by Sara Rosett
I ran the name Nash through my mind, but I couldn’t come up with anyone I knew with that last name. Who was he? There hadn’t been anything in the news about him. There were two pictures with the story, one of a white man and another of a black man. Both were young, probably in their late teens or early twenties. The caption under the white man read Albert Clarence Chauncey. His dark hair was parted down the middle of his head and pressed flat. He wore a suit and tie and a serious expression. Even with the formal clothes and the solemn face, he looked so young. There seemed to be a tentativeness in his gaze.
The name under the photo of the black man was William James Nash. He was also dressed in a suit and tie, but he was smiling, one arm flung out along the roof of an old car with wide white-sidewall tires and generous sloping curves along the wheel wells. I read the rest of the article. William Nash was born in North Dawkins in 1937. He lived with his widowed mother and worked in the paper factory. He disappeared in 1955 when he was eighteen years old. I scanned the article, then went back and studied the pictures again. He was last seen during his shift at the paper factory.
I shook my head. I guess it had been a bit foolish to assume that Jodi was the only missing person in the history of Dawkins County.
The article went on to describe Albert Chauncey’s short life. He was raised in North Dawkins and left in 1918 to fight in World War I. He contracted tuberculosis, was discharged, and returned home. He died a year later and was buried in the family cemetery. A firsthand account of his return and subsequent death could be found in his sister’s diary, which was located in the North Dawkins Museum.
I frowned over the last paragraphs of the article. The sheriff urged people to remain calm while the Nash case was investigated. Why would the sheriff say that?
I looked at the stack of flyers I’d picked up earlier with Jodi’s smiling face. She was still missing. The person everyone seemed to like and who didn’t have any serious troubles in her life. It didn’t fit. Since no one seemed to be the least bit upset with Jodi personally, maybe she made some enemies with her reporting. I typed her name in the paper’s search bar.
The first articles that popped up in the search were the most recent ones and they weren’t articles she had written, but articles about her disappearance. I read through a few of them because I didn’t remember the news coverage. I’d been so busy with our move and taking care of a newborn that I hadn’t been paying attention.
The stories covered the fact that Jodi was a hometown girl who ran the youth sports program at Taylor. They also mentioned she was employed part-time at the newspaper. One article under a picture of our house ringed in yellow crime scene tape focused on the neighbors and their reactions. Of course, everyone was shocked and worried. The official search had turned up nothing and after a few weeks the articles shifted focus to Jodi’s parents and the formation of the Find Jodi campaign.
I ran another search, this time using the search terms “Jodi Lockworth” and “reporter” with an older date range, which brought up a list of stories with her name in the byline. I printed her articles and then went to the Web site for the Atlanta paper and did the same search. Only three articles came up and a quick scan of those showed they were regional local interest pieces on fall festivals, the peach harvest, and day trips for antique lovers. I couldn’t see how any of those articles could make someone mad.
Mitch came into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a bag of baby carrots. “Working on organizing stuff?”
“No. I’m looking up Jodi’s articles. The newspaper Web site is reporting that neither one of the sets of remains were hers. They were two men, a local guy who served in World War I and a man who disappeared back in 1955. Isn’t that weird?”
“Odd.” Mitch’s response was guarded. “That’s good news for Jodi’s family, I guess.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Carrot?” Mitch sat down on a bar stool and held the bag out.
“No, thanks, not unless you’ve got a vat of ranch dressing for me to dip it in.” I joined Mitch in some of his healthy snacks like popcorn, but I drew the line at raw carrots. I said, “Looks like those remains had nothing to do with Jodi.”
An Everything In Its Place Tip for an Organized Party
Keep in mind special requests your guests might have as you plan menus. Do any of your guests have food allergies or special diets? Don’t forget to include nonalcoholic drink choices and vegetarian options.
