Читать книгу Barry Jones' Cold Dinner - John Schlarbaum - Страница 5

Tuesday

I’ve always hated the rain - especially the half rain/half snow stuff which was falling this morning. Conducting surveillance in any type of downpour is always a frustrating exercise. On cool mornings your vehicle’s windows undoubtedly fog up. Worse yet, the rain hitting the front windshield distorts the view of the street ahead. Tree branches suddenly look like people and visa versa. But after awhile you get used to it.

On the force, when not working undercover, I’d often spent long days sitting in a truck painted to look like a phone company’s vehicle. My assignment was to watch, photograph, and videotape drug deals going down as part of sting operations. After being sliced and diced by the leader of the Cuban Arms gang however, I was deemed “damaged street goods” by my superiors and was assigned truck duty full-time.

Not that I minded. The pay was the same.

Upon my forced retirement, I soon discovered the act of surveillance was suddenly a very stressful experience. I no longer had the luxury of working with eight or more other officers, all communicating with each other by radio. If I lose sight of my subject or the subject’s vehicle in traffic, there is no back up. I am now a one man operation consisting of a dark green van with tinted windows, a couple of cameras, one set of eyes and a large pair of binoculars from WWII which I’d bought at a pawn shop.

I dubbed today’s surveillance a “fact-finding” mission. I was here only to observe. No one would be followed. No one videotaped or photographed. Hopefully, no one would even notice the unfamiliar van parked at the end of their quiet little street. Duke Drive is one of four short streets that make up the decade old, forty lot Delta Haven subdivision, located at the south end of town. All of the two storey homes were fashioned on variations of six basic designs - with each appearing warm and friendly.

I could only imagine what evil (if any) lurked behind their front doors.

I arrived at six in the morning and drove past 15 Duke Drive, which was a brown bricked residence with a single car garage. Parked in the driveway was a white late model Monte Carlo. I pressed the record button on my mini-cassette player and noted the licence plate. As expected, there were no lights on within the dwelling. I then surveyed the houses directly beside and across from the Jones place. Again (not surprisingly) they were also dark.

I then set up position near a small park and began doing what I do best: minding other people’s business.

An hour later the first sign of activity was observed: the Kelsey Lake Free Press newspaper boy entered the subdivision on foot, placing papers in the screen doors of every third house or so - including the Jones door.

Soon after it was time for everyone and their brother it seemed, to take the family dog for a short walk down to the park. Luckily, due to the light yet constant rainfall, no one paid attention to my van.

I watched as they passed by, mentally evaluating each person. I knew instinctively which walkers were dog lovers and which were not, long before overhearing them praise (“That’s a good girl”) or scold (“Hurry up dog! I don’t have all day!”) their pets. (For the record, I am more of a cat person.) Regardless of their gender or age however, all the people without exception, were white. Just like when I was growing up, I thought sadly. After the dogs were safely back inside there was a lull in activity while breakfast was being served. Then the final stage of this tiny neighbourhood’s morning ritual took place: the mass exodus of residents from their comfy cosy homes in order to attend school or to go to work.

When this occurred I began to pay particularly close attention to the homes in the immediate vicinity of #15. With each car that was backed out onto Duke Drive, I noted the vehicle’s make, its licence plate, the number of occupants - and if possible - their ages.

I was disheartened to learn that the residents (and presumably homeowners) of #13 and #17 were young couples, both in their early 20’s. Due to their age, it was highly unlikely either twosome had been residing in the area in March 1990. I made a mental note to find out just who had been Barry Jones’ neighbours seven years earlier and where they were now.

I was encouraged though, to see the three houses across the street from the Jones’ residence (#12, #14, and #16) were occupied by couples in their late 40’s and 50’s. All potential eyewitnesses to Mr. J’s final known actions.

By 8:45 all activity ceased.

Incredibly, the only car left parked in the street’s many driveways was the white Monte Carlo. In fact, it was one of only a handful of houses which no one had exited to greet the new - yet still wet - morning. Didn’t Mrs. Jones have to go to work? Didn’t her two teenaged sons have classes to attend? It just didn’t feel right. That all three occupants were sick and housebound on the very morning I’d decided to start my investigation seemed too coincidental. I recalled a highly successful homicide detective repeatedly telling me to never believe in such a concept.

“Everything in this world happens for a reason,” he’d said sternly. “Everything. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

Had Wayne tipped the Jones off after milking the cows? Before milking the cows? During milking the cows? I felt it wasn’t in Wayne’s nature to do such a thing. (I was also pretty sure the cows had nothing to do with it either.)

Then in a moment of clarity unmatched in quite some time, my mind concocted the following equation: Wayne + Cow = Trudy.

“That bitch!” I yelled, not caring if anyone outside the van heard. She never could keep her trap shut! For several minutes, I continued to curse the former Miss Babich, calling her every derogatory name I could think of, as well as making up a few new ones.

Then something through the rain drenched front window caught my eye: movement at #15 Duke Drive.

They were moving fast. With the aid of my binoculars though, I was able to take a mental snapshot of all three of them as they ran to the Monte Carlo.

Cathy Jones pretty much fit Wayne’s description. She was about 5’1”, sported a very heavy build, and possessed a face that would scare rabid animals. Her eyes were severe looking - beady even. Her mouth was frozen in a permanent scowl and her unintentional waddle reminded me of a sumo wrestler. Then to add insult to injury, her eye shadow and heavy cheek blush appeared to have been applied to her large round face by a drunken clown.

Suddenly the thought of Wayne and Trudy Babich having sex wasn’t so bad. Compared to Cathy Jones, Trudy was centerfold material.

I forced my eyes off the human genetic accident that was Barry Jones’ wife and focused on the two boys.

Both were tall, slim and good looking young men. The blond haired one I assumed was 17 year old Matt, while the brown haired boy was his 15 year old brother Randy. From their profiles it was apparent they’d (thankfully) obtained Barry’s genes - an incalculable rich blessing if there ever was one.

In quick order they were all in the car, which Cathy then drove frantically out of view.

Although curious where they’d gone, I quietly remained in the back of the van and started writing out my notes. An hour later, I gently slid into the driver’s seat and casually drove out of the subdivision, hoping no one had noticed my unannounced visit.

