Chasing The Case

by Joan Livingston

  Along for the Ride

  I spend the rest of the morning amusing Sophie. I keep an eye on the clock for her first nap of the day. That would be the ideal time to make our field trip. I feed her a bottle, change her diaper, and get her dressed properly.

  On the front seat I have my paperwork: the map of where each building or septic system permit was issued the year Adela disappeared, the list of who took them out, and a pad to take notes. On one sheet, I draw lines to create three columns. At the top I write: Yes, No, Maybe.

  Here is my plan: I have mentally divided the town into north and south. I will take the south today, making notes about each property and taking photos. There are about forty-six permits total. Some are duplicates since the person took out a building and septic system permit for a new house. There are about eight of those. If I cross off ours, that leaves seven.

  Snow on the ground does present a challenge, but so much time has passed that if Adela were buried somewhere, the excavated spot would be grassed over or beneath somebody’s house. I’m just trying to get my bearings today and tomorrow. The next big step will be confronting Walter Bartol. Thank God, Jack will be with me for that.

  I peer over my shoulder. Maggie has stationed herself beside the baby.

  “Ready, kid?”

  Sophie kicks her little boots.

  I head to the village near the town’s border with Hartsville, where Mira and Bruce Clark live. They aren’t on the list of permits, but their neighbor is. Mrs. Hanover needed a new septic system. The houses in this village were built long before any zoning laws were passed, so they are close together, almost cheek to jowl, because it’s likely they all belonged to the same family at one time. They are also near a rather large river. Mrs. Hanover had to get a fancy tight tank, which according to this map, fills up a rather tiny backyard. The house has since changed hands twice. Newcomers now have it.

  Yes, Mira Clark made the suspects list, but at the bottom. So did Bruce, her schoolteacher hubby with the wandering eye, but I seriously doubt either of them dumped Adela’s body in old lady Hannover’s hole without the guy putting in the septic system noticing.

  My guess it is unlikely Adela’s body is here. These people aren’t the type. But I dutifully make my notes, roll down the window, and take a shot of the house with my phone. I do the same for the two next-door neighbors, who also had to get new septic systems.

  I recall the board of health, much to the displeasure of some of the skinflint old-timers, was cracking down then on septic systems near bodies of water. It was brave of the board members to take on this project, but they had real ammo when it was discovered somebody’s septic system was draining shit into the river. I believe it was one of these three. I take notes and photos. I register them in the No column.

  Three down, a bunch more to go.

  I check the review mirror. Sophie gazes out the window. The dog does the same on her side of the car.

  “Hey, Sophie, I don’t want you ratting me out to your mother,” I tell her.

  She gets those little boots moving again.

  The next house, a saltbox-style, is one of the eight with double permits. Sam built the staircase, one of his specialties, and all the trim for the newcomers. The couple still lives there. No kids, so I didn’t have much contact with them outside of the open house they threw when the house was finished. They are his-and-her-lawyers, so I doubt they had a motive for killing and sticking Adela in their artfully landscaped backyard. Besides, they hired one of the contractors in town to handle everything. He’s one of those upstanding types I know personally. I scribble and snap photos anyways.

  I check behind me. Sophie is conked out already. So is the dog. Good girls.

  Now I head to a back road, mercifully frozen and snow-covered, but not thawed and muddy. Pickup trucks are parked along the shoulders. If I drove by early this morning, I would have likely seen hunters in their cabs, drinking coffee, maybe smoking, while they waited for dawn to signal the start of shotgun season. I used to see them on my way to the newsroom.

  At this time of day, the hunters are likely tromping through the woods. The better the hunter, the deeper they go, I hear. But then again, if you kill a deer, it’s an awfully long walk back with something that heavy.

