The correct Ernie Smith was even more difficult to figure out. Fourteen for Ernest Smith, three for E. Smith, none for Ernie Smith.
Hmm. I got out my map of Fairport and started checking addresses for each of the names. I finally realized that Ernest Smith of 12 Clamshell Court in Fairport lived right around the corner from Bertrand Johnson of 117 Marlin Drive.
Coincidence? I didn’t think so. But just to be sure, I then went on Peoplesearch.com and checked out both of them. (I had to pay $39.95 for each profile, but I figured it was an investment in my daughter’s safety and that was priceless.) The ages checked out, too. Both men were 78 years old, and according to their list of previous addresses, had lived in Fairport all their lives. It looked like Bert Johnson was married – at least, he was at one time – and had two children, Sara and Bertrand Junior. Both kids also had local addresses. Ernie Smith’s search mentioned no marital history, but listed Peter and Amanda Smith of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, as relatives. From his age, I figured Peter was Ernie’s son.
Trying to find out more, I Googled both men and came up empty. I guess they’d both led very quiet, law-abiding lives.
Bummer.
Then I had another idea. A brilliant one, if I do say so myself. I checked them out on Facebook.
Here’s the thing I’ve found out about some Internet social networks: If you’re trying to track down someone from your past – an old boyfriend, for example, not that I would ever do that – you can put that person’s name in the “search” box and a list of people with that name flashes onto the screen. And if, using the example of tracking down an old boyfriend again – just because I’ve already brought it up and I don’t want to confuse things by giving you another idea – you find a myriad of men with the same name, and some of their photos sort of look like said old boyfriend if you squint a little, how do you know which one is the right one? Do you send each of them a Friend request with a pithy “Remember me?” message?
Well, of course not. It doesn’t work. Don’t ask me how I know that. I just do.
So imagine my consternation when I was faced with at least 20 Bert Johnsons and even more Ernie Smiths. I even tried narrowing it down by adding “Connecticut” to each name, but that didn’t help a whole heck of a lot. This was even harder than using Switchboard. And I didn’t have a street map to guide me.
But I’m not one to give up easily, especially when Jenny’s safety was at risk. So I checked out each and every profile.
I finally found the right Bert Johnson. And he only had three
Facebook friends. Fortunately, one of them was Ernie Smith. “Gotcha!” I said, thrilled with my sleuthing abilities.
Hmm. But neither of their pictures matched Jenny’s description. Of course, thanks to Nancy’s deceptive photo on Dream Dates, I had learned that not everyone posted their most recent pictures. So I trolled around a little in their vanity albums.
By the way, I’m not sure if that’s what they’re called. But, to me, posting pictures from a grandchild’s birthday party, or a prom, or even a night out in a restaurant celebrating who knows what by who knows whom was…well…vanity. But these photos can serve a purpose, I guess, if you’re trying to track a special person down. If only by process of elimination.
Just to be sure I had the right Bert and Ernie, I e-mailed the links to Jenny for her for confirmation. And also suggested, ever so subtly, that if I was right (I was sure I was, but decided to let her make that determination for herself), she could also give the Facebook information to campus security.
After all, even Hercule Poirot needed help sometimes.
“I hope she doesn’t think I’m interfering,” I said to the dogs.
Even Ethel raised her head at that remark. Because, clearly, I was interfering. But that’s a mother’s right, right?
Of course, right.
Pleased with my preliminary sleuthing – and all without even leaving the house – I gave Mary Alice a quick call to let her know I’d be coming by to pick up the rest of the dogs’ gear in about half an hour.
Which gave me just enough time to drive by 12 Clamshell Court and
117 Marlin Drive to check out Bert’s and Ernie’s digs.
And if one of the Geezer Stalkers just happened to be outside, say, raking his leaves, and I just happened to have a digital camera with me and took his picture, all the better. And if another photo I snapped showed a car belonging to Bert or Ernie, with its license plate clearly visible so the Fairport police could run a trace on it should the occasion ever arise – heaven forbid – well, that would be an extra bonus.
