| Redbridge, Vermont™ by Justin Lacche Edited by Susan E. Locke |
Prologue
Billionaire philanthropist Jennifer K. Maxwell, great-grand daughter of Texas oil baron Conrad W. Maxwell,
sat in the middle of a circle of people outside a beautiful farmhouse in Redbridge, Vermont. She was
shivering from nerves as questions shot at her from all directions. “Jesus, this is harder than when I was
defending my doctoral thesis,” she thought.
The forty-eight-year old yoga practitioner felt sweat holding races from her forehead to her chin. Even her
black hair with jet white streaks in a ponytail became a heavy rope that was burdensome. For the first time
in 30 years, the slim and fit adventurer wanted a haircut.
The air was tough to get into her lungs, and it had nothing to do with the surroundings. Some of the purest
air in the world hovers around Redbridge.
“What is the worst thing you have ever done?” a woman asked; a woman who Maxwell up until this morning
had considered a friend and confidant. Maxwell took a deep breath. “If I lie once, I'm out,” she thought to
herself. Maxwell breathed deeply and began to talk before the questioner would have time to snap at her.
“I...I was 17. Seventeen years old. I was with my father in Manhattan and we walked by a jewelry store,” she
said dryly, which surprised her since her hands were trembling and she began to cry.
“I walked in for some reason.”
“Some reason?" the voice behind the billionaire asked.
“No, there was a reason,” Maxwell responded quickly, correcting herself back on the path of truth. “I wanted
to be cruel.”
“Go on.”
“I saw this young couple. I could tell they were middle class but were on their way up, so to speak. The man
was Caucasian, the woman was Hispanic. She was kissing him because he had just bought her the exact
diamond ring she wanted. It was simple, for my arrogance at the time, but pretty.”
Maxwell felt an interesting combination of nausea and freedom.
“I walked right up to man and asked him how much he paid for the ring. The woman, his fiancée, shot me a
look. It was a hell of a look. The man -- I think he was so overtaken in the moment -- said with pride, “three-
thousand-five-hundred and seventy-five dollars'. He enunciated every syllable.”
“My Dad walked in and chuckled. He had told me of this game he used to play and that he wished he had a
son to carry on the tradition. I was burning with jealously and pain," she said. “I looked at the woman but
talked to the man. I told him that my father would give him $75,000 right now for that ring, no questions
asked. I remember the high I felt at that moment eclipsed anything I ever felt in my young life. I have never
tried narcotics, but it is hard to imagine cocaine arousing the body as much as throwing the number I threw
out did to mine.”
Maxwell gulped. She felt all the eyes of the circle burning with disapproval around her.
“My father...my father took out his checkbook and told the man that if he accepted, he would return in fifteen
minutes with $75,000 cash. I jumped right in and said we would only accept one answer to make that
happen. Any questions or bargaining and we would walk out that door forever. I gave the man five seconds,
just like Daddy told me he used to do.” The filth of it all forced Maxwell's voice to finally crack.
“I remember my father coming back, never even thinking twice about leaving me in that god damn jewelry
store," she sobbed. “He was too caught up in the high of me losing my virginity to cruelty to even think
straight. My life at that moment became a collage of faces: my father's lustful grin; the engaged man with the
guilty smile of greed; the jewelry store owner's polite apathetic smile and the woman...her look into my eyes:
I knew she could have killed me without remorse at that very moment...sometimes I wish that she did.”
Sobbing and silence. Silence and sobbing.
A bird overhead, Eighty-first generation Redbridge resident, cried out. The circle clapped. Maxwell exhaled
slowly. She felt the voice behind her stand up and walk to her.
“Come on Jennifer. Let's finish this.”
Jennifer K. Maxwell was never seen again.
Chapter 1
Justin Walterovich sat in his gray office chair in the communal desk of reporters for the West Champlain
News-Times. The weather for December wasn’t all that bad: 20 degrees with scattered flurries plus Church
Street seemed cozy in itself with holiday cheer so who could complain?
Life was good for the veteran reporter, who had been with the paper since 1991, when he won an essay
contest entitled “Why Sea Monsters Are Good for Vermont’s Economy.” Since then, the writer/reporter had
his share of victories and defeats – nothing good enough to bring national award recognition; nothing bad
enough to force his hand at a letter of resignation or even worse, demotion to writing obituaries.
Walterovich exhaled slowly looking at all the pictures on his desk. His two favorites included a close-up of
himself and his wife Alessandra where her gorgeous smile lit up the glossy photo paper. The second had
the writer with his three-year-old daughter Tasha, the real head of the household. Walterovich chuckled. His
size made his wife and daughter look so very small. The words-man was 6-2, 230 pounds, with big
muscles and a tummy full of honey.
The reporter rubbed his freshly cut hair and marveled at the freedom of not having to put pounds of
hairspray or concrete in the morning. “I should have gotten this a year ago,” he whispered to himself, as he
spun 360-degrees in his tired chair.
A plain gray phone rang with three quick pulses. An internal call.
“Walterovich?” he answered placing the receiver under his left ear.
“I have a good story for you,” the woman said on the other end of line.
“I’ll be right up, Chief,” the reporter responded.
Walterovich knew that his editor Margaret Trevino didn’t mince words and if she said “good story”, it was a
pretty damn good story. The reporter noted that when Trevino sent him to the governor’s mansion the week
before, it was just for a “story” in which Governor Douglas announced that his desk lamp with a nude Greek
slave was going to be outsourced.
“Have another ‘story’?” asked Walterovich’s coworker Andrea Carmichael.
“Madame, I am pleased to announce I have a ‘good story’,” the reporter responded regally.
“No shit?”
“No shit,” Walterovich responded with glee.
He walked briskly to the stairs and climbed two floors to level five where Trevino sat on Mountain High. The
writer knocked twice. Trevino hung up the phone.
“Come in,” she said dryly. “Grab a seat and close the door. Make yourself comfortable.”
‘Yeah, I’m really comfortable, Margaret,’ the reporter thought to himself.
The editor could see by his facial expression that he was thinking something in the realm of Catholic school
smart ass, but she didn’t call him on it. The reporter dutifully obeyed, closed the old cherry wood door with
the big glass window, and sat down in one of Trevino’s classic black leather newspaper chairs of yesteryear.
“I got a good story for you and this one is an exclusive, so you need to get there ASAP and call in every
marker you have ever been saving,” Trevino said. The 51-year-old redhead with mahogany eyebrows always
squinted her green eyes when she had a chance to scoop the Free Press. It had become the true passion
of her life.
“Where am I heading to, Chief?” the reporter asked, in full information collection mode. His brain was
processing every word, sound, sight, and smell of the room. He ran his fingers over the leather of the chair.
“Your old stomping grounds,” she said with a smirk. “Redbridge.”
Walterovich sped out of the News-Times parking garage and headed towards the place of his birth. The
reporter had a beat up copy of Hocus Pocus by Kurt Vonnegut sliding around the dashboard. Walterovich
thought about taking it down, but somehow that didn’t seem appropriate.
As always, the reporter honked his horn when passing First Bank of Champy to salute his youngest brother,
Jason, and waived to the eldest of the three siblings, Jamie who had been demoted to traffic duty at the
intersection off the University of Vermont’s main campus (that story in itself would make an interesting book
someday). From there, it was rather smooth sailings.
Walterovich was fourth-generation Redbridge resident, by way of his mother’s side of the family. The
reporter’s mother, Sarah, and her younger sister, Lynne, spent their entire lives in that town, save their
research work and degrees in some of this country’s most challenging New England colleges.
Sarah and Lynne Colby were the daughters of Rachel and John Colby. Rachel was very strong with The Gift
and a marvelous person with stories to share around the campfire. Rachel Colby’s maiden name was
Chelsea, and her mother, Andrea came over on the boat with her family from Haugesund, Norway. Andrea
Chelsea was actually born Andrea Chelsaysen, but some lazy bastard at Ellison Island was having a bad
day and decided to shorten it.
That was the Redbridge bloodline and pedigree from which Justin Walterovich and his siblings descended.
Sarah Colby married Warren Curtis in the late 1960s and together they had three sons in the following
order: Jamie in 1973, the reporter in ’74 and little Jason in 1977.
By 1982, Warren Curtis has risen high enough in the banking world that he and the family moved to West
Champlain; a small move by mileage, but in some respects a whole world away. Lynne Colby, some years
younger than her sister, remained at the family’s farmhouse on the Old Road where she distinguished
herself as a student of geology. The younger Colby worked and worked and worked and was able to keep
the home in her family when her parents decided to retire to California.
Colby earned her PhD in Geology from the University of Vermont where she met and married her husband
Russell Boston in 1984. Boston, himself, had earned a PhD in International Studies and the couple
returned back to join a long line of PhDs who worked tirelessly to make Redbridge a wonderful and
mysterious community in which to grow and live. The couple had three children: Daniel, Abby and Ruth.
Walterovich grew up in West Champlain and then some place called Oregon, before returning to the Green
Mountain State to continue his development as a young man and aspiring writer. He himself had learned
much from the people of Redbridge - enjoying partial status as a descendant of full-time residents, while
having the luxury of disappearing to the big city when he felt too claustrophobic.
All and all, the reporter knew enough about Redbridge to know he didn’t know enough about Redbridge,
which made it all the more interesting when he got his story assignment from Margaret Trevino: Apparently,
a billionaire philanthropist had gone missing in town. The local authorities still hadn’t officially posted a
missing persons report, yet her family was convinced something had gone wrong.
“The Maxwell family has more money than New Hampshire and the missing billionaire in question has no
immediate heirs,” the editor had told the reporter. “She loves to hike and always carried a GPS with her. That’
s how the family knew she was in Redbridge.”
“So why don’t the authorities just follow the signal?” the reporter asked knowing there was obviously more to
this story.
“The signal disappeared,” Trevino replied, “As has, apparently, the billionaire Maxwell.” Walterovich’s next
question was how did Trevino find out about the missing billionaire in the first place? But he didn’t want to
ruffle his boss’ feathers too early in the game. The reporter knew the best play was to start on-site and work
from there.
Of course, saying "Redbridge" was like saying "America" without recognizing the histories and very distinct
nuances of each of her 50 states. Any passer-by could see there was a North Redbridge, a Redbridge
(sometimes called Redbridge Market) and a South Redbridge. There was no mystery; just read the road
signs. The art form was in understanding how completely different the three regions were at heart. It could
easily take a family four generations of living in any of the areas to even begin to understand the deepest
secrets that were unique amongst the three.
Walterovich was nowhere near that level of understanding, despite his lineage. At best, he fell within the
group that could see some of the layers of "Redbridge" itself. The reporter was still convinced that even
famed filmmaker Brian O. John truly didn't know every fundamental secret that the three Redbridges held.
But he sure made great movies.
The writer respected that, even before he would ever set foot in the County Sheriff's Office, he needed to
make peace with the powerbrokers in town. Walterovich didn't even turn into the Old Road as he continued
along the Highway. “I'll call them from Shelly's house,” he said to himself as he turned onto Lark Road.
Redbridge’s Shelly McGowan had been the Chair of the Selectboard for 12 years straight. Considering that
she was only 37 years old that was rather impressive by New England Town Meeting standards (or any
American representative standards for that matter.)
McGowan was a master architect, literally and metaphorically. Her husband, Pierce, loved to grow flowers
and was at best shy, at worst, a sufferer of a social anxiety disorder. It didn't matter. Shelly loved Pierce and
Pierce loved Shelly. She ran the show and shielded him from all public duty with the exception of eight hours
of booth work during the Annual Autumn Fair and an appearance at church for the Christmas Eve service. In
return, Pierce was excused from town politics. It didn't appear to matter any way. Every year, on the first
Tuesday in March, Shelly never failed to influence any vote in Town Meeting.
The reporter drove slowly up Lark Road out of respect for homeowner, child and pet. He was arriving
unannounced, which normally wouldn't be a problem with Her Honor, but under the circumstance of
possible bad press, she wouldn't appreciate it.
Walterovich wasn't stupid. He knew very well that his editor understood he wasn't a cut-throat reporter, and
that his very placid professional reputation actually got people in power to talk more on the record than they
would with the average robotic journalist. But the aforementioned reputation also made it harder for
Walterovich to get “the story.” His sources would always pull at his heartstrings when the shit was really
hitting the fan. The reporter always told himself that he would never dampen the story out of compassion,
but deep down he knew that wasn't true at all. It's a complicated world, this journalism thing. Walterovich
was far from a master of it.
The reporter turned left onto the McGowan’s long and steep driveway. He smiled at a flash memory of some
tourists from Long Island who got their sports utility vehicle stuck on the Old Road a few years back. They
started howling at the moon that it was high time to good people of Redbridge joined the rest of the
“civilized” world and paved their roads. The locals laughed. “That’s exactly why we don’t” was the general
whisper under feigned, yet believable, looks of compassion.
The hidden truth to understanding Redbridge was the fact that the people of town were actually much
smarter than the rest of the world, opposed to vice versa. For many years during his early development, the
reporter didn’t understand why his family and other old-school locals didn’t flash their savvy more openly.
The writer had mistakenly thought the townspeople were shy or even unaware of the perception that visitors
had about the inhabitants of the quaint little hamlet. As Walterovich rose in the newspaper business and
began to see, understand and experience power firsthand, it became very evident: Being underestimated
was a priceless commodity, especially when one wanted to control one’s surroundings and the visitors to it.
‘It’s funny how many layers of power are expressed in the makeup of a driveway,’ he thought to himself,
shifting to a lower gear.
The McGowan house was impressive. It was a perfect house, not so much by the standards that would be
worshipped in conventional home and garden magazines, but rather every single board, brick and copper
roofing was completely thought out and exactingly “McGowan”.
Three huge, peaceful, dogs lumbered over and slobbered all over Walterovich’s
slow-moving vehicle. Pierce lifted his head, smiled politely, and pointed with a shovel to a patch of cleared
snow where the reporter should park. The reporter obliged, opened the door, and marveled at the efficiency
that the dogs put mud and mucous all over his nice new navy blue work pants.
“Boys, relax,” the Chairperson said walking from around the back of the house. It was more of a token order.
Shelly couldn’t have cared less about Walterovich’s new navy blue work pants.
“Madame Chairperson,” the reporter said with a smile. It was a genuine smile and a genuine show of
respect, even though he considered himself a very good acquaintance and even a friend of Shelly’s. It was
Walterovich’s way of politely telling her that he was there on business.
“Come on inside; we’ll go through the mudroom,” she responded in kind. “Boys get down from there.”
The three mammoth canines were resting comfortably on the hood of Walterovich’s warm black Honda Civic
LX. None had any intention of moving any time soon.
Books. McGowan had some great books. She also had photographic memory. The running joke was that
Chairperson McGowan was Alex Trebek’s nightmare. Just about everyone in Redbridge had a great book
collection. It was so impressive that if the world’s libraries burned to the ground on any given day, one could
have an impressive, thoughtful and in depth collection just by going door to door around Redbridge.
Walterovich sat in a hand-painted red wooden chair, which was slightly uncomfortable to his tricky back,
although the Chelsea-made seat cushion was better than what most babies slept on.
“Tea is on the stove, help yourself,” the Chairperson said.
“I’m OK, thanks though,” the reporter replied politely. The truth was, Walterovich was thirsty, but didn’t want to
have to pee in the near future because he didn’t like asking sources to use their bathroom, in their homes at
least.
McGowan began to talk about some municipal issues the town was facing; the writer took in each word but
focused his sights mainly on the works on the perfectly polished cherry bookshelves: Marcia Hill, Phoebe
Stone, Joseph Citro, David Budbill, Katherine Paterson, Howard Frank Mosher, Jeffery Lent, Kathryn
Davis…the list went on and on and on.
“…but somehow I don’t think you are here to share with your readers in West Champlain our roadwork
improvements,” the Chairperson said coming to a pause. It was her invitation to the reporter to get to the
point.
“Your honor, can we talk off the record for a moment?” the reporter asked.
McGowan nodded, “Yes.”
Reporters, the world over at this point, would be screaming at Walterovich for affording his source the
chance to share without being published at that moment. Walterovich knew this and was given flack of this
method he employed from time to time. There had even been whispers that the reporter’s willingness to talk
with sources off the record more than was the norm had cost him the News-Times assistant editor position,
of which he was a finalist.
In truth, Walterovich didn’t call timeouts to make friends. He didn’t have a problem doing his job, but his
courtesy was meant to get deeper into the thinking of other people – experience showed him that
sometimes putting down the pencil opened up the book, so to speak. Of course that was a matter of debate
and opinion.
“Someone’s missing from town,” the reporter opened.
“I’ve heard…off the record,” the Chairperson responded, sipping her tea but making direct eye contact with
the newspaper agent.
“Did you know her?” he asked.
“No. I never have met a billionaire in my life, and to be honest, I am in no rush to do so. I only heard about
her because she apparently hasn’t phoned in to her private island and apparently her handlers are worried
about her,” McGowan said, blinking just the right amount of times to avoid being too confrontational.
Silence. A hand-made clock ticked dutiful in the background. Pierce could be heard humming to himself
outside. Walterovich breathed deeply and composed his thoughts.
“Shelly, is there a story here?” he asked the Chairperson.
