Chasing The Case

by Joan Livingston

  The first four months are filled with notations about bills and appointments at the Conwell Medical Center. Of course, there are birthdays. Her father’s is January 15. Her mother’s a week later. She marks off February and April vacations for Dale.

  “Nothing unusual here,” I tell Ma, and she hums in agreement. I turn the page to April and May. “Same stuff here.”

  But in June she starts writing X’s on certain days, Mondays the most, some Tuesdays, and weekends. I flip through the pages. In early August, she blocks off an entire week, the second. She wrote VACATION. I need to ask Andrew and Dale about that. Did she go away that week? If so, did she take her son?

  She drew a red heart on her birthday, August 21.

  “Looks like it was a good birthday for her,” Ma says.

  “I bet those are the days she hooked up with her guy friend,” I say, avoiding the term boyfriend since women Adela’s age, or mine for that matter, don’t date boys unless they’re cougars. “Funny, it’s almost like she’s keeping score.”

  The Twirl

  The snowmobilers are out in force Friday at the Rooster. The tables are piled with helmets. Suits are draped over chairs or hanging from the hooks Jack placed strategically along one wall. A few of the guys just walk around with their suits unzipped to their waists and the top half hanging off their butts. Heavy boots thud across the floor.

  Jack’s grinning big. The riders bring big appetites for food and booze. Eleanor is one busy cook tonight turning out meals. But that’s winding down as the band begins to set up. Tonight we have the Slim Jims, named that, I hear, because three of the four musicians — the lead guitar, keyboardist, and drummer — are named Jim. None of them are slim, but what the heck. The last guy, who plays rhythm guitar, is named Fred. I’ve heard them before. They’ll rock the Rooster with the usual covers plus a couple of originals.

  I’m stationed behind the bar with Jack. The kitchen is closed. Jack clears the tables. I smile and fill drink orders. I ask to see drivers’ licenses when the drinkers look a bit young or I don’t know them. Jack told me he’s not about to get in trouble because some young punk can’t wait until he’s 21.

  “Want a glass with that?” I ask a woman who orders a Bud.

  Behind her I see a familiar face. The Floozy is here. I don’t see anyone else with her. She steps forward.

  “What can I get you, Marsha?” I ask.

  “Bud.”

  “Coming right up,” I say, reaching into the cooler and snapping it shut fast when I have the bottle in my hand. “Here you go.”

  Her hand digs into the front pocket of her jeans for the money.

  “You see Bobby yet?”

  “No, have you?” I say loudly because the guys in the crowd hoot and holler as the Jim at the keyboard bangs out the opening chords to “Truck Drivin’ Son of a Gun.” Now, if there were ever a redneck play list, this would be high on it. The trucker in the song is supposed to be this big stud with women everywhere on the road, plus one waiting at home. That’s a lot more than a lot of the guys in this room could handle, except maybe in their wet and wild dreams.

  The lead singer, one of the Jims, bends toward the microphone and says, “This is for all you mother truckers.” Yeah, the guys holler their approval.

  The Floozy raises her voice, “Yeah, I did. He was pissed you’re gonna dig up all that old stuff.”

  “What’s he worried about? He’s got an alibi. That’s you, right?”

  “Hell, right.”

  “If he has nothing to do with Adela’s disappearance, wouldn’t he want to know what happened to her? She was the mother of his son.”

  She glares at me as she mulls what I just said.

  “I suppose. He just don’t want no trouble.”

  “I’d just really like to talk with Bobby.” I tip my head, thinking about what Dale said about his father. “Here might be a good place but not on a busy night. You have his number… never mind. Here’s mine.” I grab an empty meal ticket and write my landline on the back. “If you talk with him, you can give him this.”

  I pick up the wrinkled bills, exact change, of course. She stares at my phone number before she shoves it in her pocket.

  “Enjoy the beer,” I say as brightly as I can make it. “Next.”

  Jack waltzes through the crowd with a tray filled with bottles and glasses. I tell him to leave it on the counter and give him a clean one to make another sweep. I drop the empties in a carton at my feet and bring the glasses into the kitchen where Eleanor washes dishes. She’s got a real mess tonight. She’ll be heading home later than usual for sure.