At the first stop sign I hung a left and continued to drive out of town. For the next thirty minutes I followed the same route Barry Jones supposedly took everyday - except one - to get to his job in the City of Kelsey Lake. There he worked straight days as an office manager for the Master Paint Company, a mid-sized operation which manufactured paint for the local truck plant.

For me the trip was uneventful - as it had always been. I’d travelled this stretch of highway hundreds of times, either as a passenger in my parents’ many cars or as the operator of my first “previously enjoyed” vehicle when I was 17.

Not truly populous enough to be termed The Big City, to many residents of Delta and the surrounding villages, hamlets, and crossroads, Kelsey Lake was just that. A clean, wholesome family- friendly metropolis boasting 30,000 residents, it consisted of a dozen name brand fast-food franchises, a championship junior league hockey team, a six screen cineplex, and a shopping mall housing 75 stores. All the amenities of a sprawling city, without the crime. And all possible due to the Chevy plant on the outskirts of town.

When I’d left the area to pursue my misguided fantasies, Kelsey Lake was a vibrant place to visit. Driving through the downtown core today however, was like making the rounds of a ghost town. There were twice as many storefronts boarded up than open for business. The sidewalks which once were the pathways leading to your next shopping destination, now only lead to failed dreams and broken display windows.

I found myself driving in a daze. Barry Jones and the Master Paint Company were abruptly forgotten.

As I continued to aimlessly witness how the recession had decimated this community, I remembered my father often saying how time waits for no one.

It wasn’t that I’d never seen the devastating results the economic downturn had had on hard working families and on their communities. I had. The difference now was that I felt I knew the people of Kelsey Lake and was a honourary member due to my frequent visits.

A feeling of loneliness began to gnaw at me. At the sight of stores I used to haunt as a teenager looking as though they might now actually be haunted, came the realization that the romantic memories of my youth were truly that. Memories I could not possibly relive or revive.

When I’d taken this assignment, I had only thought about how my life had changed during the previous thirteen years. The lean times. The good times. The bad times. The odd jobs. The troubled career. The girlfriends. The wife. The divorce. The one night stands. The rags. The riches. The drinking. The drugs. The horror. The humiliation.

And finally, the reawakening.

What I hadn’t considered was that while I’d aged (and supposedly matured), so had everyone else in the world.

Time waits for no one.

As the city landscape grew smaller in my rear view mirror, I had an urgent desire to see Maria. To talk to her. To tell her how sorry I was. To see her smile.

And to find out if she’d missed me as much as I’d missed her.

I parked in the visitor’s lot and entered the lobby of the Master Paint Company, where I was greeted by a lovely woman in her early 50’s.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’d like to speak with a Darren McDonnell - if in fact he still works here.”

“Oh, he comes here everyday,” she said with a devilish smirk. “If what he does behind closed doors can be classified as work however, is quite debatable.” She gave me a wink. “But that’s neither here nor there, is it?” she added. “Who should I say is here to see him?”

“Steve Cassidy. I’m a private investigator.”

“Did his wife hire you?”

“I beg your pardon?” I asked, wanting to make sure I’d heard her correctly.

“His wife - Anne,” she stated emphatically. “It wouldn’t be the first time you know.”

“First time for what?”

“Just what kind of investigator are you anyway?”

“I do mostly insurance work.”

“No marital cases?” “Not often.”

“Too bad,” she said as if suddenly disgusted with me and my trade. “Anne deserves better you know.”

Before I could agree with her she was dialing an extension on her console and then relayed my request to Mr. McDonnell’s secretary.

“No, Betty, he’s not working for Anne,” she said looking up at me with a smile on her face. She then terminated the line, handed me a visitor’s pass and pointed to a nearby set of elevators.

“Go up to the top floor and turn to the left. Betty - Mr. McDonnell’s assistant - will meet you there.”

“Thanks,” I said, walking away from the desk. As I waited for the elevators to return to ground zero, I caught the receptionist eyeing me. “By the way,” I said, turning to face her. “How long have Darren and Betty been getting it on?”

She let out a motherly sigh. “About three months. Every Friday afternoon at the Pantages Hotel.”

The elevator doors opened and I stepped in. Just as the doors closed I heard her say, “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“It’ll be our little secret,” I called back through the metal doors, not sure and not really caring if she’d heard me.

A few moments later, I stepped out onto the tenth floor and was immediately greeted by Betty, a beautiful young black woman who reminded me of Halle Berry. Not only did she look like a model, but the blue dress she was wearing clung so tightly to her shapely curves, I could have sworn it had been painted on. I resisted the overwhelming temptation to find out if it was dry or not.

Anne McDonnell should be worried, I thought. Very worried.

As we strolled down the hallway engaged in small talk, I attempted to do the impossible and keep my eyes from wandering across her body. But while I was doing this, I was surprised - and also a bit flattered - to realize that she too was finding it hard to keep her eyes focused on my face.

For a fleeting second I thought, Darren McDonnell should be worried. Very worried.

“You don’t look like a P.I.,” she said, bursting my ego driven fantasy like a soap bubble.

“Is that a good or bad thing?” I queried.

“Neither good nor bad, I guess,” she stated dismissively, clearing up nothing. “Mr. McDonnell is very busy. Can I ask the purpose of your visit? You know - to help speed things up.”

“Well for the record, I just want to ask your boss about a man named Barry Jones. They used to work together.”

Her face suddenly looked worried, as she tried to place the name. “Is this Mr. Jones in some kind of trouble?” she ventured.

“That’s what I’m hoping to find out,” I replied, clearing up nothing. Sensing she wasn’t going to get any more information out of me, Betty turned and briefly entered the doors to our left.

“Mr. McDonnell will see you now,” she said upon her return.

“Thank you,” I replied as I walked into her lover’s inner sanctum.

On first sight I took an instant dislike to the man.

Darren McDonnell was perhaps forty-seven, with a medium build and a face more than just his mother could love. His posture was perfect, yet stiff - as if he’d been trained by the military how to stand erect. And I guessed his clothes alone - the tailored grey Brook Brothers suit, starched white shirt and high polished black loafers - together probably cost a couple of grand. Or the equivalent take home pay I was going to make from this one file.

