Slowly Silence All

By Rebecca A. Engel

The concert was in a stadium in a rural area, but that didn't mean tickets were cheap. Rosemary Noonan was happy to go by herself to save some money that way. With two kids and only her husband working, it seemed the sensible way to do it.

It might have been, if Rosemary had returned from the concert.

Her husband Michael didn't find out until after Rosemary had gone missing that women -- teenage girls, actually -- had been disappearing from the concert venue. The town's pharmacist who was hoping to launch a career as a journalist clued Michael into the way the sheriff was suppressing the story. The sheriff thought the pharmacist was looking for a way to promote himself and get his dream job.

Michael Nooan didn't care. All he wanted was his wife back.

Going home was all Rosemary wanted too. But could she escape from her abductor with her life intact?

Set in Wisconsin, this noir mystery was previously published as One Grave At A Time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca A. Engel
• Release date: Jan 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507040607

Book preview

ONE

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Sheriff Ramsey O’Conner eased his bulk into the hard wooden chair behind his desk, and cursed his nature which made him too proud to use the rubber donut the doctor had recommended, and too chicken to undergo the operation that would make the donut unnecessary.

Damn piles, he muttered under his breath as he shifted his weight and tried to find a position that didn’t send shafts of pain up his rear. Who’d think a man like him, a bit overweight, it was true, but active day in and day out, would succumb to something that was supposed to strike pencil pushers and pregnant women?  O’Conner had a sudden flashback to his youth, when, as a skinny kid, he liked to lean against the big black wood-burning stove in the kitchen to warm his backside on cold winter nights. Clear as a bell, he could hear his Mama’s voice intone, Don’t sit like that, Ram. You’re liable to get piles. That could explain it, O’Conner thought as he shifted forward and sighed, finally comfortable.

The papers on his desk told him what happened in the town overnight. Not much, as was usual for a Monday night. A car alarm had sounded and the owner, a little tipsy from too much beer, couldn’t manage to get it shut off. An irate neighbor called in a complaint about the noise. Mrs. Porter, the town’s only octogenarian, heard noises on her roof and was sure it was a burglar. Her burglars were nothing but a pair of squirrels having themselves a good time. O’Conner grinned as he pushed that report aside. Old Mrs. Porter had a ‘burglar’ at least two times a week. The whole force – the five deputies and him – considered it a joke to go over there to check it out. If anyone else pulled that kind of trick time after time, they’d give out a citation. But for the town’s oldest citizen, they simply put up with it. That’s what happens when you’ve outlived all your friends, O’Conner thought, and your children moved away and your grandchildren and great-grandchildren couldn’t care less. Your friends became the lawmen who checked out the noises or you. When there was nothing for them to find, the least you could do was offer them coffee and a piece of the pie you happened to bake that evening. O’Conner made a mental note to be on night duty Thursday. If she kept to the pattern she’d established some time back, that would be the night Mrs. Porter would call again. O’Conner could stand having some good homemade pie.

Excuse me, Sir!

O’Conner rolled his eyes at the military-like bark of the voice before looking up at the skinny form in the doorway. Jimmy Dugan took his new job as a deputy seriously – too seriously, O’Conner thought. It was almost a joke. When he talked, he sounded like a combination of an old Marine movie and all the bad detective stories written in years gone by. You could hear from the tone of his voice that his ‘Sir’ had started with a capital S.

What is it, Jimmy? O’Conner noticed the flash of disappointment in Dugan’s eyes that he’d been called by his given name and not by his title of deputy. But O’Conner wasn’t about to use a title with a kid he’d known since he was a little runt.

We had a complaint, Sir, a—

Don’t give me the numbers, boy, O’Conner anticipated and cut him off. Just tell me what it was.

Somebody playing music too loud, Sir, over on Maple Street. Want me to go over and take care of it, Sir?

I’ll go. The seat in the squad car was well-padded and upholstered. O’Conner let his gaze fall on the manila envelope in Dugan’s hands. Anything else? he asked pointedly.

No, Sir! Dugan said emphatically before he noticed what O’Conner was looking at and flushed, fumbling with the envelope. Oh, there’s this, Sir. The Millers brought it by this morning. Pictures of their girl. They thought it might help.

