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Yes, it had, and somehow it never occurred to Greta that people changed. She’d missed seeing her sister’s transformation.
Jeanine, I’m sorry, she thought.
Greta spent the next two hours catching up, mainly with Jeanine, because nothing much new had happened in her mother’s life. As the shadows outside lengthened, the three of them talked while they prepared dinner.
Heather made an appearance around five-thirty, accompanied by her latest boyfriend. As always, she was convinced this one was the real thing. Greta wasn’t impressed. He was between jobs, had been so for months, and was waiting for the right opportunity. Greta wondered whether he would recognize an opportunity if he saw one or would seize it if he did. Naturally, Heather got in a subtle dig at Greta for not having a serious boyfriend like she did. Jeanine rolled her eyes behind Heather’s back, and Greta suppressed laughing. Heather and boyfriend left, with a promise from Heather that they would catch up later. Tonight they had a scheduled party to go to, and after all, they had planned on seeing Greta last night and changed plans already once this week.
Greta supposed Heather couldn’t possibly change plans two nights in a row for a sister she hadn’t seen in a year and a half. Poor Heather. Greta wondered whether she or her sister was more pathetic: Heather, who ran through a line of temporary boyfriends, thinking each one was going to be the last, or her, with no boyfriend at all.
John Havorsford arrived home just after six o’clock and visited with Greta before dinner. He seemed shorter as well. He was still the doting father she remembered, though his hair was thinner and grayer. His face seemed lined with more wrinkles than she remembered, and he didn’t appear to move quite as spryly.
Family activities filled the next few days, as they either got ready for Christmas or did routine tasks. They had waited for her to come before setting up the decorations, so they spent two days finding just the right Christmas tree, decorating it, and stringing lights outside. More distant relatives living nearby came to see her—aunts, uncles, cousins, old acquaintances, and a few teachers.
The week, which had started badly, went well after that. Her mother didn’t grate on her nerves this time, as Greta had remembered and dreaded. In an insightful moment, Greta decided it wasn’t that her mother had changed. She had changed. Now she sloughed off the constant pricks at her self-esteem before they penetrated. Whether Greta didn’t take them to heart anymore, simply ignored them, or both, she didn’t know and didn’t obsess about it.
She thought Christmas Day was one of their best holidays ever.
Perhaps time and distance do make the heart grow fonder, she thought.
Still, she had no regrets about leaving Nixa when the time came to return to Tillamook. It had been a good visit but only a visit. It wasn’t her home anymore. By the time she had to drive to the airport for the flight back, she was ready. It wasn’t that she felt glad to be leaving her family, as much as wanting to return to her own life.
Thankfully, the return flight on New Year’s Day was the opposite of the first flight. Six hours after takeoff in St. Louis, she got into her car at the Portland airport parking lot. In another two hours and twenty minutes, she walked through her front door in Pacific City.
Greta slid smoothly back into her life in Tillamook. Despite her vow to put aside the Toompas case during her family visit, she had thought about it. Not the details, but she felt a sense of justice that his killer might be found. It simply wasn’t right that everything could be forgotten.
As her first act back on the case, she checked whether any other restaurants serving at night in Pacific City recognized Toompas as a customer, or if they had noticed any strangers the last couple of months. Two places recognized Toompas’s photo. The Ocean Brewery Pub and the La Fiesta Mexican Restaurant both had staff members who thought they had seen Toompas there one or more times near closing. One waitress commented on the obnoxious little twerp who didn’t tip. Neither remembered him as a regular.
Greta compared the other receipts found in Toompas’s car. Two matched those at the La Fiesta. She checked crime reports. On both nights when he ate at the La Fiesta, there were reports of home break-ins. The check against Doris’s receipts turned up another two date matches. She now had him eating late dinners at two eateries in Pacific City on at least a few dates that coincided with burglaries.
On the question about strangers, the feedback was also disappointing. There were always strangers around. People visiting relatives or friends, tourists, people passing through for unknown reasons. Small community or not, it had residents whose schedules or the places t
hey frequented didn’t overlap. The others on the original investigation team had blown off her suggestion that the killer might have been a stranger. She asked around anyway. She thought about giving up that particular straw when she got a call at home.
“Greta, this is Jack Valenti at the Ocean Brewery.”
“Hi, there, Jack. What’s up?”
“You asked about seeing strangers around the last couple of months. We’ve got a customer tonight who jogged my memory. Never seen him before about September, then he started coming in regular on Wednesday nights late. He’s here tonight.”
She looked at the clock: 8:38 p.m.
“Is he still eating?”
“He just got served, so he should be here another twenty minutes or so.”
Did she really want to go back out tonight? No. But if she wasn’t going to follow up when she asked people to help, then why bother?
Shit, she thought.
“Okay, Jack. Thanks. I’ll there in a few minutes.”
She opened the clothes hamper and pulled out the shirt and the jacket she’d worn that day. No point using clean ones because she hadn’t done any grubbing around today.
Boots, utility belt, jacket, Smoky the Bear hat. She looked at herself in the mirror. All set.
It took only two minutes to drive to the brewery. The wet streets meant it must have rained earlier, although the windshield showed none at the moment. She pulled into the brewery parking lot. Eight to ten vehicles sat at the back end—workers. A half dozen in front—customers. A newish Toyota Prius with California plates sat near the front door.
Valenti waited for her at the cashier’s station, pretending to organize the menu stack. “He’s in the last booth by the front window. Dark hair, a little rough looking.”
