Barry Jones' Cold Dinner. John Schlarbaum
Читать онлайн книгу.
seen his present squeeze Betty, I seriously doubted Mrs. Jones held any appeal to Darren McDonnell.
Speaking of McDonnell, even though I thoroughly disliked the man, I didn’t get the feeling he had it in for Jones. They were as he’d said friendly colleagues, each making a living working for the same boss, the same company, and probably taking home the same pay-cheque.
On my way back to Delta I switched on the radio and heard an amazing news story that piqued my interest:
It dealt with an elderly couple by the name of O’Brien from Daytona Beach, Florida. Apparently they’d left their home and drove to the supermarket to get some groceries. Upon checking out with their purchases, they were seen by passerbys loading their bags into the trunk of their car and entering the vehicle. They then presumably drove off the lot and vanished for three days.
Simply vaporized.
During this period they made no contact with their frantic relatives. No money was withdrawn from their bank accounts. No credit card purchases were made. And - here was the real interesting part - various photos of the couple in the local newspapers and on television stations resulted in no clues to their whereabouts.
Family and friends all said it was completely out of character for the couple not to inform them if they planned to go on a trip.
Then in almost biblical fashion, on the third day the family’s prayers were answered when the couple drove their vehicle into their driveway and began to unload the aforementioned groceries.
Had they been kidnapped? Seduced to the dark side by televangelists? Lost track of time at a Bahamian casino?
My mind raced with possibilities.
After talking to their children, it was learned that like a good magic trick, they had not really disappeared at all.
The newscaster explained the couple had inadvertently consumed some bad strawberries for breakfast on the day they vanished. Toxins within the fruit had then somehow affected their brain-cells, causing a state of temporary memory loss - much like the early stages of Alzheimer’s.
Incredibly for 72 hours they’d toured the greater Daytona Beach area unable to find their way home. In an even stranger twist of fate, they were able to eat and stay overnight in two cheap motels on the strip, with the cash they had left over from their grocery money.
At this revelation my little grey cells immediately kicked out the obvious question: What had Barry Jones eaten for breakfast on March 20, 1990?
Strawberries? Out of date yogurt? A brown banana?
Wishful thinking aside, I was more intrigued by the fact that despite overwhelming media coverage, these confused senior citizens remained undetected by the public’s collective naked eyes.
Was it possible the tainted strawberries had given the O’Briens the power of invisibility, but they had forgotten it?
Darren McDonnell’s voice was suddenly in my head.
The fact he hasn’t been seen around here is still not proof he’s joined the dearly departed, is it?
He’d purposely emphasized the words around here.
Was it possible that Barry Jones, like the O’Briens, had also gone undetected by the public’s radar?
I began to entertain the idea Jones had been seen - maybe even on a daily basis - after he’d disappeared, but only by people who didn’t know his identity. Like gas jockeys. Waiters and waitresses. Maybe even a motel clerk from time to time.
But never in Jones’ own backyard. Not in Kelsey Lake and definitely not in Delta.
The problem was this line of thinking had already been pursued ad nauseam years earlier, by not only the police, but by the press. If someone living in the city disappears, it’s treated as almost an afterthought. But when the same well liked family man resides in a tranquil little village, it becomes front page news. A mystery of Agatha Christie proportions.
Barry Jones’ vanishing act was just such a story.
Once back in my rented room, I made an appointment for Thursday to meet with Kimberly Doucette, who’d covered the Jones story for the Free Press. Next, I called KBJW-TV, the local network affiliate and discovered the investigative reporter who’d covered the story - a Charles Emery - had recently passed away. Without thinking, I asked if he’d been married and if so, was his wife still alive? After a brief pause, the assignment editor said she was. If I was still a cop I’d have asked flat-out for her telephone number. As a lowly P.I. though, I could only ask the man if he could contact her and gave him my room number. I then asked if it might be possible to view Mr. Emery’s reports.
“I think that can be arranged,” he said, “but I’d have to clear it with the news director first.”
“You have my number,” I said as I hung up. When I stepped out of the shower a short time later, I was gratified to see that the little red light on my telephone was blinking.
That didn’t take long, I thought as I put on some clean clothes.
To my surprise I had not one but two messages. The first was from Cam Adler, KBJW’s News Director. That one I’d expected. The speed in which he’d returned my call proved how alluring the Jones story was after all these years. The simple fact a P.I. was in the area was a story in itself.
The real shocker was how quickly Charles Emery’s widow had tried to reach me.
I decided to make Adler sweat a bit and called Mrs. Emery. Not knowing how recently Mr. Emery had died, I first offered my condolences and apologized for disturbing her at home.
“I no longer work, Mr. Cassidy,” she said. “So home is the only place you could get hold of me.”
Her voice had a sweet melodic rhythm to it, which I found very appealing. I guessed she was still fairly young, probably in her mid 40’s or early 50’s, and wondered how anyone could deal with the death of a spouse at such an age. He had his whole life ahead of him, Darren McDonnell had said of Barry Jones. I wondered if Charles Emery’s friends had thought the same thing. “I understand you’re investigating the Barry Jones story,” she said. “How is it you think I could assist you?”
“The truth is Mrs. Emery, I’m not sure if you can or not,” I said honestly. “As part of my investigation I’m trying to find out more about Mr. Jones, his family, his job, etc., and it came to my attention that your husband became a kind of authority on the case. I’m planning on viewing his TV reports in the next couple of days, and was curious if he’d uncovered any clues or leads of his own. Details or theories he didn’t mention on air.”
The pregnant pause on the other end of the line revealed more to me than when the Widow Emery began to talk again.
“The theories my husband tracked down, Mr. Cassidy, were usually provided by the station’s viewers, via a 1-800 number they’d set up.”
Although her voice remained outwardly calm and collected, I could tell she was somewhat uncomfortable with this topic.
“Mrs. Emery,” I said in a reassuring tone, “I’m sure your husband was a fine and respected reporter, and in no way would I ever think of sullying his good name. If - and this is a big if - your husband discovered or possessed information that he, for whatever reason, didn’t pass onto the police, I promise you that no one will ever find out about it.”
The proceeding silence gave me hope that my sincere performance had worked its magic - not that I had any plans of deceiving this woman in the first place, mind you.
“I feel a bit nervous talking about this over the phone,” she finally responded. “Could you possibly come over here?”
“Sure. Whenever it’s convenient for you.”
After a few false starts, we finally agreed that the best time to meet would be immediately after I’d viewed the TV reports. That way everything I’d seen would be fresh