I doubt it, O’Conner muttered, too softly for the other man to hear. Leave that on my desk, he said aloud, nodding toward the envelope. I’ll take care of it when I get back. What did you say the address was on Maple?

Standing at the walk that led to the front door of the two-story brown brick house, O’Conner could hear the low bass of some kind of music coming from inside. It was noticeable, but not so loud as to be offensive, or not to him. What snatches he could hear of the music sounded like it was a ballad, not one of those heavy metal rock songs he was learning to hate more and more each weekend. Those things didn’t deserve to be called music.

O’Conner figured in some parts of the country, people had probably traded in their stereo systems and CD players for those I-things that plugged right into their ears so their music didn’t disturb anybody else. But he’d be damned if he didn’t believe the people who did that would find themselves deaf when they got farther down the road in life, especially if they listened to that heavy rock crap with the volume cranked up high.

In these parts, he’d like to think people had more sense than to jump on the I-thing bandwagon, not until after what they already had was broken down beyond repair. Or it wasn’t as much good sense as the bad economy that kept them using what they already owned. In either case, the people in this house clearly had older equipment that played for one and all to hear.

It was hardly worth it to ask whoever it was to turn down the sound; it was a stretch to consider it disturbing the peace. Then again, he didn’t want to be accused of not doing his job. O’Conner went up the walk and paused on the porch before ringing the bell. To the left of the door were windows that gave him a view of the living room. That room had three occupants, two of them dancing. The third sat on a quilt on the floor, waving a small stuffed toy wildly. With its pink outfit, the baby had to be a girl, no more than one by O’Conner’s estimate. The smaller of the two dancers was a curly haired little boy, about three, O’Conner figured. His dancing was exuberant jumping up and down while holding onto his mother’s hands. Her face was not visible to the sheriff as she too jumped in time to the music. Dark glossy hair swung around her shoulders as she moved, and though the royal blue sweat suit she wore was baggy, the body moving beneath it looked slender.

The woman turned then, and O’Conner saw her face – heart-shaped, with pretty, even features and a bright smile as she looked down at her boy. For a moment her name eluded him, but he recognized her as the girl from the city who married the Noonan boy some time back. He’d seen her around town plenty of times over the past few years, though mostly he’d seen her when her belly was swollen with one of those kids. He noticed that though the rest of her was slim, she was a little rounded below the belt. What did you expect when you had two kids in less than three years?

Abruptly O’Conner reached out and pressed the doorbell, its raucous shrill audible over the music. Almost instantly the volume was turned down, and a moment later the young woman appeared at the door.

Her brow creased as she opened the door to him. Sheriff, is something wrong? There was anxiety in her voice.

Seen up close, her eyes were almost the same blue as her sweat suit, and her complexion had the kind of clarity he remembered girls having when he was a kid, not all gunked up with stuff like most women’s faces were these days. You’ve already taken care of the problem, ma’am, Ramsey O’Conner told her with a grin that was meant to reassure her. We had a complaint about the music being too loud.

Music—oh, the CD. The anxiety, which had become puzzlement at his statement, turned to relief. I was afraid— Last night I was reading a book where the police came to tell a lady that her husband was killed in an accident. When I saw you standing there, it didn’t matter that Michael would have been at work hours ago, I thought— She expelled her breath in a relieved sigh, and placed a hand in an oddly protective way across her rounded belly.

Didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am. Guess most people would think the worst if the sheriff was standing on their doorstep.

You really think so?  If I told Michael about it, he’d say I was being dramatic, thinking what I did. A sudden gust of wind tugged at the storm door she was holding open. As she struggled to hold it fast, she shook her head in a self-depreciating way. Where are my manners?  Would you like to come in, Sheriff?

O’Conner’s appraising glance took in the living room quickly as he stepped inside. The furniture was shabby, probably hand-me-downs from parents, but everything was clean, and there was a cozy, homey feeling to the room. It could be the toys scattered about, or the open paperback book lying on an end table that gave the room a lived-in look and invited you to kick off your shoes and settle into a chair.

Please, have a seat, Sheriff. Can I get you some coffee?

If it’s no bother.

Not at all. I have the pot on from Michael’s breakfast.  It won’t take me a minute to get it.

Ramsey O’Conner went to an overstuffed rocker and sat without pain for the first time that day. From her place on the floor, the baby stared at him with unabashed curiosity. Hey, cutie. He clucked his tongue at her and was rewarded with a gurgling chuckle and a drooling, one-tooth smile.

