The Labyrinth of Blue Towers: The Disappearance of Jack Arneson - Chapter 16

 

 The Labyrinth of Blue Towers:

The Disappearance of Jack Arneson

(A Sewing Box Mystery)

Chapter 1: Friday, June 10, 2011, 7:21 pm

Chapter 2: Saturday, June 11, 2011, 8:38 am

Chapter 3: Thursday, June 28, 1984, 10:10 am

Chapter 4: Thursday, June 28, 1984, 7:46 pm

Chapter 5: Friday, June 29, 1984, 7:24 am

Chapter 6: Friday, June 29, 1984, 2:17 pm

Chapter 7: Wednesday, December 19, 1984, 6:03 am

Chapter 8: Tuesday, July 22, 1997, 9:22 am

Chapter 9: Saturday, June 11, 2011, 12:49 pm

Chapter 10: Sunday, June 12, 2011, 9:35 am

Chapter 11: Thursday, June 16, 2011, 4:14 pm

Chapter 12: Saturday, June 18, 2011, 8:00 am

Chapter 13: Saturday, June 18, 2011, 9:45 am

Chapter 14: Saturday, June 18, 2011, 10:32 am

Chapter 15: Saturday, June 18, 2011, 10:51 am

Chapter 16: Saturday, June 18, 2011, 11:48 am

The shabby, compact diner was buzzing with business. Peter was already seated when they arrived, having secured the last available booth. Chivalrously, he rose as the ladies entered. Jeanette slid quickly into the side opposite him, sticking to the middle of the bench, making it impossible for Missy to sit next to her. Giving her aunt the evil eye, she slid into the booth on Peter’s side. Jeanette was already busy perusing the menu, asking Peter for suggestions, giving Missy ample time to take in their surroundings.

It was a typical small town diner, the kind you find, not downtown, but on the outskirts. A prefab 'Valentine’ archetype, shaped like a streamline, deco train car, it featured a counter with stools at its center and booths along the window-lined wall that faced the main road. Over the years, several additions had been grafted onto its exterior and it was obvious (at least to Missy) that cost and haste were the presiding factors in their construction, for their design was not exactly harmonious with the rest of the diner. The entryway, no doubt added to keep the air conditioning in during summer and the heat in winter, was made of inexpensive, plain plywood which they hadn’t even bothered to paint. Coming in, Missy had also noticed a crude cinderblock structure thrusting out from the right side of the diner - probably restrooms, added to meet code.

The main part of the diner was worn, but extremely clean and well-maintained The decor struck Missy as functional and practical, and given the limited space that was probably wise, as it didn’t exactly allow for a great deal of personalization. The limited wall space seemed reserved for product placements - various food items offered at one time or another throughout the diner's existence: tin signs promoting bottled sodas no longer in existence and faded posters extolling the healthy benefits of consuming the likes of Wonder Bread. But it was a small, yellowing advertisement for a different kind of bread that captured Missy’s immediate attention 'Brother’s Bread—Locally Baked—Celestially Inspired'. Missy found the caricature of the two fat, robed friars shoveling bread down their gullets quite comical. Something about their gleeful faces reminded her of the Campbell Soup kids. She was about to point out the sign to Jeanette, when the waitress arrived at their table.

Missy couldn’t help herself. She stared at the young woman. There was something odd about her, something a bit off. Like Boyd’s sad old house, she seemed to lean a bit to the right. Stroke? Early stages of MS? Was it polite to ask? “No!” The voice of Grandma Jean reprimanded her as her eyes flew to the safety of the heavy, oversized, plastic-encased menu in front of her.

The young woman before them wore a standard polyester uniform dress, pale blue with a swath of white down the center mimicking an apron. Her blond hair was pulled back in a matching pale blue scrunchie; a mass of curls pouring forth from the top of her head in a concise cascade. Perched on her nose was a pair of dark-rimmed readers. Something about them, maybe it was the way they stood out in sharp contrast to her petite features, gave Missy the impression that they were less a necessity and more a theatrical prop.

