upstairs to work on a leaky toilet. Meanwhile, I returned to the vandalized room. Maybe I could find bank records that would lead me to the mysterious safe-deposit box. But after an hour of searching, I settled for the next-best option—canceled checks. Since Daddy must have paid for the box’s rental somehow, and since he used checks for everything, maybe I could find the name of the bank that way.
I was placing rubber-banded stacks of paper in a box when Steven appeared in the door, wrench in hand. “I need a few plumbing supplies. Can I get you anything while I’m out? A Coke or something?”
“No, I’m on my way home. You can carry this box to my car, though.”
He set down his wrench, came over, and picked up the box. “What’s in here? Bricks?”
“Three decades of canceled checks.” I explained about the safe-deposit box and my plan to find out where the box was hiding.
“Good thing Charlie saved everything,” Steven said snidely, heading for the stairs. “He’s providing for your entertainment even after he’s gone.”
I chose not to answer back, but all the way home I kept wondering why Steven had to ruin what had almost been a pleasant afternoon.
When I arrived back in Houston, Kate had left a note saying she was at Terry’s place. Time for a chore I had been putting off. I told Ruth I would gather whatever belongings Ben had left in the garage apartment once the police removed the crime scene tape, which they had done while I was at the funeral. I went outside, found a cardboard box in the garage, then climbed the stairs.
The air-conditioning had been turned down to sixty degrees, probably by the cops, and they left the ceiling fan running, too. Goose bumps rose on my bare arms, and I immediately reset the thermostat.
The apartment we furnished consisted of only two rooms—a living area with a small kitchenette, and a bedroom. The chenille couch cushions lay on the floor, and the cabinets below the sink and microwave stood ajar. I found a crocheted afghan by the recliner that I didn’t recognize and folded the blanket into the box. After a brief search of the room, which yielded only a coffee mug and several Handyman magazines, I went to the bedroom.
I stopped after stepping inside, a lump in my throat. A quilt similar to those Ruth had shown me up at her place, ones she made by hand, had been pulled off the bed, and a worn Bible rested on the end table. Pillowcases and sheets had been tossed in the corner, and the mattress was off center on the box springs. Every dresser drawer stood open, their contents removed. Ben’s meager wardrobe—work clothes, Levi’s, cotton shirts, and underwear—lay in a crumpled pile in the closet. All the pockets in his trousers were turned out.
I sat on the floor and packed up his clothes, feeling sad and also a little angry at how the police had discarded his belongings. I then folded the quilt and remade the bed before turning to the Bible. For some reason, I didn’t want to even touch the book. Bibles seemed such private things.
Feeling like I was somehow betraying Ben, I opened to the first page. What I saw made me blink hard and swallow that tennis ball in my throat. The inscription read, To Ben from Connie. All my love. July 24, 1971.
Connie? Not his beloved Cloris? Was this the Connie mentioned in the newspaper article? The one who had disappeared? Seemed a logical conclusion. So what happened to Connie? And why would an article about her be packed away with Cloris’s belongings?
I quickly boxed up Ben’s things and hurried back to the house, anxious to research the newspaper article. I took the clipping into Daddy’s study and booted up the computer. The byline in the Marysville Sentinel clipping belonged to a Larry Kryshevski. The small newspaper did have a web site, but the archives went back only a year. I called the phone number provided on the site, but the young woman who answered had never heard of the author. Heck, the article
I was placing rubber-banded stacks of paper in a box when Steven appeared in the door, wrench in hand. “I need a few plumbing supplies. Can I get you anything while I’m out? A Coke or something?”
“No, I’m on my way home. You can carry this box to my car, though.”
He set down his wrench, came over, and picked up the box. “What’s in here? Bricks?”
“Three decades of canceled checks.” I explained about the safe-deposit box and my plan to find out where the box was hiding.
“Good thing Charlie saved everything,” Steven said snidely, heading for the stairs. “He’s providing for your entertainment even after he’s gone.”
I chose not to answer back, but all the way home I kept wondering why Steven had to ruin what had almost been a pleasant afternoon.
When I arrived back in Houston, Kate had left a note saying she was at Terry’s place. Time for a chore I had been putting off. I told Ruth I would gather whatever belongings Ben had left in the garage apartment once the police removed the crime scene tape, which they had done while I was at the funeral. I went outside, found a cardboard box in the garage, then climbed the stairs.
The air-conditioning had been turned down to sixty degrees, probably by the cops, and they left the ceiling fan running, too. Goose bumps rose on my bare arms, and I immediately reset the thermostat.
The apartment we furnished consisted of only two rooms—a living area with a small kitchenette, and a bedroom. The chenille couch cushions lay on the floor, and the cabinets below the sink and microwave stood ajar. I found a crocheted afghan by the recliner that I didn’t recognize and folded the blanket into the box. After a brief search of the room, which yielded only a coffee mug and several Handyman magazines, I went to the bedroom.
I stopped after stepping inside, a lump in my throat. A quilt similar to those Ruth had shown me up at her place, ones she made by hand, had been pulled off the bed, and a worn Bible rested on the end table. Pillowcases and sheets had been tossed in the corner, and the mattress was off center on the box springs. Every dresser drawer stood open, their contents removed. Ben’s meager wardrobe—work clothes, Levi’s, cotton shirts, and underwear—lay in a crumpled pile in the closet. All the pockets in his trousers were turned out.
I sat on the floor and packed up his clothes, feeling sad and also a little angry at how the police had discarded his belongings. I then folded the quilt and remade the bed before turning to the Bible. For some reason, I didn’t want to even touch the book. Bibles seemed such private things.
Feeling like I was somehow betraying Ben, I opened to the first page. What I saw made me blink hard and swallow that tennis ball in my throat. The inscription read, To Ben from Connie. All my love. July 24, 1971.
Connie? Not his beloved Cloris? Was this the Connie mentioned in the newspaper article? The one who had disappeared? Seemed a logical conclusion. So what happened to Connie? And why would an article about her be packed away with Cloris’s belongings?
I quickly boxed up Ben’s things and hurried back to the house, anxious to research the newspaper article. I took the clipping into Daddy’s study and booted up the computer. The byline in the Marysville Sentinel clipping belonged to a Larry Kryshevski. The small newspaper did have a web site, but the archives went back only a year. I called the phone number provided on the site, but the young woman who answered had never heard of the author. Heck, the article
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