A Reasonable Doubt Susan Sloan (chrysanthemum read aloud TXT) 📖

over to the counter.  “Pardon me, but have any of you seen Margaret Dean today, by any chance?” he asked.  It was clearly a friendly town, the kind of town where he was sure everyone pretty much knew everyone else.

“You mean Maggie Bream?” a customer inquired.  “She’s gone more’n a year now, rest her soul.”

“No, not poor Maggie Bream,” Joe said, assuming a folksy demeanor.  “I’m looking for Margaret Dean.”  He shrugged, feigning embarrassment.  “Met her in Tacoma a while back, and she told me, if I was ever passing through, to be sure and look her up.  Only thing is -- I lost her number.”

The customer, a grizzled old man, and the clerk, a plump middle-aged woman, exchanged puzzled glances.  “Don’t know of any Margaret Dean here in town,” the customer said.  “There’s Lizzie Dean.  And there’s Eudora Dean.  Are you sure you got the name right?”

“Are you sure you got the town right?” the clerk chimed in.

“Well, I thought I had,” Joe said.  He offered a sheepish grin.  “Maybe she was just pulling my leg.”

The clerk smiled.  The customer let out a hoot.  “Got you all the way out here on a wild goose chase, did she?”

“She might be summer people,” another customer, who had been listening in, suggested.  “Nowadays, we’ve got more and more of them coming out over July and August.  Not a bad bunch, mostly, maybe just a bit pushy.”

Joe nodded.  “Sure do appreciate your help,” he said, and made his way out.

City Hall was next, a squat brick building that sat almost unnoticed in the middle of the block.  But there was no record of a Margaret Dean ever being born or married or given birth or dying in Trent, Washington.  And the local school department had no record of a Margaret Dean ever having attended school there.

He didn’t have much better luck at the police station.

“I’m born and raised here, went to school here, go to church here, and I’ve never known anyone named Margaret Dean,” the duty officer said.  “And in addition to the locals, I know most of the summer folk, too.”

“The name doesn’t appear on any report of any kind of crime or accident?” Joe queried.  “You’ve got nothing there involving a Margaret Dean?”

The deputy checked the files on his computer.  “Nope, nothing,” he confirmed.  “Nothing with that name, victim or perp.  And I’m going back ten years now.”

Joe thanked the deputy and returned to his Jeep, sitting in the driver’s seat without turning on the ignition, trying to figure what his next move should be.  The letter sent to Lily was mailed from Trent, and Joe was convinced that the postmark was a message.  It was where the sender was directing him to look for Margaret Dean.  But if she wasn’t a local, and she wasn’t a summer person, what was she, and why had the sender lured him here to find her?  What was going on in this remote community, almost an hour and a half from Port Hancock, that was in some way connected to Jason Lightfoot’s murder trial?

It was approaching noon and a sudden growling in his gut told him it was time to eat.  Joe glanced around.  Across the street he spotted a cute little cafe.  He climbed out of the Jeep and headed for it.  He always thought better on a full stomach anyway.  The waitress smiled as he entered.  He took a stool at the counter and ordered the daily special, which turned out to be grilled salmon, basted with a lemon-basil sauce.  It was as delicious as it was elegant.  Maybe Trent wasn’t as behind the times as he thought.

“Be careful of the bones,” the waitress warned.  “Had a couple of tourists passing through yesterday, he nearly choked to death.  Had to hurry him over to the hospital.”

The hair on the back of Joe’s neck suddenly began to tingle, and he beamed at the waitress.   If Margaret Dean was not from Trent, she had to be someone who had passed through Trent, and in passing through, had left behind some kind of record that the person who sent the letter thought Lily needed to know about.  And if it wasn’t a police record, or a school record, or a community record, there was only one other record he could think of.  He finished his lunch and left an extra large tip on the counter.

. . .

Given its rather remote location, the Trent Community Hospital had become a surprisingly efficient little facility, required, as it was -- because of its location, to treat everything from a hangnail to an automobile accident to a coronary bypass, if necessary.  It was listed third on the Chamber of Commerce’s “need to know about” list.

Joe parked the Jeep in the hospital parking lot, and made his way to the main entrance.  The lobby was bright and cheerful, with murals that looked like a child’s painting covering the walls.

Three women were seated behind the reception desk.  He approached the youngest, a pretty brunette.

“How may I direct you?” she asked brightly.  The name on the tag that was attached to her blouse read: Bonnie.

Joe summoned up a bashful smile.  “I’m looking for someone, Bonnie,” he said.  He pulled out the badge he had kept from his days on the Port Hancock Police Force, and watched her eyes pop and her shoulders straighten as she looked at it.

“A criminal?” she asked.

“Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid,” he assured her.  “Just a witness to a matter I’m investigating.”

“And you think maybe he’s here, your witness?” Bonnie gasped.  “In Trent?  At our hospital?”

“I’m hoping so,” the private investigator said.  “But it’s not a ‘he’ I’m looking for -- it’s a ‘she’.”

“Is it like she’s in the witness protection program or something?” the receptionist asked breathlessly.

“Again, nothing so exciting,” Joe said with a rueful smile.  “But she just may have some important information that I really need to have.”

“I’ll help you all I can,” Bonnie said.  “Who is it?”

“Her name is Margaret Dean.”

Bonnie frowned.