Chasing The Case

by Joan Livingston

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Our first drinkers are a couple of regulars, stopping by after work before they head home for supper. Jack made a run to the store before it closed, so I’m going solo. Plumbers, they worked on a few jobs with Sam. I remember they came to Sam’s funeral. So did a third of the town, which made me sad about losing him and happy they all cared, too.

  “What are you doin’ here?” one of the guys asks me, as they take the stools.

  “Working,” I say with a big smile. “What can I get you two guys?”

  “A couple of Buds,” one says.

  “Really, you’re gonna be tending bar?” the other says.

  “Mostly on the weekends. Jack needs a little help. I could use a little money.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.”

  The other one reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.

  “I’ll get this one,” he tells the other. “Heard somethin’ else. You really gonna find out what happened to Adela?”

  “I’m gonna try. It’s been a long time since it happened. But I do have Andrew’s blessing.”

  “So he told us. We were in the backroom.”

  The other guy shakes his head.

  “Damn shame.”

  That’s the way it goes all night, which is not as busy as a Friday or Saturday, but enough that there’s a steady stream. It’s the right night to break me in. The drinkers all ask what I’m doing. They tell me a story about Sam or if I wrote about one of their pals or family, or even them, they bring that up. Two people mention my mother. Of course, many know what I’m doing about Adela.

  Sometimes Jack joins the drinkers at their table, and later after the kitchen closes, he drives Eleanor home. She shuffles behind the bar and says “yup” when I tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.

  The place clears out by ten. I clean up behind the bar, wiping down the counters and hauling a carton of empties out back. Jack brings full ones to load the coolers, so they’ll be ready for a big Friday night. A band called the Lone Sums is playing. I’m not kidding. Yeah, all the best names have definitely been taken.

  “Wanna cold one?” Jack asks. “You get one on the house.”

  I fold my apron and tuck it on a shelf beneath the countertop. His hand is on a tap. He remembers which kind of beer I like.

  “Thanks.”

  I take a stool. Jack sits beside me.

  “Did I hear right you’re lookin’ into Adela’s case?” he asks.

  “Yes, I am,” I say into the glass before I take my first drink. “Andrew Snow says it’s okay.”

  “I heard that, too,” he says.

  “Kinda hard to keep a secret in this town,” I say.

  “What do you think you’ll find out?”

  “I haven’t a clue. You knew Adela well. Didn’t you grow up here in town?”

  “Yeah, we went to school all the way through. She was a year or two younger, but we hung around the same crowd until she took off with John Albright. I never understood what she saw in him.”

  “I probably won’t be able to solve this mystery. I mean it’s been so long and people have died or moved away. But I want to try. If you can think of something, let me know.”

  We shoot the shit for a while, and after I finish my beer, I head home after Jack reminds me tomorrow will be a busy night. For the first time ever, I unlock the door when somebody is inside. I thought my mother would feel safer. She’s watching TV with the kitten in her lap.

  “Your clothes smell like hamburger grease,” she tells me.

  I sniff a sleeve.

  “Yeah, I hang my coat in the kitchen.”

  “So, did anyone spill the beans tonight?”

  I laugh.

  “I believe it’s a bit early. But it seems like the whole town knows what I’m doing. Andrew did a good job spreading the word. What are you watching?”

  “An old movie with Gregory Peck. Wanna watch?”

  “Oh, it’s ‘Roman Holiday’ with Audrey Hepburn. I like this movie.”

  The Floozy

  It’s Friday night and I’m behind the bar, fetching Buds for two guys who want a fun night out. They order four because two women wait for them at a table. I flip the caps, toss them in the can at my feet, and slide the cold bottles across the countertop toward them. One of them has the dollar bills curled in his hand.

  “Keep the change,” he says.

  “Thanks. Enjoy yourself.

  They leave me an extra buck, which appears to be the standard tip for a round. I know Sam always did. I stuff the buck in the tip jar with the rest of the bills.

