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But the fire made her suspicious. Spidey-sense, she’d call it. So she typed in: Wellsville Ohio fire December 1991.
The Evening Review, the paper of record in neighboring East Liverpool, Ohio, had an article about the “tragic” fire. There were details about the modest wood-frame home on the banks of the Ohio River. A little bit about the parents, who’d barely escaped the blaze. Carl was eulogized once more. Last, there was mention of twelve-year-old Bruno, who had been spending the night at a neighbor’s.
The cause, according to Wellsville Fire Department Chief Sam Soldano, was suspicious. Arson hadn’t been ruled out, and the house fire was under investigation.
Miranda searched for more details, or at least if the case was ever resolved, but found nothing, not even in other nearby small-town newspapers.
She looked over at her window, where the sky had lit up with a kind of pewter light. A few drops of rain slid down the pane. There was a distant rumble of thunder.
She got up from her desk and flung herself across her bed. The sheets smelled of sweat and alcohol. In spite of this, exhaustion was fast overcoming her. Before she passed out (drifted off was too kind), she had one thought—she had enough—a name and a possible location and age, to take to a private investigator.
But right now, all she needed was sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
AIDA CONKLE KNEWpeople underestimated her.
She was okay with that. In fact, she thought of people underestimating her as her super power—playing it up and reveling in it. Pass her on the streets of the Fremont neighborhood, where her private investigator office was, one would never guess her occupation. If pressed, one might say Aida looked as though she might be employed as a church organist or maybe a lunch lady at a local elementary school. Maybe a librarian?
Aida was purposefully dowdy. She never wore slacks, and certainly not jeans. She usually sheathed her matronly (she called her body lines “generous”) self in some kind of print shift, the colors dull—maybe muted yellows or blues. Her hair, a frizzy mass of gray, had been so since she was in her twenties, and she hadn’t been in her twenties since the ’80s. She wore Birkenstocks and socks because, hey, this was Seattle, and also on account of the fact they were the only shoes that helped with her plantar fasciitis. Her glasses, tortoiseshell rounds, were thick bifocals and did a good job of minimizing the effect and intelligence of her piercing green eyes.
Her unassuming appearance got people to let down their guard around her.
Aida had just celebrated her sixty-second birthday in December and was now collecting her social security every month. But PI work? She just couldn’t quit it, even though it seemed to be quitting her. These days, there simply wasn’t as much call for her services, what with things like location trackers on phones, Google, and cheap internet services that, for a fee, would supply a lot of the information she’d once charged for.
But Aida enjoyed the work, even though her earnings had steadily decreased over the last few years, to the point where what she made wouldn’t be a conflict with her social security.
She liked the job because she was good at it. She had excellent intuition and a nearly psychic ability to size people up. She could practically read minds, much like one of her favorite literary characters, Sookie Stackhouse. Plus, her photographic memory hadn’t waned as she grew older, unlike her peers who walked around with their glasses on their head, wondering where they’d left them. She was an excellent researcher and, like all good private eyes, was good at making contacts (because she was so unassuming and sweet) and pulling information out of the most reluctant sources, even as she skirted boundaries of propriety and legality.
She put down the book she was reading, a true-crime account of serial killer Richard Ramirez, when she noticed that it was nearing 10:00 a.m. and she had an appointment on the books. A young woman, a University of Washington student named Miranda Ryman, had been referred to her by one of the professors at the university who had used Aida way back in the day when he feared his wife was cheating. She wasn’t. Not with another man anyway. Aida was able to reveal the wife’s lover—online gambling—before the professor lost his savings.
Miranda Ryman? Aida had done her due diligence and knew Ryman was the daughter of Connor Ryman, the famous mystery author who plied his craft under the pseudonym Alfred Knox. Aida had spent many a lunch hour gobbling up the adventures of mousy private eye Juanita Parham and her chihuahua-partner-in-crime, Boots. His work was the literary equivalent of a burger and fries, but sometimes a burger and fries really hit the spot. That’s why, she supposed, he consistently topped the bestseller list. Folks these days didn’t really want to have to think while enjoying their entertainment.
Connor Ryman, aka Alfred Knox, must be worth millions.
Aida was intrigued why the daughter of a local celebrity was coming to see her. Aida didn’t doubt her own abilities, but there were bigger, flashier, and more luxurious detective agencies downtown. To Aida, it seemed that Miranda would have made one of those her first choice.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Aida’s mother, god rest her soul, had delivered this chestnut to her daughter when Aida was a little girl. The old adage had served her well—always be grateful and ready to receive.
At five minutes to ten, the frosted-glass, wood-framed door to Aida’s office opened. She had no reception area and no employees, so she was quickly eye to eye with the young woman she supposed was Miranda Ryman. Miranda was beautiful, although Aida honed in on the insight right away that Miranda didn’t realize it. She had a mane of attractively unkempt red hair curling around a pale, freckled face. Brown eyes so dark the pupil got lost in the iris. An amazing figure—that old song Aida had once danced to, “Brick House,” could have been written for this young lady. She put Aida in mind of a young Julianne Moore.
And yet Miranda, if this was indeed she, did nothing to enhance her beauty. She didn’t wear any makeup, although she didn’t really need it. She was blessed with naturally long lashes and pale skin that was so flawless it glowed. She wore a pair of cargo shorts, sandals, and gray-and-white socks, the kind they made sock monkeys out of. Her ensemble was completed by a stretched-out off-white fisherman cable-knit sweater.
She met Aida’s gaze with directness and didn’t smile.
Aida did. “You get my first stellar deduction for free. You’re Miranda Ryman.”
At last, she grinned, and Aida melted. “In the flesh.” She glanced over her shoulder at the round black-and-white wall clock. “And right on time.”
Aida gestured to the worn leather chair in front of her desk. “Why don’t you have a seat and clue me in on what I can do for you today?”
Miranda stared down at the floor. And then she seemed to take an intense interest in the view out the window over Aida’s shoulder. It wasn’t a bad view—the blue span known as the Fremont Bridge. One could even see the neon sculpture of Rapunzel leaning out of one of the guard towers.
“I was hoping you could find out some information for me on a person.”
“That’s what I’m here for, hon.” When Miranda still wasn’t forthcoming, Aida threw in, “This consultation is free. If we work together, I ask for a fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer. If it turns out to be a simple data search, you’ll get a good portion of that back, depending on how deep I need to go. If you want me to do more than basic research—surveillance, tailing, stuff like that—you’ll wind up paying more than the retainer. But I apply the retainer to the bill, and after you use it up, it’s a daily fee of five hundred.” She smiled. “I’m worth it. I’ve been in this business a long time.” Aida nodded. “But I’m not here to give you a sales pitch. Sorry. Tell me what you need.”
Miranda opened and closed her mouth a few times, as though confused as to where to start. She apologized and admitted she’d never imagined finding herself in the office of a private detective.
