With a little perseverance, you can get things done.
Chapter 7: Never Surrender
The weather didn’t clear up until Wednesday, but once the storms had fully blown through, they left behind a bright, warming sun in a brilliant blue sky. The big news in Bowdon, surpassing even the robbery and arson at O’Neil’s Bookstore, was the disappearance of Marvin Easton. While it seemed local law enforcement was treating the case as a teenage runaway, Marv’s family insisted otherwise and began a campaign to find him. This included recruiting Marv’s friends to help post “Have you seen me?” signs around town.
I would never be so bold and dishonest as to claim friendship with Marv Easton, but I figured his family wasn’t going to turn down my help over that minor point. Mart, Honey, Di, and Jim were clearly thinking along the same lines, because they all joined me outside the school library with about two dozen other students, ready to distribute and hang the flyers.
We were all sort of milling around, not sure exactly what to do, when I heard Monica Anderson calling my name. I walked over to where she was standing with Keith Booker, the newspaper’s head photographer.
“You can be a hard person to track down,” she told me as she reached into her backpack. She pulled out a red folder and handed it to me. “As promised. But just remember what I told you. It’s not complete. I hadn’t finished the inventory before the books disappeared.”
I accepted the folder with a grateful thanks. I didn’t really know if it would be helpful or not, but I was firmly of the belief that more information, not less, was better on the whole. Making a mental note to look over the list as soon as I had a chance, I rejoined my friends.
Mrs. Cohen, a freshman English teacher, bustled up and immediately began organizing groups of twos and threes and sending them off with specific areas of town to blanket. I pushed my way forward to get her attention. “Excuse me,” I said, hoping my smile seemed earnest and eager, rather than devious and dishonest. “Have you assigned anyone to Hawthorne Street yet? My brother and I live near there, so we know it well.”
This was not remotely true. Glen Road is on the opposite side of Bowdon, and to the best of my knowledge, I’ve only ever been on Hawthorne Street maybe half a dozen times in my life. But this is where O’Neil’s Bookstore is and I wanted to see for myself how extensive the arson damage was.
Thankfully, both Jim and Mart had enough sense to keep quiet about my prevarication. Mrs. Cohen handed us a stack of the missing person signs plus a box of nails and a single hammer. “Place these where they’ll get the most exposure,” she instructed us. “And ask at the stores if they’ll hang one on their doors for customers to see.”
“Will do,” I assured her as I turned back to speak with my friends. After a brief consultation, we decided it made the most sense to split up with Jim, Honey and Di forming one group and me and Mart the other. While I much would’ve preferred to go with Jim and I’m sure Mart wasn’t entirely happy being separated from Di, we all agreed it was the most logical division of labor. They could ask for an area that actually was closer to our side of town, and when Mart and I did get finished on Hawthorne, we could go straight home.
Our plans only changed slightly when Brian rushed up and joined us. “What can I do to help?” he asked, somehow reminding me of an eager Saint Bernard on a rescue mission. Today, he was wearing a brown t-shirt with two T-Rex skeletons sword fighting on it. I supposed that meant something, but it totally went over my head. Nerd humor escaped me most of the time.
At some point over the course of the day, he’d apparently broken his glasses at one hinge and used a bit of clear tape for repairs. “What happened this time?” I asked, holding out one hand.
Brian winced and removed his glasses. “Gym,” he said awkwardly as he handed them to me.
“Jim broke your glasses?” I asked, my tone rising in disbelief as I turned to my boyfriend with an incredulous look.
“Not me!” he exclaimed hurriedly.
Brian waved his hands and shook his head hard. “No, Trix. Gym. I mean, not the gym itself. It happened during gym class. PE? We were playing dodgeball. I didn’t dodge fast enough.”
There was a moment where my eyes met Mart’s and I knew the flash of anger I was feeling was roiling through him as well. There were certain, strict rules to the game that the coaches usually followed, and that included not throwing the balls high enough to hit someone in the head. I drew in a deep breath, telling myself I needed to at least appear calm. “Well, this looks like a simple fix,” I told him with a weak smile. “I’m sure you can take care of it tonight after dinner. I bet your coach was mad, huh? Someone must’ve been ejected from the game for that.”
“It was an accident. We’d just started a round and no one knew who threw the ball that hit me, so I left to see about the temporary repair and everybody else kept playing.”
Was it an accident? I wondered darkly. Certainly, it could have been, but I knew it could also be another indication that someone had something against my brother and this only strengthened my resolve to find out who and why.
“Why don’t you come with us, Bro,” Mart suggested, his smile every bit as forced as mine had been. “Though that means we’ll have to figure out what to do with your car.”