The boy was sitting at the end of the couch. His legs were drawn up, his arms clutching a worn stuffed bunny, and his eyes were as big as saucers as he too stared at the sheriff. What’s your name, sport?

The boy responded by jamming his fingers into his mouth and looking terrified.

Mikey, take your fingers out of your mouth and tell the nice sheriff your name, his mother told him as she re-entered the room carrying a tray with a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of cookies. The boy responded by burying his face in his bunny’s body. Michael Jeffrey Noonan, Jr., will you please say hello to the sheriff?  Haven’t I always told you the sheriff is your friend, someone you can turn to if you’re lost or scared?  The least you can do is say hello to him. There was no response from the huddled figure on the couch. If you don’t say hello, you can’t have a cookie.

The curly haired head popped up.  He muttered a word unintelligibly before holding out his hand eagerly.

Talk about pulling hen’s teeth, his mother murmured as she gave a cookie first to the boy, then to the baby on the floor. He’s going through a shy stage, she said apologetically to the sheriff.

That’s all right. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to talk to me, O’Conner hesitated fractionally before adding, Mrs. Noonan. He couldn’t remember for sure what her first name was, Rosalind or Roxanne, something like that.

It matters to me, she said as she handed him the mug of coffee. I don’t want him growing up all tongue-tied and shy. And please, Sheriff, call me Rosemary. She held the plate of cookies before him. They’re from a box, she said with a slight incline of her head. With these two, I don’t have much time for baking, and when I do, they’re gone in a flash.

Box cookies are my favorite, anyway, O’Conner told her, taking one from the plate. Rosemary put the plate back on the tray.

Good coffee, O’Conner commented. But aren’t you having any yourself?

I’m trying to cut back, she told him.  I already had my allotment for the day.  She didn’t look too happy about it.

I’m afraid I don’t have your willpower, O’Conner said before taking another sip.  Good cookies, too, he added a moment later, after devouring one in two bites.

Despite being from a box? Rosemary smiled.

Like I said, that’s my favorite kind, ’cause they’re always baked up right. He took a deep drink of his coffee, then set the mug down, patting the breast pocket of his uniform shirt before pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Do you mind? He held them up for Rosemary to see, then glanced around. I don’t see any ashtrays. I guess with the little ones, you don’t want anyone smoking in here. I can wait. He put the pack back in his pocket.

No, it’s okay, I’ll get you an ashtray. Michael and I don’t smoke, but some of his friends do. Rosemary got to her feet and headed for the kitchen. A moment later she called, Sheriff?  Would you mind coming in here a minute?

Something wrong? O’Conner asked as he entered the kitchen, a spacious room papered in a sprigged print, with matching curtains at the windows.

The ashtray is on the top shelf. Rosemary pointed at the opened cupboard door. Could you reach it for me?

O’Conner did so easily, bringing down the clear glass receptacle and handing it to Rosemary.

Rosemary took it, grinning sheepishly. I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t stand on a chair to get it.

The sheriff shrugged. My mother used to ask me to reach things for her all the time when I was growing up.

But not because she was scared of heights, I’ll bet, Rosemary said with a self-depreciating laugh. It’s so silly. I can’t tolerate getting up on a chair. It didn’t used to be that way. I don’t remember when it began, but it’s got so bad that I would have panicked if I had to climb up on a chair to get you an ashtray.

Then I’m glad I was able to get it for you – though if I wasn’t here, there wouldn’t have been any reason for you to climb up on a chair in the first place.

Something’s always popping up, Rosemary told him. Last week I took the kids over to that playground near the grade school – do you know the one I mean, the one with the special section with playground equipment sized for toddlers? The sheriff nodded. Mikey insisted I go down the slide with him. I thought I’d die, and it was about four feet off the ground. Of course, I couldn’t let him see I was scared. I don’t want the kids catching my phobia. I suppose that’s the way I’ll get over it, having to do things I’m scared of for their sake. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled and said, Let’s get back to the front room so you can have your cigarette – and before the kids eat up all the cookies we left there. She led the way.

Who called about the music? Rosemary asked as she sat down in the living room.

For a moment, O’Conner was surprised; he’d almost forgotten the reason he was there. He took a moment to light his cigarette before speaking. Didn’t give their name, far as I know. I didn’t take the call myself, but I believe it was a woman.

