Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
FRANKIE
Now
The receptionist at city hall looked older than the building itself, but she was friendly and helpful when she directed them to their records department, which was one man in a small office down the hallway.
“Greg and Stella-Jane Milne,” he said, typing something on his computer.
“And a child,” Frankie added.
He glanced at her above his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Property records wouldn’t have children listed.
” He returned to the screen. “Like I thought. We’ve had some records from the eighties digitized, but since you think they might have lived here before that, I’m going to have to check the basement. It might take a little while.”
“We have time,” Owen said.
“You know what you could do in the meantime is ask the sheriff. He’s down the street, three-minute-walk tops. He’s been here since 1982, so if they lived here then, he’ll know.”
Frankie and Owen looked at each other and exchanged a nod.
“We’ll do that,” Frankie said. “Thank you.”
“Let Lucy know when you’re back, and I’ll come get you when I’m done with my search.” He stood, offering a smile showing teeth beset by age and bad habits, and indicated the door. “I don’t often have reason to visit the stacks,” he mused. “Here’s hoping I find what you’re looking for.”
Indeed, Frankie thought, as she followed Owen back outside.
They strolled side by side down the street in the direction that had been pointed out to them.
“What do you think it’s like living in a place like this?” Frankie asked.
Owen looked around. “It’s probably different now than it was forty, fifty years ago. Most everyone has fled to the cities and bigger towns now, and that doesn’t leave much community. It’s almost a little dystopian. It would be difficult to be hopeful about the future here.”
Frankie nodded. “Yeah, it must have been different then or why would they have settled here?” Neither family was from Ferrisville originally, and according to the sparse information they’d gleaned, both sets of parents had lived further south their whole lives.
“This is it,” Owen pointed to the “SHERIFF” sign above the door.
The building was no bigger than the ramblers they’d passed yesterday, but it was better maintained, and the air inside was nice and cool.
“We’re hoping to see the sheriff,” Owen said to the man behind the front desk. He was in uniform and sported a goatee and moustache that were impeccably maintained.
“Who can I say is calling?” the officer asked, his eyes sliding to Frankie.
She took a step forward. “We were told he might have information about people who lived here in the eighties. I’m looking for my parents.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You adopted or something?”
“No, just interested in their roots.”
He stared them down for a few more seconds, and then he spun his chair around. “Boss!” he called. “Visitors.” He pointed to a couple of chairs along the wall. “You can wait over there if you like. He’ll be right with you.”
The sheriff was an imposing man in his upper sixties with a red-speckled nose and white eyebrows that had a life of their own.
He invited them back to his office, then sat down, steepling his fingers together before asking them how he could help.
Frankie explained that the man at city hall was looking through records for them, but that he’d said the sheriff knew everyone who’d set foot here in the past forty years or so, which made him the man to ask.
She spread it on thickly, like she knew Estelle would have done in the spirit of catching more flies with honey.
“And what were your folks’ names?” the sheriff asked, riffling through the piles of papers on his desk for a notebook and pencil.
“Milne,” Frankie said. “Greg and Stella-Jane.”
His head shot up. “You’re Stella’s girl?”
Frankie glanced at Owen, hope flaring inside her. “You knew her?”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on his belly and the metal joint squeaking under his weight. “Ha! Everyone in the county knew Stella—she made damn sure of that. The mouth on that girl. Hoo-wee.”
Owen straightened next to Frankie. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that that’s my friend’s mother you’re talking about.”
Shrewd eyes peered at Owen above round cheeks. “Oh now, I don’t mean anything untoward. She was a spitfire, that’s all. Great singer. Her husband on the other hand…”
“What about Greg?” Frankie asked. “I have no memories of him, so anything you can tell me…”
The sheriff considered her request, but then he cocked his head toward a door at the far end of the room.
“Well, he was a frequent guest in our holding cells, I can tell you that much. House painter I believe but liked his booze a little too much.” He hollered out the door, “Tom, can you check on a file for me? Name of Greg Milne.”
“Sure, boss,” came from the front room.
“It’ll be just a minute,” the sheriff told Frankie and Owen. “Those old records are still in paper form.”
Frankie was about to ask him to expand on what he’d just said about her dad when Owen leaned forward.
