The files didn’t have any big surprises. Recalling my lax nature with Jack, I dutifully studied each one. The newcomers were sure keeping the local guys busy with work that year. They came to town with heavy pockets and gladly paid whatever because it was still a helluva lot cheaper than what they would have spent at wherever they came from. They hired a general contractor to take care of everything from putting in the driveway to slapping on the last coat of paint. Nothing sinister pops out on that list.
As I mentioned, Sam and I did it ourselves. Victor Wilson, of course, built his own garage. Jack took out the permit for his sister’s sunroom. His cousin Fred handled the excavation because, as he told me the other night, he likes digging holes. They installed concrete posts that were poured well below the frost line to hold up the sunroom.
As for septic systems, Woodrow Excavation appeared to have a monopoly, except for the Floozy’s mobile home. Bingo. Bobby Collins did the work there. That guy can’t cut a break in this case, or maybe I’m just getting soft on losers trying to reform.
“Who is this Fred?” Ma asks.
“He’s Jack’s cousin. I found out from Ronnie he used to work for Woodrow Excavation back then. Not a very likable guy. But a whole better person than that Walter Bartol.”
“Yeah, too bad about him losing his arm.”
“Well, the man was drunk when he drove into the tree.”
“Oh, that. I meant it gave him a good alibi. We could have wrapped up this case.”
“Very funny, Ma.”
I skip telling Ma about my romp in the sack with Jack last night. I stopped by the Rooster to flirt a little in the evening. His sister kept poking her head out the kitchen door a few times as if she was some chaperone at a teen dance. Jack came over after he closed up the Rooster and dumped his sister at home. He was all over me last night. I didn’t mind. Who knows when we’ll do it again? The front seat of his pickup truck is looking more and more like a possibility. Besides, I’ve never done it in a pickup before.
“Isabel, did you hear me?” Ma asks.
“Huh, no, I was thinking about something.”
“About that new fellow?”
I laugh. Man, my mother can read my mind.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
“I was saying I have a new theory about that night Adela disappeared,” she says.
Ma has a new theory? Thank God. I am fresh out of theories, except for Victor Wilson holding Adela hostage and then offing her when he was finished with her.
“What is it? I’m all-ears. But I plan to keep my eyes on the road.”
“We kept saying there must’ve been two people who went to her house that night. Because one person would have to drive her car while the other person took the car or truck they came in. Right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Suppose Adela left by herself.”
“Left by herself. What do you mean?”
“I believe we have ruled out suicide because of where the car was found. People searched that area really well. So did you and the boys.”
“And we don’t suspect she’s alive and well somewhere else in America,” I offer.
I glance at my mother. She’s got a shit-eating grin on her face if that would be possible with my ninety-two-year-old mother.
“What if she went some place on her own?” she asks. “That next-door neighbor did say she heard one car pull out fast. She didn’t hear two.”
“That’s very good, Ma.”
“Maybe she got really upset about something someone did or said. Remember the broken dishes?” Ma nods. “We just need to find out who she was meeting.”
“Wow. I take that back. That’s excellent.”
“Now you have to find out who that person is.”
“And who had a way to dispose of her body.”
Our exit is ahead. I hit the car’s turn signals.
I feel myself smiling. Ma came up with a new idea when I was getting ready to call it quits.
“Glad you’re home, Ma.”
“Me, too.”
Up Close and Personal
It’s big doings tonight at the Rooster. We have the full menu, hungry and thirsty customers, and a band called the Hunters and Gatherers. I kid you not. Jack says they’ve played here before. Sam and I must have been away that Friday, or maybe it was during my year of mourning for Sam when I didn’t go anywhere fun on purpose. I ask Jack if the band’s name has anything to do with the timing of their gig tonight, it being the middle of deer season.
“Maybe,” he jokes.
Plus the Hunters and Gatherers have a Rooster-friendly play list. Already tonight, the band has played “Mustang Sally” and “Ramblin’ Man.” When the guitarists started twanging Charlie Daniels Band’s “Long Haired Country Boy,” a redneck romp erupted on the dance floor. This may not be the best tune for dancing, but they get it done and shout along with the chorus. Most of the guys here tonight are long-haired country boys anyway, including members of the band, dressed in their flannel or Western shirts with pearl snaps. Their jeans sag at the knees. Pointy-toed cowboy boots or scuffed work boots are the top choice for footwear. With the recent milder weather, the snow has thinned on the trails, so there are no snowmobilers here tonight.
Yes, indeed, Southern rock is big here in the hilltowns of Western Massachusetts.
By the way, the list of lucky hunters has grown a bit this week. People keep checking it out. The apparent winner so far is a Rooster regular.
As usual, Jack waits on the tables tonight. I’m pouring a river of beer, so I’m stationed behind the bar. Eleanor is hit hard in the kitchen.
Midway through the second set, the lead singer of the Hunters and Gatherers announces in the microphone, “This one’s for you, Jack.”