“Afternoon, folks. How ya doing?” A gasp of recognition, like that of a high school cheerleader, peeled from her mouth. “Pete-Repeat! Looking good!” She then noted, with just a touch of suggestiveness, “Got two lady friends with you today, huh?”

Peter laughed. Missy felt her cheeks redden. “Yeah, a couple of out-of-towners. Jeanette and Missy.”

The woman’s eyes took in the new faces and without missing a beat, her crooked smile beaming at them, she greeted them. “Well, how do you do? Welcome to Dale’s Diner.”

“Libby, is it?” asked Jeanette, pointing to the name tag on the woman’s uniform.

Her eyes grew wide with the attention “Yep, that’s Libby, Libby, Libby on the label, label, label. Bet you never forget my name now, huh? It's a dollar off the Blue Plate today, which is a hot turkey on white with mashed and gravy. Can I get you something to sip on while you look over the menu?” Her practiced monologue streamed from her mouth in a solid flow, barely allowing for punctuation.

Jeanette promptly ordered coffee and water, Peter, a coke. Missy felt rattled. Unable to make a decision, she settled for water. As Libby lurched away from the table, her right foot dragging slightly behind her, Missy thought, yep, something definitely going on there.

Jeanette must have known exactly what Missy was thinking, for she felt a slight nudge to her shin beneath the table. Their eyes met and Missy could tell she was in trouble because Jeanette’s mouth was all twisted in disapproval.

Missy bared her teeth at her aunt in a forced smile and then strategically attempted to change focus. “What looks good? I’m starving.” Jeanette gave Missy a final glare before returning her attention to the menu in front of her.

“The Blue Plate is just like any other you’ve ever had,” reasoned Peter. “If I was you, I’d try the pork fritter. You will be amazed.”

Both Missy and Jeanette laughed. “I don’t know,” hemmed and hawed Jeannette. “I don’t believe it’s ever a good idea to eat something as large as your head. Not in one sitting, anyway.”

Missy stole a look to the area behind the counter. There, surveying the room stood a forbidding, heavy-set woman, her face a pile of chins. Her lower lip seemed to stick out almost as much as her ample bosom. Dressed in the same, stiff polyester dress as the perky Libby, they seemed polar opposites. She appeared hardened and bitter, as if she'd been ridden hard and put away wet, but if she had, she must have eaten a whole lot of sugar cubes along the way. One of the regulars, sitting on a stool on the far end of the counter, said something to her. Her face broke into a hearty smile; a smile somewhat reminiscent of Libby’s and the woman's steely reserve dissolved.

Peter noticed Missy staring “That’s Dale. She owns this place. Started as a waitress and then inherited the diner when the original owner passed away. You should've heard the gossip fly. She was a single mother back when such a thing was not regarded kindly. Then, once she got the diner, everybody started putting two and two together. Needless to say, the identity of Libby’s daddy came as a blessed relief to most of the married women in this town.”

“Libby is Dale’s daughter?”

“Yep. Sweet girl.” Then, in a much lower tone, as to escape all notice, he added, “She was born that way. Kids used to tease her mercilessly. A real shame, too, on account she’s so pretty.”

“Pete Repeat! You are something of a gossip!” Missy mockingly chided. He blushed in response and she took his reaction as a sign to change the subject. ‘So, how’d you earn that moniker?

“Huh?”

Apparently the conversational shift was too quick to follow. Missy doubled back. “Your name? Pete Repeat?” The blank look remained and for a moment Missy felt as if she'd stepped in something less than kosher.

Jeanette, who’d been listening, came to her rescue, stressing each word as if she were talking to a deaf two-year old. “Your nickname... where did it come from? What does it mean?”

“Oh!” he smiled “I thought you'd have guessed. My name is Peter Peterson. Yeah, I know. Talk to those that named me. And I live in St. Petersburg. ” He paused, waiting for recognition to dawn on their faces, and seeing none, continued. “So, I'm Pete Repeat. Get it?” The two women looked to one another before offering up a perfunctory laugh. He casually dismissed them with a wave of his hand “It's okay. Doesn't bother me. But everybody calls me that. Well, everybody in town.”

