Stony River
Page 29
Scooping marmalade onto her toast, Linda looked down and sucked in a breath.
“What?” Mom said.
“Nothing.” Linda bit into the toast. She’d seen the same police sketch in the newspaper a few months ago: a man spotted giving a ride to a girl the night she disappeared. Mom had flipped over it. Linda hadn’t wanted to say anything and risk her parents finding out she’d gotten into a car with a stranger. The sketch could’ve been of anyone. But here it was again, alongside a mug shot of a man they’d arrested for attempted kidnapping. It had to be him. Those vacant eyes, that simpleton smile. The article said the police were looking for anyone who might have witnessed the attempted kidnapping or had any information about Evelyn Shore’s disappearance. It gave a detective’s name and a phone number.
Suddenly lightheaded, Linda clutched the seat of her chair.
“What’s the matter?” Mom asked. “You’ve lost your color.” She came around and pressed Linda’s forehead with cool fingers. “You feel clammy.”
“I think I might faint.”
“Golly. Here, put your arm around my shoulders. Careful. Slide off the chair onto the floor. Okay. Good. Lie back. I’ll get you a pillow and blanket. You’d better stay home today.”
Linda was the ambulance Mom had not gotten to drive in the war. It had been six months since she resigned her position with Doc Pierce to take her daughter’s fate in hand. She expected Linda to be grateful for her efforts to help her lose weight. But Linda loved her fat. Standing naked before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, she’d caress herself. Knead her stomach rolls like bread dough. Press her jiggly thighs between her hands, admiring the way the skin rippled like a lake’s surface. Wasn’t skin miraculous, the way it stretched and remolded the body as if it were Silly Putty? In her opinion, she’d become even more zaftig than when Richie drew her as Gilda Daring. The kids who called her pig, cow, hippo and whale were ignoramuses who didn’t realize that the female was genetically designed with layers of fat for the rigors of child bearing. A round belly symbolized fertility. Linda had no intention of bearing a child if it meant coupling with a man. But the idea of her body swelling with life thrilled her. Her life. Her flesh. When she could no longer jam herself into her clothes, she took money from her father’s wallet and bought a maternity blouse and a black skirt with a panel of stretchy material.
That was when Mom had quit her job and set about making Linda’s meals and dishing out stingy portions. She had Daddy padlock the pantry and food cabinets. She raided Linda’s room and confiscated every Oreo, Twinkie and Hershey bar. Sent her to school with a brown-bag lunch and no money. She seemed to have boundless energy for the Linda Project. Pain pinched her face from time to time, but she appeared happy. She’d found her calling.
For the first few months of the Project, Linda railed against her mother, hating her—and Daddy, too, for not defending her. She cried at night from hunger. Arlene didn’t want to be seen with her anymore, as if being fat was contagious, and the few girls who were still friendly said her mother was right to make her lose weight and her father to cut off her allowance.
When the head of volunteers at the Home for Delinquent Boys told her she wasn’t setting a healthy example for the little criminals, the fight left her and she stopped resisting her mother. She was down to two hundred and thirty-six pounds from a high of two sixty. “Slow going,” Mom said, but Linda was sad to see herself shrink even a little.
Back with a pillow and two blankets, Mom knelt on the floor and grunted as she rolled Linda to one side to get a blanket under her.
“You don’t have to do that. I’m feeling better. I’ll get up now.”
“Only if you’re sure. You can rest down here on your father’s bed for a while.”
“How long are you two going to have separate rooms?”
Mom puffed out a sigh. “That’s not something to talk about right now.”
“Why not? If we can talk about my fat, why can’t we talk about your marriage?”
“Because it’s between your father and me. We’ll work it out.” “Then maybe you should leave me alone to work out my weight by myself.”
“That’s different. I can’t stand by and let my daughter eat herself to death.”
“So you’re starving me instead? No wonder I almost fainted.”
“I refuse to argue with you today. I’m not feeling exactly tip-top myself. I’ll help you into your father’s room, then go up and lie down for a while.”
Linda pushed herself up. “I’m fine. I can go to school.”
After Mom had gone to her room, Linda sat at the table and stared at the newspaper. She remembered something about the car that might be important—a missing door handle. She shuffled to the wall phone, dialed the number in the paper and made an appointment to see a detective at the Stony River police station after school.
She finished her breakfast and a toast heel Betty had left on her plate.
ROESCH
Detective Arthur Roesch of the Woodbridge Police Department on Tuesday, October 20, 1959, 9:12 AM, interviewing Eldon Joseph Jukes, arrested on October 19, 1959, on suspicion of attempted kidnapping. Also present is Detective Lorenzo Rotella of the Stony River Police Department.
ROESCH
Sorry I can’t offer you a more comfortable chair. You okay on that bench?
