“I dunno,” he said thoughtfully. “Aunt Harriet wasn’t happy. I mean, she wasn’t, like, miserable or anything. But she was…like, discontent. You know? And it made him feel guilty?”
“Why was she discontent?”
“Uhhhh.” He cleared his throat.
I got the impression he regretted mentioning it, so I said, “I can keep what we discuss confidential. And, really, anything you can tell me might help.”
“Yeah. OK. Well, I guess she wanted kids, but he didn’t, so, you know. She loved him. But then, after he retired…and it’s so quiet out there. She doesn’t know anyone, and there’s nothing much to do, he told me. But, you know…”
“Did he say what he was going to do about it?”
“Oh,” he said, and I could imagine him shrugging, “he said he’d probably buy her some jewelry or take her on a trip. Something like that. I mean…you know, he would never have left. Not ever.”
I underlined “ever” in my notes, and asked some follow-up questions, but didn’t really learn anything else. It was nice that he was so confident about Tom’s loyalty to his wife, but people were wrong about that sort of thing all the time. I wanted to believe in Tom, too, but I had to keep an open mind.
I updated Harriet and learned that she’d spoken to the neighbors. No one had received any packages or letters not meant for them. She sounded oddly calm and I wondered if she’d had pharmaceutical assistance. For the moment, though, she seemed OK.
* * * *
The next morning, the sky was still gray, but I was up and ready to roll early. I went to talk with Dan Stockton, the VP of the local bank where Tom and Harriet had their accounts. He and Tom had struck up a friendship shortly after he and Harriet first moved there, and they had lunch about once a week.
Dan didn’t have a lot to add to what I already knew. “We talked about the business world, mostly. He gave me a fair bit of advice, to be honest. Good advice, too. And we talked about stuff like the weather, crop yields, local scandals. That kind of thing. Wish I could help you, but I’m sure I’d be the last person he’d tell if he was planning to take off.”
After we talked, Dan showed me details of the Reynolds’ accounts—Harriet had faxed him a signed consent form—and he confirmed that Tom’s cards still hadn’t been used. Just before we parted company, I asked him the same question I asked everyone I spoke with who knew Tom at all: “Where do you think he is?”
He shook his head. “I’ve thought and thought about it, and I just don’t know. I do not know. I’m sorry.”
The next few interviews—with neighbors, the president of their homeowners’ association, and even Tom’s minister—netted me nothing new except for the revelation that Tom was really fond of root beer, and liked to watch David Letterman after his wife went to bed. The minister thought Tom was a good Christian man, though not terribly interested in scripture. Mildly interesting, but not exactly useful.
I ate a late lunch at a shack of a place called Metompkin Seafood, where I had some of the best fish I’ve ever eaten. I was sitting at a picnic table outside, wiping the last of the meal from my hands, when my cell phone rang. It was Harriet.
I expected a request for another update, or maybe a new bit of information. What I got was some very bad news: Tom’s mother, Marian, had had a stroke, and died alone sometime late the night before.
“Oh, God.” Harriet moaned. “I should have been with her. I should have…and she died not knowing—not even knowing if her son was dead or alive.” She moaned again, harshly. “So help me, if that man just ran off with some woman—” she broke off, said “Damn,” and I thought she was going to start crying again.
“Harriet,” I said, “I’m so sorry.” I was especially sorry that I hadn’t been able to talk to Tom’s mother before she died, though I felt incredibly insensitive even thinking it.
Harriet sighed and said, “You know, I didn’t even like her. I don’t know that anyone did, she complained so much. Talked about herself and her troubles all the time. But she loved him dearly. And what a terrible way to die. I didn’t…I didn’t want this. God, I didn’t.”
She said it so insistently that I was certain she had wished Tom’s mother dead, even if only for a moment, so they’d be free of the obligation to care for her. I felt sorry for Harriet. It’s the kind of thought people have just because they’re human, without any real desire to see it happen. And the worst of it was, this would make life simpler for Harriet. Part of her had to be relieved that the burden wasn’t hers any longer.
We spoke for a few minutes more, and I updated Harriet on my progress. There wasn’t much of it, but I hoped it would help her, even if just a little bit, if she knew that I was hard at work.
Once I got off the phone, I headed back to Chincoteague. I sat and reviewed my notes, hoping I’d see something I missed before, but there was nothing. Finally, I pulled out Tom’s long list of contacts, scowled at it, and sat down to start dialing. I didn’t have high hopes, but I knew from experience that if I worked at it hard enough, sooner or later I’d probably stumble over something useful.
As the afternoon passed into evening, I continued crossing names off the list. I made notes about every call, marked a couple that sounded odd, had numbers that were disconnected, or where I got a machine. By 9 P.M., I was starting to lose steam. I took a break and made a sandwich. While I ate, I stared out at the water, lit by the flash of the lighthouse’s warning light rotating in a strange long-short, long-short rhythm. The sight relaxed me, finally, and I decided to call it a night.
