This story started here.

When I returned to the table, I was sure that my face told at least part of the story. Elsa nodded as I sat down.

"Your boss?" she asked. "Time to go to work?"

"No, and yes. There's been a murder, and my presence has been requested. Immediately, if not sooner. (In fact, 'requested' is not really the most accurate word.) But that wasn't Miss Sleet – it was the sheriff."

"So, where are we going?" She waved a hand. "Of course I'm driving you. There's been a murder, everything is urgent, and you're going to wait around for the jitney? Besides, I can't go home now anyway – the island is cut off for the night. Where are we going?"

I looked at my half-full bottle of beer and sighed. "The Presbyterian church. In town."

"You'll have to give me directions," she said as I took out my wallet. She caught my eye. "I'm a Quaker – how would I know where it is?"

I smiled at that, and I placed some bills on the bar as we headed for the door.

At least we hadn't got around to ordering dinner.

 
Elsa opened the door of her van and hoisted herself up into the driver's seat. She reached down, lifted and folded her wheelchair, and slid it into its usual position. I had watched this process before, more than once, and this time it seemed somewhat less smooth than usual.

I went around and opened the passenger door. "Are you okay to drive?" I asked.

She smiled as I climbed in and fastened my seat belt. "Probably. We'll find out, won't we?"

A few minutes later, as we were barreling through the darkness, I thought of suggesting that perhaps I should drive, but I wasn't exactly completely sober either, and her van was modified so that she could drive it, so I didn't say anything, even as she careened out onto the highway, narrowly avoiding oncoming traffic, yelling, "Whooo hoo!"

I consoled myself with the thought that the "Whooo hoo!" had probably been deliberate, designed to see how I would react. I remained, to the best of my ability, stoic.

"Any details you can share?" she asked as we zipped along.

"I have none at the moment, shareable or not. There's been a murder, and apparently a rather bloody one. Sheriff Rhonda was trying to reach my employer, and she didn't believe me when I said that I had no idea where she was or how to reach her. So, she was not in a forthcoming or bantering mood."

 
There were several vehicles parked around the church. including two police cars and an ambulance. Elsa pulled up in front of the building, which did not have any visible accommodations for a wheelchair user.

"I think I'll go get something to eat," she said.

I nodded. "The sheriff did say that the scene in there is pretty bloody. Thanks for the ride."

"I'm going to try, once again, to see if I can find a decent roast beef sandwich in this town."

I got out and closed the door. "If you succeed, let me know."

She nodded and drove off.

Two deputies stood on the wide stairs which led up to the front doors of the church. One held up his hand as I approached. He started to say something, but I said, "Marshall O'Connor. Sheriff White asked me to come."

He shrugged. "ID?" I showed him my driver's license and he jerked his finger over his shoulder. "Upstairs," he said. "The padre's office."

I climbed the narrow stairs and went through a swinging door into a gloomy hallway. There were several doors, but only one was open, so I went there.

It was a small office, full of books and papers, and there was a dead body slumped on the desk. I knew the body was dead because nobody was paying any attention to it.

I assumed it was Dr. Deacon, the priest. This was apparently his office, and the top of his head and the dark clothes looked familiar. The cause of death wasn't immediately apparent, but there was a lot of blood on the desk blotter.

Sheriff Rhonda looked up. "O'Connor. You were at the Rat, right? By the college?" I nodded. "Then how in God's holy name did you get here so fast?" She seemed prepared to be outraged that anybody had the nerve to drive through her town even more recklessly than she did.

"Miss Peabody drove me."

"Miss..." She shook her head. "Never mind. Are you still maintaining that you can't reach your boss?"

"I believe I was quite clear on the phone, sheriff." I tapped a Bible on the desk. "I'd be willing to swear on this, if it didn't have blood on it."

 
To be continued...

This story started here.

"I was surprised that you called me," she said.

I sipped my beer. "Really?"

She smiled. "At the last minute like that – that's what I mean. I barely made it off the island before the water drowned the road. I always picture you as planning everything well in advance." She shrugged. "Of course, I guess you're always reacting to your employer's schedule."

"'Schedule,'" I repeated, using finger quotes.

She laughed. "Oh, is she secretly wild and unpredictable? She doesn't dress like somebody who's wild and unpredictable."

When I didn't respond immediately, she leaned forward and regarded me, stroking her nonexistent beard.

"Ah, I get it now," she said slowly. "You're not here to talk about her. You're here to not talk about her." She smiled. "So, please tell me all about your day, dear."

"There is a new case–" I began.

"A new case?" she demanded. Her face crumpling. "So soon?" She sniffed. "So, you've forgotten about us already, just moved right along to something else?" Her shoulders sagged. "I just can't..."

"Mr. Fred Deacon," I patiently explained as she squared her shoulders and winked at me, "the younger brother of the local Presbyterian priest, has vanished. Perhaps kidnapped. My esteemed employer is, officially, not investigating. Or she is investigating, depending on who you talk to."

