All Those Who Came Before

by Kathryn Meyer Griffith

  Chapter 8

  Early the following morning first thing, Frank got the welcome call from Myrtle with the good news that Ryan, and his friends, had been found alive and were coming home in the next three days. Frank got all the juicy details from her and was astounded at the tale of the men’s’ daring escape and rescue. Myrtle was planning a party when the men came home. She’d let Frank and Abigail know the date and time. Then Myrtle hung up. She had more telephone calls to make, she said.

  “I’m so happy Ryan, Jim and Pete are all okay,” Abigail declared, with a big smile, when Frank gave her and Nick the news at the breakfast table. “That’s quite a scary experience they’ve lived through. I bet Ryan doesn’t want to go anywhere out of country again for a while.” She’d laughed.

  “Probably not,” Nick had weighed in. “I wouldn’t. Not after that nightmare. Violent kidnapper terrorists in the dark continent. I’d stay in America, nice and safe.” He then gulped down his breakfast like usual, said goodbye to them, grabbed his guitar case, and headed out into the day. He had another band practice with the guys and couldn’t be late. Frank thought he now looked the part of a rock musician with his long hair, earring in one ear, and hippie looking clothes. He was a fine young man, though. Well-behaved and thoughtful towards others. Everyone liked him. He was graduating in December with high honors. He and Abby had done a good job raising and loving him, too. Just like with their Laura. They were so proud of both of them.

  FRANK WAITED UNTIL Nick and Abby had left the house before he got into his truck and drove back to Fairfield. He fretted over what Abby would say if she found out what he was doing. If she discovered he was searching for Joel’s killer against her wishes, she’d be furious, no doubt. Somehow, though, he couldn’t stop himself from continuing his investigation. He had to find, he was going to find, that lime green Pinto and the man who had driven it.

  Ten years past was a long time ago. Who would still be driving a junky Pinto after all these years? Or who would remember it? He’d already had his ex-homicide partner and friend, Sam Cato, do him a favor and run a thorough check through the Illinois DMV data base looking for any registrations or licenses assigned to Pintos between the years nineteen-eighty and the present but so many vehicles had come up, even in a hundred mile radius of Fairfield, there was no way he could track them all down. Of course, the DMV never recorded the color of the vehicles, which made the search so much harder.

  It was last night as he laid in bed beside a sleeping Abby, his mind refusing to shut off and give him sleep, he’d had an idea. When he’d been driving through Fairfield he’d noticed a string of those old neighborhood greasy-spoon or truck stop restaurants. The kind the townsfolk would go to for the best biscuits and gravy, homemade chicken and dumplings and the latest town gossip. Fairfield had many diners, similar to Stella’s Diner, within its city limits. He’d learned, in his years as a detective, a person could gather information about what was happening or had happened in a town from the locals; especially the older ones who’d lived there all or most of their lives. Those people knew their neighbors, the town’s history, and the stories of the people who lived there. Those people would know what he needed to learn.

  Frank decided to patronize several of those local diners, scoff down a couple of meals, and strike up some friendly conversations with the locals. If he were lucky he’d get a lead on who might have owned or been driving an old beater Pinto with a dented rear fender a decade before. Someone might remember. It was worth a trip.

  “What do you have planned for the day, honey?” he asked Abigail as he buttered his toast. He was eating light so he’d have room for more later. Good thing he was a die-hard fan of truck stop fare, especially the greasy entrees like cheeseburgers or barbequed hot wings. They weren’t good for his heart or his waist, but he did like the food.

  “I’m going out to the Theiss house again to launch another painting.” Abigail was munching on a donut, her head lowered as she sketched in her drawing notebook. She had an untouched cup of coffee in front of her. She glanced up. “I know, don’t traipse around the weed overgrown yard and don’t go inside. I won’t.”

  Abigail bowed her head again and avoided his gaze, acting as if she were intent on what she was doing. He knew better. She was pushing back against his overprotectiveness. A minute later, as if she were trying to appease him, she stated, “I’ll be done with the house by the end of the week. Two more visits. That’s all. I’ll have enough prep work, photos, sketches and paintings to finish the series by then.”

