“It definitely fits with a young man going off into the world to find himself,” Chantelle said. “I wonder why the Registry didn’t mention that it was The Fool? Surely the police would have figured it out.”
“Maybe they did, but they hold back some details to authenticate tips,” I said, with the assurance of someone who had binge-watched the first four seasons of Bosch.
Chantelle nodded. “That makes sense. I guess the bigger question is what we do with this information, now that we have it.”
“Do we have permission to recreate this on our website?” Misty asked.
I nodded.
“In that case, I’d be happy to create a post for the website and Facebook page.”
“I’m not sure how that will reach Brandon Colbeck,” Chantelle said, “but it’s worth a try.”
“It doesn’t have to reach Brandon,” I said. “All it has to do is resonate with someone who’s seen that tattoo on a man that resembles one of the sketches.”
“Exactly,” Misty said. “First, I’ll set up a separate ‘Find Brandon Colbeck’ page and add the sketches and photograph of Brandon. I’ll also include a photo and description of The Fool. Then I’ll share the link on our Facebook page and Twitter, and post pix on Instagram and Pinterest.”
I stared at Misty, open-mouthed. A day ago I couldn’t imagine what help Misty would be. Now she was all but leading the investigation.
“What can I do?” Shirley asked.
“I thought you’d never ask. In the 2015 newspaper article, there’s reference to an earlier interview. I suspect it’s in the Marketville Post, but it’s not in their online archives, which don’t start until 2010. While it’s almost certainly written by G.G. Pietrangelo, who I hope to interview, it will be better if I know what the article says before I meet with her. Other papers may have picked up Brandon’s story as well, and not just in our local area. Do what you do, and get digging. And by that I mean, don’t just dig into Brandon. I need you to find out anything and everything you can about Eleanor Colbeck, Lorna Colbeck-Westlake, Michael Westlake, and Jeanine Westlake. If they were mentioned attending a store opening, we need to know about it.”
Shirley clapped her hands, the wide grin on her face threatening to split it apart. “I’ll start first thing tomorrow.”
“Where do I fit in?” Chantelle asked, her face crestfallen.
“You’re going to put your genealogy skills to good use and see if anyone has started a Colbeck family tree. Call Lorna and see if she’ll reveal the name of Brandon’s biological father, along with any other known relatives. Tell her that Brandon may well have done the same thing in an effort to ‘find himself’ and that he may have contacted a family member, even if he did so surreptitiously.”
“I’m on it,” Chantelle said, “but what about the Westlake side of things? I’m not sure it’s necessary, given that Michael Westlake isn’t a blood relative of Brandon’s, but I’m willing to check the records you think there’s an angle there.”
I thought about it for a moment. “Can you just do a search on Michael? That should be sufficient.”
“I can do that.” Chantelle’s gray eyes sparkled. “We can do this, Callie. We can find out what happened to Brandon Colbeck.”
I just hoped Chantelle was right. Because even though I’d given everyone else an assignment, I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I just knew I needed to do something.
7
After a night of tossing, turning, and endless deliberation, I decided my first step would be to meet with Eleanor Colbeck. I flipped through the newspaper clippings I’d accumulated during the investigation into my mother’s disappearance, scanning them until I came up with a small column dated Thursday, May 15, 1986 in the Marketville Post, byline G.G. Pietrangelo.
Town Philanthropist Feeds Food Bank
Well-known local philanthropist Eleanor Colbeck has put her money where the town’s mouth is with a $10,000 donation to purchase food for the Marketville Food Bank. The food bank, started by Marketville resident Abigail Barnstable last summer, has been struggling since Ms. Barnstable’s unexplained disappearance earlier this year. Volunteers and donations of food and cash are desperately needed.
The address, phone number, and hours were listed at the end of the article.