“I can drive it and drop it off at your house,” Honey offered kindly. “Jim and Di can follow me and then we’ll go hang our signs.”
“Thanks,” Brian said with an expression that was both bashful and appreciative at the same time. He fished his keys from his front pocket for her and we all said our goodbyes, with plans to meet up in the morning before first bell. We split up then, with Brian and me following Mart out to the junior class parking lot.
“You know there probably isn’t going to be much for you to see at O’Neil’s, right?” Mart said as he strapped himself into his seat.
“I know,” I replied simply. “But I’d still like to get a look at the place.”
Brian leaned forward from the back. “Why do you want to look at O’Neil’s? I heard it was pretty much gutted in the fire. Nothing left to save.”
“I know,” I said again. “And probably I’m not really going to learn anything from seeing whatever remains of the building itself, but, well, while we’re politely asking the local businesses to put up these flyers, there’s nothing to stop us from throwing out a question or two about the fire, right? Maybe someone saw something or knows something….”
Mart shot me a look that was somewhere between impressed and exasperated. I think he was trying to decide if my plan was clever or just taking horrible advantage of the fact that Marv Easton was missing.
Hawthorne Street is generally considered the “wrong side of the tracks.” It went through a really rough period in the 70’s, where it was known to be the part of town where those interested in a variety of unsavory and illicit acts might be found. More recently, there’s been an attempt to revive the area and a handful of shops have opened their doors. Most probably, the cheap rent was the biggest attraction for them.
As soon as Mart made a left-hand turn onto the street, we were treated to a view of what “pretty much gutted in the fire” actually meant. The store was essentially gone, with only a few blackened support beams still standing among the rubble. The neighboring shops, which appeared understandably closed for business as well, had sustained significant damage, though not the complete destruction the bookstore faced. Mart let out a low whistle as he found a parking spot on the opposite side of the street. “Not sure you come back from something that bad,” he murmured.
“It’s a real shame,” Brian said as he popped open his door. “Walden’s and B. Dalton’s are fine if you want the latest bestseller, but O’Neil’s was the place to find great older books. They had some interesting and rare editions you aren’t going to come across anywhere else in town.”
My brother sounded a little like he’d lost an old friend and I realized from his perspective, that wasn’t a completely inaccurate way of putting it. As we gathered on the sidewalk, me holding the stack of flyers and Mart clutching the hammer and nails, I tried to formulate a plan of action. “Let’s hang a few of these ourselves, first,” I decided, “and then we can take the rest into the shops and… Chez José? When did that open and, more importantly - huh?”
Mart grinned at that. “Hey, what’s wrong with a French Mexican restaurant?”
I thought for a moment and couldn’t come up with any real objections on the spot, so I merely shrugged and led my brothers to the first wooden electric pole to hang one of our missing person signs. Ours was not the first or even the fifth flyer to get tacked up. Marv Easton’s photo and details were forced to share space with signs for a punk rock concert at a nearby bar, a lost dog, a gentleman offering his handyman services, a handwritten and misspelled notice describing a used car for sale, and a small card inviting anyone who was needing help or assistance to visit the St. Joseph’s Missionary Church.
The first shop we visited was located on the corner of Hawthorne and Eighth Street. We let ourselves in through the glass-paned door and discovered Millie’s Cards and Gifts was mostly offering up a small selection of items that would probably sell better out on a highway somewhere that would generate tourist traffic. While we certainly have pride in our state here in Bowdon, I can’t recall ever seeing anyone wearing a “I Left My Heart in Texas” tie around town. I couldn’t see how the mugs, keychains, postcards, and other souvenirs with similar sentiments would be big sellers in this part of town.
While some other stores and businesses around Bowdon were decorated for Autumn, Halloween, and in support of the Bulldogs, Millie’s only concession to the time of year was a plastic pumpkin that had definitely seen better days. There was a faint covering of dust on most of the shelves, though the glass-fronted case that held a collection of gold and silver jewelry items was sparkling clean, all the more incongruous for the contrast between it and the rest of the shop.
The plump, middle-aged woman at the counter was not wearing a name tag, leaving me to guess whether or not she was the eponymous Millie. Mart took the lead, approaching her and asking if she’d be willing to put one of our flyers on her door or in the shop’s front window. Although her expression showed little interest in the subject matter as she scanned the page, she nodded and handed him a roll of tape. I could tell Mart was somewhat taken aback by that wordless response and he turned to me with brows raised.
“Door,” I said decisively. If she wasn’t going to specify, then I assumed it was our choice. As my twin went to hang the sign and Brian’s attention was caught by a display of polished rocks, I took my chance to speak with the clerk. “That was some fire across the street, huh?” I said, trying to sound like I was striking up a friendly conversation to pass the time while my brother completed his task, and not digging for any intel like I actually was.
