Next, he conducted a search on WhitePages.com for the last names Plante and Bryson in Chisholm, North Carolina, and found two Brysons and one Plante within the town’s limits. He had the addresses and phone numbers for all three of them.
Emily and Michael Bryson, presumably married, lived at 107 Federal Street.
Kelly Plante lived at 9 Summer Street.
Milo had no way of knowing if any of these people were related to Tess Bryson, or even to one another, but he thought it was a good start, and based on the size of the town, he thought his chances were excellent that at least one was related to Tess. In truth, he hadn’t expected to find a single Plante or a Bryson in the entire town, so he considered finding three an absolute boon.
Most surprising, Milo spent less than thirty minutes gathering this information, and with little expertise on his part. As he sat in traffic on the George Washington Bridge, he had begun wondering how much more he could have uncovered with the help of a private investigator. Probably a lot.
In the twenty years since Tess Bryson disappeared, the Internet had made information of this kind readily accessible to any novice researcher, and he couldn’t help but feel bad for Freckles, who probably could’ve acquired this same information at the time of Tess Bryson’s disappearance had the Internet existed in its present form.
In the same vein, did Tess Bryson even know that her mother was dead?
So much pain and uncertainty simply because of a lack of information. Still, there was no telling if these names, addresses, and phone numbers would prove to be fruitful, or if, once again, Milo’s hunch was right and Tess Bryson was still alive.
Milo chose the Town Chef over the half a dozen or so diners and restaurants that lined the five miles of Main Street because it had the fewest cars in its dirt parking lot (just two). His hope was to engage in conversation with one of the waitresses and he thought that if there weren’t many customers, his chances of speaking at any length with the waitress would be better.
“Sit wherever you’d like,” the redheaded woman said in a distinct southern drawl, motioning to the right, where the restaurant extended thirty feet like a greasy finger. The Town Chef consisted of a tiled counter wrapping around the far end of the restaurant (where Milo had entered) and extending halfway down the length of the side wall, where it gave way to an area of booths and tables. Behind the counter were coffeemakers, a soda dispenser, stacks of white plates and racks of glasses, and a swinging door that presumably led to the kitchen. Short, vinyl-covered stools were spaced along the counter, which was cluttered with napkin dispensers, sugar bowls, paper place mats advertising local businesses, and (much to Milo’s horror) ashtrays. Two men were sitting at the counter, both silent and drinking coffee. The rest of the restaurant was empty.
Milo chose the booth closest to the end of the counter. Though sitting at the counter would’ve been ideal, allowing for more frequent contact with the waitress, he feared that the waitress would be less willing to speak about private matters in the presence of others. Distance between him and the two men at the counter would be important if a meaningful conversation were to take place.
The waitress approached a moment later with a menu, which amounted to a single sheet of paper, printed on both sides and laminated. It appeared to be about a thousand years old, and Milo tried desperately to disguise his disgust as the filthy thing was dropped into his hands. It was still sticky around the corners with pancake syrup from the morning’s breakfast, or perhaps from a breakfast served on the morning of Kennedy’s assassination.
There was simply no telling, and neither did Milo really want to know.
“Hi. I’m Macy,” the woman said, bending at the knees to bring her nearly six-foot frame into better view. “It’s you and me tonight, hon. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water, please. Thanks. I’m Milo, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Milo.”
Macy departed, leaving Milo to plot his next move. In the films, this busty redhead, who couldn’t have fit the bill any better, would undoubtedly be the town gossip, knowledgeable about all of Chisholm’s deepest, darkest secrets. But Milo suspected that this real-life version might not live up to her fictional counterpart.
Even so, the fact that Macy was the picture of the gossip-driven, small-town waitress, right down to her peach-colored uniform, white sneakers, and voluptuous figure, gave Milo hope that she would prove to be as helpful and obliging as her image betrayed. The way she chewed her gum, tucked her pencil into the bun in her hair, and spoke with that deep-fried southern accent gave every indication that this woman might just be the real deal. The lady with all the answers.
How to extract the necessary information from Macy would be the challenge.
A moment later, she returned with water and asked if she could take Milo’s order. Though Milo had yet to look at the menu, he wanted Macy to like him and believe him to be competent, so he ordered a cheeseburger and fries, assuming both were on the menu in some form.
“Will that be all?”
“Actually, I was wondering if you could suggest a hotel close by. I’m from Connecticut and need a place to stay the night.”
“Connecticut, huh? What brings you here?”
“I’m hoping to look up an old friend who moved down here years ago.” Milo couldn’t be more pleased with Macy’s question. It provided the opening that he would need.
“Well,” she said, gnawing on the eraser of her pencil as she considered the question. “The nearest hotel that I can think of is in Taylorsville, but that’s about twenty minutes south of here. There are a couple motels in town, though. The closest, probably the best, is about a mile down Lincoln Road, which is right off Main. Pineview or Pinehurst. Pine something-or-other. It’ll be on the right, just past the church.”
“That’s great. Thanks.”
Milo decided not to push his inquiries too hard at first. Better to space out his questions throughout the meal so as to not seem desperate. As he was plotting his next move, his cell phone rang. Not recognizing the number, he answered on the second ring.