  I set the glasses at the exact spot she likes on the counter. There’s no kidding around with Eleanor.

  “Jack might have more.”

  She grunts.

  “Really busy tonight, eh?”

  Grunt.

  “It’s supposed to snow on Monday everybody’s saying.”

  Grunt.

  “Okay, I’ll leave you alone.”

  No grunt.

  Yes, it’s supposed to snow again. The storms tend to come in a steady pattern, hitting the hilltowns on certain days of the week. So, maybe we will get snow on Mondays from now on, at least until a really huge storm hits and disrupts the flow. Remember what I said about watching the weather? I’m sure as hell glad not to start my workweek navigating bad roads.

  I look out from my spot at the bar. The place is in motion with dancers. I hear happy voices and the clunk of boots. Over my shoulder, Eleanor’s still working in the kitchen. I’d offer to help, but this is my post for the night. Besides, she’d tell me to get lost in her Eleanor sort of way; that is, she’d ignore me or maybe grunt. If she could manage a growl, I bet she would.

  On the other side of the room, the Slim Jims gulp down beers before their next song. One of the Jims leans into the mike. “This is for all you bad hombres lucky enough to have a woman like this.” Then the crowd goes a bit nuts when the Slim Jims play the familiar opening to Waylon Jennings’ “Good Hearted Woman.” Yeah, I bet all the bad hombres in this room would like one of those gals.

  Jack drops a full tray on the counter and before I take anything, he grabs my wrist. He tips his head toward the direction of the band.

  “Come on, Isabel, let’s dance,” he says, and then he announces loudly, “The bar’s closed. No beer until this song’s over.”

  I let him drag me onto the floor. I haven’t danced in well over a year. Jack’s a bigger man than Sam, but I’m surprised by his moves. I can’t recall seeing him dance before, but then I might have just been having too good a night out with Sam that I didn’t pay attention. I let him have the lead, and he’s got me twisting and twirling on the dance floor. I hear myself laugh. Jack laughs, too. The other dancers move aside for us. He’s got that big Jack Smith grin going. He’s spinning me this way and that, and even ends the tune with a corny little dip. We get a cheer from the customers when he pulls me upright at the end.

  I’m a little breathless, but I manage, “Thanks. That was really fun, Jack.”

  He chuckles.

  “We’ll have to do it again soon,” he says, and then he jokes, giving me a loud but friendly, “Now, woman, git back behind the bar.”

  I giggle to myself, yes, giggle, as I make my way back. If Sam were here, he’d think it was funny, too. Eleanor stands behind the bar with her knit hat pulled past her ears. Her coat is half open. Her pouty lips form a deep frown.

  Jack is right behind me.

  “Hey, Sis, ready for a ride home? Sorry to make you wait,” he says before he turns toward me. “Isabel, think you can handle this rowdy bunch?”

  He’s joking, of course. People are having too good a time to do something stupid that would get them kicked out.

  “Course, I can. Night, Eleanor.”

  Eleanor doesn’t answer, but she does give me a brief, hard stare before she follows her brother. Man, when she’s ready to go, she’s ready to go.

  Ma’s Plans

&n
bsp; Ma announces Saturday morning she’d like to go back home for a couple of weeks. She wants to spend Thanksgiving with my brother’s family. I figure she must’ve been talking to Danny about it on the phone beforehand, but I’m not hurt. She’s been celebrating the holiday for years at his house, with his kids and grandkids, and besides she has other business back there. Maybe she needs a break from me, I joke, but she assures me she likes living with the animals and me. I make a mental note she mentions the animals first.

  So, here it is the next morning, Sunday. The plan is for me to drive her halfway. We even skip church. My brother will meet me off the turnpike. Ma won’t have her car there, but my brother or one of his kids will chauffeur her around. I’ve got her suitcases in the cargo hold of the Subaru. The dog, Maggie, is in the back seat. I’m at the top of our driveway and thankful the storm won’t start until after midnight.

