Wisconsin had changed. I remembered when it was good-natured, with a healthy us-versus-them attitude, the same attitude that you’ll find in Minnesota. Now it was us-against-us, with the population pretty much split along party lines. It started with the election of a polarizing governor and the rancorous recall election that followed. Over a million voters signed the recall petition. The governor survived the recall, and soon after the petition was uploaded to the internet. Now whenever anyone attempts to run for office, apply for a state job, or simply seek government assistance, the powers that be check the petition, and if your name is on it, you’re screwed.
There just didn’t seem to be much middle ground anymore, a fact that was emphasized when I checked into the Everheart Resort, Restaurant, and Bar nestled along the Trempealeau River. The owner was named William Everheart. He told me to call him Bill and added, “I don’t want any trouble in my place.”
“Are you expecting trouble?” I asked.
“I got sand miners staying here, and environmentalists, and tourists that came for the fishing and water and want to be left alone—three groups that hate each other so, yeah, I’m expecting some trouble. Not to mention the townspeople. The community—used to be we had names. Now we have labels—right wing, left wing, neoconservative, flaming liberal, obstructionist, reactionary, bleeding heart, fascist, socialist, pro-business, anti-government, tree hugger…”
“What about you?”
“I’m trying to keep an open mind.”
“That makes you an endangered species, doesn’t it?”
“I’m a local businessman, emphasis on local. Sure, I cater to out-of-towners that want to stay in my rooms or occupy a spot at my campground down the road. They rent my boats, buy my bait, and work the river and streams for trout. Lots of the customers who eat in my restaurant, drink in my bar, and sing karaoke on weekends, though, they’re local. Some of them work the sand. It doesn’t pay for me to be one thing or the other.”
“You’re not worried about the mines affecting your business?”
“’Course I’m worried. On a good weekend, I’ll draw five hundred people, and that goes right up through hunting season. The silica sand facility they’re proposing, it’s less than a mile away. If it pollutes the river and streams, killing the trout; if it pollutes the air, turning the forest yellow with blowing sand; if it depletes and destroys what Mother Nature gave us here—I’m out of business.”
“Why let the sand miners stay?”
“I’m hoping there’ll be some adults among them, that they’ll show some real responsibility.”
“Have they so far?”
“There’s going to be a town hall meeting at the high school auditorium. I’ll know better then. In the meantime…”
“You’ll get no trouble from me.”
“I’m going to hold you to that. I probably wouldn’t even have said anything except you don’t look like you’re here to wet a line.”
“I’m looking for a girl.”
I pulled up Emily’s pic on my smartphone and handed it to the resort owner.
“Well, if you’re looking for a girl, that one there’s worth finding,” he said.
“Have you seen her?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Everheart swiped the screen with his finger. Another pic appeared and then another. I reached for the phone, annoyed at his rudeness. You don’t swipe someone else’s phone, c’mon. But he stopped me.
“Wait,” Everheart said. “I know her.”
“Who?”
He held up the pic for me to see. It was a selfie of Emily and Devon.
“That’s the Barrington girl, isn’t it? Sure. She used to come in all the time, mostly with her brother. They’d shoot pool in the bar. Haven’t seen her for … it must be a year at least.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Not a lot. She seems like a nice kid. Always polite. Can sing, too. Most people who do karaoke, they make you want to dive under the table. Devon has a nice voice, kind of sweet. ’Course, she was always sober. This is a family place and we let kids run around, but it’s also a bar. Her older brother, on the other hand … Meh, Joel’s all right, I guess. He always looked to me like he was counting his money, though. Devon’s old lady—don’t get me started. I doubt Eleanor Barrington could string five words together without complaining about something.”
“Did the Barringtons come here often?”
“Often enough. There aren’t that many options ’round abouts if you want to get out of the house, although the Barrington house … The family has a place down on the river a couple miles north of here. Very nice. They call it Mereshack, if you can believe it. I’d hate to see ’em sell it off.”
“Why would they?”
“Last I heard U.S. Sand wanted to build a four-hundred-acre facility that includes some of the land the house is sitting on.”
“Last I heard, Mrs. Barrington turned them down.”
“That was a year ago, before all that shit about the mayor came out. Who knows what the woman is thinking now?”
“What shit about the mayor?”
“You don’t know?”
“What can I say? I’m new here.”
“He was trying to work a deal, get the city to condemn the property, the four hundred acres U.S. Sand wants for its facility, condemn it through eminent domain. Someone shot him before it could happen. Anyway, Mrs. Barrington’s property, that was part of the deal, and I haven’t seen any of them around here since. Which is my point. The Barringtons have been a part of Arona for over a hundred years. The park—have you seen our park, where Main Street splits around it, creating a kind of island? The grandfather gave the city both the park and the fountain. The son gave us the amphitheater. The grandson, when we had a drive to build the new library, he matched all the funds everyone else donated; this was right before his plane went down. Now, after all that, for the mayor to try something sneaky like he did, Eleanor could easily decide to say screw it, sell the land to the miners, and go somewhere else. Which would be too bad. You have me curious, though, the questions you’re asking. Are you some kind of detective?”
“Some kind,” I said. “The girl”—I showed him the original pic on my smartphone again—“is a friend of the family, and she’s gone missing. I was asked to find her.”
“Is she from around here?”
“That was my impression.”
“Sorry I can’t help you.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you direct me to the public library?”
* * *
The library was located across the street from the Arona City Park. I walked through the park to reach it. It was called, simply, the Arona City Public Library. I didn’t see the Barrington name anywhere, not even on a plaque, at the library or the park. I liked the family for that. Usually, when someone donates money to a public cause, they demand naming rights in return.
I found a sign outside the library door—NO FIREARMS OR WEAPONS ARE ALLOWED ON LIBRARY PROPERTY. It made me pause long enough to remember that my Beretta was still in the spare tire compartment in the trunk of my car before stepping inside. There were metal detectors at the door, and I didn’t know if they were there to catch gunrunners or keep preteens from skipping out with copies of Fifty Shades of Grey tucked in their backpacks.
I found the main desk. The woman sitting behind it greeted me like we were old friends and asked if I agreed with her that it was a beautiful day. I did agree and received her prediction for the weather through the coming week, which I also agreed with. Eventually she asked what I wanted, and I told her. She led me exactly to where I needed to be and, after promising more assistance should I need it, left me alone. I thanked her. As soon as her back was turned, I removed the last ten Arona High School yearbooks from the shelf and carried them to a table. I searched through them one at a time.
I couldn’t find a photograph of Emily Denys or anyone who resembled her.
I did come across two photographs in the Graduating Seniors sections of consecutive yearbooks that I recognized, however.
The first was Esther Tibbits, the well-endowed young woman who worked for U.S. Sand, the one who seemed so upset that Emily had been killed.
The second was one of the young men dressed in camo that ambushed me outside Emily’s duplex, the kid with the short blond hair.
His name was Eric Tibbits.