She paused to think, sipping her tea and scrunching her eyelids slightly. “Maybe,” she responded slowly. “I’
m trying to find out myself. This may shock you Justin, but I don’t know everything that goes on our town. I
don’t think it is anything as juicy as foul play, but I’m not 100-percent certain.”
Walterovich processed everything then reached into his black cashmere jacket, took out a small green pad
and one of the nice new fancy pens his wife had bought for him. “Madame Chairperson, may I please have
comment on the record about what city government has been informed of the reported disappearance of
Jennifer K. Maxwell?”
“My office has only heard of this reported disappearance through the County Sheriff’s Office as a courtesy
since no Missing Persons Report has been filed at this time, or that is my understanding,” she said slowly
so the reporter could get each world exactly right. “I will say that I will authorize the use of the Redbridge
phone tree right now to make sure the whole town is alerted that Maxwell has yet to check in with loved
ones. I only pray that she is somewhere safe and will check in immediately to let her family know she is OK.”
Walterovich smiled a “thank you” smile, put the pen back in his pocket, read the quote carefully to make sure
he could read his own writing, and got up from the chair. “It’s nice to see you again, Shelly. If I miss you and
Pierce before the holidays, have a Merry Christmas,” he said, adjusting his coat collar.
“You too,” she said with a polite smile.
As the reporter was showing himself out he noticed a small Vermont Teddy Bear and pink baby rattle on a
table by the mudroom door. “Who’s the lucky constituent?” the writer asked.
“Ah, that would be future supporter Abby Blake. Mike and Tammy had a little one last night…well Tammy did
all the work, but you know what I mean,” McGowan said with a chuckle.
The reporter had gotten as far as opening up his cell phone as he coasted with his dog-dented Honda Civic
LX slowly down the McGowan driveway, but decided quickly not to call his family first. He felt embarrassed,
as if he were trying to come across as someone important with a cell phone, when all Walterovich really
wanted was to be lost and accepted in his hometown. He was still going to see them.
"I probably don't even need to call," he whispered, thinking of the fact that because a billionaire wasn't
returning her phone calls and the fact that he had driven first to the Chairperson's home, surely someone
already told the Colbys that their nephew was in town. The reporter turned up the road and rolled down his
windows. The air wasn't that frigid and he didn't mind the flurries. The tires crunched the snow and rock in a
soothing melody completely unique to any other winter road in New England.
As a child, Walterovich used to dig into and then hide in snow drifts on his aunt's property, staying there as
long as he could feel all of his fingers and toes. His mother gave the child freedom to roam, freedom to find
himself and observe his surroundings whenever the family spent time on "the farm". It was a priceless gift
and one that opened the aspiring writer to a hunger, which he never was able to or wanted to quench.
Walterovich was only 10 years younger than his aunt, and had clear memories of her as a little girl. The
reporter's daughter actually was growing to look much like the younger Colby. Funny how life has a way of
bring circles into an otherwise rectangular world. Walterovich always thought of his mother has having the
artist's mind and his aunt as the researcher and analyst. The two sisters complemented each other very
well, even when Sarah was a young mother in her 20s and Lynne was an adventurous child of 10.
The reporter was always aware that some of the members of his family had The Gift, although it had
skipped him completely. His grandmother was overflowing with it, his mom and aunt had it circulating
strongly throughout their respective mortal coils. As a child on a hand-made swing by the deep red barn
across the warm white farm house, the young writer would watch the reflection his aunt pushing him back
and forth from the kitchen window across the way. He looked up her to her like a young reporter does to a
veteran and decorated news editor: never all that close, but hanging on every word.
Walterovich hung a left at the mailbox which read: Colby/Boston. It was another steep driveway in another
Redbridge cell. Four generations of stories and intrigue were calling the writer home, and this time, on this
assignment, he finally felt completely welcomed. A large, lumbering black canine came out from the deck to
add slobber and paw prints to the writer's already muddied new navy blue work pants. “Serves me right,”
Walterovich mumbled under his breath.
His uncle popped to a window, smiled slightly and then promptly disappeared. Walterovich was able to look
through the kitchen window and see his mother was there for lunch with the family. “That's a nice surprise,”
he thought to himself.
The newsman's shoes crunched in the freshly packed snow. He looked at his aunt's house with reverence.
She and Russell had worked hard every day since they bought it from her parents, but in the past three
years had really made the house stunning.
All the new woodwork, kitchen, exterior, roofing -- everything, changed an 80-year-old family farmhouse into
a wonderful, standout, place to spend one's days. The "farm" had reincarnated to "the Colby House"
becoming a destination spot for the whole town.
"They worked for everything they ever had, Brianna," Walterovich said to the black dog that climbed on his
dented hood and was already fast asleep. "I'm happy for them. They earned it.
Walterovich walked into the Colby's mudroom and immediately noticed that early Phish was playing in the
background. "Mom are you branching out?" the reporter asked playfully. Sarah shrugged her shoulders as if
to say, “son, there's a lot about me that I bet would surprise you.” Her spoken words were much tamer.
“Ruth is showing us that her fourth grade class is 'way' more progressive than Juilliard. Those were her
words exactly," Sarah responded. The reporter looked over at his niece who winked back at him.
"Humph," Walterovich added. "May I please help myself to some coffee?" (He didn't mind having to pee in
his family's bathroom.)
"Sure, only 25-cents per cup," Russell said.
“Oh sure," the reporter responded with a chuckle pouring himself some caffeine.
Russell fired back another look saying, “No, actually I was serious. I'm keeping a tab going for you.” It was a
family full of non-verbal communication, that Colby clan. Since the reporter was on the clock, he felt obliged
to share as much. Such is the curse of being a small-town reporter: Guilt.
"I'm here, hopefully as the only reporter covering a story which, also hopefully, will have a quick and happy
ending," Walterovich said. "We know," his mother said. The answer for a quick moment seemed shockingly
odd, as if she had just said, "I used to date President Kennedy before I was married.” The reporter looked
from up the brim of his cup. “The phone tree," his aunt continued. “We were just filled in by Mary Sanders."
“Fine,” the writer thought to himself. “Besides, my Mom is too good to have dated JFK. (No disrespect to
the Kennedys.”)
“I'll be in town for a couple more hours and then back to the office," Walterovich said. “But I have three
vacation days coming up next week, so I'll bring the girls out. We'll have a nice time. This is good tea, who
makes it?”
“We ordered it from Carmam Brook Maple & Dairy Farm," Russell responded. “It was part of a gift basket
arrangement."
“Hmm..." the reporter acknowledged. “Let me ask you: Is there a story here with this Maxwell heiress? I don't
want to go around town ruffling a lot of feathers if this woman is in Paris or Beijing or something at this very
moment and just never got around to checking in at home."
Lynn stirred her tea. “I just hope that she is all right," she said. “We saw her twice: once at the library and
another time doing some research at the cemetery across from church. She seemed very polite. I went over
and introduced myself to her; she was sketching something from Clara Humbert's gravestone. Your mother
was with me. We exchanged hellos and went about our business. She never mentioned how long she
planned to be here in town."
The reporter quickly looked down as close as he could to his nose. It was a little trick he employed to see
how long the stubble on his face was getting. It was time for a shave.
“Did she say why she was in Redbridge?" he asked.
“She wasn't very specific but to be fair, nether were we," Walterovich's mother said. "She said something
about a research project she was doing. That was about it."
“Mom, do I need to shave?" the reporter asked.
“I don't know son, it's your face," she responded with a chuckle. "But the answer is 'yes' since you are
asking."
“So how long ago did you see this Maxwell person?" he continued, savoring the aftertaste of tea on his
tongue.
“About four or five days ago," his mother responded. “Actually, though, it was more like a week," Lynne
corrected.
After the chat, the reporter was stretching his legs and was no further than 200 feet when his cell phone
sang out. He looked at the caller ID and saw it was his editor.
“Walterovich."
“What do you have?" his editor ordered from digital Mountain High. “I have an exclusive with the Chairperson
and she..."
“What did she say?" Trevino asked cutting off her point-man.
“Listen Chief, I'll be happy to tell you, but if you are worried about keeping this under wraps until the next
edition, I should at least email you. You know, cell phones and all."
Silence.
“Good point," she said much calmer and even somewhat politely. “Why don't you get over to your aunt's
house and get on-line?”
The reporter turned onto the main road.
“They aren't home. I tried to call and I don't want to drive up there unless they answer, because they always
answer," Walterovich lied.
Silence.
“So what are you going to do?" the editor asked.
“I'll go to the library. If they are closed for whatever reason, then I will swing by Rachel's house for the keys. It
won't be a problem; I'm sure of it," he said.
“OK. If for whatever reason you can't get on-line, call me back in 20 minutes. No excuses."
“Sounds good, Chief," the reporter acquiesced, hanging up the phone.
Walterovich felt he was well within his moral high ground protecting his family from his work. Had he
conceded his conversation, Trevino would have used the quotes with or without the reporter's permission.
Perhaps it was hypocritical, but Walterovich was living in the real world. He didn't trust Trevino with his
family; it was as simple as that. It wasn't just Trevino actually. Walterovich didn't trust any journalist with his
family. He never did quite figure out if that was more of an indictment of himself or his profession.
“She's edgy. She's going to be high maintenance with this story," the reporter whispered out loud.
Walterovich talked to himself. He knew that it didn't look healthy, so he tried to be discrete about it. But the
writer valued the exercise; speaking words was very different than writing words. It was a whole different
profession in itself, yet in many ways symbiotic with journalism.
“Alright, so what do I have so far?" he asked himself. “Wait a second, I haven't even spoken with Winslow
yet." The reporter speed-dialed his editor.
“Yeah," she answered after the first half-ring.
“Chief, listen. I haven't even spoken to the sheriff yet. You’ve gotta give me some breathing room here.
Give me an hour. I'll call or email you with an update and it will be good." The writer paused and waited for
the barrage of anger.
“Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry," his editor said peacefully. “Drive safely. I'll talk with you soon."
The reporter mouthed, with an uncomfortable brow, “drive safe?" and "I'm sorry" as he hung up the phone.
He wanted to shower. Trevino was the icky relative that we all have, the one who when trying to be nice once
a year makes the rest of the family feel like they hadn't bathed in a week and went to a church social.
T'wasn't a good feeling.
“Jesus. Is she finally on medication?" he whispered to himself, quickly glancing down at his phone to make
sure it was turned off. Trevino did have the reporter by the pelotas.
The reporter pulled into a library parking area; one couldn't tell by the lighting whether or not the literary
haven was accepting new patrons. First, he had to make contact with County Sheriff Pete Winslow. The
reporter had Winslow's cell phone number as the lawman preferred to avoid all contact with reporters while
either he or the journalist in question was on the clock. Off the clock and off the record, Winslow was a rather
friendly fellow, to Walterovich at least. On the clock and on the record, the sheriff had issues with all
reporters, including the Redbridge native.
Pete Winslow had his reasons. It was December 24, 1987 and a then 17-year-old Winslow was finally going
to have the Christmas he always dreamed of. Winslow's mother at last had stood up to her abusive
husband and kicked him out of her family's third-generation Redbridge home. Carl Winslow wasn't Pete
Winslow’s biological father, but had come into the family's life when the boy was four. Winslow hadn't
wanted to take his step-father's last name, but his mom wanted to try and bring more unity to the family. It
didn't work.
Carl's drinking grew, as did his waistline, as did his credit card bills, as did his past due notices. Carl's
outbursts became physical in 1984 and the sheriff's office became very familiar with the
Winslow/Hutchinson home in South Redbridge. Winslow was too small then to stop his stepfather, but the
boy hit the weight room at Chelake High School and by his junior year was no one to be messed with. Even
more honorable was the fact the Winslow was a humanitarian. He never became the bully that his school
councilors feared was all but inevitable because of his poor home life.
On Halloween 1987, Carl came home from a four-day drinking binge and found the locks had been
changed. He broke one of the little front door windows and tried to manually unlock the door. He was
unsuccessful and decided to sleep right then and there in protest. The drunkard awoke to the Sheriff
himself, Daniel Murphy, who informed the unwanted stepfather that the owner of the house no longer
wished his presence on the property. Murphy served Carl divorce papers and a personal warning: Never
return to Redbridge.
It went easy - far too easy, actually. Winslow had asked his Mom to move in with her cousin in Randolph
until things settled down. She wouldn't budge.
“I understand how you feel son. But this is my home, and I am sick and goddamn tired of feeling unwelcome
or unsafe here."
Who could argue?
On Christmas Eve, Winslow was finishing his shift at the General Store when word came of an emergency
fire call. He didn't even have to wait to hear the address. In slow motion, the final act played itself out in vivid
poetry. Winslow's family was fine; they were all out of the house safely. Winslow's stepdad was being
arrested for arson. The home was burned down to the foundation. And a reporter from an area newspaper
was clicking close-up shots of Winslow's mother and writing down all of her grief and anger. It made the
morning edition, all of it, for all of the state to see.
Pete Winslow made himself three promises that day: one, he would become a sheriff some day; two, he
would never touch liquor; and three, he would never make a reporter feel welcome in his hometown. At 31,
Winslow had succeeded marvelously in all his life plans. Walterovich was not looking forward to the phone
call.
“What?" barked the sheriff. Walterovich almost dropped his cell phone. “Hmm, I guess I'm not the only one
with the fancy caller ID option,' the writer thought.
“Winslow, just hear me out," Walterovich pleaded.
“No!"
“Listen to me for just one moment. I..." “No! Justin. I'm busy."
Walterovich closed his eyes in frustration. “Winslow, I understand..."
“Then, you won't mind me hanging up on you and getting on with my work."
Walterovich shook his head. He respected Winslow and knew he was a good cop, but there was some
reasonable expectation on behalf of the press and the community to have some communication with its law
enforcement. Justified or not, it wasn't Sheriff Pete Winslow's
call to shut out the press. Still, there wasn't the time to go through all the right channels to put the squeeze
on the cop. Walterovich had to dig deep in the play book for this one.
“Pete listen to me goddamn it. I'm not back in my hometown trying to make my friends eat yellow snow. I'm
not asking you to sell out anyone or risk your job or ruin anyone or do anything that would make you
ashamed. I have a right to ask you a couple of quick questions and you have the right to say ‘no comment'.
But if I don't share with my readers that I at least talked to you on the record, they are going to unfairly think
that either I can't do my job or you can't do yours."
“Well Justin, I do my job so..."
“Either way, Pete," the reporter interrupted right back, “we'll be put in a bad situation for no reason. So just
help me out, and I'll go away until the Christmas party when the only question I'll ask you is if you want turkey
or ham.” (“Damn I'm good,” the reporter thought to himself.) Silence on the other end.
“You are going to read me this quote before we hang up, you got it?" the sheriff asked more calmly.
“Yes...of course," the reporter conceded.
“Our office now has reasons to believe that the disappearance of Jennifer Maxwell may be as the result of
suspicious causes. We are actively pursuing many viable leads. I will be holding a press conference at 9 a.
m. tomorrow morning, earlier if the situation warrants it. Until then, I am not at liberty to speak further on the
particulars of this investigation."
“Damn, this is good. He used the word ‘investigation.’ Something is going on,” the reporter thought to
himself, repeating the very words back he had scribbled on his note pad.
“Good, at least we know you can make a good secretary. I think that's your true calling, Justin," the sheriff
said with a chuckle. “Give my best to your family. Remember, Redbridge is your home." The sheriff hung up.
Walterovich didn't know what was more surprising, that Winslow actually helped him on the record or that
the sheriff gave a quote about the billionaire before the reporter even mentioned why he was calling. The
writer called home quickly; he wanted to leave a nice message on the answering machine for his wife. He
missed her, felt lost with out her, even a short car-drive away.
“Hey honey, it's Little Bird," the reporter said. “I miss you so much. I think I got a pretty good story here. I'll
keep you posted, but I think I am going to be here for a couple of hours more. I love you so much,
Alessandra. I know I don't make things easy for you or baby sometimes. I'll be better. I will. I love you. I miss
you. I love you so much. Talk with you soon."
The reporter took another long look at his wedding picture and then got out of the car and went to the library
doors. “This might be a good story," he whispered to himself. “Don't mess this one up, Justin."
The reporter opened the door. It stuck for a moment, but the library was in business.
“Stop the presses; here comes trouble," said Head Librarian Rebecca Moxley, in perfect library whisper.
“I come in peace," responded the writer, whispering in kind, holding his hands up with Leonard Nemoy
pacifism.
Moxley knew books; her comprehension of difficult subject matter was the subject of local legend. She never
knew why her brain absorbed literature at prolific levels, but for Moxley, it was a gift she wanted to share with
the good people of her hometown for the rest of her life...and theirs.
The first book that the librarian ever read completely on her own was “Ta Ta's Blue Wagon" by Gustav Ermer.
It was a gift from the young Moxley's great grandmother, Agatha. The four-year-old could project the plot
internally into seemingly three-dimensional characters so that the words jumped off the page and fueled the
story -- now her story -- in such a way that she could study every nuance of the brave little blue wagon.
Stunned parents, Sandra and Timothy Moxley, were at a loss when their middle child asked, "Why does the
blue wagon feel safe to go outside during the night?"
“Um..." her father replied.
“Well honey," her mother offered. "Um...why do you think?"
The toddler pondered the question. “Didn't they read this?” the toddler mused to herself.
