Serious, but cute at the same time. He wasn’t sure which he might enjoy more—solving the mystery of Libbie, or getting to know Linda.
Chapter Six
F rank’s next order of business was to contact Olive Rumsey Kingman, Libbie’s friend, assuming she was still alive. The next morning, after waiting for several hours to make sure he wasn’t dragging anyone out of bed, he got right on that.
Grateful that his restraint the night before had left him with a curious lack of a hangover, he settled down at his desk with a cup of his standard swill, two creams, and two sugars. He pulled out the notes he’d taken the previous day and called the number he’d found in the directory at the library. He unwrapped his breakfast sandwich from some fast-food joint while he waited for an answer.
“Hello,” an older woman’s voice murmured.
Praying for someone who wasn’t hard of hearing, senile, or dying, Frank forged ahead with the spiel he had devised.
“Hello, I was trying to reach Olive Rumsey Kingman.”
A cautious pause followed. Then: “This is Olive.”
“Mrs. Kingman, this is Senior Investigator Frank Conley of the New York State Police.”
Frank heard a slight gasp at the other end of the line and continued. “We have reason to believe that we have found the remains of your friend, Elizabeth Morgan. I’d like to come speak to you a bit more about the case, if I may.”
“Oh Libbie…” Olive whispered, her voice fading off. “Mr. Conley, I suppose I came to terms with Libbie being dead years ago. It’s just a shock to hear it said outright like that.”
“I understand. May I come to Watkins Glen and talk to you?”
“Of course. Today, then?”
“Perfect. I had hoped that this afternoon might be good for you. Say, one o’clock?”
“That’s fine. I just made an apple cake. You can come share some with me.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” He set the phone down and finished his breakfast, then penciled in his visit to Watkins Glen on his desk calendar.
After meandering down the scenic yet unending drive west then south on 79, Frank was already tired by the time he got to town. The charming little burg of Watkins Glen sat at the south end of Seneca Lake. Popular among visitors for its quaintness, it was now more famous for its speedway and the surrounding wineries than for the incredible slice of nature in its own backyard. The actual glen after which it was named was a breathtaking fantasyland of gorges and cascades, crisscrossed by manmade bridges that had been constructed in the 1930s. There was no more beautiful spot in the state. Frank had liked it so much that he’d proposed to Allison there years ago, near the Cavern Cascade.
The little houses stair-stepped down steep hills in and around downtown, and Mrs. Kingman’s home was no exception. It had been a cheerful place once. The white clapboard was typical for the area, but the shutters were painted bright blue and pots of violas were still tended with care. A manicured boxwood hedge framed the front. A marmalade tabby on the sidewalk lolled around, enjoying the sun until Frank approached. The cat pussyfooted up to Frank with a plaintive mew, probably craving some Tender Vittles. Frank was not fond of cats. He supposed his visit would be full of the things, if it was anything like going to his mother’s before her hospital admission. Wasn’t that what old ladies did? Collect cats? His mother had lost one or two the last year or so. Walter was the last of her menagerie.
A tiny woman with delicate cottony hair opened the door at his knock, smiling after he showed her his badge. Her eyes still carried a bit of the snap she must have had as a young woman. They were warm and kind, the color of a dark honey, with an atlas’s worth of creases in the corners. She wore a lavender-sprigged housedress and little athletic-styled orthopedic shoes. Holding the door open, she invited him in.
“Hello, Inspector…I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten
Chapter Six
F rank’s next order of business was to contact Olive Rumsey Kingman, Libbie’s friend, assuming she was still alive. The next morning, after waiting for several hours to make sure he wasn’t dragging anyone out of bed, he got right on that.
Grateful that his restraint the night before had left him with a curious lack of a hangover, he settled down at his desk with a cup of his standard swill, two creams, and two sugars. He pulled out the notes he’d taken the previous day and called the number he’d found in the directory at the library. He unwrapped his breakfast sandwich from some fast-food joint while he waited for an answer.
“Hello,” an older woman’s voice murmured.
Praying for someone who wasn’t hard of hearing, senile, or dying, Frank forged ahead with the spiel he had devised.
“Hello, I was trying to reach Olive Rumsey Kingman.”
A cautious pause followed. Then: “This is Olive.”
“Mrs. Kingman, this is Senior Investigator Frank Conley of the New York State Police.”
Frank heard a slight gasp at the other end of the line and continued. “We have reason to believe that we have found the remains of your friend, Elizabeth Morgan. I’d like to come speak to you a bit more about the case, if I may.”
“Oh Libbie…” Olive whispered, her voice fading off. “Mr. Conley, I suppose I came to terms with Libbie being dead years ago. It’s just a shock to hear it said outright like that.”
“I understand. May I come to Watkins Glen and talk to you?”
“Of course. Today, then?”
“Perfect. I had hoped that this afternoon might be good for you. Say, one o’clock?”
“That’s fine. I just made an apple cake. You can come share some with me.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” He set the phone down and finished his breakfast, then penciled in his visit to Watkins Glen on his desk calendar.
After meandering down the scenic yet unending drive west then south on 79, Frank was already tired by the time he got to town. The charming little burg of Watkins Glen sat at the south end of Seneca Lake. Popular among visitors for its quaintness, it was now more famous for its speedway and the surrounding wineries than for the incredible slice of nature in its own backyard. The actual glen after which it was named was a breathtaking fantasyland of gorges and cascades, crisscrossed by manmade bridges that had been constructed in the 1930s. There was no more beautiful spot in the state. Frank had liked it so much that he’d proposed to Allison there years ago, near the Cavern Cascade.
The little houses stair-stepped down steep hills in and around downtown, and Mrs. Kingman’s home was no exception. It had been a cheerful place once. The white clapboard was typical for the area, but the shutters were painted bright blue and pots of violas were still tended with care. A manicured boxwood hedge framed the front. A marmalade tabby on the sidewalk lolled around, enjoying the sun until Frank approached. The cat pussyfooted up to Frank with a plaintive mew, probably craving some Tender Vittles. Frank was not fond of cats. He supposed his visit would be full of the things, if it was anything like going to his mother’s before her hospital admission. Wasn’t that what old ladies did? Collect cats? His mother had lost one or two the last year or so. Walter was the last of her menagerie.
A tiny woman with delicate cottony hair opened the door at his knock, smiling after he showed her his badge. Her eyes still carried a bit of the snap she must have had as a young woman. They were warm and kind, the color of a dark honey, with an atlas’s worth of creases in the corners. She wore a lavender-sprigged housedress and little athletic-styled orthopedic shoes. Holding the door open, she invited him in.
“Hello, Inspector…I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten
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