  “Good timing, Ma,” I tell her.

  “You sure you don’t mind my going?”

  “I’ll miss you. But, nah, Ruth wants to have the dinner at her house,” I say. “Gregg’s folks are coming. Last year’s Thanksgiving was just awful. Sam hadn’t been gone that long, and it’s the one holiday he actually enjoyed.”

  “Anyway, we’ll have Christmas together.”

  “That’s right.”

  The car seems to know its way through the hilltowns to the valley, where I pick up the pike. I will admit I’m not a fan of highway driving, but traffic is light, and it’s all for a good cause: Ma’s happiness. Along the way we talk, mostly about the case, naturally. I’m hoping to meet Jamie this week, and maybe his ex-wife although that will have to be on the phone since she high-tailed it out of the hilltowns after they got divorced. Maybe the Floozy will give Bobby my number. I’m also going to give the police chief’s wife a call to see if she turned up anything. I might spend some time going through the drawers at Dale’s house, if he lets me.

  “You going to get all that done while I’m gone?” Ma asks.

  “It sounds like a lot, but really I haven’t made much headway. I don’t want to let Andrew down, especially now that he’s paying me,” I say. “I keep thinking about that card I found in Adela’s bedroom. It definitely looked like a man’s handwriting. What if I showed it to a few people to see if they recognize it?”

  “That might be asking for trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “Suppose you show it to the person who wrote it.”

  “Good point. Maybe I’ll just pay more attention to people’s handwriting.”

  My brother, Danny, waits just where he is supposed to be at a fast food joint. We’re going to have lunch. Fortunately, the place serves an okay salad. I love my mother, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere although I do buy a burger for the dog waiting in the car.

  Danny is clearly pleased to be bringing Ma back. He’s a big guy with a big sense of humor, as we in Massachusetts like to say. He’s the perfect baby brother, and the only boy in our family. My sisters and I teased the hell out of him when he was a kid. It’s still fun to do.

  I give Ma a hug.

  “I’ll let you know if there are any developments.”

  “You do that. And take good care of Roxanne and Maggie.”

  “Don’t you worry about that.”

  Sunday at the Rooster

  The house is quiet when I get home hours later. If she were here, Ma would have the television’s volume turned up as she watches the Patriots or one of her shows, because she’s a little hard of hearing, although like Sam she’d never admit it. While I’m a fan of the team, I’m not that much of one I’d sit alone in my living room with a beer and my feet up. Besides, I’m out of beer.

  I head down to the cellar for firewood. The dog follows me. I’ve already got a fire going in the woodstove, but I’ll bring up a pile of logs for the night. Burning wood to keep our house warm requires a lot of carrying and moving. Here’s the process. I get green wood from Charlie because it’s cheaper, but I’ve got to let it season a year. I carry the logs I stacked the previous year into the cellar, as much as I can fit, and the rest goes under the deck, which I haul inside sometime mid-winter. Are you still with me? Then I stack the green logs just delivered in a long, neat stack outside to dry for next year. We burn four cords a year, so essentially I touch eight during the fall. Oh, then I carry them upstairs.

  Don’t get me wrong. I do love stacking wood. My piles are neat and sturdy. I feel it’s a bit of an art. The kids sure didn’t. Sam and I would get them out here, and before we knew it, they had disappeared. Sam always worked beside me, of course, unless he had a paying job. There’s nothing romantic about stacking wood together. It was a chore that needed to get done, and it was better with four hands than two. We didn’t sing or talk a lot because Sam couldn’t hear me anyways. The job took us several weekends. Of course, this fall I did it all by myself. I had plenty of time. If the weather was good, I brought a chair out for Ma to keep me company. If she wasn’t up for it, I cranked music up loud.

  Local wisdom has it that you should only burn half of your firewood by Christmas. I have burned more than the usual amount because of my mother, but we’re okay. I believe in a few weeks, I’ll bring in more. Maybe I can guilt the boys into helping me.

  The dog sniffs around Sam’s woodshop.

