The Listener: Ch3 - The Search / Ch4 - Black Suburban

Chapter 3: “The Search”

Tuesday evening / Wednesday Morning – Stonegate / Walk through Peterborough

The night air had that late-autumn bite—sharp enough to remind them that colder days were coming, snow not far behind. Leaves scuttled across sidewalks, chased by restless wind.

Connie looped her arm in Arnie’s.  “Do you remember anything else about Catherine?” Connie asked.

Arnie shrugged. “Just that she’d written ‘personal matter’ in the comments field. Most people don’t write anything at all.”

“We’ll check in on her tomorrow,” Connie said. “If she’s fine, I’ll stand down. If not, you’ll do some more thinking back on what she’s talked about with you in the past.  Remember rule one – nothing is confidential.”

“Deal,” Arnie said, a rare smile cracking his face.

Connie and Royce arranged to meet outside Shattuck Hall at 8:45am the next morning for the short walk into town and on to their first stop, Pine Street apartments.  Forty-five degrees, bright sunshine and a great day to stretch those legs.

Connie, always fashion-forward, wore a forest-green wool sweater, well-fitted blue jeans, a soft gray scarf, and brand-new Hoka Bondi walking shoes. Royce slipped into his usual mailman-meets-70s vibe—windbreaker over a gray hoodie, black mailman shorts, knee-high socks, and worn Converse sneakers. Quite the pair.

They set off down Grove Street. Connie power-walked with purpose; Royce matched her pace without small talk. Both were hunters—focused, ready to uncover what was hidden.

At Catherine’s Pine Street apartment building, Connie pressed the buzzer. It wheezed tiredly, but no answer.

She knocked next, firmly but friendly. “Catherine? It’s Connie—from Stonegate. Just checking in, hon.”

Silence.

She leaned in, half-hoping for footsteps, a cough, anything. Behind her, Royce stood with hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, looking like a man on a postal route he didn’t want to be on.

“No curtains open. Mailbox looks stuffed,” he said. “Want me to try the apartment manager?”

Connie frowned, took a step back, and glanced down the hallway.

“No—not yet. Let’s try her regular places first. She could be out doing errands, or maybe visiting someone.”

Royce shrugged. “You’re the boss.”  Next stop, Pine Street Community Church, about a quarter mile up the road. 

The church receptionist, a young woman named Kendra, offered a puzzled smile.

“Catherine? I don’t think I’ve seen her since services on Sunday,” she said.  We didn’t see her at choir on last night, which is very unusual.  Especially as she has a solo this coming Sunday.

“She’s reliable?” Connie asked.

“Oh, totally. One of our best.”

“Any chance she mentioned a trip? Or something about being out this week?”

Kendra shook her head. “Nope. She didn’t say anything. But I know she’s been dealing with a lot lately.”

“Health issues?” Royce asked.

“No, not that. Just… personal stuff. She mentioned her brother once. I got the feeling it wasn’t good.”

They walked back to Grove Street and checked in at the Food Pantry where they got a similar response from Jason, the Volunteer coordinator.

“Catherine’s solid,” he said, wiping down a counter. “Told me once the pantry gave her life purpose again after losing her teaching job.”

“Any chance she’s just taking a few days off?” Royce asked.

“Could be. But she usually calls. Keeps a pretty tight schedule.”

“Does anyone have her phone number?” Connie asked.

“Let me see … I have a number here for her, but think it’s her apartment landline” he said scrolling through his smartphone contacts.

They tried calling it—no answer. Royce jotted it down anyway.

Royce’s watch alarm beeped “that’s our cue to meet up with Arnie at the Diner.” And with that they made the 5-minute walk with Connie hearing Royce’s stomach rumbling in anticipation.

The door chimed as Connie and Royce entered the Peterborough Diner, fried potatoes and strong coffee greeting their nostrils. Royce smiled, waving his hands theatrically toward his nose. Connie grimaced.

Arnie was already seated in a booth near the window; Digby curled beneath his feet as this was a pet friendly spot. He looked up, saw them, and slid the napkin dispenser aside to make room.

“Well?” he asked.

Connie slid into the booth. “We tried her place. No answer. Checked the church and pantry—nobody’s seen her since church on Sunday.”

“No trip planned, no calls, no mobile,” Royce added.

Arnie exhaled slowly. “You talked to the apartment manager?”

“Not yet,” Connie said. “Didn’t want to seem like we were snooping.”

