The day our child disapp.., p.53
The Day our Child Disappeared, page 53
Back in her apartment, Winnie unlocks a massive antique trunk that sits beneath the corner window, revealing an impressive collection of old newspapers, photographs, clippings, and books about Red River. She hands me a leather-bound book roughly the size of the Yellow Pages.
“That’s a handwritten census from 1852,” she says. “See if any of those names sound familiar. It doesn’t list Black or Native American people, though.”
“My guy’s white,” I say, skimming the first page. “But I don’t have his name, so this won’t help.”
“Let me see the sketch again,” Winnie says. After examining it, she points to a detail in the drawing and asks, “What’s this?”
“He had a handkerchief tucked into his pocket,” I say. “Embroidered with the initials, C.C.”
“His initials?” Winnie guesses.
“Most likely his wife’s or girlfriend’s,” Officer Burke says. “Back in the day, ladies gave favored men a handkerchief as a love token.”
I opened the census again, carefully turning the fragile pages until I reached the list of C’s. Only one person’s name matched the initials. “Cecelia Collins,” I say, showing Burke and Winnie. “It says here that she was married to a guy named Birch Collins. Do you think that’s our guy?”
“Birch Collins?” Winnie dives back into the trunk. “I think I might have a picture of him somewhere. He owned the old barbershop. Here—” She emerges with an album full of black and white photos, sorted alphabetically by names and places. Flipping to the C’s, she draws one out and frowns. “No, this isn’t him.”
“Let me see,” I say.
Birch Collins most definitely does not match the dead man I saw in the mine. He sports a freshly-trimmed mustache and wears the barber’s traditional vest and trousers. The dead prospector looked as though he hadn’t visited a barber in months.
“Definitely not him,” I tell Winnie.
Winnie hands the album of pictures to Officer Burke. “Well, I got you started. Feel free to skim through the rest of those pictures. I gotta get back to the bar.”
“Bye, Winnie,” Officer Burke says.
Winnie smiles. “Bye, Teddy.”
I snap my finger in front of Burke’s glazed eyes. “Hey, what’s your deal? Help me find this guy.”
Sitting on the floor, we split the stack of photos into two piles and start going through them. Halfway through my pile, my neck starts to ache. Groaning, I stand up to stretch.
“This is pointless,” I say. “We’ll never find him.”
Officer Burke holds up a photograph of four women ready to be hanged on a platform in Red River’s old town square. “Au contraire. Look at the caption.”
“Pearl Dumont sentenced to death for armed robbery—blah, blah, blah,” I read. “Cecelia Collins was sentenced to death for committing adultery. Wanted for questioning: Tobias Welch.”
“Wanna bet he’s our guy?” says Burke.
“We need proof. Keep looking.”
Officer Burke nurses her gin and tonic as we dig through Winnie’s research for the next two hours. Finally, I catch a glimpse of the prospector’s likeness in a file of obituaries.
“Here!” I show the obituary to Burke. “It’s him. Tobias Welch. He died in the mines. That’s exactly what I needed to know.”
“Great,” Burke says, brimming with enthusiasm. “Now, what’s the connection between Welch and Loretta?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
“Do I look like Yoda?” I say. “Identifying him was only the first step.”
Burke pushes herself off the floor. “That’s it. I’m done. If Sheriff Miller asks, tell him I did my best to work with you, but you literally drove me to drink.”
13
Though Officer Burke has no faith in me, I’m positive that I’m on the right track. Unfortunately, there’s no way to confirm this as Loretta hasn’t shown her ghostly face since she disappeared in the mine. One might mistake Loretta’s random vanishing as a good sign, but at this point in my investigation, it means one thing: her body is not where she thinks it is.
This is why I don’t do homicide investigations. I’m totally cool with delivering messages from the dead to the living or helping ghosts complete unfinished business in the event of their untimely death. When it comes to murder, I don’t like to get involved.
Of course, there’s no proof that Loretta Gunn was murdered. Not yet, anyway. Officer Burke and Sheriff Miller might be combing the town for clues and hints, but my gut tells me Loretta’s death wasn’t an accident or a suicide. The graveyard ghost who’d spoken to me yesterday reported that Loretta followed her son on his walk to school every day. No woman who loves her teenage son that much would kill herself. Not to mention, suicide victims don’t often become ghosts. They’re ready to cross over, and they do it almost instantly.
