Disturbed graffiti from the restroom wall echoing in my head, I was forced to wait at the cash register while Faye took an order down range. 

She shouted orders with confidence while my fingers drummed the countertop. Her redheaded way of taking charge rivaled my basic training drill sergeant. 

The possibility that human traffickers had taken Kayla jumped repeatedly to front of mind. My earlier conjecture on the topic had been a wildcard tossed on the table for Lorna and Vicky, meant to tip them out of balance. Just a passing idea to shake the family tree. The public declaration on a bathroom wall, however, gave it purchase. I recalled Lorna’s inconsolable wail of despair and Vicky’s desire to claw my eyes out. A horrific visualization of Renée’s reaction when she heard of my ploy began to unfold before a voice behind me suspended the waking nightmare.

“Heard you mention car sales,” a woman said from the booth next to the exit. Her voice, a velvety, cadenced contralto full of assurance, held a hint of curiosity that pulled me from my trance. 

I’d been struck by her appearance earlier, on the way to the restroom. She did not quite fit the mountain folk demographic. More distinguished with an air of sophistication and polish atypical of the locals I’d met so far. Her bright white hair presumed age, but her bearing radiated energy and fitness. 

“You did hear that,” I replied, remaining open to potential clues like any good detective. But my heart beat faster at the allure of this fascinating woman. She appeared cultured and smart in a way that tempted me, and I worried about falling into her intrigue. The type of apprehension that came more readily when far away from my wife and frustrated with a situation. An old danger with me, this distraction by the nuances of the fairer sex. One passed down by my philandering father. A weakness I’d presumably gained control over, but one with slippery steering. 

She continued talking in exquisite form. “My daddy sold cars in the area before he died. I spent long hours helping him out as a youngster.” Warmth emanated from her smile. “Started washing vehicles when I was ten and worked my way up to assisting with financing through college.”

“Same here,” I said. “Minus the college and financing. Matters of money were left to brighter members of the clan.”

The lady chuckled with a pleasant mix of good-humor and eloquence.

Faye barged in on the conversation with a yelp. “Myrtle! Good to see you here. I missed your arrival.” She said it with more enthusiasm than warmth, over my shoulder and close to my head. Her usual affability had a sharpened edge. And the intensity of her greeting clanged in my ear as she snatched the bills from my hand. 

The café owner pulled back as quickly as she’d leaned in, spearmint cushioning the harshness surrounding the moment. Her presence warmed considerably as she faced me. “I hope the meal was satisfactory?”

“More than.” I thanked her with apologies for the unfinished portion my sister abandoned. “Most she’s eaten in a decade.” 

Faye smiled in the knowing way of grandmothers and gossips. “Like I said, Rockbrake.” She ricocheted off to attend the crowd.

I pursed one side of my mouth, before turning toward the classy lady with the country fried taste.

“Myrtle Gibbons,” the woman said, offering a seat with a graceful turn of her open palm. “Share some stories.” The glow from her smile turned the well-crafted coiffure into a halo. “If you can spare a few minutes. It would charm me, I’m sure.”

“A southern belle?” It was almost impossible to resist her captivating emerald green eyes. They glinted with mischief, beckoning with tantalizing promise. 

“Classically trained.” The smile grew impish. “Though Montana born and bred.”

The move into the booth required a guiding hand to keep from stumbling over my feet. This woman held a man captive with eloquence. She was all class. Guilty goosebumps covered my arms. Impressions of my wife, Nanci, pranced around my thoughts like an early warning system.

“You left for schooling?” My voice quivered slightly, a tickle of nerves prickled behind my brow. I didn’t want to come off as flirtatious. 

Despite my trepidation, nothing about Myrtle Gibbons telegraphed sexual interest. I let my masculinity settle into a platonic comfort zone. Her friendship could be something more akin to an ally in a small town like Eureka.

“A necessary choice,” she said, unaffected by my boyish jitters. “As well as my Daddy’s dream.” This was a woman used to persuading the male ego in a healthier direction. 

“We have similar stories. I grew up in Miles City, then left for the Air Force. It was a classic education of sorts.”

She chuckled, a rich and pleasant sound. “You’re funny. So you must be Renée’s brother.”

The declaration knocked a goofy expression out of my limbic system. “How do you know Renée?” Meaning don’t you have too much class and sophistication for a relationship with Little Miss Bitterness?

