“I bet it is. I think I’d have some boots at home that can fit those big feet of yours.” He grins. “I guess I’ll have to be careful the next time I dance with you. I wouldn’t want to trip over them.”
“Very funny.” I tip my head toward the house. “Want to come in for something hot to drink? Sorry, I’m still outta beer.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I better head home. I’ve got some chores to do or I’ll catch hell from Eleanor. She took care of the plowing at the farm. Mary does the Rooster for us.”
“Eleanor plows? I thought she didn’t drive.”
“Well, she’s real handy with the tractor and just about any piece of equipment. She just doesn’t drive on the road. She gets spooked too easily. She never got her license.” He rubs his jaw. “What are you doin’ tomorrow?”
“I was going to go snowshoeing, but I’m not sure I want to do it alone.”
“I could go with you. I’d like to try it. Never have. The ones we have at the house are antiques on the wall. Probably my grandfather used them at one time when he was working the farm. Now they’re decorations.”
“Well, I have an extra pair. They belonged to Sam.”
“Sure, if you don’t mind.”
I shake my head.
“They’re just hanging up downstairs. How about I meet you at the Rooster at one?”
“That works.”
“Uh, don’t overdress. Work boots, jeans, and a jacket will do it. Wear gloves and a hat. You’re gonna build up a sweat.”
“I believe I can manage. I’ll see ya tomorrow, Isabel.”
Jack flashes me one of his grins, and then his helmet is back on his head. He moves the machine in a slow curve on the driveway, and then he’s gone.
I lean on the snow shovel and tell myself, “Isabel, what the hell are you up to now?” I’m a bit surprised by the playful exchange with Jack. Maybe he just wants to do something with somebody, too. I know I’m getting tired of being alone, except for when I’m with Ma. And Ma’s not here.
It’s been a while since I’ve been in this situation, a man who’s not my husband paying attention to me. This doesn’t have to be true love, I remind myself, just having fun with a man and maybe being a little foolish again.
Bobby Collins
I call the number Bobby Collins left me. He answers after the fourth ring.
“Yeah,” he says when I say his name and tell him who I am.
“I was wondering if you have any time to meet with me this week? You know, to talk about Adela.”
He blows smoke in one noisy exhale near the phone.
“How about tomorrow?”
I have an early exchange with Sadie Hendricks, and then I’ll be snowshoeing with Jack.
“I could do it anytime between eight and eleven.”
“At night?”
“No, no, morning.”
“Morning, eh. Yeah, I can do that. Make it ten. I have things to do.” He makes one of those smoker coughs. “Where?”
“How about the Town Hall parking lot? I bet we could talk in the big room inside.”
He’s silent for a bit.
“All right,” he says.
There’s not much more to the conversation, but afterward I go upstairs to add Marsha to the suspect list. Maybe she wasn’t an alibi but an accomplice after all. I add one more name: Deliveryman with a question mark.
Ma Calls Back
I tell Ma all about my conversations with Clara and Bobby.
“Hmmm, I didn’t think about it being a deliveryman,” she says. “It’s a possibility, but he would still need help. I mean unless he loaded Adela and her car in the back of his truck.”
“That’s a good point. It would have to have been one mighty big truck, and I think that snoopy neighbor would’ve heard something like that even in the middle of the night.” I pause. “What about the Floozy helping Bobby?”
“I could see that. When are you meeting him?”
“Tomorrow around ten at Town Hall. I figure it would be safe there. I suppose he knows where I live, but I don’t want him coming here. Jack said the same thing.”
“Jack, your boss?”
“Yeah, that Jack.” I’ve decided to keep Ma out of the loop concerning Jack. Anyway I’m a grown woman and not some teenager living under her roof. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you about Sadie, Chief Hendricks’ wife. She’s got a box of papers for me. I’m picking them up tomorrow.”
“I’m gone one day, and you get all of that done.”
“How’s it going there?”
“Just fine. Danny took me shopping and I got to go to Wendy’s.”
“Did you get any snow?”
“Only rain.”
“Well, you missed a big snowstorm here.”
“No, I didn’t miss it.”
Old Farts Again
Just for jollies, and to follow up on a clue, I stop at the store to visit the Old Farts the next morning. I have plenty of time before I pick up that box from Sadie. The Skinniest Old Fart bends over from his bench when he hears my unmanly footstep between the stocked shelves.
“Oh, oh, here comes trouble,” he announces to the rest of the group as if he’s the lookout.
All the Old Farts stare my way. They wear heavy jackets unzipped and large snow-crunching boots.
“Howdy, fellows? What’s the news today?” I ask.
“Don’t ya watch the news and read the Daily Fart?” the Old Fart with Glasses says.
“Nah, not that kind of news. I’m talking about the dirt in town.”
The Fattest Old Fart chuckles. He knows what I’m up to.
“Are you trying to say we’re a bunch of gossiping roosters?”
I laugh.
“Yeah, something like that. So, what’s new? Come on, you must’ve been talking about somebody before I came in.”
The Bald Old Fart nods.
“Speaking of roosters, we were talking about the new bartender at the Rooster,” he says. “A woman. Heard she and Jack put on quite a show dancing the other night.”
