Lone Ranger

by VK Powell

  “After my husband died I couldn’t bring myself to do much of anything. Then I decided to try one last time to get to the bottom of my brother’s case. I hadn’t gotten anywhere telling the truth before. I was afraid you’d call up here first, and they’d tell you I was just a crazy old lady who couldn’t accept that her brother had probably run off with some mistress he’d been hiding. So, I offered to pay handsomely for an article about the history of my family and this town.” Fannie sniffed, clutched the picture of her brother to her bosom, and tilted her bun-coiffed head to the ceiling in defiance. “It’s a damn shame when the story of some rinky-dink town is more important than a man’s life.”

  The pain in Fannie’s words was a hot blade fusing Emma’s resolve. “I’ll check into this, but a lot depends on how many people are willing to talk to me, how much they feel comfortable divulging, and how much they remember. And to be honest, when people have been quiet this long, they’re not usually inclined to break their silence without some real motivation.” Emma leaned forward to soften her words. “I have to warn you, when you uncover the truth, it’s not always what you want to hear.”

  “I understand. My brother wasn’t always kind or considerate, even to me, but he was my brother. All I ask is that you try, Emma. And if it helps, I’ll offer a reward.” Fannie rose, indicating their time was up, and escorted Emma to the door.

  “You purposely chose me, didn’t you? You must’ve known I’d be compelled to follow up since your brother and my father both disappeared without a trace.”

  “I prayed you would.” Fannie grabbed her hand and shoved something into her palm. “And thank you for coming back. Please keep me informed.”

  “What’s this?” Emma looked at the small silk drawstring bag.

  “Some of my brother’s hair. Maybe it’ll help guide you to the truth.”

  “Fannie, I can’t take this. It’s too personal. You should hold on to it as a keepsake.”

  “Don’t worry. I have more. It’ll make me feel better knowing you’ve got a little piece of Theo to inspire you. Promise me you won’t stop until you find the truth.”

  Emma looked around one last time. Layers of dust had collected on family heirlooms, and priceless antiques stood in noticeable disrepair. The opulent surroundings obviously didn’t mean as much to Fannie without someone to share them. She wanted to help this lonely woman find the truth of her brother’s disappearance, so she consciously chose not to consider her odds of being able to do so. “I promise.”

  Emma’s cell phone vibrated as she walked back toward the center of town, and she read the new text message. Harriett Smoltz had sent the names of the folks for her to contact about Stuart’s history. There were only two: Sheriff Sam Echols and Sylvie Martinez, manager of the Riverside Hotel. She was disappointed, but Harriett hadn’t steered her wrong so far, and Emma had asked about residents with historical information, not witnesses concerning a missing person or homicide. She texted a brief thank you and headed to the sheriff’s office.

  Her first priority was a legible copy of the missing-person’s report. Once she was satisfied there was nothing unusual about the circumstances of Theodore Thompson’s disappearance, she could report back to Fannie. She didn’t really expect to find evidence of foul play, but her gut and her commitment to Fannie’s cause mandated she be thorough.

  The two-room sheriff’s office was very utilitarian. A metal enclosure on one side of the space served as a holding cell, while an antique desk with its Justice of the Peace/Sheriff placard took up the rest of the area. The middle-aged man sitting behind the desk rose with effort and offered his hand as Emma entered. His genuine smile crinkled the sun-weathered skin of his face and lifted his handlebar mustache just enough to reveal slightly irregular teeth.

  “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Sheriff Echols. You must be the reporter Ms. Smoltz has been telling everybody about.”

  “Guilty as charged, Sheriff. Emma Ferguson. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “I understand you’re doing a history piece on our little town,” he said, motioning to a chair beside his desk.

  “That’s what I thought too, but I’m actually here on another matter. Something came up rather unexpectedly today during an interview. I’m hoping you can clear it up for me.”

  “I’ll do my best.” His truth-seeking eyes never left hers, and she felt almost uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

  While Emma relayed her conversation with Fannie and her allegations of foul play, the sheriff’s expression remained deadpan. “I’ve been expecting this. I called the county seat yesterday where the archives are housed and had them fax a copy of the original report.” He shuffled through some papers stacked on the edge of his desk and handed her a file. “I’m not sure it’s going to shed much light on the situation. Theodore Thompson’s case appears to be a missing person, though I have to admit it seems odd. People who have as much to live for as Theodore don’t usually disappear without a reason or a trace.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” Emma slid the folder into her messenger bag. She’d examine it closely later and make notes. “I think that’s why Mrs. Buffkin is having such a hard time accepting it. Did you notice anything unusual as you read the file?”

  “Not really. The interviews probably aren’t up to today’s standards, but the officer was inexperienced and dealing with prominent members of the community. He probably got his marching orders from them or some politician and was reluctant to step on their toes.”

  “Just one more question. Have you heard any gossip around town about this case? You know how tales can grow through the years.”

  “No, ma’am. I can’t say that I have. Anybody who’s still alive and saw or heard anything tells the same identical story they gave to the officer that night.”

  That should’ve raised red flags then and now. In her experience, fabricated stories seldom deviated while a witness’s truthful version shifted through time. “Thanks, Sheriff.” Emma stood and Sheriff Echols followed her out.

