The Old Farts nod although I doubt if I’ll get a call from any of them But then again, maybe it was one of the Old Farts who wasn’t so old then who called me twenty-eight years ago to suggest looking at the permits for buildings and septic systems.
Last night, I printed a road map of Conwell off the Web and marked all the addresses where a new structure or addition went in, the same with the septic systems. I have it hanging on the wall in my office upstairs. I’ve also taped a map of Wilmot, photos I have of Adela and crime scenes like her house, the store, and where her car was found in the woods, just like I’ve seen in the cop shows and movies. I figure I can stare at the wall to see if it inspires a hunch. Her killer, if it comes to that, doesn’t have to live in our town. But I’ve decided to exhaust my local options first before I go totally nuts on that idea.
“Heard you’ve got a job at the Rooster,” the Fattest Old Fart asks as if he’s the group’s spokesman.
I get it. They want me to know they’re keeping tabs on me like they do the rest of the town.
“You heard right,” I quip. “I start Thursday. I think it’ll work out fine, especially since my mother lives with me now. Do any of you have questions about my mother? I can set you straight about her if you do.”
The Old Farts chuckle on cue.
“Go ahead,” the Skinniest Old Fart says.
“My mother’s name is Maria Ferreira. She’s widowed and ninety-two. She worked for years in a school cafeteria. She likes to read and used to do a lot of art projects. Now she lives with me because she’d rather not live alone and the feeling is mutual. Besides, I have the space. Anything else you fellows want to know about my mother?”
“She’s ninety-two? Really? She doesn’t look it,” the Bald Old Fart says.
Beside him, the Silent Old Fart nods. Maybe he talks when I’m not around, but I’ve never heard him utter a word.
“Uh-huh, people say that all the time.”
Jamie Snow walks from the store into the backroom and stops when he sees me. He’s the spitting image of his dad when Sam and I moved here. From what I can see, the men in the Snow family are short and thin-boned. Their hair goes white early. They have faces as craggy as New England rock. Adela clearly took after her mother’s side of the family.
“Isabel, would you like some coffee?” Jamie asks.
“I’m fine, Jamie. I’m supposed to meet your father this morning. I was a little early. I figured it was warmer for the baby to wait inside here than my car.”
Everybody’s face swings my way. Now they know for sure I was taking them for a little ride.
Jamie nods.
“Well, here he is. Hey, Dad.”
Andrew walks empty-handed into the backroom.
“Son. There you are, Isabel,” he greets me. “These gentlemen weren’t bothering you, were they?”
“I think it was the other way around, eh, fellows?”
There’s a round of low laughs.
Then the Fattest Old Fart says, “By the way, the Daily Fart really stinks to high heaven now that you left it.”
I zip Sophie’s suit and get to my feet.
“That’s sweet of you to say. See you guys.”
I leave with Andrew, which I’m sure gets everybody’s tongue wagging. Local news trumps national news any day.
“Were you waiting long?” he asks when we’re outside.
“Just long enough to make those guys nervous I’m going to make a habit of it.”
He chuckles.
I follow him to his car, which he parked behind mine. He lifts a cardboard box from the back seat.
“There’s more in here than I remembered, but frankly, I don’t know how useful any of it will be. Some of it’s just trash, but I kept it anyway.”
I nod. “We’ll see about that.”
Andrew stows the box in the back of the Subaru while I’m fixing Sophie into her seat.
“She’s a real cutie,” he says when he’s done.
“Yes, she is. Thanks for the box. I’ll return it to you when I’m done.”
Andrew touches my arm and looks directly in my eyes.
“I know you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart. I appreciate it. But I really hope you can see this through to the end. I want to know what happened to my daughter.” He pulls a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket to wipe tears from his face. He mumbles, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I pause. “When I was a girl, it happened to someone I knew. My cousin, Patsy, was a couple of years older than me. Someone took her when she was riding her bike.” I shiver as I recall the feelings I had then. I glance at Sophie to calm me. “It’s not the same, I know. But she, too, was suddenly gone. I believe you can understand how her parents felt, how I did. She and I were close. It hurt so much.”
Andrew sniffs.
“Oh, Isabel, that’s such a sad story.” He takes a deep breath. “And they never found her?”
I feel the tears coming on, too.
“At first only her bike, but they found her remains when a wooded area was cleared for a subdivision years later,” I tell him. “But they never caught whoever did that to her. They say most of the time it’s somebody the victim knew. I hate to think that about my cousin. But I’m guessing it’s true about Adela, too. I can’t believe a stranger did this. Do you?”
We don’t speak for a while. Sophie, good baby that she is, babbles in her car seat.
Andrew clears his throat.
“Isabel, I want to make you a business proposal. I’d like to hire you.”
“Hire me?”
“I’ll gladly pay you a thousand for the time you spend on my daughter’s case. I could give you half now. I know it’s not a lot… ”
I feel myself smile again. I know I need to let him do this, and I welcome the gesture.