I smile.
“Yeah, I heard about that, too,” I say, deadpan.
The Serious Old Fart elbows the Silent Old Fart beside him.
“Funny, I saw him riding his snowmobile down her way yesterday.”
“Really?” I say, feeling a little hot around the neck. “Are you following Jack around town?”
“I just happened to be driving into town with the missus,” the Serious Old Fart says.
The other Old Farts laugh in a low chorus.
Then I remember the Serious Old Fart has a rep as one of the snoopiest men in town. Malcolm Woodbury is known for driving around to make sure people pulled permits for the work they did on their house. Bingo. I believe I have my deep throat. But I want to make sure.
“Malcolm, you’re on the zoning commission.” I keep my voice casual. “If I decide to build a garage at my place, would I need to get a permit? Sam usually took care of those things.”
He grimaces like I should know better.
“Of course, you’d need a permit, Isabel,” Malcolm aka the Serious Old Fart says.
Got him. It’s the voice although a little lower on the phone as if he was trying to disguise it, but he’s not fooling me. I add the name Malcolm Woodbury aka Serious Old Fart to my contact list.
“Just checking,” I say.
Now the Fattest Old Fart asks if I want coffee, and when I decline, he jokes, “I bet you like that fancy, schmancy stuff, eh, Isabel. There are no baristas here. You should know that if you’re gonna keep showing up.”
“I’m fine, really. I was in the neighborhood, so I decided to stop by and give you guys a hard time again. I may make it my hobby.”
There’s another low chorus of laughs.
Jamie Snow walks into the backroom with a wrench in his hand.
“Hey, Isabel,” he greets me, and then he raises the wrench and announces to the group, “I think I fixed it.”
The Bald Old Fa
rt turns toward Jamie.
“Maybe you should get one of those espresso machines back here for Isabel,” he says.
Of course, there’s another rumble of laughter.
“I’m glad to be the source of your amusement,” I tell them.
“How’s the case coming?” the Fattest Old Fart asks.
Now everyone has a serious mug. They wait for my answer. There are no jokes or light banter about Adela. I give Jamie a slight nod.
“Slow but sure,” I say. “I have a bunch of leads. Some guy called to say I should check out the building and septic permits for that time. He didn’t give his name.” I avoid looking at Malcolm. “It’d be helpful if he called again and helped me narrow down the list.”
I check Jamie’s stone-faced reaction. He’s put off meeting with me a couple of times. I honestly believe it’s a matter of his being busy and his only sister’s disappearance too painful a subject rather than a case of the guilts. Getting him to talk is another of my motivations for coming here this morning.
“What else?” the Fattest Old Fart asks.
“I don’t want to give anything away. It’s too soon.” For that reason, I decide to withhold my questions about a deliveryman. I could see that spreading fast around town. “I’ve been talking with people and going through stuff. The clues are piling up.”
“I hope you nail the bastard,” the Skinniest Old Fart growls.
The Old Farts’ heads bounce in solidarity. The Silent Old Fart gives me a thumbs-up.
“Well, you know how to find me if you have something useful,” I say, and despite their protests, I say good-bye and head out the door.
The Chief’s Box
Minutes later, Sadie Hendricks doesn’t answer right away when I ring the doorbell, but then her son, Chief Ben Jr., who’s a younger version of his father, does. He lets me into the kitchen. From another part of the house, a man moans and protests loudly. The old chief is having a bad day, and I feel guilty bothering his family.
After the typical pleasantries, Chief Ben Jr. says, “I have what you need.” He stoops for a box on the floor. “Let me carry this out to your car.”
“Sure.”
He follows me to the Subaru and places the cardboard box on the back seat. Someone printed “Adela Collins Missing” on the top. It’s a man’s handwriting, probably by the old chief. And, no, it’s nothing like the writing on the gift card I found at Dale’s.
“I stopped by to help Mom get Dad ready for the VA. He’s not, uh, being cooperative today.” His head twists toward the house. “I should get back inside.”
“I understand. Give your mother my best and thank her. It looks like she went to a lot of effort to find this for me.”
“She was happy to do it,” he says. “And let me know if you find enough to pursue a case.”
I eye the box before I shut the door.
“I sure will.”
Bobby Collins
I only have enough time to go home, let the dog out, and give the contents of the boxes a cursory look. Some of the paperwork I already have, like the official police records from around the time Adela disappeared. I see pages of handwritten notes. I smile. Chief Ben drew up his own list of suspects. Of course, Bobby Collins’ name is at the top.
I wait ten minutes for Bobby to show at the Town Hall parking lot. I’ve already been inside and asked the town clerk if we can meet in the big hall. She said okay. The newcomers’ yoga class doesn’t start for an hour.
Bobby drives up in a beater of a Chevy pickup with Nevada plates. He chucks his lit cigarette in the snow bank as he drops from the driver’s seat. I walk across the parking lot to greet him. No handshakes or smiles, just a curt, “Hey, there,” from Bobby, but I’m grateful he’s willing to meet me. I tell him that. He’s a short guy with a semi-mullet and the standard country issue of flannel, denim, and Carhartt canvas. He squints at me like he’s got a pain in his gut but doesn’t want to let on.