“I think...I think that the blue wagon wants more from her life. The author paints a picture that the wagon has
a deeper sense of urgency to fill. The wagon is hungry, not hungry like I am for cake, but hungry to find her
true life's calling. Maybe that is why she pushes herself to go further and further every night. She wants both
her family and her career. I think it is admirable." Moxley's parents smiled polity and sat silently on the
family's new cream-colored couch.
The books guru started her college career at Champlain College, earned her AA in English and transferred
a whole 2,000 yards north to UVM where she earned her BA in English. The librarian finished the trifecta at
Middlebury with a MS in Library Science and promptly returned to Redbridge to run the exciting, newly
renovated library. The townspeople had taken an old local house and restored it to full glory complete with
gleaming hardwood floors, high ceilings and an atmosphere of culture, dignity and mystery.
Walterovich always thought that Rebecca would make a great reporter, but to be honest, upper
management would be too intimidated by her intelligence. The writer wasn't intimidated by women who
were smarter than he was; he married his true love Alessandra with full knowledge she was light-years
ahead of him. Walterovich liked to weave a good story, and one doesn't need to be a rocket scientist to do
that...or apparently, as he was finding out, a billionaire oil heiress from Texas.
The Redbridge Library had six new computers, spread over two rows, updated with DSL Internet service.
Walterovich went and sat down by Dylan Ryan, the second of six children of Pastor Paul Ryan and his wife,
Karen. Dylan was the reporter's protégé in weightlifting. The young Ryan was three weeks away from
celebrating his 17th birthday and was quite a different man from the year before, for all the right reasons.
Dylan was a book worm, and never minded his thick black glasses, large intellect and willingness to think
on his own. He loved listening to his father's sermons and felt he was in a nurturing home that he could
openly discuss faith without the fear of negative repercussions. The young Ryan never felt the pressures he
had heard from contemporaries in homes with a father or mother as a church leader. He had his own
thoughts about the meanings of things but enjoyed working for a higher power and found there was plenty of
the room in the universe for religion, science, puberty and the Boston Red Sox, especially since they
reversed the curse.
The only one true wrinkle in things was that Dylan kept on getting beat up by high school bully, Quinn
Conner. The young Ryan had once gone to his parents, back he was 10 or 11, and shared that Conner had
hit him. The Pastor drove right over to bully's house and confronted the boy and his father. Dylan was in the
car and remembered hearing the elder Conner shout that he was going to get the Pastor fired and he was
no longer welcomed on his property.
Nothing ever came of it, but Pastor Ryan shared the story that Sunday with the congregation. Dylan
understood his dad had to do it, but the boy felt so humiliated nonetheless. His father had stuck up for him
and in the process had suffered tremendous embarrassment. Dylan vowed to never bring home dirty
laundry again.
Quinn Conner, of course, was so energized by his family's apparent victory that he made Dylan's life as
miserable as possible all the way through elementary school and into high school. Dylan had grown taller
and more confident, or at least at peace, and the shorter Conner had smartened up to at least only throw
verbal insults by their respective sophomore years.
Walterovich was in town that year with his wife and daughter for the town's Christmas party. The young Ryan
had just suffered an embarrassment of Conner telling Dylan's girlfriend about how weak the Ryan family
was. It happened in front of all the kids during homeroom. Dylan was pissed and had had enough. He was
also seasoned enough to know the art form of getting revenge without throwing one's life away.
“Justin, I have been living at the mercy of a terrorist for many years now; a class bully who is hell bent on
bringing me nothing but pain for the rest of my life here," Dylan had said in a determined whisper by the non-
alcoholic eggnog. “I want to be big like you, but I have tried for the last six months to lift weights. I get toned
but no significant change. What's your secret? Steroids?"
The reporter could hear the pain in his neighbor's voice. He took him aside. “No Dylan, I don't use drugs,"
the reporter said. “Let me tell you a little secret, it is the Holy Grail of weightlifting."
The young Ryan's pupils expanded; he believed with all of his heart that relief was finally coming.
“Dylan, the Holy Grail of weightlifting is the legs. If you do nothing else, lift twice as hard, twice as long with
your legs. Always start your workout with your legs, no matter what. If you have to ignore upper body that day,
so be it, but never, ever skip your legs." Dylan looked confused.
“Give it four months Dylan, and buy my daughter a Red Sox t-shirt as a thank you," the reporter chuckled,
returning to the party.
The young Ryan couldn't even wait until morning. He left the party early and went to the parsonage’s one-
room weight room and lifted a variety of leg workouts until he literally had to crawl across the hallway into his
bedroom.
Dylan had a swagger by the time school re-opened and within four months had the build of a heavyweight
boxer. A title contender at that. The Pastor said nothing, except to compliment his son's work ethic. Deep
down the elder Ryan thanked his Lord for the gift given to Dylan.
As for Quinn Conner, well, he got held back his sophomore year. Dylan never fought him, but gave him eye
contacts that spoke volumes. There was a sweet measure of revenge, though when, despite Dylan's busy
schedule, he went out for baseball the next year, just like Conner.
There was something beautiful about Dylan Ryan taking Quinn's starting spot. The cheers in the crowd were
more punishment than an ass-whopping from the young Ryan would have ever accomplished. Ryan's
parents attended every game, and wore pins that read, “Our son is #38.” Dylan thanked his God every night
and promised to give the gift back to the community.
“Howdy, Dylan," the reporter said, logging on to the Internet.
“Good to see you Justin," the baseball standout said. “Wish you were in town under better
circumstances." Walterovich stopped his typing for a moment and turned to look at his protégé.
“I have something to tell you Justin," the son of a preacher man said. "It's about that billionaire from Texas."
In less than two seconds, the writer's mind went over every possible option:
‘What if Dylan is involved in some foul play? You’ve gotta get this story. You will make assistant editor. You
deserve this.'
‘Tell him to stop talking and get a lawyer.'
‘Take down everything he has and then call over his father.'
‘Tell him to go to Winslow.'
‘This isn't your problem. You are a reporter. Do your job, Justin. You've already gone way too easy on this
town.'
‘Screw the job. Save the boy. Get him a good lawyer.'
“Dylan, listen to me. I'm going to drive you to your folks’ house, and then I want you to call the Sheriff," the
reporter said. “Don't say another word."
The young Ryan smiled. It was nice to actually know that Walterovich looked out for his own, even when he
was on the clock. “I have already talked with the Sheriff, and my Dad was there," the baseball star said. “Now
I want to talk to you and your readers. It's the right thing to do. I have nothing to hide."
‘Jesus, this is good. The kid has something. What the hell are you saying, Justin? This is Dylan for
Christ's sake. Put down the notebook and get him to his parents. What the hell is he doing in the library
anyway?'
“Dylan, humor me. Let's go to your folks. I'll listen to what you have to say then. You know I'm an old guy.
When you turn 30, you'll understand," the reporter said with a chuckle trying get a quick 'yes' from his
protégé. Dylan nodded and they both left the library. Rebecca looked up from a book on Greek cooking she
was feigning reading.
‘Shit, she heard everything,' the reporter mused. ‘I wonder if head librarians are sworn to secrecy?'
It was hard for Walterovich to drive slowly up Hoyt Hill Road to Dylan's maternal grandparents where he said
the Pastor and his wife were having lunch. The writer's heart was beating like a sprinter (how's that for a
metaphor?), he was wondering what the young
Ryan was thinking. Dylan was looking forward and breathing slowly.
Walterovich usually could read people well, especially people he knew. The reporter was clueless as to
what secret this preacher's son was holding. Simple, but clean and proud cars were parked on both sides
of the driveway. Dogs starting barking.
“I swear to god, if another dog dents my car, I'm going to sue the entire town," Walterovich whispered. Dylan
laughed.
“I should stop talking to myself; it never looks good," the reporter confessed.
“Don't worry, Justin, the town knows you mean well," the young Ryan replied.
“I don't know, Dylan," the writer said getting out of the tired black Honda. “The older I get, the less I truly
seem to understand."
The reporter questioned why he sounded so old when he still felt so young.
‘People respond to it,' his consciousness countered.
‘Sources trust a grandfather more than an aspiring punk. It's Murrow's Law.'
The door opened and Pastor Ryan walked slowly out. He looked like he had been crying.
Pastor Ryan wasn't always “Pastor Ryan.” For his first 22 years on the planet - and more importantly in
Redbridge - he was Pauly Ryan, or Jim and Karen's miracle son.
Pauly was born when Jim was 45 and Karen 44, respectively. Today, that still is considered special, but
back in 1957 it was enough to make the newspapers. The Ryans were a farming family, third generation
Redbridge, who specialized in dairy. Pauly was a small child who work long hours and had to be asked by
his parents to quit working and come back to the house for supper. Both encouraged their son to read and
think and instilled in the child at an early age the expectation that he should go on to college...on his own
dime.
“We didn't wait all of these years just for another farm hand," Jim Ryan used to say. “You changed our lives,
son; go forth and spread your gift to others."
Pauly didn't find out until he was 15 that his mechanism for spreading his gift would be through his faith.
The 1963 Fair was the first year that Tom C. Lowell chaired the event, and the Blystones sold their interest in
the General Store to fellow Redbridge natives Ken and Samantha Potter. These two events became
important, albeit indirect, catalysts in Pauly Ryan eventually becoming Pastor Ryan.
Lowell had wanted to make the Fair more inclusive to the “younger generation" in light of the “changing
world we all live in" and named Pauly chair of the newly-formed youth committee. Pauly's job was to create
a time capsule in which attendants under the age of 18 could leave some keepsake, memento or letter and
have sealed for the next 25 years. To this day, the Pastor doesn't know what Lowell saw in him to have
made the boy stand out, but a thank you letter was the first item Pauly placed in the capsule just outside of
Floral Hall.
The Potters had been equally and as pleasantly surprising by donating $50, a fortune to most any teenager
in the United States back in 1963, towards supplies and the booth signs for the time capsule. Pauly had
heard some whispers that Potters were just trying to get the early lead at part-time help from the local teen-
aged workforce, but he felt in his heart that the Potters wanted simply to inspire a sense of thought and
purpose amongst their young neighbors.
Either way, Pauly was going to make every penny count.
Pauly was a realist. You had to be one, working on a farm. There was plenty of hope in Redbridge. There
was also plenty of snow in the winter and plenty of work - spring through fall.
So the newly appointed youth chair had modest expectations about the amounts of participation on the time
capsule. It wasn't an indictment on his friends; youth just sometimes is truly wasted on the young.
The first day of Fair didn't start until 8 am, but Pauly was with other Fair officials two hours early making sure
their respective stations were just perfect. It was on a Thursday, so many locals still had to navigate
between at least partial workdays and Fair. Pauly's Dad took the time to load all the supplies into the
battered pick up truck and set up directly at the site. After about 20 minutes, the elder had to return to feed
the animals. Pop Ryan hugged his miracle son. “I'm proud of you, son. I'm real proud. Good luck today.” The
farmer limped slightly back towards the car.
“Dad...”
The father stopped and turned around. He had read many faces during his hard life and the one on his son
showed self doubt.
“Son, during the heart of the great depression, I had to drop out of school and go to work in Barre cutting
granite blocks the size of those you read about in those pyramids in Egypt. I was at peace with it, really. I
wanted to help out my folks and my sisters anyway I could. But that morning that I left, I realized it was
literally the first time I was going to go outside a seven-mile circle around Redbridge. I was scared. I felt
naked, you know? I felt like I was this tiny little bug in a rain storm and there was no hope of surviving. My
Dad looked at me; he looked straight at me, like I am you and said this: ‘Son, I know I never brought you a
better life, but for what it's worth, you are never alone. Your mom and I are always with you and every day, we
say thank you for you making our lives so much better'.
The farmer turned back towards his truck and went back to work. As for Pauly, he realized at that moment
that he wanted to be that Dad to the whole community. The first seeds of Pastor Ryan were born.
Walterovich had a hard time telling if Pastor Ryan was relieved or exhausted. The church man always kept a
good poker face. ‘That's the wrong way to put it,’ the reporter thought. ‘This man has devoted his whole life to
Redbridge. He deserves better than that, certainly from you, Justin.'
“He hasn't said anything to me, Pastor," Walterovich said assuringly. “I was hoping we could all talk
together."
The church man stood there expressionless, propping himself against part of his porch.
“Dylan, come inside," the pastor said respectfully but without room for discussion.
“Dad, I have a right to speak on this. People are going to find out. This isn't a secret anymore. It's over."
The pastor took a deep breath. He looked to be in the middle of an epic struggle. “Son, come inside, right
now."
The father said again with more an air of command and authority. Walterovich knew he was seeing his story
slip out his very grasp.
“Dad, if you just think for a moment..."
“Dylan get inside the house!" the pastor howled.
Walterovich and his protégée stopped. Birds in the area ceased to sing. An echo of the pastor rang out in
more faint but expedentially haunting, pained and angered pitches. The boy walked briskly into the house.
As did Walterovich's best source. As did the West Champlain News-Times award-winning story.
Pastor Ryan coughed, and the reporter expected the church man might collapse on the porch. When Dylan
walked by, the church man went to pat him of his shoulder. Walterovich knew the teen would slight his
father, but remarkably, his protégée accepted the non-verbal apology.
‘They are that close of a family,' the writer mused.
Ryan turned and gently closed the door. Walterovich stood by himself at his car door. He was at a complete
loss at what he should do next.
Eventually, the reporter made himself drive back to the library. His pride was wounded. Walterovich didn't
mind helping his town -- he never saw a problem with that – but something felt either humiliating or
irresponsible about leaving the Ryans without any comment or explanation at all. Walterovich knew that had
his boss known of what had transpired, he would have been fired on the spot, and the reporter would have
to agree with it.
‘But she doesn't know, so I can still make good on this.'
It appeared that Walterovich was ready to do his job after all.
He parked in the same spot at the Redbridge Library and walked in to the surprise of Rebecca who started
talking a little too loudly on the phone before hastily hanging up. 'She's either a really bad liar or a great
poker player,' Walterovich thought to himself.
He sat down at a computer, but this time it was one seat over - the same terminal that Dylan had been in no
longer than 15 minutes before. ‘Let's see if Rebecca is in on the conspiracy,' he thought dryly. ‘Hmmm. I
really am in a foul mood.'
Walterovich clicked on the Internet icon; the home page of the library popped up after a few seconds. The
reporter dragged the mouse to “view”, “explorer bar” and then “history". A long list of websites popped up in
reverse chronological. The latter came from Dylan, unless Rebecca somehow pulled a fast one. Walterovich
wasn't quite sure if anyone else had preceded the young Ryan. ‘Hey, it's a lead,' Walterovich thought, quietly
taking his small notepad and pen out of his cashmere jacket.
__________________________________________________
Today
__________________________________________________
West Champlain.news-times/news
texas-oil/reports/family_tree
vermont_mysteries/disappearances
sports.Red_Sox/fan_mail
email_password/login
st.augustine_center/chat
West Champlain.news-times/birth_announcements
fbi.gov
kidnapping_center/millionaires
lindberg_history/case
christmas_gifts/vermont
Redbridge_public_library
The reporter copied down all 12 entries and debated, internally, whether or not to erase the history. He felt
bad suspecting his neighbors now, and had nothing against what Pastor Ryan had done. Walterovich would
have down the same, but the reporter felt a sudden energized need to be more true to his profession, or at
least his colleagues. He erased the history and quickly and randomly clicked on some Vermont and local
web sites to at least make it somewhat believable if the librarian or anyone else went to check what the
reporter had seen.
“Well, this is at least more interesting than covering stories about nude lamps at the governor's mansion,"
the writer whispered logging off. “Take care, Rebecca," he said, in a library whisper. The librarian smiled
politely and then went back to her books.
The little voice nipping at the reporter finally was able to articulate itself as soon as he sat down in his
worn and used black Honda Civic.
“You never emailed your boss. Damn it,” the writer hissed. “How much do I just not need this?"
Walterovich mulled going back into the library for the third time in 17 minutes and it just didn't seem that the
smooth first option to choose.
“What to do? What to do?" the reporter mumbled. His cerebral Rolodex started flipping through mug shots
and thumbnails. “Ah," he mused after 42 seconds. The reporter fired up the steel carriage and headed for
some lunch.
***
Andi's was the famed restaurant started by fourth-generation Redbridge resident Anastasia Thetford who
succeeded in melding some of her favorite staple dishes as well as an ever changing menu that brought
the world to the taste buds of her local neighbors. Walterovich had known Thetford for years, and asked the
Chef if she would attend and also cater his wedding. She graciously agreed to both and all 32 attendants to
Justin and Alessandra's wedding have been recounting each morsel ever since.
She also has an impressive computer set up to keep both a professional web site and for work with fellow
colleagues from the world's most famous kitchens. The reporter had no favors to call in the food master, so
he would have to beg. “Look, at this stage of the game, who has room for pride?" he asked, turning into the
eatery's slender parking lot. As he exited his vehicle, the writer saw two cats -- one black with a white belly
and the other orange with a white-striped crooked tail climb onto the hood of his ride. Walterovich chuckled,
“I'll take them over dogs any day.”
The reporter went up to the window of the restaurant, cupped his hand over his eyes and looked in. The
winter air made him shiver for a moment. “It's pretty full.” Thetford had one of her employees put down a
table to accommodate the patrons to her restaurant. “There's never an empty table at my place,” she was
quoted as saying in a recent food review in which her restaurant was named one of the top 10 “must eat”
locations in Vermont.