  The Rooster is full. My station is behind the bar. Jack is on the floor, taking dinner orders and carrying the food out as fast as Eleanor can dish it out. She and I only spoke a few words. She grunts when I ask how she’s doing. She grunts, too, after I ask about her dogs. I get the feeling she’s not happy I’m working here, but that doesn’t seem to be the case with Jack, who keeps up a friendly banter whenever he passes. Jack grins and winks. He’s what I’d call a big tease.

  I pop caps off beer bottles. The King of Beers reigns supreme at the Rooster. I’ve only had two requests for beer on tap by newcomers, of course, and I was pleased I got them done correctly.

  I call home once to see how Ma is doing. She tells me she and the cat are fine. She’s watching an old movie. I say I’ll be home around eleven. I would tell her not to wait up, but that’s not necessary.

  The music started a half-hour ago and the Lone Sums are stinking up the place. I didn’t think you could blow a song like “Sweet Home Alabama,” but these guys are doing just that. Just wait until they try “Free Bird.” Somebody always requests that one, usually one of the young drunks, who’ll shout it from across the room just for the hell of it.

  “These guys play here before?” I ask Jack when he brings a tray of empties behind the bar.

  “Nah. I doubt if I’ll bring ’em back,” he says as he drops the bottles into the carton at our feet.

  “They’re pretty bad. But I guess if you drink enough you can dance to almost anything.”

  “You and Sam were quite the Rooster dancers.”

  “Yeah, we had a lot of fun here. Did you get all the empties or should I make a sweep?”

  “We’re okay. Keep pourin’ beer and smilin’. The customers like it.”

  I do just that for a woman who stands in front of me. She went to school with my kids and asks about them. She wants a Bud Light. A woman waits behind her. I haven’t seen the Floozy this close in years, but now that I work at the Rooster, I suppose I will. Her name is Marsha, if you recall. I remember when she used to be okay-looking with a decent figure she stuffed into tight jeans, with a bit of a muffin top above them, but she still turned heads among the guys looking for an easy lay. Now Marsha has racked up some serious country mileage. When she opens her mouth, I see gaps where she’s lost teeth. Her dry, gray hair is pulled back in a ratty ponytail.

  “Hey, Marsha, what can I get you?”

  “Bud,” she tells me.

  I grab a bottle and flip the cap in one swipe. She fishes for bills inside her jeans’ front pocket. I swipe the bar with a rag while I wait. She gives me the exact amount.

  “Heard you’re snoopin’ around about Adela.” She snorts. “She’s no angel, you know.”

  “That so?” I weigh what next to say. “You knew her well?”

  She takes a slug from the bottle.

  “Well enough. Whatcha doin’ that for?”

  “No one knows what happened to her. I want to do this. The family said it’s okay.”

  “You talk to Bobby?”

  “Not yet, but I hope to,” I say with semi-conviction. “I understand he said he was with you all night.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Maybe you and me could have a talk some time.”

  Her face twists as she gives me an extra-hard stare.

  “What for?”

  “You lived in town then. Maybe you remember some
thing you didn’t tell anybody. It might help. Well, think about it.”

  “Bobby’s not gonna like this at all.”

  “You still see him?”

  “Yeah, I seen him.”

  “Enjoy your beer.”

  She scowls as she backs into the crowd. I don’t have much time to think about our conversation. I’m too busy pouring beer and shots, plus the rare glass of house wine, which comes in a gallon jug, so it can’t be too good. I help Jack clear tables.

  Around 9:30, Eleanor comes from the kitchen, dressed in her coat and hat. She stands there waiting, I suppose, for Jack to notice she’s ready to leave. She watches the crowd. I let her know Jack’s unclogging the toilet in the men’s room, but I can’t tell from her face if she’s really listening.

  “You ready to go, Sis?” Jack asks when he’s back. “Isabel, I’m gonna run Eleanor home. Think you can handle this crowd?”

  “No sweat,” I tell him.