“She helps out at the clinic.” Myrtle Gibbons splayed her elegant fingers on the table top. “Very good with bookkeeping. Bright.” She validated her statement with a philanthropic smile. For the first time, I noticed the faint scent of Myrtle’s perfume, a subtle mix of floral scent that added to her aura of culture. She raised her eyebrows so I could see those energetic green eyes more clearly. “I don’t think she told me your name.”

I snapped out of my trance and reached across the table. “Connor. Connor Pierce.”

Her hand felt velveteen, the grip both vigorous and tender.

“Guess I assumed everyone knew me by now. The meddler from elsewhere.”

“I’ve heard a bit,” she said.

I gave her a lopsided smile. “You are a gentle lady.”

“Tell me about your car dealership. Must be a smooth operation for you to leave it and come play in the mountains.”  It was a statement as flowing and precise as a surgeon’s scalpel, accompanied by a smile that radiated kindness and generosity. 

I glanced at the table. “Something like that.”

“I remember my Dad going through some tough times,” she said. “The sixties, a lot of men off to war. Then the gas crunch. He got through. Took a few odd jobs now and again. Worked on some farm equipment.”

A balmy solace splashed over me. “Thanks,” I said, searching for words that might show appreciation sans weakness. Nothing came to me. This investigation had taken a greater toll than I realized. I tried an obliging smile.

Her bright eyes brimmed with compassion.

“This hardship is on me,” I confessed. “I couldn’t keep my sister from running off. My sales skills pale in comparison to my father’s.” The words surprised me. Why share so freely? Myrtle somehow made it easy. More than that. It felt necessary.

“Hard to believe,” was all she said. Myrtle had that unique quality that made a person want to open up, tell the truth. All of it.

I continued sharing. “Just lost the deal of the century. Would have put us on track, validated my brand. Locals shy away from Toyotas for the most part.”

“A challenge, I’m sure.” She briefly touched the back of my hand with gentle fingertips, where it had naturally fallen in an outreached fashion between us. Her caress felt reassuring. “But a man who travels six hundred miles for a buck to make it through the holidays can surely meet it.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” I hoped my befuddled grin lightened the weight of this imperative.

She straightened her back against the booth and responded with candor. “I fill in as the County Medical Examiner and Coroner. I worry about that little girl and how Sheriff de Lude is handling things.” Her expression darkened with genuine concern. “He’s off his game, maybe for good reason, but nevertheless. His methods have always been suspect to my taste. Plus, he’s let me down now and again. Makes it hard to trust his competency.”

The explanation sold me. She was going to be an ally. This wasn’t a woman simply being nice for the sake of it, or seeking the comfort of strangers. She was motivated by her own worries for the well-being of the girl, Kayla. And she was willing to be honest about it.  “What can you tell me about the missing child?” I asked.

She cocked her head to the side, and studied my face. “Aidan Peale has a delusional disorder,” she stated with no hint of theatrics. “He might be schizophrenic, I’m no psychiatric doctor.” Her eyes narrowed in thoughtful concentration. “I do believe he is unsafe to watch that child alone.” She paused, emphasizing the point with a well-manicured finger. “And I’ve made my thoughts very clear to Sheriff de Lude.” 

I waited and watched, wondering at her frankness.

“Surprised?”

“A little.”

“I care about Kayla Peale. She got a raw deal for family. Dad’s certifiable. Mom’s a classic case of arrested development, taking her sorrow out with men half her age.”

I nodded resolutely. “That’s the most motivating description I’ve come across.”

“Aidan talks a great deal about this glass castle he plans to build,” she said. “Most believe it’s just in his mind. When I hear him mention it, I get the feeling it’s a real project. If you find it, you’re likely to find the girl.”

Her logic suited me. “I’ll make one more run at Aidan,” I said. “Try to find this glass castle.”

“Do that.” She glanced at her plate. “I best finish this and get back to the office.” When she looked up at me her smile radiated gratitude. “It was a treat, talking to you about the old days, with my dad.”

“Likewise,” I said, soft heat blooming in my chest like a cherished memory unfurling. My fingertips traced the metal edge of the table, recognizing its cool sharpness. With a final nod, I left her to finish her meal, my heart overflowing with encouragement.