitasked. CYF’s to-do list was never caught up.

“I was wondering if you could have them do a quick case search for me?”

“What county?” Amanda asked.

I screwed up my nose, knowing this was the big part of the ask. “All of them,” I said.

Amanda blew out a breath. “It’ll take a while.” Counties had their own databases for managing children and youth cases. There was no central database connecting them, which made looking for information tedious and time-consuming.

“I know, and I really appreciate it. It’s important,” I promised.

“Gimmie the names, and I’ll see if I can have something for you next week.”

“Judge Henry Kendall, Mrs. Imogen Kendall, and Callie Kendall.”

“Oh, boy. Sounds like you’re down there kicking a hornets’ nest.” She sighed.

“I don’t think there’s going to be anything. If there was, the police would have already looked into it. I just want to be certain.”

“Just don’t go stirring things up by pointing fingers at a state judge.”

“He might not be a state judge for long,” I told her. “Word has it, our Judge Kendall is first in line for a federal judge appointment.” News traveled fast. Especially news that Bootleggers could brag about. Our Judge Kendall. Finally being recognized for his years of service. A federal judge? Imagine that.

“Well, that happens,” Amanda said, and I could tell she was getting distracted by the dozens of other tasks that required her attention. I gave her the date ranges to check, which posed an additional problem since some of the records from the earlier years still weren’t electronic and promised to email her an update about what I was doing in rural West Virginia for the summer.

We hung up, and I stared unseeing across Main Street into the lakefront park where families picnicked and swam.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something sinister happening in Bootleg Springs.

“Shelby?”

I jumped a mile, wincing when my shoulder—which had been a little tender this morning—burst into flames of fresh pain. Dang it. I needed some anti-inflammatories STAT.

“Jenny. Hi. You startled me,” I told her, pressing a hand over my pounding heart. I didn’t like being snuck up on. Had never gotten over the trigger for that particular fear.

Jonah’s mother looked pretty and fresh in shorts and a button-down blouse the color of summer skies. “Sorry about that. I was just on my way to meet… someone, and I saw you.”

The way her cheeks pinked at the mention of “someone” I wondered if it was Jimmy Bob Prosser. She was headed in the direction of the hardware store, I noted.

“I was on the phone and didn’t hear you,” I said.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I overheard a bit of your conversation. I understand where the interest comes from. It’s a fascinating case. But it’s closed now. They found her body. What are you expecting to find that law enforcement missed? ”