Mira logs the books Ma is borrowing into the computer.
“Did you find what you wanted back there?” Mira asks without looking up from her work.
“Uh-huh, the town reports were just where you said they’d be.”
“You find some clues?”
“Too soon to tell. I took photos of the pages. I’m just following a lead someone gave me a long time ago.”
Mira hands the books to my mother.
“Here you go, Mrs. Ferreira,” she says smiling, and then she turns to me. “Isabel, let me know if you want to talk.”
I get the feeling she wants to tell me something but not here in the library.
“Be glad to,” I say. “I’ll give you a call soon.”
“You do that.”
Outside, I slow my pace to match my mother’s. I’m a fast walker. Snow has started to fall since we were inside.
“The weather guy says the hilltowns might get a couple of inches,” Ma tells me.
I smile. As I said, I stopped paying attention to the weather because I no longer have to drive into the city, but I’m glad my mother does. Maybe now that I’ll be working nights, I should do it again, but I’ve got my Subaru, and it’s a helluva short ride.
“You sure you have enough books?” I joke.
By the time we get home, the snow is coming down at a good clip. I get a fire going in the woodstove and head upstairs to my office to print out what I found in the town report. Ma tells me she’s in the mood for chicken stew, Portuguese-style, of course, so I’ll help her with that later.
As I watch the paper chug through the printer, I think back to the late eighties. I was still a reporter then for the Daily Fart. Truthfully, I’ve grown fond of the name my buddies in the store’s backroom call it. The economy was beginning to recover although bad times take their sweet time getting to and leaving the hilltowns. Still, there was some construction happening back then.
We had lived here long enough that Sam had work. When we first moved to Conwell, we struggled. People tend to circle the wagons when it comes to jobs during tough times. But Sam had skills a lot of the guys here don’t have. They’re more of your slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am breed of carpenters. Those guys could get a building up all right, but if you wanted a sweet staircase or cabinetry, you called Sam. He was a perfectionist, and one who always undercharged his customers. Anyone who hired Sam got 150 percent from the guy.
Among the building permits, I see renovations, additions, and a couple of new homes, including ours. We never owned a house until we moved here. We didn’t have a pot to piss in for many years. But we managed to buy a small piece of land, which the bank let us use as collateral for a construction loan. The bank didn’t give us much money, but lots of guys, who had worked alongside Sam and knew our situation, volunteered their labor on the weekends. I did a coffee run in the morning and made lunch. I also bought a case of beer for after work. I think it kept them coming back.
I see newcomers pulled most of the permits. They were the only ones with money then. Bobby Collins didn’t get a permit. I see Jack Smith’s sister, Eleanor, had an addition built on her side of their house. Her brother pulled the permit for her, it seems. It must be for the sun porch, which has lots of glass. When I drive that way, I frequently see her walking beside the road with her big mutts. She’s got them on leashes, so they look as if they are towing her along. They’re the usual hilltown mutts with a lot of German shepherd in them, so they bark like crazy whenever something or somebody upsets their peace.
As for septic permits, I see we got one. There was a slew of permits in one part of town, where a bunch of systems failed.
But nothing stands out.
Deep Throat
The home phone rings when I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee. Ma and I are going into the city this morning, and I will need extra fortification. We are looking for a dog at the shelter, the same place we got the kitten, Roxanne. Marigold, our cat of a dozen years, hasn’t been in the grave a month, and we will have two new pets. Ma told me last night she would like a dog after all. I know I’d feel better when I leave her home at night while I tend bar at the Rooster. We both agree we want a female, a likable breed, and she must not have any puppy left in her.
“Isabel?”
The voice is gruff on the other end of the line. It’s definitely a man, but he’s clearly trying to disguise his voice. His ploy works. He could be anybody who knows me.
“This is Isabel.”
“Did you look into those permits like I told you before?”
Now I know it’s the same guy who called me after Adela went missing twenty-eight years ago. No one else has brought up that topic. Besides, he’s calling me on my landline. The number is in the phone book. I don’t give out my cell phone number to just anybody.
“I am. I found them in the town reports and made a map. I’m going to check each one.”
“Okay.”
He hangs up.
News travels awfully fast in Conwell. Surely, lots of people have heard what I’m doing, but then again, I did ask the Old Farts in the backroom of the store to give me a call if they had something worth telling. I bet one of them is my anonymous caller.
Ma glances up from her crossword puzzle.
“That was quick. Who was it?”
“Just somebody with an anonymous tip. You know that map I have upstairs where I marked who got a building or a septic system permit around the time Adela disappeared?”
“Yes, somebody thinks it could have something to do with her?”
“I suppose this man, whoever he is, thinks she could be buried under somebody’s house or septic tank.”
“Would that be hard to do?”
“It would have to be somebody who has access to heavy equipment and did it himself.”
“I see.”
“But it would be hard to get anyone to dig up under their house or tank to prove me wrong. I’d need evidence.”
“Or a confession.”
“Confession, right. You might like to know that’s about the time Sam and I built this house.”
“So, you could be a suspect?”