I pulled out the contact list provided by Leith, rang the Cedar County Retirement Residence, and cringed when I heard the voice that answered. Without question, it was the icy platinum blonde gatekeeper who’d made every effort to keep me from seeing my great-grandmother. I thought about affecting an accent of some sort, but they were bound to have caller ID.
“Room 312, East Wing, please,” I said without preamble.
“Mrs. Colbeck is not to be disturbed,” Platinum Blonde said, her tone acerbic.
Says who, I wanted to ask, but bit my tongue. Nothing would be gained by antagonizing the woman. “It’s rather important, I’m afraid. I have her, and her family’s, permission to visit.” Not entirely true, but not a complete falsehood. I was promised carte blanche, and I did have the signed affidavits.
There was a disdainful sniff at the other end of the line and then a reluctant, “Very well. She’s resting now, but she’ll be up and about shortly and would likely enjoy a companion at her midday meal. We haven’t reassigned seating since…of course we plan to, it just hasn’t…Mrs. Colbeck will be in the dining room at one o’clock, table seven. I suggest you arrive five minutes early so you can pay for your lunch. The charge for guests is ten dollars. Today’s special is macaroni and cheese with tea or coffee, and rice pudding for dessert.”
I envisioned mushy mac and cheese and mushier rice pudding, both flavorless. I thanked Platinum Blonde and hung up before she could change her mind.
I killed some time checking out tarot tattoos on Pinterest, unsurprised to find hundreds of variations inked onto virtually every part of the body, along with multiple sketches and drawings. There were also symbols for the cards in the Major Arcana, The Fool represented by a round circle with a diagonal line cutting through the top left-hand corner.
Tarot appeared to be a popular subject for tattoos. But were tattoos popular in 2000 when Brandon got his?
I arrived at the Cedar County Retirement Residence with ten minutes to spare, passed muster with Platinum Blonde, who offered a robotic “I’m sorry for your loss,” before accepting my lunch money and directing me to the dining room. Table seven was set for two, with cutlery, white china cups, and cloth napkins. A glass vase sported a single red carnation, and for a moment I got misty-eyed thinking that this had been my great-grandmother’s seat. True, in the brief time since we’d met, I hadn’t gotten to know her well, but I had liked her, and I was sure I could have come to love her, given half a chance.
Eleanor Colbeck was wheeled to the table at two minutes before one o’clock. There was an oxygen tank strapped to the back of her wheelchair, the plastic tubing inserted in her nose, and I realized she had more than Mild Cognitive Impairment.
The personal support worker, a slender amber-eyed, brown-skinned woman in her early thirties, transferred Eleanor from wheelchair to dining chair with expert efficiency. Eleanor stared at me with rheumy eyes, her pale face flushed and breathing labored from the effort. I recognized the symptoms of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease—COPD—from volunteer work at a nursing home in Toronto. Cigarette smoking had been fashionable back in the day, and there were plenty of seniors now suffering the consequences.
“Do I know you?” she asked. Her voice had the reedy timbre of someone permanently on oxygen, but there was also a trace of uncertainty in it, as if she should know me and didn’t.
“No. No, you don’t. My name is Callie Barnstable. My great-grandmother was Olivia Osgoode. I understand you were good friends.”
“Olivia died.”
“I know.”
“I miss her. She was my friend.”
“I miss her, too.”
“Is that why you’re here? Because of Oliv
ia?”
“In a way. Do you remember signing a paper?”
Eleanor frowned. “I don’t think so. What sort of paper?”
“A paper saying that you would help me find out what happened to your grandson.”
“Brandon. His name is Brandon. He disappeared a long time ago.”
“Yes, Brandon. I’m an investigator.”
“An investigator.” Eleanor chewed at her bottom lip and I waited as she processed the information.
“Does that mean that you investigate things?”
“Yes.”
Her face brightened. “He phoned me. Brandon did. The police said it wasn’t him, that it was a lie. Do you think it was?”
“I don’t know.”
“I forget things now, so no one believes me. But he called me Nana Ellie, just like he used to. I’m sure it was Brandon.”