Walterovich couldn't even get a word in when he walked inside. Two young employees, no more than 22
years of age, literally jumped over the counter, grabbed a small, round cherry table from the side, and
ushered the reporter to the best possible angle to view the new artwork and impressive aesthetic Feng Shui
layout of Andi's. The writer could have sworn he actually was collapsed into his chair and marveled how the
three large ice cubes dove, without a splash, into a narrow and tall glass of lemon-flavored ice water. ‘10.0,
10.0, 9.5,' he thought. ‘Those damn East German judges.'
Both employees stood in military attention waiting for the customer to speak. “Um...may I please speak to
Andi...when she has a spare moment?” They nodded and disappeared into the famed kitchen of the master.
Thetford walked out of her kitchen doors more as President Thetford with Secret Service agents who were
ready to slice and dice any shallot that came her way.
“Justin, I don't do interviews anymore. Being hard to reach makes my work more in demand,” she said with
a chuckle. “Good to see you. How can I help you? I have a week's worth of preparation and only two hours
and 37 minutes to complete it in. You are going to have to get to the point."
The reporter nodded. “Andi...can you lose the security for a moment? No disrespect,” he said. The artist's
handlers each shot the writer a look, and then made themselves useful without even needing to wait for
Thetford's command. ‘Now that's help,’ Walterovich thought to himself.
Thetford made direct eye contact; she heard the sands slipping away the hour glass. ‘This had better be
good,’ she thought.
“It's like this Andi: I need a private Internet source for today and most likely into the early morning hours. I
have an important story and I can't use the library because it will tip people off, and I can't go to my aunt's
because I don't want to get them involved. I'll give you $250 right now if you will let me walk in and out of your
office without explanation to use one of your free computers. I won't erase anything or save anything...I'll use
my e-mail account with the paper, so there will be no trail on your computer.”
Thetford took one deep breath. “I'll tell you what Justin: I'll rent you the computer for $1 as long as you order
the edible Japanese flowers with the handmade truffles flown in from the hands of Norway's princess Mette-
Marit who made them no later than 11 hours ago."
“Done!” fired back the reporter who felt an especially sincere sense of gratitude to the food artist who
wouldn't take his money at his hour of need.
Thetford turned and marched back to the kitchen. Walterovich looked down and the hand painted menu with
gold leaf.
Today's special: Edible Japanese flours with Truffles by Her Majesty, Crown Princess Mette-Marit...$303
(beverage not included).
The reporter slumped over in his chair. The chef grinned ear to ear, although she wouldn't turn to show
Walterovich, as a professional courtesy. Life always happened in Redbridge a lot faster than most
observers realized, (until it had already happened.)
Anastasia Thetford grew up in a home where food grew naturally behind the barn, and everyone worked
towards excellence for the simple joy of excellent work. A vegetarian by six, the young chef drew strength
early on with the positive non-verbal cues from immediate family, visiting relatives and guests to the home
who nearly licked the plates clean from her creations du jour.
Thetford’s passion for the art grew and by the age of 10 she began keeping a cooking journal with her
recipes, notes, sketches, and interpretations of each of her patron’s reactions to both specific ingredients
and its preparation.
June 7, 1994
Uncle Hugh and Aunt Karen came over for Saturday brunch. I wanted to surprise them with something light
that could also serve as a full meal if they wanted their fill. I baked two loaves of Russian winter wheat
bread; the crust was nearly rock-solid while the inside was so soft you could rest your face on it and fall
asleep in two minutes. I wanted a meaty olive spread, obviously without the meat. Mom took me down to the
COOP in the morning and we picked up some special-order queens, manzanillas, hojiblancas and natural
blacks. At home, I added some garlic, shallots and a few chickpeas for firmness.
When I called everyone in for lunch, I had the warm bread, the spread and a plate of Brillat Savarin already
on the table. Aunt Karen smiled politely. She is rarely a big-portion eater. Uncle Hugh was visibly
disappointed. I was tempted to offer some explanation but I remembered what Master Chef Raul Z. Martin
told us at Cooking Super Camp:
“A true Chef only apologizes for being so gifted.”
I offered “bon appetite”, and we began. I didn’t focus on my folks or sisters because I have years of research
on them. My eyes gently glazed over Aunt Karen and Uncle Hugh. Aunt Karen actually closed her eyes as the
warm bread and soft Brillat Savarin made contact with her pallet. It appeared she was having a conversation
with someone very special to her, and soon she made no effort to reopen her eyes at all, only doing so
when she wanted another thin slice of winter bread and its cheese accessory.
Uncle Hugh went right for the bread and olive spread. I could tell he was skeptical, not of the good taste – he
trusted me with that – but with the ability of an apparently small portion to fill his ever-growing belly. By the
second bite, Uncle Hugh was singing some impromptu blues song softly and rocking side-to-side much
like Ray Charles. Uncle Hugh began singing “Georgia…Georgia…” by the second slice of bread, although
he stopped there. (I don’t think he knew the rest of the song.)
There were still two slices and some olive spread left when Aunt Karen went outside for a cigarette (I never
knew she smoked) and Uncle Hugh crawled on our couch and went to sleep for the rest of the afternoon.
All in all, I’d say the meal was a keeper.
A.T.
To: editor@WestChamplain.news-times.com
From: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
____________________________________________________
Chief,
I'm sorry I am running a little behind. I am in Redbridge and have found a secured line that I trust to send
and receive emails. I’ve picked a private site that isn't connected to the library or my Aunt's, just because I
want to write in peace without having someone looking over my shoulder. I need to keep the location private
at the request of the provider.
But enough about my secret hiding place, here is what I have so far: Again, I am writing more for speed than
for anything printable at the time, but if you want me to start sending you actual drafts, let me know. Just
send a text and voice message to my cell with the number “12” and I'll know you want me to check my email
ASAP. Also, please use this email address as opposed to any other, because we know the News-Times
mail has strong encryption and security features.
So far, this is the general spirit of what I have:
Redbridge Officials Search for Missing Billionaire
by Justin Walterovich
West Champlain News-Times
REDBRIDGE – Selectboard Chair, Shelly McGowan authorized the use of the Redbridge emergency phone
tree today to ask local residents to help locate the whereabouts of billionaire Texas oil heiress, Jennifer K.
Maxwell.
Maxwell, last seen in Redbridge, failed to return phone calls to family and business associates earlier
yesterday morning. Although it still is too early for an official Missing Persons report to be filed, the situation
warranted immediate attention, McGowan said.
“My office has only heard of this reported disappearance through the Sheriff's Office as a courtesy since
no Missing Persons Report has been filed at this time, or that is my understanding,” McGowan said. “I will
say that I authorize(d) the use of the Redbridge phone tree...to make sure the whole town is alerted that
Maxwell has yet to check in with loved ones. I only pray that she is somewhere safe and will check in
immediately to let her family know she is OK.”
Sheriff Pete Winslow confirmed that the local phone tree had been employed and called a special press
conference 9 a.m. this morning (date of publication) to share what he described as “important
developments” in Maxwell's disappearance.
“Our office now has reasons to believe that the disappearance of Jennifer Maxwell may be as the result of
suspicious causes,” Sheriff Winslow said. “We are actively pursuing many viable leads. I will be holding a
press conference 9 a.m. (today), earlier if the situation warrants it. Until then, I am not at liberty to speak
further on the particulars of this investigation.”
Multiple members of the community told the News-Times that they saw Maxwell in passing during the last
week, including famed chef Andi Thetford.
“I met a woman who identified herself as Jennifer Maxwell about four days ago at the Redbridge Library,”
Thetford said. “She said she was in town on holiday as well as doing some research for a book she was co-
authoring. We didn't talk much, but she seemed polite and relaxed...I hope that she is OK and will check in
with loved ones soon.”
...that's what I have as far, Chief. I'll keep you posted. I did get some digital pictures of Maxwell from the
sheriff's office, which I am including as an attachment to this email.
Walterovich
PS. I had to use the company credit card to charge lunch. It was pricey, but you need to understand that I am
on duty and have to blend in somewhat. It's for the good of the story.
Trevino had a nice view from her News-Times office. She was well aware of the resentment that most of her
subordinates had felt for her move two floors up, but there was a very legitimate reason. ‘I can’t stand any of
you,’ she always thought with a crocodile smile when having to slum down in the newsroom. ‘The smell of
reporters is repugnant. I want to shower every time I am within three feet of any of you.’
Her office phone rang. Outside caller. “Trevino,” she said bluntly. “So what have you found out so far?” the
prissy, southern, raspy, male voice said on the other end
“Well, I just got the first email from my reporter…”
“Email? Why the hell are you allowing a paper trail?”
The editor chuckled a ‘why don’t you shut up for a second and let me finish, you rhubarb?’ chuckle. “Well you
see, in fact, that is the most secure mode of communication…at least for us simple folk up here in Vermont,
or was it New Hampshire?” she replied now with bourbon venom. “I hope you aren’t making your
mysterious and cryptic phone calls from a cell phone. You never know what enemies might be getting an
early read on the story.”
The cellular knives were digging into the southern gentleman’s back. Trevino loved every syllable of her
punishing monologue.
“Listen you… you…” the southerner was trying to return serve without crossing lines of no return.
“No, you listen to me you confederate, robber baron and listen good, because unlike you, I have a real job to
do here,” Trevino hissed. “Our deal was that we would get you the early lead on any information on poor little
Jennifer and her term paper and that is what I am delivering. In fact, if you would put down your titanium
cappuccino cup for a moment, you will notice that I forwarded you what Walterovich has sent me so far. Now,
if you want to terminate our deal, that’s fine. I’ll keep your very generous down payment and consider it a tax
for having to listen to your backwater, sheltered, ignorant, scratchy voice. Or, you can let me have my little
circus monkey go to work in his hometown and we can all go to sleep happy. I don’t care. Now I’m hanging
up because I have to proof the sports special insert. Good bye.”
“Wait…wait.. I…”
Trevino slammed the receiver down and turned slowly to watch holiday shoppers scurry amidst the flurries
and holiday lighting.
“I love my job,” she said with soft confidence. “I truly am the master of my own destiny.”
Over the new Dell computer in Thetford's private office sat an octagon window with a stained glass pictorial
of the old church in town. Walterovich gazed out as fellow neighbor Dr. Karen Procter walked by at close
range: her coloring changing from green, to white, to red, back to green again.
The reporter had written one of his better feature stories on the fifth-generation Redbridge resident who
dedicated her life to studying Spanish history. Dr. Procter's partner of 19 years, Dr. Anna Helton (from the
Kingdom of Pennsylvania, as she often said) was an ethnographer working for green companies trying to
increase profit without lowering their respective souls. Or so they said.
“Why Spanish history?" the reporter had asked Procter once during a past holiday pot luck at the church. The
conversation was off-the-record, but became an early seed to the future published three-part feature.
“My father was Spanish, a Spaniard by birth, and a very hard man to please,” she said, holding her Anna's
hand for a moment before Dr. Helton vanished to try some of Fay Jenning's macaroni salad. “My Mom's side
of the family obviously was from Redbridge many times over. Dad never said it, but I think he always felt a
little bit of an outsider.”
“Why? Locals embrace anyone once they either get married, have a life-commitment ceremony or a kid with
a Redbridge resident," Walterovich said quite innocently.
Procter smiled. “Well, Justin, I think that is a tad idealistic, but I agree that this town generally is very
welcoming to people who make a commitment to pour their souls into the soil, so to speak,” she
responded. “I think that for Dad, Redbridge was everything he wanted to be as a person: hard working,
strong, vibrant, secretive, safe and complicated. Dad worked as hard as anyone but I think his upbringing
back in Spain forced him into a box that he never was able to release himself from until the very end. I'll give
you an example: When he painted, I could see that he wanted to capture bolder characters in controversial
colors, but he always talked himself down to a safer level.”
“Karen, I am far from an art dealer, but your Dad's works seem very powerful to me."
“Well me too, and thank you, but I could see from the rafters up in the barn -- that's where Dad did his work
six or seven months out of the year -- that he had a wonderful, mysterious story to tell,” she said. “I created
this fantasy scenario where Dad was a member of a secret society like da Vinci and painting was his only
way of passing on age-old secrets. You know, for all I know, he was."
“So Spanish history was a way to...”
“To...allow him to speak through me and to him,” Procter responded thoughtfully. “I could see Dad's eyes
light up with hope and excitement when I would share my thoughts on the complex moral issues behind the
Spanish explorers during the 1500s or modern Spanish political infighting.
I could talk to him, you know? I always loved that about Dad. He was a very closed man in many respects,
and I think you know what I mean. But he had a good heart and Spain was our thing. He let down his guard
with me when our minds drifted off to Spain. I think or I'd like to think that Spain was the final piece of the
foundation that allowed Dad to find complete peace in Redbridge.
Jesus, now I'm sounding idealistic, but you had to have been there. When he was dying...when my Daddy
was dying, he whispered in my ear, ‘I want to rest here. Redbridge makes me feel young.’ Large tears rolled
down Procter's face. Walterovich felt awkward, but the doctor's big grin told him and the room that everything
was OK. “Isn't that a beautiful concept to hold on to at the moment you die, to feel at the moment your body
lets go. That brilliant epiphany has fueled so many expeditions, and a simple painter found it on a cotton
death bed."
It didn't seem like enough time had passed between the time when Dr. Procter walked by the stained glass
window and when she was standing in Thetford's private office staring at the reporter at work. Walterovich
was annoyed. He appreciated Procter, but time and privacy had become even more fleeting commodities
and the reporter was feeling squeezed. Walterovich didn't know if Thetford had somehow quickly tipped off
the good doctor, if Procter had seen his car and wanted to talk, or if she, too, had an agreement for computer
time.
Whatever the scenario, the reporter didn't feel like chatting. He did smile once politely before returning to
type out some notes based on his early search engine queries on the sites and subjects he had taken from
Dylan Ryan's history window at the library.
After more than a few moments of uneasy silence, Procter closed the foldout door to the office. It was far
from sound-proof.
“I need to talk with you, Justin.”
“I'd like to Karen, but I'm on the clock with the paper and I am staring down an important deadline.”
“I know,” she responded.
“What do you mean, you know?" he responded, still typing and searching. He consciously lightened up
his tone, because it was, to him, becoming borderline rude.
“I know why you are here," she replied.
“Karen, I don't think it is a big secret anymore because of the phone tree. I'm just doing my job, OK. I'm not
making trouble or trying to be rude, but I paid Andi $300 for a computer and some privacy and so far, I only
have had 12 minutes of privacy. I'm not trying to be rude, OK? I just need to work now.”
Procter sat down across from him. “Justin, just stop for a second and listen.”
The reporter obliged but cut in. “Karen, I spent too much time today with a local we all know and respect, but
I was left at the altar with nothing on-the-record. That was my freebie for Redbridge for today. I don't have the
luxury of having you tell me a bunch of insight off-the-record and then trying to continue to piece together
some suitable page-one story. I know I am sounding like a jerk, and it's not you, but I have to do this story
now. That's a lot on the line and it's more than just my career.”
Procter reached into her tan, animal-free, synthetic leather jacket and retrieved a small, purple envelope,
which looked like it was made by hand. There was a wax seal on the back, clamping it shut, and some
interesting collection of tools, lettering and characters that no doubt attempted to represent an old and
powerful family, club or organization. Walterovich took the envelope and held it firmly in his left hand. He
made eye contact with Procter and waited for her further direction.
“I was working with Jennifer on a book..."
“What kind of book?" he interrupted politely.
“I don't want to tell you that right now?"
“Why not?" Walterovich asked.
“Because I don't know if you need to know that right now. Let me finish,” she countered, politely in kind.
“Jennifer sent this to me a few months ago. She told me not to open it, but that it was her password to her
company email account. She said I could open it and log into her account if she ever died, or went missing.”
“What makes you think she died or went missing?” the reporter pressed.
“Is this all off-the-record?” she asked.
“Yes, our conversation is, but I won't make any emails from Maxwell off-the-record. If I can't use it, I don't
want it. I can find the story on my own,” the writer said. He paused.
“Karen, I owe you an apology. Let me talk with you off-the-record for a moment, so to speak. I met up with
Dylan Ryan today, only about 90 minutes ago, actually. He wanted to tell me something about Maxwell and I
took him to his father first, because I didn't want the kid to get into any unnecessary trouble. Well, Dylan
ended up going into his grandparents’ house, and I was standing like a fool outside of my beat up Honda,
no idea why Dylan approached me. I'm glad that Dylan didn't say anything. I'm not out to trap anyone,
especially a kid, but at the same time, I have a job to do like anyone else. Who else in town would passively
not do their job correctly and let other people completely dictate when and how they work? I just got stung
and I've been sour ever since. Anyhow, none of this is your problem. I just wanted to explain myself, my
actions, to you, that's all.”
Procter smiled. “Justin, we both write to be published and we both are looking for Jennifer,” she said. "I
need you because I won't be able to find out anything extra about Jennifer until I read it in your newspaper. I
need to know before then...”
“Why...”
“Again, I can't really...I don't want to get into that now. I don't want to lie to you or deceive you. Listen, take
the envelope, and use it as you like. No strings attached. Here's my card. If you think we can work together
on this, call me or email me. I'll give you more tangible tidbits on-the-record, in exchange for full disclosure
of what you have found.”
