Casey could identify with rebellion. She had been there herself. But she wouldn’t want to tangle with this trio in a dark alley. She pictured a young Connie, in Ruth’s words “puny and brilliant,” and couldn’t help but think that if the boys in town had been as rough looking in his day, he wouldn’t have had a chance.
Trying to look as unassuming as possible, Casey parked the Miata, went up the wood steps, and on into the store. She was relieved to be inside not only because of the boys, but because in addition to shelves of packaged foods, there was a counter with a short-order cook. Climbing onto a stool with a cracked leather seat, she gave a quick glance at the handwritten menu board and ordered macaroni and cheese and a Coke. Being the only customer there, she didn’t have long to wait— only as long as it took for the woman to turn to the pots on the burner, scoop up a ladleful of the stuff, and glop it on a plate.
“Just passing through?” she asked when she slid the plate in front of Casey.
The macaroni and cheese was crusted on top. It was comfort food, and Casey felt in need of that. “I don’t know,” she said, fork in hand. “That depends. I’m looking for information on a family by the name of Unger. They lived here a while back.”
The woman put her elbows on the counter and frowned. “Unger? Huh. I’ve lived here all my life. That’s forty-five years. Never heard that name, though.”
Casey would have guessed that the woman was older than forty-five. She looked weary in an expansive, worldly way. Prominent lines between her brows and shoulders that sloped steeply suggested that she had borne the weight of big worries for far more than forty-five years.
“You may be too young,” Casey said. “I’m guessing that this family left town fifty-five years ago, give or take.” She ate a forkful of macaroni and cheese.
“You need to see Dewey Heller. He’s seventy, but he’s been town clerk for the last hundred years. His office is down back of the Grange Hall. If anyone would remember, he’s the one, but he’s long gone for the day now.”
“Can I go to his house?”
“You could.”
Casey waited. When nothing more was forthcoming, she said, “Would you tell me where he lives?”
The woman shook her head. “He’d fire me. He owns this place.” She shot a quick glance around. “It was a general store until he hit sixty and lost interest. He doesn’t take kindly to pretty people in fancy sports cars. That’s a nice one out there. Aren’t you worried our boys might decide to take it for a spin?”
Casey swallowed another mouthful of macaroni and cheese. Then she smiled. “I’m a city girl. That car has every antitheft device you’ve ever heard of and then some. No, that’s not a problem. The
problem
is that tomorrow’s Saturday. Will your town clerk be in then?”
“Nine to eleven. He takes Monday’s off to make up for it.”
That appeased Casey, but only briefly. She still had the rest of the day here in Abbott, and couldn’t bear the thought of wasting the time. “If I can’t talk with the town clerk today, what about the police department?”
“Department?” The woman gave her a wry grin. “Try officer. One. Uh-huh, you could talk with him, but he’s young. He’s only been in town ten years. It’s hard to keep them, when you can’t pay them much.” She glanced at the door. “Well, give it a try. Here he comes.”
The khaki-clad officer was named Buck Thorman. A year or two older than Casey, he was tall, blond, and well built. The cook made the introductions and went to another part of the store. Straddling the stool two down from Casey, Buck asked the kind of questions that cops in small towns could be expected to ask when a stranger showed up.
Casey indulged him. Yes, that was her car. No, she hadn’t bought it new. Yes, it had a stick shift. Overdrive, yes. Cassette, no; CD, yes. One-twenty-eight horses, thank you. No, she never drove over eighty.
“So why’re you here?” he asked when the important stuff was done.
“I’m tracing my family tree. It includes people by the name of Unger. They lived in Abbott a while back.”
“Must have been a big while back. I’ve never heard of any Ungers.”
Casey didn’t point out that he hadn’t been in town but ten years, which wasn’t all
that
big a while back. He was preening now, still straddling the stool but with his back to the counter and his elbows braced there in a way that showed off the breadth of a muscled chest. She felt no attraction at all, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. She was here for a purpose. If he could assist her, she would let him think what he wanted.
“How about Clydes?” she asked. “Darden Clyde? MaryBeth Clyde?”
He scratched his chin. “Now, that’s familiar. Where did I hear that name?”