It wasn’t just how Darren McDonnell presented himself that made me leery. It was the man’s overpowering aura of self-importance. He simply oozed the stuff.

I knew everything about the man before we even exchanged the usual salutations. When working on a domestic violence task force a few years back, I’d interviewed men identical to McDonnell over and over again - each one seemingly oblivious to the fact that slapping their wife upside the head was a crime. Even when being questioned, these mavericks of big business believed they were somehow above the law. Unfortunately, due to the quick work of their divorce lawyers, in the end no charges were ever laid. No courts were convened and no harm to their precious old boys’ reputations came to fruition. I’m not trying to imply Darren McDonnell is a wife beater - just that he fits the profile.

To a tee.

“Steve, right?” he said striding across the room toward me, his hand outstretched.

“Yes, Steve Cassidy,” I replied, reluctantly shaking his hand. “I’m here about Barry Jones - a former colleague of yours.”

McDonnell shook his head as he offered me a big cushy seat in front of his enormous cherry wood desk.

“Pity about Barry. He had his whole life ahead of him.”

“You speak in the past tense,” I said, hoping to get back to my van as soon as possible.

“The man’s dead, isn’t he?” McDonnell countered.

“That’s one explanation for his prolonged absence.”

I watched for McDonnell’s reaction to the possibility Jones could still be alive, but Mr. Smooth didn’t as much as blink at the news.

“Well if he’s still breathing and you find him, say ‘Hey’ from me.”

“So the prospect of Mr. Jones vanishing of his own free will doesn’t surprise you?”

“Let me put it this way, Mr. Cassidy,” he said as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m from the old school that believes if you don’t find a body - you can’t confirm a death. Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule,” he was quick to add. “Like where enough circumstantial evidence exists that proves 99 out of 100 times that a person is dead. But in Barry’s case . . .”

“There’s no body.”

“Not only that, there’s no motive, no smoking gun, no evidence - circumstantial or otherwise - to indicate that Barry ever stopped breathing.”

“Not withstanding the fact he hasn’t been seen in seven years.”

McDonnell laughed. “The fact he hasn’t been seen around here is still not proof he’s joined the dearly departed, is it?”

I’m a big enough man to admit he had a point there.

“Were you two close friends, or merely colleagues?” I asked, trying a new tact to gain information.

“I guess you could term our relationship as friendly colleagues,” McDonnell said with an easy smile. “Barry and I both started working here at roughly the same time - both on the line. Then over the years we moved up the ranks. On the day he disappeared, he was the office manager and I was the plant manager.”

“So you two effectively ran the plant together?”

“The day-to-day duties. We didn’t make any of the executive decisions however.”

“Such as . . .?” I prompted.

“Such as product quotas, marketing strategies, pension fund investments . . .”

“All decisions you now make, isn’t that correct?”

It became immediately apparent by the change in his facial features he didn’t like that one.

“What exactly are you implying, Mr. Cassidy?”

“Just this,” I responded, suddenly feeling bullish for some reason. “Had Barry Jones continued to work here, what were the odds he would have eventually become head honcho?”

“Pretty slim,” the current head honcho replied. “Barry’s problem was even though he was well liked, he was effectively a suit. On the other hand, I was respected by not only the management in place at the time, but more importantly, by the line workers. You see, the company was planning some drastic changes to remain competitive and it was necessary that the union be on board.”

“And that’s where you came in.”

“Yes,” he beamed triumphantly, “but only after David Blume was felled by a stroke and forced to step down as CEO.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t poisoned?” I asked with just a twinge of sarcasm in my voice.

I’ll give the guy credit. He actually looked mildly amused by the question and not at all angered by its intended implication.

“If you’re done asking me relevant questions, I really do have work . . .”

“Just a couple more,” I interrupted, much to his chagrin. “In his capacity as office manager, did Mr. Jones have access to any company bank accounts or pension funds?”

“No.”

“After his disappearance were any audits done on his work?”

“There was a complete audit of the entire office, I recall.”

“And . . .?”

“Everything was in meticulous order - as one would expect from Barry.”

“You said he was liked by everyone here. Did that include the people who worked directly for him?”

“Of course. He was a talented, personable man who was, I believe, a fair boss to work with.”

“Was he banging his secretary?”

The brazen smile on McDonnell’s face disappeared.

Gotcha, you smug bastard, I thought.

“Barry Jones was a devoted family man, Mr. Cassidy,” McDonnell was finally able to say. “He would never cheat on his wife or embarrass himself in the eyes of his children.”

“So you’re saying that a married man who sleeps with his assistant - I mean, secretary,” I corrected myself, “is not a good family man? Is that right?”

He clenched his jaw so tightly I honestly thought it would smash into tiny pieces, like a crystal vase hitting a marble floor. His smile was now forced and the veins in his temples appeared ready to burst. And if looks could kill . . .

I was very pleased with myself.

“You don’t have to answer that, Mr. McDonnell,” I said as I stood. “You’ve been a great help.”

McDonnell willed himself out of his chair but did not offer the customary goodbye-glad-to-meet-you handshake.

“I don’t know what your angle is, Mr. Cassidy,” he said in a sharp, yet measured tone. “But if you ask me, when all is said and done, Barry Jones will still be missing.”

“I don’t doubt you for a second,” I replied cordially as I walked to the door. “But where we differ is that you’re the only one in this room who thinks I won’t find out why Barry Jones vanished in the first place.”

Upon exiting the office, I caught Betty and Darren exchange anxious glances. A moment later, as the elevator doors closed in front of me, I made a point to give them my best roguish smile and was on my way.

Or so they thought.

Thankful I was the only passenger in the car, the second it began its descent down the shaft, I pressed the STOP button, and the elevator came to an abrupt halt.

“Get me Cathy Jones on the phone, right now!” I heard McDonnell bark at his mistress.

“Is something the matter?”

“Not if I can help it!” a furious McDonnell yelled back. Then the door to the office was slammed shut and the only sound I could hear was the sexy multi-purposed Betty pushing numbers on her telephone. I took my finger off the STOP button and again

I was on my way.

Before leaving the building I stopped by the front desk and handed in my visitor’s pass.

“I can tell from the look on your face that you stirred up the bee’s hive, didn’t you?” the receptionist said with another one of her mischievous smiles.

