Idyll Hands

by Stephanie Gayle

  “But we’ll find him,” Bobby said, the words less a statement than a question.

  I looked at him, my baby brother. His face getting fat, his middle expanding in the same way Dave’s and mine had before him. We all started skinny and wound up pudgy. Look on the bright side: We all had our hair, mostly.

  “We’ll find him,” I said, because I was the older brother and had to say such things, and because, for the first time in a long time, I hoped it was true. Maybe we could find Susan, after all these years.

  CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH

  FRIDAY, JUNE 18, 1999

  1945 HOURS

  My cell phone rang from inside the house. Where had I put it? The mechanical ring stopped. I found the phone in my bedroom. One missed call. I checked the log. Matthew Cisco. My eyes scanned the digital letters, searching for meaning. He’d called once since I’d last seen him, at his house, with a young guy in boxers looking on. Once. But no voicemail.

  I carried the phone with me to the kitchen, where I was assembling dinner. A ham sandwich that made me long for New York delis. I layered the ham slices on the bread and grabbed some spicy mustard from the fridge. One thing you could say about the people of Idyll: they loved their condiments. You could walk into a store and find a whole shelf devoted to chutneys, and don’t even get me started on jams.

  My sandwich made, I sat at the kitchen table and sorted my mail. Always a fun activity. Bills, fliers, a catalog from L.L. Bean (how had I gotten on that list?), and a notice about the annual Police vs. Firefighters Softball Tournament. Damn. That was in three weeks. Had they even practiced? Tried hitting a ball or two? Probably they avoided talking about it in front of me. Jerks. I could see some of the guys voting to exclude me. Some of them assumed I’d see their bodies in motion on the field and be unable to control my insatiable man lust. But some of them knew better. Had those guys even tried to convince the others? I mean, Hopkins on third? Maybe they wanted to lose.

  I ate the sandwich and wished I’d bought chips when I was last at the grocery. I’d been eating healthier. Or trying to. And why? Because when I looked at Matt’s body and I looked at mine, I got worried. Never mind I was almost ten years older. I washed my dishes and limited myself to one beer, which had 154 calories. Then I sat in my recliner and mentally reviewed what Wright and Finny had told me of their case. Looked like Elizabeth Gardner’s ex-boyfriend, Donald aka Daniel Waverly, was abusive. He’d threatened her. She broke up with him. Wright had shown me her diary. The relevant passage:

  Donald said he’d rather see me dead than dating another guy. He said I’d regret leaving him. I told him that it’s over, and that he should never contact me again. Tonight, the phone rang three times and every time Dad answered, the caller hung up. I think it was Donald.

  Unfortunately, Wright and Finnegan’s number one suspect had disappeared. Their last known information on him came from 1982, when the IRS sent forms to his sister’s house about back taxes owed. The forms showed he’d worked a landscaping job in New London. Finny said his sister, Rose, was supposed to fetch more mail that might provide a better address, but neither he nor Wright seemed optimistic about her doing so.

  They’d spoken to neighbors, who’d lived in Woodstock, and the picture of Daniel Waverly they painted was disturbing. One neighbor caught young Daniel harming a stray cat. Another saw him setting fire to a doll that belonged to his sister. And several complained he’d bullied girls. But he had no criminal record. Just the never-lodged complaint that he’d broken a prior girlfriend’s ankle. “Not that abuse victims always notify the police,” Wright said. He should know. His issues with abusers told me his mother had been hit, often. No other way to explain his hatred for domestics.

  On top of my cracked side table were notes on the park ranger from Bunker Hill who’d spoken to Finny the first day he canvassed the neighborhood for Susan. Gus Saunders. Gus had been twenty-two years old when Susan went missing, and he’d worked at the monument for a year. Enough time to get to know her and impregnate her. Gus now lived in Kansas City. Inconvenient for interviews. Gus had a criminal record. Assault with a deadly weapon. It landed him in prison for six months. The guy he’d assaulted was a known thug with a temper. They’d fought outside a bar, late at night, over remarks made about a Boston Bruins game.

