by Fred DeVecca
“That’s a song too.”
“Yeah, I know. Dylan, right?”
“Yeah.”
He passed me the beer. I was tempted to take a drink but I didn’t. I just wordlessly handed it back to him and he continued, “Yeah. I watch the river flow and wonder about that lost girl.” He drank some beer. “She looked up and her eyes met mine that day.”
“What day?”
“The day she fell in.”
“You saw her?”
“Yeah. I was sitting right here.”
“She was alive?”
“Oh, she was alive, all right. I saw her eyes. They were open.”
“Dead people’s eyes can still be open.”
“No, this girl was alive. I could see the life in those eyes. She looked right at me.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“She just flowed down that damn river. Like a raft. Or a salmon. Bouncing around on those waves.”
I tried to digest this. It was not easy. It gave me hope.
“And then I saw her again after that too,” he said.
“What?”
“I think so. I think I remember seeing her after that. I think.”
“Where?”
“Where? I never go anywhere. Had to be here, I guess.”
I was stunned. I asked Harvey to elaborate.
“I just remember her hovering around here,” he said. “She was just sort of floating around. All over the place. For like a week.”
“Are you talking about a ghost, Harvey?”
“Oh, fuck ghosts. There’s no ghosts.”
“Spirits? You believe in spirits.”
“Spirit. They were a band too. Remember ‘I Got a Line on You’?”
“Yeah. Great song.”
“You got that right.”
“Tell me about that girl some more.”
“Nothing more to tell.”
“Try.”
“I saw her floating down the river. She was smiling. Then I saw her floating all over the place. Here, there, and everywhere. That’s a song too.”
“Beatles.”
“Yep.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. You need something to do. I don’t know if you’re a fucking cop or a damn priest or a monk or a singer or a damn hippie or what the hell you are. But you should find that girl. If I was in better shape, I’d do it myself.”
As if to emphasize this last point, he coughed a violent dry hack without covering his mouth.
I walked over to the river and looked downstream. From this angle, you could see a long way down. There was little winding in this stretch. I tried to imagine Julie being swept helplessly away. How far could she go? Could she be alive? Where would she end up?
“There was something missing in her, in her eyes,” Harvey said. “She was alive, but she was distant. Do you know what I mean?”
I didn’t and told him so.
“She wasn’t connecting with me. She was all alone,” he said. He went on. “Do you have any idea what I’m talking about? I could feel the distance between us. She wasn’t with me. She wasn’t me. We were different people.”
“Aren’t all people different?” I asked.
“You don’t believe that, do you?” Harvey said.
“I’m asking you.”
“I’m me. You’re you,” said Harvey. He was getting fed up with me. “That girl was that girl. Everybody at this shindig is themselves. We’re born alone and we die alone. I should know. I’m going to be the next one to bite the dust.” Then he laughed and said, “Yeah. Another one bites the dust.” He looked me straight in the eye. “And I’ll bite the dust alone. Even with Emma and Michael and all the rest of you guys.”
“Then why are you getting so misty about that girl in the river? If we’re all alone, then who cares?”
“I didn’t say I liked it. I said that’s the way it is. We’re all alone. We’re all fucking alone.”
“You’re full of shit, Harvey. That’s how people lose their religion. That’s why they tossed me out of the monastery. We’re all the same person, Harvey. We’re all part of one big damn beautiful soul.”
“You think too much about stuff nobody cares about. Screw all that stuff. Just find the girl.”
I had said too much, so I shut up and walked back to the party. Harvey was right. About one thing anyway. I would find the girl.
Chapter Twenty
A Quest
The next day, I had a second girl to find.
I did not need a second girl. One was enough. Too much. But these two were connected, which was the only reason I had any interest in finding the second girl.
I needed distraction. I was back at the West End, working on a Reuben and my third root beer of a long night. It was slow there, drawing only the lonely single guys—two others from the fraternity were also there, a space between each of us as propriety dictated.
The root beer had a bite to it and the Reuben had turkey, which bartender Tyler said made it not a Reuben. What the hell, it tasted good.
Of the few remaining seats at the bar, she chose the one next to me. That made me feel important because she was a real looker. She could have sat next to one of the younger, hunkier guys. But I was old and safe.
I merely nodded at her as she tried to order a Pabst Blue Ribbon, which they don’t carry. She ended up with a twenty-two-ounce River Ale, which is a lot of beer and costs way more than a Pabst.
I didn’t try to talk to her. She was not there to talk to the likes of me.
She took a sip of beer, turned to me with a welcoming smile, and said, “That’s good beer.”
“Better than a PBR?”
“No, I like Pabst.”
“Back in the day, so did I. But now we have a lot of great small local breweries.”
She was not a large person, but she had a big feel to her. It came from her mind or from her heart. In there, she was big, tall, strong, muscular, in terrific shape, an athlete perhaps, grounded and connected to the earth. So unlike our dear vanished Nutting Girl, who at times, despite her act, seemed to be pure spirit and more connected to heaven than earth.
