Greg had looked down every isle in Wal-Mart, but could not find Beverly. Cynthia was waiting near her mother’s car in case she showed up out there.
Finally Greg went to customer service and asked that Beverly be paged. While he was waiting, he noticed a display of flashlights and decided to buy two large ones and some batteries.
There was no response from the page.
By the time he made it back to Beverly’s car, Cynthia was getting frantic. “Where could she be?”
“I don’t know.” He handed Cynthia a flashlight and then clicked his on and began to shine it in and around the car. Then he checked underneath.
“Oh. This is not good,” he said.
“What?”
“There’s a set a keys under here.”
“Mom’s keys?”
“I don’t know.” He stretched out on the pavement and reached under the car to retrieve the keys.
“Are these hers? He held them up.
Cynthia reached down and took the keys and shined her flashlight on them.
“Yes, these are her keys. Greg, she must have been kidnapped.”
Greg stood up. “It kinda looks that way. But why would anyone kidnap her? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Cynthia walked over to one of the cops who were working the murder scene. Greg followed her.
“Sir, can you please help me? I think my mother has been kidnapped,” said Cynthia.
The cop yelled over his shoulder, “Captain, we’ve got another one over here.”
He turned back to Cynthia. “So, she came here by herself and her car’s still here, but you can’t find her?”
“That’s right,” said Cynthia.
“Was somebody else kidnapped too?” said Greg.
“Marcia Cleggmore,” said the cop.
Cynthia and Greg knew who that was. Everybody knew about the Cleggmores—the wealthiest family in town.
“And somebody else is missing too,” said the cop.
Is that what Beverly would be to the cops—just another somebody? Cynthia wondered.
The officer took down the information, and told Cynthia they would be on the lookout for her mother, but she would need to go down to the station and fill out a formal missing persons report as well.
Obviously, the cops would use every tool at their disposal to find Mrs. Cleggmore, Cynthia thought. After that, they might make an effort to find Beverly.
“Sorry, ma’am, but I’ve got to get back,” said the cop. He turned and walked away.
“Isn’t that the mayor?” said Greg.
“Yes,” said Cynthia. “And look—that’s Alexander Cleggmore talking to him. The only chance of them finding Mom is if she’s with Marcia Cleggmore.”
“Wait a second,” said Greg. “The woman who was murder was stabbed, right?”
“Yeah, that’s what they said.”
“Nancie Jo Gristel was stabbed to death.”
“Right…”
“What if it’s the same killer? It’s kind of similar.”
“Yeah. These are older women, like Nancie Jo,” said Cynthia.
“Remember that car I saw yesterday at the copy shop? The one with that bumper sticker I’d never seen before?”
“The one you thought might be the murderer’s car because of what Nancie Jo’s neighbor said? But there’s something wrong with that man. He probably didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“But what if he did? What if that was the murderer’s car?”
“Even if it was, how does that help us find Mom?”
“Maybe the killer paid with a credit card, or accidentally left something there, or threw something in the trash.”
“I don’t know…”
“Sweetie, right now we don’t have any clues. And they’re not doing anything to find her,” he said, nodding in the direction of the growing crowd of cops, city officials, and Cleggmores.
Cynthia saw Alexander Cleggmore waving his arms and yelling at the police chief.
“Okay, I guess it’s worth a shot,” said Cynthia. “But won’t the copy shop already be closed? It’s after 9:00.”
*
Hadley and his brother were sitting on Horatio’s back porch staring across the moonlit yard. Occasionally, Horatio’s hunting dogs would start barking at something, and he would yell at them. The front and back doors were open. But the screened doors kept the mosquitoes out. The two had just enjoyed a delicious Catfish dinner prepared by Horatio’s wife, Alma. They could hear her in the kitchen washing the dishes.
“So, you having fun yet, Ben?” said Horatio.
Hadley’s family called him Ben. Only the Mobleys referred to him as Hadley, which was his last name. When they were kids, he and Horatio were known as the Hadley brothers. Or sometimes, the Hadley hucksters, because they tried to sell everything from pine cones to skeeter hawks to naïve little kids.
And this one here costs a dime because he’s so colorful. Just look at him. He’ll fly around you everywhere you go, eating all the mosquitoes that try to get you. Don’t you hate it when you’re scratching all night from mosquito bites? Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore when you have one of these pretty mosquito eaters.