Chapter Eight
I picked up the empty pan and took it to the sink. Funny how we never had leftovers when I made cinnamon rolls. Okay, I didn’t really make them. I pried the tube open, arranged them in a pan, and popped it in the oven. That was about the limit of my baking skills right now. Leftovers were a different story when I made lasagna or broccoli. Plenty of leftovers then.
I felt the familiar pressure on the back of my knees and looked over my shoulder. Nathan grinned up at me, swaying as he gripped my jeans. I was his favorite stationary object. His expression seemed to say, “I caught you!”
“You did get me, but I’m one up on you. I’ve already cleared the table so I don’t have to move.” I rinsed and stashed the dishes in the dishwasher. I could hear the muted roar as Mitch powered the riding lawn mower around our huge yard.
Nathan held on until I finished. Then I picked him up and transitioned him to the kid-size table and chairs. I pulled out a set of stacking blocks and a muffin tin and he quickly forgot that he’d rather be clinging to my jeans. Livvy was playing with a floor puzzle, so I had a few minutes of quiet.
I put away the list of phone numbers with checkmarks down the side. This morning I’d called the volunteers who signed up to put out additional Find Jodi flyers, figuring Saturday morning was as good a time as any to find people home. The response had been good and all areas of North Dawkins were covered.
I pulled out the articles I’d printed the night before. I’d made it halfway through the stack and hadn’t found anything that looked like it would cause any sort of controversy. I found six months’ worth of articles. Jodi had written her articles starting in July of the previous year and there was a pattern. She covered two community events, like the Fourth of July parade, did one human interest story, usually of a prominent county resident, and rounded it out with a profile of a local business.
So far, I’d read about colorful local characters like Topaz and the junk dealer named Crooner who ran what he called an antique shop down by the hardware store, but it looked more like a flea market to me. I’d also learned there was a new boutique in town and had brushed up on my Halloween safety tips.
A photo of Scott Ezell caught my eye. The headline beside the photo read STAND NAMES NEW DIRECTOR. STAND was short for Save Taylor And North Dawkins. Since the economy of North Dawkins depended almost solely on Taylor Air Force Base, the community had set up STAND, a nonprofit community lobbying group, to help ensure that the community and the base worked together to keep Taylor off any base closure lists. If Taylor closed, then North Dawkins would shut down, too.
I studied the picture of Scott. He looked more polished than he had the other night. No wrinkled clothes and his hair was shorter. I scanned the article until I found this sentence. “The executive director position has been vacant since the retirement of Lena Stallings eight months earlier.” I’d met Lena Stallings last spring during a trip to Washington, D.C. I wasn’t surprised she wasn’t with STAND. I bet that after certain details of her personal life came to light last spring she retired and moved out of town. The chances of running into her at the gas station or grocery store were pretty slim.
I skimmed through the rest of the article that highlighted Scott’s background. Jodi emphasized that he grew up in a military family, moving from coast to coast since his dad was in the Navy. Then he went to college at the University of Georgia on an athletic scholarship. That surprised me. I would have pegged him as a business major and member of the chess club. I skimmed a bit more and found out he was a
long-distance runner and had gone on to get his MBA.
I heard a thud, then Nathan’s cry. It wasn’t his “I’m really hurt” wail, but a hiccupy “I’m not hurt that bad, but I scared myself” kind of cry.
“He hit the drawer when he slipped,” Livvy informed me.
I gathered him up in my arms, checking for injuries. He had one small scrape on his arm. I kissed it and said, “All better. You don’t even need a Band-Aid.” I sat him down at the table and restacked the blocks.
There was a block on the floor near my built-in desk. He must have slipped when he tried to pick it up. He still wasn’t too steady on his feet, so it wasn’t surprising that he’d fallen. Spills were part of life at eleven months.
I couldn’t do anything about how often Nathan fell, but I could fix the drawer. It couldn’t be that hard. With Mitch’s unpredictable schedule, I’d had plenty of experience in minor household repairs.
