some place like that, working
as dancers or waitresses or – well, you know what kind of a world we live in
these days, Mr McLean.’
‘Call me
Charlie,’ said Charlie.
Mrs Kemp
nodded, although Charlie wasn’t altogether sure if she had heard him or not.
She said distractedly, ‘I suppose what happened to the boarding house after
that was my fault, really. Every salesman who came here, I used to give him a
printed sheet with Caroline’s picture on it, and ask him to keep a look out for
her wherever he went. I suppose I used to carry on about her too much for most
people’s comfort. The regulars stopped calling by, and then the casual trade
fell off. I wanted to keep the business going, I did my best, but I wanted to
find Caroline even more, and that kind of affected everything I did.’
‘It seems to me
that a lot of young people have gone missing from Alien’s Corners,’ Charlie
remarked.
‘The sheriff
said that it happens a lot in backwater places like this. The kids get bored,
that’s what he said, but they know that their parents won’t let them go, not
voluntarily. So they run away, and that’s the last that anybody ever sees of
them. Not just children of Caroline’s age, neither.
Some of them
are not much more than nine or ten years old. Well, you’ve seen their pictures
on the Knudsen’s milk cartons. I used to look at them and wonder how any parent
could possibly let their child disappear like that. But it happened to me, too,
and all I can tell you about it is that it hurts a good deal, and that you can
never get over it.’
They talked for
a while about Caroline. Mrs Kemp opened up her rolltop bureau and produced a
handful of the printed pictures that she had distributed to her guests. Charlie
and Martin dutifully examined them. They showed a pretty fair-haired girl with
a snub nose and a wide smile. She could have been a cheerleader or a
roller-skating waitress at a drive-in soda fountain.
Underneath the
picture, a short appeal said, ‘MISSING, Caroline Hey ward, 17 years old. Last
seen Alien’s Corners, CT, 11/18 last year. 5’ 4$’ tall, slim
build. Wearing brown-and-white wool coat, brown wool
hat. $500 reward for information.’
‘Pretty girl,’
said Charlie, offering the flysheet back.
‘Keep it,’ Mrs
Kemp told him. ‘You never know, the way you restaurant
inspectors travel around, one day you might just find her.’
Charlie folded
up the flysheet and tucked it into his wallet. ‘Would it be too much to ask you
to put us up for the night?’
‘Of course
not,’ said Mrs Kemp. ‘I’d be glad to. I can give you the big room right at the
back, that’s the room I always used to give to honeymooners. Well – they
weren’t all honey-mooners.
“Romantic
couples”, that’s what I used to call them.’
‘I tried to get
to eat at that French place,’ said Charlie.
Mrs Kemp lifted
her head. In the lamplight, the dark circles under her eyes looked like
bruises.
‘What French place?’
she inquired sharply. So sharply that she must have known exactly what he was
talking about.
‘ Le Reposoir , up on Quassapaug,’ said
Charlie. ‘They seem to have quite a reputation around here.’
‘They’re not
the kind of people you’d choose to have as neighbours, if you had a choice,’
Mrs Kemp replied.
‘Oh?’ said
Charlie.
‘They keep
themselves to themselves, that’s all. They live here, but you couldn’t say
they’re part of the local community. They seem to do whatever they like,
though. They built a whole new wing on that house of theirs, up on Quassapaug,
and I never heard a whisper about zoning laws.
I talked to Mr
Haxalt about it – Mr Haxalt’s the chairman of our community association –’
‘Yes,’ Charlie
told her. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting Mr Haxalt this afternoon. I parked my
car in his sacred parking place.’
‘Well, then,
you’ll know what he’s like,’ said Mrs Kemp. ‘He’s an expert at giving folks the
brush-off. And
as dancers or waitresses or – well, you know what kind of a world we live in
these days, Mr McLean.’
‘Call me
Charlie,’ said Charlie.
Mrs Kemp
nodded, although Charlie wasn’t altogether sure if she had heard him or not.
She said distractedly, ‘I suppose what happened to the boarding house after
that was my fault, really. Every salesman who came here, I used to give him a
printed sheet with Caroline’s picture on it, and ask him to keep a look out for
her wherever he went. I suppose I used to carry on about her too much for most
people’s comfort. The regulars stopped calling by, and then the casual trade
fell off. I wanted to keep the business going, I did my best, but I wanted to
find Caroline even more, and that kind of affected everything I did.’
‘It seems to me
that a lot of young people have gone missing from Alien’s Corners,’ Charlie
remarked.
‘The sheriff
said that it happens a lot in backwater places like this. The kids get bored,
that’s what he said, but they know that their parents won’t let them go, not
voluntarily. So they run away, and that’s the last that anybody ever sees of
them. Not just children of Caroline’s age, neither.
Some of them
are not much more than nine or ten years old. Well, you’ve seen their pictures
on the Knudsen’s milk cartons. I used to look at them and wonder how any parent
could possibly let their child disappear like that. But it happened to me, too,
and all I can tell you about it is that it hurts a good deal, and that you can
never get over it.’
They talked for
a while about Caroline. Mrs Kemp opened up her rolltop bureau and produced a
handful of the printed pictures that she had distributed to her guests. Charlie
and Martin dutifully examined them. They showed a pretty fair-haired girl with
a snub nose and a wide smile. She could have been a cheerleader or a
roller-skating waitress at a drive-in soda fountain.
Underneath the
picture, a short appeal said, ‘MISSING, Caroline Hey ward, 17 years old. Last
seen Alien’s Corners, CT, 11/18 last year. 5’ 4$’ tall, slim
build. Wearing brown-and-white wool coat, brown wool
hat. $500 reward for information.’
‘Pretty girl,’
said Charlie, offering the flysheet back.
‘Keep it,’ Mrs
Kemp told him. ‘You never know, the way you restaurant
inspectors travel around, one day you might just find her.’
Charlie folded
up the flysheet and tucked it into his wallet. ‘Would it be too much to ask you
to put us up for the night?’
‘Of course
not,’ said Mrs Kemp. ‘I’d be glad to. I can give you the big room right at the
back, that’s the room I always used to give to honeymooners. Well – they
weren’t all honey-mooners.
“Romantic
couples”, that’s what I used to call them.’
‘I tried to get
to eat at that French place,’ said Charlie.
Mrs Kemp lifted
her head. In the lamplight, the dark circles under her eyes looked like
bruises.
‘What French place?’
she inquired sharply. So sharply that she must have known exactly what he was
talking about.
‘ Le Reposoir , up on Quassapaug,’ said
Charlie. ‘They seem to have quite a reputation around here.’
‘They’re not
the kind of people you’d choose to have as neighbours, if you had a choice,’
Mrs Kemp replied.
‘Oh?’ said
Charlie.
‘They keep
themselves to themselves, that’s all. They live here, but you couldn’t say
they’re part of the local community. They seem to do whatever they like,
though. They built a whole new wing on that house of theirs, up on Quassapaug,
and I never heard a whisper about zoning laws.
I talked to Mr
Haxalt about it – Mr Haxalt’s the chairman of our community association –’
‘Yes,’ Charlie
told her. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting Mr Haxalt this afternoon. I parked my
car in his sacred parking place.’
‘Well, then,
you’ll know what he’s like,’ said Mrs Kemp. ‘He’s an expert at giving folks the
brush-off. And
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