were black and white, and looked professionally taken, but
the next set consisted of colored snapshots of small groups seated
at picnic tables, probably from someone’s family album.
“Those are of the picnic given for the
construction workers and their families after the bridge was done.
It was held over at Turtle Lake. Can you find the
Leonards?”
I squinted at the square photos, with
their colors fading to muddy purplish hues. I finally found a
grouping at a picnic table with a man, woman, and a girl who looked
about four years old. They were seated with another couple who
appeared to be a little younger, with a boy about the same age as
the girl.
“Here?” I asked.
“You found them! Do you know who that
is at the same table?”
“Not a clue.” I thought about
reminding her I’d lived in the area only a few months, but decided
her question indicated acceptance of me into the fabric of the
county rather than its being a set-up for failure.
“That’s the Louamas—Marko, Judy and
little Larry. He doesn’t look like a terror in that picture, does
he?”
“Not at all.” I contemplated whether
future criminals could be predicted by looking at their pre-school
pictures. “So this is Becky? And Angelica? It’s strange to think of
them both being dead.”
“Isn’t it? Way too many people who are
younger than I am are dead,” Cora said with a trace of
sadness.
“The Louamas live in Hammer Bridge
Town?”
“Not now. They moved into Cherry Hill
right after the bridge was finished. They’re on the south end of
Dogwood. It’s not the best part of town, but they do own their own
house.”
In the next section Cora had placed
newspapers covering Angelica’s disappearance. As she had noted the
week before, there wasn’t much about it. It was as if the
disappearance of a young woman, possibly entangled in the area’s
drug culture, was of no concern to anyone except her family. The
paper ran a head shot of Angelica on the first day after the
missing persons report had been filed. It was her senior picture,
the one I had already seen. The following day an article detailed
the search efforts made near Hammer Bridge, and along Sheep Ranch
Road. Apparently, serious effort had been made to check the creek,
because the water had been high in June that year, and there was
some consideration given to the idea that she might have fallen or
been pushed into the water. Interestingly enough, the photo with
the article was a shot of the bridge taken from the same angle as
the glossy from the bridge completion. I wondered if the
photographer realized the duplication, or if perhaps it was just an
accessible vantage point for photo taking. I squinted at the grainy
newspaper graphic. There was something on the lower edge of one of
the large beams.
“Have you got a magnifying glass?” I
asked.
“Sure,” said Cora, walking briskly to
the desk and returning as fast as she could. “What have you
found?”
“Get that other bridge picture, the
one that looks like this one.” I held the magnifier over the
square-sided bump on the beam. There was a round shape on one face,
but I couldn’t make out what it was. Then I looked at the glossy
photo, which was much more clear. There was no round bump, and no
rectangular shape for it to be on. “You look. What do you think
this is?”
Cora studied the photos. “It looks
like a box of some sort, but I don’t know what that round thing is.
Some kind of decoration, maybe?”
“Have you ever heard about a box being
found under the bridge, in connection with any local
story?”
“No, but it was probably just some
treasure hidden by small boys. Bridges make wonderful hideouts, you
know.”
“I know, but why don’t we go see if
it’s still there? It’s a beautiful day, and we would have fun
looking.”
“I thought you weren’t getting
involved in this case?”
“What are the chances this has
anything to do with Angelica? It will take my mind off that
the next set consisted of colored snapshots of small groups seated
at picnic tables, probably from someone’s family album.
“Those are of the picnic given for the
construction workers and their families after the bridge was done.
It was held over at Turtle Lake. Can you find the
Leonards?”
I squinted at the square photos, with
their colors fading to muddy purplish hues. I finally found a
grouping at a picnic table with a man, woman, and a girl who looked
about four years old. They were seated with another couple who
appeared to be a little younger, with a boy about the same age as
the girl.
“Here?” I asked.
“You found them! Do you know who that
is at the same table?”
“Not a clue.” I thought about
reminding her I’d lived in the area only a few months, but decided
her question indicated acceptance of me into the fabric of the
county rather than its being a set-up for failure.
“That’s the Louamas—Marko, Judy and
little Larry. He doesn’t look like a terror in that picture, does
he?”
“Not at all.” I contemplated whether
future criminals could be predicted by looking at their pre-school
pictures. “So this is Becky? And Angelica? It’s strange to think of
them both being dead.”
“Isn’t it? Way too many people who are
younger than I am are dead,” Cora said with a trace of
sadness.
“The Louamas live in Hammer Bridge
Town?”
“Not now. They moved into Cherry Hill
right after the bridge was finished. They’re on the south end of
Dogwood. It’s not the best part of town, but they do own their own
house.”
In the next section Cora had placed
newspapers covering Angelica’s disappearance. As she had noted the
week before, there wasn’t much about it. It was as if the
disappearance of a young woman, possibly entangled in the area’s
drug culture, was of no concern to anyone except her family. The
paper ran a head shot of Angelica on the first day after the
missing persons report had been filed. It was her senior picture,
the one I had already seen. The following day an article detailed
the search efforts made near Hammer Bridge, and along Sheep Ranch
Road. Apparently, serious effort had been made to check the creek,
because the water had been high in June that year, and there was
some consideration given to the idea that she might have fallen or
been pushed into the water. Interestingly enough, the photo with
the article was a shot of the bridge taken from the same angle as
the glossy from the bridge completion. I wondered if the
photographer realized the duplication, or if perhaps it was just an
accessible vantage point for photo taking. I squinted at the grainy
newspaper graphic. There was something on the lower edge of one of
the large beams.
“Have you got a magnifying glass?” I
asked.
“Sure,” said Cora, walking briskly to
the desk and returning as fast as she could. “What have you
found?”
“Get that other bridge picture, the
one that looks like this one.” I held the magnifier over the
square-sided bump on the beam. There was a round shape on one face,
but I couldn’t make out what it was. Then I looked at the glossy
photo, which was much more clear. There was no round bump, and no
rectangular shape for it to be on. “You look. What do you think
this is?”
Cora studied the photos. “It looks
like a box of some sort, but I don’t know what that round thing is.
Some kind of decoration, maybe?”
“Have you ever heard about a box being
found under the bridge, in connection with any local
story?”
“No, but it was probably just some
treasure hidden by small boys. Bridges make wonderful hideouts, you
know.”
“I know, but why don’t we go see if
it’s still there? It’s a beautiful day, and we would have fun
looking.”
“I thought you weren’t getting
involved in this case?”
“What are the chances this has
anything to do with Angelica? It will take my mind off that
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