Hope's Peak (Harper and Lane #1)(18)

Partman blushes. “Well, of course there was her poor mother’s murder . . .”

“Yes.”

Partman removes his glasses and uses the end of his tie to clean the lenses. “Then her grandpappy killing himself the way he did,” Partman says with a shake of the head.

“How did that happen?”

“Oh, he hung himself. I believe it was poor Ida found him,” Partman explains, a distinct note of sadness in his voice. “He was swinging back and forth. She never really stood a chance, poor thing. It’s no wonder she’s the way she is now.”

“Does anyone see much of her?” Harper asks.

“She lives out there in the house she grew up in, right on the edge of Chalmer. Hardly says boo to anyone when she pops into town. Does come in here from time to time, though.”

Harper frowns. “Really? What for?”

“This and that. Bought a typewriter off me a few months back. You know, the manual type. She came in last week, got a replacement ribbon for it. Lucky I had some in stock. They’re hard to get these days. I think she likes to live simply. I was surprised to hear she even had a TV. No video, though.”

“Friends? Anything like that?”

Partman shakes his head. “Not that I know of. I think Ida’s happy living on the outskirts, where it’s quiet. She buys a lot of records off me sometimes.”

“Records?”

“Vinyl. Twelve inches. Old stuff, you understand.”

It never ceases to amaze Harper the little details people remember. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”

She starts to leave, and Partman comes out from behind his counter. “Miss Harper?”

“Yes?”

“People around here respect her privacy,” he says, his eyes full of sadness. His voice drops to a soft whisper. “I think they pity her . . . and they maybe even fear her. Just a little.”

“Fear her?”

“Just a little.”

“Why?”

“Ida is different. You’ll see when you get up there. It really was tragic, what happened to her. To be honest, I’m a little surprised she hasn’t followed in her grandpappy’s footsteps by now.”



The house could do with a coat of paint. Maybe two.

Harper gets out of the car and immediately sees movement from inside.

A black woman in her late thirties pushes through the screen door and walks out onto the porch. “Hey.”

Harper walks to the front steps leading up to the porch. “Hi, I’m Detective Jane Harper. Would you be Ida?”

“I would. Why d’you ask?”

“May I speak with you?” Harper asks.

Ida shrugs. “Sure.”

When Harper gets to the porch, however, Ida shows no sign of going back indoors. “Hey, uh, can I see some ID first?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harper says, handing it to her.

“Okay.” Ida gives it back. “Do you want to sit out here? It’s awful hot inside and I don’t have a fan since my last one decided to die on me.”

“I’m fine either way,” Harper says, sensing the woman’s initial reluctance to invite a stranger inside. “However you like.”

Ida leads her to a swinging chair around the side. The bolts holding it in place look rusted and old, but when Harper sits in it, it’s sturdy enough. Ida sits at the other end, pulling a cigarette from a pack.

“Care for one?”

“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

Ida shrugs. “Huh. Mind if I do?”

“Go ahead,” she says, watching Ida slip the cigarette between her lips, strike a match, and light it.

“So what can I do for you, Detective? I don’t get many visitors out here, so there must be some special reason you’ve made the effort.”

Harper clears her throat. “Alma Buford. She was the young woman found murdered two days ago. I’m the lead on the case.”

“Alright,” Ida says flatly, giving nothing away.

Harper licks her top lip. “I’m looking at the historical murders that we believe are the work of the same individual. I happened upon your mother’s case—”

“Look,” Ida interrupts her. “I don’t really want to go into all that.”

“I’m not going to force you to divulge anything you find too traumatic. I just want to see if there’s something about Ruby’s death that hasn’t been explored yet.”

Ida shakes her head with disdain. “There ain’t nothing that ain’t been gone over a thousand times by now. It’s in the past. Best leave it there.”

“I don’t mean to cause offense,” Harper says. “I’m just exploring every avenue. I want to stop this guy before he kills another innocent young woman.”

Ida stands. “Well this particular avenue is well and truly shut. I’m sorry, Detective, but there’s nothing I can tell you. Opening old wounds is no good for anybody, especially the kind I got.”

“Please, Miss Lane. There might be some small detail that helps us catch this man. Isn’t that worth it?”

“Like I said, Detective”—Ida stubs her cigarette out, face tight with tension—“I think you’re wasting your time here.”