“Can you remember other things about Brandon? Besides that he called you Nana Ellie? Things that might help me find out what happened to him?”
“I’d really like to try,” Eleanor said, and began to cry.
I looked around, unsure of what to do or who to call. Fortunately, lunch was delivered to our table, distracting Eleanor. The mac and cheese looked mushy as expected, the cheese sauce runny and an odd shade of orange. The rice pudding had been liberally sprinkled with cinnamon, as if the addition could make up for an otherwise bland dessert. Each tray also contained a container of white milk. Not much for ten dollars.
“They’ll come with tea or coffee after we eat,” Eleanor said, spooning the mac and cheese into her mouth. “I don’t like their tea, though. Tastes like dishwater.”
I grinned, once again reminded of my great-grandmother and her exacting standards for making the perfect cup of tea, which involved rinsing a teapot with boiling water and letting the tea steep for exactly four minutes, not three, and not five. “Do you have tea in your room? If so, I could come up with you and make you a cup. Would you like that?”
Eleanor nodded, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief. It would be easier to talk about Brandon outside of this very public dining room.
“Okay then, as soon as we’re done with lunch, and don’t worry. Olivia taught me how to make a proper cup of tea.”
“Olivia,” Eleanor said, tears staining her weathered cheeks. “She died, you know.”
She was still crying when I wheeled her into her room.
8
I got Eleanor seated on a brown leather sofa, plumped the multi-colored pillows surrounding her, and made a pot of Earl Grey tea. A quick search of the cupboard next to a small refrigerator led me to a box of digestive biscuits, six brown earthenware mugs, a couple with chips on the rim, and a collection of mismatched dollar store paper plates and napkins. I placed napkins, a plate of cookies, and two mugs on the coffee table, got the tea, and poured.
“Sugar or milk?” I asked, not sure if Eleanor had either.
She shook her head and I took a seat in one of two chairs upholstered in a nubby taupe fabric, dragging it into position to face her. I knew it was best to wait until she spoke again and settled in for the duration. Brandon had been missing for nearly twenty years. Another ten minutes wasn’t going to change anything.
I was on my second cup of tea and third biscuit when Eleanor spoke. The tea had served to both calm and revive her, the tears subsided, a flush of color back in her cheeks. “You’re here about Brandon. What sort of things do you want me to tell you?”
“Anything that might help us to iden…locate Brandon.” I studied Eleanor, hopeful that she hadn’t noticed the almost slip of “identify” versus locate. Identify conjured up images of dead bodies. Locate was far more optimistic. The vague expression on her face assured me she’d missed it, but the faux pas served as a reminder to choose my words wisely. I continued on, my voice soft, a gentle exploration into this woman’s past. “A place he might have loved as a child, for example. A favorite activity of his, perhaps one you both enjoyed together. Do you remember anything like that?”
“The past is something I do remember, or at least most parts of it,” she said with a sad smile. “Just don’t ask me what I did yesterday, or how to work the microwave. Where should I start?”
“Wherever you’d like.”
“You said a place Brandon might have loved. My husband, Tom, and I used to own a two-bedroom cabin in Lakeside, direct waterfront on Lake Miakoda. For over thirty years, we spent every weekend there from Victoria Day in May to Thanksgiving in October, plus the entire month of July. I sold it after Tom died, too much work and too many memories.” Eleanor grimaced. “The couple who bought it tore it down and built a monstrosity of a house to live in year-round.”
My grandparents owned one of the McMansions that Eleanor was referring to, a medieval fairy tale castle with a fieldstone façade, turrets, and two-story towers. The only thing missing was a moat. “I take it Brandon loved the cabin?”
