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...