Flirting With Pete: A Novel

by Barbara Delinsky

  Whoa. Casey didn’t know where that had come from. She didn’t consciously remember having ever had anadama bread, but she must have. She had a vision of cornmeal and molasses. Anadama bread, like macaroni and cheese, was comfort food. So, for that matter, were grandmothers— which told her where she was at, just then.

  Feeling lonely, she returned to the center of town and parked at a spot where the cell phone reception was strongest. She accessed her messages. There were a bunch from her friends, none of which she returned because she didn’t want to have to explain where she was and why. More important, the nursing home hadn’t called.

  Satisfied by that, she drove to the Grange Hall shortly before nine, continued on around to the door in the back, and parked the Miata beside a classic station wagon just as Dewey Heller was turning the CLOSED sign to OPEN. He smiled and waved her in.

  “That’s some station wagon,” she said with an admiring smile. She might not remember anadama bread, but old cars she did. “My mom had one like it years ago.”

  “Bet hers didn’t have wood on the sides.”

  “Sure did,” Casey said with pride.

  “Bet hers wasn’t as old as mine. Mine was built in forty-seven, and we didn’t call them station wagons back then. They were beach wagons— not that I ever shuttled folks back and forth to the beach, but I did shuttle them to the train station, so when they started calling them station wagons, it fit. I was just over getting coffee at the store. Donna told me I’d be having a visitor. She said you’re looking for Ungers. Well, that’d be Frank and Mary and their son, Cornelius. Poor choice of a name for a child, even back then. Anyone could see he was a frail little thing. He needed a solid name like… like Rock.”

  Casey was so pleased to have found someone who knew her father’s name that she smiled. “Rock wouldn’t fit who he became.”

  “What’d he become?”

  “A famous psychologist. He died a month ago. I’m here partly to see if there’s any family left.”

  “Nope. There wasn’t much to start with once the father died, just the mother, and she’s long gone. What’s the rest?”

  Casey was confused.

  “You said ‘partly,’ ” the old man reminded her. “What’s the rest?”

  But Casey couldn’t move on yet. “Tell me about the mother. What did she look like?”

  “She was a pretty thing, small with long, long hair that might’ve been a bit redder than yours. She was—” Busty, he gestured. “O’ course, all the women looked”— he repeated the gesture—“what with the aprons they wore back then.”

  “Was she nice?”

  “Nice enough.”

  “Did she work at the shoe plant?”

  “They all did. What’s the rest?” he repeated.

  She smiled in a way that begged him to indulge her a bit longer. “Did they have any family here— even extended family, cousins and such?”

  “None that I knew of. So what’s the rest?”

  Casey gave in. “I’m trying to find Little Falls.”

  It was the old man’s turn to sigh, only his was one of pleasure and came with a smile. “Little Falls. Haven’t heard it called Little Falls in a while. That’d be Walker.”

  “Walker?” she repeated in an excited whisper. It was real then. If Little Falls existed, Jenny Clyde existed, too.

  “It’s about thirty miles on up the road,” Dewey Heller went on. “Little Falls was its first name, not because there’s a waterfall there, ‘cause there isn’t, but because the Little family was the ones founding the town, and those founders threw a big shindig every year when the trees turned red and orange and such. Around the time of the Depression, folks felt they needed a bigger name, if you know what I mean, so they voted, and it was official. Walker. Thing is, the locals clung to Little Falls for the longest time. Then came zip codes and area codes and what-have-yous, and it was Walker more and more. A few of the locals still call it Little Falls. Ask me, Little Falls has more character as a town name than Walker.” He scrunched up his face. “Walker. Kinda… blaahh, don’t you think?”

  Casey didn’t think it was blaahh at all. She didn’t care what it was called as long as it was real.

  Elated, she said her goodbyes and headed north again. She didn’t mind that thirty miles took fifty minutes driving on that two-lane road, because she was close, so close to finding Jenny Clyde, and she had done it through sheer persistence. Connie would have been proud.

