Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(59)

“Sure. We sat nose-to-nose, right there,” Tom waggled his finger toward a spot at the far end of the curb. “Talked for a good half hour, then I closed up shop and drove him over to the truck depot on Route Thirteen.”

Mahoney reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph he had pried loose from the Doyle scrapbook shortly after Ethan Allen disappeared. It was a photograph taken two years ago, a photograph taken when they’d obviously had better times. Ethan Allen, Susanna and Benjamin were all wearing smiles as they lined up along the front step of their house; Dog was on the far side of Ethan Allen. “Is this the boy?” Mahoney asked, passing the photograph across to Tom.

“The one who come by here could of been a mite older,” Tom said squinting at the picture, “but that dog is sure as hell the same one.”

“The boy, you say you drove him to the truck depot?”

Tom hitched up the right side of his mouth and gave a nod. “Sure did. He had me believing every word that came outta his mouth; felt right sorry for him with his having a sick mama and all.” Tom hesitated a moment then with the sound of sadness woven through his words, added, “Of course, nowadays the truth’s so scarce a man probably ought to question his own name.”

“And, the boy told you he was headed to his grandpa’s over on the mainland?”

Tom nodded again. “He had this way of saying things, so truthful sounding, you’d swear them words was coming from his heart. When he told me the story about his poor mama, I could see the hurt leaking out of his skin. Some folks might be able to turn their backside to a sorrowful situation such as that, but I’m a man who remembers when my own mama was deathbed sick. If you ever been there, you know what it’s like!”

Mahoney, who had a way of making folks feel he was in complete agreement with whatever they were feeling, gave a sympathetic nod.

“Anyway,” Tom said, “I took it on myself to help the boy. I never once figured his story was a bunch of bare-faced lies.”

“So, you got him a ride to the Mainland?”

“Yep. Just call me a fool and stick a dunce cap on my head.”

“And did he give you the address of where he was headed?”

“Nope. Just said his grandpa’s.”

“He mention the grandpa’s name?”

“Uh-uh,” Tom mumbled, shaking his head side to side, “The boy had it writ down on the back of a folded up envelope, but I can’t for the life of me picture what it was.”

“Doyle?” Mahoney suggested, “…was the name Doyle?”

“Can’t say it was or wasn’t. But, I do recollect the name of the town—Wyattsville. It’s a little place, maybe fifty miles northwest of Richmond.”

Mahoney smiled. “Well now, at least we’ve got somewhere to start.”

“You’re going after him?” Tom Behrens asked, “Way over there?” He wasn’t usually a suspicious man, but it did seem somewhat strange for two police officers to be chasing a runaway boy clear across the state. “How come?”

“Mostly to make sure he’s okay,” Mahoney replied, “but we also have a suspicion that the night of the murders he saw something.”

“Saw something? Like what?”

“Who knows,” Cobb, who felt he’d been pushed aside on the questioning, grumbled. “A kid like that ain’t likely to tell you—”

“We’re almost done here,” Mahoney cut in, “Sam, why don’t you wait in the car.”

Cobb stood so abruptly, his chair almost tipped over; then he walked out shaking his head, to show his disdain for such an obvious waste of time.

“I got an uneasy feeling about that fella,” Tom said, once Cobb had gone. “Ain’t many I take a dislike to, but him…”

“Sometimes I dislike him myself,” Mahoney said with a smile. “Now, this fellow who gave the boy a ride to the mainland, you think he might—”

“His name’s Wheeler. Butch Wheeler.”

“Any idea where we can get hold of him?”

“Butch?” Tom shook his head. “He’s one of the few who does a run on Sunday. Sundays and Tuesdays. He generally stops at the depot on thirteen for a fill-up before heading over to Richmond; other than that, I got no idea.”

“Sundays and Tuesdays, huh?” Mahoney got a description of Butch Wheeler, then reached over and shook Tom’s hand, “Thanks,” he said, “you’ve been a real help.”





The Surprise

On the Monday that happened along three days after Ethan Allen had gone missing all night, Olivia’s doorbell rang. She could hear the crowd rustling about and whispering, long before she reached the door—thinking herself about to be evicted, she cracked it open barely wide enough for an eye to peer through. “Yes?” she said apprehensively when she saw the group of residents congregated outside the door. “Did you wish to speak to me?”

“Not actually,” Clara said with a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, “We’re here to see Ethan Allen.”

“Clara!” Olivia exclaimed, flinging the door open to its full width. “You of all people! I thought you were my friend!”

“I am your friend!” Clara responded—trying valiantly to hold onto a straight face, even though the corners of her mouth kept curling. “Now, we would like to speak with Ethan Allen.”