Missing Mark (6 page)

Sometimes they agree to an interview because they want to control the legacy of a loved one. Sometimes they talk to celebrate an accomplishment. Sometimes they need the public’s help to solve a crime. Often they talk because in the course of an interview they also gain information.

And of course, there are those who talk because they’ve always wanted to be on TV.

Right now Libby and I were slumming outside Cup ‘n’ Cone, a local ice-cream shack that had reopened after being closed for the winter. The sun was warm, the sherbet cool. Small children chased each other in a circle around a fallen kiddie cone.

But best of all, the maid of honor was full of delicious gossip.

Like how some of the wedding guests were miffed to have been cheated out of the celebratory feast, especially when they heard that Madeline’s mother had directed the caterers to box up the steak and scallops and wedding cake for a St. Paul homeless shelter where the clientele was unlikely to appreciate such a spread.

And how others were perturbed that they couldn’t return the wedding presents because Madeline and Mark’s gift registry specified that the linen, crystal, and silver all be engraved with their initials: MM.

And how Libby figured Mark must really be something in bed, because otherwise what could Madeline see in him?

“I’m not saying she was as gorgeous as Julia Roberts or he was as homely as Lyle Lovett, but it was a mismatch on a lot of levels.”

She did concede that the two might have felt a bond because they both lost their fathers as children. She didn’t know what happened to Mark’s dad, but Madeline’s had been struck by lightning while playing golf at the Dellwood Country Club, a mile from their home.

Libby had never met him, but from a picture in Madeline’s bedroom of herself as a toddler holding hands with her father, he resembled Madeline’s older brother. Tall, dark, handsome.

“She doesn’t talk about her dad much. Hardly at all even. He died when she was four. Her brother was going to walk her down the aisle.”

We sat there a minute, not speaking, both of us likely visualizing the same image: a feminine white figure with a male companion who was much too young for the situation.

Probably to change the subject, Libby also said Mark made Madeline laugh.

“I went with her to that comedy club one night. I didn’t find his humor all that funny, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him.”

She told me that Madeline and Mark wrote their own wedding vows but Madeline’s mother had to insist he not include any jokes.

“That was where Mrs. Post drew the line,” Libby said. “That and the prenup, of course.”

“And Mark was okay with that?”

“It was nothing personal. All Post spouses sign prenups. The joke ban he took a little harder.”

She also confided that the big rock on Madeline’s ring finger was a family heirloom.

“So Madeline was fine becoming Mrs. Mark Lefevre?”

“It doesn’t have quite the same social ring, does it?” Libby said.

“According to the marriage license, she was going to use the name Madeline Post Lefevre. I never got to sign it as a witness.”

No point in trying to get a copy. Since the wedding never took place, the license wouldn’t have been filed with the county.

“Did her family raise any objections to him or his career path?” I asked.

Libby explained that before Madeline introduced Mark to her mother and brother, she reminded them that the Post family has always supported the arts and she expected no less for her betrothed.

“Of course the kind of art they had in mind was highbrow, like the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra or the Guthrie Theater or the Ordway Center,” Libby said. “Not some guy who, at best, belittles politicians they hold dear or, at worst, finds farts amusing.”

“Maybe you should be the comedian,” I said, laughing.

She shook her head and smiled. “Not my world. Good comedians have to make fun of themselves. I just like making fun of other people.”

At least she was honest about herself. I hoped she was honest about the rest of her information.

“But once Madeline and Mark announced their engagement,” she continued, “Mrs. Post seemed fond of him. Madeline getting married didn’t seem nearly as big a deal as Madeline moving out of the family compound the year before.”

“Say again?”

“The estate had plenty of room and Mrs. Post enjoyed having both her children living there. Roderick didn’t seem to mind, but Madeline felt isolated.”

“Did Madeline have any old beaux waiting on the sidelines?” I wondered if an old flame might have sought revenge.

Libby shrugged. “Nobody special.”

“That’s sort of hard to believe.” At least it was for me. “I mean, she’s a woman with a lot going for her.”

“You mean looks and money?”

“Well, yeah.” Again, I appreciated Libby’s candor.

“Madeline never had long-term boyfriends,” she said. “Oh, she had prom dates. She had suitors. Certainly. She was a Post. But she seemed indifferent to them.”

“No raging hormones?” I asked.

“Not until Mark.”

We chatted some more about what magic he had that others lacked. In my experience, the rich tend to date the rich. The pretty tend to date the handsome. The plain tend to date the ordinary. As a comedian, Mark might have been funny, but as a romantic partner, he was simply funny-looking. And Libby knew nothing about his puzzling scar. She never asked about the facial mark; Madeline never mentioned it.

“For a while, I wondered if Madeline might be gay,” Libby said, “but she didn’t seem remotely attracted to women, either.”

We were covering so much intimate ground, I wished I was taking notes. But I knew Libby would clam up the minute I reached for a pen and paper.

“It was like she wanted a relationship,” Libby continued. “She went through the motions, but never seemed to get past the second or third date.”

“Until Mark,” I added.

She nodded. “Until Mark.”

“Did she ever mention if Mark had any old girlfriends who might be trouble?”

“Not to me, but you can ask her yourself. There she is.” Libby pointed to the parking lot where Madeline was approaching us.

