The Labyrinth of Blue Towers:
The Disappearance of Jack Arneson
(A Sewing Box Mystery)
Chapter 3: Thursday, June 28, 1984, 10:10 am
The heat. There was no escaping it. Nor was there any escaping little Missy Motor-mouth this morning. Jean really needed to sit Dorie down next time her daughter decided to breeze through the house and tell her to stop giving that kid so much sugar; otherwise it was going to be a long summer. Sugar was like a drug to that child and Jean was right there with Nancy Reagan on that one – “Just Say No!” That damn orange pop was the biggest culprit. Thank God for sugarless Kool-Aid – next best thing to water. Jean reached into the cupboard next to the sink and pulled out two of the fat, shiny packets. So, which would it be today: Tropical Punch or Lemonade? Jean hated the way the Tropical Punch stained everything (especially Missy’s mouth), and given how Missy was running in and out of the kitchen and all over the living room she didn’t want to risk a stain on her beige couch, so she opted for the Lemonade.
“Grandma!” spat Missy as she ran into the kitchen. “Grandma, Grandma, Grandma!” The child rattled on like a gatling gun.
Jean turned around slowly. It was all she could do not grab the spray head on the side of the sink and hose the little speed demon down. She loved Missy to death, but there were limits. “Whaaaat?”
“What time is lunch? What are we going to have? We should go to McDonalds. Or the pool. Let’s go to the pool! I want to go swimming. It’s hot and I want to wear my yellow suit. I want to wear it all day.”
Jean felt defeated Was it the heat? She wasn’t sure, but something was sure zapping her enthusiasm for the day. “Okay, okay we’ll see what we can do. I’m making you some lemonade.”
“Yay!” As Missy disappeared in a flash once more into the living room, Jean wished she had that girl’s energy What a difference fifty years made. She moved to the utensil drawer next to the fridge and was just about to remove her favorite wooden stirring spoon when Missy reappeared in the doorway of the kitchen and barked so loud her heart almost stopped.
“Grandma!” yelled Missy.
Jean closed her eyes and gathered her wits before answering. “Yeeeeeesssssssss?”
Missy’s giant Bambi eyes looked up at her, blinking innocently. The child’s voice returned to a normal volume as she demurely pointed out, “You forgot to tell me what time lunch is.”
Jean crouched down with a little effort. At fifty-five, she was still pretty agile, although her knees and elbows were definitely starting to give her a little trouble. No doubt, it was having Missy around that kept her body so young while turning her hair so gray. Patiently, she asked, “What time do we usually have lunch?”
“Noon.” Missy now spoke like a student in front of a classroom.
“And why would today be any different?”
“Becaaaaauuuuuuse…,” drawled Missy.
Jean rested her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, as if to indicate that she was not going to be playing 20 Questions this day. Missy, sensing this, quickly volunteered, “Because I thought you were taking me to McDonalds.”
Gathering Missy in her arms, she held her so close she could smell the girl’s hair; that strange combination of sweet and sour that brings to mind youth “Mmmmmmm,” she hummed. “Not today. Today we’re having my absolute favorite thing in the world.” Pushing Missy back so she could look her in the eyes, she continued, “Do you know what that is?”
A clearly disappointed Missy shook her head back and forth in an exaggerated manner.
“Leftovers!” cried Jean. “Lovely, lovely leftovers. As much as you want. Until you’re filled to the gills!”
With that, Jean rose and opened the ancient Frigidaire. “Just look at ‘em all. They all want to live in your belly!” Jean made a grab for her granddaughter’s midsection, as if to tickle her. There was a time when this type of play would have produced a gale of giggles, but Missy was getting older. Instead, Missy pushed Jean’s hands away, stepped back two steps, and crossed her arms defensively. The girl’s lower lip swelled into a well-practiced pout as her brow furrowed.
“I hate leftovers.”
A little hurt, Jean countered with her own defensive tone, “Yeah? Well, that’s all Grandma Jean’s restaurant has on the menu today. So,” she added, as she closed the fridge door, “Eat ’em or starve.” Retrieving the wooden spoon from the drawer, Jean moved back to the harvest gold plastic pitcher of almost-lemonade and began to stir.
“I am VERY unhappy.”
This statement was a recently-adopted, reoccurring pronouncement. Jean was pretty sure Missy had heard Dorie say it countless times. Apparently, it resonated with and impressed Missy as something sophisticated to say, so she trotted it out whenever things didn’t go her way. Apples don’t fall far enough, thought Jean. Without turning around, she spoke distinctly, “Well. I for one am sorry to hear that. Missy. Grandma does the best she can with what she has. I would love nothing more than to take you to McDonald’s every day, and buy you a new bike, and go on shopping sprees in Paris each spring, but I am not the Queen of England and you are not Lady Di, so today,” and with this she tossed the wooden spoon into the sink and turned around, “you and I will dine on leftovers and be grateful for what we have.” Jean leaned her back against the counter and crossed her arms, hoping Missy would realize that this conversation was over
Except, apparently, it wasn’t.
