by AR Simmons
Richard exchanged firm handshakes with first one then the other.
“This fellow is Richard Carter, a sort of detective, I guess. Is that how you would describe yourself?” asked Jerry Chandler, a glint of humor in his eye.
“Hardly,” said Richard. “I’m just trying to help a friend find her baby.”
The remark sobered Chandler.
“You say a baby?” asked the one Chandler had introduced as Howard. “What happened?”
“No one knows,” replied Richard. “She just disappeared one night.”
“I remember hearing about that. Bad business,” said the other, standing up. “We gotta get going, Jerry.”
“Nice meeting you,” said Greonfeld as he stood also. “I hope you all find that baby.”
Chandler watched his friends leave and then returned his attention to Richard. “Did something come up that you needed to see me for?”
“Nothing came up. I was just wondering if you know where I could find your brother.”
“At his bar. He’s there every day.”
“Not for the past week. He sold his share to Lyla, and she put it up for sale. You didn’t know?”
“No. I wonder what that’s all about. Are you sure?”
“There’s a “for sale” sign. The real estate agent told me about the transfer of ownership, and Lyla was at the bar giving orders this morning. By the way, his house is for sale too.”
Chandler’s puzzled expression gave way to a pained one. “Not again.”
“He’s done this before?” asked Richard.
Chandler shrugged. “Close enough. My brother cuts and runs when things get too comfortable.”
“You mean uncomfortable?”
“No. Comfortable. He sees himself as some kind of rambler and rover—know what I mean? Things get stale, he wakes up one morning and decides to leave and get a fresh start. We’ll hear from him sooner or later. Hell, I’m the musician in the family. I’m supposed to be the impractical Bohemian, not him.”
“I guess that’s okay if you don’t have property or people tying you down,” offered Richard. “You say he’s done this before?”
“Like an A-rab,” said Chandler, intentionally overstressing his hillbilly pronunciation. “Folds his tent and disappears into the night. He’ll show up in few days, or weeks, or months. I stopped worrying about him a long time ago. No use.”
He frowned into his coffee cup. “I’m going to amend my statement, Mr. Carter. Maybe this time he did leave because it was getting uncomfortable. Lyla finally cut him loose.”
“So their relationship wasn’t just an artist-agent thing?”
“You need to know that?” asked Chandler.
Richard shrugged. “Your boss has a private investigator trying to find out if they’re having an affair.”
“Bobby’s crazy about her, but if they were shacking up, they were pretty discreet. The old man would like to be able to prove it, but I doubt that he will.”
“Would it void the prenuptial agreement?”
“He wouldn’t want it known for any other reason. Fact is, he doesn’t want it known at all. He wants to settle out of court to keep it out of the papers.”Chandler laughed. “Funny. The old man is about as sharp as anyone you hope to meet, but he got more than he bargained for with Lyla.”
“How so?”
“As long as the old man went childless, my guess is he thought he was shooting blanks. Then he marries Honeybunch and boom—he gets a kid.”
Richard scanned the room looking for Rafferty. It wouldn’t have surprised him to see her within earshot, but he didn’t. “How sure is he that the child is his?” he asked.
Chandler laughed again. “Real sure after the DNA test he paid for. Renay is his all right. He thinks the test is what made Lyla sue for divorce, but I don’t think so. She kicked in the incentive clause in her contract and decided it was time to cash out and become a free agent again.”
“That’s a pretty cold assessment.”
“She’s a cold babe,” replied Jerry Chandler frowning. “Mind telling me why you think all of this can help you?”
“I have no idea. I just need to talk to Bobby.”
It wasn’t a good idea to give information rather than get it, but he wanted to keep on the talkative Chandler’s good side.
“I believe someone at the bar slipped Valium into Molly’s drink that night. I figure your brother might remember who had the opportunity—you know like who chatted her up, who she might have had a drink with, that sort of thing.”
“You’ve got a suspect you want him to confirm?”
“Nothing that definite.”
“I’ll tell you what. If my brother contacts me, I’ll let you know where he is, unless he asks me not to.”
Richard left his number.
•••
On the way back to James Mill, the obvious occurred to him. The realtor would have to have a contact address should someone make an offer on McComb’s house. He went there, and she surprised him by giving it to him. It was a post office box in a town he had never heard of. When he got back to the car, he took a Missouri map from the glove box. Blue Creek was a small town on highway 60, around a hundred miles to the east of James Mill.
What kind of fresh start can you get in a town that size? he wondered. A “Bohemian” one, I guess.
•••
November 13
The early morning had been an emotional salad of worry, self-pity, and self-loathing. He wondered how long it would be until Jill decided to write him off like a bad debt—how long until she could no longer reconcile herself to supporting an emotional cripple. She had already admitted that he was no longer the man she thought she had married.
I need to suck it up. Stick with one job—bring in a steady income, even if it is only a pittance.