JUKES
Yes, sir.
ROESCH
Sleep all right last night?
JUKES
Not really.
ROESCH
Well it’s a holding cell, isn’t it? Nothing special. They give you some breakfast down there?
JUKES
Yes, sir.
ROESCH
Glad to hear it. Mind if I call you Eldon?
JUKES
Most people call me Buddy.
ROESCH
Ah, Buddy then. My friends call me Artie. That’s what I’d like you to call me. Yeah?
JUKES
Yes, sir. (Laugh) I mean, Artie.
ROESCH
It’s stuffy in here. I hate rooms with no windows. Gotta roll up my sleeves. Feel free to remove that nice-looking jacket if you get warm. Real leather?
JUKES
Yes, Artie.
ROESCH
Cigarette?
JUKES
I don’t smoke.
ROESCH
Oh, good for you. Now, you were arrested yesterday for attempted kidnapping on the evening of October 13th. Is that right?
JUKES
So they say.
ROESCH
Yeah. So say two young ladies, Susan Jeffers and Nancy Pawling. You were arrested at your workplace. At the A&P on Main Street, right?
(5-second pause)
Was that a nod? Yes? Okay. How were you going to manage two girls, Buddy? Or did you plan to drop one off at her house and take the other somewhere private?
JUKES
I don’t know what you’re getting at. I offered them a ride, that’s all. Just trying to be nice. I like to help people. They didn’t accept. Nothing happened to them. Why are you calling it attempted kidnapping?
ROESCH
Yeah, I can understand your confusion. I guess I should tell you we’re also investigating a murder and a missing girl.
JUKES
What’s that got to do with me?
ROESCH
Well, that’s what we’re trying to find out, yeah? Let me show you some pictures.
JUKES
Nobody said anything about murder.
ROESCH
No, you haven’t been charged with murder. We’d just like your help with the case. Look at this photograph, Buddy, and tell me if you’ve ever seen these two girls.
(10-second pause)
JUKES
I’m not sure. They look familiar. The girls I offered the ride to?
ROESCH
Very good. Yes, we took this Polaroid at the station yesterday after they identified you in the lineup.
JUKES
You didn’t need a lineup. I would’ve told you it was me. I don’t understand. They turned down the ride. They didn’t get hurt.
ROESCH
Yeah, that was lucky. Here’s the thing. When one of the girls, Nancy Pawling, gets home and tells her mother a man asked her and her friend to get in his car—not once, but three times, following them down the street— Nancy’s mother asks her to describe that man and Nancy’s description rings a bell with Mrs. Pawling. She saves newspapers. Takes them someplace and gets ten cents a pound for them. So she goes down to her basement and looks through her paper stack. Finds one from five months ago with a police artist’s sketch of a man three teenaged boys saw behind the wheel of a car with a now-missing girl in it. She asks Nancy, Is this the man who offered you a ride? and Nancy says yes. Let me show you another photo. We didn’t take this one. You recognize the girl?
(5-second pause)
JUKES
No. That the missing girl?
ROESCH
You’re good. Her name’s Evelyn Shore. Evvy, for short. Pretty, isn’t she? Nice smile. Natural blonde, I’d say. I think they call that hairdo a pageboy. She was last seen Monday, May 18, around 8:30 at night, getting in a car those three boys described as looking just like yours. The police sketch was made from their description of the driver. See why we’re interested?
JUKES
I suppose. (Unidentified sound)
ROESCH
Cracking your knuckles can lead to arthritis later, I’m told, Buddy. Just a thought. Let me show you another photograph. We didn’t take this one, either. A school photo, I believe. They must make all the girls wear black sweaters and white pearls. Tell me if you’ve ever seen this one.
(5-second pause)
JUKES
No, sir, I haven’t.
ROESCH
It’s Artie. Take your time. You don’t remember seeing this picture in the newspaper last year? On TV?
JUKES
I don’t read the news or watch much TV.
ROESCH
Oh, well, that would explain it. The girl’s name is Barbara Pickens. Her murder is the one we’re investigating.
JUKES
I just thought of something. You know that missing girl?
ROESCH
Evelyn Shore?
JUKES
Yeah. You said she went missing on a Monday in May. I would’ve taken my wife to her drama club that night. She never missed a rehearsal. I would’ve dropped her off around eight then gone to my pastor’s office for Bible study.
ROESCH
Will your wife and pastor testify to that?
JUKES
I don’t see why not.
ROESCH
Okay, good, we’ll get statements from them. I want to talk about your car for a minute. As you know, we impounded it and technicians have been checking it over pretty good. They found a pair of women’s panties stuffed way under the front seat. And want to hear something coincidental? The dead girl, Barbara Pickens, wasn’t wearing panties when they found her. We haven’t yet asked her mother to take a look at the ones we found in your car but we will, we will. What can you tell me about those panties?
