Shakespeare’s Christmas

Chapter Three

The rehearsal was scheduled for six o’clock, and we arrived at the Presbyterian church on the dot. Tootsie Monahan was already there, her hair in long curly strands like a show poodle’s, talking and laughing with Dill and his best man. It was apparent that no one was going to talk about the death of the doctor and his nurse, unless they went into a corner and whispered. Everyone was struggling to keep this a joyous occasion, or at the very least to hold the emotional level above grim.

I was introduced to Berry Duff, Dill’s former college roommate and present best man, with some significance. After all, we were both single and in the same age group. The barely unspoken hope was that something might happen.

Berry Duff was very tall, with thinning dark hair, wide dark eyes, and an enviable olive complexion. He was a farmer in Mississippi, had been divorced for about three years, and, I was given to understand, the embodiment of all things desirable: well-to-do, solid, religious, divorced without child custody. Dill managed to cram a surprising amount of that information into his introduction, and after a few minutes’ conversation with Berry, I learned the rest.

Berry seemed like a nice guy, and it was pleasant to stand with him while we waited for the players to assemble. I was not much of a person for small talk, and Berry didn’t seem to mind, which was refreshing. He took his time poking around conversationally for some common ground, found it in dislike of movie theaters and love of weight lifting, which he’d enjoyed in college.

I was wearing the white dress with the black jacket. At the last minute my mother had insisted I needed some color besides my lipstick, a point I was willing to concede. She’d put a filmy scarf in autumn reds and golds around my neck and anchored it with the gold pin I’d brought.

“You look very nice,” Dill said, on one of his pass-bys. He and Varena seemed to be awfully nervous and were inventing errands to send them pacing around the small church. We were all hovering near the front, since the back was in darkness beyond the last pew. The door close to the pulpit, opening into a hall leading past the minister’s study, gave a pneumatic hiss as people came and went. The heavier door beyond the big open area at the back of the church thudded from time to time as the members of the wedding party assembled.

Finally, everyone was there. Varena; Tootsie; me; the other bridesmaid, Janna Russell; my mother and father; Jess and Lou O’Shea, the one in his capacity as minister and the other in her capacity as church organist; Dill; Berry Duff; Dill’s unmarried younger brother Jay; a cousin of Dill’s, Matthew Kingery; the florist who’d been hired to supply the wedding flowers, who would double as wedding director; and miracle of miracles, Dill’s mother, Lula. Watching the relief spread over Varena’s face as the old woman stomped in on Jay’s arm made me want to take Lula Kingery aside and have a few sharp words with her.

I watched the woman closely while the florist was giving the assembled group some directions. It didn’t take long to conclude that Dill’s mother was a few bricks short of a load. She was inappropriately dressed (a short-sleeved floral housedress with a hole in it, high heels with rhinestone buckles), which was in itself no clear signal of mental derangement, but when you added the ensemble to her out-of-the-ballpark questions (“Do I have to walk down the aisle too?”) and her constant hand and eye movement, the sum total was significant.

Well. So Dill’s family had a skeleton, too.

Notch one up for my family. At least I could pretty much be relied on to do the right thing, if I actually made an appearance. Dill’s mom was definitely a loose cannon.

Varena was handling Mrs. Kingery with amazing tact and kindness. So were my parents. I felt a proprietary swell of pride at my folks’ goodness and had to resume my conversation with Berry Duff to cover the rush of emotion.

After even more last-minute toing and froing, the rehearsal began. Patsy Green, the florist, gathered us together and gave us our marching orders. We took our positions to walk through the ceremonial paces.

Getting the cues straight from Lou O’Shea on the organ, an usher escorted Mrs. Kingery to her place at the front of the church. Then my mother was guided to her front pew on the other side.

While I clustered with the other bridesmaids at the back of the church, Jess O’Shea came in from the hall that ran in front of his office to the church sanctuary. He went to the top of the steps in front of the altar and stood there smiling. Dill entered the sanctuary from the same door, accompanied by Berry, who grinned at me. Then I walked down the aisle, listening with one ear to the florist’s adjuration to walk slowly and smoothly.

I always walk smoothly.

She reminded me to smile.

Jay Kingery came in from the hall, and Janna started down the aisle. Then the groomsman, cousin Matthew, took his place, and Tootsie did her long walk. I set off on cue, with Patsy Green hissing “Smile!” at my back.

