What Happened To Flynn

by Pat Muir

  “Yes. It is. I’ve already mailed him a formal notice about it; I also posted it on his door when I went to check on him. If I don’t hear from him shortly, I’ll have to turn the matter over to our attorney.”

  “And then?”

  “We would go to court to get a judgment allowing us to file a lien against Flynn’s mobile home. Eventually, there would be sheriff’s sale of the home.”

  “Would that be to anybody’s advantage?”

  “Nobody would want to get rid of Flynn just to take his mobile home. It’s an older singlewide. The park owner would buy it, have it removed, and install a newer, fourteen-foot-wide unit and either sell that or rent it out. He would make more money than he’s getting from Flynn.”

  “You would get a commission for that sale or rental?”

  Swanson shrugged. “If I got the listing, then, yeah, I guess I would.”

  I felt the need to butter up Swanson, so I asked him how long he had been manager of the Palomar South mobile home park. “Twenty years,” he told me. “It was the first property my nephew bought.”

  “Your nephew?”

  “Yes, Larry Swift, the owner, is my nephew.”

  So that was how Swanson got the job of park manager. That was also why he knew about Flynn being unhappy that his ex-wife had left him for a wealthier man. No wonder Flynn was angry at having to pay alimony. I told Swanson I wanted to question a few neighbors of Flynn and asked for the owner names. He wrote the names and space numbers on a piece of paper from memory. I asked for a copy of Flynn’s application to rent in the park, which he had Mrs. Swanson prepare. I smiled at her as I left. Her scowl did not change.

  I knocked on the entry door of the mobile home at space 77, which belonged to Eleanor Bratz. I wanted to know what she thought about Flynn. Perhaps she had captured him like the novelist in Stephen King’s novel Misery and was forcibly persuading him to marry her now that he was divorced. My imagination was running wild; it would make a fascinating story, one I could write about and become famous. No one answered my repeated knocking, so I left my business card at the driveway side-entry door, the one more frequently used. An elderly man with a sour look on his face from the home next door pointed to the red-painted shallow curb on that side of the road, thus suggesting I move my car to guest parking one hundred yards up the street. I nodded my head politely at him and instead drove my car into the empty driveway of space 74. That space contained Flynn’s mobile home, an old, forty-foot-long Bramble singlewide. An adjacent steep bank had squeezed his site, so unlike other homes in the park, it had a driveway immediately adjacent to the driveway of his neighbor in 76. The home’s only door was on the side of the driveway where I had parked my car. A green, handicap-equipped GMC van stood in the immediate neighbor’s driveway.

  I walked up a wheelchair ramp and knocked on the door of 76, and a woman in her late thirties, about sixty-eight inches tall, with shoulder-length, reddish-brown hair and a good figure for her age, came to the door. She wore a faded yellow top over well-worn jeans, and she offered a warm smile as I introduced myself. “I’m Sheriff Detective Notfarg investigating your missing neighbor, Arthur Flynn. You are Mary Smith?”

  “Yes, “she replied. “I spoke to a detective before. You’ve heard from Art, then?”

  “No, but I’d like to talk to you about him. May I come in?”

  “Would you mind if we talk in Art’s home? My husband is sleeping.”

  I nodded my assent and added, “I understand you have the key to Mr. Flynn’s home and are looking after his cat.”

  “Yes,” she said, producing a key from her jeans. “He’s been paying me twenty dollars a day to look after it.” As we walked across the dual driveways, a gust of hot wind lifted Mary’s hair, revealing a long neck. No wrinkles yet. They’ll come in time, like mine. I looked in Flynn’s mailbox and found it empty.

  “I’ve been emptying it ever since Art left on his trip,” offered Mary. “I’m worried since he said he would be home on the twenty-first.”

  “Well, how much money did he give you since he hasn’t returned on schedule?”

  Mary appeared surprised at the question. “Well, he gave me a check for four hundred dollars, but that was also to fully clean his home and wash all his clothes and linens. I actually haven’t cashed it yet.”

  “You’d better do it soon in case his bank account is closed.”