Missy’s reaction was immediate. “No offense, but I think I’ll just call you Peter, if that’s all right with you.”

Peter smiled, “Suit yourself.”

Libby returned with the beverages on a tray and a big smile. Missy marveled at her swiftness and ease, but then supposed that if waiting tables was all the woman had ever known perhaps she’d had no choice but to get damn good at it, despite her disability. As she placed their drinks in front of them, Libby slyly launched into grilling Peter. “So, Pete Repeat, you ain’t been around much, lately. Things must be awful busy up at the Monastery.”

“Just the usual. Getting the gardens in shape, doing my spring cleaning.”

“Even at night? Haven’t seen you at The Sleep Inn for ages. We miss you,” she admonished.

Jeanette and Missy spoke at the same time “The Sleep Inn?”

“Oh, you ladies heard about that place? Well, keep it to yourselves.” And then, like a borscht belt comic delivering a stagey aside she added, “Cause what Momma don’t know, don’t hurt Momma! Know what I mean?” Then without missing a beat, her demeanor changed and she was all business. “Now what can I bring you for lunch?”

Missy ordered a large house salad, dressing on the side, and a diet coke. Peter got the Blue Plate special, while Jeanette braved it and ordered the pork fritter with fries. Peter seemed real proud of Jeanette and, while Missy was a tad concerned that she might come off as one of those girls who didn’t eat real food in front of men, it was all that grease and potential indigestion that had played a bigger role in her decision. Libby thanked them and then moved away from the table in the same slightly awkward manner as before. Missy wondered if the woman played up her limp to earn sympathy tips, but then dismissed the thought as jaundiced. Why did she always want to assume the worst of people? Momentarily lost in thought, by the time she came back to her senses Jeanette was already teasing Peter about the little nugget Libby had dropped.

“So, spill the beans Just what is The Sleep Inn?”

Again, Peter’s cheeks reddened With a sheepish smile he confided, “It’s as close as we come to having an actual bar in this town. And that is all you get out of me.”

“Oh, come on, you can do better than that,” Jeanette pushed.

Peter stared at her for a moment. He must have already caught on to the fact that once Jeanette wanted to know something she wasn’t likely to drop the subject, so he gave up the goods. “This is a dry town. It’s a generational thing, I guess. Goes back to the days when the Oswigs ruled with an iron fist. The Sleep Inn is a little two story house on the backside of town where some folks like to get together most nights; a couple of drinks, some conversation, maybe a little dancing. The living room and dining room are set up sort of like a bar, with Christmas lights strung around the ceiling and a record player that never stops spinning.”

Missy tried to imagine what the place must look like. And why on earth would someone turn their home into a bar? Was it quaint? Or a real hole?

Jeanette appeared bemused. “Where did its name come from?”

A small laugh escaped Peter’s lips. “Some of the patrons have a habit of imbibing a bit too much and when they do, Duane, one of the owners, just points ‘em up the stairs and tells ‘em to sleep it off. Hence the name: The Sleep Inn.”

“That’s real responsible of him,” Jeanette concluded.

“Yeah, well, responsible is not an adjective most folks in this town would use when talking about Duane The Oswig sisters? Oh, man, to this day, they hate that place - and would love to see it burn to the ground.”

At the mention of the Oswigs’ name, Missy’s mind ceased to wander “Tell us more about those Oswigs? I noticed their name is on the University.”

Pete’s brow furrowed “Their name used to be on just about everything in this town. But to learn more you’ll have to stop by the courthouse. There’s a museum in there. Quite nice. It should be - the Oswig family paid for it. That said, you’ll get the official story there but not the whole story.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed. “Oh, you know how it goes. Smalltown. Lots of gossip. Tribal knowledge, I guess. Museums are meant to put a good light on things. The truth? Not so much.” He began to pick at the paper placemat in front of him.

