Chapter Twenty-Seven
She answers on the first ring. “Hi, Midge.”
“Hi. Just checking to see how things are going?”
“Hot time in the old town tonight. Two pickpocketing reports from the band concert, one drunk and disorderly, and we broke up a domestic altercation at one of the picnic pavilions.”
“Has the Greene girl turned up?”
“Not yet.”
Clearly, Sarah didn’t just stop for ice cream on her way home and lose track of time.
Still, that doesn’t mean she’s in serious trouble.
Maybe she was just hot and cranky and frustrated with rules and chores, so she decided to go off and have some fun.
Maybe she’ll come back when she’s good and ready.
“Where are you?” Midge asks Renee, hearing background chatter.
“Standing in line to get ice cream at Get the Scoop, along with everyone else in town. Where are you?”
“Heading home from Haven Cliff.”
“If you’re up for ice cream, meet me here. They’ve got a two-for-one special. Do you like chocolate fudge chip?”
“I like chocolate anything,” Midge says.
“Girl, I’ve got you. Get on over here.”
“I shouldn’t, but I will.”
She isn’t planning to park in her spot behind the police station since she’s off duty, but nothing else is available.
Shops and restaurants are open late, and plenty of people are still out and about.
She hurries toward the ice cream parlor’s pink-striped awnings, expecting to see Renee out front holding two drippy cones.
But there’s a long line out the door even at this hour.
Her uniformed pal is easy to spot among the T-shirts-and-flip-flops crowd, right up front but still waiting to order.
“Hey, Midge, thanks for saving me. I don’t need two cones if I want to fit into my wedding gown, and I’ve got a fitting on Saturday.”
Renee is getting married in October. She was a cop in the Bronx before moving to the Hudson Valley a few years ago to live with her fiancé, Darius, a local firefighter.
“The invitations are going out next week,” she tells Midge. “I’m giving you a plus-one in case there’s anyone you want to bring.”
“There isn’t, but thanks anyway. I’ll save you a chicken entrée.”
“It’s filet mignon.”
“No way!”
“Hey, you only get married once. If you’re lucky, anyway.” Renee points at the menu board. “We’re almost up. You want a sugar cone or a cake cone?”
“Sugar,” Midge says.
“All I need is another single so I don’t have to break a twenty,” the man in front of them tells his wife as she digs through her purse with one hand, holding her ice cream cone in the other.
“Oh, come on, really?” a young voice grumbles behind Midge. “Break the damned twenty, dude. I want my ice cream!”
“The line would be moving a lot faster if the kids who work here spent more time scooping and less time chitchatting,” an adult voice returns.
Midge sees four teenagers behind the counter, all wearing white uniforms with pink-and-white-striped aprons. She recognizes the girl behind the register from this afternoon. It’s Taylor, of the unwashed uniform, pool-hopping brother, and weary mother who could strangle her, but not really.
She’s waiting for the couple to pay as another girl and a boy painstakingly scoop ice cream from the round cardboard containers in the glass freezer compartment. Another boy isn’t doing anything at all, just having what appears to be an ongoing serious conversation with the others.
“Yeah, well, I bet she ran off with some guy,” he’s saying.
“Her?” The female scooper pauses midscoop, shaking her head. “No freaking way.”
“You’re right. If anything, she ran off to join a monastery.”
They’re talking about Sarah, Midge realizes.
The girl at the register snorts. “Ryan, you idiot. Girls can’t be monks.”
“Really? How come?”
“No singles, Bob,” the woman in front of them tells her husband. “You’re going to have to break the twenty.”
“Fine.” He hands it over.
The girl takes it and punches register keys, telling her friends, “You guys, she didn’t run off to do anything. She’s probably, like, dead. I heard—”
She breaks off, noticing Renee standing there in her law enforcement uniform.
“You heard what?” one of the coworkers asks.
She just shakes her head, counting Bob’s change into his hand, right down to the penny. He pockets it all, plucks a huge pile of napkins from the holder on the counter, and follows his wife out the door.
“Way to ignore the tip jar,” the girl grumbles under her breath—though loud enough for waiting customers to hear, and heed. “Next?”
Stepping forward, Renee orders their ice cream.
Midge pulls out her wallet. “My treat.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“You need to save up for all that filet mignon at your wedding,” Midge tells her, and holds out a bill. “How’s it going, Taylor?”
The girl frowns, taking the money. “Um, great?”
“We met earlier today.”
“We did?” She looks up from tapping the register keys. “Where?”
“Your house. I was in my uniform, and you were . . . not.”
“Oh! You’re the cop who arrested my brother!”
“Tay! Your brother got arrested?” her female coworker asks. “What’d he do?”
“Some dumb thing. Whatever.” She hands Midge her change with a fake smile. “Here you go.”
Midge drops the coins into the jar, pockets the bills, and looks at Renee. “Can you wait here for our cones while Taylor and I have a little chat?”
“Sure thing.”
“Wait, what? I have to watch the register.”
“Ryan will take over for a few minutes,” Midge says. “Ryan?”
“But I’m supposed to be scooping.”
“He’s taking over the scooping.” She points at the kid who’s doing nothing at all. “Taylor?”
“Is this about Jacob? Because seriously, I had nothing to do with whatever he did.”
“Not about Jacob.” Midge steps around the corner. “Is there a place back there to talk?”
Taylor nods and leads Midge into a small storage room. She’s trembling.
“Hey, Taylor, relax. You’re not in any kind of trouble.”
“I’m not?” She leans against a stack of boxes. “What is it, then? You’re a cop, right?”
“I am, and I’m looking for Sarah Greene.”
“Oh. I, uh . . . I barely even know her. We’re not, like, friends or anything.”
“But you heard something?”
She gives Midge a blank look, which seems about as genuine as her thick black lashes and polished oval fingernails.
“You said you heard that Sarah is dead.”
“Oh! That. I didn’t actually hear she’s dead. I just think she might be.”
“Why?”
“My boyfriend’s the one who said it. Plus, she kind of looks like the girl who disappeared from Elizabethville a few months ago.”
“Junia Stanton?”
“Yeah.”
Midge nods. She hasn’t seen a photo of Junia in a while, but as she recalls, she and Sarah do look somewhat alike.
“That’s what these crazy serial killers do,” Taylor says. “They go after girls who all look alike, right?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Trust me, they do. I listen to a ton of true crime podcasts,” she tells Midge with the confidence of someone who just revealed she has a PhD in criminology.
“Uh-huh. Taylor, does your boyfriend know Junia?”
“No, but he, like, went to football camp with her cousin. He thinks there’s a psycho stalker hanging around, and that he got Junia, and now Sarah.”
“Your boyfriend thinks that? Or the cousin does?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, did someone see a psycho stalker hanging around?”
“I don’t know. Jaret’s just, like, really worried about me. He told me to be careful walking home after work tonight. He’s super protective,” Taylor adds, with a hint of pride.
“What’s his last name?” Midge asks.
“Buckley.”
“Does he live over on Chestnut Street? Is his dad’s name Chuck?”
“Yes. Why?”
Midge knows him from her softball rec league. Nice guy.
“Do you know where Jaret is right now?” she asks Taylor.
“Home sleeping. He has practice at seven thirty tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. Did he tell you anything else about Junia? Or about Sarah?”
Taylor shakes her head. “I don’t think he really knows anything else. I think he’s just, like, guessing.”
“Just like you.”
“Right. Just like me.”
“Let’s hope you’re both dead wrong, Taylor.” Midge gestures at the door. “Come on. You need to get back to work, and I need my ice cream.”