Barry Jones' Cold Dinner. John Schlarbaum
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not, I’m working,” I replied, hardly believing it myself. “Do you remember a guy named Barry Jones - lived on Duke Drive with his wife and kids?”
“Yeah.”
“Well I’m here to find him.”
Wayne looked perplexed. “You’re here to find a dead guy?” he asked incredulously. “Is there money in that kind of work? Cause I could make a fortune just walking down to the cemetery.”
I laughed out loud. Old Doogie wasn’t as slow as he pretended to be. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Wayne. Unless . . . you know where Jones’ body is stashed after all these years. In that case my investigation would be pretty short.”
“Investigation, huh? Are you a cop or something?” Wayne asked, dropping his voice to a near whisper.
“At one time, Wayne, I was something of a cop.” My friend seemed impressed.
“Is that where you got that nasty scar?”
“A drug deal gone bad, yeah.”
“It adds character,” he said casually. “So what are you doing now?”
“I’m working as a private investigator.”
“Get outta here!” Wayne exclaimed, acting as if suddenly star struck. “A P.I. - like Magnum?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell Wayne that the P.I. business rarely consisted of Hawaiian locales, red Ferraris and beautiful babes hanging off one’s arm.
“Just like Magnum,” I said in my own conspiratorial whisper. “In fact, when I work undercover my code name is Tom Selleck.”
It took a few beats for Wayne to realize that I was pulling his leg.
“Ha, ha,” he finally said. “You tricked a dumb pig farmer. You should be s-o-o-o-o proud of yourself.”
“Chill out, Wayne. You may be a pig farmer but I’d never say you’re dumb. It’s too mild a term to fully describe your intellectual deficiencies.”
“Thank you, Steve,” Wayne said, raising his beer bottle in the air. “Your apology is accepted.”
“So can you tell me anything about Mr. Jones prior to his disappearance?” I asked in a semi-serious tone, figuring talking to the locals would make up the bulk of my final report.
“There was a lot of talk at the time,” Wayne said trying to think back. “It was quite the scandal.”
“Scandal?” In the notes I’d been given or the police papers I’d reviewed, there was never a mention of any type of scandal.
“There was talk that Jones and his wife were each having an affair.”
“Both of them?”
“You know gossip, Steve. Another story circulating was that he had been abducted by a religious cult - or was that by aliens? I can’t remember,” Wayne said throwing his hands in the air. “It was all b.s.”
“Anything of substance ever come out of all this gossip?”
“Not really.”
“What do you think happened?” I asked, interested in Wayne’s views on the subject.
“Well . . . if I had to put money on it . . . I’d go with the running off with another woman theory.”
“Why?”
“Have you seen Mrs. Jones? Homely as a runt pig - and you know I’ve seen quite a few of those in my time.”
Pretty much describes Trudy, doesn’t it? I reflected to myself.
“Any proof that Mr. J. was fooling around - or was it just talk?”
“Police said it was all talk.”
Again I recalled that none of the police reports stated any inquiries about Barry Jones’ alleged infidelity. “Are you sure the cops actively pursued this?”
Wayne thought hard for a moment. “I just remember seeing a news conference on TV,” he finally said. “An officer was asked if there was any truth to a rumour that Jones had skipped town with a woman from Kelsey Lake. This guy looked real annoyed but said that no evidence had been uncovered indicating Mr. Jones was having any type of extramarital affair. Unquote.”
“Interesting.”
“Gee, look at the time,” Wayne said suddenly, quickly emptying his beer and standing up. “I’ve got cows to milk.”
“Expanding your livestock business, are you?”
“Had to after the pig market took a dive a few years back.” He turned his chair around and pushed it back against the table. “Anyway, don’t be a stranger. Trudy and I live in a house behind my dad’s place. Why don’t you drop by for dinner tomorrow night?”
Visions of my new friend from the library popped into my head.
“I already have dinner plans for tomorrow. How about Wednesday?”
“Wednesday’ll be fine. Come by around seven.”
Just before exiting the bar, Wayne stopped and turned back to me. “Would it be okay if Maria was there?”
My heart skipped a beat but I didn’t want to offend Wayne, who sported a hopeful gleam in his eyes.
“Sure, that would be fine,” I responded with a genuine, yet resigned smile.
“Great,” Wayne replied jubilantly. “We’ll see you there.”
I slowly got up from the table and approached the bar.
“You come back to ask my mirror if you’re the fairest in the land?” the barkeep from earlier in the day asked.
I chuckled at the question. “I was trained to never ask a question you don’t know the answer to, because it usually leads to grief.”
“I’ll say one thing for you, mister - you’re much smarter than your farmer friend Wayne looks.”
Again we laughed together.
“Are you still on duty or am I witnessing your night club routine?”
“Depends on what you’re ordering.”
A short time later, after downing a large Alabama Slammer – a wonderful alcoholic concoction - I left Scooter’s and walked the half mile back to the motor inn. Although I tried to focus on my conversation with Wayne dealing with the Jones case, thoughts of Maria kept clouding my mind.
I’d always regretted leaving her behind, but had assumed at the time she would simply get over me and continue on with her life. The revelation she’d done the exact opposite had floored me.
My new beginning was meant as a clean break and a catalyst for change. In reality however, it had turned into a dreary life sentence for both of us.
Before going to bed, I sensed that my dinner appointment with the Dugans and Maria would be less than a success. But somewhere in my heart I was silently looking forward to being in the same room with Maria again. Sharing past experiences and hearing (hopefully) a house filled with her laughter.
I felt that alone would be worth the price of admission.
TWO
Tuesday
I’ve always hated the rain - especially the half rain/half snow stuff which was falling this morning. Conducting surveillance in any type of downpour is always a frustrating exercise. On cool mornings your vehicle’s windows undoubtedly fog up. Worse yet, the rain hitting the front windshield distorts the view of the street ahead. Tree branches suddenly look like people and visa versa. But after awhile you get used to it.
On the force, when not working undercover, I’d