County Line by Bill Cameron

inside.
    The living room is walled with books, the shelves interrupted by a pair of wide windows and a framed Bibemus Quarry print, the same one hanging on Ruby Jane’s wall. Museum Folkwang, Essen. I wonder if Mrs. Parmelee is the source of her interest in the Impressionists.
    Mrs. Parmelee gestures toward the couch. “I suppose you’d like some coffee.”
    “It’s not necessary.”
    “Of course it is.” She stops and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, she attempts a smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be short.”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    “I’ll make some coffee. Give me a moment.”
    She leaves me and I sit on the couch. The room doesn’t appear to get much use, except for a leather chair in one corner with a brass floor lamp looking over its shoulder. There’s a stack of newspapers on the floor on one side, and a small table on the other with a couple of books and a pair of reading glasses. I catch the faint scent of lemon furniture polish. A mantle clock ticks on one of the bookshelves.
    After a few minutes, Mrs. Parmelee returns with two cups of coffee. She sets one on a coaster on the cherry coffee table. “Do you take cream? I can get some.”
    “Black is good.”
    I sit back, try the coffee. It’s good. I wonder if she picked up a few tips from Ruby Jane.
    She sits on the edge of the couch next to me, khaki-clad knees pointing my way. “So.”
    “So.”
    “This is a bit awkward for me.”
    “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I’m worried about Ruby Jane.” The ticking seems to grow very loud. “You’ve seen her?”
    She studies her coffee cup. “She’s gone now.”
    “But you talked. You know what’s happening with her?”
    “Her situation here was always … complicated.”
    I sip coffee and wait for her to continue. Despite what I said to Pete, I’ve never been a skilled interviewer. My manner is too brusque, and my presence too discomfiting. Susan was the one to ask the questions when we were partners. But one thing I learned over the years is sometimes the thing to do is sit back and shut the hell up. Most people ache to fill the silence.
    But she turns it around on me.
    “Mister Kadash, how much do you know about Ruby’s life?”
    “Pretty much nothing. She never talked about her past. Until a couple of days ago, I thought she was from Kentucky.”
    “Did you ever wonder why?”
    “Under normal circumstances, I don’t like to pry.” A reaction, perhaps, to a career spent prying.
    “But now you think you’ve discovered less than normal circumstances.”
    “Honestly, I don’t know. She left suddenly without telling anyone where she was going, or why. For all I know, I’m just a presumptuous ass sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted.”
    “Yet you came anyway.”
    “Like I said, I’m worried about her. And … things have happened.”
    “Things which led you to believe you needed to stick your nose in, wanted or not.”
    “Something like that.”
    “I won’t betray her trust.”
    “I’m not asking you to.”
    “What then?”
    “Whatever you’re willing to tell me. Hell, if you tell me you know she’s safe and I should go home and stop worrying, I might even listen.”
    “Really. And why is that?”
    I nod toward the print. “That’s one of Ruby Jane’s favorite paintings. She’s got the same print in her apartment.”
    She sets her cup on its own coaster and folds her hands in her lap. Her eyes move to the print. I wonder what she’s thinking.
    “It’s just a painting.”
    “I suppose. But it tells me something about who you are to her.”
    “You trust me because of an old print.”
    “Why not?”
    She reaches for her coffee, then settles back in her chair again without it. When she looks up, she’s made a decision. “Mister Kadash, Ruby wasn’t close with many people after her father disappeared, and as far as it goes, she didn’t stick around here herself. She graduated from Dixie