Her face was wreathed in a smile. “That boy was made for the outdoors. On nice days, he’d be outside every waking minute, swimming, exploring, bike riding, fishing off the dock, catching frogs, begging Tom to take him for a boat ride. On rainy days, we’d play board games and cards, or work on paint-by-numbers and jigsaw puzzles. Sometimes we’d bake chocolate chip cookies or brownies. He loved my brownies, always liked to lick the batter from the bowl.”
“Did Brandon come to the cabin very often?”
This netted me a disdainful sniff. “He did—at least before Lorna met Michael. After that…”
Her voice trailed off, but judging from the tone, there was no love lost between Eleanor Colbeck and Michael Westlake. I felt my pulse quicken. It wasn’t much, but it confirmed my earlier suspicion that Brandon and his stepfather didn’t get along. “What changed when Lorna met Michael?”
“Michael thought that Tom and I spoiled Brandon.” Eleanor sniffed again. “Well, of course we did. That’s what grandparents are supposed to do, am I right?”
I’ve never experienced any such spoiling from my own grandparents, but I nodded anyway. It was enough to get Eleanor talking again. I leaned forward in an “all ears” stance and hoped it would encourage her to go on. It did.
“We may have spoiled the boy,” she said, “but we were never careless with his safety. We always made him wear a life vest in the boat and Tom taught him to swim, for pity’s sake. None of that mattered to Michael.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“Easy. If Brandon was with us, he wasn’t under Michael’s thumb.”
Eleanor’s bitterness was palatable. It also provided the perfect opening to ask one of my questions. “How old was Brandon when Lorna met Michael?”
Eleanor frowned in concentration, and I hoped I hadn’t pushed too hard.
“Dates can be fuzzy for me,” she said, still frowning. “Let me think.”
I waited silently as she touched her fingers one at a time, as if counting numbers. After a few minutes, she nodded, a wide smile crossing her face.
“I remember that Jeanine was born a few months after Lorna met Michael.” Eleanor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A very few months if you get my meaning.”
So Lorna was already pregnant when she married Michael. I wondered if the pregnancy was planned, or if it had been the reason for the nuptials. I also knew Jeanine was eight years younger than Brandon, which meant he’d been seven, coming on eight, when Michael Westlake had entered his life. Since Brandon’s last name was Colbeck, he hadn’t been adopted. Or had he? Better not to assume, and ask.
“Did Michael adopt Brandon?”
“No.” Lips pressed closed, posture rigid.
I was surprised by Eleanor’s body language and her abrupt response. Until now, Eleanor had been very forthcoming. I was deliberating on how best to pursue the topic when she spoke again.
“I’m not trying to be, um, unhelpful, is that the right word? I’m not sure that it is, but you know what I mean. Anyway, I can’t tell you why Michael didn’t adopt Brando
n because I don’t know the reason. Lorna never discussed the matter, and it wasn’t my place to ask. It was a topic relegated to ‘need to know’ status and apparently I didn’t need to know. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
I felt an irrational tug of disappointment. Had I really expected this oxygen-dependent, wheelchair-bound woman with memory problems to answer all of my questions? “You’ve been a great help, Eleanor. All of the things you’ve told me, like the jigsaw puzzles, paint-by-numbers, and brownies, will go a long way to vetting anyone who might come forward.”
Her watery blue eyes assessed me, and I caught a glimpse of the intelligent woman she used to be, before old age and illness had beset her. “Thank you for being so kind,” she said after a few moments. “I’m embarrassed that I didn’t think to ask Brandon any of those questions when he telephoned. The minute I heard the words ‘Nana Ellie’ my heart melted. I haven’t been called that in many, many years. It had to be Brandon, don’t you think? Who else would know that?”
Anyone who’d read the article in the Marketville Post, I thought. “I don’t know,” I said truthfully, “but I’m going to do everything I can to find out.”
9
I made my way to a stone bench on the perimeter of the Cedar County Retirement Residence and checked my phone. There was a text from Chantelle with a cryptic message: “No go from Lorna. Call me.”
I did as instructed. “What’s up?”
A Fool's Journey Page 4