Might-Be-Millie lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, letting me know right away I wasn’t going to get very far in my information quest.
“Were you here that night?” I asked, not willing to completely give up on her just yet.
“No,” she replied, speaking for the first time. “I don’t really work here.”
Okay, now that stopped all three of us. Mart turned around from the door, Brian looked back over his shoulder, and I stared at the woman in confusion. If she wasn’t an employee, what was she doing there behind the counter?
“This is my sister’s place,” she explained. “But she got sick so I’m watching things for her ‘til she can get back.”
That was enough for me. I nodded to my brothers, thanked the woman for letting us hang our flyer and we quickly left.
“There was something off in there,” Mart declared as soon as we were back out on the sidewalk with the door shut behind us.
“Agreed,” I told him. “I know the idea is supposed to be that Hawthorne Street is cleaning up its act, but I think it’s safe to say there’re still some unlawful business transactions taking place, and there’s something wrong in the state of Millie’s for sure.”
Brian looked back and forth between us. “You mean because of the rocks?”
“What rocks?” Mart asked blankly.
“Those geodes and agates they had. They were priced much too high and most of them were mislabeled.”
“I was referring to the souvenirs that have been there untouched since the store opened, serving as a cover for what I’m betting is stolen goods for sale behind the counter,” I explained to him.
Brian glanced back at the shop. “What makes you think that?” he wanted to know.
“Nothing was marked used,” I pointed out, “but several items clearly were. Also, what store only stocks one of each thing it sells? There were no duplicates of anything except those cheap trinkets meant to give the impression this is just a small, struggling gift shop. I guess if you want, we could give the police station a call tonight when we get home and drop a tip, but probably they already know and either can’t get enough hard evidence or figure they have bigger fish to fry.”
As we crossed Eighth and approached a men’s shoe store, Brian slowed for me to catch up with him. “That was really observant of you,” he said with a small smile. “I didn’t even notice.”
“But you did notice the messed up rocks. There’s no way I would’ve been able to guess how much they should cost or know what types they were.” This was in no way an exaggeration on my part. I can tell the difference between a diamond, emerald, and ruby, but that's about the extent of my knowledge when it comes to valuable and semi-valuable products of Earth.
“I don’t know how significant that could be, though. I mean, maybe the shopkeeper just doesn’t know what they are herself.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s absolutely the case,” I agreed with a smile of my own. “And it does have some significance. It indicates she’s not really the kind of shop owner she’s pretending to be. She doesn’t even know anything about her own supposed merchandise.”
Brian blew out a breath and nodded once. “Yeah. I can see that. But when did you go all Sherlock on us, anyway, Trix?”
“Thanks?” I replied, laughing, “I mean, I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It is one. Maybe you should consider a career I law enforcement. You’d make a good cop. You’re always noticing things no one else notices.”
“Hmmm. I think if anything, I rather would be Sherlock. Well, you know, a private detective. That would actually be pretty cool.”
And it would be. Once Brian dropped the idea in my head, I found I couldn’t shake it. I know that traditionally, PI’s are men, but times really are changing and why couldn’t I be a part of that? As we let ourselves into the shoe shop, I briefly entertained myself with the idea of one day opening the Belden Detective Agency in a nice little office downtown.
As it turned out, while every shop we visited allowed us to post our flyers, no one offered up anything terribly helpful regarding the bookstore robbery and arson. I was starting to believe that this had been a waste of time, other than possibly contributing to locating the missing Marv, but that changed when we finally made our way to Chez José.
It’s difficult to describe the French-Mexican House of Joseph with any words that adequately convey the craziness of the establishment. On one wall, a giant mural featured the Eiffel Tower surrounded by little adobe homes and a herd of donkeys. The waitress who greeted us wore both a French beret and a Mexican serape. The tables were wrought iron and looked like they belonged in a Parisian café, but the small cactus centerpieces on each one sat on the colorful, striped woven placemats you could find in any outdoor market south of the border.
There were a few customers at the bar along the left wall, but otherwise the place was empty. I wasn’t sure if that could be attributed to the time of day or if Chez José was known for being somewhere to avoid at mealtimes. After obtaining permission to hang our last flyer on their door, Mart grabbed a paper menu and I realized he fully intended to order something to eat. Brian and I exchanged resigned glances and followed him and our waitress to a table by the front window.
