your name.”
“Investigator,” he corrected her. “Conley,” he clarified, “but call me Frank.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Forgive me. Frank it is. And you must call me Olive.” Then, after a moment, she put the pieces together.
“Frank Conley? Are you one of Maude’s boys?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I’ll be. It certainly is a small world, isn’t it? I adored your mother. How is she these days?”
Afraid he might not be able to confess the truth for fear of breaking down, Frank said she was just fine, albeit with a lump in his throat.
She gestured to a dining chair and took a seat opposite. The dining room was an extension of the living room, compact and small.
“Let me get you a piece of cake,” she said. “Would you like some coffee? I just brewed a new pot.”
“I would love some,” he replied. “May I help you?”
“Of course not,” she said, obviously proud of her independence at her age. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
She shuffled off to the kitchen in the back of the house, leaving him to get a feel for her. The house seemed full of love and comfort. A huge 1940s-style dark green davenport dominated the north wall, and a pair of green tweed chairs of a lighter shade sat across from it. A hand-knitted afghan in multiple shades of green was slung over a sofa arm. Several occasional tables showing years of wear sat next to the sofa and appeared to have been climbed on by several generations of children and grandchildren. Cabbage roses decorated the draperies on the living room windows, now open to welcome the afternoon sun. A 1970s picture of a cat dangling from a tree branch encouraged, “Hang in there baby, Friday’s coming!” And a framed, cross-stitched version of The Lord’s Prayer hung nearby.
The mantelpiece was full of pictures. An old black-and-white wedding photograph from about nineteen twenty took center stage. The bride was a stunning younger version of the face in front of him, her hair a beautiful pale blond held back with an elaborate headband. Her dress was one of those vintage creations, and she held a huge bouquet of fancy flowers like lily of the valley. Her groom resembled many of the 1930s character actors he’d seen on the late late show, with dark hair, a strong jaw, and eyes of an undistinguishable color.
Near the wedding portrait were photos of children and grandchildren in baby pictures and group shots, in mismatched frames. It was obvious that they were much cherished.
Returning from the kitchen with two small plates of cake, she took a seat at the table. “My husband Arthur died in nineteen seventy-four,” she said in a voice tinged with sadness.
“How many children do you have?” he asked, pointing to one of the photographs that had caught his eye. “You have a very attractive family.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “Five. William, Calvin, Miles, Terry, and Elizabeth. One daughter. I named her after my best friend.”
Frank nodded and returned to the dining chair.
“May I ask who found her?” she said. “Where was she all this time?” She gazed at him with searching eyes.
“A hiker at Buttermilk Falls State Park discovered her. She was buried in a shallow grave near a hollow log.” He paused for a moment, realizing how difficult it had to be to hear that. “Only bones now, you understand.”
“Of course,” she replied. Her voice faded off, and he watched her face as her mind wandered.
“Frank,” she said, then paused. “Is it possible to tell what happened to her?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s been too long. For some cases, such as gunshot wounds, we can sometimes perform ballistic analysis, but I’m afraid we may never know what happened to Libbie. You can try to help me find out as much as we can, though. Who knows what we might discover.”
She thought a moment.
“Libbie was an amazing girl. Everyone in town was in love with her. She was beautiful and she was
“Investigator,” he corrected her. “Conley,” he clarified, “but call me Frank.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Forgive me. Frank it is. And you must call me Olive.” Then, after a moment, she put the pieces together.
“Frank Conley? Are you one of Maude’s boys?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I’ll be. It certainly is a small world, isn’t it? I adored your mother. How is she these days?”
Afraid he might not be able to confess the truth for fear of breaking down, Frank said she was just fine, albeit with a lump in his throat.
She gestured to a dining chair and took a seat opposite. The dining room was an extension of the living room, compact and small.
“Let me get you a piece of cake,” she said. “Would you like some coffee? I just brewed a new pot.”
“I would love some,” he replied. “May I help you?”
“Of course not,” she said, obviously proud of her independence at her age. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
She shuffled off to the kitchen in the back of the house, leaving him to get a feel for her. The house seemed full of love and comfort. A huge 1940s-style dark green davenport dominated the north wall, and a pair of green tweed chairs of a lighter shade sat across from it. A hand-knitted afghan in multiple shades of green was slung over a sofa arm. Several occasional tables showing years of wear sat next to the sofa and appeared to have been climbed on by several generations of children and grandchildren. Cabbage roses decorated the draperies on the living room windows, now open to welcome the afternoon sun. A 1970s picture of a cat dangling from a tree branch encouraged, “Hang in there baby, Friday’s coming!” And a framed, cross-stitched version of The Lord’s Prayer hung nearby.
The mantelpiece was full of pictures. An old black-and-white wedding photograph from about nineteen twenty took center stage. The bride was a stunning younger version of the face in front of him, her hair a beautiful pale blond held back with an elaborate headband. Her dress was one of those vintage creations, and she held a huge bouquet of fancy flowers like lily of the valley. Her groom resembled many of the 1930s character actors he’d seen on the late late show, with dark hair, a strong jaw, and eyes of an undistinguishable color.
Near the wedding portrait were photos of children and grandchildren in baby pictures and group shots, in mismatched frames. It was obvious that they were much cherished.
Returning from the kitchen with two small plates of cake, she took a seat at the table. “My husband Arthur died in nineteen seventy-four,” she said in a voice tinged with sadness.
“How many children do you have?” he asked, pointing to one of the photographs that had caught his eye. “You have a very attractive family.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “Five. William, Calvin, Miles, Terry, and Elizabeth. One daughter. I named her after my best friend.”
Frank nodded and returned to the dining chair.
“May I ask who found her?” she said. “Where was she all this time?” She gazed at him with searching eyes.
“A hiker at Buttermilk Falls State Park discovered her. She was buried in a shallow grave near a hollow log.” He paused for a moment, realizing how difficult it had to be to hear that. “Only bones now, you understand.”
“Of course,” she replied. Her voice faded off, and he watched her face as her mind wandered.
“Frank,” she said, then paused. “Is it possible to tell what happened to her?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s been too long. For some cases, such as gunshot wounds, we can sometimes perform ballistic analysis, but I’m afraid we may never know what happened to Libbie. You can try to help me find out as much as we can, though. Who knows what we might discover.”
She thought a moment.
“Libbie was an amazing girl. Everyone in town was in love with her. She was beautiful and she was
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