  “Yeah, you would’ve liked him,” I tell her. “Come on, Maggie, back upstairs.”

  Damn, it’s too quiet up here. I glance at the clock on the kitchen stove. I tell myself, “What the hell.” I don’t feel like spending the evening alone or on Adela’s case, so I’ll do what most everybody else in Conwell does. I’ll head to the Rooster and have a beer. But I’ll feed the animals first.

  When I arrive, Jack is behind the bar, with both hands stretched flat on the counter as if it’s holding him up. He revs up that Jack Smith grin when he sees me.

  “Hey, Isabel, can’t get enough of the place?” he asks.

  I take a stool.

  “No, I need a beer, and I’m fresh out at home,” I joke.

  He goes for the beer on tap I like and pours me a glass with minimal foam.

  “Here ya go,” he says.

  I glance back. The drinkers have thinned to the True Blue Regulars. For them, the Rooster is their second home, likely because their first one isn’t as much fun. If Jack put in showers and beds, they wouldn’t have a reason to leave, except to work and gas their trucks.

  That’s when I see the Floozy in the corner of the room. She’s with another of the Rooster Floozies, but the next generation. Marsha’s mouth is open when she laughs. The poor woman really could use a trip to the dentist.

  I have a decision to make about food. I’m hungrier than I thought, but then I only had a salad at the fast food joint. It’s burger night. I can smell the grill’s hot fat from my stool. I can’t imagine Eleanor agreeing to fix me a salad. But there are always French fries.

  “Could I get an order of fries?” I ask Jack.

  “Sure, I’ll go tell the cook.”

  He dutifully writes down the order in a neat block print.

  “You have nice handwriting,” I say.

  “I’ve had to work on it for Eleanor’s sake. I used to have lousy handwriting like most guys. She complained a lot she couldn’t read it.” He sticks the pencil behind his ear. “Be right back.”

  I turn when I hear footsteps behind me. The Floozy makes her approach.

  “Hey, Marsha.”

  She stops less than a foot from me. I smell beer, cigarette smoke, and BO, not an appealing combination for a woman. Her dry, gray hair sticks out like a sloppy halo around her head. Her mouth twists into a sneer.

  “Just so ya know, I gave Bobby your number. He says he’s gonna call and straighten you out.”

  “Straighten me out?”

  “Uh-huh, he didn’t do anything to her. I told the cops and everybody else he was with me that night.”

  “That’s fine, Marsha. I’m not planning to make any trouble for him. I just want
to hear what he has to say. Like I said, he might know something that could help.”

  Jack is back in his spot. His brow has a heavy edge. He tosses the pencil next to the pad of order slips.

  “Can I get you somethin’ else, Marsha?”

  Her head tips back like suddenly she’s damn proud of herself. She jerks her chin side to side a bit.

  “Nah. Just wanted to have a talk with Isabel. I’m headin’ out.”

  Jack wipes the counter with a rag, which I am learning is a good bartender distraction.

  “Sure enough. See ya soon.”

  “Thanks for letting me know about Bobby,” I say.

  Jack waits until the Floozy wobbles back to her seat and pulls on her jacket. She’s already got a cigarette stuck between her lips although she knows she can’t light it until she goes outside.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “Bobby Collins. I gave her my number, so he’d call me. I want to set up a meeting.”

  He nods.

  “Wow, you’re really taking this serious.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Eleanor slams the kitchen bell.

  “Be right back.”

  A minute later, Jack sets the red plastic basket of hot fries and a bottle of ketchup in front of me. He grabs a Bud from the cooler and twists off the cap as he takes the seat beside mine. He takes a gulp.

  I salt and pepper the fries then slide the basket his way.

  “Help yourself.”

  He slaps his gut.

  “No, thanks. I’m fat enough already.”

  I give his belly an appraising look.

  “Ha, Jack, you don’t look so fat. Besides, a couple of fries aren’t going to hurt.”

  He shoves a fry in his mouth. I swear he’s blushing.

  “You talked me into it.” He chuckles. “Bobby Collins, eh? I’d be careful with him.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard. Even his son said as much.”