I pulled out the drawer and set it on the desktop. The metal slides that were mounted inside the cabinet looked fine. I grabbed a flashlight, sat down on the floor, and shone the light in the cabinet. There was nothing that I could see that would make the drawer stick.
“What are you doing?” Livvy asked, leaning on my shoulder and breathing heavily onto the back of my ear.
“Trying to figure out why the drawer sticks and won’t close.”
“Oh.” She shoved herself in front of me, completely blocking the opening. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
“I don’t know. I can’t see because you’re in the way.” She moved and I had to lean down even farther to see what Livvy saw. Nathan grabbed my shoulders and shouted, “Horsey. Horsey game.”
“No, not the horsey game. Mom’s trying to work here.” I set Nathan back on the floor, then angled the flashlight at the back corner. An envelope was taped to the top of the cabinet. One piece of tape still held the envelope partially in place, but another piece had come loose and half of the envelope hung in the air. When I pushed in the drawer it must have folded the envelope back on itself. I reached in and pulled the envelope down. The tape gave easily and I set it on the desk.
I tried the drawer again and it closed, the front stopping flush with the other drawers. Nathan pulled the drawer out and closed it again. The drawer game was one he could play for quite a while. “Mom, what can I do now?” Livvy asked.
“Here.” I handed her the flashlight. “I bet if you go in the hall closet it’ll be really bright.”
She was off in a flash.
I had a weird feeling about the envelope. It’s not something you find every day, an envelope taped to the underside of a cabinet. I knew we were only the second people to live in this house and I knew we didn’t put it up there. That only left two possibilities—the cabinet installer had left it or Jodi had put it there. A long, narrow notebook about four inches across and about eight inches long with a spiral binding at the top slid out of the envelope when I tilted it.
The front was plain white and blank. I picked up one of Livvy’s fat pencils and used the tip to flick the cover back.
I frowned. The first page was filled with a…code of some sort? A few recognizable letters and numbers were sprinkled among random dashes and loops. At least, it looked like random gibberish to me. It wasn’t anything I could understand. I flicked through a few pages. More of the same.
I opened another drawer, a lower one, and pulled out my business card holder, looking for Nita’s business card. I found it, but it didn’t have her number on it. Of course it wouldn’t. It only had the eight-hundred number for tips and the Find Jodi Web site.
Dorthea would have it. After a quick call to Dorthea, I dialed Nita’s number. The phone rang and rang. Just when I was trying to think of a coherent message to leave on her answering machine, she picked up.
“Hi, Mrs. Lockworth. This is Ellie Avery. Dorthea gave me your home phone number. I have a question that you might think is kind of strange, but…well, it’s hard to explain.”
“Please call me Nita. What’s your question, Ellie?” She wasn’t sharp or irritated. In fact, her voice was calm, almost serene. “I’ve gotten some very strange questions in the last year. I don’t think you’re going to surprise me.”
Best to just come out with it, then. “Did Jodi know shorthand?” I asked.
There was a long pause; then she said, “Yes. Yes, she did.” Now her voice wasn’t so composed; there was a bit of excitement and also wariness, too, in her tone.
“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “I think I’d better call the police. I mean the sheriff. You should probably see this, too. I think I found Jodi’s reporter’s notebook.”
Chapter Nine
“I don’t think you should touch it,” I said, reluctantly. Nita’s hand hovered over the pages for an instant. She’d been about to pick up the notebook.
“They’ll probably want to examine it. Fingerprints, all that,” I said.
She withdrew her hand and clasped both hands behind her back. “I suppose you’re right.” She leaned over, bringing her face close to the notepad. She looked like she was smelling a flower, soaking up every wrinkle in the paper and stroke of writing. “No need to irritate Davey,” she said mildly.
“Have a seat,” I said, indicating the desk chair. She pulled it out and sat down, her gaze still locked on the notebook.
“So, you do think it belonged to Jodi?” I asked.