"Well, I'm talking to you, dear, her assistant, who probably knows the actual facts." She finished her beer. "Or not."

"As far as I can determine, I'm investigating the case."

"Ah. While she's off on a bender? Or having a fling?"

"Well, as far as I know, she's not doing either of those things."

She leaned forward and spoke conspiratorially. I could barely hear her in the noisy college bar. "By the way," she murmured, "if she ever does feel like having a fling in the local area here, I have several classmates who obviously find her to be... interesting. Male and female, depending on her preference." I sipped my beer. "When people found out I'd met her, there was quite the buzz."

She studied her empty beer bottle carefully, and then she turned and made her way to the bar. I quickly finished the bottle I had in front of me.

The bar was called the Rat (short for "Rathskeller," of course). We had chosen it for our get-together for several reasons, including the fact that, contrary to its name, it was not in a basement.

When she returned to the table, expertly piloting her wheelchair across the uneven floor of the bar while carrying two open beer bottles, I decided to be responsible. "It's getting dark outside," I said. I sipped the nice, cold beer she had just handed me. "We should start thinking about having some dinner."

She nodded. "That seems responsible. They have chili here, and burgers."

"Which is the better option?"

"The burgers are inconsistent," she said judiciously. She drank some more beer. "The popular theory is that on the weekends there's a different cook." She tilted her head. "No, I haven't done any investigation of this." I didn't attempt to hide my smile. "I'm happy with the one fact that I do know, which is that the chili is a better bet. More reliable."

She gestured that it was my turn to talk.

"We saw Mr. Deacon's daughter this morning," I said. "She told us what had happened: her father not coming home, the phone call about the ransom, and so forth, and then I was dispatched to do research, at the palatial offices of the Claremont Crier."

"Real research, or get-Marshall-out-of-the-way research?"

I shrugged.

"Did you find out anything interesting?" She caught my expression. "Between us, of course."

"Well, I've done a fair amount of research in my life, but the archives at the Crier are organized according to a system which I have never encountered before." Her eyelids started to droop. "It was apparently devised by the editor's wife, who is a rather imposing personage in her own right, and it utilizes file cards in a variety of sizes and colors..."

By this time her chin was resting on her chest and she was snoring.

"Also: money!" I announced.

She perked up immediately.

"I think money may be the key," I explained. "Mr. Deacon talks and acts like he has money, but everything about his personal circumstances suggests the opposite. Now someone claims to be holding him and demands money from his daughter, who doesn't have any either."

"Who does have money?"

"His older brother, the priest. Their family money all went to him."

"Primogeniture."

"Exactly. And, as far as I could determine from my research, Dr. Deacon is not overly blessed with the virtue of charity, at least as far as his family goes. Also, it seems that the older sister's boyfriend may have money."

She was giving me a strange look, so I stopped.

"Are you drunk?" she asked.

I did a quick self-assessment. "Not beyond reason, under the circumstances."

"Then I must be really fascinating, because the bartender is calling your name and you're not reacting appropriately."

I turned in that direction, and the bartender waggled a telephone receiver at me. He didn't look happy.

 
To be continued...

This story started here.

On the other side of Pine Street, Main Street stopped being "Main Street" and turned back into a regular Claremont street with modest houses, trees, and a narrow sidewalk which, after the first block or so, petered out completely.

The headquarters of the Claremont Crier, which was about four blocks from Pine Street, did not look very Claremont at all.

The house next to it, for example, looked like it had been there for at least a hundred years (a bit longer, actually, as I found out later). Dark wood, tall windows on the ground floor, ornate front door, decks on three sides – it reminded me a bit of the Devane house, but much smaller and more inviting, surrounded by several tall trees.

I made a mental note of the small sign planted next to the path to the front door: "Used books for sale. Tuesday through Thursday – 2-6pm."

The headquarters of the Claremont Crier, however, was a flat, uninteresting structure of poured concrete and cinder blocks. It was painted a rather dull color. The sign next to the front door was small and white. The building needed more windows, I thought.

Aesthetics aside, my biggest concern was cars. There was a narrow parking lot in front of the building, just a row of cars side-by-side facing the building (well, one car was cleverly parked facing out). As I got close to the front of the building, still walking across the street, slowly, I saw a secondary lot to the right of the building, mostly containing delivery trucks.

I strolled to the corner and crossed the street.

I was looking for Kate Lane's car, which wasn't visible anywhere. That was good. My employer had led her to believe that we had no interest in the Deacon case, so I preferred not to run into her while I was doing my research.

She would find out eventually that we were investigating a Deacon case (although, of course, not the exact case she had asked about). My employer had told her the truth, technically, but I preferred to deal with that issue later (or, preferably, let my employer deal with it – this was all her plan, after all).

