The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(33)

“Interesting. So how is this connected to Chelsea?”

“I’m not sure. But she disappeared under similar circumstances.”

Frank shakes his head. “Chelsea didn’t disappear. She left town. Her friend—what’s her name, Amber—isn’t exactly what I’d call reliable. The pair of them had run away several times on their own before. They get caught up with the wrong boys. Or rather, they’re drawn to them. Either way, nobody here takes it seriously. Chelsea just moved on. It happens.”

“It’s serious enough for her to be on a missing-persons list.”

“They put her on there because of Amber’s mixed-up stories. Even Chelsea’s mother doesn’t believe it.”

“So you don’t think anything happened to her?”

“No. Not here, at least. She was a lot of trouble herself. Loved to make up stories. She probably loves the fact that some people think she’s a victim.”

“But you don’t?”

“I don’t know for sure. But she’d cleaned her stuff out of her apartment before she allegedly went missing. That sounds rather odd.”

“I hadn’t heard that.” Of course, if Chelsea was killed, the killer could’ve broken into her place and taken her things. I wouldn’t put that past someone forward thinking enough to bring grizzly hair to a crime scene.

Frank seems elusive about something, but he appears to genuinely believe that Chelsea skipped town.

For a man of God, he doesn’t seem to hold her or Amber in very high regard. Maybe in his eyes, they’re just another couple of lost causes in a town that makes a minister mow his own church lawn.

“Do you know of anyone around her age that’s left?”

“A few. But it’s normal. There’s not much out here for young people. My kids live in Colorado and Vermont, but I wouldn’t call them missing. Even if they don’t call all that often.”

“How does your wife feel about that? Empty-nest syndrome?”

Frank’s face tightens. “She’s helping my oldest daughter in Colorado with her kids.”

I’ve been around enough broken families to catch the code words for a separated couple. Even in this day and age, that’s got to be embarrassing for a Baptist minister. A big part of what they do is relationship counseling. His own split might discredit him some in the eyes of his congregation. Even if not everyone is meant to stay together.

“You married? Or was Juniper close?” he asks me.

The question comes out of left field. “Me and Juniper? No. She was my student. Never married, either.”

“Sorry. I hear stories about professors. Don’t mind me.”

So do I. “Well, I haven’t seen her in years. Technically, she has her doctorate now and probably teaches—or taught—undergrads. So, it wouldn’t have been inappropriate, I guess. Not now . . .”

It’s a strange thought. In my mind I keep seeing the twenty-year-old girl awkwardly sitting next to me in the pizza parlor. She certainly looked a little older in her photos, but I wouldn’t call it aging. She was twenty-five. A little on the young side for me, but nothing that would have batted an eye on campus if she had a graduate degree and wasn’t one of my students anymore.

I shake the thought out of my head. I’m here because I feel paternal toward her, not because of some unspoken romantic feeling I had for her.

“Do you know how I could get in touch with Amber?”

“Amber? Why?”

“I just want to hear her side of the story.”

Frank releases a small groan. “She’s a piece of work. Trouble. She’s been arrested several times. Not exactly what I’d call reliable. Dishonest, to be more like it.”

He’s pretty judgmental for a man whose job is to help people find forgiveness. “Just the same, it’d give me some piece of mind.”

“Suit yourself.” He taps into his computer and writes a number down on a slip of paper. “I used to coach the girls’ high school soccer team. Here you go.”

“Thank you.” As I get up, I think of a way to reciprocate. “I noticed some bags of fertilizer in the mower shed.”

“Yeah, I use it to keep the lawn nice and green.”

“It’s surprisingly so. Most of the fields around here are brown. Just so you know, though, that’s an industrial-grade fertilizer. I’d cut it down to a third or so. You’ll have to mow less often, but the grass will look as good.”

Frank smiles as he holds open the door. “That explains a lot. Someone donated it to me without any instructions.”

He heads back out to his mower, and I return to my Explorer.

In my car I dial Amber’s number and get her voice mail.

“Hi, um, this is Theo Cray. I’d like to talk to you about something . . .” I leave my number and hang up, not knowing what to say. Leaving even an innocuous voice-mail message is awkward for me, much less when I want to talk about an alleged murder.

Two minutes later I get a text message from a different number.

this is ambyr. meet me @ king’s diner in 2 hrs. 1004BJ3004ATW

The numbers and letters don’t appear to be an address or anything else that makes sense, but King’s Diner is the one I passed by the massive truck stop.