(20-second pause)
You’re rocking back and forth, Buddy. Do you need to go to the can? You’re shaking your head no. Okay, let’s go on. The panties?
JUKES
They must be my wife’s.
ROESCH
How long you been married? JUKES Two years.
ROESCH
What’s your wife’s name, Buddy?
JUKES
Ladonna.
ROESCH
Pretty name. Any kids?
JUKES
One on the way in December.
ROESCH
Congratulations. I’ve got two kids. Lot of work, big expense, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Now, your wife, Ladonna. Is she in the habit of taking her panties off in the car?
JUKES
I couldn’t say. (Sound of door opening)
OFFICER
Detective Roesch. Got a moment, sir?
ROESCH
Can it wait?
OFFICER
No, sir.
ROESCH
(Sigh) Okay. Good time for a break?
ROTELLA
I can take over. I’d like to press on.
ROESCH
Oh, sure. Good idea.
(Sounds of chair scraping, door closing, chair scraping)
ROTELLA
For the benefit of the recording, my name is Detective Lorenzo Rotella of the Stony River Police Department, continuing the interview of Eldon Jukes at 9:32 AM on October 20, 1959. Pleasure to meet you, Buddy. All right if I shake your hand? Thanks. You’ve got a strong grip. Call me Enzo, okay?
JUKES
Okay.
ROTELLA
I saw your car earlier this morning. It’s a beauty. ’53 Bel Air, right?
JUKES
Uh huh.
ROTELLA
What’s that color called?
JUKES
Surf green.
ROTELLA
Nice. Dark green top, white walls, fender skirt. Expensive car. Buy it new?
JUKES
No. I wasn’t old enough to drive until ’55. Got it second-hand that year.
ROTELLA
Still. A pricey car for a teenager.
JUKES
My grandmother paid for it so I could take her places and run errands. She doesn’t drive.
ROTELLA
How do you feel when you drive that car, Buddy?
JUKES
What do you mean?
ROTELLA
Take me, for example. I drive a ’56 Ford Fairlane Victoria two-door hardtop. Bought it new when I got back from Korea with the money I saved. Not much to spend it on over there, you know? When I drive that car it makes me feel lucky to be alive and blessed to be back in this country. Your car might make you feel more masculine, I don’t know. It’s a pretty manly car.
JUKES
Why do you care how I feel when I drive my car?
ROTELLA
I’m curious. I like to get to know people.
JUKES
Well, I don’t feel like talking about the car. It’s transportation, is all.
ROTELLA
Okay, tell me what you like about the A&P.
JUKES
(Laugh) Besides the fact they pay me?
ROTELLA
Yeah.
JUKES
(Sigh. 10-second pause) Everything’s in order. You know what to do every day. You’re busy. No time for crazy thoughts.
ROTELLA
What kind of crazy thoughts?
JUKES
I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t have to say anything. I know my rights.
ROTELLA
That’s right you don’t have to say anything. It’s okay to be scared. This is a scary time for you. But, you know, everybody has crazy thoughts. Me, I’m obsessive about my clothes. They have to be clean and pressed, no buttons missing, no loose threads. I think it’s because of my face. You noticed my face, right?
JUKES
Yes, sir. What happened?
ROTELLA
Pimples gone berserk. You’re lucky you have good skin. Anyway, I think because my face is so ugly I overcompensate with my clothes. What do you think of that theory?
(15-second pause)
JUKES
You know what a carpenter’s level is?
ROTELLA
I do.
JUKES
Sometimes the bubble will go way up here, you know?
ROTELLA
For the benefit of the recording, Mr. Jukes is tipping an imaginary carpenter’s level to show how the bubble could drift. Okay, go on.
JUKES
When it goes way up, you have to bring it back. Compensate, like you said about your clothes.
ROTELLA
What happens when you don’t bring it back?
>
JUKES
That’s not good.
ROTELLA
Not good like in seventh grade when you hurt that girl and spent two months in juvenile detention and another four in a mental hospital? Sandra Kopec was her name. You remember her?
JUKES
Not very well. That was a long time ago. Guess you have my records.
ROTELLA
We do. You roughed her up pretty bad. Why was that?
JUKES
I don’t remember. I was a stupid kid. I didn’t know about the bubble then.
ROTELLA
Your records indicate you suffered from hallucinations and delusions. You were apparently free of them when you were released, but the doctor’s report noted that stress could trigger a relapse. You under stress these days, Buddy?
JUKES
Are you a doctor?
ROTELLA
Nope. Just curious, as I said before. A student of human nature.
JUKES
Sometimes what doctors call a delusion isn’t.
ROTELLA
Can you give me an example?
JUKES