Maybe pumping him for all this information was a bad idea. Missy certainly didn’t want to wear out their welcome. She decided to not ask any more questions. “Got it. We will just have to pay a visit to that museum, then - if we have time.” Missy thought that should put Peter at ease, but Jeanette saw it as an opportunity to tease him a bit more.

“It’s too bad we’re not sticking around longer. It would be a real treat to see you in action at the local watering hole.”

“Ha!” Peter started to blush again. It was then that Missy noticed just how smooth and white his skin was. “I’d like to think of those days as over and done, but I still get out on occasion. Though these days I tend to stick to the Monastery. And the library.”

“Such a boy scout.”

Raising his right hand in the traditional three-lingered salute, Peter began to recite, “I promise to do my best, to do my duty, to God and my country, and... eh, I forget the rest. Always wanted to be an Eagle Scout, but turned out I wasn’t cut out for it”

“Letting your inner-bad boy out once in a while is a good thing.” Jeanette reasoned. “Keeps the pressure in the cooker down to safe levels.”

Missy shook her head in disbelief, completely mortified by the things that sometimes came out of her aunt’s mouth “What does that even mean?”

“Umm. You ladies go ahead and discuss my pressure cooker while I visit the little boy’s room. Excuse me.” Dutifully, Missy slid out in order to allow Peter to pass by. As she slid back in she fixed her aunt with a hard, ice-cold glare “His pressure cooker? Really?”

“Oh, hush! You got his interest. Just be yourself and let me be myself and all will go well,” she said dismissively. “Now flag down Libby. I need more coffee.”

Missy caught Libby’s eye at a nearby booth, and like the pro she was, knew exactly what the ladies wanted. Moments later she was at Jeanette’s side, coffee pot in hand. “You know, I think a lifer like me should have one of these pots duct taped to my hand But then my hand would be no good for other things, huh? And since I only got one good one - that would be a real shame.” There didn’t seem to be any kind of filter on this woman’s thoughts. Whatever entered her mind poured forth like coffee from the pot. “Your order should be right up. So, how you liking it in St. Pete’s? Doing the tourist thing?”

It was obvious to both women that Libby was still trying to figure out exactly what they were doing with Peter. Maybe it was a matter of curiosity. Or maybe she had a thing for Peter. Not wanting to get into the whole story. Missy tried to mollify Libby with a curt answer, “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Lots to see here,” she teased. “The opera house, the museum, town hall, the college, the library... and the Monastery. But something tells me you already seen that, huh?”

There was something about Libby’s smile, a slight edge, perhaps, that set off an alarm in Missy’s brain and told her, 'don’t trust this woman’. Missy gamely replied with the most generic statement she could think of. “The buildings certainly are a lot more than we expected, I mean, for a small town.”

“That’s not even half of it, trust me.” And with this, Libby leaned slightly down. With a tilt of her head, her smile melted momentarily as she spoke through frozen lips, “a lot more to this town than meets the eye.”

Missy felt a stab in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t sure how to respond. Before she could come up with something, Libby had bounced back into position, a professional waitress smile lighting up her face once more. “You just have to stick around a bit to see it all.”

As if to punctuate Libby’s words, a steely sounding bell chimed from behind the open window of the kitchen. A gravelly female voice bellowed, “Libby, you’re up!”

The waitress’ head swiveled to catch sight of the food waiting for her before turning back. Beaming directly at Missy, with a sharp glint in her eye, she said, “Be right back.”

Missy wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a threat. As soon as Libby moved behind the counter, Missy leaned across the table and hissed at Jeanette, “Did you catch all that? Did you catch any of it? What is this woman’s problem with me?”

Jeanette looked a Missy as if she was speaking a foreign language. “What do mean? She’s a perfectly nice woman.”

But Missy knew differently, felt differently. She persisted, “I think she just threatened me, or something. There’s something a little off about her.”