While I was skeptical of the restaurant theme, it soon became clear Mart was ready to fully embrace it. He laughed as he read us the names of a variety of menu offerings, from the refried bean crepes to the taco quiche, and genuinely seemed to struggle with the idea of choosing only one item. As our waitress brought us glasses of water, he signaled he was ready to order. “I’ll have the cassoulet enchiladas and a Coke, please.”
She looked over at me, and I smiled and shook my head. “I’m good. Thanks.”
“Um, could I just have some of the chocolate nachos?” Brian asked, and I could see he was doubting the wisdom of his order.
As if well accustomed to explaining things to new customers, our waitress smiled warmly at him. “They’re a lot better than they sound. Sort’ve remind me of s’mores.”
“Okay,” I said, looking around. “What’s the deal here, really?”
She laughed as she tucked her pad into her apron. “The owner is the son of a French immigrant who married a Mexican landowner. When he died, she brought her son here to Texas. He opened Chez José in honor of both parents.”
“And it’s… doing well?”
“You’d be surprised. We usually get a good crowd in the evenings, especially on the weekends. The food’s a little quirky, but it really isn’t bad.”
When our order arrived, I had to admit it looked a lot less weird than I was expecting. Both my brothers agreed they weren’t disappointed in their choices and after I tried a bite of their dishes, I decided I wasn’t a raving fan, but I didn’t hate anything, either.
Since our waitress seemed like the chatty type, I took a direct approach with her. “Do you know anything about the fire at the bookstore?” I asked as she refilled our water glasses. “We saw what was left of the place. I didn’t realize it’d been that bad. I was thinking some kind of small fire that was probably started by a dumb kid playing with matches or something.”
Yeah, that last bit was a total lie, but I was hoping it would give her the chance to “correct” me and that she’d take the bait I’d thrown out at her.
She did.
“Oh, no. It was much worse than that,” she said seriously. “The cops say the fire was arson and it was set to cover up a theft.”
I adopted my most disbelieving expression. “Theft? At a used bookstore? Was the owner known for keeping a lot of cash in the till?”
“Not that I know of. But I did hear he had some rare editions that were worth more than you might imagine.”
That lined up with what we’d already guessed about what had potentially been lost in the fire. So, maybe someone had stolen some old and valuable books and then burned the place down. Which seemed… excessive, really. A theft would have been noticed right away, of course, but by bringing arson into the picture, now you had a much bigger crime and more attention from law enforcement. Why would any thief want to bring that upon himself?
And what, if anything, did this have to do with the stolen books at school?
“There was something strange about that night,” our waitress continued, her expression thoughtful. “I had two customers who really stood out. They definitely weren’t locals and they definitely weren’t friends. They were clearly arguing, even though they kept their voices low and stopped talking any time I got too near their table.”
“How do you know they weren’t friends?” I asked curiously. “Friends can be friends and still argue.”
“Oh, I know,” she replied. “But they didn’t know each other, at least not on sight. The older one, he looked like your stereotypical college professor. I mean, we are talking tweed jacket and bow tie and everything, here. He came in first and said he was meeting someone. The younger one came in a few minutes later. He looked like trouble. Like in and out of jail kind of trouble. They saw one another and did one of those ‘Is it you?’ exchanges before the younger guy sat down. I went to check on another table and when I came back, the older guy was giving the younger one an envelope and… and this is where the really strange part kicks in. Like I said, they would go quiet when I got near, but I still caught a few phrases and sentences here and there, even if I was just passing by, and I swear, they were talking in some kind of code.”
“Code?” Mart echoed in surprise. “What kind of code?”
“I’m not sure. It was just they said things that didn’t make a lot of sense but seemed to mean something to each other. I can’t remember it all because it seemed so meaningless, but I did catch something about… a manuscript needing to be better than a bell ringing and something else about someone’s father and son? It was all just very weird.” Just as she finished speaking, a young couple with a toddler walked in the door and she gave us a quick smile before hurrying off to greet the new customers.
“What do you make of all that?” Mart asked me as he scooped up the last of his enchiladas.
“I’m not sure. I agree with her that something really strange was going on here, but if it has any connection to anything else going on – that’s anybody’s guess.” I sighed and slumped back in my chair. “Ugh. Maybe I’m letting myself get too sidetracked. Our priority has to be the books stolen from school. C’mon. Let’s pay our tab and get home.”
That night I started what I later came to think of as my Investigator’s Notebook. I wrote down everything I could think of that possibly had some bearing on the case I wanted to solve, no matter how small or seemingly unrelated it might be. I also tucked in the paper inventory Monica had provided me. I’d read it over, but I couldn’t see how anyone would want to actually steal any of the books and items listed.