But in her physical manifestation, this woman was short in stature with long, wavy black hair drifting down her back, a sharp nose, and black-framed glasses. She was pretty in a smart, geeky kind of way. Pleasing to look at. I would have enjoyed talking more to her, but she seemed preoccupied, so I let her work on her ale while I worked on my root beer.
It was slow, and Tyler wasn’t busy. He hovered over her, solicitous, being an extra-good bartender. He was already a good one. Soon they were engaged in friendly chatter, and I was relegated to mere listener. I had learned to listen. That’s what detectives, and monks, do.
Tyler ascertained that our visitor was from Boston, just here for a while, a lawyer, blah blah blah. He seemed pretty enchanted with her. She was asking him local details—places to stay, eat, the usual. He told her she had to visit the Bridge of Flowers and the Glacial Potholes. He said the West End was the best place to eat. She said she wasn’t sure how long she was going to be around or if she’d have time to do touristy things. Tyler asked if she was here on business. I wondered what lawyer from Boston comes to Shelburne Falls for business.
She said it wasn’t typical business. Tyler did not probe further, but this piqued my curiosity.
She asked a question: who was the best person around to find something that was lost?
Tyler suggested the police.
She said, “Besides them. We’ve gone to the police and no luck. They can only do so much, then they stop.”
Tyler asked what sort of thing was lost.
She said, “Well, I’d rather not get too deep into details here.”
Tyler did what I was afraid he was going to do. And what I was afraid he was not going to do. He pointed at me and said, “Well, there’s always this guy. He finds things.”
She looked at me with those big eyes and I saw that I was in trouble.
“I heard you were un-retired,” Tyler said.
The woman’s big eyes looked through me.
“Well,” I said, “semi-sorta, temporarily, kinda but not really retired. At least I think.”
The wavy-haired lawyer from Boston said, “You know, don’t you, that retirement is not necessarily permanent? I’ve heard that director Nick Mooney talked his Uncle Lyle out of retirement, and he was working for him, at least before all this other horrible stuff happened here.”
Nick Mooney? Now she really had my attention.
We had moved from the bar and were sitting at a table on the glassed-in porch in the back. She was on her second River Ale and I was still nursing my third root beer. We could see people pass by outside on the Bridge of Flowers, but neither of us were interested.
“Do you know Nick Mooney?” I asked her.
“Not personally. But my sister does. Or did. She knew him quite well.”
“He’s good at talking people out of retirement,” I said.
“He’s good at talking people out of a lot of things. And into a lot of things.”
“What do you need me to find?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.
“My sister,” she replied.
Edith Marie Pasternak was her name—her sister’s name. The curly-haired lawyer was named Amy. Her sister was an actor recently moved to the West Coast, recently hooked up with Mooney, and part of the entourage that followed him into Shelburne Falls.
Edith had kept in close touch with Amy by phone and text until just a few days before VelCro disappeared. The messages abruptly stopped. Then there was silence.
The police had been useless. “She’s an adult,” Amy said. “She can go away if she wants and not talk to her sister. No laws against that and no sign of foul play. So they say. So here I am, looking for someone who can help me.”
“I’m retired,” I said.
“No you’re not,” she said. “Look at your eyes. You’re not retired. Not when it comes to Nick Mooney. That guy’s got something on you.”
She was right. If there was an answer to what happened to Julie, it went through Nick Mooney. If there was an answer to what happened to Edith, it also went through Nick Mooney. That was too much coincidence to ignore.
Other than the fact that she was a human being, and all humans deserve respect and love, I had no interest in Edith Marie Pasternak. I never knew her.
But there had to be a connection between the two young women who vanished and had relationships of some sort with Nick Mooney.
So I would find Edith Marie Pasternak. Maybe it would help me find Juliana Velvet Norcross.
Amy gave me a professional headshot of Edith—the subject was carefully posed to not look posed. Black and white, but you could tell her hair was red. Slim, pretty, abundant freckles not airbrushed out, just this side of beautiful. On the back were her acting credits, painfully brief.
I folded that lovely picture and stuck it in my pocket.
I gave Amy one of my old business cards from my wallet. I hadn’t dug one out for ten years at least. I still had the same phone number, so it would work.
So would I. I would work at finding the girls. Both girls.
This would be more than a distraction.
This would be a quest.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Mean Streets of Shelburne Falls
Calling the streets of Shelburne Falls mean usually drips with irony, but now they seriously did seem mean. Innocent young women were vanishing here.
I had no idea how to find Julie. The whole world, including Sarah, was working on that. What more could I do?
But finding Edith? That seemed more human in scale, like something I could do. I had found missing people like her before. I had never found someone with the fame, and soul, of Julie.
Both were connected to Mooney somehow, but Mooney himself had vanished. No one had seen him since that fateful day. So, with nowhere else to turn, I concentrated on what I know best—the streets. The mean streets of Shelburne Falls.
I knew the drill. I made my rounds, store to store, gallery to gallery, café to café, bar to bar, headshot in hand. Everyone thought they might have seen her, but no one was really sure. Of course, everyone had seen the Hollywood invasion, but those folks all blended together. Some thought they might have seen Edith.