“Paula’s mom takes her to McDonald’s every day.”
Jean met her head on, “Missy, I happen to know that is not true. No one goes to McDonald’s everyday.”
“The people who work there do.”
“Are you telling me you’d like to get a job at McDonald’s? Because that could be arranged.”
Missy’s eyes widened, “Really?”
Not the response Jean had expected. Now she would have to backpedal. “Someday. When you’re a bit older, they would be lucky to have you.”
But Missy persisted, “What about this summer?”
“No, hon. You’re not old enough yet. But I’m glad you’re interested in working. I have a few jobs around here you could help me with.”
“Like what?” Missy asked suspiciously. She knew this trap all too well.
“You could start with your room. Pick up all your toys and clothes and then we’ll see about going to the pool today. How about that?”
“My room is perfect.”
“Your room is a mess. And little girls with messy rooms do not grow up and get jobs at McDonalds. You want some lemonade to drink while you clean?” Jean grabbed one of Missy’s favorite glasses from the dish drainer where it had been air drying since the previous night. Moving to the fridge, she added, ‘I’ll put ice cubes in it.”
The prospect of a cold drink seemed to mollify Missy. “Okay. I’ll go look at my room.”
Jean was already pouring. Okay, she thought. Maybe this day could get back on track. “Here you go,” she said, as she turned around only to find that Missy was already gone. Hoping she’d headed directly to her bedroom to start picking things up, Jean headed toward the living room. She was about halfway through the room when something on the television caught her eye. The entire screen was taken up with the school photo of a young boy. Jean stopped dead in her tracks. She was struck by the way his chin was raised toward the camera, his innocent smile, and how thin his neck seemed; she thought he looked like a little hopeful bird waiting in a nest for his mother to feed him. A 1-800 number appeared at the bottom of the screen. The local T.V. anchor’s voice hummed beneath the surface, but, for some reason, the gist of what he was saying wasn’t registering with Jean. She was still transfixed on the photo of the boy. Only when the screen switched to the image of a farm, as taken from a hovering helicopter, did the words begin to make sense.
The boy was missing. He’d disappeared from his home near Jasper, MN some time yesterday. The farm was replaced with a close-up of the distraught mother’s face. She was holding a press conference at the farm. A man, presumably the boy’s father, stood close behind her right shoulder, his face tight and hard. The woman looked like she was going through hell. In her hands she held a copy of the school photo.
“This is my son. Jack Arneson,” she began The wind and the bright sun seemed to make her cower a bit “Jack has been missing since Tuesday afternoon He was last seen walking along the dirt road that leads into Jasper. He was wearing…” the woman’s voice faltered, her face crumbling into a mass of anguish. Her husband squeezed his wife’s shoulders in an effort for her to summon the strength to carry on, which the woman somehow managed to do Clearing her throat, she started again, “He was wearing his orange little league t-shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. Jack is ten years old.” she paused to inhale deeply, “and is four feet, eight inches tall, with dishwater blonde hair, and weighs about 70 lbs. If you have seen Jack or know where he is, please call the 1-800 number at the bottom of the screen. Any information you have would be greatly appreciated. Please…” and with this, the woman paused, looking up from her notecards while peering directly into the cameras, “please, help bring Jack back home.” She was about to step back and cede the podium to one of the officers from the Sheriff s Department, when she suddenly changed her mind. Moving swiftly back to the phalanx of microphones, she hastily and quietly added, “Jack, please come home. Mommy and Daddy miss you, and we love you.” These last words came out hard and strangled, the woman’s throat closing as her face once again seemed to fall in upon itself. Surrendering, she swiftly turned into her husband’s arms and buried her face in his chest.
An announcer in the studio sprang onto the screen repeating the 1-800 number scrolling along the bottom of the screen. Then the school photo of Jack reappeared. Jean, so mesmerized, neglected to notice the perspiration forming on the glass of lemonade she was tightly gripping in her hand. As it began to slip from her hand, she felt as if the world was moving in slow motion, and that she was powerless to prevent what was about to happen. The glass fell onto the light tan carpet, bouncing and sending its contents spewing forth, raining across the room
“Grandma!”
The sound of Missy’s voice brought Jean back to reality and suddenly everything began to move at normal pace. Looking down at the floor, to her feet, her brain registered that the lemony-smelling liquid was now everywhere—nothing in the living room seemed untouched “Oh, shit,” cried Jean before catching herself, mindful that little pitchers having big ears. She immediately gathered he wits about her and turned to face Missy, who was standing in the door of the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
Missy’s face was frozen in horror. Jean smiled and, matching the always cheerful, somewhat robotic tone of June Cleaver said, “Don’t worry, sweetie I’ll get you another glass.”
Leaving the fallen glass just as it was, Jean turned on her heels, and moved swiftly back into the kitchen with one thought in mind…
Thank God she hadn’t gone with the Tropical Punch!
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Sewing Box Mysteries by M.H. King 
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