She held her breath. After a minute, he gave a bewildered shrug. “What about a town called Little Falls?” she asked.
The officer pursed his lips, shook his head. “No Little Falls. I know Duck Ridge, West Hay, and Walker. I know Dornville and Eppick. Little Falls? Nope.”
Casey let out a short breath. She was getting tired of dead ends.
“Want a tour of town?” he asked, as though that might ease her disappointment. “Abbott’s not a bad place.” He leaned closer and said under his breath, “Not very exciting, which is why the good kids leave and we’re stuck with the geniuses out front.”
“Don’t judge a book…,” she cautioned. “I was a rebel once. So where do the ‘good kids’ go?”
He shrugged with his mouth. “Bangor, Augusta, Portland. There’s more to do there. More jobs. Me, I’m just paying my dues here, if you get my drift. It’s a pretty dry place, never much by the way of interesting crime.” He snapped his fingers and ended with his pointer aimed her way. “That’s why the name’s familiar. Fourteen, fifteen years ago there was a murder involving a pair of Clydes.”
Casey’s hopes rose. “That’s it,” she said with enthusiasm. “Husband and wife. Fourteen or fifteen years ago?”
“Don’t quote me on that.”
“It happened in Little Falls.”
Officer Thorman shook his head. “Well, that could be, but there’s no Little Falls around here. Maybe it’s in another part of the state.”
“Do you remember where it happened, from the murder coverage?”
“Nah. I mostly remember the trial, and it would have taken place in Augusta or Portland. I might’ve paid heed if I’d been older, or if it had involved international stuff, like terrorism. But domestic violence?” He stretched out long, solid legs and gave a long-suffering sigh. “I grew up hearing about domestic violence. It gets boring after a while, whether you’re seeing it around you or trying to police it. A couple more years here, then I’m going for the FBI. But hey, tell you what. Let me show you around town, and it’ll make my week. Hell, it’ll make my
month.
”
Casey did want to see Abbott. Her father had grown up here. Casey had no cause to doubt Ruth on that.
Finishing her macaroni and cheese, she poured the Coke into a take-out cup, paid the bill, and, while Thorman warned the trio of boys that if they so much as
touched
the Miata he would bust them for the pot they’d been smoking right there on the bench two days before, she slid into the passenger seat of the cruiser.
Heading off on a side street, he drove her first to the local garage and introduced her around. Next, he drove her past the Laundromat and past an appliance repair shop. Then he drove her past the stone ruins of a large building on the banks of a stream.
“That was the shoe plant,” he explained. “I’m told that at one point most everyone in town was connected to it in one way or another.”
Casey was intrigued. Pivotal stuff had gone on in these plants.
She imagined that Connie’s mother— her grandmother!— had worked here, and felt the twinge of a connection. She might have liked to get out and explore the plant, but Thorman drove right on, this time to the schoolhouse— and she did get out here. She couldn’t resist.
“All closed up for the year?” she asked, gesturing him to pull up at the cracked cement walk.
“Closed up for good,” he replied. “The kids go to a regional school.”
Leaving the cruiser, she wandered around the old frame building and tried to imagine Connie here. Harvard Yard this was not, but that actually made Connie easier to understand. He, too, was a dichotomy— the successful professional versus the shy and lonely child, grown to boy, then to man. She could see Connie here, sitting on the ground at the base of the gnarled gray oak, watching the other kids play.
When she returned to the cruiser, the officer drove her up and down streets that were lined with very old houses and very old trees. Houses and trees were both shabby, though Casey imagined they weren’t always that way. The houses were small, sensibly built, and spaced comfortably apart. Those that were larger weren’t vertically so. Rather, they were like trains, with additional cars hitched on at the left, the right, or the back.
There were people here and there. Some were old, some young. Some sat on porches, others sat on steps. The occasional child ran across a front yard or climbed over an oversized tire or crate.
Fascinated, Casey made him drive slowly, then directed him over the route a second time. This time she was looking for flowers, peering around to see backyards when there were no flowers in front. If Connie had re-created his native Maine in Boston, those flowers ought to be here. But they weren’t. She saw trees and grass. She saw ragged shrubs. She saw rocks and moss and dirt.
