Here, at last, is her answer. The undergarments are distinctly female: high-cut briefs, one brassiere with tags still on it. One pair of woolen stockings that look similarly unworn.
She moves across the hallway. Opens another bedroom door. There is no doubt, this time, as to whose room she’s in: a metal cane leans against a wall. A straight row of men’s walking shoes is lined up against another. Most curiously, a pair of dentures swims in a tall glass of liquid on a bedside table.
Which raises the question: If Vic Hewitt’s dentures are here—then where is Vic Hewitt?
Judy moves toward Vic’s dresser. But instead of clothing, she finds what looks like a trove of black-and-white photographs. Most are of children: T.J. when she was young. Barbara, too. And Bear: so many of them are of Bear Van Laar, in various poses, fishing, swimming, standing sturdy on cross-country skis.
The one that intrigues her most is a group shot. She squints, trying to recognize anyone she can in the photograph. She knows for certain that two are Barbara’s grandparents, the elder Mr. and Mrs. Van Laar. They stand in the back row. She smiles; he doesn’t.
The youngest boy in the picture, she guesses, is Bear.
The woman looking down at him, lovingly, is his mother, Alice; the man standing to her right is his father.
And standing off to one side, a part of and apart from the rest of the group, are T.J. and her father, Vic.
Judy turns the picture over. On the back is written, in light pencil: Blackfly Good-by. 1961.
The year of Bear’s disappearance.
Judy shudders. Puts the photos back in the drawer. Walks out into the main room again.
• • •
It’s time, she knows, to tell someone about the tip Mrs. Van Laar gave her. She fishes a piece of paper out from her pocket, goes to the phone in the Command Post, and dials Denny Hayes’s home phone number, as instructed.
A woman answers. His wife, no doubt. In the background, Judy can hear children’s voices.
“Hi,” says Judy. “Is Investigator Hayes there, please?”
A hitch in the woman’s voice. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Investigator Luptack,” she says. “I’m—I work with him.”
“I didn’t know he had a lady—coworker,” says Mrs. Hayes. “I didn’t know they let ladies be investigators.”
“Well,” says Judy, “they do.”
“Anyway, he’s not home yet,” says Mrs. Hayes. “You can leave me a number if you want.”
“Will you tell him I’m staying at the Alcott Family Inn in Shattuck, New York?” says Judy. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so. He can call the front desk and they’ll find me.”
A long, skeptical pause.
“Sure,” says Mrs. Hayes. “I’ll do that.”
But Judy can tell, already, that she won’t.
• • •
It’s full dark when she pulls into the inn. It’s mid-August, the time of year when high summer becomes late summer. She sits still in her Beetle for a moment, listening to the pings of the cooling engine, then gets out and locks it. Walks to her room. Pulls out her key.
Then, from behind, she hears her own name said aloud.
She knows who it is before turning.
“Daddy,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
He strides toward her, looking as angry as she’s ever seen him. “What are you doing here, Judy?” he asks. “You think this is safe for a single girl? Place like this? Coming home late at night, when it’s dark out? I don’t think so.”
“How’d you find me?” says Judy.
“Your mother was worried sick,” says her father. “She couldn’t sleep last night. She couldn’t eat today. She told me the name of the place.”
Judy sighs heavily.
“Don’t you blame her,” says her father. “She’s looking out for you. She did the right thing by telling me. Seedy place like this? You’re lucky nothing happened to you already.”
He walks back to his car. Opens the passenger door.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll drive you home. I’ll bring you back tomorrow to get your car.”
He’s not looking at her. He expects her to get in, no questions asked. As a child, Judy and her siblings had obeyed him religiously. He never hit them—but he was a big man, and he yelled.
For a moment, Judy imagines going to him. Getting in. Keeping the peace with her family. Doing what’s expected.
Instead, she says, “It’s not seedy.”
“What isn’t?”
