Eleven by Carolyn Arnold

jaw-flappin’,” Betty said, holding less shame in that than overhearing a conversation. “I told her about the Special FBI Agents up here in Salt Lick, what y’all are doin’.” Betty squeezed the woman tight before releasing her. “It’s all right Nancy, go ahead.”
    Nancy slipped a hand into the oversized purse she carried. It was knitted out of variegated wool of bright pinks, greens, and yellows. She pulled out a five-by-seven photo and extended it to me.
    The photo was of a woman in her early twenties, maybe as young as twenty. She had long, platinum blonde hair, which she wore with the sides pulled back. She was smiling large enough to disclose two deep-set dimples.
    “That’s Sally,” Nancy said, her voice barely loud enough to hear.
    “This is your daughter?” I asked.
    Nancy nodded. “I was hoping that you could help me find her.”
    The Sheriff chose now to stand. The Deputy followed behind him. I sensed this was an arranged meeting. He might not have known when we’d show up, but Harris was aware that Nancy Windermere wanted to talk to us.
    Harris put on a hat and tipped it to us. “We’ve got work to do out there, and it’s gonna be another scorcher. Good day, y’all.”
    With them gone, Betty slipped into one chair and Nancy the other.
    “Did you file a missing persons report Mrs. Windermere?” I asked.
    “You can just call me Nancy, please. Nothin’ so formal.” Her eyes looked around the restaurant. “But no I didn’t.” The photo of Sally had made its way around the table, and Paige extended it back to Nancy. “No, no, please keep it. That is a copy for you.”
    Instead of pushing the issue about why she hadn’t filed a report, I thought I’d go about it from another angle. It seemed the team left the talking to me. “When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
    “Three years ago.” Nancy clasped her hands over the purse she had placed on her lap. “February eleventh.”
    Different year of course, but February the eleventh was the same date that Travis Carter had last been seen. “Did she have any new friends?”
    Nancy’s lashes soaked with tears. “I know you found something at the Bingham property. People talk. We might talk slower, but we ain’t stupid.” She put a hand over her nose and mouth, wiped downward. “What did that man do to my baby?”
    I looked at Jack, who nodded for me to continue. “We haven’t been able to identify who was found as of yet.”
    Betty leaned forward. “But you did find more than one, didn’t you? All those pictures you showed me. Are they victims?”
    “We’re not confirming anything at this point.”
    “Which is g-governmental talk for puttin’ a lid on it.” Betty huffed, crossed her arms, and turned to Nancy.
    “I just want to know what happened to her. I know that she wouldn’t have run away. I know that will be your next question. She was engaged to be married.”
    “We’re going to need his name.”
    “Course.” Nancy went into her bag and pulled out a piece of notepad paper. She handed it to me. “I wrote up everything. His name was Colt Smith. His family grew up ’round here. Doc Jones helped birth him.”
    How ironic that the man who was now undertaking dead bodies had at least once played a role in bringing life into the world.
    “And he and his family are still around in the area?”
    “Yes, course. They live on Caney Avenue. Colt does too. He married another woman a year ago though. He’s a young man, needed to get on with his life.” Her eyes went vacant. “I wish I could. Please find out what happened to my little girl.”
    “I assure you, we will do the best we can.”
    Nancy placed a hand on my forearm and squeezed. “God bless you.”
    I smiled at her, but there was at least one more question that needed to be asked. “Mrs. Windermere—” Her eyes chastised me to be less formal. “—Nancy, I realize it might be hard on you but what specific memories to do you have of that