“There’s no question. This was Jodi’s notebook. I’ve got several exactly like this one that I packed when we decided to put the house up for rent. They’re in a box at my house. And I recognize her shorthand. I taught her some basic words when she was in middle school. Even then, she knew she wanted to be a reporter. Hardly any universities teach shorthand in journalism schools, but I learned it in my first round of secretarial courses. I worked in a law firm before I had Jodi.” She looked up at me briefly and smiled. “Shorthand doesn’t get used that much nowadays, but it’s a valuable skill for a reporter.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a car with the distinctive markings of the sheriff’s office pull up to the curb in front of our house. I hurried to the door. I didn’t want anyone to ring the doorbell since I had Nathan down for his nap. Livvy was back in her room, too. She was reading—or supposed to be reading. She was too big for a nap, but nap time was as much for mommies as it was for kids. I wasn’t sure who they would send to pick up the notebook, but I recognized Detective Waraday striding across our lawn. Looked like he was taking the call seriously.
I opened the door as he stepped onto the porch. “Please be as quiet as you can. It’s nap time.”
He looked a little surprised and I thought it was probably the first time he’d been asked to keep it down since a kid was sleeping. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and stepped inside.
I led the way into the kitchen and Nita stood up.
“Mrs. Nita.” He smiled at her. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you here.”
I jumped in and said, “I called her to make sure the notebook belonged to Jodi. I didn’t want to bother you if it wasn’t hers.”
Waraday gave me a long look, then turned to Nita. “I assume, since I am here, that this was Jodi’s?”
“Yes,” Nita said, her gaze fixed on the notebook again. “It’s Jodi’s.” She explained how she recognized the notebook itself and the shorthand inside it.
“So, we’ll need to get in someone who knows shorthand,” Waraday said, speaking to himself more than to us.
“I’m afraid that might be difficult. I taught Jodi shorthand when she was a teenager. She worked on the middle school newspaper and was complaining about how long it took to write everything down. Over time, she developed her own style, her own shortcuts. Essentially, her own version.”
“No one will be able to read this except Jodi,” Waraday said, exasperated.
“No. I’m sure you’d be able to figure out parts of it eventually. See here”—Nita pointed to a page at random—“that says ‘safet
y tips’ and here’s the word ‘flashlight.’ Of course, there’s quite a bit that I don’t recognize.”
“Oh, I bet that’s from her article about Halloween.” I grabbed the stack of papers I’d been going through earlier and found the article. “Here.” I handed it to them. “Safety First for Trick-or-Treaters.”
This time Waraday leveled a long look at me as Nita scanned the article and compared it to the page in the notebook. I shrugged. “I was curious about her. I found out she lived in this house and I wanted to know more about her.”
“I see,” Waraday said, but his usually smooth forehead was creased with wrinkles as he turned back to Nita, who was nodding.
“Ellie’s right. I’ve found several words that are the same as her notes. This can be translated, but it will take time.”
“Right.” Waraday reluctantly pulled out a bag and slid the notebook into it.
Nita looked bereft. He saw her face and said, “First, we have to analyze it. Then, I’d like to get an outside expert to look at it. I’d also like to make a copy and have you translate as much as you can, Mrs. Nita. Would you mind?”
It was clear Nita was eager to try and decipher those words, so the question was more a formality than anything else. “Of course,” Nita said. “Anything you need.”
“Now.” Waraday turned to me. “Where did you find this?”
With the notebook out of sight, Nita turned her curious dark eyes on me, too. She tilted her head, again reminding me of a bird. “Yes, I didn’t even think to ask. Where did you find it? The crime scene folks searched everywhere after we realized she was gone.”
I pulled out the drawer. “This drawer never quite closed and today I pulled it out to see why. I found the notebook taped to the underside of the counter.” I released the levers and slid the drawer all the way out and set it on the floor. “You can see where one of the pieces of tape came off and it folded over, preventing the drawer from closing.”