Her aunt stared at her in disbelief “The only one here that’s a bit off is you, Missy. Now knock it off. There’s nothing wrong with that woman. In fact, I think she’s very sweet.”

Exasperated, Missy was about to launch into a full explanation, but had to change course, for Peter was on his way back from the bathroom. He slid in next to Missy, bumping her over one place with his hip. For some reason this made her giggle, which, of course, caused her aunt to roll her eyes. It also caught the attention of Libby, whose head swung around to stare like that of a creepy old doll. Missy decided to ignore them both. Just how often did she get to feel this way? She made up her mind to enjoy it for what it was worth. Her joy was short­ lived, though, for Peter must have also caught Libby’s glance.

“So what was Libby gabbing on about?” There was a smile on his lips, but it seemed a tad put on to Missy.

This tiny change went unnoticed by Jeanette, who answered, “She was making small talk, asking us what we thought of the town. Gave us a whole list of things to check out.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know... tourist stuff.”

If this was meant to put Peter at ease, it failed; for it seemed to Missy his guard was still up when he said, “Oh, good I was afraid she was spilling the beans about my pressure cooker.”

Missy could not believe her ears. Jeanette, on the other hand, took it as a joke and roared.

At that moment, Libby appeared with the food. She apparently had caught the last of their conversation “Pressure cooker? Did I hear right? You gonna do some canning up there at the Monastery this fall, Pete Repeat?”

“Aw, Libby, you know I’m not that domestic. Brother David, on the other hand, he makes a mean lasagna. Me? I don’t think I can be domesticated.”

“Not domestic? Oh, don’t sell yourself short, hon. You just haven’t met the right girl yet.”

This last bit was aimed squarely in Missy’s direction. There was something less than friendly about Libby’s tone that made Missy think she was right about this woman. “Enjoy.” With that, and having dropped off the food in front of the correct person, Libby hurried off to another table

If there had been an edge to Libby’s voice, it had again escaped the notice of those around her. Jeanette oohed and aahed over her pork fritter, which, indeed, was a big as the plate it sat on, while Peter took the conversation in a totally different direction. “So how did your visit with Boyd go? You track him down?”

Still feeling a bit stung, and not wanting to believe that it was all in her head, Missy answered mutely, “Yes. Yes we did and it was just as sad as you told us it might be. Sadder, in fact.”

Jeanette, busily prepping her sandwich, shook her head. “It was awful. Looking into his eyes, when he stood still long enough for you to catch them, he reminded me of that song. “Little Boy Lost”. Who did that song.”

Missy felt her face go hot. Was she really that annoyed with her Aunt? Or was it something else. Libby? Or maybe the fact that she hadn’t eaten anything and her blood sugar was crashing. Deciding it was the latter, she picked up her fork, and stabbed a slice of cucumber before responding to her aunt. “You’re asking the wrong generation, woman He reminded me more of that song by Pearl Jam - Jeremy. And from the looks of him, it was a good thing he never spoke in class.”

Peter, on the same page, nodded “He pretty much dropped out of sight after the settlement, which was probably for the best, if I’m thinking of the same video you are.”

Jeanette laughed “Now you’re the ones talking to the wrong generation. I like that Lady Gaga, but just what the hell is a Pearl Jam?”

Missy glanced over at Peter, who gave her an embarrassed smile. Now it was Missy’s turn to roll her eyes. She answered her aunt, “Not sure, but if we did know, we probably wouldn’t want to discuss it in mixed company.”

The three fell silent, busying themselves with their food. Jeanette picked up her sandwich with both hands and disbelieving, held it up in front of her face “There is no way I can eat this thing. Look at it! It’s actually bigger than my head! Why would anybody need to eat something this size?”

Peter answered “Here in St Petersburg, it’s not the size of the fritter that matters; it’s the grease that it soaks in.” He paused, waiting for laughter that never came, before continuing, “It’s pounded real thin, so don’t worry about overeating. And I have it on good authority they change the grease on a weekly basis - that authority being my bud Gunnar, who picks up and disposes of their old grease.