Rosemary nodded knowingly. Mrs. Anderson. She pointed toward the house to her right. Yesterday Mikey ran across her yard and trampled some of her flowers. Did you notice those Sweet Williams by her walk? O’Conner shook his head. Anyway, I apologized and offered to replace them, but that wasn’t good enough for her. I was sure she’d be looking for something else to complain about because she’s such an old pain, but I didn’t imagine she’d drag the police into it.

Playing music too loud isn’t a serious offense – not in this town anymore, Ramsey O’Conner said with a slight dour twist to his mouth before he took another sip of his coffee. It’s nothing to worry about. I’m not going to give you a citation. Keep it turned down a little, that’s all.

I guess I did have the volume up a bit, Rosemary admitted.

What was it you were playing?

A smile lit Rosemary’s face. Johnny Angelo. I’m going to see him Friday. I can hardly believe it!

Johnny Angelo?  Isn’t he the one—

Who’s always compared to Elvis?  That’s him. But if you ask me, he’s a lot better than Elvis. Johnny didn’t let himself get fat, or killed himself with a drug overdose.

O’Conner couldn’t argue about the fat part, but he was pretty certain that while drugs might have been involved in some manner, he didn’t think The King had died of an overdose. But what did it matter, all these years later?  Dead was dead.

Johnny Angelo’s kind of middle-of-the-road these days, isn’t he? the sheriff questioned.

Yeah. He was into rock-and-roll early on, like Elvis, but lately he does mostly love songs – ballads and stuff like that.

Where are you going to see him?

Why, at the stadium, of course. Didn’t you know he was playing there?

The sheriff shook his head. They send over a list of the dates and times of the concerts, but the venue provides their own security, so I don’t pay it that much heed. The names of those groups wouldn’t mean anything to me anyhow – Electric Potatoes, Robo-men of Mars. Rosemary gave him the laugh he’d been seeking. Johnny Angelo’s not the type of performer they usually have, is he?

No, and that’s why I’m so excited. Seeing him in person is something I didn’t know could happen. When they first opened the stadium, I thought it was going to be real exciting, having famous musicians performing outside our town. But then all they had were Goth and punk and emo and heavy metal stuff, nobody I was interested in. Until Johnny Angelo, that is.

She reached down and picked up the baby, who had crawled over to her feet. Immediately the little boy scooted off the couch and crowded into the chair next to her. Rosemary put her arm around him and hugged him close, dropping a kiss on his curls.

So you’re not too happy having the stadium nearby anymore? O’Conner leaned forward and took another cookie. Funny, he thought, how nobody called it anything but ‘the stadium.’ He had practically forgotten what the developers had named the place, and he probably wasn’t alone in that. When he tried to think of what its name was, all he could come up with was the Walter Something Something the Third Memorial Stadium. With that drawn out a name it was no surprised that ‘the stadium’ was good enough for people in these parts.

It hasn’t affected us much, one way or another, Rosemary said. Like I said, the type of groups they book weren’t the type that interested us.

Your husband doesn’t work security on concert nights like a lot of the young men in this town do? His deputies did that if they weren’t on duty on a concert night. O’Conner didn’t care for the fact that they did that one bit. To him it was as if the deputies were denigrating the honorable position they held in the town by being rent-a-cops on those nights.

We wish he could. We could use the extra money. Rosemary, with a rueful look, gave her kids a quick squeeze, as if to show they were the reason they needed more money, but also that she didn’t mind any hardship they might cause. But Michael works a rotating shift, and we don’t know that far in advance when he’s going to be working weekends. They want people they can count on.

That could be a way to stop his deputies from working at the stadium, O’Conner thought, by not releasing the work schedule a month in advance the way he’d always done. He’d have to give that some consideration. Guess your husband’s not working this weekend, though, since he’ll be going to the concert with you.

Rosemary shook her head. "He’s not working, but he’s not going to the concert either. Those tickets were expensive.  You wouldn’t think they’d cost that much with Johnny playing at this out-of-the-way stadium, but if we had to pay for two tickets plus a baby-sitter, we couldn’t afford to go at all."

So you’re going by yourself? He sounded surprised at the idea.