Then the piece de resistance. Varena came down the aisle on my father’s arm, and she looked flushed and happy. So did Dad. Dill was beaming like a fool at his bride. Berry raised an eyebrow at me, and I felt my mouth twitch in response.

“That went well!” Patsy Green called from the back of the church. She began walking toward us, and we all turned to listen to her comments. I wasn’t at all surprised it had fallen into place, since almost everyone in the party was old enough to have played a role in a score of weddings and been a major participant in a daunting number.

My attention drifted, and I began looking around the church, the one I’d attended every Sunday as a child. The walls always seemed newly painted a brilliant white, and the carpet was always replaced with same deep green as the cushions on the pews. The high ceiling always made me think up-space, infinity, the omnipotent unknown.

I heard a little cough and brought my gaze down from the infinite to stare into the pews. Someone was in the shadows at the back of the church. My heart started pounding in an uncomfortable way. Before I had formed a thought, I began to walk down the steps and the long strip of green carpet. I didn’t even feel my feet moving.

He stood up and moved to the door.

At the moment I reached him, he opened the door for me, and we stepped out into the cold night. In one move, he pulled me to him and kissed me.

“Jack,” I said when I could breathe, “Jack.”

My hands went under his suit coat to touch his back through his striped shirt.

He kissed me again. His hands tightened on me, pressed me harder against his body.

“Glad to see me,” I observed after a while. My breathing was not even.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

I pulled away a little to look at him. “You’re wearing a tie.”

“I knew you’d be dressed up. I had to look as nice as you.”

“You a psychic detective?”

“Just a damn good one.”

“Umhum. What are you doing in Bartley?”

“You don’t think I’m here just to see you?”

“No.”

“You’re almost wrong.”

“Almost?” I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment.

“Yes, ma’am. Last week, I was clearing off my desk so I could come down here to lend you some moral support-or maybe morale support-when I got a call from an old friend of mine.”

“And?”

“Can I tell you later? Say, at my motel room?”

“That was your car I saw! How long have you been here?” For a moment I wondered if Jack had revealed his presence just because he’d figured I’d identify his car sooner or later, in a town the size of Bartley.

“Since yesterday. Later? God, you look good,” he said, and his mouth traveled down my neck. His fingers pulled the scarf away from my neck. Despite the cold, I began to have that warmth that meant I was just as glad to see him, especially after the horrors of the day.

“OK, I’ll come by to hear your story, but it’ll have to be after the rehearsal dinner,” I said firmly. I gasped a second later. “No, Jack. This is my sister’s wedding. This is a have-to.”

“I admire a woman who sticks to her principles.” His voice was low and rough.

“Will you come in and meet my family?”

“That’s why I’m wearing the suit.”

I looked up at him with some suspicion. Jack is a little older than I am and four inches taller. In the security lights of the church parking lot, I could see that he had his black hair brushed back into a neat ponytail, as usual. He has a beautiful thin, prominent nose, and his lips are thin and sculpted. Jack used to be a Memphis policeman, until he left the force after his involvement in an unsavory and bloody scandal.

He’s got lips, he knows how to use ‘em, I thought, almost intoxicated by his presence. Only Jack could get me in the mood to paraphrase an old ZZ Top song.

“Let’s go do the right thing, before I try something here in the parking lot,” he suggested.

I stared at him and turned to walk back in the church. Somehow, I expected him to vanish between the door and the altar, but he followed me in and down the aisle, flanking me when we reached the clustered wedding party. Naturally enough, they were all staring our way. I could feel my face harden. I hate explaining myself.

And Jack stepped up beside me, put his arm around me, and said, “You must be Lily’s mother! I’m Jack Leeds, Lily’s…”

I waited with some interest while Jack, normally a smooth talker, floundered at the end of the sentence.

“Boyfriend,” he finished, with a certain inaccuracy.

“Frieda Bard,” my mother said, looking a little stunned. “This is my husband, Gerald.”

“Mr. Bard,” Jack said respectfully, “glad to meet you.”

My father pumped Jack’s hand, beaming like someone who’s just found Ed McMahon and a camera crew on his doorstep. Even the ponytail and the scar on Jack’s right cheek didn’t diminish my father’s smile. Jack’s suit was expensive, a very muted brown plaid that brought out the color of his hazel eyes. His shoes were polished. He looked prosperous, healthy, clean shaven, and I looked happy. That was enough for my dad, at least for the moment.

“And you must be Varena.” Jack turned to my sister.