“Well, that would make me a full-fledged detective,” I say. “If you don’t mind, I prefer that we keep this arrangement between us. I don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”
“Certainly.” He’s smiling, too. “How about I write you a check now?”
“No, no, let me solve the case first.”
The Box
I wait until Sophie takes a nap before I check the box’s contents. Just to be on the safe side, I grab a pair of latex gloves although I suppose other people, including Andrew and the cops, oh maybe, touched this stuff when they went through the car. Still, I’ve watched enough crime shows to know this is proper procedure. I even have a pair for my mother, if she is so inclined to join me. I cover the kitchen table with a plastic sheet. Yeah, my kitchen isn’t exactly the FBI’s forensics department, but what the hell.
Andrew says he saved everything that was in the car, except the spare tire. The cops didn’t take a thing, or so they said. Here’s what I found: a black baseball cap; receipts; an ice scraper; the car’s owner manual; a Rand McNally map book of the United States; newspapers; food wrappers; junk mail; one pearl earring; pantyhose with a large run; a pair of women’s black dress shoes; leather gloves; coins; a dollar bill; a jack; and a tire iron.
I arrange them on the table.
Ma says behind me, “What’s all of that?”
“It’s the contents of Adela Collins’ car.”
“What’s that man’s cap doing there?”
I lift the black baseball cap. It’s in a style that isn’t adjustable, so it must be old. When I unfold the cap, I know it’s large enough to even fit my gigantic head without my trying it on.
“It can’t belong to her son, Dale. He was only ten when she disappeared. I don’t think he’s got a particularly large head either. He takes after the Snows with their little pinheads. And I’ve never seen Adela wear something like this. She was too ladylike for that.”
“What about her ex-husband?”
“Nah. You saw him. He’s got a regular-sized head.”
“Well, that’s something,” Ma says.
“I agree. I’m going to go through the papers and wr
ite down info for each one, like the date and where it came from.”
“Good idea.”
I organize the receipts in chronological order. It appears the last time Adela cleaned out her car was a few months before she disappeared. July 9 is the date of the first receipt for gas from Cumby’s, that’s Cumberland Farms to you who don’t live in New England. Actually most of the receipts are for gas stations, restaurants, or a store in the city. I write the info on a new yellow pad.
But then I find a receipt for a motel. It’s called the Shady Grove, although its nickname was the Shady Grope, because it was rare anyone stayed there overnight. Just a few hours would be enough, maybe less under certain circumstances. The motel was located off the interstate until it got torn down twenty years ago, and a national chain built a four-story hotel in its place. Even if it were still there, it happened so long ago no one would remember what happened August 20, the date on the receipt. That’s clearly a dead end. Still, what was Adela doing there?
The receipt says cash, so I don’t know if Adela or somebody else paid for it. It was a Monday night. I have a calendar I printed off the web, which makes it easier to keep track.
I leave the newspapers for last. Of course, it’s the Daily Star. They’re folded neatly as if someone was going to stick them in a newspaper tube along the side of the road. I flip through the pages. I think maybe one or two people on staff then still work for the paper. The papers are from July, August, and the first weeks of September. My weekly column, Around the Hilltowns, is on the front of the B section. I hated the name, how mundane, but the managing editor then wasn’t a person with a lot of imagination. At least, he didn’t tell me what to write.
“Here, Ma, I used to write these when I was a reporter,” I tell her. “You might recognize some of the people I wrote about.”
My mother starts laughing at the first one about two cousins who were the truck pull kings of the hilltowns.
“I bet these two go to the Rooster,” she says.
“You win that bet.”
It’s fun to read these columns again. I recall how much fun I had writing them. In one column, I wrote about a woman who grew enough pumpkins, so the kids at the elementary school could carve jack-o’-lanterns when Halloween came around. Then there’s one about people pilfering rock from stonewalls along the roads. I was starting then to get a feel for what community news was about and enjoying being the so-called hilltown expert for the Star.
I use my phone to snap photos of my columns, for the hell of it, and the front page of each edition. I shoot the receipt from the Shady Grope before I stick it in the plastic bag with the others. I take photos of everything, even the useless panty hose, before I return them to the box. I place the earring in a small bag and the money in another. I study the baseball cap, inside and out. If there were any hairs stuck to it, they’re long gone. The wool on the brim is worn on the right side of the visor, likely from its owner’s fingers. I go through the road map and owner’s manual, but nothing is written inside.
Ma lingers.
I decide to change the subject a bit.
“You don’t mind my taking money from Andrew Snow?”
“I think it’s a good thing. It means he trusts you’ll get him the answers he wants.”
I lift the man’s cap and search inside again. All I see are sweat stains. I sniff, but any smells are long gone.
“Well, as my partner, I’ll be giving you a cut.”
My mother laughs. “We’ll be partners in crime, but on the good side.”
“By the way, I told Andrew Snow about Patsy.”
Ma sighs. We haven’t spoken about Patsy at length in a long time. Make that a long, long time. “I can still hear my brother crying for her. It was awful.”
“Yeah, I was only a kid, but I still remember what it was like. Maybe that’s why I’m so interested in Adela.” I pause. “What do you think happened to Patsy?”