“What about a child?” he asked.
“What about it?” the sheriff asked.
“Did they have one?”
“Well, she’s sitting right there, ain’t she?” He looked at Owen as if he was slow.
“He means while they lived here,” Frankie said. “I was born later.”
The sheriff’s bushy eyebrows flew up. “Oh. Yes, I thought you looked on the young side to be her.”
Goosebumps rose along Frankie’s arms. “Her? They had a daughter?” She had a sister? A lump lodged itself in Frankie’s throat.
“A quiet little thing from what I recall. But I suppose with those two as parents, there was commotion enough to go around.”
“Do you—” Frankie cut herself off, her voice too brittle to finish, but then Owen’s hand came to rest against her back. She looked at him, taking strength from his encouraging nod. “Do you remember her name?”
“You don’t know?” The sheriff’s brow furrowed.
“It’s a long story,” Owen supplied.
“Well, let’s see…” The sheriff’s eyes went to the ceiling as if the answer could be found written somewhere up there.
His lips pursed one way then the other. “It might come to me,” he said finally, “but seeing as we only overlapped a few years before they moved and it was long ago, I don’t rightly know. ”
“What about schools in the area?” Frankie asked. There must be records of her sister somewhere.
“It’s been closed since the late nineties, so I doubt it. The kids are bussed out nowadays. Sorry. Ah, here’s Tom now.”
The officer strode into the room and handed the sheriff a folder before making himself scarce again.
Frankie closed her eyes briefly and rubbed a finger across her brow, trying to force one life-altering fact aside to make room for another. She’d come back to her sister later, she vowed.
“Milne, Greg,” the sheriff read on the label before flipping the beige cover open and sifting through the first few pages in the stack.
“That’s right, the blue Escort…” He continued reading, then pushed the file toward Frankie on the desk.
“Public intoxication, disorderly conduct, DUIs, misdemeanor assault, criminal mischief, reckless driving, and the list goes on. If I remember correctly, he only did a couple of shorter stints in county jail though, so I’d say he got lucky considering his accomplishments. ”
Frankie rested her hands on the folder, her mind reeling at his words. Her father had been a criminal?
“It is sad,” the sheriff continued. “Someone young like that already taken by the disease. I had a cousin went the same way.”
“So it was due to drinking?” Owen asked at Frankie’s side, at the same time flexing his hand against her back as if wanting to settle her. “Making poor decisions?”
Frankie pulled the folder into her lap and opened it, but much of the contents was sterile forms and checked boxes with only occasional notes.
Kept overnight. Charges? Medic called. She read Owen’s intent between the lines.
She’d been too quick to label Greg. He hadn’t been a bad person—he’d been an addict making bad choices—something that must be resonating with Owen in light of what he’d told her about his own past.
The sheriff nodded. “The devil’s juice, my mother used to say. Certainly true for a fair share of people around here.”
Frankie handed the folder back. The last records of arrest in Greg’s file were from December 1984, and beyond that, she didn’t need to read more. “What about Este—I mean Stella? Did she also have problems like these?”
“Oh no. She was just feisty. Opinionated.” He let out an amused huff.
“Did you know she scolded the mayor in front of God and everyone on Founding Day the year I moved here for ‘a lackluster celebration’? She’d rallied a fair few people with her too and got some set against her. It caused quite the ruckus.”
Feisty wasn’t a word Frankie would have used about Estelle, but perhaps her mom hadn’t yet learned about flies and honey at that point. Still, it wasn’t hard to picture her gaining followers in whatever task she set herself. But that begged the question…
“Would you say she made enemies along the way?”
“Enemies?” The sheriff huffed. “I don’t know about that. The mayor’s wife wasn’t happy about it of course, and there might have been a certain sense of relief when they moved, but that’s it. Why do you ask?”
Because Estelle had needed forgiveness for something? Because she’d coated herself in lies? Because Orla thought it possible the past had caught up to her.
“No reason,” she said. “It was just a thought.” She turned to Owen. “Should we head back to city hall?”
They’d gotten everything they could there, so after thanking the sheriff, they took their leave.
“There you are,” Lucy, the old receptionist, said when they entered the overly climate-controlled lobby at city hall. “He’s ready, so head on back.”