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Let’s make that probably a very nice old wacko, Greta amended.
“I may come back tomorrow and talk with you again, Mrs. Pastorini.”
“You really should talk to the sheriff. I called months ago, and it’s only now someone has come to investigate.”
“I’ll be sure to mention it to him. I’m sure he’ll be very concerned about the delay.”
When pigs fly and Hell freezes over, Greta thought.
Back in her vehicle, she sat and stared out at the overcast sky and light drizzle.
It’s got to be, she told herself. How many faded pink chewed flamingos can there be in this area? They’re not exactly known for this being their normal habitat. Even if the odds are low that this leads to anything, at least it has potential.
She called Connors right away.
“Mitch, it’s Greta Havorsford. I have a favor to ask. It’s about the Toompas case.” She listened as he questioned her with a hint of exasperation that she was still futzing with it. “Yes, I am, but only when something pops up on its own.”
No reason to share my obsession, she thought.
“Anyway, there’s a chance I’ve found where that pink flamingo in Toompas’s trunk came from.” She listened. “You know, the pink plastic garden flamingo you people found in Toompas’s trunk.” Now, a little exasperation had crept into her voice. “Can you email me a photo of the bird? I think the person I talked to might be able to identify it.”
Greta listened. Now she wasn’t only getting exasperated, she was getting pissed.
“Just send me the picture.”
Connors evidently capitulated.
“Okay, great, Mitch. Thanks, I appreciate it.”
The photo showed up in her email before noon.
Maybe he thinks I have permanent PMS, she thought, but I’ll cut him a break. When he said he’d do it, he did.
She was twenty miles away when the photo arrived, but she couldn’t wait for the next day. She drove straight home, printed out the photo, and went back to the Pastorini house. Mrs. Pastorini answered the door, surprised again.
“Mrs. Pastorini, would you take a look at this photo?” Greta pulled out the letter-sized paper on which she’d printed the photo. The flamingo was lying on a desk, presumably Connors’s.
Mrs. Pastorini took one look and began crying. “Oh, dear. It’s Sophie. Oh, Sheriff, how did you find her?”
“It’s deputy sheriff, Mrs. Pastorini, and we found her as part of another case.”
“When can she come home? Edward is going to be so excited!”
“It may be a while, but I assure you I’ll try to have her home as soon as I can. One thing, though . . . are you sure it’s Sophie?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Pastorini firmly. “Anyone can tell it’s Sophie. See the chew marks on her neck from that terrible dog? It chewed Edward more, but Sophie had that big bite on her neck just below her head, poor thing. A little piece of Sophie came off. I saved it, in case anyone could put it back on.”
Greta felt lightheaded again and told herself, I’m glad there’re no recordings of this exchange.
“Do you think I could borrow that piece of Sophie? I promise I’ll bring it back.”
“Of course. I’ll go get it.” She hustled off and returned shortly with a ziplock bag containing a piece of faded pink plastic.
As Greta headed down the walkway, she then realized why this particular set of houses looked so familiar. Three doors down, on the same side of the street, was the house of Joseph and Helen Snyder. Puzzle pieces seemed to come together in her head. She could almost see them overlaid on her vision.
The next morning, armed with a chunk of Sophie, Greta called a resigned Connors and arranged to meet him at the Lincoln City police station with the suspected Sophie. The piece of plastic from Mrs. Pastorini fit perfectly, making allowances for being chewed. By then, Greta had also checked with Jasmine on when Mrs. Pastorini had called in to report Sophie’s disappearance. The call was on October 9th of last year, in the middle of the window when the medical examiner estimated that Toompas had been killed. Now, for the first time, Greta had Connors’s attention.
They sat at a table as she laid it out.