  “Good.” His tension had been mitigated by her answer. He knew enough to let the subject drop. She disliked it when he tried to control her and only accepted when he did because she understood he was doing it out of love.

  Nick had already taken off for band practice and the emptiness around them felt strange. The house was at its best when there was noise and life filling the place. He practically liked it when Nick was playing and singing up in his room. The music floated all through the cabin.

  Abigail adroitly changed the topic of conversation. “I talked to Laura right before you came down. She’s enjoying her internship immensely. And I think,” she hesitated, “she has a boyfriend.”

  “What? Laura has a boyfriend? Who?”

  “From what I gleaned from our talk, he’s someone who works at the art gallery with her in purchasing. An artist like her. He graduated last year from her art college. Name is Tommy. It’s nothing serious, so far, or so she says. They’re only dating. They go out dancing and to movies together. She’s having a ball. I’m happy for her.” Abigail smiled up at him. Pleased that their daughter was having a good time as well as accomplishing her life’s dream.

  “At her age she should be having a good time. She’s young.”

  “And what are you up to today, husband?”

  Frank felt a stab of guilt. He thought of telling Abigail what he was doing, actively hunting for Joel’s possible killer and the lead he was following, but couldn’t bring himself to ruin her mood. Truth was, he was afraid she’d convince him to stop and he didn’t want to. He couldn’t, not now. He had this feeling he was on the right track.

  “Most likely doing some research for my new book.” It wasn’t an out and out lie because there were always snippets of his investigation he could use for his work in progress. Possibly he’d have his book’s main character travel through a small town a lot like Fairfield and stop at a quirky greasy spoon. He’d highlight some of the townspeople’s banter. His stops today could be fodder for those verbal exchanges. As a novelist he often used pieces of real life, snatches of real conversations he had with real people, for his fiction. He it did all the time. It was one of the things his readers told him they liked about his books. He wrote about everyday people.

  After Abigail was gone, Frank got in his truck and drove to Fairfield beneath a cloudy sky, his radio set to an oldies station. It was still hot as blazes outside, but at least the clouds kept the temperature below a hundred degrees. The cooling overcast wouldn’t last. That morning the weatherman had warned of another advancing heat wave, when the clouds lifted, worse than the one they’d already had. Thank goodness for air-conditioning.

  At the first greasy spoon, a tiny trailer shaped eatery with the name Tiny’s Diner, Frank had breakfast, two eggs, bacon and toast. Tiny’s sat on the edge of town under a grove of shade trees. When he drove up the parking lot was packed. Over his meal he had amiable conversations with a number of other customers dining at the tables around him; any who looked old enough to perhaps have the information he was searching for. Old timers. He told them he was a writer who was doing research for his new book set in a small city. It worked every time. People tended to open up to a writer and rarely noticed that some of his questions were a little odd.

  His cover story was he was searching for an old acquaintance he was basing a character on. Frank made sure not to ever say his acquaintance’s name and no one asked for it. All he said was the man was someone
, an old friend, he’d lost track of who lived in Fairfield but whose address he had long forgotten, having never actually been to the man’s house himself. The locals he talked to didn’t seem to think a writer looking for someone whose name he couldn’t recall, or the fact he didn’t know where the man lived, was peculiar. Then he’d casually mention the man used to drive an old green Pinto with a smashed rear fender. He’d chuckle and say, “I remember it was the most hideous lime green color, too. And he’s probably still driving that old hooptie. He was so tight with his money. Not that he ever had much to begin with.”

  No one he spoke to in Tiny’s Diner knew anyone who drove or had driven an old lime green Pinto so he went on to the next cafe where he had a light lunch. Again, none of the people he spoke to had any knowledge of his old friend with the Pinto.