I hoped this wasn’t going to be awkward. But then, Madeline must have known I’d want to talk to Libby; she’d given me her name. To my surprise, she walked right past us and into a coffee shop, with no second glance.

“What’s the matter?” I asked Libby. “She acted like we weren’t even here. Is she mad at us?”

“No,” Libby said. “This happens a lot. She’s not the most observant person. Always has her head in the clouds. Unless we speak up, she won’t even notice us.”

I expressed my doubt about that. But then Madeline walked past us again, this time carrying a coffee cup. She unlocked her car, got in while balancing her drink, and drove away—oblivious to our presence.

hen I let Shep out for his morning business, my next-door neighbor was opening his garage for yard sale business.

As predictable as a standby call ten seconds before air, every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, George (I didn’t know his last name) would set up a card table in his driveway next to a
YARD SALE
sign and display assorted junk in hopes of unloading it. In bad weather, he simply moved his car to the street and his operation indoors. After-hours, visitors rang the doorbell, conducted their affairs, and left— usually minutes later.

Shep wanted to visit. George wasn’t the most neighborly neighbor, but I decided to get the introductions over with. “Anything good this week?” I asked.

George wasn’t nearly old enough to be retired but didn’t seem to have a real job, either. “Depends on what you’re looking for.” George didn’t bother to look up. He seemed intent on arranging an eclectic collection of ceramic salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like woodland creatures.

Shep headed past an old exercise bike to a corner of the garage and began sniffing and pawing on a wooden sewing cabinet marked
NOT

FOR SALE.

“I’m allergic to dogs,” George said.

I apologized, explaining that Shep was living with me temporarily, and wouldn’t it be nice to have a watchdog in the neighborhood?

“I don’t like barking.”

“He’s very quiet,” I said, “unless he smells trouble.”

Shep continued pawing at the cabinet. It didn’t look the least bit fragile, but George appeared nervous just the same.

“Better get him out of here,” he said. “Don’t want him breaking anything.”

Like we were surrounded by valuable inventory. A plastic bench held a collection of VHS action movies from the nineties. A cardboard box overflowed with stuffed animals that looked overloved and under-washed. And a dusty aquarium, now empty except for a few plastic plants and a fish cave, sat next to a box of faded
National Geo-graphics
.

No price tags. George preferred to wheel and deal depending, I suspected, on the type of vehicle the shopper drove. Owners of rusted-out clunkers seemed to get better prices than carpool moms with Lincoln Navigators.

That was the mystery. Regular foot traffic paraded up and down his yard and he didn’t even advertise beyond the homemade sign. I attributed it to location, location, location and wondered if George might sell some of my castoffs for me on consignment. But now seemed a bad time to ask since Shep had made such a poor first impression. So I pushed the big dog back over to my side of the property line and told him to stay while I grabbed the morning newspapers.

Without Shep, I’d still be sleeping in, though not for long. Spring wasn’t a season to be cherishing Saturdays for those of us who work in television news. May loomed like a vulture. Not that I was comparing journalists to scavengers, but I enjoy thinking both play a crucial role in cleaning up the world.

Speaking of which, like a good dog owner, I cleaned up after Shep, making an earthly deposit in the garbage can by my garage. Then the two of us played newspaper tug-of-war for a minute before going inside. Both daily papers were thin, evidence of the cut in manpower and newsprint. And since I don’t read sports, I finished them quickly.

As I boiled some water for instant oatmeal, I pulled out a notebook to chart clues in the missing-groom story.

One angle I deliberately didn’t bring up with Noreen (because I didn’t want my boss thinking I see serial killers behind every corner) was the fact that several young men have been reported missing in Minnesota and Wisconsin over the last few years. A map of the missing eerily follows a path along Interstate 94. La Crosse. Eau Claire. The Twin Cities. St. Cloud. Conspiracy theorists even include cases from Illinois, Indiana, and Michigan to raise the tally of the missing to dozens.

Some of the men have never been found, including one whose abandoned car was discovered four years ago on the side of a freeway three miles from where Mark was last seen.

Others were found drowned. Their bodies recovered weeks or months later not far from where they disappeared in water that had seemingly been well searched. Rumors of a serial killer targeting drunken college men in La Crosse, Wisconsin, became so frenzied that an FBI task force reviewed the cases and concluded the victims became intoxicated at bars or campus parties and stumbled drunkenly into the Mississippi River.

Their families don’t accept that explanation: they believe the men were pushed or thrown while incapacitated. Mainstream media, including Channel 3, has generally discounted these cases as coincidence. An Internet blog disagreed, saying coincidence phooey—drowning in coincidence, maybe. One of our broadcast competitors floated a theory that an organized pack of roving murderers killed the men, leaving smiley-face graffiti behind to taunt police.

During a news conference, authorities pronounced the conjecture unfounded and announced they’d found the real killers long ago— Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, and Bud Weiser.

Mark didn’t fit the key element of the victim profile. When I watched the video of the rehearsal dinner, he didn’t seem the least bit drunk. The best man, maid of honor, and bride all confirmed that conclusion.

Also, theirs was a private party. Hard for a roaming serial killer to crash. The guest list was known. And none of the invited had an obvious motive to harm the groom.