Chasing The Case

by Joan Livingston

  “Mom’s also a detective,” Alex says.

  Anne’s eyebrow arches.

  “Detective, really?”

  “Tell them about your first case,” Alex says.

  At that, Ruth lifts Sophie from her high chair. It’s time for the baby’s nap, but then again, Ruth has heard enough about my new life as a detective. She doesn’t want to hear a repeat performance for her in-laws although Gregg sits back with an amused look on his face. I give the baby a kiss when Ruth brings her to me.

  “You have a case?” Anne says. “What’s it about?”

  I nod, planning to give her the very condensed version.

  “Adela Collins, who lived all her life in our town, disappeared one night twenty-eight years ago. No one knows what happened to her. She was declared dead officially seven years later by her family.”

  “In this little town, really?” Anne says. “A woman disappeared? What do you think happened to her?”

  I slide the half-full glass back toward me.

  “I’m still gathering clues, but I’m leaning toward murder or an accidental killing rather than suicide. Her father hired me to find out what happened after I started snooping around. I was only doing it for myself then. I wrote about the case when I was a reporter, and it bugs me still.”

  The boys hoot.

  “Hired? You didn’t tell us that part,” Matt said. “Now our mother is a real detective. Isabel Long, P.I.”

  “You know, Matt, that has a real nice ring,” I say. “I think I’ll use it.”

  Local Color

  The Rooster is jumping and bumping tonight, and from my vantage point at the bar, I can tell a lot of the customers will be humping later on. Yeah, I’m being a bit crude, but I’ve seen more men and women getting felt up here tonight than by the TSA at the airport.

  The kitchen is slammed. Jack smartly decided to serve only burgers and fries to keep it simple for Eleanor. When I arrived, she had plates of burgers, likely formed by her naked hands, in the fridge. The poor thing was slicing onions, and tearing up something awful, so I let her be, except for a “hi, ya,” and I didn’t expect even a grunt back.

  The slips pile up and Jack warns folks that Eleanor is doing her best in the kitchen. But no one seems to mind. You would’ve thought nobody had stuffed themselves with turkey and pie the day before as they wolf down burgers and fries. I check the kitchen a couple of times, but frankly, I don’t know what I could do to help Eleanor, if she’d let me. Besides, I’m busy chatting as I open bottles and pour beer from the tap. I even have mixed drinks to make, including a Manhattan for some newcomer. I ring up the orders. Jack’s the runner tonight.

  I know most of the newcomers. Their kids grew up and went to school with my kids. We watched them play soccer or baseball on the sidelines. We even socialized. They all came to Sam’s funeral and told me how sad they were he died. Many tonight seem surprised by my new job. I guess they aren’t part of the Conwell network although everyone in town knew I wasn’t working at the Star.

  “How’s it working out for you here?” they say, as if they’re trying to squeeze the real story out of me.

  I joke back, “That Jack’s a real slave-driver,” and hopes he hears me.

  My customers include those kids who grew up with my kids, or younger, and I ask all of them to show me IDs. My standard reply is, “When did you get old enough to drink?” and then, “Okay, you’re good to go. Now be careful.”

  The natives are out in full force. They outnumber the newcomers and their guests three-to-one. Dale Collins comes alone and orders at the bar. I don’t have time to ask him if he’s searched those drawers yet. By the way, his Uncle Jamie called me as I was leaving the house to set up an interview tomorrow afternoon, say around three, at the store. He said we could talk privately in the store’s office, which I didn’t know existed next to the walk-in cooler. I am guessing the discovery of the restraining order against Walter Bartol has something to do with Jamie finally agreeing to meet me.

  Actually, a number of the people connected to this case are here tonight: Mira and Bruce, and Marsha, of course. Bobby Collins sips Cokes at a table with his Floozy friend. He gives me a gruff hello and neither tip when I bring them their drinks.

  Some in the crowd give a welcoming holler when the Cowlicks carry their amps and instruments through the side door to the spot reserved for them. Jack greets the band, and then he’s back at the bar with a full tray of empties and dirty dishes.