I went up to the front door and tried it. I thought it might be locked, but it opened.

The small office I stepped into was unoccupied. There was one desk with several issues of the Crier, some rather haphazard stacks of paper, including unopened mail, and a variety of telephones. I could hear a low, steady hum from elsewhere in the building.

There was only one other door in the small room, and it was a dutch door. The top half was open and the bottom half was closed, so I felt ambivalent about proceeding further.

"Marshall O'Connor!" boomed a voice from behind me, and I turned to see a man with short, iron-gray hair come in from outside, carrying a small, greasy paper bag.

I have a good memory, and I was reasonably sure I'd never met this man before, but he switched his greasy bag to his left hand and firmly (and greasily) shook my hand with his right. His short-sleeved white shirt was a bit too snug and his necktie was a bit too short.

"Saw your photograph in the ones we took at the Devane trial." He circled his desk and sat down. "Didn't publish it, of course. Your boss lady sells more papers." He leaned back in his chair, which creaked. "I imagine you're here to do research on the Deacon family, for the case which your boss is not investigating."

I raised an index finger, for some reason, but he continued. "I get–"

One of his phones rang and he picked it up, motioning me into the inner precincts of the building.

 
To be continued...

This story started here.

"Shall I state the obvious?"

Her mouth quirked. There was a brief period of intense internal struggle as we reached the corner of Main Street, and then she said, "You usually do."

The snort of laughter she'd been suppressing finally erupted.

"I'm sorry," she said, not looking even remotely sorry. "You walked right into that one."

I smiled as she looped her arm through mine. "I know. I threw it right over the plate–"

"Oh, please. No sports metaphors." She gestured with the head of her cane. "Please proceed."

"One: Rhonda didn't tell Miss Deacon about your conversation with her father at the book sale."

"Agreed. She wouldn't."

"Two: Mr. Deacon offered you substantial money to hire you, but his house is very small and shabby, and one of his daughters is attending Claremont College – which has very inexpensive tuition for townies – and it sounds like his second daughter may go there also, although I got the impression that she'd rather go somewhere else. There were brochures on the table for Harvard and Yale."

She nodded. "And?"

"This is Sunday. Did she go to church this morning, perhaps to see if her father would be there, or to ask her uncle what happened at the book sale? Or, if she was afraid to leave the house, worried about missing a phone call, why not call the church?

"Also," I continued, "I do not believe she was being entirely truthful with you." Her eyes widened expectantly. "She's in high school. Yesterday was Saturday. Who studies on Saturday night?"

She snorted a laugh and punched me, very lightly, on the shoulder.

"Very good. I might consider handing this entire case over to you." She smiled and squeezed my arm. "If I had something more compelling to think about right now, of course."

She released my arm. "So, for you, right now: research, at the office of the Crier. They have a complete back issue file – more complete than the one the town library had, but not as easily accessed. However, you can talk to the editor, Mr. Merchant. Tell him that you work for me. He owes me a favor." She shrugged. "If he insists that, on balance, I owe him a favor, tell him that I said he's wrong.

"Once you've demonstrated that you're serious about the research, it is possible that he will loosen up and answer a question or two himself, depending on his mood. He knows many, many things about this town, including some interesting items which have never appeared in the pages of the Crier." She held up a long, bony finger. "Don't try to initiate any questioning of him if anybody else is around."

"Particularly if it's Kate Lane."

She smiled. "Let's just keep it as 'anybody else.'" She raised an eyebrow and waited.

I nodded. I was there to receive instructions, after all, not to write my own.

"Check with me around dinner time. I may or may not be available."

She squeezed my forearm and turned to go. I was tempted to say something, but I didn't.

"Needless to say," she said over her shoulder as she waited at the corner for a car to pass, "I know what I'm doing."

I stuck out my tongue, half expecting her to comment on that as she limped across Main Street, not looking back at me. She was moving in the direction of our home, but I would not have placed a cash bet on that being her actual destination.

I watched her cross the street, then I turned and walked down Main Street, mostly so I wouldn't be standing there at the corner if she turned around to check on me.

I strolled slowly, though. I wouldn't have minded talking to someone at that moment, but nobody appropriate came to mind, and in any case what I was thinking was not to be shared.

Well, it was time to get to work and fulfill my assignment. It was around that moment, as I quickened my pace, that I realized I was walking in the wrong direction.

I turned around and retraced my steps.

 
To be continued...

This story started here.

My employer lit a cigarette. There was an ashtray on a small table near her.

"Miss Deacon," she said slowly, "please outline, in general terms, what happened yesterday. I saw your father at the book sale. Did anything unusual happen before that? Did you see your father in the morning?"

"We had brunch together. We usually do that on Saturday. Then I did the dishes while he read the newspaper."

"The Crier?"