  Remembering Sam

  Sunday the kids and I meet at Sam’s grave. Ruth and her husband, Gregg, bring the baby. Matt and Alex come alone. They have girlfriends, but none so serious they would bring them to their father’s gravesite, never mind dinner at my house. I told Ma she didn’t have to come. It’s colder than a witch’s you-know-what and snowing lightly, just flurries really. Plus the ground is rather uneven.

  She was okay with it.

  Sam’s ashes are buried in the highest section of the cemetery far away from the tall, tipping graves of the town’s earliest families, those that date back a couple of centuries. His granite headstone says: “Samuel Long, husband, father, and a damn good carpenter.” The owner at the memorial store in the city tried to talk me out of using the words “a damn good carpenter,” well specifically, “damn.”

  “Mrs. Long, it is highly unusual to use that word,” he told me. “What would people think?”

  “That he was a damn good carpenter, which he was,” I answered. “I already checked with the town’s cemetery commissioner, and he said it was fine.”

  Actually, the commissioner laughed when I told him. He agreed Sam would like it, and it might start a colorful trend in Conwell. Besides, damn wasn’t such a bad word considering what people say these days, and darn just isn’t good enough.

  “If that’s what you want,” the man at the memorial store said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  I see smiles on the boys’ faces when they read the words.

  “Dad would like that,” Matt says.

  “Damn, eh?” Alex says. “They let you get away with that?”

  “Yes, they did.”

  Ruth has already seen the stone. She came with me when it was being installed last month.

  “Really, Mom,” she said when she saw the writing on the headstone, but then she laughed. “Yeah, Dad would like it.”

  Sophie is awake in her arms. She’s bundled up in a snowsuit and hat, so about all I can see are her blue eyes and pink, round cheeks. She smiles when I say her name.

  Then we’re quiet for a while. We’re not the praying kind of family. The kids were raised without a religion, but I don’t think it’s hurt them any. We did teach them right from wrong, and to be nice to people. I can’t say all churchgoers are that way.

  The only sound around is a small animal moving through dried leaves, plus sniffling from the kids. Sam was proud of them. I am, too. Matt is a heavy equipment operator, a union guy, which shouldn’t surprise anyone. As a boy, he was all-truck. He takes after my side of the family in looks. He’s the only Portagee, I tell him. Alex is an engineer for an outfit in the valley. Smart kid. People find it easy to like him. Ruth, who works in finance, made a good marriage with Gregg. He’s a physician’s assistant with an open mind about alternative medicine. Sam and I approved. We had the wedding in our backyard.

  I break the silence.

  “Your Dad was one of the greats.” I wipe away a tear. “I sure miss him, but when I look at you, I feel he’s still here with me.”

  “I miss him, too,” Matt says.

  “Me, too,” Alex says.

  “I wish Sophie knew him,” Ruth says.

  Gregg pats his wife’s shoulder, and I like him for it. Ruth was Sam’s little princess all grown up. He would have done the same for Sophie.

  “That would have been real nice,” Gregg says.

  The snow picks up although it hasn’t started to stick. I’m guessing it’s going to be a tough winter this year.

  “Anybody wanna say something else?” I ask, but I only see sad faces. “Okay, let’s get back. Grandma’s probably ready with the food.”

  We walk downhill to where we parked on the cemetery’s semi-circular drive. On the way to my car, I pass a large stone for the Snow family. Smaller stones are placed around it. I didn’t notice before that there’s one for Adela Collins, but then again, I can’t remember walking in this part of the cemetery. The last time I was here was when we buried Sam’s urn in the ground. There’s nothing in Adela’s grave, but her family, likely her father, wanted people to remember her. Or maybe it’s just holding a spot if her remains are ever found.

  The kids are already in their vehicles and leaving. I stand in front of Adela’s stone. There are no dates. It would have been odd to list the date she was declared officially dead, because it would have meant she lived seven more years than she probably did.

  My eye catches something shiny on the headstone’s pedestal. I stoop to take a closer look. It’s a heart-shaped locket, gold or gold-plated, on a chain. Adela’s name is engraved on one side. I remember Adela wearing it. Perhaps her son, Dale, or her father put it here. Maybe it was somebody else.

