Cold Tears

by AR Simmons

  “Mark, tell me about Molly. Was there anyone here who may have been especially friendly to her, or even unfriendly for that matter?”

  “She didn’t have much to do with anyone here at work,” said Holmes, turning Richard’s question around. “She was snotty to everybody except Rona—and the male customers. She sure knew how to come on to them. The fatter and uglier the better. Trolling for tips I guess.”

  Richard suspected Mark had hit on Molly and been spurned.

  “Well, how about those guys? Any names for me?”

  “I didn’t pay that much attention.”

  “Well, did anyone ever drop her off at work or pick her up afterwards?”

  “Didn’t see anyone. Had her own car. That’s all I know. Go ask Jessie. They were real tight.”

  “I guess Jessie liked being treated like dirt,” said Richard.

  “What?”

  “You said Molly was snotty to everyone but the boss. Remember?”

  “Yeah, well, her and Jessie are two of kind.”

  •••

  Jessica Mills was tiny, bubbly, and birdlike. What she lacked in looks she made up for in energy and enthusiasm. Molly’s fellow waitress looked to be on the high side of thirty if one looked at her face. The backs of her hands were more honest.

  “So you’re trying to help that girl,” she said. “It’s about time someone did. She’s a sweetheart. I can’t imagine how awful this is for her. I want to help you, but I can’t imagine what I know that can be any use.”

  “I’m trying to find everyone who knew or associated with her.”

  Jessica nodded eagerly. “I never met any of her family,” she said. “Except Emmanuel, that is.”

  “Emmanuel?”

  “Mancie, her little girl. Have you seen pictures of her? She was a real sweetheart. I cain’t imagine anyone hurting such a sweet baby.”

  Richard hoped Jessica wouldn’t produce a picture of the child. The realization that he felt that way sobered him because it exposed the fiction of his involvement being academic rather than personal.

  “Mark said some of the single guys who came here were … I guess you could say interested in her,” he prodded.

  “She’s a good-looking girl. A lot of those guys flick out a lure wherever they see a fish flounce.”

  Richard had never heard the metaphor before, but he understood it at once. Inexperienced (and mostly unsuccessful) fishermen frequently cast into water where a fish had recently disturbed the surface, usually accomplishing nothing beyond scaring the fish off.

  “Do you recall any of the regular customers who perhaps showed a little too much attention?”

  “You mean an ‘eyeballer,’ the kind who thinks a two-dollar tip buys them a make-believe peep show. Honey, if we wrote down ever’ lonely guy with them rovin’ eyes, we’d be here all day.”

  Richard considered the unlikely possibility that an offended “eyeballer” had taken the child to get back at Molly for a rejection, but discounted it. On the other hand, most crimes had an element of the stupidly incomprehensible.

  “How did Molly usually handle things like that?”

  “She was pretty good at it. The trick is to discourage them without making them mad. After all, a tip’s a tip. But you’re talking about someone with a … like an obsession with Molly, ain’t you?”

  “Something like that. Anyone seem particularly eager to start a relationship with her?”

  “No name comes to mind.”

  “Did anyone pick her up after work or maybe bring her in mornings?”

  “A guy did come in just to talk once. He never even sat, just stood by the door. She went over, they talked a bit, and then he left. It was about a week or so before she stopped coming to work. Of course, he could have just been asking something about the menu, or takeout, or something like that.”

  “But there was something unusual about it, or you wouldn’t remember it,” prompted Richard.

  “I guess,” said Jessie, squinting as she thought about it. “I think it was because of how close they were standing. They were kind of like at a more-than-friendly distance. I bet she knew him.” she shrugged. “You ought to ask her about it.”

  “I will. Describe him if you can.”

  “Mmmmm. Maybe like a little bull of a man. He was shorter than her, but looked like he could take care of hisself. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I remember her nodding a couple of times.” she shrugged again. “That’s all I know.”