The very last note I made, after a small hesitation, was a name. Dan Mangan, followed by a question mark. I had nothing concrete on him, but I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that - like the code speaking gentlemen of Chez José - Dan was up to something and whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Just as I was capping my pen and setting it aside, another disquieting thought occurred to me. Our waitress had described the younger man as “trouble,” but she hadn’t really given us a physical description.
What were the chances he was Dan himself?
I would never be so bold and dishonest as to claim friendship with Marv Easton, but I figured his family wasn’t going to turn down my help over that minor point. Mart, Honey, Di, and Jim were clearly thinking along the same lines, because they all joined me outside the school library with about two dozen other students, ready to distribute and hang the flyers.
We were all sort of milling around, not sure exactly what to do, when I heard Monica Anderson calling my name. I walked over to where she was standing with Keith Booker, the newspaper’s head photographer.
“You can be a hard person to track down,” she told me as she reached into her backpack. She pulled out a red folder and handed it to me. “As promised. But just remember what I told you. It’s not complete. I hadn’t finished the inventory before the books disappeared.”
I accepted the folder with a grateful thanks. I didn’t really know if it would be helpful or not, but I was firmly of the belief that more information, not less, was better on the whole. Making a mental note to look over the list as soon as I had a chance, I rejoined my friends.
Mrs. Cohen, a freshman English teacher, bustled up and immediately began organizing groups of twos and threes and sending them off with specific areas of town to blanket. I pushed my way forward to get her attention. “Excuse me,” I said, hoping my smile seemed earnest and eager, rather than devious and dishonest. “Have you assigned anyone to Hawthorne Street yet? My brother and I live near there, so we know it well.”
This was not remotely true. Glen Road is on the opposite side of Bowdon, and to the best of my knowledge, I’ve only ever been on Hawthorne Street maybe half a dozen times in my life. But this is where O’Neil’s Bookstore is and I wanted to see for myself how extensive the arson damage was.
Thankfully, both Jim and Mart had enough sense to keep quiet about my prevarication. Mrs. Cohen handed us a stack of the missing person signs plus a box of nails and a single hammer. “Place these where they’ll get the most exposure,” she instructed us. “And ask at the stores if they’ll hang one on their doors for customers to see.”
“Will do,” I assured her as I turned back to speak with my friends. After a brief consultation, we decided it made the most sense to split up with Jim, Honey and Di forming one group and me and Mart the other. While I much would’ve preferred to go with Jim and I’m sure Mart wasn’t entirely happy being separated from Di, we all agreed it was the most logical division of labor. They could ask for an area that actually was closer to our side of town, and when Mart and I did get finished on Hawthorne, we could go straight home.
Our plans only changed slightly when Brian rushed up and joined us. “What can I do to help?” he asked, somehow reminding me of an eager Saint Bernard on a rescue mission. Today, he was wearing a brown t-shirt with two T-Rex skeletons sword fighting on it. I supposed that meant something, but it totally went over my head. Nerd humor escaped me most of the time.
At some point over the course of the day, he’d apparently broken his glasses at one hinge and used a bit of clear tape for repairs. “What happened this time?” I asked, holding out one hand.
Brian winced and removed his glasses. “Gym,” he said awkwardly as he handed them to me.
“Jim broke your glasses?” I asked, my tone rising in disbelief as I turned to my boyfriend with an incredulous look.
“Not me!” he exclaimed hurriedly.
Brian waved his hands and shook his head hard. “No, Trix. Gym. I mean, not the gym itself. It happened during gym class. PE? We were playing dodgeball. I didn’t dodge fast enough.”
There was a moment where my eyes met Mart’s and I knew the flash of anger I was feeling was roiling through him as well. There were certain, strict rules to the game that the coaches usually followed, and that included not throwing the balls high enough to hit someone in the head. I drew in a deep breath, telling myself I needed to at least appear calm. “Well, this looks like a simple fix,” I told him with a weak smile. “I’m sure you can take care of it tonight after dinner. I bet your coach was mad, huh? Someone must’ve been ejected from the game for that.”
“It was an accident. We’d just started a round and no one knew who threw the ball that hit me, so I left to see about the temporary repair and everybody else kept playing.”
Was it an accident? I wondered darkly. Certainly, it could have been, but I knew it could also be another indication that someone had something against my brother and this only strengthened my resolve to find out who and why.
“Why don’t you come with us, Bro,” Mart suggested, his smile every bit as forced as mine had been. “Though that means we’ll have to figure out what to do with your car.”
“I can drive it and drop it off at your house,” Honey offered kindly. “Jim and Di can follow me and then we’ll go hang our signs.”
“Thanks,” Brian said with an expression that was both bashful and appreciative at the same time. He fished his keys from his front pocket for her and we all said our goodbyes, with plans to meet up in the morning before first bell. We split up then, with Brian and me following Mart out to the junior class parking lot.