“I’ll let you know when it starts being fun,” said Hadley with a sly grin.
“You ought to be fairly disappointed, I guess, since I out-fished you.”
“What are you talking about? I caught more fish than you did,” said Hadley.
“But my fish outweighed yours.”
“That don’t count, and you know it. We’ve never figured the weight. If we had, I would’ve beat you a lot more often.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. My fish have always been bigger.”
“You turkey. The only reason you like to take me fishing is so you can tell everybody you beat me,” said Hadley.
“Only when I beat you fair and square.”
Hadley sat up in his chair and glared at Horatio. “Fair and square?”
Alma walked to the back screened door and said, “What are y’all arguing about now?”
“Honey, tell Ben I’m right. My fish were bigger than his, weren’t they?”
“How about both of you little boys just shut up about it.”
Hadley and Horatio looked at each other. They broke out in laughter.
Alma walked back into the kitchen shaking her head.
“Hey, did you bring your shotgun?” said Horatio.
“Yeah. It’s in my trunk. I figured I’d better bring it along just in case.”
“Good. Let’s go get us some doves in the morning.”
“I’m ready, Brother. But wait a minute. First we gotta set some ground rules. Are we counting the number of birds or the total weight?” said Hadley.
“Okay, fine. We’ll go by the number.”
“Agreed.”
“You’re mighty competitive, ain’t you, Boy.” said Horatio.
“I’m competitive?”
They argued until Alma broke it up.
*
“They’re closed,” said Cynthia.
“But there’s a light on. And I think I see somebody in there,” said Greg as they pulled up to Coreyville Copy Shop.
They got out of the car and walked to the door, and Greg knocked.
The man inside waved his arms and said, “Sorry—we’re closed.”
“It’s an emergency,” yelled Greg.
The man looked perturbed as he walked to the door. He unlocked it and opened it a few inches, and said, “So you think you have an emergency printing job?”
“Well, it could be a matter of life or death,” said Greg.
“Does this involve national security?” said the man, facetiously.
“We’re really sorry to bother, Sir,” said Cynthia. “But my mother has just been kidnapped, and we think the person who did it might have made some copies here, or used one of your computers.”
“When?”
“Friday, between noon and 1:00,” said Greg. “And it looks like the kidnapper killed a woman tonight, and I think it might be the same one who killed Nancie Jo Gristel.”
“Mrs. Gristel and my mother used to play canasta with a group of ladies every week when I was a kid,” said the man. “Come on in.”
He let them in and locked the door behind them. “I’m not sure how much I can help. I don’t remember who came in around that time. And if they just made copies, I wouldn’t have any record of their documents,” said the man.
“Could you check to see if somebody paid with a credit card?” said Greg.
“Sure, I can do that.” He walked behind the counter to the computer and began typing and clicking. After a few minutes he said, “Let’s see, between 12:00 and 1:00… Nobody paid with a credit card during that period. Just a few cash payments.”
“What if they printed documents from one of those computers?” said Greg, pointing to the four desktop computers along the back wall. “Are copies of those documents saved somewhere?”
“Yeah. They’re saved on the print server for a week. I’ll check it.” He worked at the computer a few more minutes and then said, “Here’s something.”
“Can I see it?” said Greg.
“Yeah. Come around.”
Greg and Cynthia walked behind the counter and looked over the man’s shoulders. The title of the document read:
Informed Consent for Participation in a Clinical Trial
It didn’t make sense to Greg. Why would the killer be involved in a clinical trial of experimental drugs for Alzheimer’s disease? Beverly didn’t have Alzheimer’s. But Nancie Jo Gristel did. Who else? He had just heard of somebody else who had Alzheimer’s. It was Mallie Mae Mobley. And her son had just taken a leave of absence from his medical practice.
Then he remembered the nurse at the hospital the other day. She seemed to know the Mobleys better than she let on. Maybe he was just grasping at straws. But it might be a clue. And right now it was the only one they had.
“Thanks. You’ve been a great help,” said Greg.
“I have?” said the man.
“Yes, you have.” He turned to Cynthia. “Let’s go.”
As they got into the car, Cynthia said, “What’s going on? Where are we going?”
“To see a nurse.”