“Very funny, Ma. We put in the cellar hole in June and the septic system sometime in the middle of summer. That’s before Adela disappeared. Besides, we didn’t have any motivation.” I carry my mug to the kitchen sink. “You ready to go anytime soon?”
“Let me get my things.”
Mira the Librarian
We didn’t find a mutt we like at the shelter, a bit of a disappointment, but then when I ask around, I hear Mira Clark, the town’s librarian, has a dog that belonged to her aunt, who moved into a rest home. The place doesn’t allow dogs although, personally, I think it would be a great idea to allow the seniors to bring their pets with them. It’d make them feel more restful, but, hey, I don’t make the rules.
I figure I can kill three birds with one stone if my aim is true. I’m bringing Ma with me to see if she likes the dog. I hear she’s mostly a black Lab, a people-pleasing breed from my experience, and about three, so she definitely has no puppy left in her, but she’d have a long life with us. She’s spayed and housebroken. And she’s used to being around old people, kids, and cats. Her name is Maggie, which I can live with. I’m hoping she’s a winner.
Then, two, I’m thinking Mira and I can have our talk about Adela, who was her best friend way back then, and Ma can listen. Maybe my sharp-eared ninety-two-year-old mother will hear something I miss. That’s three.
Mira and her schoolteacher hubby, Bruce, live on the south end of town, in a village beside the river. Long ago, the river’s waters powered a sawmill here. The village has its own church, but it’s only used once a year in the summer, more of a tradition than a religious thing, and for weddings and funerals. A couple of buildings look like they might have had businesses at one time when people didn’t leave the village very often, and if they did, probably by a horse-pulled carriage.
“Come in, come i
n,” Mira greets us at the side door. “How are you, Mrs. Ferreira?”
We follow her into the living room. Have a seat, she tells us, while she gets the dog.
I like Maggie right away. I can tell my mother feels the same. The dog comes right up to her for a pat. Ma gives me a nod.
“Looks like you’re going to have a lot of company,” I tell her.
“So, you’ll take her?” Mira asks.
“I think she’ll do just fine at our house,” I say. “Right, Ma?”
The dog hasn’t left her side. Maggie’s not interested in me, which seems to be the story of my life with the animals that live with us.
“Uh-huh, I like her. Could we have her?” Ma asks.
Mira sits back in her easy chair. A good host, she asks if she can get us something besides the dog and her things, but Ma and I say we’re just fine. I can tell Mira is relieved this is one problem solved. She told me on the phone she and her husband, Bruce, already have two dogs. Three would be too much. And her aunt, who I know, of course, will feel better Maggie is going to a local home. She didn’t want her dumped at a shelter.
“How’s your investigation going?” Mira asks.
“I’m still gathering bits and pieces. Didn’t you say you and Adela used to be tight?”
“Yeah, at one time. Long ago. We used to be best friends since kindergarten. Course, we didn’t spend too much time together after we both got married. I mean Adela’s second marriage. Bruce couldn’t stand Bobby Collins. Neither could I. He’s such an asshole.” She glances toward my mother. “Sorry, Mrs. Ferreira.”
“In what way?” I ask.
“He was usually drunk for one and had a hard time holding onto a job. I know he hit her. I saw the bruises.”
“Why did she marry him?”
“The usual reason. She got pregnant. Course, when they were going out, he was a lot nicer. But he turned out to be one lousy husband. She supported them mostly working at the store.”
“How many years were they married?”
“Five, maybe six years. She really tried to make it work for Dale’s sake.”
I’m weighing my next question. Oh, what the hell.
“Do you think Bobby could be responsible for Adela’s death?”
Mira’s mouth puckers as she mulls over that question.
“Most everybody thought he had something to do with Adela’s disappearance. They even thought he might’ve killed her then dumped her body somewhere. Leaving her car in the middle of that logging road was something he would’ve done. But… ”
“He had an alibi that night.”
“Some alibi.” Mira glances at my mother. “Marsha. You know her right?”
“My mother doesn’t, but she was in the Rooster the other night. She gave me the evil eye.”
Mira laughs.
“I can imagine.”
I have my next topic.
“Did Adela have any serious relationships?”
Her lips pucker again.
“She swore to me she’d never marry again after she divorced Bobby. Course, that didn’t stop her from dating married men.”
What? This was news to me. But then again, the pickings are slim for available men in the hilltowns. Maybe it was worse then, or it was easier to hide, except for the gossipers in the store’s backroom, yes, an earlier version of the Old Farts although I bet they kept any comments about Adela Collins to a minimum in case her father or brother caught them. I’ve never heard of people being banned from the store, like Jack does at the Rooster, but the possibility of that happening would be a deterrent.
Every winter, Conwell has a noticeable purge of a few marriages and hookups. I guess the darkness and cold drive them to it, or like my mother would say, the hanky-panky.
“I didn’t hear that one before,” I tell Mira.
Mira snorts.
“Adela seemed so sweet and innocent at the store. But there was another side to her.”
“Did she have an affair with Bruce?”
Crap, the words are out of my mouth before my good sense catches up with me. I expect Mira will ask us to leave. Maybe she won’t let us take Maggie, who now has her head in my mother’s lap. But I could tell Mira was dancing around something.