Jack laughs and sets a full tray of empties on the bar when he recognizes the opening chords to “Good Hearted Woman.” He starts clanging that darn cowbell and shouting above the crowd, “No more beer until I’ve finished dancin’ with this woman.”
Giggling, I let him lead me to the dance floor, and we go at it. It’s an odd song, really, about a woman who will put up with just about any antics of her much wilder man. But it has a nice beat, and for some reason, Jack thinks of me when he hears it. This time, he spins me around three times, and I gasp, “That’s a new move.”
He’s one happy man. I’m one happy woman.
Jack and I walk back to the bar after the song is over. Eleanor stands in the doorway, arms crossed, her lower lip hanging, as her eyes shoot bullets at her brother and me. She mutters under her breath, but the place is too noisy for me to hear what she is saying. Frankly, I don’t give a shit.
“Take it easy, Sis. I was having fun with Isabel,” Jack tells her. “Maybe you should try it some time.”
I’m a little surprised by Jack’s tone of voice. Annoyed is a good description. I believe Eleanor is, too, because she spins around and retreats into the kitchen. She sputters words beneath her breath. I hear a loud crash in the kitchen, and when I stick my head in the kitchen, a bunch of dirty dishes are broken on the floor.
“You okay?” I ask Eleanor.
She gives me a drop-dead look and a grunt.
Behind me, Jack clangs that cowbell again.
“Dancin’ for Isabel and me is over.” He winks at me. “Come and git your beer.”
Then Jack slips into the crowd with a tray of shots for the band, his reward, I suppose, for playing Waylon Jennings’ tune in that set. I get back to work, paying attention to the guys who sit along the bar and the line that’s formed. The Floozy stands three drinkers back. I take the customers one at a time, making pleasant small talk about hunting to the hunters and the weather, which has moderated since our last storm, to those who aren’t.
“Hey, Marsha, what’ll you have tonight?”
She raises two nail-bitten fingers.
“A Bud for me and a Coke for Bobby.”
“Sure enough.”
“Bobby says you’re a l
ot nicer than he expected.”
I slide the drinks forward.
“That’s a relief to hear. Here you go.”
She carries the drinks to the table near the front door. Bobby raises his Coke in a salute when he sees me looking his way. Crap, could he really have done it? One scenario Ma and I came up with in the car was that Bobby threatened to take Adela to court over visitation rights. Maybe he said he would bring up all the slutty things she’d been doing. Slutty is my word, by the way. Ma used the word loose. Adela got so ticked off she drove to Marsha’s. Bobby didn’t mean to kill her, but she struck her head on something. Then he and Marsha buried her.
Oh, boy.
On the other side of the barroom, the band is burning the place down with the Georgia Satellites’ “Keep Your Hands to Yourself.” I smile thinking of the band’s name. I used to tell my new hires at the Daily Star there are two kinds of reporters: hunters and gatherers. Gatherers wait for phone calls and work off press releases. Hunters chase down stories. I wanted hunters. They got it.
I suppose I’ve been both for Adela’s case. But I’m giving myself one more week. Shoot, this would’ve been a lot easier twenty-eight years ago.
“You off somewhere else?” Jack asks me when he drops a tray filled with empties on the bar.
I smile.
“Just daydreaming,” I answer. “Oops, the band’s taking a break. Step back, Jack, before you get crushed.”
The door opens. Jack’s creepy cousin, Fred, makes his way through the crowd of smokers outside. Just my luck, there’s an empty seat at the bar.
“Hey, there, gorgeous, set me up with a Bud and a shot of your best rotgut.”
I know by now what he drinks.
“Sure enough.”
He leans over the bar and gives a shout, “Hey, Eleanor, you in there?”
Eleanor pops her head through the window. The kitchen is closed, but she’s got a mess in there to clean, including the broken dishes on the floor.
“Fred,” she says, with a bit of a giggle, really a giggle, and then she’s back inside.
“You must be the only person in the world she likes other than Jack,” I tell Fred.
“She and me go way back. You might say we were kissin’ cousins.”
I feel like throwing up on him thinking about what that might entail, but instead I say, “Oh, really.”
Jack returns with more empties. He’s trying to keep up. He says it was a blessing actually when the state stopped smoking in bars. He doesn’t have to clean ashtrays although he keeps cans outside for the smokers. Of course, the lazy-ass smokers just chuck their butts on the ground.
The band is back. They’re into the music. So are the dancers. And those who aren’t dancing, howl and hoot instead when they recognize a song.
Fred tries to get my attention.
“You want something else? The kitchen’s closed, but I bet Eleanor might fix you something since you both go way back.”
Damn it, I can’t help being sarcastic.
Fred crooks his finger. He wants me to move closer.
“How about you and me doin’ somethin’ together some time?”
I feel myself blush a bit. I know what he means by doing something. Yuck. But instead I make a joke.
“Sorry, I’m not allowed to fraternize with the customers. Company rule.”
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday,” Jack says behind me.
Fred laughs over his beer bottle. Kin or not, he doesn’t want to risk getting kicked out for six months from the only bar around.
