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As Woodrow Underwood, 76, left the men’s room, he gazed over but failed
to spot his older brother, Clyde. Blinking, he looked harder. No, Clyde was gone. Stirrings of fear revved up his heart pulse. He hurried over
to their corner table, hips bumping the chairs of annoyed lunchtime diners.
Clyde’s blue Melmac plate was untouched, his Sloppy Joe burger, boardwalk fries, and
Cole slaw as if just served him. Flanking either side, his silverware lay in its usual settings. The only evidence that
Clyde had ever sat there was the ladder-back chair angled slightly away from the table. Had he sprang up to leave the table?
“Good Lord,” said Woodrow. “He’s wandered off into the switch yard . . . ”
“What happened to other gentleman?” asked their waitress at his elbow.
“I brought his iced tea.”
Turning, Woodrow asked her, “Did you see him get up?”
“No sir,” she said. “I was back in the kitchen.”
Waves of alarm roiled up in Woodrow. He pitched his reedy, nervous voice. “Did anybody see which way this old man ran off?”
A scattering of diners swiveling their heads all expressed blank, confused expressions. “Didn’t anybody see anything?” he hollered.
“Sir, calm yourself. Please,” said a middle-aged man clad in a grease-speckled apron coming up from behind. “What’s the problem? I’m
the manager, Jed Thomas.”
“My brother sat here,” said Woodrow, doing a visual sweep of the diner,
his avid eyes alighting on the door. “I went to the head, rushed back in
a few minutes, and he’s vanished.”
“What’s his name?” asked Mr. Thomas. “Did you search the platform yet?”
“A train ran over Clyde,” said Woodrow.
“Whoa. Let’s not rush to conclusions,” said Mr. Thomas. “Cheryl, go
check out the platform. Mister, you and I’ll go search the backroom. What did you say his name is?”
“Clyde. Clyde Underwood. I’m Woodrow Underwood.”
“Okay, Mr. Underwood.” Mr. Thomas guided them through the tables and chairs to the kitchen. “Let’s organize ourselves. Clyde can’t have
wandered off too far.”
“He’s usually pretty alert and cognizant,” said Woodrow. “Today he
seemed fine. We rode down on the train from Alexandria.”
“Ah, the steam engine,” said Mr. Thomas, throwing open a door. “We serve
its passengers lunch every Saturday.”
“Nothing back here but mops and pickle cans,” observed Woodrow.
After throwing up a window sash, Mr. Thomas shouted out to Cheryl. “You got anything, honey?”
“Nothing,” said Cheryl. “Nobody saw an elderly man come out of the diner
either.”
Woodrow’s shoulders sloped in resignation. “Oh Christ,” he groaned.
“Okay,” said Mr. Thomas. “Meet you around front, Cheryl. Look again as
you circle around.”
“Maybe he struck out across the switch yard.” Hope underlay Woodrow’s voice.
“Doubtful,” said Mr. Thomas. “We’d see him still walking across the way.
There’s forty acres of railroad tracks out yon.”
They filed into the diner abuzz with low, concerned murmurs.
“Clyde has his momentary lapses,” said Woodrow. “Advanced age, the doctors tell us.”
Nodding, Mr. Thomas itched under his apron. “We’re all be there one day.”
“Some days, like this one, he’s sharp as a thistle. I thought I’d be
safe in stepping into the john.”
“Yeah, of course,” said Mr. Thomas. “Nobody is blaming you. Calm down a
little, huh? Cheryl, did you find out anything?”
The diner’s door slammed in its rickety frame. “I’m afraid not,” said
the flustered waitress. “Nobody saw an old man.”
Woodrow’s eyes enlarged, his desperation look. “What am I going to do?”
“Call the cops,” said Mr. Thomas. “Cheryl, get Chief Redfield on the
phone. We can organize search parties. He couldn’t have doddered off that far.”
“Sure, bring in Chief Redfield,” muttered Cheryl. “A fat lot of good
that will do.”
* * *
Sharon, her dictionary out, studied the term tagged above her coral red fingernail. Private detective -- noun -- an individual concerned the
maintenance of lawful conduct or the investigation of crime either as the regular employee of a private interest (as a hotel) or as a
contractor for fees. Returning her attention to the blank yellow pad, she said, “That about
covers my job description.”
Right then a fist-pounding erupted on the steel door downstairs. “It’s
Butcher,” she said. “Who else forgets their key?”
Her office door opened to stairwell where she went out. By the time she arrived at the foot of the steps, Butcher banged two fists on the door’s
upper panel, shaking it. She twisted the knob and put on a sly smile.
“I went off and left my key in my other pants,” were the first words blurted out of Butcher’s mouth. “How’s things?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Butcher,” she said. “I’m happy to report that
security around the yard is tight. No problems to report.”
Butcher nodded his bushy-whiskered head. “Good, good.”
“What eating at you?” asked Sharon.
“My damn uncle is missing,” said Butcher. “My Uncle Clyde. Can we talk?
Away from the customers?”
Sharon’s hand motioned for Butcher to follow her back up the stairs to the second building in his rental space facility. She’d not long ago
struck a deal with him: she’d sort of keep an eye on things in exchange for rent-free use of the office. Actually, the snug but warm niche was a
utility closet but it suited her.