  Emma dug a bottle of water from her bag and settled near the fountain at the center of town, recalling her conversation with the sheriff. He had no real stake in Theodore Thompson’s case, but he’d obviously read the file and familiarized himself with the details. And if he hadn’t heard anything through the years about the disappearance, how did he know the original witness statements hadn’t changed? Was he withholding something or just trying to save her a lot of useless work?

  She pulled the folder out of her bag, opened it, and stared in disbelief at the meager contents. The first page was a basic missing-person report on Theodore Thompson that included a statement from Sandra, his wife, followed by a single-page witness statement from Sylvie Martinez. Both pages contained a maximum of three paragraphs and provided nothing significant. How had the police failed to thoroughly investigate the disappearance of the most prominent man in town? Even a rookie would’ve done more follow-up than this. Her curiosity morphed into full-blown suspicion.

  She scanned the quiet street and tried to imagine what this small town might’ve been like thirty-seven years ago as a vibrant furniture hub with a close-knit community. Her thoughts drifted to Carter. She would’ve been a small child. What had happened to her parents? Emma’s questions about her family had made Carter withdraw, and the more she withdrew, the more Emma wanted to understand why.

  Her own parents hadn’t been around much during her childhood, and she’d struggled for perfection in school because it was the only thing her parents seemed to value and praise her for. She’d felt more like another cog in the family wheel than a child. She’d missed the warm familial feeling some of her friends enjoyed with their parents. Had Carter had that connection to her parents? How would her own life have turned out if she’d been raised with a strong family bond and in a place where community really mattered?

  Emma stuffed the disappointing folder back into her bag, finished her water, and walked to the Riverside Hotel to talk with Sylvie Martinez. The bold
geometric lines of the front door and the impressive stained-glass windows emphasized the building’s Art Deco theme. Like much of downtown Stuart, the Riverside had been meticulously tended and refurbished through the years. When she stepped inside, she noticed that the contrasting wood inlays and heavily lacquered surfaces had a comforting feel. The soft, lush surfaces were swathed in vivid colors, beckoning visitors to sit and relax. Why hadn’t she booked a room here?

  She took a seat in the lobby and watched the bustling activity, getting a feel for the place, how it was run, and who was in charge. She’d already spotted Sylvie Martinez floating from station to station, patiently answering questions, efficiently handling problems, and cordially interacting with the staff. When she approached the manager, Emma already had a sense of her character.

  “Mrs. Martinez, I’m Emma Ferguson. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time? I can see you’re busy, so I promise to be quick.”

  Mrs. Martinez shook her hand and led her to an office behind the reception desk. “We’ll be more comfortable in here, Ms. Ferguson.” She directed Emma to a seat in front of the desk with a nameplate that read The Big Kahuna. “My staff’s idea of a joke,” she said, noticing Emma’s smile. “How can I help you?” Her soft, pleasant voice imparted an immediate feeling of confidence, and Emma understood why her employees would follow her. “I hear you’re a reporter? What could possibly be newsworthy in Stuart these days? The last big headline in the paper stated Man Hits Deer with Car and Lives.”

  “I’m looking into a missing person’s report from thirty-seven years ago.”

  Mrs. Martinez’s forehead wrinkled, and the lines around her mouth tightened. “You must’ve been talking to Fannie Buffkin. She keeps that story alive. I’m afraid I can’t offer any more than I told the officer that night.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d go over what you saw again for me.”

  Sylvie settled back in the chair and cocked her head to the right. “I was working here, as I have been for the past fifty-five years, helping my father get ready for the next day’s breakfast and closing for the night. I was putting the specials’ board on the front porch and looked across the street toward the train station. Nothing captures a kid’s attention like trains going to distant places. I saw Sandra Thompson pass by the station and go into the furniture factory. Either she or Theodore closed the business every night after the late shift and janitor left, but I never saw Theo that night. I went back inside, and we locked the doors and went to bed. There weren’t many people out because of the bitter cold.”

  “What time would you say it was when you saw Mrs. Thompson go into the factory?”

  “A little after ten thirty. We closed the lobby at ten, and it usually took about thirty minutes to straighten up and get out.”

  “And you didn’t see anything unusual that night?”

  Sylvie studied the papers on her desk with too much concentration before replying, “Don’t think so.”

  Emma considered Sylvie’s hesitation and noncommittal response before pressing further. “Please think carefully, Sylvie. It would really be helpful.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t really call it unusual.”

  Emma tightened her grip on her pen until it quivered between her fingers. “Please. Anything could be important.”

  “I’d left part of the easel inside the hotel and went back in to get it. When I came out, I thought I saw Harriett Smoltz going toward the factory, but I was wrong.”

  “Why are you so sure you were wrong?”

  “Because she was on the telephone switchboard that night. Then I remembered Hannah, her twin sister, was relieving her at eleven, so it was obviously Hannah I saw heading to work. The next day I asked Harriett and she clarified it for me, exactly what I thought.”

  “And why did you think it was Harriett? They are twins.”

  Sylvie shook her head. “You have seen how Harriett dresses, right?”