Now the lead singer announces, “Here’s somethin’ for those of you who like to get up close and personal when you dance, but keep it semi-clean folks,” and the band plays Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces.”
I smile at Jack as he holds out his hand.
“You pay them to play that song?”
“Uh-huh,” he says, and then he shouts, “Bar’s closed until the end of this song.”
We’re on the floor again. He pulls me close, and I don’t mind who sees or knows we are together. I hear his heart chug. I bet mine does the same.
“Too bad your mother came home today,” he says.
“Well, I did tell her I might be late getting home.”
He gives me a slow twirl.
“Woman, you’re gonna wear me out.”
We’re just teasing each other. We have no plans tonight. I think last night did him and me for a while. I mean we’re not kids anymore.
We’re both joking and laughing our heads off still when we return to the bar. Eleanor stands there with her winter jacket zipped to the neck. She’s pulled her knit hat to her eyebrows. She stares like she’s been waiting hours.
“I wanna go home now,” she tells her brother.
“Take it easy, Sis,” he says before he turns toward me. “Isabel, you gonna be okay? We have a full house tonight.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
Eleanor gives me a hard bump with her elbow as she walks toward the door. No, she doesn’t say “excuse me” or anything like that. She doesn’t even grunt.
Fred slides his empty forward.
“This bottle must have a hole in it,” he says. “Could you fix it please?”
I reach into the cooler.
“You want a shot with that?”
“Nah, I’m fine.” When he smiles, I see the family resemblance between him and Jack. But it ends there. “Looks like you and my cousin are getting real cozy.”
“We were just dancing.”
His chuckle borders on a cackle.
“I’m not blind.” He leans forward. “But if you want a man with a little more horse power let me know.”
I squeeze my eyes almost shut.
“I’m just fine.”
Ma’s Surprise
I do get home late, but naturally Ma is up watching TV. I helped Jack close up the place. We kissed a bit and joked about doing it on one of the tables. He said he would carve “Jack and Isabel did it here” on the bottom.
“I thought you’d be out later with that fellow of yours,” she says.
“Nah, he hasn’t cleaned out his place yet.”
“Just bring him here.”
“Wouldn’t that make you uncomfortable?”
“Uh, how long was it before you and Sam actually married?”
“I forgot about that.”
“You sure you wouldn’t mind?”
“Might be nice to have a man around the house once in a while.”
I shake my head. Wait until Jack hears this.
Saturday
My mother and I do the Conwell triangle Saturday morning although we do it in reverse to break things up. Mira Clark set aside some books she thought my mystery-loving mother would want. She was right.
Outside the library, Ma asked, “Is she still on your suspect list?”
“No, I crossed her off.”
“Good. She’s really nice. She gets me the books I like.”
I smile. Ma’s getting softer than me.
At the general store, I hear the old chief is at the VA hospital. The consensus is that it’s a blessing for him and his family. He was too much for his wife to handle any more.
While Ma searches the store’s shelves, I get a soup bone at the deli counter for the dog, as if that would win her over. Jamie Snow asks how the case is going, and from his voice I surmise he talked with his father about Walter Bartol.
“I haven’t given up just yet,” I tell him although I am half saying it for my benefit.
The dump was uneventful. I was only there long enough to drop off the recyclables and chuck one small, white bag into the dumpster.
“Big day out in Conwell,” I joke to Ma. “Hey, let me show you where that Victor Wilson lives.”
Ma’s only comment when I drive along the dirt road is, “Well, this is the boonies.”
“I think that’s the way he likes it.”
I stop the car at the end of his driveway. Crap,
or maybe not, Victor is unlocking the gate. There’s no way I can pretend he doesn’t see us. I put the car in park.
“Be right back, Ma.”
“Isabel, what are you doing?”
“I’m going to ask him a few questions.”
“Suppose he did it?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
I shut the car door and walk toward the gate. The motor of Victor Wilson’s pickup cycles behind him as he studies my approach.
“You again.”
He stays behind the gate. I’m on the other side. I wish now I asked my mother to get in the driver’s seat as that getaway driver I accuse her of being.
“Sorry to bother you.”
“What do ya want?”
“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“About what?”
“Do you remember Adela Collins, the woman who disappeared twenty-eight years ago? Her family has asked me to look into it.” My voice is a little shaky because Victor is giving me a major staredown. “I’m asking around to see if anyone might have some useful information.”
Silence.
“Did you know Adela?”
“Sure I did. But if you think I killed her, you’re crazy.”
“I’m not saying you did. Did you ever have a, uh, personal relationship with her?”
He snorts.
“You’re kiddin’ me, right?”
“Not really. I’m also talking with people who might have, uh, had some work done on their property. You put in a garage and did everything yourself, right?”
He snorts again.
“Isabel, right? I gotta give it to you askin’ me that. You got brass balls, lady.” He stoops a bit to check out Ma in the car. “Who’s that with you?”
“My ninety-two-year-old mother.”
Chasing The Case Page 22