It was just past eight the next morning when I started up again, and continued calling for hours. By mid-afternoon, I switched over to the west-coast numbers, which I’d left for last. I was getting ready to dial the fifth California number when I noticed something odd. The man, Ed Gorman, had a Sacramento address, but a Virginia area code—and it looked like an Eastern Shore number. I inhaled sharply, and punched the numbers, thinking, “Be there, be there, be there…” Of course, he wasn’t. His voicemail answered, and I cursed and hung up.
I went online and did a reverse phone search. The results came on the screen, and I shouted, “Yes,” when I saw it: 81 Bay Crest Drive, Pungoteague, VA. I knew that road name; I’d driven by it the day before. It was near where Tom’s car had been found. Less than a quarter mile, and much closer than the gas station, though in the opposite direction. I doubted anyone had thought to look there. I certainly hadn’t.
I dug in my bag for the map, and tried desperately to think of some explanation that would fit. Tom walked to Gorman’s house after the car ran out of gas, and they got drunk together. Maybe Tom had gotten sick or injured, and Gorman was taking care of him.
I unfolded the map, trying to hold onto my desperate, absurd hope, even though I knew it didn’t make any sense. He’d have been home ages ago. But it was too much of a coincidence. It had to tie in.
I called the number three more times and finally said, “Screw this,” got in the car, and started driving. It would take about fifty minutes to get there. I ran through different scenarios in my mind as I drove, and it started making me crazy, so I cranked up the radio and sang along. There was a song about a guy riding his pony on a boat, and another about tractor love. I was no fan of country music, but it passed the time.
* * * *
The road Gorman lived on was a smooth gravel track with trees pressing in on either side. The house, no more than a hundred feet back, looked like a fifties-era brick ranch, with large windows and a slate patio out front. There was a light on inside, which seemed like a good sign, but then I saw two packages tucked inside the screen door, and a soggy flyer for a lawn mowing service plastered to the stoop.
I knocked, and for a minute imagined that an amnesiac Tom would answer, looking kindly and confused. But that kind of thing only happens in cheesy soap operas—and it was always the evil twin in disguise, anyway. Neither version of Tom opened the door. After several more attempts and a walk around the house, I
had to accept that no one was home.
I walked down the driveway to the road, pulled open the mailbox, and found a note taped inside: “Out of town—family emergency. Please hold mail. Have a blessed day. Lou.” At the top was the date the note had been written—three days before Tom had gone missing.
“Damn.” I felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. After all the work I’d done, this had been my one promising lead.
After a few minutes of staring at the ground feeling sorry for myself, I turned and looked back at the house. It was possible Tom had come here anyway, not knowing Lou were gone. If he’d arrived on his front steps sometime late that night and found the place empty, what would he have done?
I headed back behind the house, to where I’d seen a shed. Inside, I found a small riding mower, the usual assortment of shovels and rakes, a wheelbarrow, and a few other pieces of equipment. I spotted a gas can under a workbench on the left, and jiggled it. It was empty, and I saw no other cans. I suppose he could’ve taken one with him and walked back to the car. But, then what?
There was a garage, too, though. Might they have gas stored in there? Would Tom know how to get in to check? I started looking around the shed for the key that I thought they’d probably have hidden there, not thinking too hard yet about what I’d do if I found it. I lifted coffee cans full of nails, and half-empty bags of grass seed and potting soil. I was getting ready to climb a step ladder and check the beams, when the light shifted, and I heard a man clearing his throat.
I spun toward the door, my heart feeling like it was trying to break out of its cage, and was both relieved and dismayed to find Lieutenant Withams standing there looking amused—mostly.
“We got a call that some girl was sneaking around back in here. From the description, I thought it might be you. Something I can help you find?”
I explained what I’d learned, and why I was at the house.
“Huh,” he said, “that was good thinking.”
We talked a while, and I was relieved to see he didn’t seem particularly upset about what I’d been doing at the house. We discussed the case in detail, and then he asked, “What next?”
I folded my arms and tried to look thoughtful, because it seemed preferable to admitting I had few ideas left. “Did Tom know anyone else down this road?”
“Not so far as I know, though truthfully, I never considered he might walk in this direction. I wouldn’t have thought he’d take the chance at that hour. And wasn’t Gorman one of the people Mrs. Reynolds said her husband hadn’t spoken to in years?”
“Yes, but he had the local phone number in his contact list. They must have spoken recently, or it would still have been a California number, wouldn’t it? Maybe he just hadn’t gotten around to putting the new address in.”
“Huh. I suppose. Pretty sure the Gorman’s have lived here for almost ten years, though. They can’t have been close.”
I nodded. “Maybe he saw it as an opportunity to renew their friendship?”
“By asking to borrow gas late at night?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes the best way to get to know someone better is by letting them do you a favor.”
He thought about that for a minute and then nodded.
“I tell you what,” I said, “I’m going to walk from here to where the car was found, just to see if anything jumps out at me. Care to come along?”
Withams nodded, and called in on his radio to let dispatch know where he’d be. We started out walking, and chatted idly about trivial things: the nice weather, the Chincoteague ponies, his fishing trip to the Florida Keys the month before. I told him about fishing for trout with my dad when I was little, and the time I ate a worm. He told me about his grandmother teaching him how to knit, and the fit his father’d had when he came home to find his little man sitting on the couch with his sisters, knitting a scarf.