“Uncle Clyde?” she prompted Butcher slamming the door close.
Wiping his nose on a plaid sleeve, Butcher paced the small room’s dimensions. “Uncle Clyde and he went on a train trip. A steam engine
leaves Cameron Station in Alexandria and goes to Charlottesville. The passengers have lunch, then board again to head for home.”
“Cool,” said Sharon.
“A bunch of geezers get together to relive their glory days when steam engines ruled,” said Butcher. “I wished they’d stay home. Uncle Woodrow
ducks into the john. He returns to their booth. Uncle Clyde has vanished.”
Sharon did a hands down motion. “Butcher, get a grip. Please. When was this?”
“Yesterday,” Butcher grunted.
“Was it reported to the local cops?” asked Sharon, wondering if she’d
any contacts with the Charlottesville PD.
Butcher snorted. “Oh sure. They dispatched a patrol car. The two officers waddled around, scratched their heads, and typed up a report.
He’s now classified as a missing person.”
“Is your Uncle Clyde, forgetful?” asked Sharon.
“When you hit eighty, you might slip a few cogs,” said Butcher. He scraped stiff fingers over his buzz cut. “For the most part, he’s with
it.” It wasn’t hard for Sharon to guess what was coming next. “How is
your track record for finding lost old men?”
“No experience,” said Sharon. “I doubt if I’d be much help.”
“Come on, Sharon,” said Butcher. “We’re wasting time.”
“We? What will you do?”
“Expedite things,” said Butcher. He sent a chair clattering to the floor
lunging for the doorknob. “I’ll go gas up the truck.”
With a short gasp, Sharon inhaled. “All right, Butcher. First thing, you
take a chill pill. I can’t work with you unraveling on me.”
“You got it,” said Butcher, his trailing voice echoing down the stairwell. “Hurry it up.”
* * *
Three people, Uncle Woodrow, Sharon, and Butcher, squeezed and tucked into the cab of Butcher’s Ford pickup. They streaked along Highway 29
South en route to Charlottesville. Since tearing through the rural town of Madison, Uncle Woodrow had dozed off. His ragged snores dueled with
the racket that Butcher’s glass paks exploded when they gunned upslope.
Sharon dared to sneak a peep down at the speedometer. The red needle flickered around 95 mph.
“Sharon, what’s your game plan?” Butcher hollered out. His bug eyes trained on her.
“For a start, can you slow it down?” she asked. Alarm pitched her voice
high and tight.
He ignored her plea. “Uncle Clyde needs our help.”
“I usually work alone,” said Sharon. “It’s lots less wear on the nerves.”
“Hey, it’s your show,” said Butcher. “I’m just an extra set of eyeballs.”
Her glance fastened on the sleeping Uncle Woodrow. “He’s a ball of fire.”
“Let him rest,” said Butcher. “Don’t foul up his nap time.”
A long exhalation didn’t relax Sharon. “We’ll ask around at the depot
diner, beginning with the manager and waitresses.”
“Good, good,” said Butcher, then: “Why?”
“Hearing it in their own words might pry loose a lead.”
“Brilliant,” said Butcher.
“Just watch where you’re driving,” she told him.
“You got it,” said Butcher, pouring on the gas. The Ford pickup lurched
into a higher velocity. Sharon blanched.
* * *
Highway 29 tracked through the usual thick patch of strip malls, cell phone stores, and fast food emporiums ringing Charlottesville. Butcher
now pedaled an antsy 35 mph while his olive dark eyes darted right and left. Sharon made a mental note that the University of Virginia was in
session.
“The train depot is downtown,” said Uncle Woodrow now up from his nap.
“Suck a right at the fourth traffic signal just on the other side of the
bridge.”
“I know the way,” said Butcher. “Don’t start in on telling me how to
drive, either.”
“Don’t you get fresh with me, nephew,” Uncle Woodrow warned.
“Didn’t you tell Uncle Clyde you’d be right back?” asked Butcher.
Uncle Woodrow flushed. A tear leaked down his leathery cheek. “Of course, I did.”
“Aw, I’m just jacked up about this mess,” said Butcher. “Sharon, what
first?”
“I’m worried sick,” said Uncle Woodrow. “He’s dead somewhere. It’s my
fault.”
“Don’t say that,” said Sharon. “We’ll start at the diner.”
Butcher drove by the white-topped rotunda where Mr. Jefferson began to build his university. The University of Virginia hospital cropped up on
the right side after they slid beneath the old railroad bridge. On the left, a repair shop for manual typewriters had an OPEN sign posted in
its door window. The roadway ascended at a gradual slope to a bridge crossing over the switch yard.
As they rode up and over, Uncle Woodrow twisted around in his seat and pointed below them. “There it is,” he said. “There’s the damn diner. Put
us down there, nephew.”
“I can’t very well fly off the bridge,” said Butcher. “We’ll have to go
a ways and make a U-turn. Keep your eyes peeled for an off-ramp.”
“I reckon that’s a plan,” said Uncle Woodrow.
