Yesterday’s bizarre confrontation at the home of George Saunders had me intrigued. Louis had clearly been an unwelcome visitor in the eyes of Dianne Saunders. She’d been furious. But why, I pondered, would that be.
I wanted to talk with George, the morning manager at Home Depot, and then hopefully his wife Dianne. I swung by George’s place of work and asked for him, but was told he was busy in the back, would I mind waiting? I’d try again later, I said.
I’d try at his house, approximately the same time Louis had visited yesterday, though I withheld this from the grumpy guy at Home Depot’s customer service counter.
At my office I spent ninety minutes on research, including scouring a dozen websites, placing five polite phone calls, and sending three querying emails. I formulated a resultant list comprised of four names and four personal telephone numbers—former colleagues or associates of Louis Lindsey that struck me as worth contacting. One colleague from a hospital, one from a church, one from a mission trip, and one more who had attended Louis’s boarding school and was now the dean.
Would I learn anything significant from contacting these four? Possibly not. But I was stalwart and industrious and as handsome as Tom Hardy.
Was being handsome pertinent to the phone calls? Possibly not. But some things in life should be noted occasionally.
The better part of valor won out as I debated who to call first—ergo, I checked Ronnie’s location using my phone. In case her car was broken down on the interstate or she was trapped under something heavy.
Heavens.
She was a mere one block away. Potentially having an early lunch at the market. Who was she missing more, I wondered. Me or her fiancé?
Just kidding. It was me.
She might require company to stay the loneliness. Only a heartless monster denies succor in times of need.
Before I could rise and go visit the woman engaged to another man, the wooden stairs leading up to my second-floor office creaked and snapped. Someone outside my office.
A woman entered. With caution. She looked maybe sixty, wore the blue jeans and white sneakers favored by women who were in fact sixty, and a turtleneck with gold necklace outside the shirt. Her hair was short and brown, no gray showing.
“Hello, Mr. August?”
“Yes.” I stood. “Did you think I might be Tom Hardy, the actor?”
“Oh. I’m…I don’t know who that is.”
“Please come in and have a seat.”
“Thank you.” She ventured in like the floor might shake. Smiled at my bookshelves. “You have a Bible. That’s nice.”
“A Bible does not a saint make, I’m learning. How can I help?”
She sat in my client chair. I sat in my private investigator chair. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again she was crying.
“This is difficult.”
“No rush. Tissues on the corner of my desk.”
“You’re a very large man.”
“I try.”
“My name is Bonnie Young. Earlier today Sheriff Stackhouse came to speak with me,” she said.
I nodded.
“Before she left, the sheriff suggested I tell you what I told her. So here I am.”
“Bonnie Young,” I said. “Any relation to Jon Young?”
“Yes.” She smiled like a doting grandmother should. “I raised Jon. He is the son of my only daughter. Was the son.”
“I learned of your grandson’s death just yesterday. I know that was hard.”
“It was. He was shot and thrown into a river and I still don’t know why. I keep his room exactly as it was. His mother had Jon before she was ready, and she lives in California. I was essentially his mother.”
“A mother should never have to bury her son. Or grandson.”
“Precisely.” She took a tissue and dabbed. “And obviously I’m still not over the experience.”
“Sheriff Stackhouse told you Alec Ward was missing.”
“She did. And now I’m having flashbacks.”
“The two disappearances are probably unrelated. But she’s being careful,” I said.
She looked down at the crumpled tissue in her hand.
“As she should, in my opinion. Anything to avoid what I went through.”
“What exactly did you tell Stackhouse that she thought I should know?”
“We discussed a lot. She asked questions, and many answers I couldn’t remember. I tried to forget, you understand. But she got stuck on two details.”
“Okay.”
“I told the police at the time, but maybe it’s more important now? The first is, before he vanished, Jon had recently come out of the closet to me. He was gay. I didn’t mind and I’d already had my suspicions. I wanted him to be happy. But he wasn’t. He didn’t want to be gay. And the second thing, I suggested he talk with someone about being gay and his desire to be straight. We attended All Saints, so he began counseling sessions with Father Louis.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling the room tilt a little.
“That’s the same face the sheriff made. Except she said, ‘Shit.’” Bonnie blushed a little at the word.
“I probably should have. The police knew this at the time?”
“Of course.”
“What did Jon say about the counseling sessions?”
“Not much. They only had three or four before he disappeared. He was enjoying them, I think. Mr. August, why is that detail suddenly so interesting?”
“If Alec Ward comes home today, it’s not. But if Alec has vanished the way Jon did, it’s a potential clue the police can use,” I said.
“But there’s more, isn’t there. That you can’t tell me.”
“There’s more.”
“Why did the sheriff want you to know? You in particular, I mean.”
“The more eyes on this, the better. I’m in the profession of finding things. Finding people and finding the truth,” I said.
“I hope I helped, even though it hurts. And I hope you find Alec.”
“If I do, you’ll be one of the girls I call to celebrate.”
She smiled, a relief of pressure. “If he’s truly missing, I bet you find him. You’re good at this, I can tell.”
“I am,” I said. “Shockingly so.”