“Is this the Jim Stanton who used to be a journalist?”
I could hear the whiskey in that voice, and it triggered a memory, but I couldn’t put a name with it.
“Some would say that.”
“Jim, this is Chloe Middleton.”
I sat back as if I’d been slapped, but I gathered myself in an instant, “How about that! It’s been a long time, Chloe. How are you guys?”
It was her turn to pause, and then after a few seconds, “It’s not us at the moment, Jim. It’s just me; just Chloe.”
“Oh, no; what happened?”
“That’s just it; I don’t know, but I’m hoping you’ll help me find out.”
“Where are you?”
“Seattle.”
“That where you live?”
“Currently. We’ve lived just about everywhere in the past fifteen years, and we’ve never really lived anywhere.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course not. Nobody would, but I remember so many times when Charley would tell me that if anything ever went completely crosswise I could always call on you for help. So,” and she stopped just short of sobbing, “everything’s pretty crosswise right now, and here I am.”
I tried asking more questions, but it was soon clear that Chloe wasn’t tracking all that well. I finally caged an address out of her. I checked my phone and could see that it had trapped her number.
“I’ll be there later today. I’ve have to tie up a few things here, and then I’ll head that way. Can you hold on ’til I drive up there?”
“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
She had hung up. I sat there awash in memories for a few minutes, then bounced out of my chair and went looking for my wife.
Jan Coldwell Stanton had been my wife for just over two years. I’d met her six years after my first wife, Sandy, died. I’d been in Michigan paying tribute to my memories of a childhood friend when I met Jan; she was then the owner-operator of a weekly newspaper in Mineral Valley, where my friend had died.
Two years after that we’d been married right here in my house in the foothills of the Blue Mountains overlooking Oregon’s Columbia River basin.
When I found her that September Wednesday morning she was transplanting herbs from her garden into a window box in the kitchen.
She’s a tall woman, five-feet, ten-inches, and the years had been kind to her. I’m six-foot-five; shaggy and gnarled.
“You look agitated, Mr. Stanton,” she said without looking up from her task.
“Charley Delp is missing, and I have to go help find him.
“Who is Charley Delp?”
“I’m sorry; of course you don’t know Charley. He and Chloe were friends of mine – and Sandy’s – when we lived in Upstate New York.”
“Lake City?”
“Yeah. Charley was an ad manager for a competitor, but we hit it off. He loved to hunt and fish as much as I did. He was an avid waterfowl hunter, and boy, was he a good shot.” I let my voice trail off, thinking about those days and how much I had lost track of over the years.
“So you have to?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Chloe called; said Charley had always told her if she needed help she should call me. Now she doesn’t know where he is – she’s all alone – and she called me.”
“Where is she?”
“Seattle.”
“How long are you going to be gone?”
“I was thinking you might want to go along.”
“How long will we be gone?”
I just shook my head.
She stood up and washed her hands in the sink, and after she dried them she put her arms around me.
I looked down and she raised her lips to mine, then slid her face next to my ear. “You start packing; I’ll call the Nelsons and see if Judy can stay there for a few days,” she whispered. “We shouldn’t be gone longer than a few days, should we?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, let’s be movin’.”
The neighbors down the road were more than ready to look after the wire-haired pointer, Judy. Often they acted as if we shared a joint-custody arrangement. We were on the road just two hours after Chloe’s call.