I clear the pictures of Winnie’s high school glory days—a group of cheerleaders in a pyramid during a football game, Winnie in a stunning, emerald green prom dress and a silver crown, Winnie and Boone kissing—from her corkboard. In the middle, I pin the copy of Loretta’s missing person report. Off to the side, I stick up the prospector’s sketch and Tobias Welch’s obituary. With some red embroidery thread from Winnie’s abandoned arts-and-crafts bin, I link Loretta and Tobias together.
After a quick trip downstairs to the Saloon for the whiskey that Officer Burke refused me, along with a plate of fries, I dig through Winnie’s research, scanning every picture and page for more information on Tobias Welch. His obituary cites his cause of death as a mining accident, though I question if this is accurate since Tobias’s ghost didn’t sport any visible injuries. Besides his taboo relationship with Cecilia Collins, I can’t find any other connections to Red River’s historical population. He died an unmarried man and left no known heirs in his wake. The obituary does not mention parents or friends. It seems the old-time prospector lived quite the lonely life.
It’s a stretch to link a modern-day woman to a man who lived and died in the 1850s. If I want to connect Loretta to Tobias, I need more information about both of them. For the first time, I open the file that Sheriff Miller first gave to me. In addition to Loretta’s missing person report, the file contains Loretta’s marriage license and divorce papers, her son’s basic information, interview transcripts from Loretta’s boss and ex-husband, and a few handwritten assumptions from Sheriff Miller’s brilliant mind.
I’m primarily interested in Loretta’s ex-husband—James Canton. Good ol’ Jimmy is Sheriff Miller’s number one suspect, and when I see an old mug shot in the file, I immediately understand why. Jimmy’s eye bags are darker than charcoal, and two of his upper incisors are chipped like he got punched in the mouth and never went to the dentist. The collar of his white T-shirt is stained yellow, and he has a slightly crazed look in his eye. Those shiny, blown pupils mean one of two things; Jimmy was either high when this picture was taken, or he’d recently suffered a head injury. I’m betting it’s the former.
Jimmy’s initial arrest had nothing to do with his late wife. Roughly eighteen months prior to Loretta’s disappearance, Jimmy drunkenly broke into a neighbor’s car and stole the radio. The neighbor’s security cameras caught him on tape, but they didn’t press charges. The arrest report states that the neighbors were satisfied with the safe return of the car radio, and that they didn’t want to cause Jimmy and Loretta “any more trouble.”
Jimmy and Loretta, it appeared, had a reputation for being loud, troublesome neighbors. If this is the case, I automatically pity their son, Dusty. Bad neighbors generally make bad parents. The fact that Dusty is living with his grandfather instead of Jimmy backs up my assumption. Where exactly is Jimmy, and why doesn’t he care that his ex-wife is dead?
The interview transcripts partially reveal this answer. I skim through Sheriff Miller’s questions and Jimmy’s flighty responses.
Sheriff Miller: When was the last time you saw Loretta?
James Canton: Thursday. No, Tuesday. I don’t keep track since we got divorced.
Sheriff Miller: You share custody of Dusty. You don’t see Loretta when she drops him off at your place?
James Canton: Dusty comes and goes when he wants. He rides his bike. His mom doesn’t drop him off unless it’s raining.
Sheriff Miller: So, you can’t tell me anything about your wife.
James Canton: She threatened to leave me years ago. I guess she finally did it. I’m just surprised she didn’t take Dusty with her.
Sheriff Miller: You think she left town?
James Canton: I don’t know, man.
Sheriff Miller: Did she leave a message, asking you to take care of Dusty?
James Canton: Sheriff, if she had, I would’ve told you about it.
Sheriff Miller: I’m not so sure about that.
The rest of the interview proceeds in a similar manner. Despite Sheriff Miller’s best attempts, Jimmy gives vague, unhelpful replies. He clearly hasn’t cared for Loretta in quite some time. Though his answers seem dodgy, I’m not convinced that Jimmy killed Loretta. Fishing Sheriff Miller’s business card out of my jacket pocket, I call his number.
