A Field of Red (23 page)

He was heading west on 571, the road that entered Cooper’s Mill from the east after crossing the river. As he approached the rise that marked Cooper’s Mill, Frank drove past a large field on his right. A large sign reading “Freeman Prairie” stood near the road and, beyond, Frank saw a group of volunteers walking through the tall grasses and mud that stretched from the edge of the road to the distant river. Another volunteer search, checking the tall bushes and scrub for any sign of the girls.

He followed the road as it sloped up, passing Canal Lock Park on the way to First Street, going from open fields and farmland into downtown Cooper’s Mill in the blink of an eye. Frank slowed and stopped at the light at the corner of First and Main, and then, when the light turned green, he pulled into a parking spot across from Ricky’s, the bar he’d visited on his first night in town.

Frank grabbed his notepad and walked across the street, heading inside.

Ricky’s looked different in the daylight—and when it wasn’t packed. Eight or ten sad customers sat at the tables in the back, and one lone guy sat at the bar. The rough rock music they were playing was a jolt after the calming jazz he’d been enjoying.

Frank recognized the woman behind the bar. It was the same woman who’d been in here the first night he’d arrived, long before he knew anything about the case. She was the one who’d chastised him for not helping out with the drunk customers.

“Rosie, right?” he asked her.

She looked up. “Ah, I thought that was you on the phone.” He had called earlier from the car to set up an appointment. “Have a seat.”

Frank wanted to talk privately, but it looked like she was the only one working, so he sat at the bar and took out his notepad, setting it on the counter.

“Get you something?” she asked.

“Coffee, if you have some,” he said. “Just you in today?”

Rosie looked around. “Queen of the castle.”

“I’m Frank, Frank Harper,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m working with the police on the Martin kidnapping.”

“I know,” she said. “Glenda’s my sister. I hope you find Charlie, and soon. She’s a very special little girl.”

Frank should’ve learned by now to not be surprised. It seemed like everyone in this town was related to someone else.

“Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine—her last name is Martin now, but I’m still Hanks. Rosie Hanks. Hang on,” she said and went away to help a customer, an old gentleman who had his hand raised at one of the tables.

While she was gone, Frank looked around the bar. He located the shotgun—he’d guessed it was behind the counter and now could see the butt of the gun sticking out next to an ice machine. Along the walls, the paint looked more faded and the TV screens cheaper in the daylight. But the place looked clean, at least. He’d been in enough dirty bars to know the difference.

Rosie came back, setting a coffee in front of him. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” he said. “So, what can you tell me about Nick Martin?”

“First, I’ve got a question,” she said.

Frank looked up and nodded. “Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you help me out the other night?” she asked, nodding at the table where he’d been sitting. “It doesn’t really matter. I’m just curious.”

Frank thought about it for a second. He was surprised she’d asked and that she could remember the exact place he’d been sitting. “I didn’t want to get involved. I’m really just in town to see my daughter.”

“Oh? She lives in town?”

Frank nodded. “She works at the hair place around the corner. I was just here to see her and didn’t want any trouble. But now I’ve gotten pulled into the case.” He thought about it for a second and then added, “I’m sorry about that.”

Rosie shook her head. “Like I said, no big deal. I was just curious. What was your question?”

Frank looked back at his notes.

“So tell me about Nick.”

“Nothing you probably don’t already know,” she said, picking up a clean towel and drying the counter. “He’s a good dad and good to Glenda. Pretty good. She got lucky. Charlie adores him, though I wouldn’t say the same about some folks in town. He’s let people go before, at Martin Construction, but cutting the budget at the City pissed off a lot of people. A couple of well-known people in town ended up out of work. It was quite the topic of conversation in here for a while.”

Frank nodded, jotting it all down.

“‘Did it all blow over?”

“I thought so,” she said sadly. “It looked like things were getting better, and then Charlie disappeared. Some people think he’s getting his karmic due, but nobody thinks it’s payback for the budget cuts or layoffs or whatever. I can’t believe anyone would do that.”