“We are snooping,” Royce said. “But politely.”

A waitress dropped off menus, refilled Arnie’s coffee. “You folks want lunch menus or just breakfast all day?”

“Breakfast,” Connie and Arnie said in unison.

Royce grunted. “Meatloaf sandwich.” 

Connie responded with “Meatloaf was last night’s Stonegate Dining Hall special – you didn’t get enough?”

“What can I say, I’m a meatloaf connoisseur” which drew a famous eyeroll from Connie.

Arnie was in another place, wheels turning. 

Digby was just waiting for the meatloaf.

 

 

Chapter 4: “Black Suburban”

Wednesday Midday – Peterborough Diner / Pine Street Apartments / Connie’s Apartment

As the waitress walked off, Connie leaned forward. “Something’s wrong, Arnie. You knew it. And now we do too.”

"Fancy stretching your legs one more time?" she said to Royce, giving his thigh a light slap.

He wiped his mouth, checking for lingering meatloaf, and followed her out. Connie was already halfway to the door, leaving Arnie to settle the bill.

Twenty minutes later, they tracked down the Pine Street apartment manager, Jimmy Collins, in the basement laundry room, folding towels with military precision. A trim man in his sixties with a pencil mustache and a permanent scowl, he looked like someone who took little joy in tenants, towels, or visitors.

"Catherine Primrose?" he said without looking up. "Haven’t seen her in a few days. Last I remember, she asked about a package being held. Never came by for it."

"What kind of package?" Connie asked.

"Brown box. About yay big." He held out his hands to indicate shoebox size. "No return label.

Came from Nashua, I think. Amazon maybe."

"Still have it?" Royce asked.

"Nah. Post office took it back after three days. Protocol." He finally glanced up. "She missed rent too. That’s not like her."

"Did she mention going anywhere?" Connie asked.

"Nope. She’s the leave-a-note type. Nothing this time. Place is locked up, curtains drawn, but

I haven’t had cause to enter."

Connie exchanged a look with Royce. "Would you be willing to do a wellness check? Official-like."

Collins hesitated. "I'd need someone present. Building policy. Liability and all that."

"How about we get the police?" Royce offered.

"Let’s not jump there yet," Connie said. "Arnie might have a better idea."

She reached into her fanny pack and handed over a card: “Connie Clark – Search and Find Services,” with phone and email. "If you hear anything, let us know."

"Will do," Jimmy said as they turned to leave. "Oh—one thing. Not sure if it’s important, but she had some odd visitors a couple weeks ago. Two guys in a black Suburban—Mass plates, tinted windows, parked outside her unit for a couple of hours. Suits, dark shades, stone faces. I noticed because they were blocking the dumpster. Probably nothing. Just struck me as odd."

"Thanks again," Royce said. "Hopefully Catherine turns up and we don’t have to bother you again."

As they walked away, Connie’s thoughts raced. Hitmen? Kidnappers? Enforcers? This was getting serious.

"We should loop Evelyn in," Connie said. "She might know where Catherine would go."

She sent a group text asking them to meet at her place that evening for cocktails and shortbread. In Royce’s case, that meant beer and chips—understood but unspoken. Arnie, who resisted modern tech, carried only a flip phone. He preferred voices and faces, but recognized the value of group texts during an investigation, and his phone accommodated them.

By 7 p.m., they gathered. Digby trotted in and curled up on the blanket Connie always set out for him. Royce arrived with a six-pack. Evelyn came last, delayed by cleanup from the day’s painting workshop in the rec room.

Connie recapped the day, finishing with the unsettling story of the black Suburban. Arnie perked up.

"I remember a traffic stop near Pine Street in the police log last week—out-of-state plates. Might be connected."

"Did Jimmy get the plate numbers?" Evelyn asked. "I can ask Gwen at Town Hall to pull a favor with the Mass DMV. Pretty sure she knows someone."

"We didn’t ask," Connie said. "We’ll swing by tomorrow."

"Doubt he wrote it down," Royce added. "But worth a shot."

"What about a wellness check?" Evelyn suggested. "I bet Chief Petersen would do me a favor."

"Feels like we need to act," Connie said. "Can we agree that if we don’t get answers by tomorrow afternoon, we file a missing person report?"

Everyone nodded.

Connie passed around the shortbread. No takers on the Cognac. Royce finished one beer and left the rest cooling in Connie’s fridge—unspoken currency for whatever came next.