  I made some mental calculations. Four hundred dollars for the complete cleaning of the home and washing and ironing of his clothes and the rest for looking after the cat. That meant he wasn’t planning to be away for much more than ten days. We entered Flynn’s home, extraordinarily neat for a man and immaculately clean. I remarked on it as a long-haired ginger cat wandered up to me and rubbed itself against mine and then Mary’s legs. Flynn’s home had a kitchen, living room, and one bedroom, which was large enough for him to have installed a desk and tower computer in addition to the usual bedroom furniture. I looked through the stack of mail that Mary had piled on the desk—a credit card bill, a bill for television and internet service, bills for phone and electric service, Swanson’s late rent notice, and two dozen charity solicitations. There were two letters, which I opened and read. They thanked Art Flynn for past sales service. Nothing from debt collectors. No suicide or other personal note. The waste bucket stood empty. I tagged the address book on the desk and put it into an evidence bag I had brought in from my car. I could see no house phone, typical of realtors. A framed photograph of a man, a beautiful woman, and a little girl featured prominently on the desk.

  Mary saw me looking at it and said, “That’s Art, Marge, and Sally. Marge is Art’s ex-wife.”

  “And Sally’s his daughter?”

  “No. Sally is Marge’s daughter from her first marriage. A lovely little girl who Art simply adores.”

  I took the photo out of its frame, tagged it, and put it in the evidence bag. I opened the two-drawer file adjacent to the desk. It contained copies of listings and closed transactions. One file was marked personal. It contained the title to his mobile home and his car, an insurance policy on the car, a trust document, an accidental life insurance policy, and a four-year-old letter containing effusive handwritten thanks in immaculate penmanship for selling the writer’s mobile home. I turned on the computer and stared around the room as it booted up. Mary sat down in a side chair, watching me. The computer did not require a password for access. I opened up the word processing program and checked the latest documents written. Most of them had a business character. I noticed one letter written in late August to a Mrs. Marjorie Flynn at the Bangor Nursing Home. I took down the address. We went into the living room and sat down. The cat jumped on my lap and began to purr.

  “That’s unusual for Ginger. She prefers men,” said Mary with another smile.

  I did not take it as a compliment and brushed the cat off. I don’t need cat hairs on my pantsuit. “When did you last see Mr. Flynn?” I asked.

  “The afternoon before he left.”

  “What day was that?”

  “Saturday.” She glanced at a calendar on the wall. “That would be September 13.”

  “Did he seem worried about anything?”

  “No. Art is a very calm, easygoing character, kind to neighbors…and cats.” She smiled.

  “Can you think of any reason why he might want to disappear?”

  “Well, he was very disappointed that his wife, Marge, divorced him and obtained a court judgment for alimony even though she is now living with Larry Swift. He’s the owner of this park, you know. But worse for poor Art is that he didn’t get visitation rights to Sally. When he and Marge were married, Art did not or was not allowed to adopt her, so that’s why he has no rights to see her.”

  “When did the divorce finalize?”

  “About four months ago. But Marge started living with Swift over a year ago. She started working in the park office when Mrs. Swanson was sick. I believe she had to start working because Sally was diagnosed with
leukemia and they needed money to pay for her oncology treatment. Art told me that he didn’t have a health insurance policy. He himself is very fit.”

  “Do you think this divorce settlement was enough for Mr. Flynn to want to run away?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Art has since continued his work of selling mobile homes and seems as congenial as ever.”

  “Do you know if he goes to casinos or gambles online?”

  “I don’t think so. Art appears careful with his money. He’s not the type to take risks.”

  “Do you know what he does for recreation?”

  “He goes fishing locally fairly often. I think he plays canasta on the computer, and I know he writes letters to his mother in a nursing home in Maine. He also plays cards each Wednesday evening with Charlie Jones in the park. He sometimes goes to the movies with a guy from the office, and he occasionally takes me since Bob, my husband, is too sick to do so.”

  “You seem to know Art pretty well…better than I would expect from most neighbors.”

