“I should warn you, I’m gonna cross the river. That’s about three miles in.”
“What’s there?” Alex says.
“Maybe nothing, but I want to see what’s on the other side. Dad didn’t want to go that far. Bring your boots.”
Later, after the kids leave, I think as I wash the pans. Of course, that locket’s on my mind. I am debating with myself, not much of a contest there, about whether I should’ve taken the necklace with me. I did only handle the chain, but maybe there would be fingerprints on the medallion. I shake my head. Who would check the prints? I’m not a cop. Besides, suppose it came from someone who didn’t have a record? Crimes are never solved as easily as the ones I see on the television shows or movies.
The last pan is in its proper place. I dry my hands. I get the phone from my bag.
Ma is watching the Patriots, of course. The kitten has found her lap.
“Hey, Ma, wanna see the locket?”
“I thought you said you didn’t take it.”
“No, I shot pictures with my phone.” I bring up the image and show it to her. “Here.”
My mother studies the screen.
“I see the necklace belonged to her. Who could have left it there?”
“That’s what I want to figure out.”
More of the Old Farts
I’m supposed to meet Andrew at the store although I was vague over the phone last night because I don’t want to get his hopes up.
Once again, I’m doing the Sophie exchange. It’s early as usual, but Ruth is running late, so there’s only enough time to grab the baby and her things. I eye Ruth’s car as it turns the corner then the store. Andrew’s car isn’t here.
“Come on, kiddo, let’s give those old, uh, men another scare,” I say.
I don’t believe the Old Farts are scared one bit when I appear in the backroom. I see a few jabbing elbows and amused smiles.
“Well, well, well, look who the cat dragged in,” the Serious Old Fart announces. “Can’t get enough of us, eh, Isabel?”
“Guess not.”
I squeeze in next to the Fattest Old Fart. Sophie is wide-eyed as she studies the men. It’s a full house this morning with every type of Old Fart present, including the Visiting Old Farts.
“I heard you did okay on your first weekend at the Rooster and managed not to spill any beer,” the Skinniest Old Fart says.
Of course, there is a chorus of chuckles. These Old Farts think they’re the funniest men in the world, well, except for the Silent Old Fart who never says anything.
“Hmm, sounds like you have a spy at the Rooster. You fellows seem to be paying a lot of attention to what I’ve been up to lately.”
“Lately,” the Bald Old Fart says with a chuckle. “You’ve always been on our radar.”
I smile, thinking that’s probably true, first when Sam and I moved here, and then when I started working for the paper and when I stopped.
“Heard you and Andrew had a sit-down.” The Fattest Old Fart beams at his cronies as if he’s breaking the news.
“Yes, we did, but I’d rather keep what we said between us,” I say.
“Fair enough,” he says. “So, what was in the box he gave you?”
Shoot, those guys must’ve been watching Andrew and me through the window that morning.
“Wouldn’t you all like to know?”
“Sure do,” a Visiting Old Fart says.
All of their heads bounce as if they’re rigged with string.
I laugh.
“Well, that ain’t gonna happen.”
I stand when I hear the side door open and Andrew steps inside. Everyone quiets down when he stands beside me. He smiles at Sophie.
“Hmmm, you fellows talking about me?” he asks.
“What do you think?” I answer for them. “I’ll tell you outside. See ya, uh, fellows.”
From the back, the Old Fart with Glasses, says, “Heard you were all up at Sam’s grave yesterday. Hard to believe it’s been a year.”
Their faces have lost all merriment.
“Thanks for remembering.”
Andrew follows Sophie and me to the car. While I wrestle her into her car seat, Andrew admits he told the Old Farts about meeting with me.
“Uh-huh, they brought it up. They also saw you giving me the box,” I say. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell them a thing although they were dying for something. We have to watch those guys.”
Andrew nods.
“So, why did you want to see me?”
“I have something I wanna show you.”
He’s got a wondering look on his face.
“Yes?”
“When the kids and I were up at the cemetery yesterday, I saw the headstone for Adela in the family plot.”
“Well… ”
“I thought it was a lovely gesture.” I keep pausing like an old Yankee lawn mower. “I also saw a gold necklace someone left on its pedestal. It had her name engraved on it.”
“Her mother gave her one like that for Christmas.”
“Here. I took some photos.” I remove the phone from my bag. “Did you or one of the family leave it? It doesn’t look like it’s been there too long.”
Andrew shakes his head as he studies the screen. I flip slowly through the shots I took.
“No, that’s impossible,” he whispers. “Adela was wearing it the last time I saw her. She never took it off. She loved that necklace. She used to joke she’d be buried in it.”
Now this is unexpected. Andrew’s eyes are wet with tears. He chokes on half the words he says. I don’t know how much harder to push, but I get the feeling this is an important discovery.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. The ring holding the necklace’s clasp opened up that day, and I fixed it for her in the backroom with a pair of pliers.” His voice breaks when he says, “Adela told me, ‘it’s as good as new, Pa,’ after she put it on. We didn’t find it in her bedroom. We looked because Irma asked.”
“Andrew, I’m so sorry.”