  Richard was beginning to feel good about his developing skill as an investigator. Now it was time for the hard part. “You and Molly are friends, right?” he began.

  She gave him a qualifying shrug. “Work friends. We didn’t spend no time together except here at the restaurant.”

  “Jessie, I’m sort of a friend of hers too, and I’ve talked with Molly quite a bit.”

  She frowned for a moment and then motioned for him to go on.

  “Did she ever … come in … like hung over or anything like that?”

  “No, she never came in hung over,” she answered quickly, but her eyes darted away.

  “But?”

  “Sometimes she came in awful tired, you know … and then she’d like really pick it up after a while.”

  “Like maybe she was taking something to help her get going?”

  Jessica shook her head dismissively.

  “Forget what I said. Molly wasn’t like that. If she was taking anything, it was probably caffeine tablets or maybe ginseng. Molly wouldn’t take anything worse than that. That baby was her whole life after her no-good husband run off on her. She was too smart to go popping pills.”

  “A lot of people get a second wind once they get the day going,” said Richard.

  Just why he felt compelled to defend Molly, he couldn’t say, but he was pretty sure that it wasn’t exactly a textbook maneuver for an investigator. He drove to the next place where Molly had worked feeling considerably less the cold-eyed detective.

  •••

  Barnburner’s Pub and Grill occupied a faux wharf shed overlooking a small artificial lake or large pond. Take your pick. The walls were hung with nets, oars, seascape prints, and nostalgic signs more suitable to a fish house than anything remotely connected to a barn. It took neither clairvoyance nor genius to deduce that its former incarnation involved that aquatic fare passing for seafood in the Ozarks: catfish. Perhaps James Mill wasn’t big enough to accommodate two such establishments, hence the reasonable transformation into a bar. There was always room for another of those.

  The faint, but cloying smell of hickory wood smoke hung in the air. A lunch crowd had gathered, consisting primarily of construction workers. Fries and pulled pork barbecue seemed to be the catch of the day. A few washed down their meals with sips from aluminum cans. However, most drank from pint Mason jars with glass handles. Country music of the never-actually-been-on-a-farm kind rolled across the room from overhead speakers.

  Richard ordered something called a “Burnerburger,” the cheapest thing on the reasonably priced menu. While waiting for the noon crowd to thin, he ate slowly, sipped iced tea, and tried to ignore the local radio station supplying the ambiance. He could have stood the lyrics, some of which were actually uplifting. A nationally syndicated radio personality, however, was preaching to the choir, the “choir” consisting of those in desperate need of their daily vitriol fix.

  “Sweet or unsweet?”

  Richard looked up to see a chunky waitress holding a pitcher in each hand. “Unsweetened,” he replied.

  “He really knows how to give ‘em hell, don’t he?” she commented as she refilled his jar.

  “Sounds like hell to me,” he said. “Have you worked here long?”

  “Long enough to know you ain’t a regular, sweetie,” she cooed, favoring him with a smile.

  If she was “trolling for tips” (as Mark from the fish house would put it), she was overdoing it.

  “I was just wondering if you worked here w
hen Molly Randolph—she might have been going by the name of Allsop—when she worked here.”

  She wrinkled her nose distastefully at the mention of Molly’s name. “Yeah, I worked with her, if you could call what she did working. She hustled for tips. Stole my customers.”

  Well, at least there won’t be a halo effect to everything she tells me about Molly, he thought.

  “Doesn’t sound like she was much of a person,” he prompted. “Why do you think she did stuff like that?”

  “Greedy—and jealous. I did real good on tips until she come in here and started falling all over the guys, you know rubbing up against them every chance she got and giving them the come-on. You don’t got to do that to get tips, but guys are guys I guess.”

  “Any particular guy she seemed to have a thing with?”

  She snorted. “She wasn’t particular. Why you asking about her anyway? You thinking about giving her a job?”

  “No. I’m not hiring anyone. I heard something about her daughter going missing. What was that all about?”

  “Beats me. She and her old man broke up. Maybe he took the kid.”

