Barry Jones' Cold Dinner. John Schlarbaum
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is this possible?” I asked. “When I talked with Doogie, he could only remember a few details.”
Jenny laughed. “The difference between Doogie and I is that he kills pigs for a living, while I on the other hand, feed p-i-g’s on a daily basis - if you catch my drift.”
Indeed I did.
“Can we get together sometime?” I asked, knowing full well we couldn’t have a frank conversation in a crowded café.
“Only if you promise not to kiss me again,” she said with a wide grin.
“I promise to behave myself,” I replied.
After exchanging numbers and leaving Jenny a generous tip, I headed back to Delta with a smile on my face. It had never crossed my mind that coming back could be so much fun. Hooking up with old friends and reminiscing about my youth with other people who were actually part of it.
And all the while charging Global Insurance by the hour.
I reluctantly stopped by my room and was greeted by the telephone’s red flashing light, which I ignored.
I brushed my teeth and was soon back in my van, heading to the east end of town. A few minutes later I stepped into the unbearably hot office of the Delta Sun-Times, the weekly local newspaper.
“Can I help you?” the middle aged woman behind the counter asked as she turned to face me. When our eyes met, a moment of recognition passed between us. “Well if it isn’t little Steven Cassidy. Look at you, all grown up.”
“Mrs. Chambers, how are you?” I replied.
“I’m well. I heard a rumour you were back in town.”
“Bad news travels fast,” I laughed. “Did you finally get tired of teaching bratty eight year olds the difference between a country and a continent?”
“As I recall, Social Studies wasn’t one of your strongest subjects, was it?” she said with an amused smile.
“That, Science and History. They were always my three lowest marks. Thankfully those days are over.”
“Not for me - at least not yet. I still have a few more years to go before I can retire. They’ve really cut back on some of the extra-curriculum activities I used to do, so instead of wasting away in the teachers’ lounge, I decided to work here on a part-time basis.”
“Sounds like the best of both worlds to me,” I replied.
“So what brings you back home?”
“Actually, I’m here looking into the disappearance of Barry Jones. I’m a Private Investigator for his insurance company.”
“Barry Jones huh? I remember when that happened. It must have been five or six years ago.”
“Almost seven.” I would have told her more (as she was one of my favourite teachers), but decided the less everyone knew at this point the better. “I’m actually just beginning my investigation and thought that going over the Sun-Times’ articles written at the time would help. I was hoping they might give me a better feeling for who Barry Jones was and the exact circumstances surrounding his disappearance.”
“From a local perspective.”
“Exactly. As you can imagine the police reports are pretty dry and almost devoid of any emotion.”
“Well you’re welcome to look through the old editions in the archive room. I have to warn you though, it’s pretty cool and dry in there - you know, to keep the newsprint from deteriorating. They’ve been thinking of putting everything on microfiche but haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
I followed her into a large room where crates upon crates covered the walls. I gave her the dates I was looking for and she found the corresponding box in a matter of moments. “It’s fairly heavy, so if you don’t mind carrying it to the table, I’d appreciate it,” she said.
I lugged the box over to the reading table set up in the middle of the room and lifted the lid which read January - September, 1990.
Mrs. Chambers then excused herself, but only after giving me a gentle warning to be careful when handling the newspapers. She also said she’d photocopy any articles I needed. I thanked her and began sifting through the papers.
I found what I had expected. The community had banded together to help one of their own. Search parties were organized. Posters were made. Help was offered to Cathy and the boys. In all of the early articles Barry was described as a good family man and a hard worker at the paint plant. His life was chronicled from the day he and Cathy arrived in town in the late 1980’s, right up until his mysterious disappearance.
The question that permeated each and every article was the same one I found myself asking seven years later: Where was Barry Jones? Sadly, the answer would not be found in these old papers. I put the box back in its place and walked to the front counter.
“Any luck?” Mrs. Chambers asked.
“Not today.”
“There are an awful lot of theories out there about Mr. Jones. I’m sure you’ve heard a few already.”
“I have,” I admitted. “You didn’t happen to know him, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. I saw him on the street every once in awhile. I didn’t teach either of his boys, so I didn’t even have the chance to meet him or his wife at Parent-Teacher Night.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “Regardless, thank you for your help and good luck with the paper.”
“Thanks, Steven. It was really nice to see you again.”
“You too,” I said as I exited the building and walked out into the cold.
With only an hour before my big date, I decided to head back to the motor inn and get ready. Thinking of Mrs. Chambers as I drove away from the paper, it felt good to see yet another old familiar face. I wondered how many more I would see before this file was done. I hoped plenty. When I’d left town, I did so without saying a word to any of my friends from school. Given the opportunity, I had decided to make amends with all of them if the chance arose. But my first priority was to keep my appointment with a new friend, the lovely librarian.
I pressed Linda’s apartment entry code and was immediately buzzed in. The building was fairly new and located next to the high school. At three stories high with ten units per floor, it was a nice addition to the south end of town. I then walked up the three flights of stairs and was met by my hostess at her door.
“I now know why you’re in such good shape,” I said with a smile, trying to hide the pathetic fact I was a bit winded.
“There you go with that city boy charm again,” Linda replied, matching my grin tooth for tooth. “Welcome to my modest little dwelling I call home.”
As I stepped past her an intoxicating mixture of her perfume and the aroma of a pasta dish from the kitchen sensually assaulted my senses.
“This is for you,” I said, handing her the chilled bottle of wine I’d brought. As she took it from my hand our fingers touched ever so briefly, and it was as if a current of electricity passed through our systems.
I had recently read an article that stated love - or the attraction to another person - was caused by a chemical reaction in the brain. If that were in fact true, I had the feeling tonight’s date could turn into a very interesting science experiment.
Linda gave me the grand tour of her two bedroom apartment, which she’d decorated in a laid back, pastel tinted Santa Fe style. Painted cactuses on the walls, real ones in the corners of the living room. Light blues, greens, and pinks accented every pillow, painting, and throw rug in sight. And as the piece de resistance, there was a two hundred gallon tank stocked with