An Ordinary Fairy (5 page)

Noah hesitated, then spoke in a soothing tone. “Anyone who says those things has never met you.”

A range of emotions crossed Willow’s face, gratitude most prevalent. Without saying more, she turned and walked on.

They passed the Big House and soon reached the truck. Noah slid both camera cases into the back of the truck while Willow watched, standing with her hands in her back pockets, which seemed to be her favorite stance.

I shouldn’t leave yet. Something’s unfinished.

Willow looked at him intently.

Do you expect something, too?

“Well, on to the next pond,” Noah said. “Thank you much for allowing me to intrude on your morning. I hope I wasn’t too big of a pain.”

“No, you weren’t,” Willow said. “Please forgive my bad manners. I’m alone most of the time and my social skills are rusty.” She smiled her repentance. Her voice had changed; the bossy edge had eased and the pitch was higher, more melodious.

“No problem at all. It was good meeting you, Ms. Brown.”

Willow extended her hand. “Good to meet you, too, Noah.”

The instant their hands touched, energy kindled between them. Willow’s eyes grew wide and locked on Noah’s. Not a romantic tingle or love-at-first-sight feeling, some unfamiliar force moved between them. They didn’t shake, but merely clasped hands for several seconds. Willow’s tiny hand radiated unnatural warmth.

Noah relinquished his grip and the moment ended.

Willow’s eyes flicked down to her outstretched hand, back to Noah, and then she returned the hand to her back pocket.

What just happened? Something important. Something … intimate.

He took a deep breath and blew it out. Willow’s posture relaxed as self-conscious smiles crept over their faces.

“‘Bye,” she said, and turned toward the path.

Noah’s eyes followed her. She stopped at the edge of the clearing and looked back over her shoulder. “Call me Willow,” she said and then vanished into the trees.

You expect to see me again.

“It will be my pleasure,” he said to himself with a chuckle. He climbed into the truck, jockeyed it around in the small clearing and bumped along the forest lane to the county road. The dash clock read 11:50. A burger and a beer at Ruby Nell’s pub sounded great. As he pulled onto Route 9, Noah massaged his shoulder, which ached from carrying the camera case.

I wouldn’t have rubbed it in front of her for anything. Some serious muscles were hiding under that sweater.

Three

N
oah spent the afternoon at two other ponds he found near Milford, neither of which excited him. The owners weren’t around either place, so he left his card and a small brochure about his project.

Concentrating on photography hadn’t been easy. His mind kept finding its way to the sights and sounds of Jones Woods. What he had found on the Internet after lunch occupied him, too.

Willow’s name had appeared when he searched the public tax records, as well as the fact the woods comprised 350 acres with a $40,000 annual tax bill, which had gone unpaid this year. The property was listed for the tax foreclosure sale, scheduled for November 12
^th
, less than a month from now. Willow must be distraught to be in such straits.

Noah also confirmed what Louie told him about Chester Jones. While Noah found no evidence of direct participation in any business, it appeared Jones was behind several local establishments, including a bank, a real estate office, many rental properties and the farms surrounding Willow’s property. He maintained an office on the second floor of the bank building.

A rumble of thunder brought Noah back to the present. He packed his cameras and headed back to the truck. He would stop on the way to the motel at the grocery deli and pick up some food for dinner.

After he ate and watched the news, Noah checked email and the next day’s weather forecast, which looked fine, with clear skies expected. He lay back on the bed, remote in hand, ready for some mindless zapping. Instead, he pushed the power button and sat in the semi-darkness. Willow’s last words to him he replayed many times. Meeting her had only heightened the sense of mystery created by the Henning’s Gang.

“One thing is no mystery,” Noah said in a quiet voice. “She’s drop dead gorgeous. Doesn’t wear a bit of makeup. Doesn’t need to. Sure not like Liz and Jackie.” Noah imagined tiny Willow standing between his two previous loves. They would tower over her, tall and tanned, but they couldn’t begin to measure up to her.

Noah grabbed his calendar from the bedside stand. Tomorrow he had an appointment at 8:00 to shoot a pond near Bismarck, a small community fifteen miles south of Hoopeston, but he was free the rest of the day. He would visit the Hoopeston Public Library and search for any newspaper articles about Willow’s parents. He had to know more.

Intrigue followed this little person about. She must have been at least twenty years old when she inherited the property. She should be over fifty, but she didn’t look a day older than Noah’s thirty-five years. Up close, her face didn’t show a wrinkle or spot. Neither did her smooth, soft hands…

Okay Noah, get a grip. You’ve other things to think about. Like work.

He connected the cable between the camera and his laptop and downloaded the pictures of Willow’s pond.

“Doggone it! These are crap!” The photos had looked fine on the camera screen. He would not digitally retouch them: that wasn’t his style. He spent the next hour looking in vain for some good shots, sorting, comparing. These images begged him to hit the delete key.

“Damned Gremlin,” he muttered.

Of course, this gave him a good reason to see Willow again. Also to look incompetent. If he didn’t go back to reshoot, it meant cutting a beautiful scene from his article. Noah sighed and ran a hand through his hair then across his face. “Gosh, I’m tired. I’ll decide tomorrow.”

Later, as he lay in bed, Willow slipped into his thoughts.
What was the thing with the animals,
he wondered, as he drifted off to sleep.