  Mary seemed a little flustered and waved her head before she spoke. “I have a personal situation. My husband, Bob, is very concerned about his medical bills since he has emphysema and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. He’s not old enough for Medicare, and his pension was reduced when his former employer went bankrupt. It makes him quite frugal, and so he keeps me on a very limited household budget. He’s quite sick, so I have to stay close to home in order to nurse him. I confided that to Art, and he started giving me money to wash his clothes and clean his house. I therefore see him much more than any regular neighbor. He is such a decent man that I feel sorry for what has happened to him. You know, he personally built the ramp we have for Bob’s wheel chair. He’s very popular in the park. He has been involved in the sale or purchase of many of the homes in the park. I know he does a good job, because I hear that from other people.”

  “He sold you your mobile home, then?”

  “No, Bob and I came to the park before Art did. At that time, Art wasn’t married, and many of the single women in the park wanted to hook up with him.”

  “Like Eleanor Bratz?”

  Mary raised her eyebrows. “Who told you that?”

  “Bert Swanson. He also said Art upsets tenants in the park.”

  “That’s nonsense!” said Mary vehemently. “Bert doesn’t like Art for some obscure reason concerning a past sale. Art’s popular, and Bert’s not.” She paused and then added. “Ask around the park, including Eleanor. I can’t think of anybody who has a grudge against Art.”

  We exited the mobile home, and I looked inside the wooden shed Flynn had at the end of his driveway, Mary Smith accompanying me. A wooden workbench occupied much of the shed. A toolbox lay on it, and various saws and power tools had been placed on a shelf above. A waste container stood at the edge of the bench. A chest freezer operated noisily in the corner. I opened its lid. Though empty, it smelled of fish, and my nose wrinkled.

  Mary saw my nose twitch and remarked, “Art stores his fish there. He’s an excellent fisherman and shares what he catches with his friends and neighbors. When he goes to the fishing camp, he returns with enough fish for a month.”

  The Santa Anna wind caught the shed door as we left, and it banged shut with a loud noise. It must have woken Mary’s husband, since I heard him begin to cough as she walked up the ramp to her door. Poor gal, I know what it’s like to have a frugal husband. Mine was mean as well. Thank goodness he’s no longer in the picture.

  I returned to the park office and asked for Larry Swift’s home address. Swanson was reluctant to give it to me. I leaned on him and got it. I drove to that address, an exclusive area of Lake San Marcos where Swift’s huge colonial style home, situated on a large, probably two-acre site, overlooked the lake and much of San Marcos. It had a circular driveway over paver stones leading to three double garages. A tennis court and a large swimming pool protruded from the rear. I admired the view as I got out of the car and before ringing the doorbell of the sheltered entryway. A Hispanic maid opened the door, and I could sense her relief on realizing the black detective she saw was not there to question her. I asked to see Mr. Swift and Ms. Holmes, only to be told both were out. I declined to tell the maid the purpose of my visit. I left my business card with a request for them to call me as soon as they returned.

  My watch said five o’clock, too early for my appointment with Sam Laurel. I parked my car at a nearby McDonald’s, my favorite fast-food place, and went inside to buy coffee. I listened to the recordings of my conversations with Tom Small, Mary Smith, and Bert Swanson. I distrusted the latter; he seemed squirrely. I certainly wanted to find out the true reason for his disliking Flynn. I remembered from the bank statement in Walker’s file that Flynn was paying his ex-wife twelve hundred dollars per month in alimony. No wonder he would resent that payment, given the palatial home and lifestyle his ex-wife was now enjoying. Whether that was a significant financial burden to Flynn would depend on how much his income was. I would need to find that out from Sam Laurel. Were there any other conditions that had been laid on Flynn from the divorce settlement? I would need to find that out from the divorce court records, which are generally sealed. I could see why detective Walker believed Flynn wanted not to be found. Yet here I was, trying to find him.