I couldn’t help but return her grin. “My grandfather always said it was the only way to get to the honey.”

“He was right,” my co-conspirator said. “But don’t forget that just because you didn’t get stung this time, doesn’t mean there isn’t a pissed off bee out there just waiting to sting you in the ass. When the time’s right, of course,” she added.

“Of course,” I concurred.

I walked out to my van with mixed emotions. I hadn’t expected to uncover any new evidence about Barry Jones, so when none surfaced I wasn’t all that disappointed.

I already knew both the police and the paint company had done extensive investigations on Mr. Office Manager, and each concluded he was a great employee (although he had become a bit tardy during the ensuing seven year stretch). I thought it ironic that Jones received his highest accolades only after he stopped showing up for work.

I finally concluded there seemed to be no connection between the Master Paint Company and Jones’ disappearance. My only reservation was Darren McDonnell’s outburst following our meeting.

Was he simply informing the widow-in-waiting that a nosey private dick was in town asking questions? Or was there a deeper connection between them? A romantic link perhaps?

Having seen his present squeeze Betty, I seriously doubted Mrs. Jones held any appeal to Darren McDonnell.

Speaking of McDonnell, even though I thoroughly disliked the man, I didn’t get the feeling he had it in for Jones. They were as he’d said friendly colleagues, each making a living working for the same boss, the same company, and probably taking home the same pay-cheque.

On my way back to Delta I switched on the radio and heard an amazing news story that piqued my interest:

It dealt with an elderly couple by the name of O’Brien from Daytona Beach, Florida. Apparently they’d left their home and drove to the supermarket to get some groceries. Upon checking out with their purchases, they were seen by passerbys loading their bags into the trunk of their car and entering the vehicle. They then presumably drove off the lot and vanished for three days.

Simply vaporized.

During this period they made no contact with their frantic relatives. No money was withdrawn from their bank accounts. No credit card purchases were made. And - here was the real interesting part - various photos of the couple in the local newspapers and on television stations resulted in no clues to their whereabouts.

Family and friends all said it was completely out of character for the couple not to inform them if they planned to go on a trip.

Then in almost biblical fashion, on the third day the family’s prayers were answered when the couple drove their vehicle into their driveway and began to unload the aforementioned groceries.

Had they been kidnapped? Seduced to the dark side by televangelists? Lost track of time at a Bahamian casino?

My mind raced with possibilities.

After talking to their children, it was learned that like a good magic trick, they had not really disappeared at all.

The newscaster explained the couple had inadvertently consumed some bad strawberries for breakfast on the day they vanished. Toxins within the fruit had then somehow affected their brain-cells, causing a state of temporary memory loss - much like the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

Incredibly for 72 hours they’d toured the greater Daytona Beach area unable to find their way home. In an even stranger twist of fate, they were able to eat and stay overnight in two cheap motels on the strip, with the cash they had left over from their grocery money.

At this revelation my little grey cells immediately kicked out the obvious question: What had Barry Jones eaten for breakfast on March 20, 1990?

Strawberries? Out of date yogurt? A brown banana?

Wishful thinking aside, I was more intrigued by the fact that despite overwhelming media coverage, these confused senior citizens remained undetected by the public’s collective naked eyes.

Was it possible the tainted strawberries had given the O’Briens the power of invisibility, but they had forgotten it?

Darren McDonnell’s voice was suddenly in my head.

The fact he hasn’t been seen around here is still not proof he’s joined the dearly departed, is it?

He’d purposely emphasized the words around here.

Was it possible that Barry Jones, like the O’Briens, had also gone undetected by the public’s radar?

I began to entertain the idea Jones had been seen - maybe even on a daily basis - after he’d disappeared, but only by people who didn’t know his identity. Like gas jockeys. Waiters and waitresses. Maybe even a motel clerk from time to time.

But never in Jones’ own backyard. Not in Kelsey Lake and definitely not in Delta.

The problem was this line of thinking had already been pursued ad nauseam years earlier, by not only the police, but by the press. If someone living in the city disappears, it’s treated as almost an afterthought. But when the same well liked family man resides in a tranquil little village, it becomes front page news. A mystery of Agatha Christie proportions.

Barry Jones’ vanishing act was just such a story.

Once back in my rented room, I made an appointment for Thursday to meet with Kimberly Doucette, who’d covered the Jones story for the Free Press. Next, I called KBJW-TV, the local network affiliate and discovered the investigative reporter who’d covered the story - a Charles Emery - had recently passed away. Without thinking, I asked if he’d been married and if so, was his wife still alive? After a brief pause, the assignment editor said she was. If I was still a cop I’d have asked flat-out for her telephone number. As a lowly P.I. though, I could only ask the man if he could contact her and gave him my room number. I then asked if it might be possible to view Mr. Emery’s reports.

“I think that can be arranged,” he said, “but I’d have to clear it with the news director first.”

“You have my number,” I said as I hung up. When I stepped out of the shower a short time later, I was gratified to see that the little red light on my telephone was blinking.

That didn’t take long, I thought as I put on some clean clothes.

To my surprise I had not one but two messages. The first was from Cam Adler, KBJW’s News Director. That one I’d expected. The speed in which he’d returned my call proved how alluring the Jones story was after all these years. The simple fact a P.I. was in the area was a story in itself.

The real shocker was how quickly Charles Emery’s widow had tried to reach me.

I decided to make Adler sweat a bit and called Mrs. Emery. Not knowing how recently Mr. Emery had died, I first offered my condolences and apologized for disturbing her at home.

“I no longer work, Mr. Cassidy,” she said. “So home is the only place you could get hold of me.”

Her voice had a sweet melodic rhythm to it, which I found very appealing. I guessed she was still fairly young, probably in her mid 40’s or early 50’s, and wondered how anyone could deal with the death of a spouse at such an age. He had his whole life ahead of him, Darren McDonnell had said of Barry Jones. I wondered if Charles Emery’s friends had thought the same thing. “I understand you’re investigating the Barry Jones story,” she said. “How is it you think I could assist you?”

“The truth is Mrs. Emery, I’m not sure if you can or not,” I said honestly. “As part of my investigation I’m trying to find out more about Mr. Jones, his family, his job, etc., and it came to my attention that your husband became a kind of authority on the case. I’m planning on viewing his TV reports in the next couple of days, and was curious if he’d uncovered any clues or leads of his own. Details or theories he didn’t mention on air.”