  A lot of the guys have their spots staked out. This part of the forest is owned by the state, so they can hunt freely. Otherwise they need to get permission ahead of time from the landowner. Or the land belongs to them or their family, as in Jack’s case. He and Eleanor own over a hundred acres they inherited from their folks, most of it wooded, but the farm has large fields somebody hays for them. The gardens their parents used for growing vegetables have long been abandoned. The farm stand fell apart in a windstorm about ten years ago. The barns and pens are empty.

  I’m wondering how Jack and his buddies are doing. I called him last night at the Rooster to wish him luck. He said his cousin was there. He and Eleanor were yakking it up. Now that would have been something to see, silent Eleanor talking. But I was glad I stayed home. Fred Lewis gives me the willies.

  The next house is a log cabin built by one of those solitary guys who never has much to do with the rest of the town. Victor Wilson doesn’t like anyone coming near his property, so no-trespassing signs are nailed to the maple trees every hundred yards along the road. I bet he did the same along the entire border. I typically see him pumping gas outside the general store.

  Once in a while, Victor comes to town meetings to bitch about something. He’s a scrawny dude with a long hipster beard, from before they came into style, and naturally, a wild head of hair. I have no idea what he does for a living.

  I can barely see his house through the trees, but the permit says he built a garage. I take a shot of his driveway.

  Just my luck, Victor Wilson steers his pickup into his driveway. He stops and rolls down the window.

  “What’d ya want?” he growls.

  “Nothing, Mr. Wilson. I just stopped to check on my granddaughter. See her in the back seat?”

  Now the dog is curious. I hope she doesn’t start barking.

  “Who are you?”

  “I just live here in town. Name’s Isabel Long.”

  “Yeah, I seen you at meetings. You used to be a reporter.”

  “That was a long time ago. Take care. Bye now.”

  In the mirror, I see he’s waiting for me to really move on. Maybe he and Eleanor would make a good couple. Victor Wilson may be a nut, but I wonder about a motive. Did he want a woman so badly he kidnapped her and held her hostage as his sex slave in his log cabin?

  Come on, Isabel, you’re watching too many bad movies and TV shows with your mother.

  Still, I add him to the maybe list.

  It’s afternoon when I finish the properties on the southern half of town. I find nothing remarkably suspicious, just newcomers doing the right thing when they built their houses or fixing bad septic systems for those delightfully antique homes that turn out to be money pits. There are a few do-it-yourselfers. They are all listed in the No column, except for Victor Wilson. I will have to ask Andrew Snow about him.

  Sophie is awake. She blinks and smacks her lips. I better get home to feed and change her. I’ll call Ma to give her a report on what I found today.

  A Question for Andrew

  I call Andrew later in the afternoon when I put Sophie down for her second nap.

  “You go yet?”

  “To Walter Bartol’s? No, that’s Wednesday. Jack Smith is coming with me.”

  “Good, good, that makes me feel better. Jack’s a big, strong guy.”

  I smile thinking of him and Walter going at it.

  “That’s why I asked,” I lie. “I have a question for you. What do you think of Victor Wilson?”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

  “Victor Wilson. Why do you bring up his name?”

  “Well, he took out a building permit for a garage he put in that summer. I drove out there today. He�
��s got an awful lot of land you can’t see from the road. And he’s not very friendly, I found out, when he saw me taking photos.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing too serious. He just wanted to know why I stopped near his driveway. I told him I was checking on my granddaughter in the backseat. I didn’t mind lying to him.”

  “Isabel, what are you doing?”

  “I’m visiting every property that got a new septic system or building back then. I’m halfway done,” I say. “Do you think Victor Wilson and Adela could have had any kind of relationship?”

  “Other than paying for gas and groceries? I doubt it,” he says. “But then again, I’m finding out things about my daughter that I didn’t know before. Let me talk with Jamie and Dale.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you adding Victor to your suspect list?”

  “I may have to,” I answer.