Right?
Right.
I just knew you’d agree with me.
Chapter 29
The opinions expressed by the humans in this house are not necessarily those of the dogs.
Just try leaving a house alone when said house has two canines in residence. It can’t be done. At least, not with our two.
All Lucy and Ethel had to hear was the jingling of keys, or see me reach for a jacket, and they were up and ready to go wherever I was heading. Walk, car ride, whatever. The girls weren’t fussy. They just hate to miss anything.
Come to think of it, so do I.
In some circles, it’s a theory that animals and their humans look a lot alike. That’s not true of me. My hair is short with blonde highlights (when I’ve made a trip to the beauty parlor and Deanna has the chance to work her magic). Lucy and Ethel are Blue Roan English Cocker Spaniels – white, black, grey. Beautifully patterned. And no two Blue Roan coats look identical. At least, none that I’ve seen.
Of course, maybe if I let my hair go natural, I’d look like a Blue
Roan, too. Not that I was seriously considering that.
Anyway, both the dogs love to ride in the car, so there was no way I was sneaking out of the house on an amateur sleuthing mission, plus going to Mary Alice’s, without canine company.
“You can come,” I said, putting them both in the tailgate section of my station wagon. “But no jumping into the front seat. We’ll pick up your crates in a little while. If you act up, I’m going to drop you off at home.”
Both dogs were smart enough to know I wasn’t kidding, so they curled themselves into sleeping positions – what else? – and settled down to enjoy the ride.
“According to MapQuest, Marlin Drive is on the other side of Fairport, in the direction of the college,” I informed the dogs. “I think we should go there first, while it’s still light.”
One of the things I dislike about autumn in New England is that the sun sets so early. And once Daylight Saving Time is over, it seems like it’s dark most of the time.
“This is a nice neighborhood,” I continued as I turned the station wagon off Barton Road onto Marlin Drive. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”
All I heard from my two canine passengers was snoring. Well, I wasn’t really looking for an answer from either of them, anyway.
I cruised along a winding street dominated by split levels and small ranch houses. Although the houses had clearly been built years ago – probably in the fifties – each one was in good condition and appeared well cared for. Tall trees in a variety of species abounded throughout the neighborhood, confirming my suspicions that the houses had all been there a long time.
These days, it seems to be common practice among home builders in some of the upscale areas of our town to take out all the trees on a lot before beginning to build the house. And then, when the structure is completed, fill in the area with small trees that won’t reach maturity until the house has gone through several owners. Which made no sense at all.
I circled the block slowly, turning left at the end of the street, which brought me directly onto Clamshell Court. I stopped at the corner, and checked out the house whose back yard abutted Marlin Drive.
“This must be the place,” I said to the dogs. I squinted and I could make out the number 12, even with my driving glasses on.
I cruised slowly to the
end of the street. “Well, I’m here. But what exactly am I going to do now? Ring a doorbell and pretend I’m selling Girl Scout cookies? I guess this was one of my stupidest ideas.”
Lucy raised her head. She heard the magic word. Cookies.
Hmm.
Nobody ever questions someone walking a dog. Even if the dog and its human sidekick are complete strangers in the neighborhood.
“Hey, Lucy,” I whispered, opening the tailgate as quietly as possible so I didn’t wake up a snoring Ethel, “wanna go for walkies?”
Lucy gave me a look which telegraphed, loud and clear, Are there cookies involved in this walk?
I put my hand in my coat pocket and extracted a Milk Bone. “Now do you want to come?”
Lucy hopped out of the tailgate with her leash in her mouth. Swear to God.
“You’re a real character, Lucy,” I said, laughing as I fastened it to her collar. I made her sit, first, though, before I tossed her the biscuit. I do like to pretend I’m in charge some of the time.
And we were off for a neighborhood stroll, with Lucy taking her sweet time, sniffing every tree and bush on the way, and me at the other end of the leash, urging her to hurry up.