We were both roaring with laughter when I saw it, and it tore the laugh from my throat. It was the underside of a boot, submerged in a deep water-filled drainage ditch beside the road, just a short distance from where Tom’s car ran out of gas. It might be just an old, discarded boot. It might be nothing. Except for the edge of a black and red flannel shirt that was also floating in the water, in just about the right spot.
Withams noticed I’d stopped, and started to ask what was wrong. But then he saw my face and followed my gaze, and he knew, too. We’d found Tom.
“Sweet Jesus,” he said, and reached for his radio.
* * * *
What followed had little to do with me. After they’d removed the body from the ditch, I went with the lieutenant to tell Harriet. She saw us coming up the drive looking grim, and collapsed, wracked with sobs. Her minister was there, and he promised he’d look after her. I felt guilty, again, for the relief I felt at being able to walk away, but I could see that Withams felt it, too. I suppose it was natural enough.
I went back to the office with him, answered a few questions, and gave him all my contact information. I made Withams promise to let me know what the medical examiner found, and he said he would, and we said our good-byes.
And then, the sun still high in the sky and the day stretching before me, I got in my car and headed back to Chincoteague. If it was a hit and run, it was a matter for the police; if it was accidental—a fall, maybe, or a heart attack—then it was just a shame. In either case, my part in it was done.
I had another week of my vacation left, and suddenly that seemed terribly long. I reached the turn for my rental, and instead kept on driving. Now that I had the time, I was finally going to climb to the top of that lighthouse, and see if the view was any better from there.
THE TAGGART ASSIGNMENT, by Vincent Starrett
CHAPTER I
I had not seen my friend Lavender for some days, and through no fault of my own. He was out of town. But faithfully every morning I strolled around to his rooms, collected his mail, and tried to imagine that in the absence of the great Lavender I was myself a person of importance. I even opened letters that appeared to be significant and, when necessary, replied with tidings of my friend’s absence; but throughout the week of silence that followed his departure there had been nothing warranting a wire to him in Wisconsin, where I knew he was engaged upon a will case of national prominence.
On the eighth day of my voluntary factotumship, I sauntered toward the dingy edifice whose upper story concealed the curious activities of my remarkable friend.
I suppose there were not a dozen men in the community who knew Lavender to be a detective, but the regular postman was one of these, and this friendly individual I met as I entered Portland Street.
“Well, I see he’s home,” he cheerfully greeted me.
“The deuce he is!” I exclaimed.
“Yep, saw him this morning on my first trip. I’ve got a letter for him. You going up?”
“Yes;” I said indignantly, “and he’s going to be called down! He might have let a fellow know when he was coming.”
The man in gray laughed. “Now you see him and now you don’t,” he chanted, and fished in his sack until he had found the single letter intended for James Eliot Lavender.
But I withheld the bitterly affectionate greeting that lay upon my lips as I burst into the library, for I quickly saw that Lavender was not alone. He was deep in consultation with one of the most striking young women I had ever seen. Both looked up at my noisy entrance.
“Hello, Gilly,” said my friend casually. “I was about to telephone you. Glad to see you! Let me make you acquainted with Miss Dale Valentine. My friend Mr. Gilruth, Miss Valentine.”
I bowed and stared. We had had young lady visitors before, but seldom such arresting specimens as this one. And her name and face were curiously familiar, although at the moment I could not place her.
“You are wondering where you have seen Miss Valentine before, no doubt Probably you have noticed her portrait in the newspapers. Her engagement recently was announced by the press. Draw up a chair, Gilly, and
listen to what Miss Valentine will tell you. Do you mind repeating the story?” he asked his client, with a friendly smile. “Mr. Gilruth is my assistant and will work with me in this matter.”
Of course, I knew her as soon as he spoke about the newspapers. She was the season’s bright and particular “bud,” and her approaching marriage to a young man of her own set had filled the society columns. What in the world, I wondered, could this darkly beautiful girl, with a woman’s greatest happiness less than a week away as I remembered it, want with my friend Lavender?
“Something very strange has happened, Mr. Gilruth,” she said frankly. “Perhaps something very terrible.” Her lips trembled, and she paused as if to control an emotion that threatened to destroy her calm. “My fiancé, Mr. Parris, is missing. That is everything, in a word. He—”
Noting her distress, Lavender hastily threw himself into the breach.
“Yes,” he said, “that is the whole story. In a word, Mr. Rupert Parris has disappeared, practically on the eve of his wedding. Miss Valentine cannot explain so remarkable an action by any ordinary reason, and quite naturally she suspects that something may have happened to Mr. Parris; that he may have been injured, or abducted, or even—possibly—killed; although, as I tell her, that seems, unlikely in the circumstances. There is no one else to ask that a search be made—Mr. Parris is alone in the world—and Miss Valentine has determined to risk the unpleasantness of possible gossip and ask for investigation. The case is to be kept from the newspapers if humanly possible, but one way or another Mr. Parris is to be found. Miss Valentine has honored us by asking us to conduct the search.”
The young woman nodded her head gratefully in acknowledgment of his understanding and his delicate statement of the facts.
The Detective Megapack Page 5