  Emma nodded.

  “Well, that’s never changed. Hannah is a bit more stylish, which isn’t saying much. But it was bitterly cold and she was wearing a heavy coat.”

  “And how can you be so sure this was the same night Mr. Thompson disappeared?”

  “Because he didn’t show up to open the plant for first shift. It’s a big deal around here when folks can’t get to their jobs. And Mrs. Thompson was in the hospital the next morning. She miscarried their baby. There was a lot to remember about that day. Folks were real concerned about Sandra. She was a lovely soul, but everybody could’ve lived just fine without Mr. T.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I hate to speak ill of the missing or dead, but Theo was nothing like his father or his grandfather. He’d rather cheat you out of money than come by it honest. He dreamed of buying up the entire Main Street block and converting it into retail shops and restaurants. He was always after the property owners to sell, sell, sell, especially Daniel Tanner. Dan’s drugstore sat right smack-dab in the middle of Theo’s planned strip mall.”

  “Aside from being an ambitious man, he was okay?”

  “All I can say is what I know for sure, Ms. Ferguson. Anything else is pure hearsay and not worth the breath it takes to pass along. He treated the people who worked here back then like we were subhuman. You don’t forget how a person makes you feel.”

  Emma’s enthusiasm waned as the adrenaline vanished, along with the possibility of uncovering some hidden clue. It wasn’t a crime to be a horrible person, but it might be a motive for murder if she found proof of foul play. She stood to leave. “Thank you, Sylvie. I appreciate your time.”

  As she exited the hotel, Emma felt her disappointment like an oversized piece of clothing. She’d allowed herself to become excited about a real investigation, but nothing was panning out. Sylvie Martinez was the first person to say anything uncomplimentary about Theodore Thompson, so maybe their clash had been personal. Time would tell.

  Chapter Six

  Emma held her breath and quietly opened the library door so the bell wouldn’t ring. No sign of Harriett. Excellent. She still had time to do some research regarding the days surrounding Thompson’s disappearance before meeting Carter for their ride home. As she tiptoed down the hallway and rounded the corner toward the microfilm section, she heard footsteps behind her.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” a soft, younger voice asked, obviously not Harriett.

  Emma sighed with relief and faced the woman, her pencil-thin frame topped by pigtails protruding from her head like a schoolgirl. “Is Harriett here?”

  “No, ma’am. She pops in and out at will, but I’d be glad to help.”

  “No thanks. I need to look through some old files.”

  “You know how to operate the equipment then?” The young attendant blushed, obviously eager to end the face-to-face encounter and return to her bookish chores.

  “Yes. I’m familiar with it. I’ll let you know if I need anything.” The comment brought a genuine smile as the girl retreated to her desk surrounded by books and files stacked just high enough to hide behind, should she choose to do so. She felt sorry for the painfully shy girl and the daily torture it must be for her to work side by side with extroverted Harriett Smoltz.

  Emma settled at the computer and began her search in the fall of 1978. There had to be something in the paper about the disappearance of a prominent businessman, especially in a small town like Stuart. It didn’t take long before an article captured her attention.

  The headline read Local Man Goes Missing, but the article mostly recounted his numerous positions in the community. Mr. Thompson was an heir to the Thompson Furniture fortune and president of the local Lions Club, but no mention of any outstanding contributions to the area other than employment opportunities. Practically everybody in town had speculated about how and why Thompson disappeared. Theories ranged from alien abduction to murder for hire, but Emma found no mention of evidence or an investigation to determine the real facts.

  In an effort to
put closure on her inquiry, she fast-forwarded through the paper for the next several years. Occasionally a Waldo-type article raised the question of where Theodore Thompson might be, and a contest at the town fair offered a prize for the most creative essay on the subject.

  Emma smashed the fast-forward key and let the machine slowly wind down. Her eyes were glazing over. Just before she gave up, a partially displayed article in the lower corner of the screen caught her eye. She rolled it into view and read the caption, Bones Found at Old Factory, 1985. A light tingle raised the hairs on the back of her neck, and she zeroed in, scanning the article more closely. “Children playing in an old furniture factory found bones of unknown origin. The sheriff was contacted and the bones were collected.”

  That can’t be all. She scoured the rest of the year for further information but found no mention of the mysterious bones or their possible origin. Emma made a quick copy of the article and dashed from the library toward the sheriff’s office. Her instincts told her there was indeed a story here, and it involved the disappearance of Theodore Wayne Thompson.

  “You ready to go?”

  Emma had been so engrossed in thought as she hurried along the sidewalk she hadn’t seen Carter pull alongside her in the Jeep.

  “Actually, would it be a terrible imposition if I asked you to wait? I need to pop into the sheriff’s office for just a second.” Emma had to know the answer to this question now.

  At Carter’s agreeable nod, she charged into Echols’s office waving the article in her hand. “Do you still have this evidence somewhere?”

  Sheriff Echols leaned back in his chair and stared at her without responding for several seconds. “Evidence of what, Ms. Ferguson?” She handed him the article, and he glanced over it before handing it back. “This is far from evidence of anything. There was a lot of speculation about whether those bones belonged to Thompson or even to a human being.”