interesting, and I hope your plan for a more challenging position here works out for you,” Carol said, addressing Mr. Kennedy. “As for you, Mrs. Kennedy, I assume that of necessity you have the major responsibility for Martin.”
“That’s been true, but with Martin up at Mr. Slocomb’s during the week I’ve been working - well, volunteering is more like it - at the Southport library. It’s been a part time job since last winter, and I would like it to be permanent. Of course, everything depends on Martin.” She didn’t have to say that it depended on whether he could be found. Nor did she sound as if she were optimistic that a full time appointment was in the cards even if he returned to the family nest.
It wasn’t a promising situation, although it sounded as if both Kennedys possessed the skills necessary for good employment, at least by Crooked Lake standards. The more important issue at the moment was Martin’s whereabouts, and Carol realized that she felt very differently about it than she did the disappearance of Ernie Eakins. She had reluctantly assumed responsibility for finding Eakins, but Martin Kennedy was an altogether different story. Unlike Eakins, Martin was young, mentally disturbed, and unable to care for himself. It was not primarily as sheriff that she knew she must help the Kennedys. It was a moral obligation.
“I am really sorry that your son is missing. I shall look into the problem, beginning right away. I wish I could say that it’ll be an easy task, but we all know that it may not be. I don’t know this man Slocomb, but that’s where I’ll start. Miss Chartrell down at the school might also be helpful, or if not she may have some idea of how to better understand Martin. I’ll need to be able to talk with you again if I learn anything, so please give me your phone number and address.” She handed Ruth Kennedy a piece of paper. “And call me the minute you hear something about your son.”
Carol hoped that they would hear something, and that it would be good news. Instinct told her it would not be.
CHAPTER 7
There was nothing to tell Connie Eakins that would be encouraging. But at least she could let her know that she was doing what she had said she would do, hunting for clues that might account for Ernie’s disappearance.
“Hello, Mrs. Eakins. I wanted you to know that I’m doing what I can to find your husband. I rode the whole course of the Gravel Grinder with Joe Reiger earlier today, making a special effort to identify places where Ernie might have had trouble or gotten lost. I’m sorry to report that I discovered nothing which looks promising. On the other hand, I now have a much better sense of the route, and I expect to drive it again, taking a few detours which might be helpful. But please don’t get your hopes up. I wish I could be more optimistic, but given what little I know, I have trouble imagining that Ernie would have taken any of them.”
“I was afraid that this is what you would tell me,” Connie said. She was obviously disappointed, but she had gotten herself together and sounded less distraught than she had the day before.
“Are you, like Ernie, a cyclist?” Carol asked.
“Barely, and certainly not in his league.”
“So you’ve never ridden the course your husband was on this week?”
“Never. I’m not nearly as strong as he is, and I can’t remember when I last was on an unpaved road.”
Carol was pleased to hear her use the present tense, although she was sure that it was from force of habit rather than optimism that Ernie was still alive.
“That’s what I thought, but I suppose I was hoping that you might have accompanied him at some time or other on the Gravel Grinder route. Then you might be able to go there with me, maybe see something that looked familiar.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, that could be helpful. I’m sorry though. Ernie talks about where he goes on these local rides, but it’s all very general. After all, he knows I won’t have any idea about the back woods, the hill top areas. It’s such a terrible shame, isn’t it? He was always talking about how wonderful the little used, rougher roads are. And I wasn’t much interested. I preferred the town streets, with their shops, more opportunities to meet up with people I know and enjoy.”
“Don’t worry. Back roads aren’t everybody’s thing. Not even mine.” It wasn’t true. Carol’s job put her on many of Cumberland County’s back roads. Unfortunately, as her trip with Joe Reiger had made clear, not all of them.
She assured Connie that she would continue to work at finding Ernie and that she hoped he would turn up soon with a convincing explanation for his unexpected disappearance. But she was increasingly of the opinion that Ernie would not resurface, and that if he did she would have nothing to do with it. For all she knew, the Eakins’ marriage had been a failure, at least for Ernie, and that it was entirely possible that he had used the occasion of the Gravel Grinder to walk away from it. No, she corrected herself, he might have used the Gravel Grinder to ride away from it. Whatever had happened, she would only be going through the motions of finding Ernie. A sad but hardly a dramatic episode in the history of Crooked Lake.
When she hung up the phone, her thoughts immediately turned to what she believed to be a much more important disappearance than that of Ernie Eakins. What had become of Martin Luther Kennedy? She knew logically that the Eakins case was just as important as the Kennedy case. But she was much more troubled by the latter. Perhaps she shouldn’t be, but that’s the way it was. She hoped that Kevin would understand.
“Kevin, hi, it’s me.” Carol’s call to the cottage came at 2:50 that afternoon. “I know we have plans to go out to dinner, but I’m going to ask you to indulge me and whip up something for supper at home.”
“Are you all right?” Kevin sounded worried. Rarely did Carol pass up an opportunity to enjoy a change of pace at the Cedar Post.
“I guess so, but I’m not sure. Trouble is, I’d be celebrating, and for some reason I don’t feel like celebrating.”
“A bad day? All the more reason to take a break. What’s the problem?”
“It’s too complicated to tell you over the phone. To be honest, I need your input. Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal, nothing about you and me. Let’s just say it’s about my moral compass, and that’s probably the wrong way to put it. Anyhow, is there enough in the fridge for a light last minute snack? And for what it’s worth, I’m not going on the wagon, so put a bottle of wine on ice.”
Kevin was still worried, but this was no time to argue about dining at the Cedar Post.
“Okay, no problem. The usual time?”
“Yes. I’ll be there. It’ll be all right.”
When Carol arrived home, Kevin knew better than to greet her by reopening the ‘cancel the Cedar Post discussion.’ He gave her a big hug and proceeded to pour two glasses of Chardonnay.
“The deck all right, or would you rather the couch?”
“No matter the circumstances, I’m always in favor of the deck when the sun shines and the temperature is above 75.”
“At your service,” Kevin said, obviously anxious to tread lightly in what might be a difficult evening.
Five minutes later, wine in hand, they settled