  He nodded as if he agreed with her assessment.

  “Is your boss here?”

  “Oh, you’re a salesman. Or are you just looking for work?”

  Why he would be asking about Molly if either of those were the case, he couldn’t fathom. He decided to let her think what she wished.

  “There’s a job opening?” he said.

  “Yeah,” she replied eagerly. “Bartender for nights. I’ll go get the boss.”

  Belatedly it occurred to him that the woman was trolling for something more substantial than tips. A moment later a woman in faded jeans and a long-sleeved plaid shirt came from the kitchen, rounded the bar, and bore down on him.

  “Lindsay says you’re looking for a job. Ever tend bar?”

  He shook his head apologetically. “She just assumed that. I just asked if her boss was here, and, before I knew it, she took off to find you.”

  She pursed her lips in disappointment. “We have regular suppliers if you’re a salesman.”

  “I’m not. I came to ask about Molly Randolph. Could you spare the time to talk to me about her?”

  “You’re with the police?”

  “No,” he said, half rising and extending his hand. “My name is Richard Carter.”

  She took it in her cool grasp. “Sheri Grimes. You’re a private investigator? I didn’t know they really existed except on TV. Oh. It’s about the baby. You’re working for the Allsops, aren’t you?”

  “I’d rather not say,” he said honestly.

  The job would be simpler if he actually were a licensed P. I., not that that could ever happen.

  “Molly’s a good person,” she said angrily, but without raising her voice. “I don’t know what they’ve told you about her, but Molly didn’t do anything to that child. She was crazy about little Mancie.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because she was always talking about Mancie, showing us pictures—and then there were the phone calls. I had to get on to her for calling the babysitter so often.”

  “I heard she maybe had a drug or an alcohol problem.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said flatly. “She never drank at work. She came in on time, busted her butt on the job. I don’t care what they told you. Molly was responsible both as a worker and a mother.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “By the way, I’m working for Molly, not the Allsops. I didn’t mean to mislead you, but I wanted an unbiased evaluation.”

  Sheri Grimes stared at him, having none of it. “You meant to mislead me,” she said. “Maybe that’s the way things are done. It’s still dishonest.”

  “Rude too,” he agreed. “Sorry.”

  “So did you find out what you wanted to know?”

  “I suppose, but there is one other thing. Your waitress couldn’t remember any particular guy who seemed more than casually interested in Molly. Do you?”

  “She was a nice-looking girl, and she was friendly, so she got her share of attention. Anyone in particular? Not that I recall.”

  He apologized again, thanked her for her time, and pushed up from the table to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “How’s Molly doing? I haven’t heard from her since she left.”

  “She went through a rough time, but I think she’s bearing up a little better now.”

  “Tell her … tell her I got a job for her if she wants to come back.”

  Well your bosses like you, Molly, he thought as he was leaving. Although it may have not been true, he believed that women were better judges of character than men, especially when it came to other women.

  •••

  “Oh, Mr. Carter,” said Bobby McComb, flashing a practiced smile before Richard was half way through the Honeycomb’s door. “Bud Light, right?”

  “Not today. I came to see if I could talk to any of Molly’s co-workers. Would any of them still be around?”

  The bartender/owner frowned.

  “Would it help if I ordered a beer first?” asked Richard, only half joking.

  McComb laughed and shook his head. “I think I still got an address for Cynthia. The others are who knows where. Just a second. I’ll see what I’ve got in the office.”

  •••

  The well-maintained brick ranch-style house at the address had an attached two-car garage like most of the surrounding houses. Cynthia Sappington lived in an upscale neighborhood—upscale that is for a barmaid in James Mill. It sat on a small lot in a sixties era development. No one answered his knock, but as he turned away the garage door began sliding up. Tires grinding on pavement explained the mystery. Turning, he saw a late model economy car of indiscernible foreign manufacture stop on the pad instead of driving inside. The window slid down and a blonde leaned out.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “If you’re Cynthia, I want to talk to you about Molly Randolph.”