“You know there probably isn’t going to be much for you to see at O’Neil’s, right?” Mart said as he strapped himself into his seat.
“I know,” I replied simply. “But I’d still like to get a look at the place.”
Brian leaned forward from the back. “Why do you want to look at O’Neil’s? I heard it was pretty much gutted in the fire. Nothing left to save.”
“I know,” I said again. “And probably I’m not really going to learn anything from seeing whatever remains of the building itself, but, well, while we’re politely asking the local businesses to put up these flyers, there’s nothing to stop us from throwing out a question or two about the fire, right? Maybe someone saw something or knows something….”
Mart shot me a look that was somewhere between impressed and exasperated. I think he was trying to decide if my plan was clever or just taking horrible advantage of the fact that Marv Easton was missing.
Hawthorne Street is generally considered the “wrong side of the tracks.” It went through a really rough period in the 70’s, where it was known to be the part of town where those interested in a variety of unsavory and illicit acts might be found. More recently, there’s been an attempt to revive the area and a handful of shops have opened their doors. Most probably, the cheap rent was the biggest attraction for them.
As soon as Mart made a left-hand turn onto the street, we were treated to a view of what “pretty much gutted in the fire” actually meant. The store was essentially gone, with only a few blackened support beams still standing among the rubble. The neighboring shops, which appeared understandably closed for business as well, had sustained significant damage, though not the complete destruction the bookstore faced. Mart let out a low whistle as he found a parking spot on the opposite side of the street. “Not sure you come back from something that bad,” he murmured.
“It’s a real shame,” Brian said as he popped open his door. “Walden’s and B. Dalton’s are fine if you want the latest bestseller, but O’Neil’s was the place to find great older books. They had some interesting and rare editions you aren’t going to come across anywhere else in town.”
My brother sounded a little like he’d lost an old friend and I realized from his perspective, that wasn’t a completely inaccurate way of putting it. As we gathered on the sidewalk, me holding the stack of flyers and Mart clutching the hammer and nails, I tried to formulate a plan of action. “Let’s hang a few of these ourselves, first,” I decided, “and then we can take the rest into the shops and… Chez José? When did that open and, more importantly - huh?”
Mart grinned at that. “Hey, what’s wrong with a French Mexican restaurant?”
I thought for a moment and couldn’t come up with any real objections on the spot, so I merely shrugged and led my brothers to the first wooden electric pole to hang one of our missing person signs. Ours was not the first or even the fifth flyer to get tacked up. Marv Easton’s photo and details were forced to share space with signs for a punk rock concert at a nearby bar, a lost dog, a gentleman offering his handyman services, a handwritten and misspelled notice describing a used car for sale, and a small card inviting anyone who was needing help or assistance to visit the St. Joseph’s Missionary Church.
The first shop we visited was located on the corner of Hawthorne and Eighth Street. We let ourselves in through the glass-paned door and discovered Millie’s Cards and Gifts was mostly offering up a small selection of items that would probably sell better out on a highway somewhere that would generate tourist traffic. While we certainly have pride in our state here in Bowdon, I can’t recall ever seeing anyone wearing a “I Left My Heart in Texas” tie around town. I couldn’t see how the mugs, keychains, postcards, and other souvenirs with similar sentiments would be big sellers in this part of town.
While some other stores and businesses around Bowdon were decorated for Autumn, Halloween, and in support of the Bulldogs, Millie’s only concession to the time of year was a plastic pumpkin that had definitely seen better days. There was a faint covering of dust on most of the shelves, though the glass-fronted case that held a collection of gold and silver jewelry items was sparkling clean, all the more incongruous for the contrast between it and the rest of the shop.
The plump, middle-aged woman at the counter was not wearing a name tag, leaving me to guess whether or not she was the eponymous Millie. Mart took the lead, approaching her and asking if she’d be willing to put one of our flyers on her door or in the shop’s front window. Although her expression showed little interest in the subject matter as she scanned the page, she nodded and handed him a roll of tape. I could tell Mart was somewhat taken aback by that wordless response and he turned to me with brows raised.
“Door,” I said decisively. If she wasn’t going to specify, then I assumed it was our choice. As my twin went to hang the sign and Brian’s attention was caught by a display of polished rocks, I took my chance to speak with the clerk. “That was some fire across the street, huh?” I said, trying to sound like I was striking up a friendly conversation to pass the time while my brother completed his task, and not digging for any intel like I actually was.
Might-Be-Millie lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, letting me know right away I wasn’t going to get very far in my information quest.