“Why don’t we meet inside? It’s a lot warmer.”
He frowns.
“In there?”
“The big hall’s empty. I already checked. It’s okay. Nobody’ll bother us.”
Bobby silently follows me inside to the big hall, where town meetings are held. I covered them when I was a reporter. Now I just go as a resident, raising my hand and saying “aye” or “nay” to the articles of business. The folding chairs are stacked away in one of the closets because the rest of the time, the hall’s used for pickup basketball games and classes. Sometimes there’s a performance or a school play since it’s the only building in town that has a stage.
I choose a spot to sit on the edge of the stage and beneath the basketball hoop. Bobby takes a place several feet away. He unzips his jacket as he looks around.
“Haven’t been here in a long time,” he says.
I figure maybe the last time was during the reception at Adela’s so-called funeral. I recall people avoided him as if he had something contagious. He didn’t even stand with the family in the receiving line.
I know enough about Bobby’s background, like where he grew up and his line of work, construction. I’m not going to waste any time on that stuff because I don’t know how long I can hold him. I need to get down to business, but I do have a softball question ready.
“How long were you and Adela married?”
“Four years, I think. Yeah, four.”
“How did it go?”
“We got divorced, so you tell me.” His voice has a don’t-ask-me-stupid-questions-edge. “Me and her only got married cause she got knocked up. You did that sort of thing then. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that she and I didn’t like each other. But I wonder if we would’ve stayed together if she wasn’t going to have my kid.”
He glances down at his work boots, scuffed at the toes, before he continues.
“We tried, but her family made it clear from the get-go they didn’t like me one bit. I guess I don’t blame ’em. I was drinkin’ heavy then. Drugs, too. You could say I was a real asshole. I did some stupid stuff.” He makes a squinty smile. “I’ve cleaned up my act. I’m doin’ the AA thing now.”
I think back to when I saw Bobby and Dale at the Rooster. As I recall, Bobby didn’t have a beer in his hand but a glass of something dark, probably Coke.
“What kind of stupid stuff?”
“Not stupid enough to kill my ex-wife.” His voice is a low growl. “I know everybody thinks I did it. They still do. I can see it on their faces. But I was with Marsha that night.”
“That’s what you told the cops,” I say. “When was the last time you saw Adela?”
“Actually that afternoon.”
“That afternoon?”
“That’s what I said. I went to the store to give her a check for my kid. Child support. I wasn’t too regular about it, but I just got paid. I thought it’d mean she’d let me see my boy more.”
“A check? Was it ever cashed?”
“No.”
So, his check was never cashed, and Adela didn’t touch her bank account before or after she disappeared. I believe it’s safe to surmise she didn’t take off unless she had some rich sugar daddy.
“I was looking at my old notes from back then. One woman said she saw you and Adela arguing outside the store a couple of weeks before she went missing.”
He works his jaw as if he’s trying to loosen it.
“It was probably about money and my kid. She said she didn’t trust me takin’ him cause I drank too much,” he said. “She was right. I see that now. I didn’t then. Like I said, I was an asshole those days.”
When I look at Bobby, I see a man filled with regrets. He was too busy having fun to see the consequences. Now I wonder what he was telling Dale that night at the Rooster. Maybe he was giving him a warning. Maybe he just wants to be his father after all.
“Can you think of anything that might help me solve this case?”
“All I know is that Adela wasn’t the angel everybody thinks she was.�
��
“I’ve heard that from a couple of people.”
“Mira Clark?” He chuckles. “From what I understand Bruce wasn’t the only one.”
“I get the feeling Adela was having a serious relationship the months before. Do you have any idea who it could have been?”
“Nah, I wasn’t interested in her business anymore.”
I feel I need to wind this up. I don’t know how much longer I can keep Bobby.
“Here’s a question I’m asking everybody. What do you think happened to Adela?”
He shuffles his boots.
“Nobody disappears like that. Somebody did somethin’, and they ain’t tellin’. I’m just sick and tired of people thinkin’ it’s me. So, hurry the fuck up and find out who, will ya?”
“You staying at Marsha’s?”
“Uh-huh, until I get back on my feet. I’m tryin’ to find some work. I did save some dough, but that’s not gonna last long.”
“Anything else you want to add?”
“Nah.”
Snowshoeing with Jack
Jack hovers, watching, as I crouch in the snow to adjust the lacings on his snowshoes, so they’re taut around his boots.
“Okay, that should work,” I tell him, rising. “Why don’t you try them out while I put on mine?”
“Is there a trick to it?”
“It’s pretty flat here. Just walk straight ahead like you normally do. But if you’re gonna turn around, walk in a semi-circle, so you don’t step on the backs of your shoes and fall down. And if you do fall down, you’ll have to roll yourself up as if you’re a really fat guy.”
“I think I’ll avoid that last part.”
“Good thinking.”
I grab my snowshoes from the back of my Subaru while Jack makes deliberate steps over the Rooster’s parking lot. I smile to myself as he moves forward and around his pickup truck and my car, which is parked beside it. I bend over to fix my laces.
Chasing The Case Page 15