When would everyone stop looking like deer caught in headlights? You’d think I was a damn leper, they were so amazed I had a man. Jack actually kissed Varena, a quick light one on the forehead. “Kiss the bride for luck,” he said, with that sudden, brilliant smile that was so winning.

Dill recovered quickest.

“I’m about to join the family,” he told Jack. “I’m Dill Kingery.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The shake again.

And it went on from there, with me not saying a word. Jack glad-handed the men and gave the women a flash of clean, earnest sexuality. Even off-kilter Mrs. Kingery beamed at him in a dazed way. “You’re trouble on the hoof, and I know it,” she said firmly.

Everyone froze in horror, but Jack laughed with genuine amusement. The moment passed, and I saw Dill close his eyes in relief.

“I’ll take off, since you’re in the middle of your special occasion,” Jack told the group generally, with no hint of a hint in his voice. “I just wanted to meet Lily’s folks.”

“Please,” Dill said instantly, “we’d really enjoy your joining us for the rehearsal dinner.”

Jack did the polite thing and declined, mentioning the important family occasion and the fact that he had arrived unannounced.

Dill repeated his invitation. Social Ping-Pong.

When Varena joined in, Jack allowed himself to be persuaded.

He retired to sit at the back of the church. My eyes followed him every inch of the way.

We walked through the ceremony again. I went through my paces on autopilot. Patsy Green reminded me again to smile. This time she sounded a little sharper.

I was thinking hard during the rest of the rehearsal, but I couldn’t come to any conclusion. Could it possibly be true that Jack was here for me? He had admitted he had another reason, but he’d said he was coming here anyway. If that was true…

But it was too painful to believe.

Jack had already been here when Dr. LeMay and Binnie Armstrong were done to death. So his arrival couldn’t be connected with the double murder.

“Looks like I’m too late on the scene,” Berry said to me in a pleasant way after Patsy Green and the O’Sheas agreed we had the procedure down pat. We were just outside the church doors.

“That’s so flattering of you,” I said with a genuine smile. For once, I had said the right thing. He smiled back at me.

“Lily!” Jack called. He was holding open the passenger door of his car. I couldn’t imagine why.

“Excuse me,” I told Berry and strolled over. “Since when,” I muttered, conscious of my voice carrying in the cold clear air, “have you found it necessary to hold doors for me?”

Jack looked wounded. “Darlin‘, I’m your slave.” He seemed to be imitating Berry’s Delta accent.

“Don’t be an ass,” I whispered. “Seeing you is so good. Don’t ruin it.”

He stared down at me as I swung my legs into his car. The taut muscles around his mouth relaxed. “All right,” he said and shut the door.

We backed up to follow the other cars out of the parking lot.

“You found the doctor today,” he said.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I brought my police scanner. Are you OK?”

“Yes.”

“How much do you know about Dill Kingery?” he asked.

I felt as though he’d punched me in the stomach. I had to sit silent to gather breath, my panic was so complete and sudden. “Is something wrong with him?” I asked finally, my voice coming out not so much angry as scared. Varena’s face smiling up at Dill came into my mind, the long engagement, the relationship Varena had worked so hard to build up with Dill’s daughter, Varena’s cheerful acceptance of crazy Mrs. Kingery…

“Probably nothing. Just tell me.”

“He’s a pharmacist. He’s a widower. He’s a father. He pays his bills on time. His mother is crazy.”

“That’s the old biddy who said I was trouble?”

“Yes.” She was right.

“The first wife’s been dead how long?”

“Six or seven years. Anna doesn’t remember her.”

“And Jess O’Shea? The preacher?”

I looked over at Jack as we passed a streetlight. His expression was tense, almost angry. That made two of us. “I don’t know anything about him. I’ve met his wife and little girl. They have a boy, too.”

“He coming to the rehearsal dinner?”

“The minister usually does. Yes, I heard them say they’d gotten a sitter.”

I wanted to hit Jack, a not uncommon situation.

We pulled into Sarah May’s Restaurant parking lot. Jack parked a little away from the other cars.

“I can’t believe you’ve upset me this much in five minutes,” I said, hearing my own voice coming out distant and cold. And shaking.

He stared through the windshield at the restaurant windows. They were edged with flickering Christmas lights. The glow flashed across his face. Damn blinking lights. After what felt like a very long time, Jack turned to me. He took my left hand with his right.

