Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(74)

“If this teacher recanted her concerns, that means she was wrong.” June frowned.

“We’re just tying up loose ends," I assured her. “It’s probably nothing. Let’s go into this with an open mind."

In my time as a social worker in Pittsburgh, I had seen a lot. Not everything, but enough to know that people were capable of just about anything. Including filing false abuse and neglect reports. I’d seen angry exes file reports of child abuse against their former spouses just to get back at them. I'd also seen well-meaning people with genuine concerns file complaints only to have the investigations show the claims were baseless. In those situations, relationships were damaged, reputations tarnished.

But someone at some point looked at Callie Kendall and wondered if someone was hurting or neglecting her. And June and I were going to ask that woman some questions.

We took a break at a rest stop and let the dog and pig stretch their legs. Both pig and puppy drew a crowd of admirers before we got back in the car and headed south into North Bethesda. Cece Benefiel retired from teaching in Richmond and moved to Maryland to be closer to her children. It also made her conveniently closer to us.

North Bethesda was tidier than Abbie Gilbert’s town. Wide sidewalks crisscrossed under canopies of neatly trimmed trees. Red brick buildings lined the trash-free streets. Everything felt well-maintained and proud.

I followed the GPS directions and twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of a dull gold split-level home. The yard was maintained by an avid gardener, I guessed. Tall spikes of wildflowers and grasses exploded out of tidy flowerbeds. The grass was jade green and cut in a crosshatch pattern that spoke of pride and precision.

“This is much more pleasant than the last place we attempted to sneak into,” June observed. “Does this music teacher know that we are coming?”

I shook my head. “I didn't want to scare her off with some cryptic message asking questions about a children and youth report she filed twenty-odd years ago.”

“That was probably wise,” she said, adjusting her ball cap. “Do you suppose I will still have the opportunity to play bad cop?”

I laughed. “I hope so. I’d love to see it.” We left the car running, the air conditioning cranked, and crossed the street.

We followed a winding walk through azaleas and tall fluffy grasses to the front porch. I reached for the bell, but June stopped me.

“If this music teacher is also deceased, then I will start to share your suspicions.”

“Let’s hope that’s not the case.”





41





Shelby





Mrs. Cece Benefiel was very much alive and thrilled to have the company.

Especially once I told her we were interviewing retired teachers for a grad school project.

Fortunately the woman didn’t catch June’s “No, we’re not,” as she ushered us inside.

Her husband, Mr. Benefiel, was on a three-day golf trip with two of their adult sons and three grandsons, she explained. She insisted that she was always happy to talk to fellow lovers of education. I took the information dump as a hopeful sign that she was an over-sharer.

She was just what I would have wanted in a music teacher. Bubbly with short, fluffy hair, reading glasses worn on a chain, and bright smile that insisted we were welcome. My junior high music teacher, Mr. Hendricks, by contrast, was a balding, angry fifty-something going through a divorce and taking it out on his students.

I felt a tiny stab of guilt at misrepresenting our reason for being there but managed to shove it aside. We were on a mission. Also, it was almost worth it just hearing June introduce us as “July and Sheila.”

“I promise we won’t take up too much your time,” I told her as she led us into her living room. It was cozy and crowded with furniture that looked as if it had been heavily used and well-tended for at least a decade. I imagined some of the half-dozen grandchildren in frames adorning the wallpapered walls enjoyed bouncing on the overstuffed sofa and mismatched, but equally comfy, armchairs. This was the home of someone who appreciated and enjoyed family.

“It is no trouble at all, Sheila. I'm thrilled to have some company,” Mrs. Benefiel insisted. “I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?”

“Do you have any cookies?” June asked.

I elbowed her.

“Of course I have cookies.” Mrs. Benefiel beamed. “I’ll be right back.” The woman disappeared toward the back of the house, and I could hear the sounds of a kettle being readied.

“That was not very polite,” June said, rubbing her ribs.

“We’re here for information. Not snacks.”

“George is on a diet, which means I am on a diet. George isn’t here, so I can have cookies. Grandmas make the best cookies.” Her logic was flawless.

“Eat as many of them as you can before I tell her why we’re really here.”

“You got us invited inside on false pretenses. I’ll accept snacks on false pretenses,” she said. “How will you broach the subject of Callie Kendall?”

I shrugged. "I haven't gotten that far yet.”

I hoped she would provide an opening for me. I didn’t feel good about being booted from an elderly school teacher’s very nice home.