Jeanette smiled. “Well, that puts my colon at ease. How’s your salad, Missy?”

“Iceberg lettuce, a couple of wedges of pale, greenhouse tomato, some sliced cucumber tossed with some store bought croutons. Who’s to complain?”

Her aunt's smile dissolved. “Serves you right, ordering a salad in a place like this. No offense, it’s just that a small town diner is known for things like their Blue Plate, or, say, pork fritters the size of one’s head - not high quality salads.”

Peter listened to all this slightly bemused “You two a couple of food critics?”

“No, we just like to eat. A lot,” roared Jeanette, before taking an over-sized bite of her over­ sized sandwich.

Missy sipped on her diet coke as the conversation drifted to other things. Peter pointed out a few of the regulars seated on the stools which lined the counter. Each patron was hunched over a cup of coffee, as if guarding the cup. There was Sid, from the hardware store; Jason, the owner of the antique store which greeted people as they first descended into the town; and Norbie, a wizened oldster whom no one seemed to know exactly what it was that he did for a living or where he got his money. However, Peter assured them, Norbie could be trusted to be seated on that exact stool for most of the day, nursing the same cup of coffee, though on occasion he was also known to order a piece of Dale’s homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie.

From there, the conversation turned to future events. Peter was very helpful with directions, and that made Missy feel a bit more confident about finding Abe Longren’s place. This brought up the whole cell phone/lack of reception issue. Peter told them that very few people in St. Petersburg had even dial-up internet service, let alone a cell phone. The only such hook-up he knew about was at the public library, where they were very strict about the sites people accessed. One also had to sign up in advance in order to use it. This struck Missy as rather archaic, but then, having never lived in a small town, what did she know?

Having eaten only half the pork fritter and barely making a dent in her pile of fries, Jeanette waved the white flag that was her paper napkin and surrendered. Missy, on the other hand, had emptied her bowl and was still hungry. Maybe a cup of the soup of the day would help, but, no. She decided for the sake of timeliness and appearances that it would be best to go it a little hungry.

They settled up the bill, with Jeanette picking up the tab as a way of thanking Peter for his help earlier in the day. He walked them out to their car. As they passed through the makeshift plywood entrance, Missy casually scanned the mass of flyers and posters stapled to its interior offering piano lessons, babysitting services, an old love seat for sale. There were dozens and dozens of them, all placed haphazardly over those that had preceded them.

Then, something caught in Missy’s heart. She stopped short. Reaching out, she peeled up the lower corner of one of the newer flyers. Beneath it? A faded poster offering a reward for any information related to the disappearance of Jack Arneson.

Jeanette and Peter, lost in conversation hadn’t even noticed that Missy lagged behind. They were already outside She wanted to point out the poster to her aunt, but then thought better of it. Missy took it as yet another sign that they were on the right track. The poster featured a photo that was now iconic. In a way, it and its subject had come to serve as a symbol for all missing and exploited children, at least as far as most Minnesotans were concerned. That struck Missy as ironic; the image had started its life as a simple school photo, something meant to capture but one small step in what was presumed to be a longer life’s journey, instead, it now served as a reminder of a child frozen in time, a child lost for eternity, a child who would forever remain a child.

Jeanette yelled for Missy, her absence finally noticed. She tore her eyes from the poster and moved through the aluminum screen door. Once outside, beneath the midday sun, she felt the chill of contemplation melt.

As they were saying their good-byes, it occurred to Missy that she’d neglected to make any other plans to see Peter while she was in town. She felt a twinge of regret as she watched him move towards his ancient pick-up truck. She thought wistfully, well, if it is meant to be, it will happen, and if not, it had been a nice dream.

Jeanette was already strapped in the car and chomping at the bit. Missy sunk into the driver’s seat and with a final look at Peter’s fine profile seated in the cab of his truck, she closed the car door.

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Next week: Chapter 17

Jeremy - Pearl Jam