Billionaire philanthropist Jennifer K. Maxwell, great-grand daughter of Texas oil baron Conrad W. Maxwell,
sat in the middle of a circle of people outside a beautiful farmhouse in Redbridge, Vermont. She was
shivering from nerves as questions shot at her from all directions. “Jesus, this is harder than when I was
defending my doctoral thesis,” she thought.
The forty-eight-year old yoga practitioner felt sweat holding races from her forehead to her chin. Even her
black hair with jet white streaks in a ponytail became a heavy rope that was burdensome. For the first time
in 30 years, the slim and fit adventurer wanted a haircut.
The air was tough to get into her lungs, and it had nothing to do with the surroundings. Some of the purest
air in the world hovers around Redbridge.
“What is the worst thing you have ever done?” a woman asked; a woman who Maxwell up until this morning
had considered a friend and confidant. Maxwell took a deep breath. “If I lie once, I'm out,” she thought to
herself. Maxwell breathed deeply and began to talk before the questioner would have time to snap at her.
“I...I was 17. Seventeen years old. I was with my father in Manhattan and we walked by a jewelry store,” she
said dryly, which surprised her since her hands were trembling and she began to cry.
“I walked in for some reason.”
“Some reason?" the voice behind the billionaire asked.
“No, there was a reason,” Maxwell responded quickly, correcting herself back on the path of truth. “I wanted
to be cruel.”
“Go on.”
“I saw this young couple. I could tell they were middle class but were on their way up, so to speak. The man
was Caucasian, the woman was Hispanic. She was kissing him because he had just bought her the exact
diamond ring she wanted. It was simple, for my arrogance at the time, but pretty.”
Maxwell felt an interesting combination of nausea and freedom.
“I walked right up to man and asked him how much he paid for the ring. The woman, his fiancée, shot me a
look. It was a hell of a look. The man -- I think he was so overtaken in the moment -- said with pride, “three-
thousand-five-hundred and seventy-five dollars'. He enunciated every syllable.”
“My Dad walked in and chuckled. He had told me of this game he used to play and that he wished he had a
son to carry on the tradition. I was burning with jealously and pain," she said. “I looked at the woman but
talked to the man. I told him that my father would give him $75,000 right now for that ring, no questions
asked. I remember the high I felt at that moment eclipsed anything I ever felt in my young life. I have never
tried narcotics, but it is hard to imagine cocaine arousing the body as much as throwing the number I threw
out did to mine.”
Maxwell gulped. She felt all the eyes of the circle burning with disapproval around her.
“My father...my father took out his checkbook and told the man that if he accepted, he would return in fifteen
minutes with $75,000 cash. I jumped right in and said we would only accept one answer to make that
happen. Any questions or bargaining and we would walk out that door forever. I gave the man five seconds,
just like Daddy told me he used to do.” The filth of it all forced Maxwell's voice to finally crack.
“I remember my father coming back, never even thinking twice about leaving me in that god damn jewelry
store," she sobbed. “He was too caught up in the high of me losing my virginity to cruelty to even think
straight. My life at that moment became a collage of faces: my father's lustful grin; the engaged man with the
guilty smile of greed; the jewelry store owner's polite apathetic smile and the woman...her look into my eyes:
I knew she could have killed me without remorse at that very moment...sometimes I wish that she did.”
Sobbing and silence. Silence and sobbing.
A bird overhead, Eighty-first generation Redbridge resident, cried out. The circle clapped. Maxwell exhaled
slowly. She felt the voice behind her stand up and walk to her.
“Come on Jennifer. Let's finish this.”
Jennifer K. Maxwell was never seen again.
Chapter 1
Justin Walterovich sat in his gray office chair in the communal desk of reporters for the West Champlain
News-Times. The weather for December wasn’t all that bad: 20 degrees with scattered flurries plus Church
Street seemed cozy in itself with holiday cheer so who could complain?
Life was good for the veteran reporter, who had been with the paper since 1991, when he won an essay
contest entitled “Why Sea Monsters Are Good for Vermont’s Economy.” Since then, the writer/reporter had
his share of victories and defeats – nothing good enough to bring national award recognition; nothing bad
enough to force his hand at a letter of resignation or even worse, demotion to writing obituaries.
Walterovich exhaled slowly looking at all the pictures on his desk. His two favorites included a close-up of
himself and his wife Alessandra where her gorgeous smile lit up the glossy photo paper. The second had
the writer with his three-year-old daughter Tasha, the real head of the household. Walterovich chuckled. His
size made his wife and daughter look so very small. The words-man was 6-2, 230 pounds, with big
muscles and a tummy full of honey.
The reporter rubbed his freshly cut hair and marveled at the freedom of not having to put pounds of
hairspray or concrete in the morning. “I should have gotten this a year ago,” he whispered to himself, as he
spun 360-degrees in his tired chair.
A plain gray phone rang with three quick pulses. An internal call.
“Walterovich?” he answered placing the receiver under his left ear.
“I have a good story for you,” the woman said on the other end of line.
“I’ll be right up, Chief,” the reporter responded.
Walterovich knew that his editor Margaret Trevino didn’t mince words and if she said “good story”, it was a
pretty damn good story. The reporter noted that when Trevino sent him to the governor’s mansion the week
before, it was just for a “story” in which Governor Douglas announced that his desk lamp with a nude Greek
slave was going to be outsourced.
“Have another ‘story’?” asked Walterovich’s coworker Andrea Carmichael.
“Madame, I am pleased to announce I have a ‘good story’,” the reporter responded regally.
“No shit?”
“No shit,” Walterovich responded with glee.
He walked briskly to the stairs and climbed two floors to level five where Trevino sat on Mountain High. The
writer knocked twice. Trevino hung up the phone.
“Come in,” she said dryly. “Grab a seat and close the door. Make yourself comfortable.”
‘Yeah, I’m really comfortable, Margaret,’ the reporter thought to himself.
The editor could see by his facial expression that he was thinking something in the realm of Catholic school
smart ass, but she didn’t call him on it. The reporter dutifully obeyed, closed the old cherry wood door with
the big glass window, and sat down in one of Trevino’s classic black leather newspaper chairs of yesteryear.
“I got a good story for you and this one is an exclusive, so you need to get there ASAP and call in every
marker you have ever been saving,” Trevino said. The 51-year-old redhead with mahogany eyebrows always
squinted her green eyes when she had a chance to scoop the Free Press. It had become the true passion
of her life.
“Where am I heading to, Chief?” the reporter asked, in full information collection mode. His brain was
processing every word, sound, sight, and smell of the room. He ran his fingers over the leather of the chair.
“Your old stomping grounds,” she said with a smirk. “Redbridge.”
Walterovich sped out of the News-Times parking garage and headed towards the place of his birth. The
reporter had a beat up copy of Hocus Pocus by Kurt Vonnegut sliding around the dashboard. Walterovich
thought about taking it down, but somehow that didn’t seem appropriate.
As always, the reporter honked his horn when passing First Bank of Champy to salute his youngest brother,
Jason, and waived to the eldest of the three siblings, Jamie who had been demoted to traffic duty at the
intersection off the University of Vermont’s main campus (that story in itself would make an interesting book
someday). From there, it was rather smooth sailings.
Walterovich was fourth-generation Redbridge resident, by way of his mother’s side of the family. The
reporter’s mother, Sarah, and her younger sister, Lynne, spent their entire lives in that town, save their
research work and degrees in some of this country’s most challenging New England colleges.
Sarah and Lynne Colby were the daughters of Rachel and John Colby. Rachel was very strong with The Gift
and a marvelous person with stories to share around the campfire. Rachel Colby’s maiden name was
Chelsea, and her mother, Andrea came over on the boat with her family from Haugesund, Norway. Andrea
Chelsea was actually born Andrea Chelsaysen, but some lazy bastard at Ellison Island was having a bad
day and decided to shorten it.
That was the Redbridge bloodline and pedigree from which Justin Walterovich and his siblings descended.
Sarah Colby married Warren Curtis in the late 1960s and together they had three sons in the following
order: Jamie in 1973, the reporter in ’74 and little Jason in 1977.
By 1982, Warren Curtis has risen high enough in the banking world that he and the family moved to West
Champlain; a small move by mileage, but in some respects a whole world away. Lynne Colby, some years
younger than her sister, remained at the family’s farmhouse on the Old Road where she distinguished
herself as a student of geology. The younger Colby worked and worked and worked and was able to keep
the home in her family when her parents decided to retire to California.
Colby earned her PhD in Geology from the University of Vermont where she met and married her husband
Russell Boston in 1984. Boston, himself, had earned a PhD in International Studies and the couple
returned back to join a long line of PhDs who worked tirelessly to make Redbridge a wonderful and
mysterious community in which to grow and live. The couple had three children: Daniel, Abby and Ruth.
Walterovich grew up in West Champlain and then some place called Oregon, before returning to the Green
Mountain State to continue his development as a young man and aspiring writer. He himself had learned
much from the people of Redbridge - enjoying partial status as a descendant of full-time residents, while
having the luxury of disappearing to the big city when he felt too claustrophobic.
All and all, the reporter knew enough about Redbridge to know he didn’t know enough about Redbridge,
which made it all the more interesting when he got his story assignment from Margaret Trevino: Apparently,
a billionaire philanthropist had gone missing in town. The local authorities still hadn’t officially posted a
missing persons report, yet her family was convinced something had gone wrong.
“The Maxwell family has more money than New Hampshire and the missing billionaire in question has no
immediate heirs,” the editor had told the reporter. “She loves to hike and always carried a GPS with her. That’
s how the family knew she was in Redbridge.”
“So why don’t the authorities just follow the signal?” the reporter asked knowing there was obviously more to
this story.
“The signal disappeared,” Trevino replied, “As has, apparently, the billionaire Maxwell.” Walterovich’s next
question was how did Trevino find out about the missing billionaire in the first place? But he didn’t want to
ruffle his boss’ feathers too early in the game. The reporter knew the best play was to start on-site and work
from there.
Of course, saying "Redbridge" was like saying "America" without recognizing the histories and very distinct
nuances of each of her 50 states. Any passer-by could see there was a North Redbridge, a Redbridge
(sometimes called Redbridge Market) and a South Redbridge. There was no mystery; just read the road
signs. The art form was in understanding how completely different the three regions were at heart. It could
easily take a family four generations of living in any of the areas to even begin to understand the deepest
secrets that were unique amongst the three.
Walterovich was nowhere near that level of understanding, despite his lineage. At best, he fell within the
group that could see some of the layers of "Redbridge" itself. The reporter was still convinced that even
famed filmmaker Brian O. John truly didn't know every fundamental secret that the three Redbridges held.
But he sure made great movies.
The writer respected that, even before he would ever set foot in the County Sheriff's Office, he needed to
make peace with the powerbrokers in town. Walterovich didn't even turn into the Old Road as he continued
along the Highway. “I'll call them from Shelly's house,” he said to himself as he turned onto Lark Road.
Redbridge’s Shelly McGowan had been the Chair of the Selectboard for 12 years straight. Considering that
she was only 37 years old that was rather impressive by New England Town Meeting standards (or any
American representative standards for that matter.)
McGowan was a master architect, literally and metaphorically. Her husband, Pierce, loved to grow flowers
and was at best shy, at worst, a sufferer of a social anxiety disorder. It didn't matter. Shelly loved Pierce and
Pierce loved Shelly. She ran the show and shielded him from all public duty with the exception of eight hours
of booth work during the Annual Autumn Fair and an appearance at church for the Christmas Eve service. In
return, Pierce was excused from town politics. It didn't appear to matter any way. Every year, on the first
Tuesday in March, Shelly never failed to influence any vote in Town Meeting.
The reporter drove slowly up Lark Road out of respect for homeowner, child and pet. He was arriving
unannounced, which normally wouldn't be a problem with Her Honor, but under the circumstance of
possible bad press, she wouldn't appreciate it.
Walterovich wasn't stupid. He knew very well that his editor understood he wasn't a cut-throat reporter, and
that his very placid professional reputation actually got people in power to talk more on the record than they
would with the average robotic journalist. But the aforementioned reputation also made it harder for
Walterovich to get “the story.” His sources would always pull at his heartstrings when the shit was really
hitting the fan. The reporter always told himself that he would never dampen the story out of compassion,
but deep down he knew that wasn't true at all. It's a complicated world, this journalism thing. Walterovich
was far from a master of it.
The reporter turned left onto the McGowan’s long and steep driveway. He smiled at a flash memory of some
tourists from Long Island who got their sports utility vehicle stuck on the Old Road a few years back. They
started howling at the moon that it was high time to good people of Redbridge joined the rest of the
“civilized” world and paved their roads. The locals laughed. “That’s exactly why we don’t” was the general
whisper under feigned, yet believable, looks of compassion.
The hidden truth to understanding Redbridge was the fact that the people of town were actually much
smarter than the rest of the world, opposed to vice versa. For many years during his early development, the
reporter didn’t understand why his family and other old-school locals didn’t flash their savvy more openly.
The writer had mistakenly thought the townspeople were shy or even unaware of the perception that visitors
had about the inhabitants of the quaint little hamlet. As Walterovich rose in the newspaper business and
began to see, understand and experience power firsthand, it became very evident: Being underestimated
was a priceless commodity, especially when one wanted to control one’s surroundings and the visitors to it.
‘It’s funny how many layers of power are expressed in the makeup of a driveway,’ he thought to himself,
shifting to a lower gear.
The McGowan house was impressive. It was a perfect house, not so much by the standards that would be
worshipped in conventional home and garden magazines, but rather every single board, brick and copper
roofing was completely thought out and exactingly “McGowan”.
Three huge, peaceful, dogs lumbered over and slobbered all over Walterovich’s
slow-moving vehicle. Pierce lifted his head, smiled politely, and pointed with a shovel to a patch of cleared
snow where the reporter should park. The reporter obliged, opened the door, and marveled at the efficiency
that the dogs put mud and mucous all over his nice new navy blue work pants.
“Boys, relax,” the Chairperson said walking from around the back of the house. It was more of a token order.
Shelly couldn’t have cared less about Walterovich’s new navy blue work pants.
“Madame Chairperson,” the reporter said with a smile. It was a genuine smile and a genuine show of
respect, even though he considered himself a very good acquaintance and even a friend of Shelly’s. It was
Walterovich’s way of politely telling her that he was there on business.
“Come on inside; we’ll go through the mudroom,” she responded in kind. “Boys get down from there.”
The three mammoth canines were resting comfortably on the hood of Walterovich’s warm black Honda Civic
LX. None had any intention of moving any time soon.
Books. McGowan had some great books. She also had photographic memory. The running joke was that
Chairperson McGowan was Alex Trebek’s nightmare. Just about everyone in Redbridge had a great book
collection. It was so impressive that if the world’s libraries burned to the ground on any given day, one could
have an impressive, thoughtful and in depth collection just by going door to door around Redbridge.
Walterovich sat in a hand-painted red wooden chair, which was slightly uncomfortable to his tricky back,
although the Chelsea-made seat cushion was better than what most babies slept on.
“Tea is on the stove, help yourself,” the Chairperson said.
“I’m OK, thanks though,” the reporter replied politely. The truth was, Walterovich was thirsty, but didn’t want to
have to pee in the near future because he didn’t like asking sources to use their bathroom, in their homes at
least.
McGowan began to talk about some municipal issues the town was facing; the writer took in each word but
focused his sights mainly on the works on the perfectly polished cherry bookshelves: Marcia Hill, Phoebe
Stone, Joseph Citro, David Budbill, Katherine Paterson, Howard Frank Mosher, Jeffery Lent, Kathryn
Davis…the list went on and on and on.
“…but somehow I don’t think you are here to share with your readers in West Champlain our roadwork
improvements,” the Chairperson said coming to a pause. It was her invitation to the reporter to get to the
point.
“Your honor, can we talk off the record for a moment?” the reporter asked.
McGowan nodded, “Yes.”
Reporters, the world over at this point, would be screaming at Walterovich for affording his source the
chance to share without being published at that moment. Walterovich knew this and was given flack of this
method he employed from time to time. There had even been whispers that the reporter’s willingness to talk
with sources off the record more than was the norm had cost him the News-Times assistant editor position,
of which he was a finalist.
In truth, Walterovich didn’t call timeouts to make friends. He didn’t have a problem doing his job, but his
courtesy was meant to get deeper into the thinking of other people – experience showed him that
sometimes putting down the pencil opened up the book, so to speak. Of course that was a matter of debate
and opinion.
“Someone’s missing from town,” the reporter opened.
“I’ve heard…off the record,” the Chairperson responded, sipping her tea but making direct eye contact with
the newspaper agent.
“Did you know her?” he asked.
“No. I never have met a billionaire in my life, and to be honest, I am in no rush to do so. I only heard about
her because she apparently hasn’t phoned in to her private island and apparently her handlers are worried
about her,” McGowan said, blinking just the right amount of times to avoid being too confrontational.
Silence. A hand-made clock ticked dutiful in the background. Pierce could be heard humming to himself
outside. Walterovich breathed deeply and composed his thoughts.
“Shelly, is there a story here?” he asked the Chairperson.
She paused to think, sipping her tea and scrunching her eyelids slightly. “Maybe,” she responded slowly. “I’
m trying to find out myself. This may shock you Justin, but I don’t know everything that goes on our town. I
don’t think it is anything as juicy as foul play, but I’m not 100-percent certain.”