  Had Susan fallen in love with that idiot? Gotten pregnant by him? Gus didn’t get into his fight until 1974, so he would’ve been around to check her out of the hospital, pretending to be her brother. Finny had told me about that, certain whoever had checked her out of the hospital had to have been the father of her baby. He was also convinced the same guy killed her. Why else would she disappear?

  He didn’t consider she’d rather go away, live another life, than return to the family home in Charlestown. Then again, no contact in twenty-seven years was extreme unless her family life included abuse or trauma, and Finny was adamant it had not. “Unless you count attending Mass weekly a trauma.” As someone who had done that for sixteen years of my life, I was willing to consider it.

  We had two cases of missing women. Elizabeth Gardner and Susan Finnegan. One found murdered and buried in a shallow grave. One never found. One with an abusive boyfriend. One with a boyfriend we knew nothing about. One who’d had her arm removed. One who … we had no idea. Simply no idea of where Susan’s remains were, if she was even dead.

  Unable to make headway, I decided to work out. I changed clothes and headed for the ships room. It was a guest room that had once had sailing-ship wallpaper. Mentally I called it the ships room even though I’d removed the wallpaper and painted the walls a flat white. I was as bad as the locals. Referring to places by their former owners’ names. Like the Old Graham place. Was I turning into one? Getting picky about blueberry pie and expecting to see chutney on the shelf next to the jams? As I lay against the bench and lifted, I realized I’d never be a local. Not even if I lived here fifty years. Locals were born, not made.

  The house was quiet, the only sounds my huffed exhalations and the clank of metal as I lowered the bar down. When I stood, my heart beat against my chest, hard and steady. I lowered into squats and counted. A hard burst of sound brought me up from a squat, fast. Someone was knocking on the door.

  Matt stood on the side porch, his shoulders sagged inward. His face was aimed toward my backyard. I wondered if the robins were out there. I opened the door. The suction sound it created made him turn toward me.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey.” He stepped to the side and back. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  He came in, knocking his boots against the riser. He knew how much effort I’d put into rehabbing my kitchen floor. “Working out?” He’d clocked my outfit, and my sweat.

  “Finishing up.” I poured myself a glass of water. “Can I get you a drink? Beer?”

  “Nah.” He sat at the kitchen table. Perched his elbows on the surface, and said, “About the other night.”

  I remained standing. “I shouldn’t have assumed—”

  He held up a hand. “No, look, we never talked about it, and you have a key, so I can see where maybe you thought …”

  “Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I get it. You’re right. We never had a conversation, and, truth be told, I’m not surprised.”

  “By what?” He was alert.

  “That you’d want to play the field, so to speak. You’re young and incredibly hot. I don’t expect to be your one and only. I mean, I didn’t even give you my letterman jacket.”

  He grinned. “Do you have one? Have you been holding out on me?”

  “I did, once upon a time. Haven’t seen it since I graduated. I’m guessing it’s long gone or one of my nephews has taken it because it’s retro cool.”

  “You’re not upset?”

  I had been. I hadn’t wanted to, but I had been. “I’m not. You want me to give your key back? Maybe prevent future incidents?”

  He said, “Nah, just call next time.”

  “I ca
n do that.”

  He stood.

  “You leaving?”

  “Well, I thought maybe you wanted to finish your workout. I kind of barged in on you.” Not as bad as I had the other night. I could see his thoughts had gone there, too. “Not that I’m—”

  “It’s fine. You had dinner? You want to grab a bite to eat?”

  “I had a late lunch.” He patted his abs.

  “Hey, there is something you can do for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You played baseball in college, right?”

  “You’re looking at the pride of Puerto Rico, baby, right after Roberto Clemente, and Ivan Rodríguez.”

  “And Roberto Alomar and Edgar Martínez,” I said.

  “Don’t forget Jorge Posada.”

  “I never forget Jorge.” I was a die-hard Yankees fan. Posada was an outstanding catcher and a switch hitter.

  “Okay, so maybe I’m not the pride of Puerto Rico, but I can outhit the idiots on my league team,” he said.