We rounded the corner of Marlin Drive, and I slowed down in front of what I figured was Bert Johnson’s house, a white Cape Cod with red shutters. “Now you can take your time,” I whispered to Lucy. “Knock yourself out. Sniff away.”
And I stood there, trying to look conspicuous so I could strike up a conversation with one of the neighbors. Didn’t anybody ever come outside on this street to put out garbage cans or something?
My stalling finally paid off, because just when Lucy had gotten bored and insisted on leaving, a man came around the side of the house carrying a rolled-up garden hose. He caught sight of us and immediately headed our way.
Ignoring me, he bent down to say hello to Lucy. “Well, who are you, beautiful girl?” he said. “Aren’t you a gorgeous one?”
Lucy responded by showering him with doggy kisses.
The man laughed and straightened up. “She’s sure a friendly dog,” he said, addressing me. “What kind is she? An English cocker?”
“I’m surprised you know the breed,” I said. “Most people don’t. Yes, she’s an English cocker and she’s not usually this friendly to strangers. I’m sorry if she got a little carried away. Her name is Lucy, and she’s five years old.
“Here,” I said, handing the man a tissue. “Maybe you want to wipe your hands.”
“No apology necessary, Miss,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten kisses from anyone, dog or human. My wife and I had English cockers years ago. Two males. We named them Jake and Chance. They were great dogs.”
He bent down and gave Lucy another pat, to which she responded with even more enthusiasm.
“Lucy, stop,” I said, giving her leash a tug. “Sit.”
“I don’t mind,” the man said. “I’m Bert Johnson, by the way. Do you and Lucy live in the neighborhood? I don’t think I’ve seen you walking here before.”
“My name’s Carol,” I stammered. “I live on the other side of town. But Lucy and I decided we wanted a change of scene for our walk this afternoon. I’ve never been in this neighborhood before. Have you lived here long?”
“This is a wonderful neighborhood,” Bert said. “My Emma and I raised two great kids here. They’re both married now, and my Emma is gone…” his face clouded over briefly, “but I’m still here. I can’t imagine living anyplace else.”
He colored slightly. “Now it’s my turn to apologize to you. Here you are, a complete stranger out walking your dog,” he leaned down and ruffled Lucy’s ears, “and I’m wasting your time telling you my life story. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than listen to me prattle on.”
He put his hand to shake mine – the one that wasn’t holding Lucy’s leash. “It’s been nice meeting you. Come and walk by my house again any time you want. Maybe another time I’ll have a treat for Lucy. If that’s all right with you.”
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, too,” I said, realizing, to my complete surprise, that I actually meant what I said. “See you again sometime.”
And I turned and headed back to my car.
“I don’t get it, Lucy,” I said as we drove across town in the direction of Mary Alice’s condo. “You acted like he was your long lost buddy. Or someone who’d just made hamburgers and hadn’t washed the beef smell off his hands. I’ve never seen you that affectionate with someone you don’t know. In fact,” I said, remembering a few unpleasant instances, “I don’t mean to be critical, but sometimes you’re downright unfriendly.”
I frowned as I remembered Lucy’s reaction two Christmases ago when Jenny had brought her then live-in boyfriend, Jeff, home from California to spend the holidays with us. He’d seemed ok to me, and Jim really bonded with him. It helped that Jeff was a lawyer, and also very into politics, one of Jim’s favorite topics of discussion.
The dogs’ reaction was a whole other story.
Shy Ethel was even shyer around Jeff, and refused to go near him. And Lucy hated him on sight. I remember she growled whenever he came near her and tried to pet her. She wouldn’t even take a dog biscuit from his hand, which had never happened before. I think she even tried to bite him a few times. It caused a lot of stress during the visit.
And then, early the following summer, Jenny surprised us by dumping Jeff and coming home. It turned out that Jeff was a control freak who wanted to run Jenny’s life. I feared the relationship had escalated into an abusive one but Jenny denied it. She insisted Jeff was a narcissistic jerk, and she finally got fed up with his trying to remold her into his image of what a proper girlfriend/wife should be.