Walterovich processed everything then reached into his black cashmere jacket, took out a small green pad
and one of the nice new fancy pens his wife had bought for him. “Madame Chairperson, may I please have
comment on the record about what city government has been informed of the reported disappearance of
Jennifer K. Maxwell?”
“My office has only heard of this reported disappearance through the County Sheriff’s Office as a courtesy
since no Missing Persons Report has been filed at this time, or that is my understanding,” she said slowly
so the reporter could get each world exactly right. “I will say that I will authorize the use of the Redbridge
phone tree right now to make sure the whole town is alerted that Maxwell has yet to check in with loved
ones. I only pray that she is somewhere safe and will check in immediately to let her family know she is OK.”
Walterovich smiled a “thank you” smile, put the pen back in his pocket, read the quote carefully to make sure
he could read his own writing, and got up from the chair. “It’s nice to see you again, Shelly. If I miss you and
Pierce before the holidays, have a Merry Christmas,” he said, adjusting his coat collar.
“You too,” she said with a polite smile.
As the reporter was showing himself out he noticed a small Vermont Teddy Bear and pink baby rattle on a
table by the mudroom door. “Who’s the lucky constituent?” the writer asked.
“Ah, that would be future supporter Abby Blake. Mike and Tammy had a little one last night…well Tammy did
all the work, but you know what I mean,” McGowan said with a chuckle.
The reporter had gotten as far as opening up his cell phone as he coasted with his dog-dented Honda Civic
LX slowly down the McGowan driveway, but decided quickly not to call his family first. He felt embarrassed,
as if he were trying to come across as someone important with a cell phone, when all Walterovich really
wanted was to be lost and accepted in his hometown. He was still going to see them.
"I probably don't even need to call," he whispered, thinking of the fact that because a billionaire wasn't
returning her phone calls and the fact that he had driven first to the Chairperson's home, surely someone
already told the Colbys that their nephew was in town. The reporter turned up the road and rolled down his
windows. The air wasn't that frigid and he didn't mind the flurries. The tires crunched the snow and rock in a
soothing melody completely unique to any other winter road in New England.
As a child, Walterovich used to dig into and then hide in snow drifts on his aunt's property, staying there as
long as he could feel all of his fingers and toes. His mother gave the child freedom to roam, freedom to find
himself and observe his surroundings whenever the family spent time on "the farm". It was a priceless gift
and one that opened the aspiring writer to a hunger, which he never was able to or wanted to quench.
Walterovich was only 10 years younger than his aunt, and had clear memories of her as a little girl. The
reporter's daughter actually was growing to look much like the younger Colby. Funny how life has a way of
bring circles into an otherwise rectangular world. Walterovich always thought of his mother has having the
artist's mind and his aunt as the researcher and analyst. The two sisters complemented each other very
well, even when Sarah was a young mother in her 20s and Lynne was an adventurous child of 10.
The reporter was always aware that some of the members of his family had The Gift, although it had
skipped him completely. His grandmother was overflowing with it, his mom and aunt had it circulating
strongly throughout their respective mortal coils. As a child on a hand-made swing by the deep red barn
across the warm white farm house, the young writer would watch the reflection his aunt pushing him back
and forth from the kitchen window across the way. He looked up her to her like a young reporter does to a
veteran and decorated news editor: never all that close, but hanging on every word.
Walterovich hung a left at the mailbox which read: Colby/Boston. It was another steep driveway in another
Redbridge cell. Four generations of stories and intrigue were calling the writer home, and this time, on this
assignment, he finally felt completely welcomed. A large, lumbering black canine came out from the deck to
add slobber and paw prints to the writer's already muddied new navy blue work pants. “Serves me right,”
Walterovich mumbled under his breath.
His uncle popped to a window, smiled slightly and then promptly disappeared. Walterovich was able to look
through the kitchen window and see his mother was there for lunch with the family. “That's a nice surprise,”
he thought to himself.
The newsman's shoes crunched in the freshly packed snow. He looked at his aunt's house with reverence.
She and Russell had worked hard every day since they bought it from her parents, but in the past three
years had really made the house stunning.
All the new woodwork, kitchen, exterior, roofing -- everything, changed an 80-year-old family farmhouse into
a wonderful, standout, place to spend one's days. The "farm" had reincarnated to "the Colby House"
becoming a destination spot for the whole town.
"They worked for everything they ever had, Brianna," Walterovich said to the black dog that climbed on his
dented hood and was already fast asleep. "I'm happy for them. They earned it.
Walterovich walked into the Colby's mudroom and immediately noticed that early Phish was playing in the
background. "Mom are you branching out?" the reporter asked playfully. Sarah shrugged her shoulders as if
to say, “son, there's a lot about me that I bet would surprise you.” Her spoken words were much tamer.
“Ruth is showing us that her fourth grade class is 'way' more progressive than Juilliard. Those were her
words exactly," Sarah responded. The reporter looked over at his niece who winked back at him.
"Humph," Walterovich added. "May I please help myself to some coffee?" (He didn't mind having to pee in
his family's bathroom.)
"Sure, only 25-cents per cup," Russell said.
“Oh sure," the reporter responded with a chuckle pouring himself some caffeine.
Russell fired back another look saying, “No, actually I was serious. I'm keeping a tab going for you.” It was a
family full of non-verbal communication, that Colby clan. Since the reporter was on the clock, he felt obliged
to share as much. Such is the curse of being a small-town reporter: Guilt.
"I'm here, hopefully as the only reporter covering a story which, also hopefully, will have a quick and happy
ending," Walterovich said. "We know," his mother said. The answer for a quick moment seemed shockingly
odd, as if she had just said, "I used to date President Kennedy before I was married.” The reporter looked
from up the brim of his cup. “The phone tree," his aunt continued. “We were just filled in by Mary Sanders."
“Fine,” the writer thought to himself. “Besides, my Mom is too good to have dated JFK. (No disrespect to
the Kennedys.”)
“I'll be in town for a couple more hours and then back to the office," Walterovich said. “But I have three
vacation days coming up next week, so I'll bring the girls out. We'll have a nice time. This is good tea, who
makes it?”
“We ordered it from Carmam Brook Maple & Dairy Farm," Russell responded. “It was part of a gift basket
arrangement."
“Hmm..." the reporter acknowledged. “Let me ask you: Is there a story here with this Maxwell heiress? I don't
want to go around town ruffling a lot of feathers if this woman is in Paris or Beijing or something at this very
moment and just never got around to checking in at home."
Lynn stirred her tea. “I just hope that she is all right," she said. “We saw her twice: once at the library and
another time doing some research at the cemetery across from church. She seemed very polite. I went over
and introduced myself to her; she was sketching something from Clara Humbert's gravestone. Your mother
was with me. We exchanged hellos and went about our business. She never mentioned how long she
planned to be here in town."
The reporter quickly looked down as close as he could to his nose. It was a little trick he employed to see
how long the stubble on his face was getting. It was time for a shave.
“Did she say why she was in Redbridge?" he asked.
“She wasn't very specific but to be fair, nether were we," Walterovich's mother said. "She said something
about a research project she was doing. That was about it."
“Mom, do I need to shave?" the reporter asked.
“I don't know son, it's your face," she responded with a chuckle. "But the answer is 'yes' since you are
asking."
“So how long ago did you see this Maxwell person?" he continued, savoring the aftertaste of tea on his
tongue.
“About four or five days ago," his mother responded. “Actually, though, it was more like a week," Lynne
corrected.
After the chat, the reporter was stretching his legs and was no further than 200 feet when his cell phone
sang out. He looked at the caller ID and saw it was his editor.
“Walterovich."
“What do you have?" his editor ordered from digital Mountain High. “I have an exclusive with the Chairperson
and she..."
“What did she say?" Trevino asked cutting off her point-man.
“Listen Chief, I'll be happy to tell you, but if you are worried about keeping this under wraps until the next
edition, I should at least email you. You know, cell phones and all."
Silence.
“Good point," she said much calmer and even somewhat politely. “Why don't you get over to your aunt's
house and get on-line?”
The reporter turned onto the main road.
“They aren't home. I tried to call and I don't want to drive up there unless they answer, because they always
answer," Walterovich lied.
Silence.
“So what are you going to do?" the editor asked.
“I'll go to the library. If they are closed for whatever reason, then I will swing by Rachel's house for the keys. It
won't be a problem; I'm sure of it," he said.
“OK. If for whatever reason you can't get on-line, call me back in 20 minutes. No excuses."
“Sounds good, Chief," the reporter acquiesced, hanging up the phone.
Walterovich felt he was well within his moral high ground protecting his family from his work. Had he
conceded his conversation, Trevino would have used the quotes with or without the reporter's permission.
Perhaps it was hypocritical, but Walterovich was living in the real world. He didn't trust Trevino with his
family; it was as simple as that. It wasn't just Trevino actually. Walterovich didn't trust any journalist with his
family. He never did quite figure out if that was more of an indictment of himself or his profession.
“She's edgy. She's going to be high maintenance with this story," the reporter whispered out loud.
Walterovich talked to himself. He knew that it didn't look healthy, so he tried to be discrete about it. But the
writer valued the exercise; speaking words was very different than writing words. It was a whole different
profession in itself, yet in many ways symbiotic with journalism.
“Alright, so what do I have so far?" he asked himself. “Wait a second, I haven't even spoken with Winslow
yet." The reporter speed-dialed his editor.
“Yeah," she answered after the first half-ring.
“Chief, listen. I haven't even spoken to the sheriff yet. You’ve gotta give me some breathing room here.
Give me an hour. I'll call or email you with an update and it will be good." The writer paused and waited for
the barrage of anger.
“Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry," his editor said peacefully. “Drive safely. I'll talk with you soon."
The reporter mouthed, with an uncomfortable brow, “drive safe?" and "I'm sorry" as he hung up the phone.
He wanted to shower. Trevino was the icky relative that we all have, the one who when trying to be nice once
a year makes the rest of the family feel like they hadn't bathed in a week and went to a church social.
T'wasn't a good feeling.
“Jesus. Is she finally on medication?" he whispered to himself, quickly glancing down at his phone to make
sure it was turned off. Trevino did have the reporter by the pelotas.
The reporter pulled into a library parking area; one couldn't tell by the lighting whether or not the literary
haven was accepting new patrons. First, he had to make contact with County Sheriff Pete Winslow. The
reporter had Winslow's cell phone number as the lawman preferred to avoid all contact with reporters while
either he or the journalist in question was on the clock. Off the clock and off the record, Winslow was a rather
friendly fellow, to Walterovich at least. On the clock and on the record, the sheriff had issues with all
reporters, including the Redbridge native.
Pete Winslow had his reasons. It was December 24, 1987 and a then 17-year-old Winslow was finally going
to have the Christmas he always dreamed of. Winslow's mother at last had stood up to her abusive
husband and kicked him out of her family's third-generation Redbridge home. Carl Winslow wasn't Pete
Winslow’s biological father, but had come into the family's life when the boy was four. Winslow hadn't
wanted to take his step-father's last name, but his mom wanted to try and bring more unity to the family. It
didn't work.
Carl's drinking grew, as did his waistline, as did his credit card bills, as did his past due notices. Carl's
outbursts became physical in 1984 and the sheriff's office became very familiar with the
Winslow/Hutchinson home in South Redbridge. Winslow was too small then to stop his stepfather, but the
boy hit the weight room at Chelake High School and by his junior year was no one to be messed with. Even
more honorable was the fact the Winslow was a humanitarian. He never became the bully that his school
councilors feared was all but inevitable because of his poor home life.
On Halloween 1987, Carl came home from a four-day drinking binge and found the locks had been
changed. He broke one of the little front door windows and tried to manually unlock the door. He was
unsuccessful and decided to sleep right then and there in protest. The drunkard awoke to the Sheriff
himself, Daniel Murphy, who informed the unwanted stepfather that the owner of the house no longer
wished his presence on the property. Murphy served Carl divorce papers and a personal warning: Never
return to Redbridge.
It went easy - far too easy, actually. Winslow had asked his Mom to move in with her cousin in Randolph
until things settled down. She wouldn't budge.
“I understand how you feel son. But this is my home, and I am sick and goddamn tired of feeling unwelcome
or unsafe here."
Who could argue?
On Christmas Eve, Winslow was finishing his shift at the General Store when word came of an emergency
fire call. He didn't even have to wait to hear the address. In slow motion, the final act played itself out in vivid
poetry. Winslow's family was fine; they were all out of the house safely. Winslow's stepdad was being
arrested for arson. The home was burned down to the foundation. And a reporter from an area newspaper
was clicking close-up shots of Winslow's mother and writing down all of her grief and anger. It made the
morning edition, all of it, for all of the state to see.
Pete Winslow made himself three promises that day: one, he would become a sheriff some day; two, he
would never touch liquor; and three, he would never make a reporter feel welcome in his hometown. At 31,
Winslow had succeeded marvelously in all his life plans. Walterovich was not looking forward to the phone
call.
“What?" barked the sheriff. Walterovich almost dropped his cell phone. “Hmm, I guess I'm not the only one
with the fancy caller ID option,' the writer thought.
“Winslow, just hear me out," Walterovich pleaded.
“No!"
“Listen to me for just one moment. I..." “No! Justin. I'm busy."
Walterovich closed his eyes in frustration. “Winslow, I understand..."
“Then, you won't mind me hanging up on you and getting on with my work."
Walterovich shook his head. He respected Winslow and knew he was a good cop, but there was some
reasonable expectation on behalf of the press and the community to have some communication with its law
enforcement. Justified or not, it wasn't Sheriff Pete Winslow's
call to shut out the press. Still, there wasn't the time to go through all the right channels to put the squeeze
on the cop. Walterovich had to dig deep in the play book for this one.
“Pete listen to me goddamn it. I'm not back in my hometown trying to make my friends eat yellow snow. I'm
not asking you to sell out anyone or risk your job or ruin anyone or do anything that would make you
ashamed. I have a right to ask you a couple of quick questions and you have the right to say ‘no comment'.
But if I don't share with my readers that I at least talked to you on the record, they are going to unfairly think
that either I can't do my job or you can't do yours."
“Well Justin, I do my job so..."
“Either way, Pete," the reporter interrupted right back, “we'll be put in a bad situation for no reason. So just
help me out, and I'll go away until the Christmas party when the only question I'll ask you is if you want turkey
or ham.” (“Damn I'm good,” the reporter thought to himself.) Silence on the other end.
“You are going to read me this quote before we hang up, you got it?" the sheriff asked more calmly.
“Yes...of course," the reporter conceded.
“Our office now has reasons to believe that the disappearance of Jennifer Maxwell may be as the result of
suspicious causes. We are actively pursuing many viable leads. I will be holding a press conference at 9 a.
m. tomorrow morning, earlier if the situation warrants it. Until then, I am not at liberty to speak further on the
particulars of this investigation."
“Damn, this is good. He used the word ‘investigation.’ Something is going on,” the reporter thought to
himself, repeating the very words back he had scribbled on his note pad.
“Good, at least we know you can make a good secretary. I think that's your true calling, Justin," the sheriff
said with a chuckle. “Give my best to your family. Remember, Redbridge is your home." The sheriff hung up.
Walterovich didn't know what was more surprising, that Winslow actually helped him on the record or that
the sheriff gave a quote about the billionaire before the reporter even mentioned why he was calling. The
writer called home quickly; he wanted to leave a nice message on the answering machine for his wife. He
missed her, felt lost with out her, even a short car-drive away.
“Hey honey, it's Little Bird," the reporter said. “I miss you so much. I think I got a pretty good story here. I'll
keep you posted, but I think I am going to be here for a couple of hours more. I love you so much,
Alessandra. I know I don't make things easy for you or baby sometimes. I'll be better. I will. I love you. I miss
you. I love you so much. Talk with you soon."
The reporter took another long look at his wedding picture and then got out of the car and went to the library
doors. “This might be a good story," he whispered to himself. “Don't mess this one up, Justin."
The reporter opened the door. It stuck for a moment, but the library was in business.
“Stop the presses; here comes trouble," said Head Librarian Rebecca Moxley, in perfect library whisper.
“I come in peace," responded the writer, whispering in kind, holding his hands up with Leonard Nemoy
pacifism.
Moxley knew books; her comprehension of difficult subject matter was the subject of local legend. She never
knew why her brain absorbed literature at prolific levels, but for Moxley, it was a gift she wanted to share with
the good people of her hometown for the rest of her life...and theirs.
The first book that the librarian ever read completely on her own was “Ta Ta's Blue Wagon" by Gustav Ermer.
It was a gift from the young Moxley's great grandmother, Agatha. The four-year-old could project the plot
internally into seemingly three-dimensional characters so that the words jumped off the page and fueled the
story -- now her story -- in such a way that she could study every nuance of the brave little blue wagon.
Stunned parents, Sandra and Timothy Moxley, were at a loss when their middle child asked, "Why does the
blue wagon feel safe to go outside during the night?"
“Um..." her father replied.
“Well honey," her mother offered. "Um...why do you think?"
The toddler pondered the question. “Didn't they read this?” the toddler mused to herself.
“I think...I think that the blue wagon wants more from her life. The author paints a picture that the wagon has
a deeper sense of urgency to fill. The wagon is hungry, not hungry like I am for cake, but hungry to find her
true life's calling. Maybe that is why she pushes herself to go further and further every night. She wants both
her family and her career. I think it is admirable." Moxley's parents smiled polity and sat silently on the
family's new cream-colored couch.
