Chapter 23 #2
The records man lit up when he saw them, gesturing for them to sit down while he placed copies of a property deed in front of them. “Greg Milne,” he said. “Looks like he bought the house from a John Milne—perhaps his father?” He aimed the question at the both of them.
“As far as I know, his dad’s name was Fred,” Frankie said. At least that’s what the family tree Norman had put together showed. “But maybe an uncle.” She turned to Owen. “That would explain why they moved here. Maybe he gave them a deal they couldn’t refuse.”
“A modest property,” the man continued. “Just over nine hundred square feet, built in 1953.”
Owen looked up from the document. “They bought it in 1978?”
“Um…” The man skimmed the information with one finger. “Yes, that’s right,” he confirmed. “May of 1978. And they sold it in March of 1985 at a marginal profit.”
“But that means they weren’t living here when my sister was born,” Frankie said, disappointment making her stomach dip. “And there’s no other address listed for this area. We’re back to square one.”
Owen gave her a sympathetic smile. “Not necessarily.” He faced the man again. “There must be more information than that here, right?”
“Well…” The man pointed to the document. “On the back there you’ll see a notice of late payment of property taxes the year before they moved, which would have resulted in a fine. Was the sheriff able to help you at all? He might have records of that.”
“He was,” Frankie said, choosing not to share Greg’s sordid relationship with law enforcement with this stranger since it wasn’t necessary.
“But nothing else?” Owen pushed, and Frankie could have hugged him for understanding the need for more in her.
“Unless they were born, married, or died here, we wouldn’t have such certificates in our records. I’m very sorry.”
And Frankie already had the marriage certificate, so nothing new there. Darn it.
“We’ll keep looking,” Owen told her. “If this was their first home, they might have stayed with their parents until then. They would have been very young.”
“Or they rented a place,” Frankie argued morosely. “They could literally have been anywhere in all of Alabama and Mississippi, if not even farther than that.”
The records man was following their conversation intently, and when Frankie noticed, she stood, offering her thanks since this part wasn’t for his ears.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” he called after them, but Frankie already knew they wouldn’t be returning. There was nothing else here for them.
“We know where their families were from,” Owen said once they were back outside where the sun was blazing down on the worn sidewalk. “We can start there. And we have an address in Jackson where we know you were born, so it’s at least likely that’s where they went after leaving here.”
“Maybe.” Frankie fought the temptation to sit down on the curb and mope.
She didn’t know what she’d expected—a comprehensive history of Estelle’s and Greg’s marriage, complete with listed reasons why Estelle had become a liar years later, and a written account of her older sister’s whereabouts wrapped up in a bow? Could a person be more na?ve?
“Hey.” Owen nudged her shoulder. “Don’t give up. We did learn some things. Let’s go grab lunch, and we can decide what to do next. I need to call Grams too and check in.”
Frankie let him escort her to the car, and she listened half-heartedly while he talked to Thora, who had nothing new to report.
Was this it then? A dead end? Yes, her parents had lived here, and the little she’d learned about that was enough to paint a picture of strife and turbulence that added a nuance to Estelle that Frankie had never glimpsed before.
To Frankie (and Aspen Creek), Estelle had always been the very image of composure, diplomacy, and goodwill, and yet the sheriff here had told a different story.
That contradiction must be relevant in some way.
But there was still no sign of the truths Frankie was seeking.
Why had Estelle never told Frankie about having another daughter?
Why had she claimed a different heritage than her own?
Why had she changed her name? Why had she lied about the song?
About the abduction and Frankie herself?
About the cancer? Who needed to forgive her?
How had she ended up in debt? And where was her sister now?
That question more than any other bored into her like a vicious thorn.
“You’re not ready to go home yet, are you?” Owen asked after they’d ordered burgers at the counter of the Dogwood Saloon in the middle of town.
They were one of only three parties inside, even though it was noon on a Friday, and judging by the framed prints on the wall, the spider cracks on the green pleather booth seats, and the darkened wood paneling, there hadn’t been funds for upkeep in this place for a while.
According to Owen, it had a decent online rating though, so Frankie would reserve judgment as far as the food was concerned.
“No,” she said, folding and unfolding the napkin in front of her.
“Jackson is less than four hours away. We could be there before city hall closes.”
She looked up and saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes. “That’s still a lot of driving—especially to get back home.”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind. We can take turns.”
Frankie hedged as if she hadn’t already decided. “And if there’s nothing there? Then what?” she asked.
“Then you’ll find another rock to turn over. Because that’s what you do.” He took a sip from his sweating water glass. “But at least you’d know.”
“Kayla won’t be happy,” Frankie said.
“It’s the weekend. And maybe if she knew what we’re doing here, she’d understand.” He raised an eyebrow.
“You noticed I didn’t tell her yesterday?” Frankie asked.
“I guess it surprised me. But maybe it shouldn’t have. I’m not close with anyone I knew back then.”
“I’ve talked to her more the past two weeks than in a long time. But this….” Frankie swung her hand out. “It’s… I don’t know… embarrassing. That Estelle lied, that I didn’t know.”
“No one would hold it against you.”
“Mom’s reputation would never recover. I keep hoping to find an explanation before I tell anyone. Something to make it more… palatable.”
Owen nodded. “Then you will. You can do anything you set your mind to.”
His calm confidence in her ability to take action boosted her. She wasn’t used to it. Estelle had always been so much more capable than her, or at least that’s how it had felt.
“I’m going to run to the washroom before we head out.” He jumped off his seat. “Be right back.”
She finished her burger deep in thought until Owen called her name from the corner where the restrooms were situated. He was bubbling with some kind of pent-up excitement, so she hurried over. “What’s going on?”
“Found something. Come look.”
She followed him into a darker alcove where the walls were lined with pictures of smiling people having a good time.
“Looks like the Dogwood Saloon was pretty popular at one point,” he said. “And check this out.” He led her to the far wall and pointed to a framed photograph. “That’s your mom, right?”
Frankie stepped closer. In the picture, the bar looked more or less the same, but on a stool in one corner of the room sat Estelle, her guitar slung around her narrow torso, her mouth slightly open in song.
Her hair was lighter, bleached perhaps, and her bangs poufy beyond reason as had been the style then.
She looked so young—much younger than Frankie now.
Stella-Jane. Married to Greg, a man with habits that no doubt made life a challenge for everyone involved, mother of a little girl whose fate Frankie had yet to learn, a star in the making.
Frankie’s eyes stung. This was real. All the facts they’d learned today weren’t just words on paper—Estelle had been here.
Lived here. And that finally cemented the resolve within her.
She was on the right path, and she wouldn’t stop until she’d picked apart every clue in her quest to untangle the life of this woman before her, no matter where that would lead her.