Murder on the Road Less Traveled. Robert W. Gregg
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disappearance was not hers to solve. Now his wife was virtually demanding that she take responsibility for a problem she very much wanted nothing to do with.
“Have you been in touch with your husband’s friends? His immediate family, or at least those he was closest to?” Carol doubted that the frantic woman on the phone line had done so. There hadn’t been time to visit all of his friends; as for relatives, Carol had no idea who they were or how close they were.
“You said that you really need my help. How do you think I can be of any help?”
“I want you to find my husband’s body. That’s what sheriffs do, isn’t it?”
“That means you think he’s dead.” Carol was surprised. Almost immediately she realized that she shouldn’t be. “Why do you think he’s dead? After all, there must be a lot of people you haven’t contacted, people who could give you information about him.”
“He’s dead,” Mrs. Eakins insisted. “If he were alive, he would have been in touch with me.”
“But you can’t be sure of that. He may have tried to reach you, explain where he was, what he was doing, but didn’t get through.”
“I know you want to reassure me, sheriff, but he’s dead. You don’t know Ernie. He would never, ever, go off somewhere without telling me. I don’t know much about the course they were riding yesterday, but it was all right here in the Finger Lakes. You’ve got to take the route Ernie took and follow it, all the way from the Southport town square back to the finish line. I’d do it, but I’m not sure what I’d be looking for. But you, it’s your profession. You’d see things that didn’t look right. You could ask people what they saw, whether Ernie stopped off, you know, to ask questions or something. I can’t bring him back but he needs a proper burial. Please help me.”
Carol was in a corner. She could either be the sheriff and say ‘no’ or a good samaritan and say ‘yes.’ She knew what she had to do.
“I hope you’re wrong about your husband, but I can see that you need help finding out what happened. I’ll do what I can. Mr. Reiger will give me the details about the route the cyclists took yesterday; I may even be able to persuade him to accompany me. In any event, I’ll check every square inch of the area of the ride and let you know what I find - or can’t find.”
“Oh, thank you, sheriff. I’d probably be kidding myself if I thought you would find Ernie, but I know you’ll do your best.”
Mrs. Eakins did sound grateful, although Carol found it hard to believe that her willingness to search for his body made her day.
CHAPTER 5
Carol had been surprised that Kevin had not kidded her about her willingness to help Connie Eakins.
“You’re almost too nice to be a sheriff, do you know that?” he had said after hearing about his wife’s response to the woman’s appeal for assistance in finding her husband’s body. “She needs help, and you came through for her.”
“I couldn’t say no,” Carol agreed.
“That’s what I mean.”
The early part of the next morning was spent in Joe Reiger’s office in the Chamber of Commerce. He had been more than willing to see her, and, as Carol quickly discovered, had much less on his plate than she did.
“You think you can find Eakins?” he asked.
“No, I don’t. But the woman’s having a breakdown, not that I blame her. At least I hope to discover what all the bikers were up to yesterday when they went on what you call the Gravel Grinder. What I need is a detailed map that shows where they went. I know most of the roads around here, but of course I don’t have a good picture of every route they followed. I assume that Gravel Grinder means the riders didn’t stay on paved roads. If you have a map left, perhaps you can let me have it. Or better yet, if you have the time, you could join me while I navigate the course they followed.”
Carol thought that Joe would plead a busy schedule and wish her luck, but she was right in her assumption that he really had time on his hands, if only he didn’t pretend that he didn’t. He didn’t.
“You’d get lost if you did what you propose to do on your own. Too many side roads, confusing intersections, places where nobody has ever heard of paving. I’ll go with you. Or better yet, unless you think you have to be in an official car, I’ll drive. Give you more of a chance to look around, see what you’re looking for.”
“I’m not really looking for anything in particular. I certainly don’t expect to see Ernie Eakins’ body lying in a roadside culvert. But if you could go with me, I’d be very grateful. And I like the idea of you doing the driving, if your schedule permits.”
Joe Reiger’s face lit up. In fact, Carol thought she saw his chest grow temporarily larger. He’s now part of an official investigation, and he’ll be pleased to tell people about it.
The trip itself turned out to be an eye opener, with beautiful views of two lakes, woods that Carol had never visited, and hills that were surprisingly steep. It was also, as Joe had suggested, confusing. It began on what passed in this area for main roads, easy to navigate. But once it had climbed a hill outside of Southport, it took the first of what would be half a dozen exits onto secondary roads. Tertiary might be a better term. Initially it looked as if they were headed north, but it wasn’t long before they were going east, then south, and, after awhile, in a direction that was hard to figure out under a cloudy, sunless sky.
“Who creates these routes?” Carol asked.
“Depends on who you ask,” Joe answered. “I’m technically in charge, so I suppose you could say I pick the course. But over the years quite a few people have had a say. The veteran cyclists, of course. There’ll be places where you’re confronted with options, like that place we passed through a couple of miles ago. They can be kind of fun. Go one way and you’re headed for a dead end, go another and first thing you know you’ll be facing another choice - a one lane dirt road to the left, a pot holed stretch to the right. We try to keep the riders on their toes.”
Joe stopped, mid-thought. Perhaps it had occurred to him that Ernie Eakins had, at just such a location, not been on his toes.
“Sort of like Frost’s ‘The Road Not Taken,” she said, only to realize seconds later that Reiger didn’t know what she was talking about. Neither did she, on second thought. Without thinking about it, she’d been showing off.
“Do you have the impression that your riders do get lost from time to time?”
“No question, it’s happened. Usually no problem. You discover that nothing looks right, so you turn around and retrace your steps. Or your wheels - you know what I mean.”
“I’ve seen signs here and there. It looks like you try to keep everyone on the straight and narrow.”
“We try to do that, but sign posts don’t last. People are always taking them down, complaining that they will mislead drivers other than those in a race or some other bike outing. See that corner up ahead, where there’s a switchback? No sign. I know there was one there yesterday.”
Carol gradually realized that the Gravel Grinder had been a long one. Not only did it frequently take her into territory with which she was unfamiliar; it also seemed to back track now and then, and, with the exception of the small town of Grovespring, managed to avoid paved roads.
But her purpose had been to see if anywhere along the way there was anything - a roadside house or barn, a hidden gully or debris field - which just might have something to do with Ernie’s disappearance.
“I’ve enjoyed the drive. Thanks for introducing me to no man’s land in upstate New York. But frankly I haven’t seen anything that’s likely to encourage Mrs. Eakins. You