“Yeah.” She pauses. “It didn’t last too long. It happened at a rocky point in our marriage, but Bruce came clean. I was really hurt. I forgave him but not her. It meant I couldn’t be friends with Adela anymore.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
“Yeah, it was, and I’d appreciate you not telling anybody about this. It happened a long time ago. I know what you’re going to ask next. It was two years before Adela was gone.”
“I promise,” I say. “Can you think of anyone she could’ve been seeing that summer?”
“Like I say, we lost touch.”
I nod. “Now, I’m going to tell you something I want you to keep a secret. Andrew gave me the box of stuff that had been in Adela’s car. Inside there was a receipt to the Shady Grove Motel not long before she disappeared.”
“The Shady Grope, eh?” Her head tips back, so it rests on the chair. “I wish I could tell you. But after she pulled that stunt with Bruce, I didn’t have much to do with her. Course, I had to see her at the store. We never talked about Bruce.”
“Thanks, Mira. You’ve been a help.”
“I have?”
“Yes, I’m getting a better picture of Adela.” I nod at Ma. “And we got ourselves a dog.”
Later, the dog curls in the back seat as I drive my mother home.
“That was quite a story she told us,” she says.
“It was. Do you think it was enough for her to kill Adela?”
“Maybe there was more to the story than she told.”
“Like Adela got pregnant then had an abortion or a miscarriage?”
“It could’ve happened that way.”
“Or maybe Mira was exaggerating. Maybe Bruce was the only one.”
“That, too.”
I hit the turn signal for our driveway and make the turn.
“So, I think I’m going to move Mira from the source list to the suspect list although she’s a big maybe. She might have a motive, but I’m wondering how she could have hidden the body. There were no permits at her house.”
“What about that husband of hers?”
“Hmmm, I hadn’t thought of that. He’s a schoolteacher, kinda soft and quiet, but who knows? See? That’s why I wanted you to come.” I park the car. “Did you see the new chart I’ve got going in my office?”
Ma smiles as she nods.
“And we got a good dog out of it.”
Bar Keep
I carry a tray of beers to a table at the Rooster while trying to stay clear of the drunken dancers. I have a close call one time, but dodge out of the way before we have a catastrophe. This band is called the Potholes. What did I say about all the best names being taken?
Even Jack makes a comment.
“It’s gonna be a bumpy night,” he tells me with a grin.
“Maybe they mean the other kind of pot,” I say.
He takes a look at the musicians, strictly redneck, and chuckles.
“Could be.”
The band’s repertoire is a crowd favorite at the Rooster: Country and Western, a bit of rock, and less blues. Yes, they know the local anthems, “Sweet Home Alabama” and “Free Bird.” Yup, Lynyrd Skynyrd is big here at the Rooster. The Potholes’ lead singer has a voice that carries decently across the crowded room. She’s hitting the high notes well. It’s not often the bands that play here have a woman singer. I’m a little concerned though about the drummer, who’s been tossing back shots. He might not make it through the night.
I get the beers to the table unscathed. The drinkers are fans of the band, which is making its Rooster debut. The fans chose the table closest to the side door, which shows they’ve never been here before because they get a blast of cold air each time somebody steps outside for a smoke or back inside af
ter they’re done. The weather has been mostly dry and cold lately although that’s going to change Sunday night when a Nor’easter is supposed to hit. The prediction is up to a foot here in the hilltowns. The storm is the main topic of conversation tonight at the Rooster. I bet the rednecks in Conwell and beyond have their snowmobiles tuned up and ready to ride. I think about the hike the boys and I plan Sunday morning. Our timing is good.
We’re past serving food tonight. Eleanor has finished cleaning the kitchen. She stands in the doorway between her domain and the bar. She’s got a pouty lower lip as she searches for her brother, who’s at a corner table trying to head off some potential trouble with a guy celebrating his twenty-first birthday. Jack is quizzing his buddies about who’s driving tonight and assessing how drunk they could be.
I fetch beers, mostly the King, of course, for those who prefer to get their own. Besides, the stools at the counter and the tables are all taken, so it’s standing room only tonight.
Eleanor watches me flip caps and take money.
“I like your dogs,” I tell her. “What are their names?”
She blinks.
“Shirley, Pete, and Suzie.”
“Those are good names.”
That’s enough socializing for Eleanor, who holds her jacket in the crook of her arm. She doesn’t make small talk with the customers. No one attempts to do the same with her. They all know better. It’s not just that Eleanor is slow. She’s also unfriendly.
Jack hustles back.
“All set,” he tells me, and then he’s looking at Eleanor. “Ready, Sis?”
She answers by putting on her coat and cap, a knitted thing she pulls down almost to her eyes. She shuffles behind me.
“See you tomorrow, Eleanor,” I say.
I hear a grunt before she follows Jack out the door.
Now I’m in charge, at least for the ten minutes it will take Jack to drive his sister home. The band is on a break. So are the smokers who are clustered outside. They don’t even bother with their jackets. It was 2004 when the state banned smoking finally in bars and restaurants. I remember the date because we did a spread on it in the Daily Star.
Chasing The Case Page 10