Butcher braked the truck in a tire-smoking screech and notched the turnaround.
It being mid-afternoon, the refurbished depot was deserted. Fresh red paint on its clapboard sides and new green asphalt roof tiles gave it a
nostalgic bent. They parked in the crushed oyster shell lot and piled out of the truck cab.
When Uncle Woodrow stumbled a few steps, Sharon grew curious about something. “What did your brother have for lunch?” she asked the older man. “Sloppy Joe,
Cole slaw, and boardwalk fries,” Uncle Woodrow recalled as they walked into the diner. “And iced tea, unsweetened. Did I pass your
memory test, young miss?”
“With flying colors,” said Sharon. “Gentlemen, please focus with me.”
The diner’s beaverboard walls were decorated with dramatic steam
locomotive scenes photographed by the celebrated O. Winston Link back in the late 1950s before such trains passed into extinction.
Butcher spoke for them at the cash register. “We’re here to see Mr. Thomas, the manager.”
The young brunette girl’s mocha brown eyes leveled on him, then the others. “He’s busy in the back manning the grills. Who’s asking after him?”
“Tell him it’s Mr. Butcher. I chatted with him on the telephone. Get a
move on, honey. We’re wasting time.”
Casting a sour look over a bony shoulder, she slouched through the doorway into the kitchen’s caverns. A few moments later, she led Mr.
Thomas to the cash register. His hands wiping on a red rag reminded Sharon of a housefly’s legs scraped together. She seized on that
unfavorable impression while taking measure of the diner’s manager.
“You’re here about the missing man?” he asked.
“Clyde Underwood,” Uncle Woodrow corrected him. “The missing man has a
name.”
“Give us a rundown on the itinerary when the steam engine pulls up,” said Sharon.
His expression pensive, Mr. Thomas ceased his hand wringing. “Not much to it, I’m afraid. The train chugs alongside the platform. The
passengers debauch. My diner is open to serve them lunch. It’s optional,
of course. A few creaky cheapskates brown bag it. Ninety minutes later the Y-6 whistle shrills signaling them to board. Off they go returning
to Alexandria.”
“Something bugs me,” said Uncle Woodrow. “It has since I walked out and
didn’t see Clyde. Why didn’t at least one set of eyes notice him leaving
the diner?”
“Folks were busy stuffing their faces,” said Butcher.
Sharon’s eyelids mashed as she visualized the scenario. “Let’s role play
it,” she said. “Uncle Woodrow, please assume the seat at your booth that
day. Butcher, you’ll substitute as Uncle Clyde and take his place.”
Voicing moderate protests, both men walked over and sat at the right booth. Sharon surveyed them. “Okay, Mr. Underwood, you say left the
table. Did you first tell your brother where you were headed?”
Uncle Woodrow blinked his rheumy blue eyes. “I don’t believe so, no. I
figured Clyde just understood. Old men take a lot of those trips.”
“Fine, fine,” said Sharon, her tone strengthening in its confidence. “Bear with me. Butcher, let’s say you’re having a senior moment,
suddenly you peer up from your plate but don’t lay eyes on your brother.
What might you do?”
Putting a finger to his mouth, Butcher squinted. “Simple. Return to where I’d last seen him. That would be on the train.”
“Impossible,” Uncle Woodrow sputtered. “The steam engine had pulled further up in the switch yard to refuel.”
“Nevertheless, we’ll retrace Uncle Clyde’s trek out the door,” said Sharon.
Next standing on the platform, they stood in a tense silent group. “If I
walk straight ahead, I’ll tumble off the platform,” said Sharon, moving
in that direction. “Unless, unless there’s another train for me to hop on.”
Mr. Thomas flipped the red rag over a shoulder. “There is that Amtrak that halts here for a few minutes. Did he slip aboard that one by mistake?”
Butcher snorted in disgust. “You think?”
Murmuring, Uncle Woodrow bumped Mr. Thomas. “Why didn’t you say something yesterday?” he demanded.
“Whoa. Lighten up with the attitude,” said Mr. Thomas defensively. “Chief Redfield and the cops never quizzed me about it. What’s more, I
didn’t recall it until this very moment.”
Sharon intervened by asking “Where does that Amtrak go, Mr. Thomas?”
“It’s an express,” said Mr. Thomas. “The last whistle stop is Baltimore.”
“Butcher, call the Baltimore Amtrak office,” said Sharon. “Ask if they’re holding an extra old man.”
“Only thing is that’s a long distance toll,” said Mr. Thomas.
Squaring his bullish shoulders, Butcher fastened a withering scowl on the diner’s manager. “So? Is that a problem?”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Thomas, ushering them back inside the diner.
Mr. Thomas placed the call to the Baltimore Amtrak office and handed Butcher the phone. Looking on, Sharon heard his side of the
conversation. Tension drained from her face as they talked. Butcher
smiled and nodded at her.
Butcher thanked the Baltimore agent and cut the connection. “The old man
is fine,” he told them. “They found him wandering around the station and
ID’d him from his wallet. He slept on a bench but he’s okay.”
“Clyde is damn lucky,” said Uncle Woodrow.
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