“Milo Slade?” the voice asked, one with which Milo was familiar but could not place.
“Yes?”
“Hello, Mr. Slade. It’s Officer Eblen of the Newington Police.”
Unsure of what to say, Milo said nothing, suddenly feeling both angry and frightened.
“Mr. Slade, can I ask where you are at this moment?”
“Why do you want to know?” Milo asked, regretting the words as soon as he had said them.
“You won’t answer the question?” Officer Eblen asked.
“No, I just want to know why you’re asking.”
“Mr. Slade, your wife thinks that she saw your car sitting outside the house about fifteen minutes ago. Is that true?”
“No. It’s not. In fact, it’s impossible. I’m in North Carolina right now. And I brought my car with me. I mean, I drove here. With my car. In my car, I mean. It couldn’t be in Newington.” Milo could never understand how he could be so composed around his clients and so useless around everyone else in life, and especially men like Officer Eblen.
“So you haven’t seen your wife all day?”
“No,” Milo said, fearing that he sounded like a petulant child.
“Have you seen your wife since we last spoke?”
“Yes,” Milo said. “Once in the therapist’s office, but that was it.”
“No more late-night stakeouts outside the house?”
“I told you. That was the only time. I’m not a stalker.”
“Listen, Mr. Slade. Separation and divorce can be tough on folks. I’ve seen too many people do too many stupid things because someone stopping loving them. I just don’t want you to do anything stupid.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
“Most people don’t think they will,” Officer Eblen said, his voice softening a bit. “They think they’re handling things just fine, and then boom. They realize that
their marriage might be ending and they lose their head. Men more often than women. Remember that, Mr. Slade. You never know how you might react. So don’t be stupid.”
“That won’t happen to me.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Officer Eblen said. “What makes you so sure?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I care anymore, to be honest. I don’t think I love her anymore.” Milo paused a moment, checking to see how this last statement felt. Checking to see if there was truth in these words. “You know what? I don’t think I do. Wow. Can you believe it? I think my marriage is over, and I’m okay with that. And you were the first one to know. I don’t even think I knew it myself until just now.”
“My condolences, Mr. Slade. Let’s just keep the divorce as friendly as possible, okay?”
“Thanks,” Milo said, appreciating the sincerity in Eblen’s voice. “I will.”
“Okay. And listen. I hope this all works out for you. I really do. But don’t screw it up, no matter what happens. You’re feeling fine now, but when she tries to take the house or demands alimony, it might not be so easy anymore. Guys can get stupid. Don’t do anything that will bring me and Officer Heyer back out to see you. All right?”
“I know you’re just doing your job, but you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Good. Have a good night, Mr. Slade. Oh, one more thing. You never answered my question. Why are you in North Carolina?”
Milo thought about explaining his plan to Officer Eblen, even requesting his advice in terms of finding Tess Bryson, but he quickly thought otherwise. Less than forty-eight hours before, Eblen had thought that Milo was a stalker, and he still might be thinking it. No need to tell him that he traveled almost seven hundred miles to find a girl who he had never met before.
“Visiting a friend,” Milo said.
The two men said goodbye, and just as Milo was tucking his cell phone back into his coat pocket, Macy returned with dinner. There was mayonnaise on the burger, a condiment that Milo despised with every fiber of his being, but, wanting to remain in Macy’s good graces, he accepted the burger with a smile and then tried to scrape off as much of the vile substance as he could before eating.
Milo had finished off most of the burger and about half of the fries when Macy returned to check on him.
“Will there be anything else, hon?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got to get a move on.”
Macy placed the check upside down on the table in a gesture that Milo had always appreciated. It somehow conveyed the idea that the waitress and the customer had a secret between them, a secret that the public could see and accept without needing to know the details. It was an acknowledgment by all of society that certain things are better kept unknown. Hidden away. He liked that and wished the gesture extended to more aspects of his life.
“I’ll take this at the counter whenever you’re ready,” Macy said, pointing to the cash register at the far end of the restaurant. In following her gesture, Milo noted that the two coffee drinkers had exited the restaurant, leaving them alone. Just the two of them. Better than he had hoped.
“Actually, can I ask you a question, Macy?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
The woman bent her knees again, this time leaning forward on the end of the table, bringing her ample bosom into full view and causing Milo to pause for a moment as he attempted to maintain eye contact with her. He never understood women when it came to their breasts. He knew that it was considered impolite to stare at them, and yet women so often wore clothing specifically designed to expose their breasts and the valley between them. If you don’t want me staring at your chest, why do you literally hang your boobs out of your shirt? he had often wanted to ask women like Macy, but not today.
“Like I said before, I’m in Chisholm to look up an old friend, but I don’t know where she lives exactly. Her last name was Bryson, but she might have gotten married since I last saw her. It’s been twenty years. But I know that there are a couple Brysons living in town. Possibly relatives of Tess. And she may be related to people with the last name Plante as well. I was wondering if you knew them. Or if you knew anything about them.”
“Sorry, hon. I don’t even live in Chisholm. I live in Stony Point, a couple towns over. I went to high school with the fella who owns the Chef, and he gave me the job. Says I’m the only person he’s ever trusted, and that includes his wife.”
