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“The house I pointed out to you.” He jerked his head in the direction from which she’d come.
“The salvage yard.”
“That’s right.”
Relief, hope, even disbelief, surged through Francesca, giving her a respite from the dragging fatigue. “She lived with Butch?”
“For a while. She was some sort of runaway they took in. Nice of ’em.”
“How well do you know Butch and the Wheelers?”
He adjusted his ball cap, which was even more stained with sweat than his shirt. “I know Elaine and Bill better’n the kids. Bought this land from ’em twenty years ago, but they’ve retired since then. Butch is runnin’ the place nowadays.” He peered at her more closely. “You okay?”
She felt as if she’d won the lottery. “I’m fine. It’s just…hot.” She swiped at a drop of sweat rolling down from her temple. “Can you tell me anything about Julia?”
“Not much. There was only one time that we actually spoke. The needle on my gas gauge was sticking.” He tapped the glass below the dusty dash. “I thought I had plenty in the tank but turns out I didn’t. I ran out right in front of their place, had to knock at the door and ask if I could buy a couple gallons off ’em.”
“What did they say?”
“Julia came to the door. She was real sweet. Ran and got me a gas can and invited me in for a glass of iced tea.”
“Did you see Butch or any of the Wheelers when you were there?”
“Paris was in the kitchen. Dean, too. They were just finishing lunch. They said hello, told me Julia was from California, that her parents didn’t treat her right so they’d taken her in. Dean mentioned that she helped out in the yard. Didn’t see Butch, Elaine or Bill.”
“Did that incident occur in the summer?”
“Had to be. Damn hot that day. That’s why the iced tea tasted so good.”
“And this was two years ago?”
“Yup.”
Francesca used the back of her wrist to dab at the sweat beading on her upper lip. “I see. And then Julia was gone shortly afterward?”
“Oh, I saw her out front once or twice after that, and we waved. But when I stopped by a few months later to see if Butch had a carburetor for a ’57 Chevy, she wasn’t around no more.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked about her. He said she’d run off. Said it was the damnedest thing, kind of ungrateful ’cause of everything they’d tried to do for her.”
If she was gone three months after this man had initially spoken to her in the height of summer, she’d disappeared in September or October, maybe even November 2008. “Has Butch or Dean or anyone else who lives at the salvage yard ever done anything you’d consider…unusual?”
Deep grooves formed in the farmer’s weathered face. “Unusual in what way?”
“Are they up late at night? Moving objects in and out of the house? Have you heard any fighting?”
“I only work here. I don’t live here. So I can’t say what goes on after hours. They’ve always seemed okay to me. They mind their own business.” He chewed on his tobacco. “What’s with all the questions? What’s going on over there? I saw the police cars when I arrived. And you’re the second person this week to ask me about them. Guy from Montana, another P.I. or some such, called a few days ago, wantin’ information. Somethin’ wrong?”
She lifted her hands from the window ledge. “One or more of them might be in trouble.”
“With the law?”
“Let’s just say we need to find Julia, make sure she disappeared by choice.”
“You don’t think Butch killed her.” When the farmer spat again, he nearly hit the frame of the window.
Francesca slid to one side for fear his aim would falter even more. She liked the shoes she was wearing. “I hope not. But it’s a possibility.”