  Drive-by Shootings

  The next morning, I time my second day of drive-by shootings, of the photography kind, of course, with Sophie’s first nap of the day. I told my mother last night I’m hoping for more success today, but as she reminded me, that only works if Adela’s killer lives in Conwell. Adela’s killer, that’s what Ma now calls the person responsible. She’s ruled out suicide. I am leaning that way, too.

  I turn in my seat. Sophie plays with one of her squeaky toys. The dog is attentive.

  “Hey, kiddo, thanks for not squealing on me to your mother yesterday,” I tell her.

  Those little pink boots start moving.

  I take a left at the driveway to check out a house that’s been empty for years. The owner died years ago and the family still fights about what to do with it. It’s another case of a small yard facing a river, actually the lower end of the Brookfield. This spot is wide open. Everybody would’ve seen what was going on. I give it a place on the No column and move on.

  In a low spot across the river, I recognize hunters in orange and red making their way among the trees. Jack called last night. He didn’t get a deer, but one of his buddies did. His cousin, Fred, shot one, too.

  “The guys will be celebrating hard tonight at my place,” he said. “Eleanor’s making us supper.”

  “Sounds like a guys’ night out. Good luck tomorrow.”

  Jack asked about my day. I mentioned Victor Wilson, and he answered, “That’s one crazy dude. Didn’t you see his name on my permanently banned list? Been on it for years. It would take an act of God to let him back inside.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He’d come in and spout all this White Supremacist crap. He made a big deal about it, the loud mouth. I know he’s always carrying a gun. Bet he has an arsenal up there. I don’t need somebody like that at the Rooster.”

  “Do you think he could’ve done something to Adela?”

  “Hmm, never thought about that.” I heard a loud commotion in the background. Guys were shouting. “I gotta get goin’. The grub’s on the table. Eleanor made pot roast with all the trimmings.”

  “Bon appetite,” I joked.

  The properties on my list are heavy with newcomers. I see a lot of nopes there although my mother wondered last night about the contractors in town. That’s likely a stretch, I told her, but I won’t discount it. It would require me to go to Town Hall and pull files. Course, I have an in with the town clerk because she’s the daughter of Andrew’s cousin.

  Surprise, surprise, a septic permit was pulled at Marsha’s trailer. I didn’t realize it was her property because I didn’t recognize the last name. I bet the place belonged to her parents, who left it to her, likely the only nice thing they ever did for their daughter. I recognize Bobby Collins’ pickup in the driveway. Marsha is a maybe. Bobby is, too, although I’m convinced his attempt to straighten himself out is sincere. Ma says differently.

  I pass Jack’s place. He and his sister took out a building permit for a sunroom on Eleanor’s side. I pull to the side of the road. Eleanor marches through the field with her mutts, all of them wearing orange construction vests. The dogs crisscross in front of her. I take a quick shot and hope she doesn’t see me. Where should I put this one? Come on. Jack wouldn’t do something like that.

  So, when it comes down to it, I have a whole lotta nopes and two maybes.

  Visiting Walter Bartol

  Jack picks me up, as he said he would, at nine Wednesday morning. He looks beat. Too much drinking and hiking, he says, as he chats about his failed hunting trip, well, at least for him. But he had fun being one of the guys in the woods for two days. He says Eleanor was in her glory making them food, and frankly, I find his description of his sister amusing. I roll my eyes when he says his cousin Fred mentioned me a few times.

  “Fred wants to know when he’ll see you again.”

  Jack laughs when I say, “In his dreams.”

  “So, did you solve your case while I was gone?”

  “Hardly. I drove around with my granddaughter, Sophie, checking out everyone who took out building and septic system permits. You and I are on the list by the way.”

  “So, we’re suspects?” he jokes.

  “No, but I do wonder about Victor Wilson. And I was ready to write off Bobby and Marsha, but she had a new septic tank put in her place around that time. Certainly, Bobby had access to heavy equipment in those days. Course, I would have to go to Town Hall to see who did what when.”

  “Let’s see if you get that big break today.”