“Lily, when I explain what I’m working on, you’ll forgive me,” he said, with a kind of painful sincerity I was forced to respect. He sat holding my hand, making no move to open his door, waiting for me to extend him… trust? Advance absolution? I felt as if he’d opened a cavity in my chest and turned a spotlight on it.

I nodded sharply, opened my door, and got out. We met in front of the car. He took my hand again, and we went into Sarah May’s.

Sarah Cawthorne, half of the Sarah May of the name, showed us to the private room that Dill had reserved for the party. Of course, all of us but Jack and Mrs. Kingery had been in it many times, since it was one of two places in Bartley you could dine out privately. I saw that it had been recently carpeted and wallpapered in the apparently perpetually popular hunter green and burgundy, and the artificial Christmas tree in the corner had been decorated with burgundy and off-white lace and matching ribbons. This tree was lit, too, of course, draped with the small clear lights, and thank God they didn’t blink.

The tables had Christmas centerpieces in the same colors, and the place mats were cloth and so were the napkins. (This was very swank for Bartley.) The U-shaped banquet arrangement hadn’t changed, though, and as we all drifted to our seats I realized that Jack was maneuvering us toward the O’Sheas. He was steering me unobtrusively with his hand on my back, and I was reminded of a puppet sitting on a ventriloquist’s knee, the controlling hand hidden in a hole in the puppet’s back. Jack caught my look, and his hand dropped away.

Dill was already standing behind a chair with my sister on one side and his mother on the other, so only Jess O’Shea was available as a target.

Jack managed to slot us between the O’Sheas. I was between the two men, and to Jack’s right was Lou. Across the table from us was Patsy Green, squired by one of the ushers, a banker who played golf with Dill, I remembered.

The salads were served almost immediately, and Dill properly asked Jess to say grace. Of course, Jess obliged. Next to me, Jack bowed his head and shut his eyes, but his hand found mine and his fingers wrapped tightly around mine. He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed it-I could feel his warm lips, the hint of teeth-then deposited the hand back in my lap and relaxed his grip. When Jess said, “Amen,” Jack let go and spread his napkin on his lap as though the little moment had been a dream.

I glanced up and down the table to see if anyone had noticed, and the only eyes that met mine were my mother’s. She looked as though she were half embarrassed by the sexuality of the gesture… but pleased by the emotional wallop of it.

I had no idea what my own face looked like. A salad was placed in front of me, and I stared down blindly at it. When the waitress asked me what dressing I wanted, I answered her at random, and she dolloped my lettuce and tomato with a bright orange substance.

Jack began gently questioning Lou about her life. He was so good at it that few civilians would have suspected he had a hidden agenda. I tried not to speculate on the nature of that agenda.

I turned to Jess, who was having a little trouble with a jar of bacon bits. After the nicely decorated room, plunking the jar of bits down on the table reminded me firmly we were in Bartley. I held out my hand with a give-me curve of the fingers.

Somewhat surprised, Jess handed me the jar. I gripped it firmly, inhaled. I twisted as I exhaled. The lid came off. I handed the jar to him.

When I looked up in his face, there was a kind of dubious amusement on it.

Dubious was OK. Amusement wasn’t.

“You’re very strong,” he observed.

“Yes,” I said. I took a bite of salad, then remembered that Jack needed to know more about this man.

“Did you grow up in a town bigger than Bartley?” I asked.

“Oh, not bigger at all,” he said genially. “Ocolona, Mississippi. My folks still live there.”

“And your wife, is she from Mississippi also?”

I hated this.

“Yes, but from Pass Christian. We met in college at Ole Miss.”

“And then you went to seminary?”

“Yes, four years at Westminster Theological Seminary in Philadelphia. Lou and I just had to put our trust in the Lord. It was a long separation. In fact, after the first two years, I missed being away from her so much, we got married. She held any job she could get in the area while I worked to graduate. She played the organ at churches, she played the piano for parties. She even worked at a fast-food place, God bless her.” Jess’s square, handsome face relaxed and warmed as he talked about his wife. I felt acutely uncomfortable.

The salad dressing was thick as sour cream, and sweet. I shoved the most heavily laden lettuce to one side and tried to eat the rest. I couldn’t just sit there and question him.

“And you,” he began the conversational return, “what’s your occupation?”

Someone who didn’t know my life history?

“I’m a house cleaner, and I run errands for people. I decorate Christmas trees for businesses. I take old ladies grocery shopping.”

“A girl Friday, though I guess ‘girl’ is politically incorrect now.” He gave the strained smile of a conservative paying lip service to liberality.