  “That’s what I’m counting on. I need batting lessons.”

  “Batting lessons?”

  “It’s been forever since I played.”

  “When are you playing? Oh, is it that town matchup against the firemen? The one where they routinely decimate your department?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, you’ve been giving me poker lessons, so I think I can repay the favor with some hitting tips.”

  “Great.”

  He looked at the papers spread on my floral loveseat and atop the cracked table. “Case?”

  “Looking into a cold one for a friend.”

  “When’s the softball game?” he asked.

  “Three weeks.” I held up the postcard from the mail.

  “We better get to work,” he said. “Three weeks isn’t much time.”

  “What, now?”

  “Sure. I know of some batting cages that stay open until 10:00 p.m. Let’s go.” He stood, certain in his decision, eager to start.

  I hesitated. Why? “Sure thing,” I said. Unsettled by my gut. This was what I wanted, right?

  DETECTIVE MICHAEL FINNEGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 21, 1999

  1030 HOURS

  “God, why are these so blurry?” Lewis complained. I didn’t answer. He was looking at the photographs of Daniel (Donald) Waverly that Elizabeth’s mother had mailed to us from San Antonio. Six snapshots in all. Three of Elizabeth and Daniel. One of Daniel alone. The other two were of a group of friends that included Daniel. The quality of the photographs wasn’t great. Eyes were red, faces blurred, and none of them gave us what we wanted: a close-up, perfect image around which to build a murder investigation. To be fair, no one who took those photos in 1978 and 1979 realized these pictures would be used this way. I held my breath. Lew had been grousing since he set foot indoors. I wouldn’t be the one to ignite his short fuse.

  “We should use the one of him and her on the porch,” I said.

  “Only decent one in the bunch,” he muttered. He snapped his head up and asked, “His sister give us anything?”

  “Says she’s still looking. Says there’s a lot of paperwork in the house.”

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to sell them,” he said. “Did you see she was selling old copies of TV Guide? Who would buy old copies of TV Guide?”

  “You guys want old copies of TV Guide?” Billy asked. I locked eyes with him and shook my head, silently telling him to get out of harm’s way. Across from me, Lew rifled through his desk. “Who took my stapler?” he roared.

  Billy mouthed “thanks,” and walked to the other side of the station. “It’s by the phone,” I said.

  “Oh.” Lew glanced at the stapler like it had betrayed him by appearing where I’d said it would be. “Guys are always stealing it.”

  I went back to completing a report of a burglary from a car parked on Oak Street. I’d been out there at 8:00 a.m., interviewing Mr. Stottler about the roll of quarters and music CDs he’d lost as a result. He seemed more upset about the quarters than the CDs. Maybe because the CDs belonged to his wife and, according to my notes, were “terrible pop music that makes you want to jam a screwdriver in your ears.” While Lewis was getting his coffee, I’d been in the trenches, listening to Mr. Stottler’s opinions on music, the neighborhood, and, inexplicably, khaki pants. Mr. Stottler hated them.

  After completing the report, I decided to reward myself with lukewarm coffee. At the coffee table stood Billy and Jim. “Where’s Jinx?” I asked Jim.

  “Day off. Injured ankle. Was doing a sniff test near the dump and got stuck in a hole. Wrenched his paw out. It’s a bit swollen, but nothing permanently damaged.”

  “Poor dog. Should we send flowers?”

  “Try treats, or tennis balls.”

  “What’s up with Wright?” Billy whispered. “Thought he was going to decapitate someone over that stapler.”

  “He’s got some home issues, so go easy, yeah?” It was as much as I could say without betraying his secret.

  “We all have home issues,” Jim replied. “You don’t see us yelling like lunatics over office supplies.”

  I took my coffee to my desk to find Lewis gnashing his teeth over a Department of Motor Vehicles report. It must have come up empty.

  “How was this guy driving a truck for a landscaping company without a valid license?” he asked. I didn’t ask who he was talking about. It was Daniel Waverly. Everything was these days.

  “He might’ve gotten a fake one. He wasn’t using his real name in Salisbury.” As aliases go, the jump from Daniel to Donald wasn’t much, but he may have grown more creative. “No Waverlys?” I asked.

