Free The Snake Tattoo by Linda Barnes Page B

through sheer volume and determination. “Is your daughter at home, Mrs. Haslam? Do you know where she is?”
    â€œWell, I have two daughters, but of course you mean Valerie, don’t you? Uh. Excuse me. Can you hang on just a minute? Thank you. I just want to turn the TV down. And I think I left something on the stove.”
    Turning the TV down and checking the stove took so long I thought we’d been disconnected. Just when I’d decided to hang up and call back, I heard her breathing into the phone.
    â€œOprah Winfrey’s doing such an interesting show on teenagers,” she said. “Teenage rebellion, you know. It seems like they all do it, but I don’t know about Jerry—”
    â€œMrs. Haslam,” I said loudly, “I want to talk to you about your daughter, Valerie. If you have time, I could come over now. I’m in Lincoln already, so I could be there in ten minutes.”
    â€œOh, no,” she said. “I don’t think you’d better. I’ve been sick. A fever. I think it’s catching. Fevers are usually catching, you know, and I wouldn’t want you to—”
    â€œCan you just confirm that Valerie is missing, Mrs. Haslam?”
    â€œWell, it’s not so easy,” she said petulantly. “Valerie sometimes spends the night with a girlfriend. They’re so independent at that age. Rebellion, like Oprah says. I don’t want to make a fuss if all the girls do it, you know. Valerie would hate for me to make a fuss. And Preston, that’s my husband, he’s always saying I make scenes.”
    I felt like I was dropping down the rabbit hole in Alice-in-Wonderland. Unless Jerry Toland was fond of tall tales, I was speaking to the mother of a missing fourteen-year-old girl who’d been gone a week. I had a strong suspicion the TV was still blaring, commandeering what little concentration Mathilde Haslam possessed.
    â€œIs your husband at home?” I asked in desperation.
    â€œOh, no, dear,” she said. “Preston wouldn’t be home in the afternoon. He works, you know.”
    â€œDo you have a number where I can reach him?’
    â€œYou can’t reach him today. He won’t be in till late tonight. But I can have him call you as soon as he gets in.”
    â€œThat would be fine,” I said, speaking slowly. “Can you tell me the names of girls Valerie might be staying with? Her friends besides Elsie McLintock?”
    â€œOh, I’ll call them,” she said eagerly. “I should have done that before, shouldn’t I? I’ll call them and see if Valerie’s there. Elsie’s a sweet girl, isn’t she? Like I told Jerry, I’m sure this is just some misunderstanding. I’m certain there’s no need for everybody to get alarmed. Really, if you’ll excuse me, I think I ought to lie down. My head is pounding so badly. The fever, you know—”
    â€œLet me give you my phone number,” I said quickly. “If you hear from Valerie I’d like to know. And have your husband call me.”
    Maybe he could hang on to a coherent thought.
    I had to repeat my phone number three times. When I asked her if she’d written it down, she admitted she didn’t have paper or pencil, and then took about ten minutes to locate them. I waited, shaking my head and tapping my fingers on Reardon’s desk. She came back chattering about whatever was on the stove, her voice sounding even softer, with a blurry quality in spite of overly careful pronunciation. I wondered if her trip to the kitchen had included a stop for a drink.
    This time I got her to repeat my number back to me. I spelled out my name twice. I think she got it.
    â€œDon’t worry,” she told me before hanging up. “I’m sure everything’s just fine.”
    I wasn’t.
    I switched off Geoff’s desk lamp. As an afterthought I shifted the manuscript, ran my hand under the blotter, and