The pregnant pause on the other end of the line revealed more to me than when the Widow Emery began to talk again.

“The theories my husband tracked down, Mr. Cassidy, were usually provided by the station’s viewers, via a 1-800 number they’d set up.”

Although her voice remained outwardly calm and collected, I could tell she was somewhat uncomfortable with this topic.

“Mrs. Emery,” I said in a reassuring tone, “I’m sure your husband was a fine and respected reporter, and in no way would I ever think of sullying his good name. If - and this is a big if - your husband discovered or possessed information that he, for whatever reason, didn’t pass onto the police, I promise you that no one will ever find out about it.”

The proceeding silence gave me hope that my sincere performance had worked its magic - not that I had any plans of deceiving this woman in the first place, mind you.

“I feel a bit nervous talking about this over the phone,” she finally responded. “Could you possibly come over here?”

“Sure. Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

After a few false starts, we finally agreed that the best time to meet would be immediately after I’d viewed the TV reports. That way everything I’d seen would be fresh in my mind.

I hung up the phone and went back to the washroom to blow-dry my hair. A few minutes later, the red telephone light was again beckoning to me. I called the front desk and was breathlessly informed Cathy Jones - the woman whose husband mysteriously disappeared several years earlier - wanted me to call her back as soon as possible.

“Did she sound angry?” I asked.

“To put it mildly,” I was told.

I wrote down the number, put on my jacket and walked to my van, safe in the knowledge that when I returned, the telephone light would undoubtedly be flashing once again.

I decided to forgo Scooter’s fine cuisine for lunch and drove five miles west to Bismarck - a village roughly the same size as Delta. Like my hometown, it had changed very little. The bank and post office remained unmoved, as did the local grocery store, where Maria used to work as a part-time cashier. Even the two variety stores and clothing stores were still in operation, although their names had been modified over the years.

I made this side trip for two reasons: First, to satisfy nostalgic curiosity of the place. And second, to escape any undue scrutiny from the locals in Delta, who by now surely knew of my presence and my purpose for being there.

My thinking was even if half of the people I encountered were eager for me to uncover the truth about the Jones affair, that left an equal number of residents believing I was conducting a witch hunt.

At any rate, even if my math was wrong (and in school it often was), I didn’t care to meet anyone who wanted to run me out of town.

At least not yet.

What I really wanted was to have a quiet lunch and Red’s Café looked like just the place for a bite to eat. My hopes for an uneventful meal went out the window the moment I stepped inside. The ten people already at their tables briefly stopped whatever they were doing to check out the new guy. Each appraised me from head to toe (some longer than others), and all presumably came to the conclusion I was no threat to them and continued on with their lives.

It was then I realized there was still one pair of eyes tracking my movements. She was standing behind the counter, a middle of the road type beauty maybe 30, with collar length brown hair and a slim physique.

I gave her a courtesy smile and walked to an empty table in the corner. As I perused the placemat menu, I glanced over to the counter again and our eyes met.

So much for remaining anonymous, I thought. It was obvious we knew one another but when our paths had crossed was still unknown to me. Now if I was still on the force, my first thought would be that we’d met during a prostitution round-up. That may sound far fetched, but on more than one occasion I had bumped into so called ladies of the night at coffee shops or restaurants when we were both off duty. They would be with their boyfriend or even husband and although no words were ever exchanged between us, the terror in their eyes spoke volumes.

Inevitably, due to our chosen professions, we’d meet again, at which time the women would thank me profusely for not revealing their double life. Some even went so far as to offer me a complimentary roll in the sack as a way to repay my kindness. A couple times - when my world was spiralling out of my control - I admit I actually cashed in on a few of these offers, which of course, only screwed my life up worse.

The city I used to be part of was now five hundred miles away from Red’s Café, and the woman staring at me was probably not a prostitute. The expression on her face was one of excitement, yet cautiousness. Familiar, yet maddening unrecognizable.

As she walked to my table with a pot of coffee, we continued to scrutinize one another without a break.

“So, do you still force yourself on hapless sixteen year old girls?” she said with a huge smile plastered across her lips.

I mentally tried to erase a decade and a half of living from her face, but my mind still came up blank as to her identity.

“If I said yes, would you think less of me?” I asked uneasily, all the while returning her grin.

“To tell you the truth, Steve, I haven’t thought much about you since high school,” she said with a laugh.

“But the sight of me walking through those doors unleashed a torrent of good memories, right?” I ventured.

“You haven’t a clue, do you?”

“Not a one,” I confessed, feeling totally embarrassed.

“I’ll give you a hint,” she said playfully. “You’re sitting in my café.”

I glanced down at the placement. “You’re Red?”

“I’m Jenny, you idiot.”

“Jenny Martin, of course,” I stammered. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. Now if your hair was still red . . .”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I’ve heard it all before.”

“Why the change?”

“Just to try something different.”

“It looks good.” She laughed. “Try telling that to my mother.”

I’d always enjoyed hanging out with Jenny. She was funny, smart, and the one who turned me onto the No Ulcer Attitude - a philosophy I still try to live by today (with varying degrees of success).

In the tenth grade we both had the same spare. We often found ourselves talking about our friends, our teachers, or our personal problems, either at a picnic bench in a nearby park or over coffee at The Palace Restaurant. I never recall thinking that hour together as being a waste of time. I guess the one reason we got along so well was there was never any sexual tension between us. I’m not saying the thought never crossed my mind, but the probability that we’d like each other better without clothes on was slim. So neither of us ever pursued that avenue.

Except once.

As I remember it, Jenny was in fact sixteen, but she was no more hapless than I was a genius at calculus. The truth was we were both a bit drunk at one of Doogie’s notorious barn parties. At midnight both Jenny and I found ourselves standing together outside a “working” outhouse waiting our turn, when for some reason - the moon, the booze, the freezing cold - I took her in my arms and kissed her full on the lips.

I can still hear her laughing at me.

The following Monday I offered an apology, which she accepted with a wave of her hand and a smile.

“Are you still only going out with guys from the city?” I asked, remembering how that was Jenny’s signature response to my friends’ requests for a date. “Or are you married?”

