The Missing Chapter

I unpacked, washed up, and went back to the motel office, where Indiana Slim was taking a reservation over the phone. “Where do I find the local newspaper office?” I asked as he cradled the receiver.

“It’s right on the courthouse square. Two doors from that restaurant I was telling you about, the Old Skillet.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose again. “ ’Fraid we don’t have a daily paper here; I suppose we’re just too doggone small. The Mercury only comes out twice a week, Tuesday and Friday. It’s all right, though — I always read it straight through front to back.” He nodded with pride. “Fellow who’s the editor, name’s Southworth, comes from somewhere back East. They say he’s a real crackerjack.”

“Much obliged,” I responded, deciding not to fight the urge. With a basketball team called the Meteors and a newspaper named the Mercury, the fine folks in Mercer either liked alliteration or they were big into astronomy — or maybe some of both. I half-expected to find a movie theater named the Mars.

The burg did have a movie house, all right, but it was the Roxy, and the aging letters on the marquee announced that it was CLOSED FOR REMODELING. From the look of the facade, the place more likely was closed for eternity. I parked on one side of the square just as the bell in the courthouse tower tolled twice, in near agreement with my watch. The newspaper occupied the street level of a solid, two-story red-brick building that was in far better shape than the Roxy, although it probably was older. On the big window, silver Old English type spelled out The Mercer Mercury, and beneath that logo, smaller black letters proclaimed it as Proudly Serving Gilmartin County Since 1887.

Entering, I found myself in a reception area manned by a strawberry blonde with a well-shaped nose who was busy driving an electric typewriter. The nameplate on her desk announced she was Barbara Adamson. I had the nose, and the rest of what appeared to be a nicely designed face, in profile while her fingers skimmed over the keys. She got to the bottom of the sheet and whipped it crisply out of the machine, then turned toward me with a smile that would have warmed a penguin’s tootsies. The face was every bit as pleasing head-on as it had been in profile.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sir,” Barbara Adamson said softly, making me believe every word. “Can I help you?”

I told her I wanted to see Southworth, handing her one of my cards, the eggshell-colored number with only my name, address and phone number on it.

She studied it, nodded, and smiled, both with her mouth and her Scandinavian blue eyes. “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Goodwin?”

“No, but I wish I did. Would that help?”

Another smile, this one accompanied by a slight blush. “Oh, I didn’t mean to sound rude or anything like that. Actually, Mr. Southworth is very accessible. He tries to see everybody. Does he know you?”

“I’m afraid not,” I answered.

“You’re from New York City,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “At the risk of sounding like this is some sort of backwater, I’ll confess to you that we don’t get a lot of visitors from New York. May I tell him what business you’re in?”

“You may, Ms., Miss, or Mrs. Adamson. I’m a private investigator.”

“It’s Mrs.,” she responded, breaking my heart. “A private investigator? Excuse me and I’ll see if he’s available.” She got up and went through a doorway, leaving me to look at framed front pages of the Mercury that decorated the walls of the reception room. I was reading one from September 1945 with the headline our boys come home to cheering when a husky voice broke in. “I’m Chet Southworth; what can I do for you?”

He was about my height, but had the edge on me both in weight and years. His thick hair, which fell across one side of his forehead, was more gray than brown, and although I wouldn’t have termed him fat, wide blue suspenders were being given a test. I asked if I could steal a few minutes of his time.

He moved his shoulders up and then down. “Why not? Come on back to my office.” I nodded my thanks to Barbara Adamson and followed him through the doorway and along one side of an underrated, high-ceilinged room where a half-dozen people worked at computer terminals. “We’ve only had VDTs for our editorial staff for a few months now,” Southworth said over his shoulder, “but they’re a godsend. I tried for two years to get management to invest in a system, and they finally got tired of hearing me carp and whine.”

His office was a windowless cubicle in a back corner of the newsroom. “Not much, but it’s home,” he said with a smile, gesturing me to a chair as he dropped into the upholstered one behind his paper-littered desk.

“So, you’re an honest-to-God, card-carrying New York private dick, eh?” Southworth chuckled, considering me over the tops of half-glasses. “Never thought I’d live to see one.”