“Hello?” he answers groggily. “Who’s this?”
“Are you sleeping, Sheriff?” I ask. “Aren’t you supposed to be protecting the town or whatever?”
“Not at ten o’clock at night,” he rumbles. “That’s second shift’s job. What do you want, James?”
“Did anyone ever report domestic disturbances at the Cantons’ house?” I say.
“Not that I can recall.”
“So Jimmy doesn’t have a history of violence or abuse?” I say. “Did Loretta ever have bruises? Did she wear long sleeves a lot or make excuses as to why she couldn’t do things in town?”
“Loretta was very involved in the town,” Miller says. “She showed up to every PTA meeting. She helped plan town events. She was on the HOA committee for her neighborhood. She didn’t show signs of abuse.”
“Then what makes you think Jimmy killed her?”
The sheriff groans, making the bedsprings squeak as he sits up. “I never said Jimmy killed her, but we’d be remiss not to suspect him. How’d it go with Officer Burke today?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“Not well, then?”
“Night, Miller.”
Now that I’ve got a better hold on who Loretta was, it’s time to do the same for Tobias Welch. Lamentably, it’s much harder to profile someone who died almost two centuries ago. Luckily for me, though, it’s not impossible. Since Tobias was a Red River citizen, he is most likely buried somewhere in town. Donning my leather jacket, I tuck Officer Burke’s borrowed flashlight into the pocket and head outside.
The Saloon is still in full swing. Through the front windows, I spot Winnie lining up a row of tequila shots for a group of rowdy college students who most likely road-tripped from Denver. I pause briefly to ensure that everyone is treating my sister with the respect she deserves, but my worries are unfounded. This town of hicks and morons agrees on a single rule: don’t harass the bartender. If you break the rule, you won’t be allowed back in the bar.
Behind the church, the cemetery is quiet. Despite presumptions, dead people don’t throw wild graveyard parties à la the Haunted Mansion. While ghosts do come out more often at night, it’s mostly so they don’t have to deal with the living. After all, we can be a handful. Tonight, a few silvery beings rest on or around their graves, gazing at the sky. The earlier storm washed all the clouds aside, leaving nothing but an unbroken stretch of navy blue and twinkling stars.
The Red River Cemetery is broken up into several sections. Those who have died recently are buried closer to the church. If you continue up the stone pathway to the left, you’ll find the grandmothers and grandfathers of current locals. However, if you stride straight ahead, through the wall of trees and moss, over the trickling creek, you’ll end up in Red River’s original graveyard where cowboys, gunslingers, and lawmen lay six feet under. Some of the graves are marked, and some aren’t. The crumbling headstones bear signs of age and occasional vandalism. Actually, the faded red spray paint on one ancient rock reminds me of a past misadventure.
As I examine the grave markers for dates that match Tobias Welch’s birth and death, I imagine what Officer Burke might say if she’d tagged along on this leg of my investigation. Pairing her with me was Miller’s mistake. She would be better off stuck behind a desk than dealing with my seemingly senseless deductive methods. If Miller forces us to keep working together, I’ll have to make excuses for my behavior. It’s not like I can tell Officer Burke that I’m interviewing ghosts from the nineteenth century.
Slowly but surely, I move through the graveyard. For stones with engravings that have worn away, I take etchings—rubbing the soft edge of my pencil lead across the paper—to more easily read the names and dates. Eventually, I find my own history buried deep beneath a crooked pine tree.
My family arrived in the United States fairly early on, establishing roots in Virginia around the 1600s. They moved west with the expansion, following the quest for gold, and eventually ended up in Red River. My great-great-great-grandfather, Calvin James, was a gunslinging cowboy who herded cattle for competing ranch owners. More than once, Calvin got caught in the crossfire between owners, as he only completed the job for the highest bidder. Other rumors speculated that Calvin acted as a bounty hunter, but it was harder to distinguish criminals from innocent people back then.