Disappointed, she sat back with a sigh. The officer returned her to the Miata.
“How about dinner?” he asked just as she reached for the door handle.
She smiled. As grateful as she was for his time, she didn’t want to encourage him. Besides, hadn’t he said that the tour would make his week? Dinner wasn’t necessary. “Thanks, but that macaroni and cheese filled me up. Besides, I’m exhausted. I have phone calls to make and papers to read, and I need sleep after that. I didn’t see a motel here.”
He brooded, but just for a minute. Taking the rejection with grace, he said, “Nope. Not here. Not next door in Duck Ridge either.”
She waited. He didn’t go on. It struck her that this was an Abbott game.
Finally, patiently, she asked, “And the town after that?”
“There’s a place there.”
“A ‘place’?”
“Bed-and-breakfast.”
“Can you give me directions?”
What the West Hay House lacked in personality it made up for in quiet, which was just perfect for rereading
Flirting with Pete
. Casey was the only guest. She had her choice of bedrooms. She had her choice of bathrooms. She even had her choice of breakfast muffins. “I only make one kind each morning,” the innkeeper explained before she went up to bed, “so you might as well decide.”
She chose blueberry, and they were surprisingly large, moist, and good. She took that as a promising sign.
Indeed, it was. Returning to Abbott well before nine the next morning, she explored the town again, this time on her own. She stopped at the school again and walked through the playground. She stopped at the ruins of the shoe plant and wandered among the stones. Then she drove to the residential area. More people were visible today, doing Saturday chores, tending to their houses, their lawns, their cars. Her own car didn’t pass unnoticed; many eyes turned her way.
She smiled, nodded, and didn’t let herself be rushed as she drove slowly up and down the streets, imagining which house had been Connie’s. The one she settled on was a small frame house painted yellow with white trim. The paint was faded both there and on the picket fence out front, and the yard had a neglected look. But there was a rocking chair on the porch. She imagined her grandmother rocking there. The woman would be petite, like Casey. She would have white hair, a wrinkled face, and a gentle smile. She would be wearing a flowered dress and a white apron, and she would smell of homemade bread. Anadama bread.
Whoa. Casey didn’t know where
that
had come from. She didn’t consciously remember having ever had anadama bread, but she must have. She had a vision of cornmeal and molasses. Anadama bread, like macaroni and cheese, was comfort food. So, for that matter, were grandmothers— which told her where
she
was at, just then.
Feeling lonely, she returned to the center of town and parked at a spot where the cell phone reception was strongest. She accessed her messages. There were a bunch from her friends, none of which she returned because she didn’t want to have to explain where she was and why. More important, the nursing home hadn’t called.
Satisfied by that, she drove to the Grange Hall shortly before nine, continued on around to the door in the back, and parked the Miata beside a classic station wagon just as Dewey Heller was turning the CLOSED sign to OPEN. He smiled and waved her in.
“That’s some station wagon,” she said with an admiring smile. She might not remember anadama bread, but old cars she did. “My mom had one like it years ago.”
“Bet hers didn’t have wood on the sides.”
“Sure did,” Casey said with pride.
“Bet hers wasn’t as old as mine. Mine was built in forty-seven, and we didn’t call them station wagons back then. They were beach wagons— not that I ever shuttled folks back and forth to the beach, but I did shuttle them to the train station, so when they started calling them station wagons, it fit. I was just over getting coffee at the store. Donna told me I’d be having a visitor. She said you’re looking for Ungers. Well, that’d be Frank and Mary and their son, Cornelius. Poor choice of a name for a child, even back then. Anyone could see he was a frail little thing. He needed a solid name like… like
Rock
.”
Casey was so pleased to have found someone who knew her father’s name that she smiled. “Rock wouldn’t fit who he became.”
“What’d he become?”
“A famous psychologist. He died a month ago. I’m here partly to see if there’s any family left.”
“Nope. There wasn’t much to start with once the father died, just the mother, and she’s long gone. What’s the rest?”
Casey was confused.
“You said ‘partly,’ ” the old man reminded her. “What’s the rest?”