  “Hey, who’s that guy over there who looks a little like you?” I ask Jack. “I don’t think I’ve seen him in here before.”

  Jack turns briefly.

  “Sure you have. That’s my cousin Fred Lewis. He’s on my mother’s side. Lives in Titus. He must’ve come by snowmobile. Yup. See his helmet?”

  I check out Fred, who’s sitting with a group of local guys, as I drop empties into the cardboard case at my feet. Jack gives his cousin a big family howdy-do as he strolls over. They grab each other’s hands in a full-bodied shake that’s close to arm wrestling. Jack and Fred appear to be about the same age. Both have full heads of dark hair with some gray.

  Jack is back.

  “My cousin says you’re a pretty woman,” he says.

  “How much has he been drinking tonight?”

  “Very funny, Isabel.”

  At 7:50, which is really 7:40, Jack rings a cowbell hard to announce the kitchen is closing in ten minutes. Then he sets the bell beside the cash register, so some drunken clown doesn’t make off with it.

  “Where’d you get the cowbell?” I ask him.

  “I found it in one of the barns back home.” He tips his head toward the full room. “I thought I’d need somethin’ to get their attention besides my loud mouth.”

  The bar’s level of excitement rises significantly when the Cowlicks begin their first tune, “Gimme Three Steps,” an automatic crowd-pleaser by Lynyrd Skynyrd, of course, and as soon as they grind out those opening chords, guys holler in approval and race with their dates to the dance floor. Those newcomers unfamiliar with the Rooster’s layout get jostled aside. Or a few brave ones join the stampede.

  Maybe that’ll hold them for a while. I haven’t had a chance to sit all night.

  Jack takes Eleanor home an hour later. She’s really beat. She smirks when I tell her good night, and then she shuffles through the customers with her head down toward the closest door. She does stop when she sees her cousin, Fred. Her back’s to me, so I can’t see her reaction, but she lingers a bit as he talks with her. I swear she talks back before she continues on her way outside to her brother’s pickup. Jack follows right behind her. He points to a couple of kid drinkers old enough to drink.

  “Behave yourselves,” he warns.

  As soon as Jack’s gone, Fred Lewis comes to the bar to order a Bud and a shot of whiskey, which he tosses back as soon as I set down the glass.

  “Jack says your name’s Isabel. I kinda remember you from before. You used to come dancing here a lot with a guy.”

  “Yeah, he was my husband.”

  “Was?”

  “Yes, he died a year ago.”

  “So, you’re available?”

  “Available for what?” I ask him.

  “Oh, now, I see why Jack hired you.” He actually gives me a wink. “You’re one of those sassy women.”

  “I suppose I am. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Maybe I’ll start comin’ around here more often.”

  I nod. Cousin or not, this guy is giving me the creeps. I decide to get all business-like. I ignore his attempts at being too friendly. I don’t know who the hell this guy is, and right now, I’d prefer Bobby Collins’ attention to his.

  “You ready to settle up? I could ring you up right now.”

  “Nah, I have a tab.”

  I fish through the stack of tickets.

  “Oh, here it is.” I scribble the amounts for the beer and shot. “You can settle up with Jack before you leave.”

  “S
ure enough.”

  Fred returns to his table.

  “Did I miss anything?” Jack asks when he returns.

  “Not a thing,” I say.”

  Jack and I dance a fast one in the Cowlicks’ second set. He clangs that cowbell to announce the bar is closed, and then he’s pulling and twirling me to Waylon Jennings’ “Good Hearted Woman,” what else, and I’m wondering if that’s what Jack thinks I am. Certainly, Sam thought I was his “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

  The newcomers clear out faster than the natives. By the time it’s close to eleven, only the True Blue Regulars are left. Even Jack’s cousin is gone. The pace has slowed enough that I can begin cleaning behind the bar. Jack carries cases of empties to the storeroom. He slides open the coolers.

  He whistles.

  “We sure went through a lot of beer tonight,” he says.