•••
By mid-morning, the recrimination slid away after doing its damage, and his thoughts returned to Molly. She had become the one constant on his mind, not Jill. He didn’t understand how that could be. If Jill left him, his life truly would be over—no cliché, that, and no exaggeration. He clenched the wheel fiercely causing the car to swerve.
“What’s wrong?” Jill asked in alarm.
“Nothing. I was just thinking and … kind of jerked. Nothing.”
He had expected irritation when he broached the possibility of making the Saturday trip, but she surprised him by suggesting that she accompany him.
“Blue Creek is in the middle of the karst area,” she said suddenly.
“The what?”
“The karst. There are many caves, sink holes, and springs there. Porous limestone underlies the entire area. It has an interesting history.”
“Like Eureka Springs, medicinal waters and all that?”
“Maybe, but I think mainly just reliable sources of good drinking water. Of course, the streams were invaluable power sources.”
“Mills?”
“Yes. Today they attract sportsmen and tourists. The settlement period was quite interesting, not at all what most people imagine.”
“Ah. History. This is a field trip.”
“I wanted to be with you, Richard,” she said, sliding a hand to his thigh.
He wondered if her unspoken question was, “Why don’t you want to be with me?”
“If I can find Bobby McComb and finish up early, maybe we can do some sightseeing.”
In reality, he hadn’t figured out what to do with Jill while he was tracking down McComb. The prospect of her tagging along irritated him. It shouldn’t have. After all, he wasn’t a real detective, and it was she that was humoring him, not vice versa.
“Would it be out of your way to drop me off at the college while you’re going wherever it is you’re going?” she asked as if she had read his mind.
For a moment he thought she meant at SMSU, but they were already fifty miles east of Springfield.
“There’s a college on the way?” he asked.
“The
re is a community college in Blue Creek. I’m sure that I could use their library. You go about your business, and pick me up when you’re through.”
He wondered what real work she could do at what he was sure would be an extremely limited small school library. He felt guilty at pushing her aside like a kid sister, but at the same time was relieved at her suggestion.
“You can come along if you wish,” he said half-heartedly.
Of course, she picked up on his insincerity. “Just take me to the college,” she said irritably. “It should be easy to find.”
•••
The community college was easy to find, likewise, the post office, where he now stood in the lobby looking at the single bank of boxes. There were fifty of them, each keyed and embossed with a worn nineteenth century gilt number. Box 34 was empty. When Richard went to the counter occupying the right half of the small vestibule, a thin, vested man looked up through wire-rimmed bifocals. He lacked Victorian visor and armbands; otherwise, he could have stepped out of a movie.
“Can you tell me about the post office boxes?” Richard asked.
The clerk quoted a price.
“I see,” said Richard. “And how often are they filled? I mean how often is mail put in? Is it at a particular time of day or as they come in and get sorted?”
“Once a day. Most people pick up their mail before they open.”
“Before they open?”
“Yes, most of our box clients are businessmen. Overnight deliveries are in the boxes by nine. That’s when we open by the way.”
Richard went outside considering the efficacy of staking out the post office from the car. If McComb had already checked his mail, it would be pointless. Thinking morosely that his legwork had resulted in little more than working his legs, he failed to notice the woman walking toward him.
“What are you doing here?” she challenged when she was close enough that no one nearby could overhear.
Sarah Rafferty’s expression remained neutral as her eyes flitted unobtrusively in a sweep of the street.
“I could ask you the same question,” he said, trying to sound professional. Why he needed to impress her, he couldn’t say.
“You’re going back on our bargain, Carter.”
“We had a bargain?”
“You promised to quit blundering around in my case. Remember?”
“Oh yeah. That was when you gave me the list of Wilson’s clients, the—shall we say, redacted list. Anyway, I didn’t follow you. McComb is selling his house. I got the PO Box from his real estate agent.”
“You’re looking for him,” she said, pulling a face.
“I thought he might be able to help me figure out who slipped Molly Valium at the bar the night her baby disappeared. His leaving town suddenly makes me think that he might have done it himself.”
“McComb left James Mill because you made him and Lyla nervous.”
Richard’s pulse quickened. “They took the baby?” he asked.
“Of course not! It’s because they’ve got something to hide, and now they know that someone is looking into them. You confirmed that.”
He shook his head. “McComb knows that I’m only trying to help Molly. Lyla doesn’t even know who I am.”
“He knows that you told him you were trying to help Miss Randolph. That doesn’t mean he believes you. They’re real close to getting their hands on half of everything that Mr. Peele owns, and you’re making them nervous. If you don’t quit what you’re doing, they might just get away with it.”
“You mean if I make them nervous, then they might be more cautious, and you won’t be able to catch them in—what’s the term—’flagrant delecti?’”
“Flagrante delicto,” she said in disgust. “You’ve seen too many movies. I won’t catch them playing ‘hide the salami,’ but I might be able to establish that they’re living together.”
“Maybe you can get the nanny to testify. I don’t think there’s any love lost between her and Lyla.”
