Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

went to try and find him. Ain’t no way to tell.”
    “When was it?”
    She jumped. “Ow.” This time she rubbed her arm. “Got shootin’ pains. I got to get me some rest.”
    I was starting to think she wasn’t going to be able to tell me what I needed to know. If she didn’t, I certainly wasn’t going to give her the money; but I wanted all the information I could get. I repeated my question: “Can you remember when you noticed they were missing?”
    Her bland face got cagey. “Why do you want to know all this stuff, anyway?”
    “I think they might have information about a case I’m working on.”
    “What kind of case?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t say. I just need to talk to them.”
    “You got the money?”
    “Yes. Do you know where they are?”
    “I’m pretty sure.”
    “A hundred dollars is a lot of money for pretty sure.”
    She pouted. “I got to buy me some med’cine.”
    We finally struck a deal: fifty bucks for the tips on each one’s whereabouts, and the other fifty if the tips panned out.
    “I know where Les is from.” She looked as self-satisfied as a sitting hen. “He’s got family there.”
    I was disappointed in spite of myself. “You think he went to Turlock?”
    “Oh. You already know.”
    “I know where he’s from. Why do you think he went there?”
    “Just a hunch.” But she didn’t have a poker face; she knew I wasn’t going to go for it. She kind of crumpled around the eyes and then said, “I think I’m gonna have an attack. Could you get me a glass of water, please?”
    I would gladly have paid fifty dollars just to avoid going into her kitchen.
    “How about Miranda?”
    “She’ll be with him.”
    “I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Pritchett. I’ll give you thirty-five dollars if you can remember when you first noticed Miranda and Les were missing.”
    “I just don’t know how I’m gon’ pay for my med’cine. The doctor said I couldn’t afford another attack; said if it happened again, might be the last time.”
    “Fifty, then.”
    She cheered up. “That’ll be just fine.”
    “It’s coming back to you?”
    “Did I say I forgot? I couldn’t of forgot. ’Cause I was just back from Mass, wearin’ my new Easter dress, and Juney Carmichael, she comes in, says, ‘Oh, Miz Pritchett, what a pretty dress,’ and then she says, “There’s a terrible stink comin’ out of Les’s room.’”
    “It was Easter, then?”
    “No, the Sunday after. See, I was took so bad on Easter, I couldn’t hardly hold my head up, much less get up and go to Mass.”
    “What did you find when you went in?”
    “Nothin’. Just some garbage—leftover pizza and a carton of milk and such. That’s what was makin’ the stink.”
    “And Miranda’s room?”
    “Funny thing. She didn’t take nothin’ with her. Didn’t have very much—just a old sleepin’ bag and some clothes. I give ’em to Juney.”
    “Can I talk to Juney?”
    “She died of an overdose last week.” Mrs. Pritchett crossed herself.
    I decided to walk back for the air, which gave me time to turn the whole conversation over in my mind. But there wasn’t much of substance. The only things I’d really learned were that Les and Miranda knew each other, and that they’d probably disappeared sometime during the week after Sanchez was killed. That helped to confirm what I already knew—that Les was the Trapper. But I wasn’t at all sure that was worth fifty dollars.
    When I got back to the office, I found a cold burger on my desk and a note from Kruzick: “Had to go home. Mickey had a miscarriage.”

15
     
    Without even taking time to dump the burger, I dashed out to get a cab, this time to go to North Beach for my car. I never thought of calling to ask if I should come—I knew my duty as a sister. But when I got to Mickey and Alan’s I had to ring the bell several times before getting an answer. Mickey finally came to the door, looking very drawn and red around the eyes. “Oh, Rebecca.”
    I hugged her. “I’m so sorry.”
    “I’m okay. Come in.”
    “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
    “I’m fine now. It happened this morning—I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”
    As we went in, I could smell spaghetti cooking—one of Mickey’s favorite childhood foods, and still her preference over any fancy pasta the food mavens came up with. It made me shake with hunger. “Alan’s cooking,” said Mickey. “It’s how he shows affection.” Without asking me to sit down, she