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A—Angelic, alluring, abandoned, all I ever dream about
“Isolated as a bear?” she read. That line stuck out because it didn’t make a lot of sense, until she realized that the last item on the list for each letter created a separate poem.
Jewellike eyes of green,
Under eighteen,
Long dark hair,
Isolated as a bear,
All I ever dream about.
He’d wanted to rhyme.
Francesca doubted Dean would ever win any awards for his poetry, but at least he’d provided a physical description for the girl she needed to find. Maybe it was rudimentary, but it was still more than she’d known a moment earlier. Julia was under eighteen—but since Dean had written this last May, maybe not anymore. She had green eyes and dark hair. Francesca wondered if Dean had included the physical details as a way to remember her. That seemed plausible, especially since his writing had grown less specific and more flowery as time went on, implying that he hadn’t seen her in quite a while, or that he was writing to someone fondly remembered. This poem might even be his idea of a memorial.
Going through each line again, she studied the other adjectives. According to Dean, Julia was also jinxed, isolated and abandoned. Those three words caught Francesca’s attention because they were the only negative ones in the poem, and they didn’t reflect directly on Julia but on her circumstances.
Had this girl run into bad luck? Why was she jinxed, abandoned and isolated?
Dropping the letter in her lap, Francesca rested her head on the back of her seat and gazed off into the distance. The salvage yard was fairly isolated. Could Dean have been speaking about his own reality, projecting again? He was also jinxed and, to some extent, abandoned. Those adjectives would actually be quite appropriate for someone in his situation.
A truck chugged along the dirt road to her right. Watching the dust churned up by its tires, she tried to figure out why the letters she’d read gave her the feeling that Dean knew this girl well, that the whole family did. In the earlier letters, he made several references to Butch, and “the way he looks at you.” There was even “Don’t mind Paris. She’s just jealous.” And “Mom knows it wasn’t you.”
If those passages could be believed, they’d all spent time together, maybe a lot of it. But Francesca couldn’t imagine Butch and Paris going out anywhere with Dean, not if they could avoid it. Which meant the only way they could all associate as closely as these letters intimated was if—
Francesca’s heart began to beat faster. The girl lived around here!
Her eyes riveted on the truck she’d been watching earlier and she recalled her father’s words about the man who owned the farmland adjacent to the salvage yard. The owner works it himself, so he’s out there regularly, growing alfalfa….
This had to be that farmer, didn’t it? Or someone he’d hired…
Francesca had left her car idling because she’d needed the air-conditioning. Pushing the gearshift into drive, she punched the gas pedal, swung around the corner and barreled down the road. The truck, a dented old Ford, clearly a work vehicle, was pretty far ahead of her, but she managed to get the driver’s attention by laying on her horn and flashing her lights.
He stopped, allowing her to draw even with him.
Hoping this might be the break she needed, she hopped out and hurried over to greet him. “I’m really sorry to bother you. You must think I’m crazy racing after you like that, but I had to catch you.”
The driver, an older man with a craggy face and iron-gray hair, wore bib overalls and a T-shirt dampened with sweat. A wad of tobacco filled one cheek. “What can I help you with?”
She dug through her purse and handed him her card. “I’m looking for someone.”
He spat through his open window. “You’re a P.I.”
“I am.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“It’s a teenage girl, about eighteen. Green eyes. Dark hair. Most likely Caucasian.”
He gawked at the dust coating her high heels. “The closest house is that way half a mile or so, at the salvage yard. You could check there.”
The engine revved as if he was about to drive off so she put her hands on the window ledge. “I know where the salvage yard is. Please, if you could just…think for a moment. I’m guessing this girl hasn’t been around for a while. I’m not sure how long. But I believe she lived in the area at one time. Her name was Julia.”
His bushy eyebrows resembled two caterpillars inching toward each other. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I remember Julia. She’s been gone…oh, couple years. Maybe two.”
“Where did she live?”