  It turns out Walter Bartol lives in an area of the city that was built up during the fifties, similar to the neighborhood where I grew up. Things were promising in post-war America. Couples could get a mortgage to buy a home. Mom stayed home with the kids. Businesses gave pensions.

  When we turn off the main drag onto Maple Street, I point toward a red ranch-style house with a breezeway and a garage. A pickup truck is in the driveway. Of course, I didn’t call ahead. That would have been nuts. I’m just relieved Jack came with me on this fact-finding mission.

  “That’s the one,” I tell Jack.

  “All right,” he says as he steers to the side of the road. “He might remember me, so let me do the introductions. And if we get a bad feeling, we’re not going inside. Okay?”

  I blow out air.

  “I’m with you on that, Jack.”

  We enter the carport. I ring the doorbell. I bite my lip wondering if we’ll get a response, and after a while, I see movement through the kitchen door’s window. A man is coming to see what we want. He opens the door partway.

  “If you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, I told you people already, I’m not interested.”

  Jack greets the man.

  “Walter, remember me? Jack Smith. I own the Rooster in Conwell. You used to deliver beer to my place a long time ago.”

  “Jack Smith? Course, I remember. You one of those Jehovah’s Witnesses now?”

  “Hell, no. I want you to meet my friend, Isabel Long. She wants to ask you some questions.”

  Walter only has the door open about a foot. He looks like your average old white guy with a balding head and short whiskers, and a fat ring around the middle.

  “What kinda questions?” he says with a bit of a snarl.

  “Do you remember Adela Collins? She went missing twenty-eight years ago,” I say with a shimmy to my voice. “Her father has hired me to find out what happened to her. I was hoping you could help out with some information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “The police chief gave me the restraining order Adela Collins took out against you a few months before she disappeared.” I study the man’s face as I talk. His features form sharp, hard folds. “Her family recently found letters you sent her. You seemed really angry about something.”

  Walter snorts.

  “I sure as hell was.” He stops for a moment. “Are you tryin’ to say I could’ve done somethin’ to her?”

  “I didn’t say that, but it doesn’t look too good you sending her those letters and stalking her.”
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br />   Walter Bartol flings open the door and charges forward a few steps. I’m ready to flee but instead I slide closer to Jack.

  “Now how do you suppose I could have killed that bitch? Take a look at me.”

  Walter turns to make a point, but it isn’t necessary. He’s missing his left arm. The sleeve hangs in a flap. It certainly would be a hindrance trying to get rid of a body with only one arm.

  “What happened to you?” Jack asks.

  “I was in an accident. Drunk driver. Happened on Labor Day Weekend that year. I was in the hospital for months. The doctors tried saving my arm, but it was too mangled.” He jabs the forefinger of his remaining hand my way. “So, it couldn’t have been me. Got it?”

  I nod. This man is such an ass, I would’ve liked that he was the one who killed Adela. But he isn’t. Walter Bartol drops off the suspect list with a huge thud.

  “Mr. Bartol, you cleared up things nicely,” I say. “Thanks for your time.”

  “I don’t wanna see you here again.”

  Walter slams the door hard.

  Back in Jack’s pickup, I am silent for a moment. Walter Bartol seemed like such a solid lead. But maybe his accident didn’t happen like he said. I have an idea.

  “Jack, do you mind going to the Daily Star?”

  “The newspaper, what for?”

  “I want to take a look at the bound volumes of the old papers. It’s easier than going to the library and using the microfiche machine. We can find out if Walter is lying about when he lost his arm.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure, you can wait outside if you want. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  “No, no, I want to watch you in action.”

  I smile.

  “You’re a pretty good stand-in for my mother.”

  At the Daily Star

  Jack, who’s getting the hang of my wicked sense of humor, like we say in Massachusetts, chuckles when I say, “Stay close to me,” as we enter the Daily Star. I give the place the once over and except for fewer desks in the editorial department, it isn’t much different under the new regime.