Chapter 28

Tohickon, as far as Henry could tell, consisted of a post office, one school, one library, one gas station with a convenience store attached, one covered bridge, and one bar near it called the Covered Bridge Bar. He drove slowly down its streets and roads, past split-level houses and the occasional Victorian. The cars parked in front of these houses were American-made and a few years old, for the most part. Several houses had multiple cars in front of them, including old junkers on concrete blocks in front yards.

On the drive from Philadelphia, Henry, realizing he should have asked this earlier, called Chris Salah at the gallery.

"Chris, it's Ted Lockwood again. One more thing that I should have asked you. What kind of car does Charnock drive?"

"Oh, it's a beauty," Chris said. "A Jaguar. Vintage, I think, with two doors. He loves that car more than he loves his wife."

"What color is it?"

"It's green. A greeny-gray, I suppose. Or a gray-green. It's very sporty."

So as Henry drove slowly down the rutted roads of Tohickon, peering at houses and driveways, he was looking for gray-green Jaguars, even though what he was seeing was a lot of single-car garages. He imagined that if Ethan/Robert owned a house in this town, he might keep the Jaguar out of sight.

At just before noon, Henry parked in the town center across from the Covered Bridge Bar, hoping it would be open for lunch. He stared at the map of Tohickon he'd pulled up on his phone and thought he'd driven down just about every street in town. He was surprised, somehow, that no one had noticed and called the cops on him, but then again, it was a cold gray Saturday and Tohickon did feel like a ghost town.

He'd been putting off calling Lily's parents all morning but decided that he needed to do it now. He called the number Sharon had called him from the night before, and after two rings she picked up.

"Sharon, hi, it's Henry Kimball," he said. "Any news?"

"She's gone, Henry. The police have been through the woods and everything and there's no sign of her. David's beside himself. I just can't imagine where she would have gone without telling us first."

"So, the police have been helpful?"

"Well, they haven't found her, but they are looking. She hasn't gotten in touch with you?"

"She hasn't," Henry said.

"Okay," she said, and sighed. "I'll tell the police that. They asked if she had a boyfriend, and I told them about you."

"Oh," he said, about to add that he wasn't her boyfriend, but he didn't think it mattered. "I'll call you if I hear anything from her," he said. "And you'll do the same?"

"I will," she said.

After the phone call, Henry sat in the car. His bones felt empty, like they knew already that Lily was dead. He stayed in the car, not particularly hungry but keeping an eye on the bar across the street. He was out of options and decided it was time to start interviewing residents. At noon he saw a figure move in front of the plate-glass door, flipping a sign to say they were now open for business.

The inside was cheerier than he thought it would be. Wood-paneled walls, a horseshoe-shaped bar, and several booths with high backs and cushioned seats. He took a seat at the bar. Above the bottles was a faded painting of Tohickon's covered bridge. He looked around and saw that covered bridges, paintings of them anyway, and a few replicas, were the central design theme. An older woman with short gray hair asked him what he'd liked to drink.

"Do you have fresh coffee?" he said.

"I don't right now, hon, but if you're willing to wait ten minutes, I can make some."

He said he was and she disappeared through a swinging door. While she was gone, the front door opened and a lone man entered. He was large and had a florid face and sat three stools away from Henry, making puffing sounds as he settled onto his stool. When the bartender came back out, she spotted him and went immediately to the refrigerator under the bar and grabbed a bottle of Coors Light.

"How are you, Norman?" she said, uncapping the bottle and placing it down in front of him.

"Still feels like winter out there. I thought someone had said something about spring."

He sipped at his beer. The bartender said, "Juan made chili this morning if you're interested, so that might warm you up." She placed a lowball glass on the bar next to the Coors Light and added a shot of Jameson's to it.

"Ah, thank you, Mo," Norman said.

Mo disappeared through the swinging doors again and returned with Henry's cup of coffee, placing it in front of him. "You're a lifesaver," he said, then asked if he could get a shot of Jameson's on the side as well.

"Do you need a menu?" Mo said, after pouring him his shot.

"Sure, I'll look at one."