The Hoopeston Public Library, as with libraries in many Midwest towns, had outgrown its 1904 Carnegie home and built a sizable addition. Noah had stopped in when he first arrived in the area to check the archives for old maps of Vermilion County, so he knew the reference section already. He pulled into the lot, grabbed his notebook and climbed out of the truck.

Ten minutes later, he sat at a microfilm machine looking over the
Danville Commercial-News
from July 17th, 1975. The day’s headline dominated the front page: “Prominent Hoopeston Couple Disappears.” An article and photos, meaningless negative images on the microfilm, accompanied the headline. Noah pushed the print button and soon had positive images. Willow’s father, Harold, stared out from the page, a pleasant, unremarkable businessman. Her mother, Rose, however, caught Noah’s attention: Willow aged thirty years, with the same round cheeks, the same small dark eyes.

The article was a typical sterile, dispassionate newspaper account.

A prominent Hoopeston businessman and his wife have been reported missing by police. Harold Brown, aged 61, and his wife Rose Brown, aged 56, have not been seen since July 12
^th
. When Mr. Brown failed to appear at his office on July 13
^th
, his employees became concerned and went to the couple’s woodland home in the rural Hoopeston area. When the employees arrived, they found the Browns’ vehicle parked outside but found no one at home. The Vermilion County Sheriff’s Department was called due to the remote location of the couple’s residence, deep in heavily wooded land known as Jones Woods. The Browns have lived in the area for some time but purchased the property just a year ago.

Accompanied by an employee who possessed a spare key, sheriff’s deputies entered the home but found it unoccupied. A thorough search for evidence showed no indications of forced entry or other foul play. Authorities have been conducting searches of the property, but have been hindered by the dense woods and heavy undergrowth.

“It’s like a jungle in some places,” said Deputy Ronald Stevens. The sheriff’s department underwater recovery team has been called in to search a pond on the property. They expect to begin operations tomorrow.

The couple’s only known relative, a daughter, was contacted today where she was visiting with friends in Kentucky. She is expected to return to Hoopeston later today to assist authorities with the investigation.

“Poor Willow,” Noah muttered. He changed to a new microfilm roll and scanned the next few days for any follow up articles. A short article appeared in the July 20
^th
edition stating that the investigation continued and that an underwater search of the pond had yielded no results.

Noah searched further and found a third article dated two weeks after the first. “Daughter Urges Continued Search for Missing Parents” headlined this article. A negative image of Willow exiting the sheriff’s department accompanied the article. The story had moved off to the local news page.

A Hoopeston woman is urging local authorities to continue the search for her missing parents. Willow Brown, only child of Harold and Rose Brown of rural Hoopeston, met with Vermilion County Sheriff’s detectives today to encourage a continued effort to locate her parents, or otherwise determine their fate. The couple has been missing since July 12
^th
and authorities are beginning to run out of leads. A thorough search of the wooded rural property and surrounding fields has not revealed any evidence. At the request of Miss Brown, the Vermilion County Underwater Recovery team last week completed a second sweep of the pond located on the property.

The article continued a few more paragraphs, repeating the original story. Noah punched the button to print the article and continued scanning the next few days’ film for more. Finding none, he unloaded the microfilm, picked up the paper copies he had printed and walked to the reference librarian’s desk to return the film.

Back in the truck, Noah threw the papers on the seat beside him and pulled out of the parking lot onto Fourth street southbound, intending to turn west on Main Street and pass The Broom Closet. He remembered the picture of Willow, and rifled the sheets to find it as he drove.

There she was, on the next to last sheet. The picture displayed most of her torso; she wore a tailored women’s suit of mid-seventies style. Her hairstyle was the same as she wore it now. The microfilm image was well preserved, and the photographer had done a great job with a moving target.

She was so cute.

A chill went down Noah’s spine.

Every bit as cute as today.

In fact, she looked
exactly
like she did today. He double-checked the date on the article: 1975, the year Noah turned four.

Noah’s cell phone began to play “Stars and Stripes Forever,” the custom ringtone for his editor at
Outdoor Midwest
, Richard Varney. He pulled the truck into the parking lane and rolled to a stop while he reached for the phone.

“Hi, Dickie,” Noah said, and smiled at the expected pause.

“You bastard,” Varney said.

“Good to hear from you, too,” Noah said, laughing. The disadvantage, for Varney anyway, to working with people who knew you as a kid was they remembered your kid name. “Dickie” had become “Richard” in high school but Noah still liked to put Varney in his place when he got uppity, which seemed to be most of the time of late.

“If you can stop laughing long enough to discuss business,” Varney said, “I would like to know when you expect to wrap up down there.”

“Wrap up? I just got here.”

“You’ve had nearly a week.”

“Try four days.”

“Splitting hairs. Can’t be that many ponds to shoot, and I guess I don’t need to remind you—”

“There’s a deadline to meet,” Noah interrupted. “I know. There are lots of ponds to shoot. In fact I found the best one yet yesterday.”

“Good, then you’re almost done.”

“Hardly,” Noah answered. “The pictures I took yesterday stunk, and the landowner wasn’t happy with me being there, so I’ll need to find some more good spots.”

“Well, go back when he doesn’t know,” Varney said. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“You know I don’t work that way,” Noah said.

“You
work
for me, Noah.”