  Jack shuts the cooler just as the Cowlicks’ lead singer announces the next song is the last for the night. It’s Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces,” and I hum along with the opening. I even begin to sing along. I know the words by heart because I’m a huge Patsy fan.

  Jack takes the rag from my hand and tosses it in the sink.

  “How about a slow one this time?” he asks.

  My heart ticks a little faster as he tugs on my wrist and I go with him to the dance floor. He pulls me so close about all I can do is wrap my arms around him although I stop short of resting my head against his chest. I follow him around the floor. People must be staring. I would if I were in their place, but I don’t care.

  Jack smiles down at me.

  He asks, “What do you say, Isabel?”

  In Bed

  Jack and I are going at it in my bedroom. I knew it was going to happen. Jack was hoping it would happen. Perhaps you were rooting for the guy.

  We closed up the Rooster, jostling and teasing, laughing, and finally when the last drinker left, a bit of kissing and inappropriate touching. Jack followed me home, and as I let the dog out briefly and fed the cat, Jack sat and watched as if he were studying me for an exam. He was in Sam’s old chair, the one he died in, but I can’t bear to part with it because he built it.

  But now Jack and I are upstairs in my bed with our clothes off and having a grand old time.

  Jack whispers, “I may come awfully fast. It’s been a while.”

  And I say, “That’s okay. I’m a little nervous, too. It’s been a while for me, too.”

  Then he says, “Aw, Isabel, I won’t hurt ya.”

  Jack’s doing his best to warm me up, and he succeeds. I’m panting and moaning. And, yes, when the moment does come, it’s over quickly.

  Afterward, I smile when I say, “I’ll make sure it won’t be a while before the next one.”

  Jack gives me a kiss before he rolls to his side.

  “I’ll hold ya to it.”

  The top sheet is down by our feet, so we get a look at each other. I lit candles on the bureau and the nightstand beside the bed. I believe there’s just enough light for me to be firm and beautiful in Jack’s eyes. Maybe. Jack, I see, has one of those square solid bodies, with a bit of a belly. He’s not a hairy guy, I’m pleased to see, not even on his chest. He does have one nasty scar on his abdomen, and he shudders when I run a fingertip over its edge.

  “Operation or knife fight?” I ask.

  “Neither. Motorcycle accident. Actually, I was with my cousin you saw tonight. We were fooling around. And we weren’t even kids then. We were a bit drunk and stupid that day.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t care much for your cousin.”

  “Somethin’ happen?”

  “Not really, just a feeling. He came up to the bar while you were gone with Eleanor. It wasn’t so much what he said but how he said it.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “Your sister actually stopped to talk with him,” I say. “I was a bit surprised.”

  “Those two go way back. Fred lived with us for a while.”

  “I see. Well, the Rooster must’ve had a great night tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah. I haven’t counted it up yet, but I bet it was quite a haul. I’ve got the money stashed under the front seat of my pickup. Don’t worry, it’s locked and has an alarm.”

  “What?”

  “Hey, I don’t want some yahoo breaking into the place.”

  “Don’t you have a safe?”

  “Yeah, at home, but I didn’t make it there last night. Remember?”

  I make one of those silly giggles.

  “Yeah, you didn’t.”

  “Thanks for all your help tonight,” he says. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Well, I have in the past, but it wasn’t as much fun.”

  “You’re talking about the Rooster, right?”

  Jack chuckles.

  “You naughty girl.” He plays with the nipple of one breast. “Come here, Isabel, so you can drive me crazy again.”

  Morning After

  I’m half-asleep when I hear the buzz of a vibrating cell phone and realize it belongs to Jack. The phone is in the pocket of the pants he discarded on the floor with the rest of his clothes and my clothes. Jack is asleep beside me, snoring lightly. Last night, after the second time we had sex, he mentioned going home but kept putting it off until I joked either he had to stop mentioning it or I was going to kick him out. And then we both drifted off to sleep. I’m glad he stayed. It’s been over a year since I had a man beside me in this bed.

  The phone buzzes again. I believe it’s the fourth time. I check the clock. It’s around nine. I shake Jack’s shoulder.