Stories about Calvin and his Wild West ways trickled down through the paternal side of my family. Up until Winnie and me, the James men always fathered sons. Personally, I didn’t find the tales of Calvin’s casual murder that appealing despite the reverent tone my father used when he spoke of our ancestor. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think killing random people for gold and sport is honorable or justifiable.
Calvin wasn’t the only man in Red River with an inflated ego, a lasso, and a cowboy hat. He led a gang of men with similar professions, all of whom ended up in early graves. Three of Calvin’s closest confidantes are buried beside him: Joseph Goodnight, Jack Bassett, and Edwin Levy. Daddy’s stories often featured the fearsome foursome, but I tuned out most of the gory details. By happy chance, none of the cowboys’ ghosts linger in the area. At least, not that I’ve seen.
I finish checking headstones without locating Tobias Welch’s grave. If he died in the mine, perhaps there wasn’t a body to bury. Annoyed with the lack of progress, I turn to leave, but there’s one marker—the largest one—I haven’t checked yet.
Most cemeteries feature statues of angels or saints, but the stone monstrosity overlooking Red River’s dead is a likeness of one Winfield Marlow. Don’t ask me who the hell Winfield Marlow was because the ridiculously excessive sculpture doesn’t tell me anything apart from his birth and death dates: 1803-1852. The version preserved in stone wears a brocade vest beneath a long coat, boots meant more for fashion than work, and a tophat. Marlow either possessed a great deal of wealth, or he wanted everyone else to think he did.
Funnily enough, I’ve met Winfield Marlow once before. During a midnight outing with Nash around junior year, we dared each other to climb the statue and touch Marlow’s tophat. Halfway up, Marlow’s ghost emerged from the stone and threatened to beat the crap out of me. Though Nash couldn’t see him, he didn’t question me after we sprinted from the graveyard. Since then, I haven’t given Marlow a second thought. Maybe it’s time that changed.
“Hey, Marlow.” I pick up a big stick and tap the statue’s face. “Wake up, buddy. I got questions.” The statue remains quiet, so I pick up a few pebbles and toss them at Marlow’s nose. “Marlow! You’re ugly. I bet you were broke. Your outfit sucks. Your mama’s so stupid, she went to the dentist to buy a Bluetooth.”
The statue roars to life, or rather, Marlow’s awakening spirit makes it appear as such. The stone seems to quiver as Marlow wrenches himself from the grave. With a thunderous cry, he stretches toward the sky and bellows, “Who dares speak ill of my mother?”
“Hi,” I say, waving. “Down here, buddy.”
Marlow glances down his nose and points one dramatic finger. “You shall pay for your insolence!”
“Yeah, whatever. Do you know who Tobias Welch is?”
Instead of answering, Marlow zooms toward me and lets out a war cry. Not entirely surprised, I sidestep his first attack. When he swings around for another try, I slam my fist into his nose. From the bent cartilage, it looks like someone did the same thing when Marlow was still alive.
The massive ghost ricochets across the cemetery, eyes wide with shock. I beckon him back to me, challenging him to try again. Marlow’s brows knit together with recognition.
“You,” he spits. “I promised to tear you limb from limb if you ever dared cross me again.”
“I didn’t really listen to that whole speech,” I say, shrugging. “Bygones, eh? Besides, I’m bigger and stronger, and I know what I’m doing now. We can fight all night, and I won’t lose any sleep over it.”
“What’s your name?” Marlow asks.
“James,” I say. “Calamity James.”
Without another word, Marlow zooms over to my ancestor’s grave, where he spits on all four headstones: James, Goodnight, Bassett, and Levy. I have a feeling I won’t be getting any answers tonight.
14
Winfield Marlow doesn’t let me go easy, but after I land a few more punches to his nose, he eventually gives up on trying to intimidate me. Once finished with the supernatural grudge match, I walk back to the Saloon, exhausted, irritated, and aching. As I pass the bar, I spot Uncle Kent sitting at the counter and chatting with another old-timer. Too late, I remember that I’m supposed to be helping Kent around the ranch. I head inside.
“Hey, old man,” I say, taking the empty stool next to Uncle Kent. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to abstain from alcohol after a head injury?”