His chin was up.
“No, this is good news in a way,” he says. “Somebody might have a guilty conscience. Keep up the good detective work.”
A Phone Call from Andrew
Ma says, “I think Sophie’s awake. Hear her?”
I head upstairs. Sophie’s babbling away and kicking her feet loose from her blankets.
“Hey, there, sweetie. Time for a change.”
I’m just finished getting the baby clean when the phone rings. I let Ma get it.
“It’s for you,” she calls from downstairs.
I hold onto Sophie as I take the phone upstairs.
“Thanks, I’ve got it, Ma,” I say into the receiver. “Hello.”
“Isabel, this is Andrew Snow.” His voice is shaky. “I went up to the cemetery.” He takes a stuttering breath. “The necklace wasn’t there.”
“It wasn’t?”
“I looked all around the stone. It’s definitely gone.” He pauses. “I called the cemetery commissioner. He says he saw the necklace when he was getting a grave ready. That was in late September. He figured one of us left it on her anniversary. I did ask if he took it, and he said no. He says he doesn’t touch anything anyone leaves.”
“Shoot, I’m real glad I shot those photos. Now I wish I’d taken that necklace.”
“You didn’t know.”
“Next time, if there’s something like that, I’m snagging it.”
Sophie starts squirming in my arms and making noise she wants to eat.
“Andrew, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you when I’m done,” I say. “I’m sorry about the necklace. Maybe some kids hanging around there took it.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. At least we have those photos. That’s something, right?”
Chief Ben Hendricks
I have my list of people to interview. Benjamin Hendricks, who was police chief when Adela disappeared, is the first. He was the chief before Sam and I moved here, and for at le
ast a decade later.
Being chief is a part-time job for token pay in Conwell and the hilltowns around it. Chief Ben, as he is still called, and the other officers on the force, all part-timers, went to traffic accidents, the occasional break-in, and the more frequent wife beaters and drunk drivers, after the law made cops in general take those cases more seriously. When he wasn’t a cop, Chief Ben worked at a plant in one of the nearby cities. He was a decent guy, who would take my phone calls when I was a reporter and an editor although I suspected like everyone else, he wasn’t all there toward the end. It took some persuading to get him to step down. The town even held a big party for him, with the usual plaques, certificates, and gag gifts. I came off the bench and wrote a story about him. That and the photo I took ran low on the front page after I did a little arm-twisting with the then-managing editor.
So, who else is on my list? For family members, I have Jamie, and his ex-wife, Clara. His current wife didn’t live in Conwell then. There’s Adela’s son, Dale. That might be tricky, but if he’s a regular at the Rooster, I might have a better shot after I’ve worked there a little while. I should talk with her ex, Bobby Collins, but that will be even trickier. Maybe I'll try the Floozy. I can find her at the Rooster, too.
But the old chief is first. I’m seeing him in an hour. His wife says he’s at his best during the day. She is sympathetic when I call. I tell her why I want to see him. She sighs and says, “Oh, that. I heard. You do know my Ben isn’t the same. But it looks like today might be an okay day.”
“Just so you know, I spoke to Andrew first and he gave his blessing,” I tell her.
I feel sorry for his wife. Sadie’s what I’d call a real nice lady, rather old-fashioned, wears an apron and slippers when she works around the house. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her in pants. She’s a native. Her family was one of the originals in Conwell. My in with her is that I covered the 4-H when I was a reporter and the time I did a story about her brother’s truck farm. She told me she liked my farewell piece for her Ben.
“You going now to see the old chief?” my mother asks me when I get my coat from the front closet.
The kitten, Roxanne, is on her lap as she works on the crossword puzzle from yesterday’s paper. Ma’s not coming along for this one. We both agree it might confuse the chief.
“Yeah, it shouldn’t take too long.” I zip my jacket. “Hey, I saw you finished all of those novels. How about we go to the library to get more? The library’s open today. It’s easy to remember. The days the dump is open, so’s the library. You can drive this time. The roads are clear.”
“Thanks, I’d like that.”
Chief Ben sits in an easy chair in the living room. I am guessing it’s his chair. My Dad had one, too. He squints when his wife, Sadie, introduces me. There is a bit of recognition in his eyes when she tells him my name. Maybe he remembers the Isabel Long who used to have dark brown hair.
“You,” he says.
I take a spot on the couch closest to him. Sadie sits in her chair, but on the edge as if she’s on the verge of doing something else. She’s wearing an apron.
“I won’t take up a lot of your time, but I wanted to ask you about Adela Collins,” I say.
His head falls back against the chair.
“Adela,” he says. “That was real sad.”
“Yes, it was. I know it was a while ago, but I was wondering if you had any ideas about what happened to her.”
“She’s gone.”
“That’s right.”
“It was real sudden like.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Andrew Snow called you to the house when he couldn’t find her.”
The man drifts off a bit. I saw it with my late uncle, my mother’s brother, who had dementia. His was alcohol-related. Then he had a stroke. Anyways, we visited him at the rest home. Sometimes I just had to wait for him to make a circle back to my question. I wait for the chief to do the same.