  I get out my iPhone to snap a few shots of the necklace. I lift it by its chain to take a couple more before I return the locket to its spot. I pocket the phone.

  Now I have another question to ask Andrew Snow. Was Adela wearing it the day she disappeared?

  Then I think of something else. The town hires someone to mow the cemetery, actually it’s the commissioner, who works as a landscaper but does this for the extra dough. He even uses a trimmer to get close to the stone. My guess at the length of the grass, he hasn’t been back in a couple of months. I would think he would notice something like a locket beside Adela’s headstone. Or maybe it wasn’t there.

  I get in my car. The kids must be wondering why I’m not right behind them. At the end of the road, Eleanor Smith stands on the corner with her three rangy mutts on leashes. I roll down the window on the passenger side. I’m trying to win her over.

  “Out for a walk?” I ask Eleanor.

  She shushes her dogs when they bark.

  “Why you here?” she asks.

  “The kids and I went to my husband, Sam’s grave. It’s the one-year anniversary today.”

  “Huh,” she says before she walks along the side of my Subaru and up the road. I believe it connects with a dirt road that cuts over to the house she shares with Jack.

  I can forgive Eleanor her odd manners. Part of it’s her IQ. She also has lived a pretty isolated life, first working alongside her parents when they farmed. I hear she only went as far as eighth grade, and even then it was a struggle. She can read, but Jack told me to print the orders as neatly as possible. The Rooster is a busy place, but she’s holed up there in the kitchen, where she likes it, I’ve discovered.

  I watch Eleanor through the review mirror. She lets her mutts off their leash, and they bound up the road toward the cemetery. They know where they’re going. I’m going to ask her the dogs’ names the next time. Maybe that’ll break the ice between us.

  I’m the last one home.

  “Gee, Ma, what were you looking at up there?” Alex asks me.

  “Someone left a necklace on Adela Collins’ stone. It had her name on it. Curious, don’t you think?”

  He chuckles.

  “Yeah, Ruth told me about your snooping around.”

  “Snooping? I think of it as research. Besides, it’s all for a good cause. Besides
, your grandmother is helping me.”

  The kids and Gregg stare at Ma.

  “Really?” Matt says for all of them.

  Ma smiles.

  “Somebody left a necklace?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I put it back. I wouldn’t want to upset her son or father if they left it there although I don’t think Andrew would do something like that. I did take photos with my phone. What do you think, Ma?”

  “I think we should eat,” she says.

  Now that the seriousness is over, we get into the food and kidding each other, a Long family pastime. Ma, who sits at the opposite end of the table, is in her glory. Sam built the table out of some black walnut boards he salvaged from a job. The woman said to toss them out, but Sam saw their worth. Didn’t I tell you he was a damn good carpenter?

  We’re having roasted chicken with the fixings. Ma knows how to cook a bird better than anybody I know. She even made stuffing and mashed potatoes. I took care of the salad and the dessert, carrot cake, Sam’s favorite. The guys have beer. Ruth and I drink wine, and we even manage to talk my mother into a small glass. The baby, Sophie, is taking a nap upstairs.

  The conversation begins with the food, how good my mother made it, then onto Sam, but what more can we say, except we miss him. The boys, they’ll always be boys to me, laugh again about what I put on their father’s headstone. I catch Gregg grinning. No wonder Sam liked him. Ruth rolls her eyes. She’s supposed to do that. Ruth is the most conservative of the family although she’d never vote Republican. My daughter is smarter than that. When I look across the table at my kids talking with my mother, making her laugh, I am happier. Sam and I did all right with them.

  We are into dessert when I make an announcement.

  “I want to hike the logging road where they found Adela’s car. But I don’t want to walk alone. Would one of you boys go with me?”

  “When?” Matt says.

  “Well, you all have to work, so how about next weekend? Let’s make it Sunday. It’s only bow season still, but I don’t wanna get nailed by some yahoo’s arrow.”

  “I can,” Matt nods at his brother. “You have something better to do?”

  “I’ll go, too, if you want,” Alex says.