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Saving Farley's Bog Page 2
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Stitch drove the Rav up Pasadena Street. He studied the street numbers carefully. 703. Odd number. On his left. He spotted the number next to the front door of one of the houses. He pulled up to the curb across from the home. He yanked his black computer case from the passenger seat. Then he got out of the car and studied the house.
It was a standard subdivision place. The front door opened off a little concrete porch that was tucked in beside the two-car garage some 50 feet back from the sidewalk. The sides of the house were covered with grey vinyl siding. A large picture window to the right of the front door looked out onto a small flower garden. A basketball hoop was bolted over the garage doors. Kids, Stitch thought.
He walked onto the porch and pushed the doorbell button. It dimmed while he pushed it. He heard a faint chiming inside. After a few moments the door opened.
Molly Maxwell was much as Stitch had imagined her. Pretty in a wholesome sort of way. Small, but a good figure. Soft brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Mid-thirties.
She stood in the door and looked up timidly. Her eyes darted nervously. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Maxwell? I am Stitch Robinson.”
Her face relaxed a bit. “Oh, Mr. Robinson. Thank you for coming. I’m so… I’m relieved, I guess.”
“Yes ma’am. I understand. Could we sit down and discuss the situation?”
Molly smiled shyly. “Of course.” She opened the door to let him in. She gave a sad little laugh. “I’m not usually this ditzy. Or impolite.” She closed the door and led Stitch into the living room. A giant plasma TV covered one wall. A door led into a dining room on their left. A small bookcase made of concrete bricks and unpainted boards was almost empty except for a few trophies and some photo albums. Several framed pictures of a girl and boy hung over a fake brick fireplace.
Molly motioned to a deep green sofa. “Please sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”
Stitch settled into the worn cushions. “If you have some made. But please, don’t bother if you don’t.”
Molly Maxwell smiled more warmly. “I figured you’d drink coffee. Don’t all detectives?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stitch nodded. “It’s a provincial requirement. Detectives have lost their licences for preferring tea.”
Now Molly gave a soft, tinkly laugh. “Well, that’s pretty much what I figured. I made a pot after you called back to tell me you were on your way.” She smiled shyly. “I really appreciate your coming right over.”
Stitch gave a broad grin. “My pleasure, ma’am. Stitch Robinson, slayer of dragons. Protector of fair damsels.”
Molly laughed again. She narrowed her eyes as if she were sizing Stitch up. “Let’s see. Broad shoulders. Trim. No-nonsense grey eyes. Maybe a former athlete. I guess you take your coffee black.”
Stitch looked sheepish. “Good guess. But if you won’t tell anyone, I’d like a bit of sugar and cream.”
Molly smiled. “They won’t hear it from me.”
As she disappeared into the kitchen, Stitch studied the room. A large leather chair was next to the fireplace. An old caned rocker sat next to it. The long, faded green sofa he sat on stretched below the window. The pictures were of a girl and boy. In the latest ones, the girl seemed to be about nine or 10. The boy looked to be about eight.
Molly bustled back in with a tray. A white coffee pot sat in the middle along with two white ceramic mugs and a matching sugar bowl and creamer. She sat the tray down on a glass-topped coffee table in front of Stitch. She poured each of them a cup. Then she retreated to the rocking chair. She turned it partly toward Stitch and leaned forward nervously.
Stitch poured in some cream and stirred in a spoonful of sugar. “Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell.”
“Mr. Robinson,” Molly sighed. “This is hard enough for me. If you don’t call me Molly I’m not only going to feel jilted. I’m going to feel like an old woman as well.”
Stitch grinned. “On one condition. Like I said on the phone, my name is Stitch.”
Molly nodded. Her lips curved into a little smile. “Deal.”
“You mentioned that you felt jilted. I assume you mean you feel your husband has left you. Maybe with another woman?”
Molly took a deep breath and settled back into the rocker. “Yes. Bob has been acting oddly for some time now.”
Stitch held up his right hand. “Excuse me. Bob is your husband? Bob Maxwell, the city councillor?”
Molly blushed. “So sorry. Yes. Bob Maxwell is my husband.”
“And he’s been acting odd lately. Go on.”
Molly gave a bitter snort. “Maybe for several years and I just didn’t notice. But anyway, in the last few months things got worse.”
“How’s that?”
“He used to always follow a schedule like a robot.” Molly glanced up at Stitch. “He was an accountant, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Molly looked back down at her hands folded in the lap of her jeans. “He was as predictable as a train. Got up every morning at 6:45. Ate one cup of oatmeal.” She looked up again, a wry smile on her lips. “When he was feeling adventurous he’d put raisins in.” She looked out the window silently for a moment. Then she glanced back at Stitch. “He left for work at 7:30,” she continued. “Not 7:35 or 7:24. 7:30.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He ate lunch every day at the office. And every afternoon he drove to the Blue Angel Lounge. He met Sully and Hank from work. He drank exactly one Bud Light and was home at 6:30. I had dinner ready by 7:00. By 8:00 he was watching television.” She stopped. “To be fair, sometimes he helped Sarah and Barton with their homework.”
