The Drew shrugs and says, "Suit yourself. Not as many options, but I'll work with it."
You shrug yourself and ask sheepishly, "What do we do first?"
The Drew chews at the side of his mouth. "Well, I was thinking about going to see this old goat farmer named Peanuts McGilberry." He shakes his head. "But you know what? He's crazy as fuck and you're a little frail. He might would feed you to his goats." He laughs.
You don't.
"Let's go talk to the sister," The Drew declares.
On the drive over, The Drew brings you up to speed. The sister is a woman named Margaret Grackle, who is married to a man The Drew only refers to as Grack (or versions of Grack). Grack hosts a weekly poker game at his house, which is where The Drew learned of the disappearance of Margaret's sister, Molly Minter, and offered his assistance in tracking her down.
Ruddy Creek, Arkansas, you are discovering, is built in a series of back roads off one main highway. And built in and around these roads are alternating houses and trailer, almost one for one. There are a couple of trailer parks and a couple of housing developments, but mostly it's just alternating housing arrangements. A nice four-bedroom brick house worth a couple hundred grand could easily have fairly run-down trailers as bookends. Which is exactly the case for the Grackle home.
The Drew parks in a circle drive, and the two of you walk up to ring the front doorbell. Margaret Grackle answers the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She smiles--an attractive smile, with the practice of possible pageant training in her youth. But now she is all mother. She has the uniform: shorts with an unbuttoned short-sleeve denim shirt over a white t-shirt with a wide collar. A baby monitor is poking out of one pocket and she has visible spit up smeared down the middle of her shirt.
The smile almost melts in exasperation, but she holds it, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. "He's out back, digging up a red tip that's grown wild."
The Drew waves both hands in front of him and shakes his head. "Not here to see Grack, Mags. We're here about Molly."
Margaret is taken aback, but pleased. "Oh. Oh, that's," she busies herself finding a place for the dishrag, "let me just ... well, come in. Come on in. You want some tea?"
After exchanging pleasantries and sipping at some iced tea, you find yourself seated in Margaret Grackle's living room next to The Drew. He has a notepad out, and she is across from you clutching a tissue.
"Take your time," The Drew coaxes. "Tell us everything you know."
Margaret nods. "Well, Molly always had the worst luck with men. I swear. If there was an asshole within a hundred miles, Molly would find a way to hook up with him."
"So there's a guy involved," The Drew asks, noting something as he speaks. You glance over. He has written the word, "Guy."
Margaret continues, "She was supposed to be going away with him for the weekend. I didn't even think a thing about her not calling until Monday. I expected to hear all about it. You see, this guy, he's married." She waved a hand and shook her head. "I disapproved, sure. But Molly, she's hard headed. I knew better than to judge her for it. And he was taking her away to some lake house of his. She thought he might tell her he was ready to leave his wife."
"But it never happened?" The Drew puts a question mark after "Guy."
Margaret shakes her head. "No. I called him when I couldn't find Molly. He claimed to barely know her. Can you believe that? He acted like I was crazy." She tears up. "I think," she swallows a lump in her throat, "I think he killed my sister."
The Drew scribbles out the question mark. "So you know the guy?"
Margaret points at his notepad. "Jason Walraven. They worked together at Sterling Tires. I think he may have been her supervisor. You go talk to him. He knows something."
After a little more chit-chat, you and The Drew make your exit. As soon as you get out the door, The Drew stops and points around the side of the house. "You think we should talk to Grack first? Sometimes," he bobs his head back and forth, "you know how women can be. Get all hysterical over nothing. Maybe ol' Grack can give us a little perspective before we go brace this guy."
You shrug yourself and ask sheepishly, "What do we do first?"
The Drew chews at the side of his mouth. "Well, I was thinking about going to see this old goat farmer named Peanuts McGilberry." He shakes his head. "But you know what? He's crazy as fuck and you're a little frail. He might would feed you to his goats." He laughs.
You don't.
"Let's go talk to the sister," The Drew declares.
On the drive over, The Drew brings you up to speed. The sister is a woman named Margaret Grackle, who is married to a man The Drew only refers to as Grack (or versions of Grack). Grack hosts a weekly poker game at his house, which is where The Drew learned of the disappearance of Margaret's sister, Molly Minter, and offered his assistance in tracking her down.
Ruddy Creek, Arkansas, you are discovering, is built in a series of back roads off one main highway. And built in and around these roads are alternating houses and trailer, almost one for one. There are a couple of trailer parks and a couple of housing developments, but mostly it's just alternating housing arrangements. A nice four-bedroom brick house worth a couple hundred grand could easily have fairly run-down trailers as bookends. Which is exactly the case for the Grackle home.
The Drew parks in a circle drive, and the two of you walk up to ring the front doorbell. Margaret Grackle answers the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She smiles--an attractive smile, with the practice of possible pageant training in her youth. But now she is all mother. She has the uniform: shorts with an unbuttoned short-sleeve denim shirt over a white t-shirt with a wide collar. A baby monitor is poking out of one pocket and she has visible spit up smeared down the middle of her shirt.
The smile almost melts in exasperation, but she holds it, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. "He's out back, digging up a red tip that's grown wild."
The Drew waves both hands in front of him and shakes his head. "Not here to see Grack, Mags. We're here about Molly."
Margaret is taken aback, but pleased. "Oh. Oh, that's," she busies herself finding a place for the dishrag, "let me just ... well, come in. Come on in. You want some tea?"
After exchanging pleasantries and sipping at some iced tea, you find yourself seated in Margaret Grackle's living room next to The Drew. He has a notepad out, and she is across from you clutching a tissue.
"Take your time," The Drew coaxes. "Tell us everything you know."
Margaret nods. "Well, Molly always had the worst luck with men. I swear. If there was an asshole within a hundred miles, Molly would find a way to hook up with him."
"So there's a guy involved," The Drew asks, noting something as he speaks. You glance over. He has written the word, "Guy."
Margaret continues, "She was supposed to be going away with him for the weekend. I didn't even think a thing about her not calling until Monday. I expected to hear all about it. You see, this guy, he's married." She waved a hand and shook her head. "I disapproved, sure. But Molly, she's hard headed. I knew better than to judge her for it. And he was taking her away to some lake house of his. She thought he might tell her he was ready to leave his wife."
"But it never happened?" The Drew puts a question mark after "Guy."
Margaret shakes her head. "No. I called him when I couldn't find Molly. He claimed to barely know her. Can you believe that? He acted like I was crazy." She tears up. "I think," she swallows a lump in her throat, "I think he killed my sister."
The Drew scribbles out the question mark. "So you know the guy?"
Margaret points at his notepad. "Jason Walraven. They worked together at Sterling Tires. I think he may have been her supervisor. You go talk to him. He knows something."
After a little more chit-chat, you and The Drew make your exit. As soon as you get out the door, The Drew stops and points around the side of the house. "You think we should talk to Grack first? Sometimes," he bobs his head back and forth, "you know how women can be. Get all hysterical over nothing. Maybe ol' Grack can give us a little perspective before we go brace this guy."