And the only ones in the Andrews household who’d picked up negative vibes from Jeff were Lucy and Ethel.
“I hope you’re right about Bert Johnson being a good guy, Lucy,” I said. “Jenny’s safety may depend on you.”
Chapter 30
Housework has its charms when somebody else does it.
For the next few days, peace reigned in the Andrews household. I’ll confess to you – but don’t tell anybody else – that the main reason for this was because I’d decided to honor the promise I’d made to Jenny and not share her fears of the Geezer Stalkers with anyone. Especially Jim.
I knew that if I told My Beloved about Bert and Ernie, he’d blow his stack and insist on getting a round-the-clock bodyguard for Jenny. Or, better yet, he’d get Mark involved and the two of them would take turns protecting her.
If you think I’m exaggerating, trust me. This time, I wasn’t. What is it about fathers and their daughters, anyway? They can’t seem to let their little girls grow up and make their own decisions and live their own lives.
By the way, Jenny had confirmed the fact that I had, indeed, met the correct Bert Johnson during my afternoon stroll around Marlin Drive. She’d checked the addresses I gave her from my Internet sleuthing with the college records and they matched. But she was as mystified as I was about Lucy’s positive reaction to Bert.
Sad to say, she placed little stock in Lucy’s uncanny ability to judge character, until I reminded her about Jeff’s Christmas visit two years before. Even with that evidence, she was still skeptical.
Sometimes, Jenny is more Jim’s daughter than mine.
I continued to bug her, though, until she finally reported her concerns about Bert and Ernie to campus security. Thank God. Better safe than sorry, and all that stuff.
But Jenny was adamant she wasn’t going to tell Mark. I couldn’t understand her attitude. Even if good old Bert was Lucy’s pal. She’d already decided that Mark would chalk up her emotions to a combination of an overactive imagination and pre-wedding jitters.
I was sure she was wrong, but she was an adult, and sometimes even
I have to treat her as one. Even if I didn’t agree with her.
I’d also attempted to make up with Nancy, but so far I h
adn’t gotten a response from the numerous e-mails and phone messages I’d left over the past few days. “She’s probably off on some tropical island with her new boyfriend,” I said to the dogs. ‘While her husband rots in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.”
I know. I know. I tend to dramatize things. Even sweet Ethel gave me a dirty look for that remark. And she never criticizes me the way Lucy does.
I was fortunate, by the way, that during this time Jim had been assigned by the local newspaper to cover budget hearings for the various departments in Fairport town government. He just loves being a watchdog over other people’s money, and takes every chance he can to criticize the way the town departments choose to allocate funds.
He always came home from these meetings energized by the debate, and anxious to share the terrible mistakes our town was making with me. On. And on. And on.
Well, if that’s what it took to keep Jim in a good mood, who was I to question it?
Sadly, I’d heard nothing from Mike and Marlee since the night they’d announced they were not going to be part of Mark and Jenny’s wedding. Well, that’s not true. They said they’d still be Jenny and Mark’s witnesses, but wouldn’t be renewing their own marriage vows at the same time.
Which, I guess, isn’t really the same thing.
Unless a person is looking for things that hurt her feelings. Which I definitely was.
“Why doesn’t anybody ever listen to me?” I asked the dogs in complete frustration. “Why don’t people do things the way I want them to every once in a while? Is that asking too much? No, it certainly is not.” I sighed deeply. Hell has no fury like a mother-in-law scorned. Or something like that.
When I get in the dumper – and that’s where I was, in case you haven’t figured that out by now – I usually counted on retail therapy to restore me. There’s nothing like scoring a major bargain to cheer me up.
“If I knew that Jenny and Mark were going ahead with the wedding here at the house, I could go to my favorite boutiques and see what I could find to wear,” I said to the dogs. “But nobody tells me anything! I absolutely hate that. For all I know, with Tiffani dying so suddenly, the kids might decide to postpone the wedding until the spring.
Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) Page 15