The look of surprise on Rafferty’s face was quickly replaced by one of annoyance. “You’ve been poking around Lyla’s place too. I should have known. Just tell me that you didn’t tell Jerry Chandler about me.”
“How do you know I talked to him? Were you following me?”
“You did. Dammit!”
She shook her head in disgust.
“So you think Lyla will join Bobby here?” he asked.
“I’m not telling you anything. You got all you’re going to get from me. You can’t live up to your bargains.”
“Bargain? You edited Wilson’s appointments before sending them. He was going on house calls to Lyla’s, right?”
“I should have made up some names,” she muttered.
“Why did you try to keep that from me?”
“I didn’t want you barging in! You’re a genius at screwing things up. You know that?”
“Well, if McComb is here, I still need to talk with him,” he said.
“No you don’t,” she said almost desperately. “He’s probably not even out there.”
She winced almost, but not quite, imperceptibly. Richard pretended not to notice.
Rafferty looked pained as she reached out to touch his upper arm. “Look. Give me a chance to do what I’ve got to do without screwing things up for me. Please.”
“Will you let me know where Bobby McComb is?”
“If you go on back to James Mill, I’ll let you know—I promise.”
“I have to wait for my wife to get through with some business at the college here,” he said. “After she’s through, I’ll trot on home. Fair enough?”
“That would be great.” Rafferty actually batted her eyes.
Richard let her think that her “feminine wiles” had worked their magic on him, but he had no intention of leaving before he found out where “out there” was.
He drove to a filling station near the highway, watching surreptitiously as Rafferty waited for the stoplight. Pretending to pump gas, he noted which way she turned onto the highway. As soon as she was out of sight, he hung up the nozzle and followed at what he thought was a discreet distance.
•••
The Blue Creek campus was a small cluster of new brick buildings surrounding a metal gymnasium that was the obvious centerpiece of the college. Next to it, newly constructed athletic dorms fringed an ample parking lot. Farther up the hill, behind the athletic center, were administration buildings and the library where Richard had dropped Jill off. Absent were fraternity houses. The privileged class did not attend JUCO. The student body was a mix of small town and rural kids from the immediate area along with a sprinkling of athletes whose grades precluded attendance at a more prestigious school. The common sense motto on a billboard advertising the school hit the proper note: “BCCC, a good place to start.”
She examined the austere collection of reference books, surprised to see a twenty-volume edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. She picked up the first volume and saw neatly printed on the flyleaf: “These volumes are presented to Blue Creek Community College by Irene Chronister, once called ‘teacher,’ a true lexiphile, and amateur learner.”Initially, the term “lexiphile” hit her as intellectual pretension, as she was sure it would any reasonably sophisticated student. The incongruity of the last phrase, however, made her reconsider.
She opened the volume to the appropriate page and found what had been intended to be discovered. The word came from her native tongue, and had she been thinking in French rather than English, she would have understood what Irene Chronister had meant.
She laughed aloud in appreciation.
Yes, Ms. Chronister. The only good reason to do anything is for the love of it.
Later, the same thought came to her when she read a public notice in the county biweekly newspaper. She put the paper aside and glanced around at the nearly empty tables. A scattering of students sat in various stages of concentration, reading, taking notes—one had fallen asleep. She got up to take a se
cond look at another notice, this one on the bulletin board. Then she went to one of the computers and called up the Hawthorn County web page.
•••
Within two miles, he lost Rafferty, so he pulled over to study the map. McComb probably lived in the county, and since there were only four roads leading off the highway. That meant that he either lived on one of them or on the highway itself—at least that made sense.
The first road led to the county landfill. The second took him past ramshackle trailers to an abandoned sawmill. While driving down the third, this one paved, he tried to imagine what Rafferty had been doing at the post office if she already knew where McComb had holed up.
He pondered that puzzle as he passed a county ambulance shed. He thought it odd that it was so far out of town, but figured there was probably another on the other approach to Blue Creek. The ostentatious sign for yet another gated community appeared within a mile. In the distance, a handful of new multi-storied, multi-gabled houses stood cheek to jowl on a low range of wooded hills. Yellow bones of roof trusses poked skyward evidencing continuing construction.
He drove through the gate and took the meandering pavement past the new colony of the privileged expecting to see Rafferty’s car or the vehicle that had always been parked near the door at The Honeycomb, the one he assumed was Bobby McComb’s. He looked through the development seeing neither. The drive took him back to the road he had taken coming in.
He stopped at the gate to study his map again. The last of the four roads led off to the left. He took it. Even at a low speed, dust billowed behind him as his tires cut noisily through recently laid gravel. Passing through a stand of second-growth timber, he emerged into rolling grassland overgrown with sprouts and brambles, the sort of scrub badly in need of bush hogging. As he topped a low hill, a small lake (or large pond) came into view down to his right. On the far side of it, a log construction, too large and ornate to be termed a “cabin,” sat at the water’s edge.