  It was near the end of the afternoon as he was sitting in a cramped niche of a restaurant forcing himself to eat another meal–by then he was so full he only pretended to eat the sandwich on the plate before him, nibbling on the edges–that he hit pay dirt. There was an elderly man wearing a worn ball cap, white hair sticking out from beneath it, thick glasses with a piece of masking tape in the center, slumped in his chair. He was sitting alone at a corner table, his eyes dancing from one customer to another. Looking for someone to engage with. Near him there was a metal framed walker up against the wall. The old man looked like a talker, so Frank sat down at the table nearest him.

  The old guy was a talker all right. Frank wasn’t seated more than five minutes, had put in his order, and as he waited for his food, looking around, before the other man locked gazes and initiated a chat with him. Once Frank said he was a writer, the man had opened up and scooted his chair closer. Frank could tell the old codger was lonely. It was in his eyes, his eagerness to make a connection to anyone who would respond. He said his name was Otto Baker and he’d lived in Fairfield all his life. All ninety years of it. Once, in his younger days, he’d owned and managed a gas station, he’d long since sold, and he knew everyone.

  As Frank drank his coffee, and played at eating the sandwich, he got what he’d been trolling for all day. He’d trotted out the fake story, the unlikely details and omissions of which Otto also didn’t seem to have any problems with, mentioned the green Pinto and was excited when Otto eagerly snatched the bait.

  “Ah, the man you’re looking for used to drive a beat up old green Pinto, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Frank replied with a smirk, “and it was the most atrocious shade of green, a sort of lime color, I’ve ever seen. Last time I saw it the car had a busted rear fender. Probably still does. My old friend never cared what his transportation looked like. As long as it got him where he wanted to go.” He laughed. Just a friendly guy looking for someone he used to know.

  The old man pondered Frank’s words, trying to make a connection to something in his memory, and abruptly blurted out, “Hmm, I remember that Pinto. Yep, I do. Having owned a gas station I saw a lot of cars over the years come in and out. Not many old Pinto’s around here, never has been, so I do remember that ugly green one with the damaged fender, though this was a while ago. I haven’t seen that Pinto for a long time. Then again the chap who drove it didn’t always live here. He was a wanderer, as you must know, and he came and went a lot over the years. What a loser. He was a friend’s son. The friend lived on a farm outside of town a ways.”

  “Is that friend still living there?”

  “That friend, Jed Cartwright, died a handful of years ago but his no-good son, if I recollect rightly Avery is his name, scurried back here after his father’s passing and is still squatting rent-free in his dad’s house. He’s let the place fall into a complete ruin, too. It’s all weeds and corroded broken down trashy junk. There are a bunch of old wrecked cars rusting in the backyard and, I’d also bet, in the garage.”

  Frank had to keep up the act. “Avery...yeah, now I remember. That was his name. Darn it,” he snapped his fingers, “how could I have forgotten that? He was a strange character, for sure. That’s why I want to see and talk to him for my book.”

  The elderly man’s eyes behind the thick lens zeroed in on Frank. His wrinkled hands shook as he lifted his coffee cup to his lips. Conceivably Parkinson’s or something like it. Old age wasn’t kind. “That’s putting it mildly. According to my late friend, the boy has had a problem with drugs his lifelong. Spent some time in prison for assault, too, as I recall, and other crimes. His absence and his wrongdoings broke his daddy’s heart and, in the end, I believe that’s what killed my old friend, not his bad ticker.”

  Frank couldn’t believe his luck and was almost afraid to hope for anything more, but pressed on. “Oh, my, I never knew Avery,” and here he took the man’s name as if he’d always known it, “turned into such a criminal. Oh, my. When I knew him, sure, he was reckless but not a criminal in any way. Or at least that I ever saw.” He took a chance, the final clue grabbed for, and asked, “Where is this farm?”

  Without skipping a beat the old gentleman gave him what he wanted. “It’s not far from here. Address number eight Swallows Road. It’s an eyesore all right. The house, a light-colored brick one with a rock garden in the front and two huge trees, is pretty run down. There’s also a boat scrapped in the front yard. Jed used to take it down to the lake to fish years ago before his bad health made that impossible. You can’t miss the house, not with that landlocked boat in front.”