A bemused look came over her face - one I didn’t know quite how to read.

“Actually, I’m living with someone right now,” she said.

“And how’s that working out?”

“Chris and I are getting along great,” she replied hesitantly.

“Chris, huh? It’s not Chris Austin, is it?”

“No, definitely not that loser.”

“So are you happy?” I asked, not remembering any other guys by the name of Chris.

I knew the answer even before the words of confirmation crossed her lips. She just seemed so at ease with the world. Comfort able making a life for herself in this one horse town. Living a No Ulcer Attitude existence.

Truly amazing, I thought.

I placed my lunch order and soon Jenny was back at work taking care of her paying clientele. Every now and then she would drop by the table and sit down for a few moments, reminiscing about high school and updating me on the whereabouts of fellow classmates. When the topic of why I’d returned came up, like Wayne she too found my current occupation much more fascinating than it really was in reality.

It was when I mentioned the name Barry Jones however, that our conversation really started to heat up. Not only did Jenny recall his disappearance, it soon became apparent she knew more about the case than I did.

“How is this possible?” I asked. “When I talked with Doogie, he could only remember a few details.”

Jenny laughed. “The difference between Doogie and I is that he kills pigs for a living, while I on the other hand, feed p-i-g’s on a daily basis - if you catch my drift.”

Indeed I did.

“Can we get together sometime?” I asked, knowing full well we couldn’t have a frank conversation in a crowded café.

“Only if you promise not to kiss me again,” she said with a wide grin.

“I promise to behave myself,” I replied.

After exchanging numbers and leaving Jenny a generous tip, I headed back to Delta with a smile on my face. It had never crossed my mind that coming back could be so much fun. Hooking up with old friends and reminiscing about my youth with other people who were actually part of it.

And all the while charging Global Insurance by the hour.

I reluctantly stopped by my room and was greeted by the telephone’s red flashing light, which I ignored.

I brushed my teeth and was soon back in my van, heading to the east end of town. A few minutes later I stepped into the unbearably hot office of the Delta Sun-Times, the weekly local newspaper.

“Can I help you?” the middle aged woman behind the counter asked as she turned to face me. When our eyes met, a moment of recognition passed between us. “Well if it isn’t little Steven Cassidy. Look at you, all grown up.”

“Mrs. Chambers, how are you?” I replied.

“I’m well. I heard a rumour you were back in town.”

“Bad news travels fast,” I laughed. “Did you finally get tired of teaching bratty eight year olds the difference between a country and a continent?”

“As I recall, Social Studies wasn’t one of your strongest subjects, was it?” she said with an amused smile.

“That, Science and History. They were always my three lowest marks. Thankfully those days are over.”

“Not for me - at least not yet. I still have a few more years to go before I can retire. They’ve really cut back on some of the extra-curriculum activities I used to do, so instead of wasting away in the teachers’ lounge, I decided to work here on a part-time basis.”

“Sounds like the best of both worlds to me,” I replied.

“So what brings you back home?”

“Actually, I’m here looking into the disappearance of Barry Jones. I’m a Private Investigator for his insurance company.”

“Barry Jones huh? I remember when that happened. It must have been five or six years ago.”

“Almost seven.” I would have told her more (as she was one of my favourite teachers), but decided the less everyone knew at this point the better. “I’m actually just beginning my investigation and thought that going over the Sun-Times’ articles written at the time would help. I was hoping they might give me a better feeling for who Barry Jones was and the exact circumstances surrounding his disappearance.”

“From a local perspective.”

“Exactly. As you can imagine the police reports are pretty dry and almost devoid of any emotion.”

“Well you’re welcome to look through the old editions in the archive room. I have to warn you though, it’s pretty cool and dry in there - you know, to keep the newsprint from deteriorating. They’ve been thinking of putting everything on microfiche but haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

I followed her into a large room where crates upon crates covered the walls. I gave her the dates I was looking for and she found the corresponding box in a matter of moments. “It’s fairly heavy, so if you don’t mind carrying it to the table, I’d appreciate it,” she said.

I lugged the box over to the reading table set up in the middle of the room and lifted the lid which read January - September, 1990.

Mrs. Chambers then excused herself, but only after giving me a gentle warning to be careful when handling the newspapers. She also said she’d photocopy any articles I needed. I thanked her and began sifting through the papers.

I found what I had expected. The community had banded together to help one of their own. Search parties were organized. Posters were made. Help was offered to Cathy and the boys. In all of the early articles Barry was described as a good family man and a hard worker at the paint plant. His life was chronicled from the day he and Cathy arrived in town in the late 1980’s, right up until his mysterious disappearance.

The question that permeated each and every article was the same one I found myself asking seven years later: Where was Barry Jones? Sadly, the answer would not be found in these old papers. I put the box back in its place and walked to the front counter.

“Any luck?” Mrs. Chambers asked.

“Not today.”

“There are an awful lot of theories out there about Mr. Jones. I’m sure you’ve heard a few already.”

“I have,” I admitted. “You didn’t happen to know him, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. I saw him on the street every once in awhile. I didn’t teach either of his boys, so I didn’t even have the chance to meet him or his wife at Parent-Teacher Night.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “Regardless, thank you for your help and good luck with the paper.”

“Thanks, Steven. It was really nice to see you again.”

“You too,” I said as I exited the building and walked out into the cold.

With only an hour before my big date, I decided to head back to the motor inn and get ready. Thinking of Mrs. Chambers as I drove away from the paper, it felt good to see yet another old familiar face. I wondered how many more I would see before this file was done. I hoped plenty. When I’d left town, I did so without saying a word to any of my friends from school. Given the opportunity, I had decided to make amends with all of them if the chance arose. But my first priority was to keep my appointment with a new friend, the lovely librarian.

I pressed Linda’s apartment entry code and was immediately buzzed in. The building was fairly new and located next to the high school. At three stories high with ten units per floor, it was a nice addition to the south end of town. I then walked up the three flights of stairs and was met by my hostess at her door.

“I now know why you’re in such good shape,” I said with a smile, trying to hide the pathetic fact I was a bit winded.

“There you go with that city boy charm again,” Linda replied, matching my grin tooth for tooth. “Welcome to my modest little dwelling I call home.”