“Yes,” I said.

“And you live in Arkansas?”

“Yes.” I prodded myself mentally. “Shakespeare.”

“Any bigger than Bartley?”

“Yes.”

He eyed me with a determined smile. “And have you lived there long?”

“Over four years now. I bought a house.” There, that was contributing to the conversation. What did Jack want to know about this man?

“What do you do in your spare time?”

“I work out. Lifting weights. And I take karate.” And now I see Jack. The thought sent a warm rush through my pelvis. I remembered his lips against my hand.

“And your friend Mr. Leeds? Does he live in Shakespeare?”

“No, Jack lives in Little Rock.”

“He works there, too?”

Did Jack want it known what he did?

“His job takes him different places,” I said neutrally. “Did Lou have Luke-isn’t that your little boy’s name?- here in the Shakespeare hospital?” People really like to talk about their childbirth experiences.

“Yes, right here at the hospital. We were a little worried… there are some emergencies this hospital can’t handle. But Lou is healthy, and indications were that the baby was healthy, so we decided it would be better to show our faith in the local people. And it was just a great experience.”

Lucky for you and Luke and Lou, I thought. “And Krista?” I asked, thinking this meal would never end. We hadn’t even gotten our entrees. “Did you have her here? No, she’s at least eight, and you’ve been here only three years, I believe?”

“Right. No, we moved here from Philadelphia with Krista.” But something about the way he said it was odd.

“She was born at one of the big hospitals there? That must have been a very different experience from having your little boy here.”

He said, “Are you older than Varena?”

Whoa. Change of subject. And a clumsy one. Anyone could tell I was older than Varena.

“Yes.”

“You must have traveled around some in your life, too,” the minister observed. The strip lights above the table winked off his blond hair, about ten shades darker than mine and certainly more natural. “You’ve been in Shakespeare for about four years… did you ever live here, in Bartley, after you got out of college?”

“I lived in Memphis after I graduated from college,” I said, knowing that would probably cue his memory. Someone had to have told him the story, since he’d been living here more than three years. My history was part of town folklore, just like Mrs. Fontenot shooting her equally married lover on the courthouse lawn in 1931.

“Memphis,” he repeated, suddenly looking a little uneasy.

“Yes, I worked for a big housecleaning service there as a scheduler and supervisor,” I said deliberately.

That flipped his memory switch. I saw his pleasant, bland face grow rigid, trying to restrain his dismay at his faux pas.

“Of course, that was years ago, now,” I said, easing him off the horns of the dilemma.

“Yes, a long time,” he said. He looked sorry for me for a minute, then said tactfully, “I haven’t had a chance to ask Dill where he and Varena plan to go on their honeymoon.”

I nodded dismissively and turned to Jack just at the instant he turned to me. Our eyes met, and he smiled that smile that altered his whole face, deep arcs appearing from his nose to his lips. Instead of the tough reserve of his defense-against-the-world face, he looked infectiously happy.

I leaned over so my lips almost touched his ear. “I have an early Christmas present for you,” I said very softly.

His eyes flared wide in surmise.

“You’ll like it very much,” I promised, breathing the words.

During the rest of the meal, whenever Jack wasn’t engaged in talking to Lou O’Shea or charming my mother, he was giving me little glances full of speculation.

We left soon after the dessert plates were cleared away. Jack seemed torn between talking to Dill and Varena and rushing me back to his hotel. I made it as difficult for him as I possibly could. As we stood making conversation with Dill, I held his hand and made circles on his palm with my thumb, very gently, very lightly.

After a few seconds, he dropped my hand to grip my arm almost painfully.

“Good-bye, Frieda, Gerald,” he said to my parents, after he’d thanked Dill for inviting him. My mother and father beamed happily at him. “I’ll be bringing Lily home later. We have some catching up to do.”

I could see my father’s mouth open to ask where this “catching up” would take place, and I saw my mother’s elbow connect with his ribs, a gentle reminder to my father that I was nearly thirty-two. So Dad kept his smile in place, but it was weaker.

Waving at everyone, smiling hard, we got out the door and hurried through the freezing air to scramble into Jack’s car. We had scarcely shut the doors when Jack put his fingers under my chin and turned my face to his. His mouth covered mine in a long, breathless kiss. His hands began reacquainting themselves with my topography.

“The others’ll be coming out in a minute,” I reminded him.

Jack said something really vile and turned on his engine. We drove to the motel in silence, Jack keeping both hands on the wheel and his eyes straight ahead.