  Frank wrapped up his visit with the old gentleman, paid his tab, left a tip, and slipped out of the restaurant. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been to get the information he’d needed after only a couple of greasy spoons and half a day of chatting up the locals. He keyed the address he’d been given into his GPS and soon found himself cruising by the run down farm...with the boat in the front yard.

  This was where things were going to get tricky. If it still existed, he had to find that Pinto. Old man Otto had said the place was home to a parking lot of derelict vehicles and junk. Otto had also said he hadn’t seen the car anywhere on the road for a very long time. It crossed Frank’s mind that Avery might have stashed the car somewhere on the farm, if he no longer drove it or it wasn’t drivable anymore, or he might have scrapped it. If the car no longer existed that would make things harder. Then again, if it was still around the Pinto could be anywhere on Avery’s property. So Frank would have to search for it.

  FRANK PARKED THE TRUCK far enough down the street so it couldn’t be seen from the house and, after pulling his holstered pistol from the glove compartment and snapping it onto his belt under his shirt, he covertly hiked to the farm, hiding behind anything that gave him cover. He took note of the vehicle in the driveway. An older model Ford truck. A faded blue. Another piece of junk by the looks of it, but one that apparently still ran.

  Stealthily making his way around to the rear of the structures on the property, his eyes on the doors and windows of the house for sight of anyone watching, he searched through the abandoned junkyard around him crammed with old appliances in different stages of disintegration and surrounded by piles of sticks, limbs and wood. There were discarded vehicles: a rusted out Chevy, a grime-encrusted station wagon with flattened tires that had seen much better days. No Pinto, though.

  He stared up at the garage as it loomed before him. As the rest of the property, the garage was a neglected building that leaned too far to one side. The wood was warped and weathered. It appeared as if it could collapse at any minute.

  Cautiously, he fought his way through the crowded together trees, the debris and the weeds to the garage. The windows were coated with aged filth and the interior was nothing but a solid gray. Using his fingers to wipe away a circle of grime on the dirty window; cupping his hands around his eyes so he could see inside better, he peeked in. He still couldn’t see a thing. Too dark. Sneaking around the building, he was surprised to discover the side door unlocked, though it stuck midway, something keeping it from opening fully. He squeezed in.

  He carried a pen sized
flashlight in his pocket and, once inside, he brought it out and switched it on. Directing the small beam of light into the darkness around him, he gasped when it exposed an old Pinto partly covered in a dirty tarp. Yanking the tarp away from the rear fender he noticed the fender was badly dented, the tail light broken. The Pinto was green. A lime green. He’d found the car. There was no doubt in his mind it was the Pinto the woman cashier at the Quick Trip had described as having followed Joel’s car down the rainy road and away from the station that night.

  But how to connect it and its owner, Avery Cartwright, to Joel’s disappearance and possible murder was his dilemma. There was no absolute proof whatsoever to tie one with the other. Then an idea came to him.

  Leaving the garage, he strolled to the front door of the house; knocked and waited for someone to answer. He didn’t have to wait long. An unkempt man somewhere in his forties opened the door. The man was in a torn and dirty T-shirt and loose fitting jeans. He looked as if he hadn’t had a bath in weeks and smelled like it, too. A short man, he was bone thin, with a scraggly beard and watery blue eyes that had a craziness shining deep inside them. The man’s left eye kept twitching, the hand not on the door jerked at his side. Frank had seen many like him. Drugs. Lots of drugs. That or the man was a mental case. Could be both.

  “So, what the hell do you want?” the man demanded in a hoarse voice, looking around Frank to see if Frank was alone. “I don’t cotton to salespeople pestering me at my home. So you better just get the hell off my land.” The man’s teeth, when he talked, were bad, and his eyes shifted from left to right, continuing to check out the vicinity around Frank.

  “I’m not a salesman. Are you Avery Cartwright?”

  “So what if I am. Who’s asking?”