  *

  WALKER TOWN LINE, read the sign. She slowed a bit, wanting to take in everything she passed. The houses here were as old as in Abbott, but slightly larger and better kept. Same with the yards. Some had flowers; others had lawns. In both instances, care was clearly taken.

  Wanting to hear and smell as well as see, she turned the AC off and opened the window. Flirting with Pete was fresh in her mind. She figured she would know pretty quickly if this was the right town.

  She grew more alert when the houses began coming closer together, and when she caught sight of a street sign that read WEST MAIN, her pulse quickened. Jenny Clyde lived on West Main. Assuming the journal was based on fact, Casey might well have already passed the house.

  Resisting the temptation to drive back to see, she continued on and was rewarded the instant she reached the center of town. Turning onto Main Street, she found it exactly as the journal described it. Green awnings with white lettering ran over the stores. The green was slightly faded and the white not as clean as the journal depicted, which suggested that some time had passed since the “urban renewal” Jenny had mentioned.

  Lining one side of the street were a hardware store, a drugstore, a newspaper office, and a Dunkin’ Donuts. In the journal, the Dunkin’ Donuts had been a five-and-dime and a bakery, but the change was plausible, Casey thought.

  Lining the other side of the street were a grocery store, a garden center, a luncheonette, a yogurt shop, and a secondhand clothing store. Here, too, some things were changed— namely the yogurt shop in place of an ice-cream shop, and the secondhand clothing store in place of Miss Jane’s. The change from ice cream to yogurt was consistent with the times, and as for Miss Jane’s, the owner hadn’t been nice to Jenny. Casey decided it would be poetic justice if she had gone out of business.

  Cars were parked angled in along the street. She pulled into a free space. It happened to be in front of the newspaper office. WALKER CITIZEN read the white lettering on the green awning above the front windows and door. Casey decided this was a good place to start.

  Leaving the car, she went inside. There were three desks. A young woman sat behind a computer terminal at the first. The second had neither a computer nor a person, though it had two telephones and many slips of paper. The third desk, in a position of supervision at the back of the room, was larger than the first two so that it rose a bit above. It did have a computer, but Casey immediately focused on the man there. He was thin and, despite a receding hairline, oddly adolescent looking. She knew just who he was. Oh yes, she did.

  Walking right up to his desk, she extended a hand. “I’m Casey Ellis, and you must be Dudley Wright the Third.”

  Dudley stood, tall and gangly, and gave her a toothy grin. “I am.”

  She glanced at the plaque on the desk. “Editor in chief?” she teased. “You’re too young to be that.”

  His grin turned cocky. “I was named editor in chief when I was thirty-two.”

  If the journal was to be believed, he had wanted to be editor in chief at thirty. “Thirty-two?” she echoed. “That is remarkable. A friend of mine was named editor in chief of her local paper at twenty-nine. Now, there was a brilliant journalist,” she added, because a little needling didn’t hurt. This man hadn’t been particularly understanding of Jenny, either. Jenny had said he was twenty-six. “How old are you now?”

  “Thirty-three,” he said and, deflated somewhat, sat back down. “How can I help you?”

  Seven years, if the journal was to be believed— seven years had passe
d since Jenny had written her story. “I’m looking for Jenny Clyde— uh, MaryBeth,” Casey corrected herself.

  “Don’t bother. She’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Dead.”

  Casey gasped. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  His smile was smug. “I wrote the obituary myself.”

  Casey was stunned. She had imagined Jenny might be fictitious. She had never imagined that she was dead. It didn’t make sense, not with Connie’s note. She’s kin. Present tense. How to help? Future implied.

  Connie had asked for her help, but there was no helping someone who was dead. There had to be a mistake. She would have to dig deeper. Jenny was her cause.

  Dudley Wright III seemed to take strength from her upset. Sitting back in his chair, he laced his fingers over a concave middle. “Fact is, she drowned. Right here in the quarry.”