“Your children.”
Molly stared out the window again. “Yes. Sarah is 10. Barton, eight.”
“Go on.”
“He decided he needed something more in life. So two years ago he ran for city council.” Molly shrugged. “Never seemed all that interested in politics. But he knows a lot of people. Anyway, he got elected. Then the Venam shopping centre thing came up. That’s when everything seemed to change.”
“Like what?”
She hesitated. “He was always calling to say he had a late meeting. Three, maybe four times a week. He wouldn’t be home for dinner. Some nights he didn’t get in until midnight. He seemed to become more and more distant.” Molly shook her head. “I asked him what was wrong. But he would get mad and say I didn’t understand. That I didn’t know how much work it was being a councillor. And holding down a full-time job.”
“Do you have some photographs of your husband?”
Molly picked up a brown envelope from the coffee table. “I figured you’d need some pictures. I went through our albums.” She stopped and looked at the envelope. “It was kind of sad, really. There were so few of us together. Mainly there were pictures for his work. For their annual reports, brochures, that kind of thing.”
Stitch took the envelope and pulled out several pictures. One was a formal portrait taken at a studio. Stitch studied it for a few moments. One of the most ordinary men he’d ever seen stared back at him. The man’s thin face was matched by thin lips turned up slightly in a forced smile. Stitch could almost hear the photographer: “Say cheese.” Maxwell’s thin brown hair was greying. A modest nose held up a pair of heavy, black-framed glasses. Behind the lenses were pale blue, watery eyes. Stitch noticed that one
eyelid seemed slightly closed.
“Did Mr. Maxwell have a droopy left eyelid?”
Molly stood up and came to Stitch’s chair. She rested her right hand on his shoulder as she looked at the photo. “Yes, that’s right. I had almost forgotten. He was born with it. Ptosis, they call it. He had surgery when he was in university. Corrected most of it, apparently. But he was never completely happy with the results. Most people could hardly tell.”
“May I keep these?”
Molly went back to the rocking chair. “Of course.”
Stitch leaned toward her. “Molly, when did you last see your husband?”
Her eyes shifted back to the window. “Five days ago. The 26th of April. He went to work, 7:30 as usual. Then he called me around 9:00.”
“In the morning?” Stitch had taken a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and was taking notes.
“Yes. He told me he had an emergency council meeting. He wouldn’t be home until late.”
Stitch looked at the calendar in his notebook. “That would be last Monday?”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t come home that night?”
“No. At first I just figured it was just more of the same. That he would call or show up sooner or later.” Molly continued staring out the window. She shook her head. “Haven’t heard a word since.”
“What are you telling your kids?”
“That he’s at a conference to do with the city council.” She sighed. “I’m not sure how much they miss him. He wasn’t really here for them very much.” She sighed again. “Or me.”
“Let’s go back to your suspicion of another woman. Why do you think he was with someone else?”
Tears welled in Molly’s eyes. “It’s not suspicion. I know it.”
Stitch remained leaning forward slightly. “How do you know it, Molly?”
“After he was gone for two days, I called Hank. Hank is Bob’s best friend.” She paused. “One of his few friends. Anyway, we’ve known Hank for more than 15 years. He went to university with Bob. Then they got jobs at the same accounting firm. Mitchell and Douglas.”
Stitch nodded and jotted in his notebook. “Go on. You called Hank.”
The tears had spilled out of Molly eyes now. She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “At first he wouldn’t tell me anything. I begged him. Finally I demanded to know if Bob had been seeing another woman.” Molly cried quietly. “At first he wouldn’t say anything. Then he just said he was sorry. ‘So sorry, Molly,’ he said.”
“What did you find out about the woman?”
Molly shook her head. “Nothing. That’s all Hank would say about her. I finally got angry. I hung up on him.”
“So that would have been on Wednesday?”
Molly nodded miserably. “I called Hank at work Wednesday afternoon. I knew he’d answer.”
“And today is Friday. Did you call the police?”
Molly shook her head.
“Why not, Molly? Your husband has been missing now for five days.”
Molly clenched and unclenched her hands anxiously. “I, I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid of going to the police. I figured it would be the end of Bob’s political career. And it would make the papers.” She looked up at Stitch. “Think how embarrassing that would be for the kids.”
Stitch was quiet for a moment. “And for you?”
Molly looked back out the window and said nothing.
“OK. What else can you tell me? You mentioned things changed during the Venam rezoning hearings. The first one six months ago or the latest one?”
