expert. The third one, farthest down the road, appeared to be an old farmhouse.
“These two,” Betty said as she turned into the first driveway, “belonged to a mother and daughter. The mother was in her sixties twelve years ago and the daughter was married with two children. The name here is Warren.”
We got out of the car and went up to the front door. A chime played a short tune when Betty pushed the button,and the door was opened almost immediately by a whitehaired woman wearing dark brown wool pants, a yellow shirt, and a camel-colored sweater over it.
“I know you,” she said, looking at Betty as though trying to pull a name out of the past.
“Betty Linton. My son, Darby Maxwell, was lost in the woods twelve years ago.”
“Oh, yes, the poor child. Come in; come in. It’s cold out there.”
We went inside to a very warm living room with a woodstove in the fireplace. The heat that radiated from it was very strong, and I could imagine it warmed the whole downstairs. We made introductions and sat down.
“I remember you now,” Mrs. Warren said. “My husband joined the search party back then. Your son died, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Thank you for helping.”
“That’s when I met you; I remember now. You came by afterward to thank us.”
“Yes. A lot of people were very helpful. I’m eternally grateful.”
“You don’t find many people anymore who say thank you. I’m sorry it turned out the way it did.”
“Mrs. Warren, some new information has been found. We think Darby may have spent some time in a house before he died.”
“It wasn’t here. We would have turned him in.”
“I know that. But maybe you’ve heard something over the years.”
She shook her head. “It’s pretty lonely out here. My daughter who lives next door didn’t say anything and our neighbor down the road—I don’t know if they were there when it happened. They’re away a lot.”
“Mrs. Warren,” I said, “do you know people around here who own guns?”
“Hunting guns? Lots of folks have ’em. My husband used to do some hunting. When he died last year, I got rid of the gun.”
“I was thinking more of handguns.”
“That’s harder to know about. Probably the police know. They’ve got to be licensed.”
“Back when Darby got lost, were the people around here longtime residents?”
“All three of these houses had the same people in them. The neighbors farther down, the Gallaghers, they bought that house about twenty years ago. Now there’s other houses—no, they’re newer. They weren’t here then. But if you go up this road to the end and turn right, there’s other houses there.”
Betty was shaking her head. “He would have come to this road first.”
“You’re right. Poor thing. Such a sad way to die.”
“Did you ever know anyone named Filmore?” I asked. “Lawrence Filmore and his wife, Laura.”
She shook her head. “I knew a Laura, but it’s not Filmore. Talk to my daughter, girls. She’s home now and she’s much more outgoing than I am. She’s active in the garden club and the church and she does some volunteer work at the school. She knows lots of people. But she doesn’t have any guns.”
“Thank you,” I said.
We got up and left.
—
“Sure, come right in.” Mrs. Warren’s daughter, Michelle Franklin, was effusive in welcoming us. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll fix us some coffee.”
Before we could decline, she was off to the kitchen, banging things around, calling to us to sit wherever we wanted. Five minutes later, she was carrying in coffee cake that looked wonderful and then the rest of her offering.
“How’s Mom?” she asked as she poured coffee into flowered mugs.
“Oh, you mean your mom?” I said.
She laughed. “I haven’t called her yet today.”
“She’s fine. That’s some wood-burning stove she’s got over there.”
“Aren’t they wonderful? Her heating bill is almost nothing. That little stove just pours its heat all over
“These two,” Betty said as she turned into the first driveway, “belonged to a mother and daughter. The mother was in her sixties twelve years ago and the daughter was married with two children. The name here is Warren.”
We got out of the car and went up to the front door. A chime played a short tune when Betty pushed the button,and the door was opened almost immediately by a whitehaired woman wearing dark brown wool pants, a yellow shirt, and a camel-colored sweater over it.
“I know you,” she said, looking at Betty as though trying to pull a name out of the past.
“Betty Linton. My son, Darby Maxwell, was lost in the woods twelve years ago.”
“Oh, yes, the poor child. Come in; come in. It’s cold out there.”
We went inside to a very warm living room with a woodstove in the fireplace. The heat that radiated from it was very strong, and I could imagine it warmed the whole downstairs. We made introductions and sat down.
“I remember you now,” Mrs. Warren said. “My husband joined the search party back then. Your son died, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Thank you for helping.”
“That’s when I met you; I remember now. You came by afterward to thank us.”
“Yes. A lot of people were very helpful. I’m eternally grateful.”
“You don’t find many people anymore who say thank you. I’m sorry it turned out the way it did.”
“Mrs. Warren, some new information has been found. We think Darby may have spent some time in a house before he died.”
“It wasn’t here. We would have turned him in.”
“I know that. But maybe you’ve heard something over the years.”
She shook her head. “It’s pretty lonely out here. My daughter who lives next door didn’t say anything and our neighbor down the road—I don’t know if they were there when it happened. They’re away a lot.”
“Mrs. Warren,” I said, “do you know people around here who own guns?”
“Hunting guns? Lots of folks have ’em. My husband used to do some hunting. When he died last year, I got rid of the gun.”
“I was thinking more of handguns.”
“That’s harder to know about. Probably the police know. They’ve got to be licensed.”
“Back when Darby got lost, were the people around here longtime residents?”
“All three of these houses had the same people in them. The neighbors farther down, the Gallaghers, they bought that house about twenty years ago. Now there’s other houses—no, they’re newer. They weren’t here then. But if you go up this road to the end and turn right, there’s other houses there.”
Betty was shaking her head. “He would have come to this road first.”
“You’re right. Poor thing. Such a sad way to die.”
“Did you ever know anyone named Filmore?” I asked. “Lawrence Filmore and his wife, Laura.”
She shook her head. “I knew a Laura, but it’s not Filmore. Talk to my daughter, girls. She’s home now and she’s much more outgoing than I am. She’s active in the garden club and the church and she does some volunteer work at the school. She knows lots of people. But she doesn’t have any guns.”
“Thank you,” I said.
We got up and left.
—
“Sure, come right in.” Mrs. Warren’s daughter, Michelle Franklin, was effusive in welcoming us. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll fix us some coffee.”
Before we could decline, she was off to the kitchen, banging things around, calling to us to sit wherever we wanted. Five minutes later, she was carrying in coffee cake that looked wonderful and then the rest of her offering.
“How’s Mom?” she asked as she poured coffee into flowered mugs.
“Oh, you mean your mom?” I said.
She laughed. “I haven’t called her yet today.”
“She’s fine. That’s some wood-burning stove she’s got over there.”
“Aren’t they wonderful? Her heating bill is almost nothing. That little stove just pours its heat all over
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