  “Why?” she asked, making no move to get out.

  Richard introduced himself, told her that he was looking into the disappearance of Molly’s child, and that her former boss had given him her address. Instead of answering, she rolled up the window and made a call on her cell phone. Then she drove it into the garage and shut the door behind her. A few minutes later she opened the front door.

  “Bobby says you’re okay,” she said, showing him into a neat, but not homey living room.

  “I’ve been out looking for work,” she said dispiritedly. “Bobby said he’d put in a good word for me when I get an interview, but so far I ain’t found anything. You don’t know anyone who’s looking for a hostess, do you? I don’t want to wait tables no more, but it might come to that. I’ve got bills to pay.”

  “No,” said Richard. “I’m new in town.”

  “I hope I don’t have to work in a station again,” she fretted. “Might come to that though.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find something.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  Looking for work can be a full-time job. He’d been there more than once. He wondered if the blowhard on the radio who lived by hurling invective, ever experienced living paycheck-to-paycheck.

  “How long did you work with Molly?” he asked.

  “I was there when she came. Real shame about her baby. You all got any idea what happened yet?”

  She obviously assumed he had some official authority for questioning her.

  “No more than before,” he said.

  “I hope she gets her back. I can’t imagine how awful that would be.”

  “Tell me your impressions of Molly.”

  “Good person. Worked hard. Married the wrong guy.”

  “Did she have any … bad habits?”

  “What? You mean like smoking or overeating?”

  “Like drinking too much or something like that.”

  “You mean drugs. No, she was pretty straight, you know.” />
  “How about guys?” he noticed her look. “I mean after she and her husband split up.”

  “She didn’t like sleep around, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t think Molly would ever sleep with more than one guy at a time. You know, she had … ethics. Not that having good ethics always does you a lot of good. It sure doesn’t keep you from getting canned.”

  “Bobby fired you? I thought … He’s giving you a reference, isn’t he?”

  “That jealous bitch made him fire me just because she came in and saw him helping me put an earring back on.”

  “Who?”

  “His girlfriend. Can you tell me how a good guy like Bobby gets involved with someone like her? I mean, she’s pretty in a trashy way, but she’s meaner than hell. Is ‘vindictive’ the right word for that?”

  “Sounds like it,” he said. “But you were telling me about Molly?”

  “Yeah. You asked about drinking. The only time I saw her even take a drink at the club was her last night there. This guy was interested in her. I think maybe Bobby was trying to fix her up.”

  “Why do you think Mr. McComb was doing that?”

  “On account of her husband leaving her and all. He felt sorry for her.”

  “I meant to ask what made you think that he was trying to fix her up with this guy.”

  “Because before she was with that guy, she and Bobby were talking a lot that night. If his bitch girlfriend had seen them, Molly could have kissed her job goodbye too.”

  “Know the name of the guy?”

  “Chuck? No. Kirk. It was Kirk something-or-other. Funny last name, but I can’t remember it now. You’ll have to ask her or Bobby.”

  •••

  Across the street from Sappington’s a jogger in yellow spandex shorts and black top slowed her pace. She sat a moment on the low, stone wall near Richard’s car, took a bottle clipped to her belt, uncapped it, and squeezed a mouthful of water as she surreptitiously glanced at his license plate. Then she stared at the street number painted on the curb as she pretended to catch her breath. Re-capping and replacing the bottle, she pushed up and jogged down the block and around the corner without looking back.

  •••

  Molly’s front door opened as soon as he pulled to the curb in front of the house he and Jill were renting. Richard still thought of it that way. It had been their residence for months, and probably would be for the foreseeable future, but it didn’t feel like home. Molly came across the yard as he went up the sidewalk. She didn’t seem as hunched and frail as when they had first met. A pang of guilt hit him as he thought about the false hope he was giving her. Molly was pathetically grateful for his help, not that he had helped her much, or ever would for that matter.