A young man, one of the ones from the bar fight that first night, came out of the backroom and set a large toolbox on the counter. He was in his late twenties, thin, and covered in sweat. His shirt was streaked with mud.

“Well, Rosie, it’s not the breaker.”

Rosie nodded. “Jake, this is Frank, Frank Harper. He’s an ex-cop, helping the police.”

Jake smiled and wiped his hands on his shirt. “Hi, Mr. Harper,” he said, shaking Frank’s hand. “Working on the kidnapping?”

Frank nodded. “Just helping out.”

Jake turned to Rosie. “I checked in the crawlspace, and you were right. But the jukebox—it’s not the breaker.”

Rosie made a face. “I just bought that from one of the antique stores—it was working yesterday, after they delivered it. I hope it’s sturdy,” Rosie said. “It can get a little rough in here, and I can’t have it quitting every time it gets bumped.”

“That’s a good point—maybe it’s just a loose connection inside, or something,” Jake said, nodding. “Frank, nice to meet you, and good luck with your case.”

Frank nodded as Jake gathered up his toolbox and walked over, pulling out the jukebox and getting to work on the back of the machine.

“He seems handy,” Frank said.

Rosie smiled. “You have no idea.”

Frank nodded, getting it.

“OK, I won’t ask. So, nobody you know would have a grudge against the Martins bad enough to do something like this?”

“No, not really,” she said.

“Anything you can think of the cops might’ve missed?”

She started to say something but then shook her head. “No, not really,” she said. “Those guys are really good,” she said, and then a customer called her over. She excused herself, and Frank sat back, relaxing. He watched the crowd for a few minutes, and then, the jukebox powered up and started playing music that competed with the rock music already playing over the speakers. Rosie gave out a little cheer from across the room.

Jake Delancy joined Frank at the bar, setting his bag of tools down on the seat next to Frank.

Rosie came over. “Jake, you’re good.”

Jake put some tools back into his bag. “Oh, it was nothing. Loose connecting wire. What happened, anyway?”

“I’m not really sure,” Rosie said, sliding a beer in front of Jake and a refill of coffee to Frank. “There was a scuffle in here the other night, and a guy got thrown against the jukebox. It just stopped working after that.”

“Well, something got knocked loose in the back,” Jake said. “I tightened up everything. I think the power cord has a bad connection. I’ll see if I can dummy up something to replace it.”

Rosie thanked him and moved away. The bar was starting to pick up, and a second barkeep had joined her.

When he’d first been in here, Frank had thought that Ricky’s had all the ambiance of a beer tent at a state fair, but the place was starting to grow on him. Half of the town drank here, it seemed, and it would be a good place to catch a few more folks to discuss the case.

Deputy Peters had mentioned that Ricky’s had also been the site of several of Cooper’s Mill’s most visible crimes, including the case a few years back, when a fugitive up from Dayton had holed up inside the bar with a shotgun and threatened to kill anyone that entered. It had ended peacefully, thankfully, but the incident had only served to increase Ricky’s reputation as the roughest watering hole in town.

“So, what do you do?” Frank asked Jake.

Jake turned and looked at him.

“Not a lot, anymore, with the economy,” Jake said, wiping his hands on a rag and then stuffing it back into his toolkit. It looked like he had one of everything in there. “I did a lot of work for Nick Martin, when they were flush, but there isn’t much call for custom cabinetry right now. Or pocket doors,” Jake said.

Frank nodded. “Carpentry?”

“Mostly. I do a little carving, too, mostly working with natural materials. I’ve done some mantles and fireplaces, too, but now it’s primarily furniture.”

Rosie walked up. “Don’t let him fool you, Frank—Jake can do anything. He has like five businesses—he makes his own beer, fixes and reupholsters chairs. He works on cars, does electrical repairs. Last year, he made his own cheese and sold it at the farmers market,” Rosie said proudly.

“You sound like a real renaissance man, Jake,” Frank said, tipping his coffee cup at the man. “Here’s to staying busy.”

Jake nodded, a little embarrassed. “Rosie’s got the hots for me, so you can’t believe anything she says.”

