Girl Gone Missing. Marcie Rendon
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and Cash got out of the car. A man in work overalls and a blue shirt stood holding the door open, waiting for them to reach him. His blond hair hung over his furrowed forehead. His shoulders slumped. He wasn’t that old, probably not even forty, but he’d become an old man in the time since his daughter had disappeared. He didn’t say a word when Wheaton and Cash got to the door, just held it open and gestured with his hand to go on in.
Right inside the doorway, work clothes and jackets hung on farmer nails pounded into the wall. Work boots and shoes sat in a tidy row on a linoleum floor, right off the edge of a braided rag rug.
Mr. Tweed walked them to the round oak table in the kitchen with seven wooden chairs around it. He pulled one out for each of them. Cash looked around the room. Stove and fridge along one side. Kitchen sink underneath a window facing the driveway into the farmyard. Homemade curtains hung from the window. Tweed’s wife placed two ceramic mugs of hot coffee in front of them. Her shaking hands caused some coffee to spill on the table in front of Cash. “Sorry,” she mumbled as she turned and walked back to the kitchen counter.
She was tall and bony, wearing a yellow cotton dress printed with small violet flowers. Cash could see she’d sewn it herself. She recognized the pattern from one she had seen in the Life section of the Fargo Forum a few months before. Each Sunday the paper ran a picture of a sewing pattern women could mail order. When the pattern arrived, wives would go shop for fabric at JCPenney or the larger fabric store in Moorhead.
Mrs. Tweed had clearly taken pride in sewing the dress. The dress was topstitched in all the right places and even had front pockets with buttons sewn on. Judging by the wrinkles and food stains on the sides of the dress, Cash figured she’d been wearing the same dress for a few days. Her home-permed hair was pulled back with a rubber band. Loose strands hung limply around her sorrowful face. She grabbed a dishrag from the sink and another cup of coffee for her husband. She wiped up the small spill in front of Cash and sat down heavily on a wooden chair by her husband, damp dishrag still in her hand. He put his hand on her arm as if to assure her things were fine, though neither of them believed it.
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