“Were you here that night?” I asked, not willing to completely give up on her just yet.
“No,” she replied, speaking for the first time. “I don’t really work here.”
Okay, now that stopped all three of us. Mart turned around from the door, Brian looked back over his shoulder, and I stared at the woman in confusion. If she wasn’t an employee, what was she doing there behind the counter?
“This is my sister’s place,” she explained. “But she got sick so I’m watching things for her ‘til she can get back.”
That was enough for me. I nodded to my brothers, thanked the woman for letting us hang our flyer and we quickly left.
“There was something off in there,” Mart declared as soon as we were back out on the sidewalk with the door shut behind us.
“Agreed,” I told him. “I know the idea is supposed to be that Hawthorne Street is cleaning up its act, but I think it’s safe to say there’re still some unlawful business transactions taking place, and there’s something wrong in the state of Millie’s for sure.”
Brian looked back and forth between us. “You mean because of the rocks?”
“What rocks?” Mart asked blankly.
“Those geodes and agates they had. They were priced much too high and most of them were mislabeled.”
“I was referring to the souvenirs that have been there untouched since the store opened, serving as a cover for what I’m betting is stolen goods for sale behind the counter,” I explained to him.
Brian glanced back at the shop. “What makes you think that?” he wanted to know.
“Nothing was marked used,” I pointed out, “but several items clearly were. Also, what store only stocks one of each thing it sells? There were no duplicates of anything except those cheap trinkets meant to give the impression this is just a small, struggling gift shop. I guess if you want, we could give the police station a call tonight when we get home and drop a tip, but probably they already know and either can’t get enough hard evidence or figure they have bigger fish to fry.”
As we crossed Eighth and approached a men’s shoe store, Brian slowed for me to catch up with him. “That was really observant of you,” he said with a small smile. “I didn’t even notice.”
“But you did notice the messed up rocks. There’s no way I would’ve been able to guess how much they should cost or know what types they were.” This was in no way an exaggeration on my part. I can tell the difference between a diamond, emerald, and ruby, but that's about the extent of my knowledge when it comes to valuable and semi-valuable products of Earth.
“I don’t know how significant that could be, though. I mean, maybe the shopkeeper just doesn’t know what they are herself.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s absolutely the case,” I agreed with a smile of my own. “And it does have some significance. It indicates she’s not really the kind of shop owner she’s pretending to be. She doesn’t even know anything about her own supposed merchandise.”
Brian blew out a breath and nodded once. “Yeah. I can see that. But when did you go all Sherlock on us, anyway, Trix?”
“Thanks?” I replied, laughing, “I mean, I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It is one. Maybe you should consider a career I law enforcement. You’d make a good cop. You’re always noticing things no one else notices.”
“Hmmm. I think if anything, I rather would be Sherlock. Well, you know, a private detective. That would actually be pretty cool.”
And it would be. Once Brian dropped the idea in my head, I found I couldn’t shake it. I know that traditionally, PI’s are men, but times really are changing and why couldn’t I be a part of that? As we let ourselves into the shoe shop, I briefly entertained myself with the idea of one day opening the Belden Detective Agency in a nice little office downtown.
As it turned out, while every shop we visited allowed us to post our flyers, no one offered up anything terribly helpful regarding the bookstore robbery and arson. I was starting to believe that this had been a waste of time, other than possibly contributing to locating the missing Marv, but that changed when we finally made our way to Chez José.
It’s difficult to describe the French-Mexican House of Joseph with any words that adequately convey the craziness of the establishment. On one wall, a giant mural featured the Eiffel Tower surrounded by little adobe homes and a herd of donkeys. The waitress who greeted us wore both a French beret and a Mexican serape. The tables were wrought iron and looked like they belonged in a Parisian café, but the small cactus centerpieces on each one sat on the colorful, striped woven placemats you could find in any outdoor market south of the border.
There were a few customers at the bar along the left wall, but otherwise the place was empty. I wasn’t sure if that could be attributed to the time of day or if Chez José was known for being somewhere to avoid at mealtimes. After obtaining permission to hang our last flyer on their door, Mart grabbed a paper menu and I realized he fully intended to order something to eat. Brian and I exchanged resigned glances and followed him and our waitress to a table by the front window.
While I was skeptical of the restaurant theme, it soon became clear Mart was ready to fully embrace it. He laughed as he read us the names of a variety of menu offerings, from the refried bean crepes to the taco quiche, and genuinely seemed to struggle with the idea of choosing only one item. As our waitress brought us glasses of water, he signaled he was ready to order. “I’ll have the cassoulet enchiladas and a Coke, please.”
She looked over at me, and I smiled and shook my head. “I’m good. Thanks.”