“Something really bad. And whoever did it, got away with it,” she says. “I’m glad you’re doing this.”
I replace the baseball cap.
“Hey, Ma, I was wondering if you’d like to have a dog. It could keep you company while I’m working.”
She hums.
“I haven’t had a dog in years. Let me think about it,” she says.
I go upstairs to check on Sophie, who is still zonked out. I dial Andrew’s number in my bedroom. He picks up right away.
“Well, I found a couple of interesting things in there,” I tell him. “There’s the hat, of course. No offense, but it looks larger than anyone in your family would wear. And I can’t imagine Adela having one.”
“I don’t know who it could belong to.”
“There weren’t any loose hairs inside. Either the person was completely bald, but if that’s true, he had a huge head. More likely, any hair fell out a long time ago.”
Andrew hums as he thinks it over.
“You said you found something else.”
“A receipt to a motel. The Shady Grove. It says cash.”
“I see.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line. I feel awkward telling Andrew his daughter probably shacked up with some guy in a motel where you pay by the hour. Yeah, she was in her late thirties, but still.
“When do you want me to return this stuff?”
“There’s no rush.”
Thursday at the Rooster
I get to the Rooster at 4 p.m. sharp Thursday and park my car next to Jack’s pickup. He’s divvying up cash at the register when I step inside.
“Howdy, Isabel,” he says as he shuts the register’s drawer. “You can stow your stuff in the kitchen.”
Eleanor is in the kitchen, cutting up onions for burgers. It’s strictly burgers and fries on Thursdays and Sundays. The full menu is served Fridays and Saturdays. She wipes the tears from her eyes. I could ask her how she’s doing, but I can already see. The fumes from the onions burn like hell.
“Hi, Eleanor, those are some strong onions,” I tell her.
She nods and keeps wiping her eyes with the side of her hand. It probably doesn’t help she’s got onion juice on its skin.
“Yup,” she gasps.
“Jack says to put my stuff back here. Oh, never mind, I see where.”
I stuff my scarf and gloves in the sleeves of my coat, and then hang it and my purse on a hook between Eleanor and Jack’s things. Jack is switching on the neon signs that advertise beer in the windows. He returns and reaches beneath the bar for a white apron.
“You’ll want one of these,” he says, giving it a toss. “That way the customers will know you’re workin’ and not drinkin’ with ’em.”
I smile. I like the way Jack puts it.
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want to confuse them.”
He tips his head.
“Come on over to the other side,” he says.
I slip behind the bar with him. I take a look at what I would see from this vantage point, probably a lot of mischief after people start getting loose from their drink. Just like Andrew Snow said about eavesdropping in the store, I bet it happens here, too. I tended bar once at one of the failed restaurants when we were building our house. I learned about a bartender’s ears then. You hear things, but whatever they are should stay at the bar.
“Okay, first thing I gotta show you are the lists,” he says.
“The lists.”
Two sheets of paper are taped behind the bar and beneath its overhang. Jack points.
“This one is for the people on probation. They did something to tick me off, so they get kicked out for six months. You can see I’ve written the date they can come back. But you only get two shots at being back in my good graces. Here, I have this list for people who just can’t abide by the rules. They can never come in the joint even if their mother died and they’re holding the wake here.” He chuckles at the joke. “If they show up, and I’m here, I’ll ask ’em to leave. If I’m not, and you’re on alone, get one of the guys to
back you up.”
I study the lists as Jack talks. I recognize all the names. Most are men. One of them got caught selling dope in the parking lot. He’s out permanently. So’s the guy who came to the Rooster so drunk, he wiped out a couple of cars in the parking lot.
There are a few women, including one I witnessed going bonkers one night. She just kept getting drunk too fast and was awfully friendly with men in their pickups outside. She’s on her second probation and due back next month.
“Sure enough,” I say.
For the next forty minutes or so, Jack shows me where everything is, what costs what, and how to give Eleanor the food orders.
“Ya gotta give my sister some room,” he tells me out of Eleanor’s earshot. “She doesn’t like anyone looking over her shoulder. She likes her space. It might spook her if you suddenly talk.”
Jack has me practice using the tap, which only takes me a couple of tries before I get it right. He says he’ll change the keg since it’s so heavy, and if he isn’t around, the customers will have to drink from a bottle.
“It’s a good idea to make a sweep of the tables to collect the empties. I’ll probably handle that in the beginning. Or we can take turns. It can be tricky when a band’s playing. You don’t want to get knocked down, so you gotta have eyes in the back of your head.” He kicks at a couple of cartons on the floor next to the beer cooler. “The empties go in here, and when it fills up, I’ll show you where to bring it out back.”
I understand about clearing the empties. Sam and I were in here one night when one of the guys on the out-forever list picked a fight and, yes, the weapon of choice was a broken beer bottle. I think the fight was over a bad car the victim sold to the beater. They were even cousins.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, no tabs unless I say so.” He grins. “Just be friendly to the customers. You’ll do fine.”
Chasing The Case Page 7