“No. I’m fine. Just some kids. I’ll let them know what I found out and see if I can get anything more from them.”

I return to my office and update the Missing Person’s report with a query to law enforcement all along the West Coast from Bellingham, Washington to San Diego, California. It was possible they had been in an accident somewhere between here and parts unknown.

Just where were they headed?

Why did they tell their kids that story?

I fill up the Taurus and get a cup of passable coffee from the drive-thru before heading out to the Wheaton place. Jefferson County’s detective’s shield or not, Snow Creek is no place anyone wants to run out of gas for a myriad of reasons. One, no cell service, and two, no Good Samaritans to be had. It’s not that there aren’t good people. The people who live out there have done so to be left alone. Knocking on a door at night could find you greeted by the barrel end of a rifle.

I touch my county-issue in my shoulder harness.

She’s my best friend.

It’s a long drive, but it feels shorter without wintergreen filling my lungs and Ruth Turner’s anachronistic tale of how life should be. I know she’s not completely passive. After all, she drove all the way from Idaho to check on her sister. Then again, she left without waiting for an answer.

And she doesn’t have a phone of her own.

And a post office box is the preferred method of contact.

It’s like she’s Amish without a horse and buggy.

I find the Douglas fir covering over the driveway and I edge my Taurus onto the property. With a clear sky overhead, the scene is absolutely lovely, bucolic. No smears of rain on my windshield to cause me to lean forward to make out what’s in front of me. It’s truly beautiful.

Joshua and Sarah greet me at my car.

“Detective,” Joshua says. “You’re back so soon. Did you find out anything? Where’s Aunt Ruth?”

“Back in Idaho now,” I say.

They are wearing the same clothes as the day before, sans the beer T-shirt. This time Joshua is wearing a plain black T. Sarah’s hair is up in a messy bun held there by a large pink clasp.

“We didn’t even get to spend any real time with her,” Sarah says.

“Her husband needed her home,” I say.

Joshua gives his sister a look.

“Let’s go inside,” he says.

We find places at the table. This time I decline the tea that’s offered.

“I have some puzzling news.” I choose my words carefully. I feel immediately that puzzling was the wrong word. There was nothing really puzzling about it. It was what it was. “I’m afraid your folks never made it to La Paloma.”