Free County Line by Bill Cameron Page B

by four percent since the 2000 census. Seat of Jackson Township in Montgomery County. Local high school: Valley View—home of the Spartans—halfway between Farmersville and nearby Germantown. One web site revealed there have been five documented ghost sightings in town.
    Around midday, I called Susan. Her tone was that of a disappointed grandmother learning her little cherub has been skipping school. Eldridge and Deffeyes had said little, except they were getting nowhere on Biddy Denlinger; didn’t even know if Biddy was male or female. I could tell she’d joined them in the Skin is out of his mind camp, but she admitted the growing body count raised a question or two. She even admitted to visiting Uncommon Cups for a chat with Marcy. When I told her we were going to Ohio she paused for a long, pregnant moment before suggesting we try to stay out of jail.
    — + —
    We leave I-75 at Franklin, make our way north and west. Urban gives way to rural, though small towns materialize every few miles. Trees alongside the road struggle to stand upright in the heavy air. I stare out the window, mystified by large brick planters shaped like baskets in the broad front yards we pass. The world feels compressed and sleepy to me, from the sluggish Miami River to the clapboard houses and eroding concrete silos along Carlisle Pike. I find myself wondering who lives in a place like this, and I guess I say so out loud without realizing it.
    “The world doesn’t fucking end east of Eighty-Second and south of Powell.”
    “Just saying.”
    “You act like you’ve never seen a barn. Christ, you’re worse than a New Yorker.”
    Maybe it’s me.
    Beyond Germantown, the road dips and climbs through scrubby woodland and open fields, with occasional big houses on giant lots. “Look, Pete. A barn.” We pass the high school and I’m tempted to stop. It’s been on the order of twenty years, I estimate, but someone might remember Ruby Jane, or know if she still has family in the area. But I decide to continue on to Farmersville. A couple of miles later we climb a gentle rise and we’re there.
    “Now what, Detective? Gonna roust us some rubes?”
    Good grief. “How many Whittakers do you have left to call?”
    “About a hundred.”
    “There were only seventy-five to begin with.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “Yeah.”
    “So what do we do?”
    “We get some lunch.”
    “It’s not even ten o’clock.”
    “Breakfast then.”
    “That’s your plan? We fly three thousand miles and your big idea is breakfast.”
    “Sooner or later, someone who knows RJ is bound to go out to eat.”
    “If anyone around here even remembers her.”
    “You could have stayed in California.”
    Farmersville is a rubber stamp pastoral village slipping into senescence. Saltbox houses on small lots mix with two-story brick or lap-sided commercial. The sunlight is sharp and metallic, the air earthy. I criss-cross the village at a crawl; the core is roughly six blocks by four, a quiet grid with minimal activity. A couple of guys chat outside U.S. Bank, kids play during recess at the elementary school. Trucks kick up fermented dust as they leave the grain elevators on the west side of town. I find what I’m looking for on Center Street: a bakery and café dripping with folksy charm. If we’re lucky, it’s full of Chatty Cathys with long memories.
    The café is cozy, a little overwarm. There are a few tables, and a glass case filled with baked goods. At one table, a man stirs a corner of toast in a puddle of egg yolk on his plate. At another table, a couple talks over muffins and coffee. In addition to breakfast, the bakery offers wedding cakes, catering, and baking workshops. Pete and I wait at the hostess podium until a young waitress with egg-shaped eyes and a big smile asks us if we’d like a table for two. I turn my head to hide my neck and let Pete confirm. She leads us to a spot in the front window, hands us menus, and offers us coffee while we’re