“Oh.” Just like that, Milo’s hope that Macy would be his guiding angel had disappeared.
“But I got a phone book in back,” she added. “If you want to look up their phone numbers, we could do that.”
“No, I have their numbers and addresses. I just didn’t want to start asking questions to strangers, right out of the blue, especially if they don’t know who Tess is.” Milo paused for a moment, thought about how honest he could be with this woman, and then continued. “Truthfully, Tess might not want to be found. She disappeared a long time ago. Ran away from home as a kid. I’m trying to find her to let her know that it’s okay to come home. If she wants to.”
The rosy expression on Macy’s face quickly shifted to one of disapproval, making Milo wish he had said nothing. “People usually disappear for a reason,” she said. “If your friend wanted to be found, don’t you think she would’ve popped her head up out of the sand by now?”
“Maybe. But she doesn’t know everything that’s happened. Back home, I mean. I think she’d like to hear what’s going on.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” Macy said. “Not one bit. If she wanted to know, she’d check things out for herself. But if you’re going to get in touch with those people, I suggest you do it face-to-face. If they know where your girl is, they ain’t gonna say so over the phone. No way in hell. I don’t think they’ll tell you anyway, to be honest, but you got a better chance if you do it face-to-face. That’s what I think.”
Milo thought Macy was probably right. He checked his watch.
Six thirty.
Still time to knock on a couple doors if he hurried.
chapter 24
There were many reasons Milo did not want to knock on Kelly Plante’s front door. First and foremost, he was afraid of the reaction that he might receive from this stranger and had no desire to become engaged in a verbal confrontation. Just finding a way to start off the conversation would be difficult enough. If she was a relative of Tess Bryson and had been complicit in her disappearance, she might still be protective of Tess, fearful that Sean Bryson or someone working for him might be looking for his long-lost daughter. If so, their conversation could quickly become heated.
But Milo also did not like the business of going door to door and presenting himself to strangers. The last time he had done such a thing, events had not turned out well.
He had been fourteen years old at the time, working on a door-to-door campaign with his Boy Scout troop. He and his fellow scouts were canvassing the neighborhoods of his hometown of Vernon, Connecticut, on a bottle and can collection drive. This was an annual event for his troop. The money earned from the deposits on the collected recyclables would help fund the troop’s upcoming trip to Camp Yawgoog, a Boy Scout camp in southern Rhode Island and one of Milo’s favorite places on the planet. Though the boys were instructed to remain in pairs while knocking on doors, Milo’s partner, Scotty Gould, had suggested that they could cover more ground if they split up and worked opposite sides of the street. Thinking it a good idea, Milo had agreed.
Things had started off fine. Between the two of them, Scotty and Milo had managed to cover four blocks in the time that it would’ve taken them to cover two. And for the most part, they were always in sight of each other. Milo might turn the corner just ahead of Scotty, or vice versa, but if so, the boys were out of each other’s view for no more than a couple of minutes. Eventually, the plastic bags that they filled were placed on the corners of each block, tied to a street sign or telephone pole, and adult leaders in cars would drive by and pick them up. The system, pe
rfected over the years, was working well, and Milo and Scotty were carrying more than their share of the load thanks to their slight violation of the rules. But as the afternoon progressed, they grew complacent, a condition that success often breeds, so by the time they had started their second hour of work, the two were hardly looking for each other anymore.
It was Milo’s last block of the day. He was on Skinner Road, about half a mile down from the elementary school where he had spent his kindergarten through fifth grade years. The house was a green cape with white shutters. Number 324. A rusting Ford Pinto with a dangling muffler was parked in the driveway. No cans or bottles were on the stoop.
The weekend prior to the collection, Milo and his troop had canvassed the same area, passing out leaflets that informed residents of their bottle and can drive and inviting them to leave the empties by their front doors to be picked up. Though many residents had done just that, others had not. Milo’s scoutmaster, Mr. Daniels, a meticulous man who folded and reused the aluminum foil in which the troop’s burgers and hot dogs were wrapped, had asked the boys to knock on every one of these doors in the event that the resident had simply forgotten the day of the collection. And this request had paid off. More than half of the doors that Milo and Scotty had knocked on that afternoon had residents behind them who were more than willing to donate bottles and cans to the drive. When Milo knocked at 324 Skinner Road, Scotty was a quarter-mile away, canvassing a cul-de-sac off his side of the main road, though Milo didn’t know it at the time.
The woman who answered the door did not look well. There were many aspects of her appearance that were askew: oily hair, fuzzy pink headband (the kind a little girl might wear), and her outfit, which seemed to amount to a man’s white tank top, a teal bra (clearly visible through the larger-than-necessary holes for her arms), an apron wrapped around her waist, a pair of checkered boxer shorts, and pink slippers. But it had been her hands, one trembling as it cracked open the door and the other stuffed into an apron pocket, pressed up against her body as if she were in danger of having it taken away, that told Milo that something was not right. His eyes made contact with the woman’s, and for a moment, he nearly turned and walked away, the silent warning in those gray irises nearly enough to convince him to go. Instead, he spoke.