"And the Globe. Yesterday's Globe. He said he was going for a walk, and then he'd go to the book sale, to see Uncle A. And maybe buy some books."

"Was there anything special about the way he left?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Did he say or do anything unusual? Did he seem preoccupied, or worried?"

"No, just like normal. 'Stay out of trouble, kitten.' And he said he'd try to find some good books at the sale." She smiled. "We both like mysteries."

"As well you should. Did you see or hear anything from him after that?"

"No. I thought he'd be back for supper, but he wasn't. So, I heated up some leftovers, then I studied for a while, then I got ready for bed."

"Was... Is it unusual for your father to be away like that, not letting you know his plans?"

"I asked him once... Anyway, he said that a father needs to keep track of his daughter – not the other way around."

My employer drew deeply on her cigarette. She was suppressing a smile.

"I had a theory," Miss Deacon said hesitantly. "I... A lot of people were probably at the book sale. He might have run into some of his friends and they decided to go out afterwards..." Her voice trailed off.

"Forgive me for being blunt, but does your father often go out on Saturday night?" She held up a hand. "I'm conducting an investigation – I'm not moralizing. I need to know the facts."

My employer was aware that announcing that she herself was a teetotaler – even apart from it not being strictly accurate – would not have been helpful at this moment.

"Yes, he sometimes goes out drinking with his friends. Usually on Saturday night, or Friday... 'A man has a drink.'"

"What happened next?"

"I was getting ready for bed, and I heard the phone ring. I ran downstairs, but I wasn't fast enough, and it stopped. But then it rang again and I picked it up. It was a man's voice, and he – he didn't say hello or anything, he just said that my father was..."

"Kidnapped."

She shook her head. "He didn't say that, not that word. He said they wanted money and then I'd get him back. Then he hung up."

"And you called the police."

She looked uncomfortable. "I don't have any money, or I don't know where there is any."

"What about your sister?"

"I didn't know where she was."

"Any more phone calls, last night or today?"

"The sheriff has called a couple of times, to check in. Nobody else."

 
To be continued...

This story started here.

The Deacon house was smaller and shabbier than I'd expected. It looked like an old summer cottage that had been converted for year-round occupancy. It was on Pine Street, just a few doors down from the sandwich shop where we'd eaten our lunch the day before.

It occurred to me that if my employer and I did ever have the desire, and the wherewithal, to buy a house in Claremont, a house like this was probably the best we'd be able to manage. And then we'd need to get furniture...

I made a mental note to make sure we stayed on Mrs. Jessup's good side.

As we walked downhill on the narrow path from the sidewalk to the house, I wondered how we were going to get "in the door," so to speak. Did my employer have a plan, or did she think that her fame in the local area was now such that any family in any sort of distress would automatically welcome her arrival?

She used the head of her cane to knock on the wooden frame of the screen door. After a few moments, the inner door opened and we could see a young woman in a dark hallway, looking out at us. It seemed that she took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the bright sunshine outside, and then she opened the screen door.

"Miss Sleet! Can I..." her voice trailed off.

"Miss Deacon, I am Jan Sleet. This is my assistant, Marshall. May we come in?"

Miss Deacon stepped aside and motioned us in. "Of course," she said awkwardly, after we were already inside. "Can I..."

"You'd like to know why I'm here, obviously. I spoke to your father yesterday at the book sale, and today I've heard that he's missing. I was wondering if there was some way I could help."

"Oh." She looked around the dark and narrow hallway. "Would you like to come into the living room?"

"That's very kind. Thank you."

My employer sat in the best armchair in the small living room. Miss Deacon perched on the arm of a sofa and I sat on a straight-backed chair.

Miss Deacon (whichever Miss Deacon she was – had my employer figured that out already?) was apparently around twenty years old, slender and dark-haired, dressed in a Claremont College T-shirt and washed-out jeans. Her feet were bare.

"My father is missing," she said slowly. "From what the sheriff said, I know he talked to you at the book sale–"

"How did you learn he was missing? Do you and he live here alone?"

"My sister Julie – she's a year older than me, and she's at college." She stretched out her T-shirt. "This is one of her shirts. I'm a senior in high school."

"Will you attend Claremont also?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I'm going to apply to several schools, and see where I get accepted..."

"Do you live here – just you and your father? Does your sister live on campus, in the dorms?"

"Oh, no. She still lives here, too. She has a boyfriend. Sometimes she... They're out sailing now – he has a boat."

I could tell that my employer was finding it rather charming that Miss Deacon was trying not to state the obvious: that sometimes her sister spent the night with her boyfriend.

Miss Deacon waited a moment, then she said, "Miss Sleet, do you think you'll be able to help?"

The great detective shrugged and smiled. "I have no idea. Not yet."

Miss Deacon seemed to take this as cautious optimism, combined with eagerness to get the investigation going.

I had a different interpretation.

 
To be continued...