  “That can’t be,” Casey said. Jenny had gone to the quarry with Pete. It was a magical place. She had been happy there. Casey couldn’t imagine how Jenny could have gone from happiness to hopelessness so quickly.

  Well, she could imagine it. She had sensed the desperation in the journal. And surely there were pages that Casey hadn’t yet found. At least, she assumed there were more pages. The story wasn’t done.

  “What can I tell you,” the newspaperman said. It wasn’t an offer.

  Casey came up with alternatives. Knowing how uncaring the town had been, Jenny might simply have up and moved away, leaving behind people who wanted to believe she was gone for good. Dead was certainly gone for good. The townsfolk might tell themselves that. Drowning in the quarry could be their explanation for a disappearance.

  “And Darden Clyde?” she asked.

  “Oh, he’s here. Still giving people the heebie-jeebies. He’s got another woman now. She moved right in with her two kids. No one seems to know if they ever married, but she must fill some need of his, because he’s kept her around. But he’s changed since MaryBeth drowned. He was difficult before. You didn’t want to look at him crossways. Now it’s worse. He’s mean and impossible.”

  Casey couldn’t imagine why any woman would subject herself and her children to a man like that. But the situation wasn’t unique. She had worked with any number of women who took abuse of all kinds from their men and didn’t have the wherewithal to leave.

  “Does he have relatives here?” she asked. Darden’s relatives might be her relatives.

  “Not any that’ll admit to it.”

  “Then there are some?” She held her breath.

  “No. I was being funny. No relatives.”

  Relieved, she let out the breath. Much as she hungered for relatives, she didn’t want any who were connected to Darden.

  There were questions to ask— like when and how Jenny had died— but Casey wanted the death confirmed first. So she said, “Thank you. You’ve been a help,” and set off for the door.

  “Why are you asking about the Clydes?” Dudley called. He was on his feet again.

  Casey returned to his desk Along the way, she drew a brand-new business card from her shoulder bag. She passed it to him. “I’m a psychotherapist. I’ve read about MaryBeth. I wanted to talk with her.”

  “Read about her where?”

  “There was all that coverage of the trial,” she said, thinking of the clippings in Jenny’s attic. It didn’t answer his question, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “You could visit the graveyard and talk to her all you want. Darden’s made a little shrine there.” He studied the card. “You’re from Boston? I’ve been to Boston. Can’t deal with the traffic, though. Psychotherapy? Are you writing a book?”

  “Maybe,” Casey said, because Dudley struck her as the type to be impressed by that. “It depends on what I learn.”

  She waited for him to say something— stood there, inviting him to take back the earlier words and confess that Jenny wasn’t really dead. When the silence dragged on, she lost patience. “You have my card. If you think of anything, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”

  Desperate to talk with someone else— anyone else— she walked back between the desks, went outside, and crossed the street.

  The luncheonette was a sweet thing with a counter, booths, and, at eleven in the morning, a surprising number of people. Taking a stool at the counter, Casey ordered coffee. A mug of it was before her in an instant, but even in that short time, she had spotted the plate in front of the woman on her left. “That omelet looks fabulous,” she said. “What’s in it?”

  The waitress answered for the woman. “Corned beef hash and Monterey Jack cheese. Can I get you one?”

  “Um, yes,” Casey decided. She wasn’t sure how much she could eat, wondering if Jenny was really dead, but she figured that if she fit in with the locals a little, she might get more honesty from them.

  “It is fabulous,” confirmed the woman on her left. She was young, blond, and attractively rumpled in jeans and a sleeveless flannel shirt. An infant slept in a car seat by her foot. “If you’re just passing through and want a taste of Walker, a hash-and-Jack omelet will do you well. Where’re you from?”

  “Boston. Do you live here?”

  “All my life.”

  “How old’s the baby?” Casey asked, smiling at the bundle in pink.

  “Four months. She’s a good napper for now, but if she’s anything like my others, I won’t be able to do this much longer. Nice to have a quiet brunch, y’know? Where are you headed?”