  CHAPTER 3

  Six o’clock found me at Sam Laurel’s real estate office, appropriately named Laurel Real Estate. The office lay in a small strip center on Grand Avenue that would have had inadequate parking for stores and its sole restaurant, another reason for Laurel wanting me to come after business hours. The last agent in the office, a short, overdressed woman, left just as I entered. I introduced myself, and Laurel asked me to call him Sam; I did not offer him the same courtesy. He locked the front door, saying he wanted privacy, and escorted me into his small conference room. The office had twelve desks in an open-space arrangement with a noticeably spartan décor. A unisex toilet was at the rear. About seventy years old, Sam had an erect figure of sixty-six inches, a bronzed face with white hair, and a white goatee. He wore navy-blue suit and tie, attire clearly meant to command respect and authority but in which he would perspire heavily on that hot October day of Southern California. I’ve found it useful to get people I interview to talk about themselves prior to being questioned. I did so with Laurel after informing him I was recording our conversation.

  “How long have you been a real estate broker?”

  Sam spoke in a crisp voice as though to command attention…and deference. “I’ve been in real estate since I retired from the navy as a captain twenty-five years ago.” No wonder the office décor and his demeanor reflected that experience.

  “How many sales agents do you have?”

  “I’ve five full-time agents and three part-timers.” His voice showed disdain for the part-timers.

  “Are your sales mostly residential?”

  “Yes. We don’t do sales of commercial property. There’s nobody in the office with experience for that, sales or rentals. We have the occasional raw land sale.”

  “So, Arthur Flynn did residential sales?”

  “Yes. I take it you haven’t found out what’s happened to him?”

  “No. We haven’t. When did you realize Art was missing?”

  Laurel leaned forward in his chair, his voice taking on the air of a teacher. “Let me explain. Our office is not large enough to have a receptionist. We have one of our agents on duty to answer phones, and I cover them when nobody else is here. If that agent receives a call inquiring about a listing or about that inquirer’s own property, then the agent on duty has a business opportunity to exploit. So, answering the phones, while tedious, is an easy way to get sales and listings. When an agent is scheduled, he or she invariably shows up. Art said he was going fishing for just a week when he left the office that Friday.” Sam looked at a wall calendar. “That was September 12. So, I scheduled him for phone duty a few days after his return, on Thursday afternoon. That would be S
eptember 25. He didn’t show up or call in sick, totally unlike him, so I personally had to cover the time slot. Art’s such a reliable agent that I figured he’d taken a couple more days fishing. I called his cell phone and left a message, but he never called back. I felt there was something wrong. I didn’t have the phone number of his fishing camp to check that out, though.”

  Sam leaned back. “I also had him scheduled for Sunday morning, September 28, usually a slow time since that’s when folks go to church. Art is always happy to take that slot, so I was indeed surprised when he also didn’t show up for that or call me to let me know he had a problem. I called his phone again, but there was no reply, and I called the next day, that Monday, with the same result. I called the park manager and then went around to Art’s home. His neighbor had a key and let me in. He wasn’t there. His neighbor hadn’t seen him either. So, I filed a missing person report on Tuesday. I figured he must have been in a car accident… Have you any clues on what happened to him?”

  “I haven’t heard anything.” I leaned forward as though to invite confidentiality. “Do you think Mr. Flynn might want to disappear?”

  “Oh, I doubt it. Art’s a very amiable fellow, always willing to help out. He has a niche in this office selling mobile homes, which don’t bring the commissions as large as real estate does. I think he’s quite happy with his life apart from this divorce and sees no need to change.” He paused. “I take it you haven’t found any report of his car being involved in an accident?”

  “I’ve no information on his car,” I replied, realizing how the mobile home niche would explain the custom license plate—MBLHM4U—on Art’s Camry. “I’d like to get some more personal information on Art that might help me track where he went.”

  Sam nodded, so I asked the same questions I had posed to Bert Swanson and Mary Smith. Laurel gave me the same story—Flynn acutely disappointed at the divorce outcome, unable to see Sally, knowing she was sick, unable to comfort her during oncology treatments, and having to pay alimony to Marge now living with a rich man. Sam had used Flynn’s first name so frequently that I began to use it.