Molly looked at Stitch. “That’s the funny thing. He seemed pretty relaxed the first time. Said he knew it was the wrong development for that parcel. He never even seemed all that upset. Sure, he hated people phoning him all the time. Some yelled at him. Threatened him even, if he didn’t vote one way or the other. But all that didn’t seem to faze him.”
“So it was just the second time when it seemed to get him.”
Molly nodded. “You know, maybe five, six weeks ago. Venam brought the proposal back. At first Bob was mad at them. Told me they were cynical. That they hadn’t changed anything. That they would just come back and back until they got their way.”
“And then?”
“Then, like I said, it all changed. He started staying out late. He wouldn’t talk to me about what meetings he attended. He refused to discuss the rezoning application. He stopped answering the phone. Then,” Molly’s eyes grew wide. “Then he changed his vote! I couldn’t believe it.” She shook her head. “All these people worked so hard to save the bog. And then he just ignored them.”
“Do you have any idea why he might have switched his vote?” Stitch asked.
Molly shook her head emphatically. “Absolutely none.”
“Molly, did Bob suddenly seem to have more money?”
Molly cocked her head. “It’s interesting you mention that. Bob was an accountant. He pinched every penny.” She swept her arm around the room. “Look at this place.”
Stitch looked around. The carpet was stained and tattered. He sank deeply into the green sofa as if the springs were long gone. He noticed that the brown chair was vinyl, not leather.
She shook her head. “Honestly? He was just plain cheap. We made good money. But Bob bought what little furniture we have from garage sales. If we needed a mixer, he bought the cheapest thing he could find on eBay.”
“And then?”
“And then a few weeks ago he started showing up with all these new clothes.” Molly leaned forward again. “You know what he did? He bought himself a Rolex watch. Can you believe that? Our car is a beat-up old Kia, and he buys himself a Rolex watch! When I asked him what was up, he got all defensive. Told me it wasn’t their most expensive. Can you believe that?”
“Yes, ma’am. Now, if your husband took off and didn’t want to be found, where might he go?”
Molly thought for several moments. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know Stitch. I just don’t know.”
“Did you go anywhere remote for a vacation? A cabin, maybe? A favourite campground?”
Molly’s face lit up. “Yes, there is a place. When the kids were little we went to a little cottage in Upper Michigan.” She smiled wryly. “I think he found it on some cut-rate web site. But it turned out to be great. Right on Lake Huron. We ended going there, oh, for three or four summers. There was such a lovely pebble beach.” Molly sighed and leaned back in her rocker. “Those were such good times. What happens, Stitch?”
Stitch shook his head slightly in sympathy. “Can you be more specific on the location, Molly?”
“I’m not sure, Stitch.” She frowned. “Bob always made the plans. I just went along for the ride. Maybe I’m just beginning to realize how much.”
“Can you remember a town? Or how you got there?”
Molly thought for a moment. “Yes. I think the nearest town was Hesse, or Hessie. Something like that. And I remember that we crossed at Sault St. Marie. Drove over this little toll bridge to get into the US.”
Stitch closed his notebook. “Molly, do you have access to Bob’s credit card information?”
Molly looked doubtful. “Bob looked after
the finances. He was an accountant,” she said a little defensively.
Stitch nodded. “I understand. But do you know where his card number and password might be?”
“Password? Like for an internet account?”
“Exactly.”
“I may,” Molly said thoughtfully. “Years ago Bob told me that if anything happened all the financial info was in the safe.”
“At your bank?”
“No. Here in the house. It’s in our bedroom. Do you want me to look?”
“Yes, ma’am. That could be very helpful.”
“If you keep calling me ma’am I’m going to kick you in the groin,” Molly said pleasantly.
Stitch laughed aloud. “Yes, ma’… You bet, Molly.”
Molly led Stitch into their bedroom. She pulled aside a framed picture of a fairy tale cottage in deep woods. The windows of the cabin glowed invitingly. Behind the picture was a small wall safe about a foot wide. It looked like a cheap Honeywell model. On the face of the safe was a keyboard like that of a telephone. “Now,” Molly mused. “If I can just remember the combination.”
She punched in a sequence of numbers and tried the door. It remained locked tight. Then she tried another. Again the door refused to open. She thought for a moment. Then she pushed another series of buttons. This time they could hear a soft click.
Molly looked at Stitch. “I remember now. The combination is Bob’s birthday. Plus 11. She smiled slightly. “That was the age of his childhood dog when it died.”
Molly went swiftly through the files inside. She pulled out a closed brown envelope. She pulled the tabs back and emptied the contents on a bedside table. She sorted through the contents. “Aha,” she said. “Here it is.” She handed a slip of yellow paper to Stitch. “Here is Bob’s Visa number. All the internet info is there, too.” She pointed to the line just below. “And this is his security code.”
Saving Farley's Bog