The books guru started her college career at Champlain College, earned her AA in English and transferred
a whole 2,000 yards north to UVM where she earned her BA in English. The librarian finished the trifecta at
Middlebury with a MS in Library Science and promptly returned to Redbridge to run the exciting, newly
renovated library. The townspeople had taken an old local house and restored it to full glory complete with
gleaming hardwood floors, high ceilings and an atmosphere of culture, dignity and mystery.
Walterovich always thought that Rebecca would make a great reporter, but to be honest, upper
management would be too intimidated by her intelligence. The writer wasn't intimidated by women who
were smarter than he was; he married his true love Alessandra with full knowledge she was light-years
ahead of him. Walterovich liked to weave a good story, and one doesn't need to be a rocket scientist to do
that...or apparently, as he was finding out, a billionaire oil heiress from Texas.
The Redbridge Library had six new computers, spread over two rows, updated with DSL Internet service.
Walterovich went and sat down by Dylan Ryan, the second of six children of Pastor Paul Ryan and his wife,
Karen. Dylan was the reporter's protégé in weightlifting. The young Ryan was three weeks away from
celebrating his 17th birthday and was quite a different man from the year before, for all the right reasons.
Dylan was a book worm, and never minded his thick black glasses, large intellect and willingness to think
on his own. He loved listening to his father's sermons and felt he was in a nurturing home that he could
openly discuss faith without the fear of negative repercussions. The young Ryan never felt the pressures he
had heard from contemporaries in homes with a father or mother as a church leader. He had his own
thoughts about the meanings of things but enjoyed working for a higher power and found there was plenty of
the room in the universe for religion, science, puberty and the Boston Red Sox, especially since they
reversed the curse.
The only one true wrinkle in things was that Dylan kept on getting beat up by high school bully, Quinn
Conner. The young Ryan had once gone to his parents, back he was 10 or 11, and shared that Conner had
hit him. The Pastor drove right over to bully's house and confronted the boy and his father. Dylan was in the
car and remembered hearing the elder Conner shout that he was going to get the Pastor fired and he was
no longer welcomed on his property.
Nothing ever came of it, but Pastor Ryan shared the story that Sunday with the congregation. Dylan
understood his dad had to do it, but the boy felt so humiliated nonetheless. His father had stuck up for him
and in the process had suffered tremendous embarrassment. Dylan vowed to never bring home dirty
laundry again.
Quinn Conner, of course, was so energized by his family's apparent victory that he made Dylan's life as
miserable as possible all the way through elementary school and into high school. Dylan had grown taller
and more confident, or at least at peace, and the shorter Conner had smartened up to at least only throw
verbal insults by their respective sophomore years.
Walterovich was in town that year with his wife and daughter for the town's Christmas party. The young Ryan
had just suffered an embarrassment of Conner telling Dylan's girlfriend about how weak the Ryan family
was. It happened in front of all the kids during homeroom. Dylan was pissed and had had enough. He was
also seasoned enough to know the art form of getting revenge without throwing one's life away.
“Justin, I have been living at the mercy of a terrorist for many years now; a class bully who is hell bent on
bringing me nothing but pain for the rest of my life here," Dylan had said in a determined whisper by the non-
alcoholic eggnog. “I want to be big like you, but I have tried for the last six months to lift weights. I get toned
but no significant change. What's your secret? Steroids?"
The reporter could hear the pain in his neighbor's voice. He took him aside. “No Dylan, I don't use drugs,"
the reporter said. “Let me tell you a little secret, it is the Holy Grail of weightlifting."
The young Ryan's pupils expanded; he believed with all of his heart that relief was finally coming.
“Dylan, the Holy Grail of weightlifting is the legs. If you do nothing else, lift twice as hard, twice as long with
your legs. Always start your workout with your legs, no matter what. If you have to ignore upper body that day,
so be it, but never, ever skip your legs." Dylan looked confused.
“Give it four months Dylan, and buy my daughter a Red Sox t-shirt as a thank you," the reporter chuckled,
returning to the party.
The young Ryan couldn't even wait until morning. He left the party early and went to the parsonage’s one-
room weight room and lifted a variety of leg workouts until he literally had to crawl across the hallway into his
bedroom.
Dylan had a swagger by the time school re-opened and within four months had the build of a heavyweight
boxer. A title contender at that. The Pastor said nothing, except to compliment his son's work ethic. Deep
down the elder Ryan thanked his Lord for the gift given to Dylan.
As for Quinn Conner, well, he got held back his sophomore year. Dylan never fought him, but gave him eye
contacts that spoke volumes. There was a sweet measure of revenge, though when, despite Dylan's busy
schedule, he went out for baseball the next year, just like Conner.
There was something beautiful about Dylan Ryan taking Quinn's starting spot. The cheers in the crowd were
more punishment than an ass-whopping from the young Ryan would have ever accomplished. Ryan's
parents attended every game, and wore pins that read, “Our son is #38.” Dylan thanked his God every night
and promised to give the gift back to the community.
“Howdy, Dylan," the reporter said, logging on to the Internet.
“Good to see you Justin," the baseball standout said. “Wish you were in town under better
circumstances." Walterovich stopped his typing for a moment and turned to look at his protégé.
“I have something to tell you Justin," the son of a preacher man said. "It's about that billionaire from Texas."
In less than two seconds, the writer's mind went over every possible option:
‘What if Dylan is involved in some foul play? You’ve gotta get this story. You will make assistant editor. You
deserve this.'
‘Tell him to stop talking and get a lawyer.'
‘Take down everything he has and then call over his father.'
‘Tell him to go to Winslow.'
‘This isn't your problem. You are a reporter. Do your job, Justin. You've already gone way too easy on this
town.'
‘Screw the job. Save the boy. Get him a good lawyer.'
“Dylan, listen to me. I'm going to drive you to your folks’ house, and then I want you to call the Sheriff," the
reporter said. “Don't say another word."
The young Ryan smiled. It was nice to actually know that Walterovich looked out for his own, even when he
was on the clock. “I have already talked with the Sheriff, and my Dad was there," the baseball star said. “Now
I want to talk to you and your readers. It's the right thing to do. I have nothing to hide."
‘Jesus, this is good. The kid has something. What the hell are you saying, Justin? This is Dylan for
Christ's sake. Put down the notebook and get him to his parents. What the hell is he doing in the library
anyway?'
“Dylan, humor me. Let's go to your folks. I'll listen to what you have to say then. You know I'm an old guy.
When you turn 30, you'll understand," the reporter said with a chuckle trying get a quick 'yes' from his
protégé. Dylan nodded and they both left the library. Rebecca looked up from a book on Greek cooking she
was feigning reading.
‘Shit, she heard everything,' the reporter mused. ‘I wonder if head librarians are sworn to secrecy?'
It was hard for Walterovich to drive slowly up Hoyt Hill Road to Dylan's maternal grandparents where he said
the Pastor and his wife were having lunch. The writer's heart was beating like a sprinter (how's that for a
metaphor?), he was wondering what the young
Ryan was thinking. Dylan was looking forward and breathing slowly.
Walterovich usually could read people well, especially people he knew. The reporter was clueless as to
what secret this preacher's son was holding. Simple, but clean and proud cars were parked on both sides
of the driveway. Dogs starting barking.
“I swear to god, if another dog dents my car, I'm going to sue the entire town," Walterovich whispered. Dylan
laughed.
“I should stop talking to myself; it never looks good," the reporter confessed.
“Don't worry, Justin, the town knows you mean well," the young Ryan replied.
“I don't know, Dylan," the writer said getting out of the tired black Honda. “The older I get, the less I truly
seem to understand."
The reporter questioned why he sounded so old when he still felt so young.
‘People respond to it,' his consciousness countered.
‘Sources trust a grandfather more than an aspiring punk. It's Murrow's Law.'
The door opened and Pastor Ryan walked slowly out. He looked like he had been crying.
Pastor Ryan wasn't always “Pastor Ryan.” For his first 22 years on the planet - and more importantly in
Redbridge - he was Pauly Ryan, or Jim and Karen's miracle son.
Pauly was born when Jim was 45 and Karen 44, respectively. Today, that still is considered special, but
back in 1957 it was enough to make the newspapers. The Ryans were a farming family, third generation
Redbridge, who specialized in dairy. Pauly was a small child who work long hours and had to be asked by
his parents to quit working and come back to the house for supper. Both encouraged their son to read and
think and instilled in the child at an early age the expectation that he should go on to college...on his own
dime.
“We didn't wait all of these years just for another farm hand," Jim Ryan used to say. “You changed our lives,
son; go forth and spread your gift to others."
Pauly didn't find out until he was 15 that his mechanism for spreading his gift would be through his faith.
The 1963 Fair was the first year that Tom C. Lowell chaired the event, and the Blystones sold their interest in
the General Store to fellow Redbridge natives Ken and Samantha Potter. These two events became
important, albeit indirect, catalysts in Pauly Ryan eventually becoming Pastor Ryan.
Lowell had wanted to make the Fair more inclusive to the “younger generation" in light of the “changing
world we all live in" and named Pauly chair of the newly-formed youth committee. Pauly's job was to create
a time capsule in which attendants under the age of 18 could leave some keepsake, memento or letter and
have sealed for the next 25 years. To this day, the Pastor doesn't know what Lowell saw in him to have
made the boy stand out, but a thank you letter was the first item Pauly placed in the capsule just outside of
Floral Hall.
The Potters had been equally and as pleasantly surprising by donating $50, a fortune to most any teenager
in the United States back in 1963, towards supplies and the booth signs for the time capsule. Pauly had
heard some whispers that Potters were just trying to get the early lead at part-time help from the local teen-
aged workforce, but he felt in his heart that the Potters wanted simply to inspire a sense of thought and
purpose amongst their young neighbors.
Either way, Pauly was going to make every penny count.
Pauly was a realist. You had to be one, working on a farm. There was plenty of hope in Redbridge. There
was also plenty of snow in the winter and plenty of work - spring through fall.
So the newly appointed youth chair had modest expectations about the amounts of participation on the time
capsule. It wasn't an indictment on his friends; youth just sometimes is truly wasted on the young.
The first day of Fair didn't start until 8 am, but Pauly was with other Fair officials two hours early making sure
their respective stations were just perfect. It was on a Thursday, so many locals still had to navigate
between at least partial workdays and Fair. Pauly's Dad took the time to load all the supplies into the
battered pick up truck and set up directly at the site. After about 20 minutes, the elder had to return to feed
the animals. Pop Ryan hugged his miracle son. “I'm proud of you, son. I'm real proud. Good luck today.” The
farmer limped slightly back towards the car.
“Dad...”
The father stopped and turned around. He had read many faces during his hard life and the one on his son
showed self doubt.
“Son, during the heart of the great depression, I had to drop out of school and go to work in Barre cutting
granite blocks the size of those you read about in those pyramids in Egypt. I was at peace with it, really. I
wanted to help out my folks and my sisters anyway I could. But that morning that I left, I realized it was
literally the first time I was going to go outside a seven-mile circle around Redbridge. I was scared. I felt
naked, you know? I felt like I was this tiny little bug in a rain storm and there was no hope of surviving. My
Dad looked at me; he looked straight at me, like I am you and said this: ‘Son, I know I never brought you a
better life, but for what it's worth, you are never alone. Your mom and I are always with you and every day, we
say thank you for you making our lives so much better'.
The farmer turned back towards his truck and went back to work. As for Pauly, he realized at that moment
that he wanted to be that Dad to the whole community. The first seeds of Pastor Ryan were born.
Walterovich had a hard time telling if Pastor Ryan was relieved or exhausted. The church man always kept a
good poker face. ‘That's the wrong way to put it,’ the reporter thought. ‘This man has devoted his whole life to
Redbridge. He deserves better than that, certainly from you, Justin.'
“He hasn't said anything to me, Pastor," Walterovich said assuringly. “I was hoping we could all talk
together."
The church man stood there expressionless, propping himself against part of his porch.
“Dylan, come inside," the pastor said respectfully but without room for discussion.
“Dad, I have a right to speak on this. People are going to find out. This isn't a secret anymore. It's over."
The pastor took a deep breath. He looked to be in the middle of an epic struggle. “Son, come inside, right
now."
The father said again with more an air of command and authority. Walterovich knew he was seeing his story
slip out his very grasp.
“Dad, if you just think for a moment..."
“Dylan get inside the house!" the pastor howled.
Walterovich and his protégée stopped. Birds in the area ceased to sing. An echo of the pastor rang out in
more faint but expedentially haunting, pained and angered pitches. The boy walked briskly into the house.
As did Walterovich's best source. As did the West Champlain News-Times award-winning story.
Pastor Ryan coughed, and the reporter expected the church man might collapse on the porch. When Dylan
walked by, the church man went to pat him of his shoulder. Walterovich knew the teen would slight his
father, but remarkably, his protégée accepted the non-verbal apology.
‘They are that close of a family,' the writer mused.
Ryan turned and gently closed the door. Walterovich stood by himself at his car door. He was at a complete
loss at what he should do next.
Eventually, the reporter made himself drive back to the library. His pride was wounded. Walterovich didn't
mind helping his town -- he never saw a problem with that – but something felt either humiliating or
irresponsible about leaving the Ryans without any comment or explanation at all. Walterovich knew that had
his boss known of what had transpired, he would have been fired on the spot, and the reporter would have
to agree with it.
‘But she doesn't know, so I can still make good on this.'
It appeared that Walterovich was ready to do his job after all.
He parked in the same spot at the Redbridge Library and walked in to the surprise of Rebecca who started
talking a little too loudly on the phone before hastily hanging up. 'She's either a really bad liar or a great
poker player,' Walterovich thought to himself.
He sat down at a computer, but this time it was one seat over - the same terminal that Dylan had been in no
longer than 15 minutes before. ‘Let's see if Rebecca is in on the conspiracy,' he thought dryly. ‘Hmmm. I
really am in a foul mood.'
Walterovich clicked on the Internet icon; the home page of the library popped up after a few seconds. The
reporter dragged the mouse to “view”, “explorer bar” and then “history". A long list of websites popped up in
reverse chronological. The latter came from Dylan, unless Rebecca somehow pulled a fast one. Walterovich
wasn't quite sure if anyone else had preceded the young Ryan. ‘Hey, it's a lead,' Walterovich thought, quietly
taking his small notepad and pen out of his cashmere jacket.
__________________________________________________
Today
__________________________________________________
West Champlain.news-times/news
texas-oil/reports/family_tree
vermont_mysteries/disappearances
sports.Red_Sox/fan_mail
email_password/login
st.augustine_center/chat
West Champlain.news-times/birth_announcements
fbi.gov
kidnapping_center/millionaires
lindberg_history/case
christmas_gifts/vermont
Redbridge_public_library
The reporter copied down all 12 entries and debated, internally, whether or not to erase the history. He felt
bad suspecting his neighbors now, and had nothing against what Pastor Ryan had done. Walterovich would
have down the same, but the reporter felt a sudden energized need to be more true to his profession, or at
least his colleagues. He erased the history and quickly and randomly clicked on some Vermont and local
web sites to at least make it somewhat believable if the librarian or anyone else went to check what the
reporter had seen.
“Well, this is at least more interesting than covering stories about nude lamps at the governor's mansion,"
the writer whispered logging off. “Take care, Rebecca," he said, in a library whisper. The librarian smiled
politely and then went back to her books.
The little voice nipping at the reporter finally was able to articulate itself as soon as he sat down in his
worn and used black Honda Civic.
“You never emailed your boss. Damn it,” the writer hissed. “How much do I just not need this?"
Walterovich mulled going back into the library for the third time in 17 minutes and it just didn't seem that the
smooth first option to choose.
“What to do? What to do?" the reporter mumbled. His cerebral Rolodex started flipping through mug shots
and thumbnails. “Ah," he mused after 42 seconds. The reporter fired up the steel carriage and headed for
some lunch.
***
Andi's was the famed restaurant started by fourth-generation Redbridge resident Anastasia Thetford who
succeeded in melding some of her favorite staple dishes as well as an ever changing menu that brought
the world to the taste buds of her local neighbors. Walterovich had known Thetford for years, and asked the
Chef if she would attend and also cater his wedding. She graciously agreed to both and all 32 attendants to
Justin and Alessandra's wedding have been recounting each morsel ever since.
She also has an impressive computer set up to keep both a professional web site and for work with fellow
colleagues from the world's most famous kitchens. The reporter had no favors to call in the food master, so
he would have to beg. “Look, at this stage of the game, who has room for pride?" he asked, turning into the
eatery's slender parking lot. As he exited his vehicle, the writer saw two cats -- one black with a white belly
and the other orange with a white-striped crooked tail climb onto the hood of his ride. Walterovich chuckled,
“I'll take them over dogs any day.”
The reporter went up to the window of the restaurant, cupped his hand over his eyes and looked in. The
winter air made him shiver for a moment. “It's pretty full.” Thetford had one of her employees put down a
table to accommodate the patrons to her restaurant. “There's never an empty table at my place,” she was
quoted as saying in a recent food review in which her restaurant was named one of the top 10 “must eat”
locations in Vermont.