As I stepped past her an intoxicating mixture of her perfume and the aroma of a pasta dish from the kitchen sensually assaulted my senses.

“This is for you,” I said, handing her the chilled bottle of wine I’d brought. As she took it from my hand our fingers touched ever so briefly, and it was as if a current of electricity passed through our systems.

I had recently read an article that stated love - or the attraction to another person - was caused by a chemical reaction in the brain. If that were in fact true, I had the feeling tonight’s date could turn into a very interesting science experiment.

Linda gave me the grand tour of her two bedroom apartment, which she’d decorated in a laid back, pastel tinted Santa Fe style. Painted cactuses on the walls, real ones in the corners of the living room. Light blues, greens, and pinks accented every pillow, painting, and throw rug in sight. And as the piece de resistance, there was a two hundred gallon tank stocked with the most beautiful salt water fish this side of the Great Barrier Reef.

I realized just how mature and attractive Linda was as I watched her make her way to the stereo. In the library she seemed innocent and fresh-faced - still eager to learn all about life. But in this setting - this world she’d created - she was in complete control.

As The Eagles began to play their Californian rock through the speakers, Linda turned and caught me staring at her. “I get that look a lot, Mr. Cassidy,” she said, holding my gaze. “But usually it’s from boys going through puberty. You’re not a late bloomer, are you?”

“Only in the manner’s department,” I apologized. “What I mean is I should have told you how beautiful you look tonight when you greeted me at the door.”

“So let me get this straight. When I just caught you staring at my butt, you were trying to telepathically compliment me on my looks, is that right?”

Suddenly the only scientific demonstration I could recall was from Grade 11 when Mr. Basker combined water and oil. It was not a harmonious union.

Before I could offer another feeble excuse for my actions, Linda surprised me yet again.

“Turn and face that wall,” she commanded and I quickly complied. “Now shake it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shake your tush for me,” came the response.

“Is this my punishment or simply for your amusement?”

“I’ll tell you after dinner,” she said. “Now go on.”

Like a two year old asked to dance for visiting relatives, I closed my eyes in humiliating disbelief and began to move my hips from left to right. Linda let out a whoop and started to clap her hands, mocking my performance.

“Would you prefer The Village People to The Eagles?” she asked with a laugh.

“Are we almost through here?” I kiddingly protested.

I still have no idea how she does it, but like the two occasions in the library, Linda was unexpectedly very close to me.

“We haven’t even started yet,” she said in a low whisper. She then placed her hands on my hips, which resulted in another wave of pleasure bolting up my spine. “You can stop now.”

“What if I don’t want to?” I turned and we literally came face-to-face. As I looked into Linda’s eyes, I was suddenly transported back in time to the front porch of Maria’s house one hot July evening many years earlier. But when Linda and I kissed, (a short, yet wonderful moment in time), my thoughts were only of her and me.

We reluctantly broke from our embrace and stood awkwardly for a few seconds.

“Before we jump right to dessert,” she said, “why don’t we just slow things down a little and have some dinner?”

“Sounds good to me,” I agreed.

I soon found myself in the delightful company of a very well read and completely fascinating woman, whose life story thus far held me captivated. During the conversation - and between mouthfuls of homemade chicken tetrazini - I’d added a few details of my own experiences, trying to keep everything light and enjoyable. I told her about my time on the police force but failed to truthfully divulge the shady details of my departure. I admitted I was divorced and that in the past I may have drunk too much. At no time did I say my wife had left me due to my alcoholism. (Like I said, I was trying to keep things light and more importantly, to make that feeling generated by that one kiss last as long as I possibly could.)

“Did you know you are the talk of the town?” Linda asked as I poured us some more wine.

“Can’t say as I did,” I replied.

“You’re the biggest news here since . . .”

“Hold it - let me guess,” I interrupted. “Not since Cathy Jones misplaced her husband. Am I right?”

“Is that what you think happened?” Linda asked. “That Mrs. Jones murdered her husband for the insurance money?”

“Who said anything about insurance money?” I countered.

“Well why else would you kill your husband?”

“You tell me. Didn’t you and your ex ever have a fight where you yelled at each other, ‘I wish you were dead’?”

“I guess on occasion.”

“And at the time you said that, were you thinking about insurance money?” I didn’t wait for her reply as an understanding expression crossed her face. “Hey, I’ll admit it - there were many times I wanted my wife dead, but the thought of having a bunch of cash never entered my mind.”

“So you think she got rid of him for another reason?” Linda asked.

“What did your mother think happened?”

“What does it matter?”

“I like trying to figure out where and how people get their opinions,” I began. “You for example were fifteen when this went down, right? What’s that Grade 10? Your mother and Mrs. Jones are roughly the same age, so I’m sure she would have had a great deal to say regarding Mr. Jones’ disappearance. And you being the only girl in the house - notwithstanding the fact that your brother Keith threw a baseball like a girl - would I be wrong to think you and her had many conversations about Cathy and Barry Jones?”

“We had a few,” Linda admitted slowly.

“So I’ll ask you again. What did your mother think became of poor Mr. Jones?”

“If I answer your question, it won’t go into your report, will it?” Linda asked uneasily. “Because I don’t want to get my mother into any trouble.”

“I assure you, this is off the record.”

“And just because I agreed with her back then, doesn’t mean I do today, okay?”

“Of course. You were just an impressionable school girl, right?”

“Right,” she said with a whimsical smile. “And I don’t want you to hold it against me.”

“What I want to hold against you isn’t your opinion,” I responded, flirting shamelessly. “Just spit it out.”

Linda took a deep breath and then exhaled. “My mother thought Mrs. Jones had chopped her husband up with an axe, after he found out she was having an affair.” Again she inhaled and exhaled deeply. “There I said it out loud, are you happy now?”

“Happy? I’m speechless,” I said. “How did your mother know?”

“Know what?”

“About the axe. How did she know about the pick axe? The police never released that information to the public.”

Linda sat dumbfounded. “I don’t know. I just remember her saying that one time.”

“Is it possible that your mother was part of this thing?”

“What do you mean?” Linda looked worried suddenly.

“What if the affair Mr. Jones found about was between Mrs. Jones and your mother? Or maybe between Keith and Mrs. Jones? The scandal would be incredible.”