“This place is horrible,” he warned me, unlocking the door and pushing it open. He reached in past me to switch on a light.

I pulled the drapes shut all the way and turned to him, sliding out of my black jacket as I turned. He was wrapped around me before I had my arm out of the second sleeve. We undressed in stages, interrupted by the long making out that Jack loved. He was fumbling in his suitcase with one hand for those little square foil packages, when I said, “Christmas present.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I got an implant. You don’t have to use anything.”

“Oh, Lily,” he breathed, closing his eyes to savor the moment. He looked like a Boy Scout who’d just been given the ingredients for S’mores. I wondered when he would work out the other implications of my gift. Then Jack slid on top of me, and I quit caring.

We were wrapped in the bed together an hour later, having finally pulled down the spread and the blanket and the sheets. The sheets, at least, looked clean. One of Jack’s legs was thrown across mine, securing me.

“Why are you here?” I asked. This was when Jack liked to talk.

“Lily,” he said slowly, taking pleasure in saying it. “I was going to come to see you here. I did think you might need me, or at least that seeing me might help.” One long finger traced my spine as I lay facing him, my face tucked in the hollow of his neck. To my horror, I could feel my nose clog up and my eyes fill. I kept my face turned down. A tear trickled down my cheek, and since I was on my side it ran into the curve of one nostril and then underneath. So elegant.

“And then Roy called me. You remember Roy?”

I nodded, so he could feel my head move.

I recalled Roy Costimiglia as a short, stout man with thinning gray hair, probably in his late fifties. You could pass him six times on the street and never remember you’d seen him before. Roy was the detective with whom Jack had served his two-year apprenticeship.

“Roy and I had talked over supper one night when Roy’s wife was out of town, so he knew I was seeing a woman who had originally come from Bartley. He called because he’d been given one more lead to run down in a case he’s had for four years.”

I surreptitiously wiped my face with a bit of sheet.

“What case is that?” My voice did not sound too wobbly.

“Summer Dawn Macklesby.” Jack’s voice was as bleak and grim as I’d ever heard it. “You remember the baby girl who was kidnapped?”

And I felt cold all over again.

“I read just a little of the update story in the paper.”

“So did a lot of people, and one of them reacted pretty strangely. The last paragraph of the article mentioned that Roy has been working for the Macklesby family for the past few years. Through Roy, the Macklesbys have run down every lead, checked every piece of information, every rumor, that’s come to them for the past four and a half years… ever since they felt the police had more or less given up on the case. The Macklesbys hoped there would be some response to the story, and that’s why they consented to do it. They’re really nice people. I’ve met them. Of course, they’ve kind of disintegrated since she’s been gone… the baby.”

Jack kissed my cheek, and his arms tightened around me. He knew I had been crying. He was not going to talk about it.

“What response was there to the story? A phone call?”

“This.” Jack sat up on the side of the bed. He unlocked his briefcase and pulled out two pieces of paper. The first was a copy of the same article I’d seen in the newspaper, with the sad picture of the Macklesbys now and the old picture of the baby in her infant seat. The Macklesbys looked as though something had chewed them up and spit them out: Teresa Macklesby, especially, was haggard with eyes that had seen hell. Her husband, Simon’s, face was almost taut with restraint, and the hand that rested on his knee was clenched in a fist.

The second piece of paper was a picture from the local elementary school memory book, last year’s edition; “The Hartley Banner” was printed, with the date, across the top of the page, page 23. The picture at the top of the page, below the heading, was an enlarged black-and-white snapshot of three little girls playing on a slide. The one flying down, her long hair trailing behind her, was Eve Osborn. The girl waiting her turn at the top of the slide was Krista O’Shea, looking much happier than I’d seen her. The child climbing the ladder had turned to smile at the camera, and my breath caught in my throat.

The caption read, “These second graders enjoy the new playground equipment donated in March by Bartley Tractor and Tire Company and Choctaw County Welding.”

“This was paper-clipped to the article from the paper,” Jack said. “It was in a mailing envelope postmarked Bartley. Someone here in town thinks one of these little girls is Summer Dawn Macklesby.”

“Oh, no.”

His finger brushed the third child’s face. “Dill’s girl? Anna Kingery?”

I nodded, covered my own face with my hands.

“Sweetheart, I have to do this.”

“Why did you come instead of Roy?”

“Because Roy had a heart attack two days ago. He called me from his hospital bed.”