  “Here. I’m looking for MaryBeth Clyde.”

  The woman’s brows went up in instant recognition. “MaryBeth?”

  “The daughter,” Casey specified, because Jenny’s mother was MaryBeth, too.

  “Oh dear. MaryBeth’s been dead—” She called to the waitress, “Lizzie, how long since MaryBeth Clyde died?”

  “Seven years,” said a man on Casey’s right, who had been talking with a friend until then. “She drowned seven years ago.”

  Seven years ago? “Are you sure?” Casey asked.

  The waitress confirmed it. “It was seven years ago. She died in the quarry.”

  “Was she swimming?”

  “She jumped,” said the man.

  Casey felt a shooting pain. She was thinking of the desperation she had sensed in Jenny when the woman on her left said, “They don’t really know she jumped. No one saw. They found her clothes up on top, so they assumed that’s what she did.”

  “Could you blame her?” asked the waitress. “Darden was out of prison, and a meaner so-and-so you’ve never met in your life.”

  “Now, now, Lizzie,” said the man two stools to the right of Casey. “Did Darden ever hurt you?”

  “He never leaves a tip,” Lizzie declared. “Walks in here like it’s his right to be served and begrudges us the cost of the food.”

  “Ach, he’s not that bad. I talk with him now and again. He had a rough time with a wife like that, so he did what he had to, and he paid the price. Then the girl kills herself the minute he gets home? Not good.”

  “Did she leave a note?” Casey asked, not yet ready to accept that Jenny was dead. She recalled the last few lines of the journal. Jenny Clyde was ready to fly. But that was an expression. Surely she hadn’t meant it literally. Casey had interpreted it to mean, simply, that she was taking off, leaving town, escaping her father.

  “No note,” said Lizzie, and turned back to the pass-through window.

  “No body either,” said the woman on Casey’s left.

  “What?” Casey asked.

  “They never found a body,” said the man on her right.

  “Well, then, she’s still alive,” Casey decided.

  “Nuh-uh,” the man two stools over insisted. “The quarry swallows them up. She’s not the first one disappeared. It’s legend.”

  The waitress delivered Casey’s omelet. Casey wasn’t sure she could eat it. Her mind was moving along the lines of the town of Walker, not
caring if Jenny died or not, failing to look very far. “Did they do a search?”

  “As much as they could,” said the man on her right. Looking over his shoulder, he called to a man in one of the booths, “Martin, you were in on the search for MaryBeth Clyde, weren’t you?”

  “The daughter? Sure was. We looked all over, down to the bottom of the quarry, through the woods. The old Buick was there in the woods, but the girl was gone.”

  Casey looked back. “How can there not be a body?”

  “Easy,” said the man beside her. “It could’ve been one of two things. Day before she died there’d been a good rain, and that was on top of a wet summer, so the river was flowing good. Her body could’ve washed right over the rim of the quarry and been carried down through the rapids and on into the big lake where it’d never be found. The big lake’s more’n a hundred feet deep at some points. Or, the quarry creature could have gotten her. Swallowed her right down.”

  Jenny Clyde had believed in the quarry creature.

  “Is there a chance,” Casey asked, “that she just left her clothes up top and walked away?”

  “I don’t know how she’d have done that,” called the man in the booth. “Y’see, there were footprints just her size there at the top of the quarry. They went right to the edge and then no more. If she’d left her clothes and walked off, there would’ve been footprints in the other direction.”

  “What about being carried in the water a while and then walking out and away?” Casey asked.

  “She’d have been found,” said the man on her right. “She wasn’t the kind who would just fit into any old crowd. She was odd looking.”

  “Not odd looking,” scolded the waitress. “Just visible, with all that red hair and those freckles.”

  “There are ways to disguise those things,” Casey argued. “What if she let people think she was dead, while a friend took her way far away?”

  “She didn’t have any friends,” scoffed the man on her right.