By the time I got to the Blue Rock, it was five o’clock and they were just opening for dinner. Alice was sweeping the sidewalk and George was behind the bar, which is where I sat and ordered what was for me a rather elaborate dinner—a scallop and shrimp dish.
George was smiling and friendly. The guy always cheered me up with his relentless and unceasing optimism. I like that kind of attitude. He showed me some shots on his phone of a painting he was working on. He was a fine artist. Everyone in Shelburne Falls was some kind of artist.
He poured me a refreshing club soda and lime, and I unfolded Edith’s photo and showed it to him.
He immediately grew quiet, very unusual for George, and then conveniently was called back into the kitchen while I sat there and sipped.
When he returned, I thought he had forgotten about Edith as he busied himself cutting up lemons and mixing elixirs of various flavors for later when the bar got busy.
But he hadn’t forgotten. He came back in front of me and said, “Yeah, sure I remember her. She was in here a couple times.”
“Can you fill me in?”
“Yeah. She came in with the director and that whole gang. And then one night with only the director. I won’t forget that one.”
“No?”
“No way. They made quite a scene. Nobody saw it but me though. It was real late just before they took off and I locked up.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the director, Mooney, he was all over her. They were back there in the corner, alone, sitting real close and kind of whispering. I turned the music up loud because it was none of my business and I didn’t want to hear anything. Know what I mean? That’s the bar business. You become invisible when you have to. So I cranked up the sounds. And I still could hear them.”
“What did you hear?”
“Mostly it was just voices. I don’t remember specific words. At first they looked real sweet and cuddly, but after a while, man did they go at it—mad. Or I should say she was mad. Royally pissed. She threw a drink in his face. One of those real expensive ones—Duke of Cuke, maybe. I had to mop the floor later. A mess. Pieces of cucumber all over.”
“What did he do?”
“It was hard to tell. They were back in the corner and I was trying to not stare. None of my damn business. I just wanted it to play out and be over.”
“And did it?”
“Yeah. Eventually. They ended up walking out, with him holding his arms all around her like he was trying to restrain her. He tossed me a twenty as they walked up the stairs. That was my tip. He had already paid for dinner. ”
“Or maybe it was your bribe,” I replied.
“Bribe for what?”
“Keeping your mouth shut.”
“Well, he’d have to be a little more explicit about that, wouldn’t he?” George said. “He didn’t say anything. And you’re asking. You’re a nice guy who I’ve known for like forever. So I’m talking.”
“Have you seen her since then?”
“No. He’s been back in, but not her.”
I was finishing up the club soda, playing with the lime.
“Do you remember anything else?” I asked.
He thought for a while. “Not from in here.”
“What do you mean?”
“After I cleaned up, I had a drink myself and locked up. I was walking home, and I decided to walk across the Bridge of Flowers instead of the Iron Bridge. I like that. Even at night when you can’t see much. It smells sweet.
“So, I’m walking along and I see someone coming toward me. As he passes by, I see it�
�s Mooney. No big deal, right? But he was alone. No girl with him.”
“Maybe she went home. What was weird about that?”
“Nothing. Except that’s a narrow path on the bridge. I got water on my shirt just passing him there. Dude was dripping wet.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Frack, Frack, Where Did You Go?
There are several ways to get wet. In this case, the obvious, most likely possibility would be a dip in the river. Seemed like everyone was taking a dip in the river.
Why Mooney would do this, I had no idea, but I was slowly inching my way toward progress, painfully minuscule as it was. I had learned a little bit more about Edith and her relationship with Mooney. I would let this tidbit simmer for a while because my instincts told me it was now time to get back to the main event and the one thing that was really driving me: finding Julie. I would return to Edith soon.
I decided to have a chat with someone official and see if I could learn a little more about any progress with the Nutting Girl search. They don’t usually tell you much of import, which is why I didn’t try this earlier, but once in a while they slip up.
I walked over to the police station and found Chief Loomis, glasses on, writing notes in a ledger.
“Hey, Frank. How’s it going?”
“About as well as it could be, given the circumstances.”
Neil Loomis had been chief when I’d been on the force—the one day. He was about ten years my senior, rumpled, a little seedy, not as fit as he used to be but not paunchy, with most of his hair, all of it white. A receding hairline and a lot of wrinkles in his forehead.
“Yeah, me too,” he said. “I’m glad this whole VelCro thing is finally fading away. It is, you know. Hardly any reporters or photographers around now. Pretty soon someone else famous will die and then they’ll all be gone. Thank God.”
I asked him what he could tell me about the investigation. Technically he couldn’t tell me anything, but he’d known me for many years and was aware I had an interest in the case.
Basically, there wasn’t much to say. After this much time and no clues, the police were writing her off as dead. Well, we did have one clue—two, if you counted Harvey’s observation. But the chief didn’t know about them, and I was not going to tell him. I doubted they would change anything. The police were no longer dredging the river or searching its shores. They had given up.