“Um, could I just have some of the chocolate nachos?” Brian asked, and I could see he was doubting the wisdom of his order.
As if well accustomed to explaining things to new customers, our waitress smiled warmly at him. “They’re a lot better than they sound. Sort’ve remind me of s’mores.”
“Okay,” I said, looking around. “What’s the deal here, really?”
She laughed as she tucked her pad into her apron. “The owner is the son of a French immigrant who married a Mexican landowner. When he died, she brought her son here to Texas. He opened Chez José in honor of both parents.”
“And it’s… doing well?”
“You’d be surprised. We usually get a good crowd in the evenings, especially on the weekends. The food’s a little quirky, but it really isn’t bad.”
When our order arrived, I had to admit it looked a lot less weird than I was expecting. Both my brothers agreed they weren’t disappointed in their choices and after I tried a bite of their dishes, I decided I wasn’t a raving fan, but I didn’t hate anything, either.
Since our waitress seemed like the chatty type, I took a direct approach with her. “Do you know anything about the fire at the bookstore?” I asked as she refilled our water glasses. “We saw what was left of the place. I didn’t realize it’d been that bad. I was thinking some kind of small fire that was probably started by a dumb kid playing with matches or something.”
Yeah, that last bit was a total lie, but I was hoping it would give her the chance to “correct” me and that she’d take the bait I’d thrown out at her.
She did.
“Oh, no. It was much worse than that,” she said seriously. “The cops say the fire was arson and it was set to cover up a theft.”
I adopted my most disbelieving expression. “Theft? At a used bookstore? Was the owner known for keeping a lot of cash in the till?”
“Not that I know of. But I did hear he had some rare editions that were worth more than you might imagine.”
That lined up with what we’d already guessed about what had potentially been lost in the fire. So, maybe someone had stolen some old and valuable books and then burned the place down. Which seemed… excessive, really. A theft would have been noticed right away, of course, but by bringing arson into the picture, now you had a much bigger crime and more attention from law enforcement. Why would any thief want to bring that upon himself?
And what, if anything, did this have to do with the stolen books at school?
“There was something strange about that night,” our waitress continued, her expression thoughtful. “I had two customers who really stood out. They definitely weren’t locals and they definitely weren’t friends. They were clearly arguing, even though they kept their voices low and stopped talking any time I got too near their table.”
“How do you know they weren’t friends?” I asked curiously. “Friends can be friends and still argue.”
“Oh, I know,” she replied. “But they didn’t know each other, at least not on sight. The older one, he looked like your stereotypical college professor. I mean, we are talking tweed jacket and bow tie and everything, here. He came in first and said he was meeting someone. The younger one came in a few minutes later. He looked like trouble. Like in and out of jail kind of trouble. They saw one another and did one of those ‘Is it you?’ exchanges before the younger guy sat down. I went to check on another table and when I came back, the older guy was giving the younger one an envelope and… and this is where the really strange part kicks in. Like I said, they would go quiet when I got near, but I still caught a few phrases and sentences here and there, even if I was just passing by, and I swear, they were talking in some kind of code.”
“Code?” Mart echoed in surprise. “What kind of code?”
“I’m not sure. It was just they said things that didn’t make a lot of sense but seemed to mean something to each other. I can’t remember it all because it seemed so meaningless, but I did catch something about… a manuscript needing to be better than a bell ringing and something else about someone’s father and son? It was all just very weird.” Just as she finished speaking, a young couple with a toddler walked in the door and she gave us a quick smile before hurrying off to greet the new customers.
“What do you make of all that?” Mart asked me as he scooped up the last of his enchiladas.
“I’m not sure. I agree with her that something really strange was going on here, but if it has any connection to anything else going on – that’s anybody’s guess.” I sighed and slumped back in my chair. “Ugh. Maybe I’m letting myself get too sidetracked. Our priority has to be the books stolen from school. C’mon. Let’s pay our tab and get home.”
That night I started what I later came to think of as my Investigator’s Notebook. I wrote down everything I could think of that possibly had some bearing on the case I wanted to solve, no matter how small or seemingly unrelated it might be. I also tucked in the paper inventory Monica had provided me. I’d read it over, but I couldn’t see how anyone would want to actually steal any of the books and items listed.
The very last note I made, after a small hesitation, was a name. Dan Mangan, followed by a question mark. I had nothing concrete on him, but I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that - like the code speaking gentlemen of Chez José - Dan was up to something and whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Just as I was capping my pen and setting it aside, another disquieting thought occurred to me. Our waitress had described the younger man as “trouble,” but she hadn’t really given us a physical description.
What were the chances he was Dan himself?