Henry looked at the menu and ordered the chili. When Mo brought it five minutes later, he was ready with his cell phone out, the picture of Ethan Saltz.

"I'm actually in town looking for someone," he said to her. "I was hoping you could help."

"Sure," she said, and he held the phone out to her. She leaned in close, squinting.

"Yeah, I know him. He comes in here sometimes. But I don't know anything about him."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Henry said, surprised his voice sounded as calm as it did.

Mo frowned, her chin wrinkling. "Don't know exactly, but not recently. Like I said, it's not that I know him, but his face is familiar. He comes in here. Try Norman," she said, looking over at the man three stools down.

Norman had already been listening to the conversation, and when Henry turned to him, he held his hand out for the phone. Henry handed it over.

"Hmm," Norman said. "I think he told me his name was Brad Something. Nice guy. Hasn't been in here too recent, though, like Mo said." He handed the phone back, reaching his arm out very slowly as though it hurt him to move.

"Can I ask you some questions?" Henry said, moving his chili and coffee down and changing stools to be closer to him.

"Sure," Norman said. "But can I ask you why you're asking?"

"It's complicated, plus a little boring," Henry said. "I'm a private investigator and it's possible that the man in the picture, that Brad, has been involved in a financial scheme. By involved, it looks as though he's a victim and not a perpetrator. My client wants me to find him and it's turning out to be harder than I thought it would be."

"Well, you've come this far. He must have an address here in Tohickon."

"All my client knows is that he lives here, but, no, I don't have an address, and I'm having no luck with real estate records in locating him. You never knew his last name?"

"He introduced himself as Brad. Clearly that's not the name you have, or you wouldn't be grilling me about it."

Henry sipped his coffee, now laced with Irish whiskey. "I have limited information, that's for sure. You're the first lead I've gotten."

"I'm not going to be much help to you, I'm afraid. He's come in here for lunch before, just like you're doing now. And he's sat at the bar and the two of us talked, again, just like you and I are doing, and the only reason I remember his name was Brad was because he told it to me and I recalled thinking that he looked a little like Brad Pitt, you know, strong jaw, blue eyes. So the name stuck with me."

"Did he tell you anything about what he did or where he lived here in town?"

While the man thought, he moved his fingers on the surface of the bar like he was playing a piano. "Said he was an art collector and told me he had property here in town, but the way he said it made it sound like he didn't really live here."

"Okay," Henry said. "You've been helpful."

"What's your name again?"

"Ted Lockwood. Let me get you a card." He thumbed out another one of his fake private investigator cards. It was his last one.

"I'm Norman Hart."

"Let me buy you a drink, Norman," Henry said, catching Mo's eye.

Mo uncapped another bottle of beer and poured another short whiskey.

"If you were me, Norman," Henry said, "where would you go looking for this man's house here in Tohickon?"

"I suppose you could just knock on every door. There's only about three hundred houses in this whole town. But if you didn't want to do that, I suppose you could look for a fancy car out front of a house."

"Brad drove a fancy car?"

"Yeah, sorry I didn't mention that before. I saw it once parked in front of this bar. A Jaguar XJ and if I recall correctly, the year was 1976. It was a beaut. He told me how he only took it out for special occasions."

"It probably wouldn't be out in front of his house," Henry said. "Probably in a garage."

"Probably," Norman said. "Or under a tarp."

"Right," Henry said. Norman took a small sip of his whiskey and then a small sip of his beer, then excused himself. He slid off his stool gracefully, like someone with a lot of practice. Henry's mind spun, excited to confirm that Saltz did live in this town, at least some of the time, but also thinking about what Norman had just said about protecting a car with a tarp. Driving around this morning, he'd seen so many different cars parked outside of houses, but it felt as though he'd seen a few that had been covered. He closed his eyes and replayed the drive, trying to shut out the Steely Dan song that was playing through the loudspeakers. And suddenly he remembered one of the covered cars, in front of a modest shingled house at the end of a quiet road. There were a couple of cars in front of it and one of them was under a black plastic tarp. For whatever reason, he'd just thought it was someone's project, probably a fixer-upper that had sat out the winter months, but what if it had been the Jaguar?