His wife helps me out.
“Remember what you told me about that day?” Sadie says.
“It was a sad day. We couldn’t find her.”
I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with the old chief. He’s too far gone or maybe it’s just a bad day. He stares out the window as if he’s forgotten I’m here, and he probably has. He watches the chickadees peck at the feeder.
I turn toward Sadie. She has one hand in the other. I am sure they have done their share of wringing these days.
“I think I’ll go now,” I say softly. Sadie nods before I turn toward her husband. “Chief, it was nice seeing you.”
He doesn’t look my way.
Sadie apologizes as she walks with me to the kitchen.
“He’s just not the same anymore,” she says.
“I understand.”
“I do remember that day well. Like my Ben says, it was a sad day. He talked about it when he came home later, after he called the state police. Ben never talked about police business, but he did this time. What concerned him were all the smashed dishes on the kitchen floor. It seemed somebody was really angry to do that.” She presses her lips together. “I wish I remembered more about what he said.”
This is the second time I’ve heard about the dishes. The first was from Andrew. But the chief thought the person who threw them to the floor was angry about something. It wasn’t just an accident.
“That was helpful,” I tell Sadie. “If you or the chief recall anything else, please give me a call. I’m in the book.”
“I will.”
I’m walking toward the door when I think of something else. The Hendricks’ home was the ersatz police station for many years.
“Do you think the chief could have written down anything? Maybe he held onto it,” I say.
“No one’s touched his desk for a long, long time,” she says. “I could look.”
“Thank you. I agree with the chief. It was a sad day because Adela was a really nice person. That’s why I’m doing this.”
Sadie Hendricks nods.
The Library
The Conwell Public Library is small, one room to be exact. It has a second floor and basement, but they stopped using them because of the state’s handicapped-accessible laws. The town couldn’t afford to put in an elevator, so it was easier just to jam all the stacks into the one room. No one needs cards, just a number, although now there is a computer to record what people take out. Ma was surprised at the arrangement. Since she lives with me, I vouched for her.
Mira Clark, the librarian, is good about stocking books the regulars want. For a while, I was into Hollywood bios, a particular weakness of mine, until I had enough. Ma likes her mysteries and steamy romance novels. There are plenty of those, and Mira vowed last time we were here, on Saturday, to get more.
“Back so soon?” Mira greets us.
I place a stack of books on the counter.
“My mother’s a fast reader,” I tell her.
Ma smiles as she goes to the stacks.
“I hear you’re looking into Adela’s case,” Mira says, and then I remember they were close friends going way back, likely to their childhood.
“News travels fast,” I say, glad I have Andrew’s blessing.
Her head twists around as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear what she’s going to say next. The library has a few people perusing the stacks. I noticed their cars outside.
“I bet there are some in town who won’t like it,” she says. “You know, leave well enough alone and all of that. But this is different. We used to be real close, and I just know something bad happened to her.”
I nod. I want to know Mira’s theory, but like her, I don’t want anyone else to overhear us.
“I’ll do my best. By the way, where do you keep the old town reports?”
She thinks a bit.
“They’re in that back corner,” she says.
“Thanks. It’s just for my research.”
I head to the corner. The reports fill the bottom two shelv
es. Every year, Conwell, like other towns and cities in Massachusetts, issues a formal report about the past one. It details the budget, what articles passed or didn’t pass at the official town meetings, and reports from each department. For the past ten years, I’ve written the dedication on the front, typically for someone of note who died that year. Sometimes there’s been more than one person to honor. I tried to make the tributes as sweet as possible even for the sons-of-bitches who gave me a hard time when I was a reporter or were a general pain in the ass to everyone else in town. I make them almost walk on water in those dedications. It might have been fun writing about them as they really were, but I wouldn’t want to be run out of town.
But I’m not interested in any of those. I am looking for the town report for the year before Adela disappeared, specifically the list of building and septic system permits issued. I’m remembering that deep throat phone call someone made to me a few weeks after Adela was gone telling me to check who was putting in a foundation or septic system around that time. After all, it would take a mighty big hole to dump a body. Either a cellar hole or septic system would work. Plus there was no way of finding that body once that hole had a foundation or a septic system’s holding tanks.
I find the report I need. I don’t have time to read it and I can’t take it out, so I use my cell phone to snap photos of each page, and then replace the book. What I would have given as a reporter to be able to take a photo of what I wanted to use later. In those days, I had to write everything down longhand or use the copy machine.
I search for another town report. It was for the year after Adela was declared officially dead. That year’s report was dedicated in her memory. Someone other than me wrote a bare-bones piece about her. It didn’t even mention the date of her death, except “her family, friends, and town lost her seven years ago,” which was a rather nice way to put it. What the heck, I snap a shot of that one, too.
I find Ma at the stack with the sign: NEW BOOKS. She clutches three. That will likely hold her until Saturday, when the library is open again, the same as the dump, although we won’t need to go there for a couple of weeks. Two women don’t generate much trash or recyclables. Besides, I’ve got a compost heap brewing in the backyard.
Chasing The Case Page 9