  “Somebody keeps calling you,” I say.

  He has one eye open, then the second. His chest rolls in a sigh.

  “Morning, gorgeous.”

  “Morning, yourself.”

  The phone stops.

  “I bet it’s my sister. She’s probably wondering where the hell I am.”

  “You two are awfully close.”

  He stretches over the side of the bed for his pants. He plops back down beside me and raises the phone, so he can check the screen.

  “Yeah, we are. I’m all she’s got,” he says. “It’s her all right. She called four times.”

  I lie beside Jack as he speaks in a jovial voice to Eleanor. He’s sorry if he worried her, but he’s just fine. He’ll be home soon.

  I note Jack doesn’t offer his sister an explanation about why he’s not home or who he’s with. Maybe she thinks he slept at the Rooster although I doubt it.

  And now I have a dilemma. What happens if this thing with Jack continues? Unless I’m reading Jack wrong, this isn’t just a one-night stand. I can tell Jack has feelings for me. I have them for him although I’m not sure what they are.

  But it’s the sleeping arrangements that worry me. It’s my house, but I don’t know how comfortable Ma would be having Jack stay overnight or that we’re having sex upstairs. How would it be going to Jack’s place with his odd sister spying on us?

  “See ya, Sis,” Jack says.

  “Eleanor okay?”

  “She’s fine.” He sticks the phone in the pocket and drops his pants onto the floor. Then he’s back in his place, lying beside me. “What are you doing today?”

  “The usual Conwell triangle. First the dump, then the library, and the store,” I joke. “I’m meeting Jamie Snow finally to talk about his sister.”

  “Has Jamie been avoiding you?”

  “A little. It’s probably too painful a subject.”

  Jack nods.

  “I can see that.”

  “Do you remember a guy named Walter Bartol?”

  “Bartol, Bartol,” he repeats the name as the last name sounds familiar. “Yeah, he used to deliver beer up here. The Rooster was on his route. Why?”

  “The old chief had him on his short list of suspects. I saw other paperwork about him.”

  “Another guy took his place, but I didn’t think anything of it. Chief Ben had him down as a suspect? Hmm, never thought of that before.” His eyebr
ows make a quick up and down. “Next, you’ll be telling me I was on the chief’s list of suspects.”

  I poke his side.

  “No, silly, your name didn’t come up,” I say. “Hey, why don’t you take a shower? I’ll go downstairs and fix us some breakfast. What do you take in your coffee?”

  “Just make it black for me, ma’am.”

  Jamie Snow

  As I described to Jack earlier this morning, I hit the dump, the library, and then the Conwell General Store, in that order. The Old Farts have long deserted the backroom, so I can meet Jamie Snow without drawing too much notice although I’m sure word will get back to them. The store’s office, tucked beside the walk-in cooler, is nothing more than a closet with a window facing the back of the store. It has enough room for a four-drawer filing cabinet, a desk with a computer, and a few chairs. The shelves built into the walls are filled with old loose-leaf binders.

  “Please have a seat,” Jamie tells me, and then he nods at the open doorway. “Hey, Dad.”

  Andrew Snow shuts the door behind him. He holds a manila envelope.

  “Isabel, how are you?”

  “I hope you don’t mind my Dad joining us,” Jamie says. “At Thanksgiving, he told me about some papers he found in my sister’s home. They concern Walter Bartol. I believe you know about him now.”

  “Walter Bartol. Yes, I’m very interested in him.”

  Jamie raises a hand.

  “Just so you know, I wasn’t in favor of you looking into what happened to my sister. I didn’t see the point. So much time has passed… but I’m all right with it now. Dad told me about the box of papers you got from the old chief.”

  “That’s how I found out about Walter Bartol.” I pause. “Your sister took out a restraining order against him. I saw the paperwork.”

  “What?” Jamie says.

  Andrew’s head bows. He lifts a fingertip to his right eye. “I honestly didn’t know,” he says hoarsely like he’s working up to a cry. He turns toward his son. “Jamie, did you?”