Yes. I don’t mind. Michael’s going to drop me off at the stadium and then he’ll be at home with the kids. I’ll either call him to come get me when it’s over, or take a taxi home, if there’s one around. Somebody told me some people around town hire their cars out as taxis on concert nights. Is that true?

That’s true, O’Conner confirmed, a little sourly. In his opinion, everyone was so eager to make some extra money off that stadium that they lacked objectivity about what its presence was doing to their town.  Won’t you be afraid, going there by yourself?

Here? Rosemary sounded incredulous. No. It’s safe here. It’s not like being in the city.

That’s right, you’re from—?

Chicago, Rosemary supplied.

How’d you end up living here?

I married a hometown boy, remember?  Michael was born and raised here.

I’m surprised you didn’t want him to move to Chicago after you got married.

Michael had this house that he inherited from his parents. This town looked like a good place to raise kids. Again they were the recipients of a quick hug. Michael’s job isn’t too far from here, and he likes his work. His commute would be much, much longer if we lived in Chicago instead of here. And I like it here. It’s different from what I was used to, but it’s nice. I can’t imagine a policeman in Chicago sitting down with me for coffee and a chat.

O’Conner drained the last of his coffee and snuffed out his cigarette. I should get going.

Rosemary looked stricken. I didn’t say that to try to drive you out.

I know that, but I’ve got to be getting back on the job.

Gosh, I hope I didn’t keep you from anything. Rosemary bit her lip and looked concerned.

No, it’s been a slow morning, O’Conner assured her.

I did kind of talk your ear off, Rosemary said with a grin. These kids are good company, but I miss having an adult to talk to. Michael says I drive him crazy when he gets home from work because I talk so much.

Don’t you have any friends in town?

I know a couple people. Most of our neighbors are older, the age Michael’s parents would have been. A lot of Michael’s friends have moved away, and mine are down in the city.

It must get kind of lonely for you.

Sometimes, Rosemary admitted. But I have the kids, and like I said, I like living here. So nice and peaceful and safe...

I better go and make sure it stays safe. O’Conner rose from the chair and headed toward the door, with Rosemary and her two children following behind him. He paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned toward her. Remember to keep the volume down.

Rosemary laughed. If I can keep Mikey off Mrs. Anderson’s lawn, I don’t think it’ll matter how loudly I play my music.

It might not, but keep it down anyway. You wouldn’t want me to have to come out here again.

Sheriff, I wouldn’t mind that at all. It’s been nice talking to you.

Same here. O’Conner twisted the knob and stepped outside. From somewhere came the pungent odor of burning leaves. O’Conner glanced up and down the street but didn’t see any telltale sign of smoke. He’d take a drive around the area before heading back to the station, see if he could spot who was doing it. Burning leaves was against an ordinance passed a few years back, but some of the old timers couldn’t get out of the habit.

He eased himself behind the steering wheel of the squad car with a slight wince. He should go to the doctor and have himself taken care of. These things were getting to be a big pain in the butt, literally.

Turning the key, O’Conner glanced back at the house he’d left. Rosemary stood in the doorway behind the storm door, the baby on her hip. The little boy had his arms wrapped around her legs. When she caught his glance, she lifted the baby’s hand to make her wave. Her mouth moved, and the boy’s head shook a violent refusal. She’d probably instructed him to wave too.

Nice woman, O’Conner thought as he put the car in gear and gave a brief wave of his own. Real nice woman, he thought as he drove away. Thought the town was so safe. He grimaced as he remembered the envelope waiting on his desk with the pictures of the Miller girl in it. Been over a month since she disappeared from this safe town. It had been a safe place before that rock stadium opened up. With riffraff coming up here for concerts most every weekend, he’d hardly consider the town safe anymore.

He thought about Rosemary Noonan going to the concert by herself this coming weekend, and mentally reviewed the men he figured would be working security at the stadium. Hope she’ll be all right, he thought as he spotted the bonfire on the next block and headed toward it. He wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to a nice woman like her.

TWO

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Gary Everett’s mouth twisted with disgust when the bell that indicated someone had come into the store rang. It figured, he thought as he got out of his chair in the back room. There was one TV show that came on while the store was open that he wanted to watch, and it never failed that someone came in as soon as the show came on.  He always ended up missing most of it.

He could record it, but it wasn’t the same, the way seeing a movie on DVD wasn’t the same