Walterovich couldn't even get a word in when he walked inside. Two young employees, no more than 22
years of age, literally jumped over the counter, grabbed a small, round cherry table from the side, and
ushered the reporter to the best possible angle to view the new artwork and impressive aesthetic Feng Shui
layout of Andi's. The writer could have sworn he actually was collapsed into his chair and marveled how the
three large ice cubes dove, without a splash, into a narrow and tall glass of lemon-flavored ice water. ‘10.0,
10.0, 9.5,' he thought. ‘Those damn East German judges.'
Both employees stood in military attention waiting for the customer to speak. “Um...may I please speak to
Andi...when she has a spare moment?” They nodded and disappeared into the famed kitchen of the master.
Thetford walked out of her kitchen doors more as President Thetford with Secret Service agents who were
ready to slice and dice any shallot that came her way.
“Justin, I don't do interviews anymore. Being hard to reach makes my work more in demand,” she said with
a chuckle. “Good to see you. How can I help you? I have a week's worth of preparation and only two hours
and 37 minutes to complete it in. You are going to have to get to the point."
The reporter nodded. “Andi...can you lose the security for a moment? No disrespect,” he said. The artist's
handlers each shot the writer a look, and then made themselves useful without even needing to wait for
Thetford's command. ‘Now that's help,’ Walterovich thought to himself.
Thetford made direct eye contact; she heard the sands slipping away the hour glass. ‘This had better be
good,’ she thought.
“It's like this Andi: I need a private Internet source for today and most likely into the early morning hours. I
have an important story and I can't use the library because it will tip people off, and I can't go to my aunt's
because I don't want to get them involved. I'll give you $250 right now if you will let me walk in and out of your
office without explanation to use one of your free computers. I won't erase anything or save anything...I'll use
my e-mail account with the paper, so there will be no trail on your computer.”
Thetford took one deep breath. “I'll tell you what Justin: I'll rent you the computer for $1 as long as you order
the edible Japanese flowers with the handmade truffles flown in from the hands of Norway's princess Mette-
Marit who made them no later than 11 hours ago."
“Done!” fired back the reporter who felt an especially sincere sense of gratitude to the food artist who
wouldn't take his money at his hour of need.
Thetford turned and marched back to the kitchen. Walterovich looked down and the hand painted menu with
gold leaf.
Today's special: Edible Japanese flours with Truffles by Her Majesty, Crown Princess Mette-Marit...$303
(beverage not included).
The reporter slumped over in his chair. The chef grinned ear to ear, although she wouldn't turn to show
Walterovich, as a professional courtesy. Life always happened in Redbridge a lot faster than most
observers realized, (until it had already happened.)
Anastasia Thetford grew up in a home where food grew naturally behind the barn, and everyone worked
towards excellence for the simple joy of excellent work. A vegetarian by six, the young chef drew strength
early on with the positive non-verbal cues from immediate family, visiting relatives and guests to the home
who nearly licked the plates clean from her creations du jour.
Thetford’s passion for the art grew and by the age of 10 she began keeping a cooking journal with her
recipes, notes, sketches, and interpretations of each of her patron’s reactions to both specific ingredients
and its preparation.
June 7, 1994
Uncle Hugh and Aunt Karen came over for Saturday brunch. I wanted to surprise them with something light
that could also serve as a full meal if they wanted their fill. I baked two loaves of Russian winter wheat
bread; the crust was nearly rock-solid while the inside was so soft you could rest your face on it and fall
asleep in two minutes. I wanted a meaty olive spread, obviously without the meat. Mom took me down to the
COOP in the morning and we picked up some special-order queens, manzanillas, hojiblancas and natural
blacks. At home, I added some garlic, shallots and a few chickpeas for firmness.
When I called everyone in for lunch, I had the warm bread, the spread and a plate of Brillat Savarin already
on the table. Aunt Karen smiled politely. She is rarely a big-portion eater. Uncle Hugh was visibly
disappointed. I was tempted to offer some explanation but I remembered what Master Chef Raul Z. Martin
told us at Cooking Super Camp:
“A true Chef only apologizes for being so gifted.”
I offered “bon appetite”, and we began. I didn’t focus on my folks or sisters because I have years of research
on them. My eyes gently glazed over Aunt Karen and Uncle Hugh. Aunt Karen actually closed her eyes as the
warm bread and soft Brillat Savarin made contact with her pallet. It appeared she was having a conversation
with someone very special to her, and soon she made no effort to reopen her eyes at all, only doing so
when she wanted another thin slice of winter bread and its cheese accessory.
Uncle Hugh went right for the bread and olive spread. I could tell he was skeptical, not of the good taste – he
trusted me with that – but with the ability of an apparently small portion to fill his ever-growing belly. By the
second bite, Uncle Hugh was singing some impromptu blues song softly and rocking side-to-side much
like Ray Charles. Uncle Hugh began singing “Georgia…Georgia…” by the second slice of bread, although
he stopped there. (I don’t think he knew the rest of the song.)
There were still two slices and some olive spread left when Aunt Karen went outside for a cigarette (I never
knew she smoked) and Uncle Hugh crawled on our couch and went to sleep for the rest of the afternoon.
All in all, I’d say the meal was a keeper.
A.T.
To: editor@WestChamplain.news-times.com
From: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
____________________________________________________
Chief,
I'm sorry I am running a little behind. I am in Redbridge and have found a secured line that I trust to send
and receive emails. I’ve picked a private site that isn't connected to the library or my Aunt's, just because I
want to write in peace without having someone looking over my shoulder. I need to keep the location private
at the request of the provider.
But enough about my secret hiding place, here is what I have so far: Again, I am writing more for speed than
for anything printable at the time, but if you want me to start sending you actual drafts, let me know. Just
send a text and voice message to my cell with the number “12” and I'll know you want me to check my email
ASAP. Also, please use this email address as opposed to any other, because we know the News-Times
mail has strong encryption and security features.
So far, this is the general spirit of what I have:
Redbridge Officials Search for Missing Billionaire
by Justin Walterovich
West Champlain News-Times
REDBRIDGE – Selectboard Chair, Shelly McGowan authorized the use of the Redbridge emergency phone
tree today to ask local residents to help locate the whereabouts of billionaire Texas oil heiress, Jennifer K.
Maxwell.
Maxwell, last seen in Redbridge, failed to return phone calls to family and business associates earlier
yesterday morning. Although it still is too early for an official Missing Persons report to be filed, the situation
warranted immediate attention, McGowan said.
“My office has only heard of this reported disappearance through the Sheriff's Office as a courtesy since
no Missing Persons Report has been filed at this time, or that is my understanding,” McGowan said. “I will
say that I authorize(d) the use of the Redbridge phone tree...to make sure the whole town is alerted that
Maxwell has yet to check in with loved ones. I only pray that she is somewhere safe and will check in
immediately to let her family know she is OK.”
Sheriff Pete Winslow confirmed that the local phone tree had been employed and called a special press
conference 9 a.m. this morning (date of publication) to share what he described as “important
developments” in Maxwell's disappearance.
“Our office now has reasons to believe that the disappearance of Jennifer Maxwell may be as the result of
suspicious causes,” Sheriff Winslow said. “We are actively pursuing many viable leads. I will be holding a
press conference 9 a.m. (today), earlier if the situation warrants it. Until then, I am not at liberty to speak
further on the particulars of this investigation.”
Multiple members of the community told the News-Times that they saw Maxwell in passing during the last
week, including famed chef Andi Thetford.
“I met a woman who identified herself as Jennifer Maxwell about four days ago at the Redbridge Library,”
Thetford said. “She said she was in town on holiday as well as doing some research for a book she was co-
authoring. We didn't talk much, but she seemed polite and relaxed...I hope that she is OK and will check in
with loved ones soon.”
...that's what I have as far, Chief. I'll keep you posted. I did get some digital pictures of Maxwell from the
sheriff's office, which I am including as an attachment to this email.
Walterovich
PS. I had to use the company credit card to charge lunch. It was pricey, but you need to understand that I am
on duty and have to blend in somewhat. It's for the good of the story.
Trevino had a nice view from her News-Times office. She was well aware of the resentment that most of her
subordinates had felt for her move two floors up, but there was a very legitimate reason. ‘I can’t stand any of
you,’ she always thought with a crocodile smile when having to slum down in the newsroom. ‘The smell of
reporters is repugnant. I want to shower every time I am within three feet of any of you.’
Her office phone rang. Outside caller. “Trevino,” she said bluntly. “So what have you found out so far?” the
prissy, southern, raspy, male voice said on the other end
“Well, I just got the first email from my reporter…”
“Email? Why the hell are you allowing a paper trail?”
The editor chuckled a ‘why don’t you shut up for a second and let me finish, you rhubarb?’ chuckle. “Well you
see, in fact, that is the most secure mode of communication…at least for us simple folk up here in Vermont,
or was it New Hampshire?” she replied now with bourbon venom. “I hope you aren’t making your
mysterious and cryptic phone calls from a cell phone. You never know what enemies might be getting an
early read on the story.”
The cellular knives were digging into the southern gentleman’s back. Trevino loved every syllable of her
punishing monologue.
“Listen you… you…” the southerner was trying to return serve without crossing lines of no return.
“No, you listen to me you confederate, robber baron and listen good, because unlike you, I have a real job to
do here,” Trevino hissed. “Our deal was that we would get you the early lead on any information on poor little
Jennifer and her term paper and that is what I am delivering. In fact, if you would put down your titanium
cappuccino cup for a moment, you will notice that I forwarded you what Walterovich has sent me so far. Now,
if you want to terminate our deal, that’s fine. I’ll keep your very generous down payment and consider it a tax
for having to listen to your backwater, sheltered, ignorant, scratchy voice. Or, you can let me have my little
circus monkey go to work in his hometown and we can all go to sleep happy. I don’t care. Now I’m hanging
up because I have to proof the sports special insert. Good bye.”
“Wait…wait.. I…”
Trevino slammed the receiver down and turned slowly to watch holiday shoppers scurry amidst the flurries
and holiday lighting.
“I love my job,” she said with soft confidence. “I truly am the master of my own destiny.”
Over the new Dell computer in Thetford's private office sat an octagon window with a stained glass pictorial
of the old church in town. Walterovich gazed out as fellow neighbor Dr. Karen Procter walked by at close
range: her coloring changing from green, to white, to red, back to green again.
The reporter had written one of his better feature stories on the fifth-generation Redbridge resident who
dedicated her life to studying Spanish history. Dr. Procter's partner of 19 years, Dr. Anna Helton (from the
Kingdom of Pennsylvania, as she often said) was an ethnographer working for green companies trying to
increase profit without lowering their respective souls. Or so they said.
“Why Spanish history?" the reporter had asked Procter once during a past holiday pot luck at the church. The
conversation was off-the-record, but became an early seed to the future published three-part feature.
“My father was Spanish, a Spaniard by birth, and a very hard man to please,” she said, holding her Anna's
hand for a moment before Dr. Helton vanished to try some of Fay Jenning's macaroni salad. “My Mom's side
of the family obviously was from Redbridge many times over. Dad never said it, but I think he always felt a
little bit of an outsider.”
“Why? Locals embrace anyone once they either get married, have a life-commitment ceremony or a kid with
a Redbridge resident," Walterovich said quite innocently.
Procter smiled. “Well, Justin, I think that is a tad idealistic, but I agree that this town generally is very
welcoming to people who make a commitment to pour their souls into the soil, so to speak,” she
responded. “I think that for Dad, Redbridge was everything he wanted to be as a person: hard working,
strong, vibrant, secretive, safe and complicated. Dad worked as hard as anyone but I think his upbringing
back in Spain forced him into a box that he never was able to release himself from until the very end. I'll give
you an example: When he painted, I could see that he wanted to capture bolder characters in controversial
colors, but he always talked himself down to a safer level.”
“Karen, I am far from an art dealer, but your Dad's works seem very powerful to me."
“Well me too, and thank you, but I could see from the rafters up in the barn -- that's where Dad did his work
six or seven months out of the year -- that he had a wonderful, mysterious story to tell,” she said. “I created
this fantasy scenario where Dad was a member of a secret society like da Vinci and painting was his only
way of passing on age-old secrets. You know, for all I know, he was."
“So Spanish history was a way to...”
“To...allow him to speak through me and to him,” Procter responded thoughtfully. “I could see Dad's eyes
light up with hope and excitement when I would share my thoughts on the complex moral issues behind the
Spanish explorers during the 1500s or modern Spanish political infighting.
I could talk to him, you know? I always loved that about Dad. He was a very closed man in many respects,
and I think you know what I mean. But he had a good heart and Spain was our thing. He let down his guard
with me when our minds drifted off to Spain. I think or I'd like to think that Spain was the final piece of the
foundation that allowed Dad to find complete peace in Redbridge.
Jesus, now I'm sounding idealistic, but you had to have been there. When he was dying...when my Daddy
was dying, he whispered in my ear, ‘I want to rest here. Redbridge makes me feel young.’ Large tears rolled
down Procter's face. Walterovich felt awkward, but the doctor's big grin told him and the room that everything
was OK. “Isn't that a beautiful concept to hold on to at the moment you die, to feel at the moment your body
lets go. That brilliant epiphany has fueled so many expeditions, and a simple painter found it on a cotton
death bed."
It didn't seem like enough time had passed between the time when Dr. Procter walked by the stained glass
window and when she was standing in Thetford's private office staring at the reporter at work. Walterovich
was annoyed. He appreciated Procter, but time and privacy had become even more fleeting commodities
and the reporter was feeling squeezed. Walterovich didn't know if Thetford had somehow quickly tipped off
the good doctor, if Procter had seen his car and wanted to talk, or if she, too, had an agreement for computer
time.
Whatever the scenario, the reporter didn't feel like chatting. He did smile once politely before returning to
type out some notes based on his early search engine queries on the sites and subjects he had taken from
Dylan Ryan's history window at the library.
After more than a few moments of uneasy silence, Procter closed the foldout door to the office. It was far
from sound-proof.
“I need to talk with you, Justin.”
“I'd like to Karen, but I'm on the clock with the paper and I am staring down an important deadline.”
“I know,” she responded.
“What do you mean, you know?" he responded, still typing and searching. He consciously lightened up
his tone, because it was, to him, becoming borderline rude.
“I know why you are here," she replied.
“Karen, I don't think it is a big secret anymore because of the phone tree. I'm just doing my job, OK. I'm not
making trouble or trying to be rude, but I paid Andi $300 for a computer and some privacy and so far, I only
have had 12 minutes of privacy. I'm not trying to be rude, OK? I just need to work now.”
Procter sat down across from him. “Justin, just stop for a second and listen.”
The reporter obliged but cut in. “Karen, I spent too much time today with a local we all know and respect, but
I was left at the altar with nothing on-the-record. That was my freebie for Redbridge for today. I don't have the
luxury of having you tell me a bunch of insight off-the-record and then trying to continue to piece together
some suitable page-one story. I know I am sounding like a jerk, and it's not you, but I have to do this story
now. That's a lot on the line and it's more than just my career.”
Procter reached into her tan, animal-free, synthetic leather jacket and retrieved a small, purple envelope,
which looked like it was made by hand. There was a wax seal on the back, clamping it shut, and some
interesting collection of tools, lettering and characters that no doubt attempted to represent an old and
powerful family, club or organization. Walterovich took the envelope and held it firmly in his left hand. He
made eye contact with Procter and waited for her further direction.
“I was working with Jennifer on a book..."
“What kind of book?" he interrupted politely.
“I don't want to tell you that right now?"
“Why not?" Walterovich asked.
“Because I don't know if you need to know that right now. Let me finish,” she countered, politely in kind.
“Jennifer sent this to me a few months ago. She told me not to open it, but that it was her password to her
company email account. She said I could open it and log into her account if she ever died, or went missing.”
“What makes you think she died or went missing?” the reporter pressed.
“Is this all off-the-record?” she asked.
“Yes, our conversation is, but I won't make any emails from Maxwell off-the-record. If I can't use it, I don't
want it. I can find the story on my own,” the writer said. He paused.
“Karen, I owe you an apology. Let me talk with you off-the-record for a moment, so to speak. I met up with
Dylan Ryan today, only about 90 minutes ago, actually. He wanted to tell me something about Maxwell and I
took him to his father first, because I didn't want the kid to get into any unnecessary trouble. Well, Dylan
ended up going into his grandparents’ house, and I was standing like a fool outside of my beat up Honda,
no idea why Dylan approached me. I'm glad that Dylan didn't say anything. I'm not out to trap anyone,
especially a kid, but at the same time, I have a job to do like anyone else. Who else in town would passively
not do their job correctly and let other people completely dictate when and how they work? I just got stung
and I've been sour ever since. Anyhow, none of this is your problem. I just wanted to explain myself, my
actions, to you, that's all.”
Procter smiled. “Justin, we both write to be published and we both are looking for Jennifer,” she said. "I
need you because I won't be able to find out anything extra about Jennifer until I read it in your newspaper. I
need to know before then...”
“Why...”
“Again, I can't really...I don't want to get into that now. I don't want to lie to you or deceive you. Listen, take
the envelope, and use it as you like. No strings attached. Here's my card. If you think we can work together
on this, call me or email me. I'll give you more tangible tidbits on-the-record, in exchange for full disclosure
of what you have found.”
| (c) Lacche-Media, LLC by Justin Lacche Edited by Susan Ermer Locke |
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