R Is for Ricochet

or toothpaste. No prescription drugs. I could see a whitish spot on the marble counter where her toothbrush had lain. The hamper had been stuffed with blue jeans, T-shirts, and underwear; a bath towel, still faintly damp, crowded in on top. The shower pan was dry. Nothing in the trash.
    I went back to the closet and studied the clothes. I took the bomber jacket off its hanger and checked the pockets. I found some loose change and a slip from a generic order pad that showed she'd paid for a cheeseburger, chili fries, and a Coke. No date and the restaurant wasn't mentioned by name. I slipped the receipt into my jeans pocket and returned the jacket to its hanger. I let myself out of the room and retraced my steps. As I passed Nord's room, I paused and leaned my head close to the door. I could hear the murmur of voices, primarily Lucinda's, and she sounded aggrieved. Any further conversation with him would have to wait. I went downstairs and found my way to the back part of the house.
    The housekeeper was sitting at the kitchen table. She'd spread newspapers across the surface, on which she'd laid twelve place settings of sterling silver, two silver water pitchers, and a series of silver beakers. Some of the more ornate pieces had been sprayed with an aerosol polish that was drying to a strange shade of pink. The cloth she used on the flatware was black from the tarnish she'd removed. Her gray hair was wispy, curled and back-combed into a dandelion-like aureole with patches of scalp showing through.
    I said, "Hi, Freddy. I've been chatting with Mr. Lafferty. He says you saw Reba last night before she left."
    "Going out the door," she said, addressing her remark to the spoon.
    "She took a suitcase?"
    "Two – a black canvas overnight case and a hard-sided gray suitcase on wheels. She was wearing jeans and boots and a leather hat, but no jacket."
    "Did you have a conversation?"
    "She put a finger to her lips, like this was our little secret. I was having none of that. I've worked for Mr. Lafferty forty-six years. We don't keep secrets from one another. I went straight into the library and spoke to him, but before I managed to get him up from his chair, she was gone."
    "Did she say anything about her intentions? Any talk of a trip?"
    Freddy shook her head. "There were calls going back and forth, but she was quick to catch the phone so I never heard who it was. I couldn't even tell if the caller was a man or woman."
    "You know it's a parole violation if she leaves the state," I said. "She could be sent back to prison."
    "Miss Millhone, as fond as I am of her, I wouldn't withhold information or cover for her in any way. She's breaking her father's heart and the shame's on her."
    "Well, if it makes any difference, I know she adores him, which doesn't change anything, of course." I took out a card with my home number scribbled on the back. "If you should hear from her, would you call me?"
    She took my card and slipped it into her apron pocket. "I hope you find her. He doesn't have much time."
    "I know," I said. "He told me her car's still parked in the garage."
    "Use this back door. It's closer than going out the front. There's a set of keys on the hook," she said, indicating the service porch and mud room visible through the open doorway behind her.
    "Thanks."
    I snagged the keys and then took a diagonal path across a large brick apron, approaching what must have been the original carriage house, converted now to a four-car garage. Rags appeared from around the corner of the house. Clearly, his job was to oversee arrivals, departures, and all activities involving the property. Above the garage, I could see a stretch of dormer windows with curtains drawn across the glass, which suggested servants' quarters or an apartment, possibly Freddy's. One garage was empty, the retractable door standing open. I used it as ingress and quickly spotted Reba's BMW parked against the far wall. I felt obliged to explain myself to Rags as he followed in my tracks. I got in on the driver's side and slid under the wheel. I put the key in the ignition and checked the gas gauge. The arrow jumped to the top, indicating a full tank of gas.
    I leaned over and popped the door to the glove compartment and then spent a few minutes sorting through the accumulation of gasoline receipts, outdated registration slips, and an owner's manual. In the side pocket to my left, I found another handful of gasoline receipts.
    Most were dated three to four months before