  “None that fit his age range, except one. Timothy Waverly. He had a license issued in Old Saybrook in 1985, but he’s dead now.”

  “Could still be our guy.” “He was black.”

  “Or not.”

  “How’s it going, detectives?” Chief Lynch asked. He seemed sunnier than usual. Had he learned something about my sister? No. This was a different face.

  “We just discovered Daniel Waverly didn’t get another license with his last name in the state of Connecticut,” Lewis said, his voice tight.

  “That’s too bad. What name was he using when he worked in New London?”

  “His own,” I said. “That’s how the IRS caught up to him.”

  “You’ve been in touch with the landscape company?”

  “Went out of business twelve years ago,” Wright said, rubbing his brow, aggrieved. “They’ve got nothing for us.”

  “Did he have any hobbies?” Chief asked.

  “Photography,” I answered. “That’s how he met Elizabeth. At some photo club near the college she attended.”

  “Maybe he kept at it.”

  “And?” Lewis said.

  “And so maybe there’s a photo club in or around New London that he belonged to. Also, you have to drop off film to develop photographs. And the equipment is expensive, or was, back then. Maybe a developer or camera store recalls him.”

  “Great,” Lewis said. “I’ll get right on calling every camera parts store in the tristate area.” Wow. His insolence was going to land him in hot water.

  “Make one of your lackeys do it,” Chief said. “That’s why I gave you additional support.” Smiling, he walked off, hands in his pockets. Disaster averted, for now.

  “It’s not a terrible idea,” I said.

  “I know that.” He seemed pissed off, all the same. “Billy!” he shouted. “We need you!”

  Billy approached with caution, ready to be snapped at. “What’s up, detectives?”

  Lewis said, “I hear you’re excellent on the phone.”

  Billy looked from Lewis to me. “Um, yeah? Who do you need me to call?”

  “Every photography club and camera store in Connecticut, starting in New London. We’re looking for anyone who might’ve encountered Daniel Waverly.”

  “Okay. Is there a list?” Billy’s face
didn’t change. He looked as hopeful and expectant as ever. God love him.

  “No list,” Lewis said.

  “Check local colleges,” I suggested. “They might have photography clubs.”

  “With co-eds,” Lew said, snapping his fingers. “Good thought.”

  “I’ll be over there,” Billy said, pointing to a desk near dispatch.

  “Okay, thanks,” Lewis said. Billy left. “He never bitches,” he said his voice full of wonder.

  “Billy is the best of us,” I said.

  “No, he’s the nicest,” Lew said. “Doesn’t make him best.”

  “Maybe we should check the military,” I said.

  “Come again?” Lew asked, rubbing crust from the corner of his eyes.

  “Our guy just ups and disappears for years. Could be possible it’s because he joined up, went overseas.”

  “Kind of a stretch. Though he is violent. Military likes violent, in certain conditions. Hey, Hopkins! We need you to contact military personnel records.”

  Hopkins’s groan was audible across the station. “Why?”

  “Because we need to find a murdering son of a bitch,” Lew called.

  Hopkins came over, and I explained what we wanted, and how many names we needed checked. He made a point of writing it down in his notebook. Smart ass. He walked away, to make the request. We heard him say, “Guys there are gonna think I’m the local retard, can’t get the guy’s name right.”

  “What did you say?” Lewis asked, his voice cutting through the station chatter. Conversations halted mid-speech. People turned and looked. A UPS guy by the front door froze.

  “What?” Hopkins said. “That you’re going to make me look like a retard in front of the military folks? It’s true.”

  Lewis stood. Oh no. I could see it. All his pain and anger over his baby’s diagnosis was wrapped into what Hopkins said. And the lummox had no idea. How could he? Shit. Lewis was going to hit him. He’d get to him faster than I could and … shit, the chief was out of his office now. Lewis would get suspended for sure. Lewis hurried for Hopkins. Fuck. I jumped up from my chair, and Billy charged into the fray like a bull who’d spotted a red flag.