“Hots?” Rosie said, putting her hands on her hips and faking a shocked British tone. “Surely you jest. I have no idea what you mean, good sir!” She turned and walked away, smiling.

Jake smiled, following Rosie as she went to help other customers. “Too much ‘Downton Abbey’—the woman is obsessed with it.”

Frank followed Jake’s eyes and smiled.

Jake turned and started to say something when a loud group of men entered the bar, shouting at each other and at Rosie for beers. Frank recognized one of the men as the loud drunk from Frank’s first night in town. It looked like the man had already gotten the evening’s festivities kicked off, judging by the loud talk.

Jake shook his head, grimacing. “That’s Derek and his boys,” he said, finishing up his beer. “Rosie, make sure you kick them out if they get to be trouble. Or call me, and I’ll come back.”

Rosie came back over and nodded.

“You worry too much, Jake. I can handle them.”

Jake was looking at Derek’s group. “It’s my job to worry,” he said, smiling at her, and then he picked up his toolkit, nodded at Frank, and left. Through the open doors, Frank saw it was sprinkling again.

The place was getting busy. Frank talked to a few more people as they came in, just getting casual answers about Nick Martin—what people thought of him and his wife, what they thought of the kidnapping. Most people seemed saddened by the fact it had happened in their little town. It appeared that the Cooper’s Mill were a pleasant lot who jealously guarded their “small town” atmosphere and didn’t like to see it threatened.

While it was cold outside in the drizzle, it grew warmer as the crowd swelled. In an hour, it was hot and humid inside the bar, and patrons were stacked three deep about the rickety wooden bar. More people came in, talking loudly about the high school football game that had just ended in City Park—it reminded Frank that that was the location for tomorrow morning’s ransom drop.

Frank felt out of place with his coffee. He was the only one not drinking, and it wasn’t by choice. He was watching for people he might recognize as connected to the case, but he knew so few faces, it was probably pointless.

Soon, the bar was getting packed, as the staff was handing out cheap beer as fast as they could. Frank left the bar, found one of the few open tables and sat. He pushed the several empty beer bottles to the side and grabbed the only hostess who dared to come out from behind the counter. Her nametag read “Denise.”

“Hey, whatcha want?” she asked him, and he immediately liked her.

“Coffee,” Frank said. “Two, since you’re here. And two minutes of your time to chat.”

She stopped and really looked at him for the first time.

“Pardon me?”

He smiled. “You heard me fine, Denise. I need to talk to you.”

She nodded and smiled, scooting away between two groups of men shouting at the TV. Frank noticed there was a game on—it looked like Ohio State, probably a local favorite, which might explain why the place was packed. Or maybe because the economy was in the shitter and everyone just needed to blow off steam.

The girl came back with two cups of coffee and a little plate of creamer and sugars. She plopped down in the seat across from his.

“Three minutes,” Denise said. “Rosie’s covering for me.”

He nodded.

“Thanks—I know you’re busy. Do you know the Martins?”

She smiled. “You a cop? Never seen you in here before.”

“No, not anymore,” Frank said. “I was a cop. Now, I’m helping out with the case.”

She shook her head. “Nah, they’re never in here. Too snooty. He’s rich, and she’s hot. When they drink, I’m sure it’s at a dinner party somewhere with their snooty friends.”

“They have any friends who come in here?”

“Nah.”

“OK, last question. Anybody new hanging around town lately, non-regulars in here?”

She looked around the room and shook her head. She was about to add something, when her eyes grew big. He turned to see a fat patron pushing another man up against the bar.

“Shut up, dipshit!” the larger man yelled.

Frank slowly stood as Denise scurried back behind the counter. The shouting match at the bar was attracting everyone’s attention, and it gave him a chance to scan the room. Most of the patrons looked half-drunk and bleary-eyed. The cops must just sit outside this place every night when it closed and pick off the slew of over-the-limit drunk drivers.

There were a few people that looked out of place—three guys dressed in nicer clothes near the back, drinking slowly and watching the spectacle. They looked like visiting journalists, from out of town for the kidnapping coverage and getting a little “local color.” Frank might have to swing by and chat with them before the night was over.