Chapter Sixty-Three
Quinn navigates the dusty roads scribbled on the napkin. He would’ve never found this place with a simple address. He doubts the dirt roads are even on any real map.
Eventually, he makes the final right turn and sees a house on probably the only hill in these flatlands.
He drives slowly toward the farmhouse, which looks straight out of The Wizard of Oz. A woman is tending to a garden on the side of the house. She puts a hand over her eyes to shield them from the setting sun as she peers at Quinn’s car.
Quinn offers a wave as he steps out of the vehicle. “Hello,” he says as friendly as he can. He imagines drop-in guests are rare out here.
“Hello,” she says with a suspicious lilt in her voice. He’s in the right place. It’s the same woman from this morning at the flower store.
“Mrs. Agness?”
“Yes?” she says cautiously.
A man appears on the porch now. He wears a dress shirt and slacks, looking nothing like a farmer. Her husband, the reverend, Quinn thinks.
“I’m Quinn Riley. I’m a private investigator—I work for Mr. Agbayani at the flower shop.”
The concern in Mrs. Agness’s face softens a trace. Her expression indicates that she might recognize Quinn from the store this morning.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Riley?” her husband says, standing beside his wife now.
“I’m so sorry to bother you both at your home. But I had a question for you concerning the case.”
The reverend exhales. “Such a tragedy. I think we talked a ways back.”
“That’s right,” Quinn says. The call had been short. Maybe too short in retrospect.
“As I’ve said, we weren’t in Omaha the day Minnie … I’m afraid we don’t have any information.”
“I understand,” Quinn says. Mrs. Agness has removed the gardening gloves and she’s holding the reverend’s hand now.
“Your fertilizer business,” Quinn says, “you sometimes hire help?”
Reverend Agness nods. “We don’t have any full-time employees, but sometimes we take on hourly help for certain things.”
“Deliveries?”
“Sometimes. We try to go ourselves. But sometimes.”
“I saw on the church’s website, you have a program for helping people released from prison.”
“Yes,” Reverend Agness says.
“Did you ever hire anyone from that program to help with deliveries? In particular for deliveries to Mr. Agbayani’s shop?”
“Look,” the reverend says, “I know where you’re heading with this. These men face a lot of discrimination, and I don’t think they should be under suspicion simply because—”
“Oh my god, the handyman,” Mrs. Agness blurts.
Her husband cocks his head to the side. “I don’t think Keith would—”
“Who’s Keith?” Quinn interrupts, a shot of adrenaline riding through his veins.
“Keith Cratch,” the reverend says. “He was the church’s handyman. He was in the Reentry Program. But I don’t think we ever had him do deliveries for our business, I don’t—”
“We did,” Mrs. Agness says. “When you had the flu…”
“Tell me, does Keith wear glasses?” Quinn’s pulse is racing now. “Is he missing an eye?”
“How did you know—”
“Does he still work for the church?” Quinn interrupts.
The reverend shakes his head decisively. “One of our parishioners reported that Keith made a lewd gesture to one of the girls who attend our Sunday school. We had to let him go.”
Quinn’s chest is fluttering. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. The parents didn’t want to put their child through reporting. The townsfolk, well, he’s lucky he got out of here in one piece. I had to intervene. Appeal to their better angels.”
“You didn’t mention this to the investigator in Minnie’s case? Didn’t mention this to me when we spoke,” Quinn says, failing to suppress the incredulity in his voice.
The reverend stammers now. “This … this happened after Minnie, after we talked … We didn’t connect it. There was no reason … no reason to think—”
Mrs. Agness cuts in. “Oh my goodness. You don’t think Keith…” She cups a hand over her mouth.
“I need to find Keith Cratch, and I need to find him now.”