Linda watched as I took out a pen and began to write on my paper napkin.

“What are you doing?”

“Just a few notes about your mother’s affair with Mrs. Jones.”

“You said this was off the record!” she said angrily, as she grabbed the napkin away from me and began to read.

I LOVE THE WAY YOUR EYES SPARKLE WHEN YOU’RE MAD

It took her a few seconds to figure out I’d been kidding around, but from the look on her face she was game enough to admit she’d been had fair and square.

Without a word, she threw the napkin on the table and stood up. She then mouthed the words, “I think it’s time for dessert,” and led me by the hand to her bedroom.

“I don’t have to dance again, do I?” I asked as we fell backwards onto her bed.

“Not vertically,” she said with a laugh. “But you will dance for me.”

As we continued our get to know each other better session long into the evening, I felt at peace with myself and completely at home with Linda. It was a feeling I’d rarely experienced during the past decade, and surprisingly I was now very glad I’d returned to Delta.

A few minutes before midnight, Linda and I kissed one final time and I promised to stop by the library the following day. I made my way to my van and as I drove off the lot I was happy to see her waving goodbye to me from her balcony. I quickly returned the gesture and smiled a huge smile, even though I was positive she couldn’t see it.

Heading uptown I thought that the evening had been perfect. The food was good, the company was great, and the dessert - ah, the dessert - was fantastic. (Linda’s homemade chocolate mousse was also quite incredible, I might add.) But as I turned onto Main Street, my assessment of the night began to darken ever so slightly. Two teenaged boys hanging about the bank sparked a memory I had long since forgotten. It was then doubts about any type of ongoing relationship with Linda started to take hold.

The summer before Maria and I started to go out, I had met a girl whose family had moved to Delta during the first week of August. Her name was Michelle Fuller and I remember her being slim, with short brown hair and being blessed with the face of an angel. I don’t recall exactly how we met (possibly at the ball diamond or maybe when I was cutting grass in her neighbourhood), but I do know that we hit it off immediately. The problem was her father was very strict and didn’t want his sweet fourteen year old daughter going anywhere with a seventeen year old boy. I reluctantly kept my distance and didn’t force the issue with Michelle or her father. Then just before school was to resume, incredibly he changed his mind. Of course, stern rules were set in place. Her curfew was ten-thirty and as we were going into Kelsey Lake to see a movie, we were to keep the ticket stubs, to prove we hadn’t gone to a restricted show.

To teenagers, parental rules always seem excessive, but Michelle and I didn’t care. We just wanted to have a good time.

And that we did.

At ten-fifteen I pulled into Michelle’s driveway and we both saw the slight movement of curtains in the front window. Being Mr. Responsible, I then opened Michelle’s car door and escorted her up to the front steps, where we were greeted by her mother who was all smiles. She invited me in and we talked in the living room for a few minutes about our evening out. Still there was no sign of Mr. Fuller.

At ten-twenty-nine, I said I should be going and both Michelle and her mother walked me to the door. Sensing Michelle wanted her to leave (if only for a few moments), Mrs. Fuller said good night and left us alone.

What followed was like a scene from the television show Happy Days.

“I had a real nice time tonight,” Michelle said.

“I’m glad,” I replied. “Maybe we can do this again.”

“Sure.”

Then the weight of the world was upon my shoulders. I was certainly glad that her first official date had gone well, but I was also aware that to kiss her might be just a bit presumptuous on my part. Yet as I looked into her eyes, I got the distinct impression that more harm would be done if I didn’t at least make an attempt.

In the end she set the tone for our farewell when she slowly turned her lips away from mine, compelling me to kiss her lightly on the cheek. As I straightened up we both smiled and I told her I would call the following Monday. But as you may have guessed, I never made that call, even though I knew I should have followed my heart.

In those days I wasn’t as cynical or as tough as I am now. So when two guys from school stopped my car in front of the bank and warned me to stay away from Michelle, I listened to their arguments instead of driving away.

They told me Michelle was too young for me and that there was no way she would have anything to do with me once school started. They said she was already gaining popularity with the other Grade Niners in town and as soon as classes began, she would learn what a nobody I truly was.

I remember telling them to take a flying leap, but as I tried to go to sleep that night, I kept hearing their voices in my head. Soon I began to agree with their assessment of the situation - if only on the issue of our age difference.

By the next morning’s light, I had absurdly decided that further “dates” with Michelle were out of the question. What she thought of me in the days and weeks following that decision I can only imagine, as we never did talk about it once school started again. What her father thought of me though, I’m sure was much worse.

All this soul searching made me turn my van around and drive past Michelle’s house. Today she would be in her late 20’s and I would be a very faint footnote in her memory. Of course, three years difference in age is significant when you’re in high school, as you have to deal with peer pressure. However, once you’ve flown your parents’ coop and trotted off to college or university, age suddenly seems irrelevant. Or so I thought.

My current problem was that Linda was in her own right a woman. She was educated, independent, self sufficient, and even divorced, all by the time most of her former girlfriends were still struggling to graduate with a college or university degree. But she was still nine years my junior and for some reason that bothered me on some unconscious level.

A short time later, I crawled into my bed at the motor inn and realized that a small part of me was still that easily intimidated seventeen year old.

“You’re pathetic,” I chided myself.

I tried to shake the feeling I was somehow doing something wrong or untoward when it came to Linda. I even recalled a song that went, How can something so right, feel so wrong? Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember if the singer was talking about forbidden love or robbing a convenience store.

I finally came to the conclusion that Linda and I were both adults and we both understood the inherent pitfalls of one night stands (although I doubt she ever had a partner so whacked out on cocaine they tried to hang themselves from a chandelier using red shoestring liquorice). But I could be wrong.

The fact remained that although I was genuinely attracted to Linda, being back in Delta somehow raised the stakes for us. As bizarre as it may sound, deep down I had the nagging feeling I was inadvertently cheating on Maria. That I should have waited to see what transpired during my dinner at Doogie’s before going out with Linda.

As per usual, I was lost when it came to making love work for me, instead of against me. I couldn’t do it with Maria. I couldn’t do it with my wife. And I certainly couldn’t do it with a string of other women after my divorce.

Drifting off to sleep only one thought continued to race through my troubled mind: You’re pathetic.

And I was.