Hey gang–it’s Work-in-Progress Wednesday! And as will be traditional soon, I am sharing an excerpt from my work-in-progress. This is a scene in which Harry, our narrator, is beginning a case in which he’s searching for a missing man named Bert Clingerton. Not a lot of action in this scene, but I like the characters he encounters in this scene, and Harry’s observations about them.

The girl behind the counter was about as goth as you could find. That look had, for the most part, come and gone in Parkersburg quite a while back, but Newport, Ohio isn’t exactly on the cutting edge of trends. Her hair was dead straight stopping just above her shoulders and was black as the Devil’s soul, except for about two inches starting at her scalp. The part that had grown out since she’d last colored it was blonde. I imagined as I approached the counter the conversation she’d probably had with her parents when she announced she was coloring such beautiful platinum hair coal dust black. Her face, naturally pale, had been made more so by nearly white concealer. Her lips, eyeliner, and fingernails were black and she had a ring in her nose. Not a tasteful, understated stud in the side of the nostril, but one of those full-on bull rings that literally trigger my gag mechanism when I see them. That’s not a statement of judgment, but a literal fact. People can decorate themselves however they want. I judge people based on the merits of their character. But if you want me to look you in the eye, you better not have a ring coming out of your nostrils because I will eventually vomit.

“Hello, umm,” I leaned in to look at her name badge, “Cleo. Is that short for Cleopatra?”

She looked me in the eye with no expression. It was like she was wearing a mask. “Yes.”

Not going to lie. I wasn’t expecting that. “Well, good for you.” I pulled a card from the inside right pocket of my blazer. It was tan corduroy with patches on the elbows. Dee had gotten it for me the previous Christmas. It made me feel professorial. I held out the card for her. “My name is Harry Shalan. I’m a private detective looking into the disappearance of a man named Bert Clingerton.” When she continued staring at me, I gave up and put the card away. Continuing with her felt a little pointless, like trying to converse with a toaster oven. “Listen, is the manager or the owner around anywhere?”

“Upstairs.” She pointed at the door. I could swear there was almost an eye roll there. Maybe she was a real girl after all.

There was a stairway along the side of the building near the gas pumps. Before I could knock, the door opened. Inside was what I imagine young Cleopatra would look like in approximately thirty years. Minus the nose ring and Stygian dye, of course. Same mouth, same nose, same facial shape. The biggest difference, though, was that this woman’s face was fully animated, with bright, sparkling eyes and a wide, friendly smile. She stepped back to allow me in, to what appeared to be the office for the station. I was guessing she and the man who was bent over a file cabinet in the back corner were in the very early stages of reorganization. Or getting ready to torch the place.

“Hi, my name is Harry Shalan.” I reached out my hand, which she shook. It was a good handshake. Firm without a hint of dead fish.

“You’re a private eye.” Her eyes sparkled. “We just added audio to the security cameras. I’m Belinda Sparks. Back there in the corner trying not to die in an avalanche is my husband Randy.”

He waved without looking around. I nodded and handed her my card, which she actually took. “Good for you. I’m guessing you’re young Cleo’s mother.”

She rolled her eyes and chuckled silently. “Yes, our Cleo. I’m sorry she was so zombie-like. She really can be quite sweet if you catch her on the right day—or minute. We normally don’t leave her alone down there, but, as you can see, we’re up to our ears. We just moved here and bought this place two months ago and the previous owner’s accounting system appears to have consisted of stuffing every shred of paper into plastic storage drawers.”

Off in the corner, the husband held up a paper. “Here’s a kid’s report card from 1988. What were they thinking?”

She shook her head and smiled. “You’re here about the man who disappeared? Clingerton?” I nodded. “What can we tell you we didn’t already tell the police? Can I get you a coffee? Something cold? We have it all.”

“I’m good, but thanks. And maybe nothing, but sometimes folks remember stuff they don’t know is important until somebody asks.”

“Works for me.” She looked around, finally lifting a pile of what appeared to be gasoline delivery receipts off a chair and laying them carefully onto the floor beside it. “Have a seat. You mind if we work while we talk? We’d like to get this place straightened up before we retire.”

Mr. Sparks muttered in the corner. “Dental records. Stephanie had a cavity in 1997. Why? Why?”

Mrs. Sparks sat in an ancient green Naugahyde desk chair. It creaked like it could give at any moment despite her lithe frame. After she slid behind the desk, I could only see the very top of her head. A sigh wafted over the wall of old ledger books before a hand appeared between two rows and slid one stack to the side. I winced, waiting for it to topple, but it somehow remained upright. She peeked through the gap she had just made. “Did I mention the previous owners weren’t too fastidious?”

“Fastidious. Good word.”

“You’re into words too?”

“Was an English teacher very briefly in a former life.”

Her eyes went wide. “I was a college lit professor! Ever hear of Johnson Willis College?”

I searched in my memory. “Maybe?” It came out as about five syllables.

“Yeah, no you haven’t. Nobody has. That’s why it closed.”

“That’s too bad. Where was it?”

“Upstate New York. Near, well, not really near anything you’ve heard of. You could see Canada and the nearest town was a sleepy little hamlet called Bombay. Named after an alleged Indian princess who was the wife of the town founder.”

It was getting stuffy. I could feel a bead of sweat trickle down my back. As if she read my mind, Mrs. Sparks negotiated around several plastic storage totes to the window, lifted the ancient blinds, waved her hands in front of her to clear the dust that had raised, and cranked the window open to its stop. The good news was it caused a wonderfully refreshing breeze. The bad news was the breeze sent loose papers flying everywhere. She palmed her face and rolled the window shut partway. That seemed to redirect the air enough to settle the storm.

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the cool air in my face for a second, then turned to Mrs. Sparks, who had settled back in her seat behind the desk. “So, about Bert Clingerton. What can you tell me about the day his card was used here?”

“Not much, unfortunately. We had just moved in a short time before. What was it, Randy? A week? Two?” He grunted something she apparently understood. “Oh. Thought it was longer. Anyway, we were still working on getting moved in and one of the girls that worked here before, Autumn, was downstairs. She said a guy who, and I quote, kind of looked like him, paid for the gas, but she said there was a kid in there she was worried was trying to lift something, so she couldn’t be sure. There was no working security camera at the time, so that’s no help.”

“He buy anything other than the gas? I have the receipt, but it’s so faded I can’t read it.”

“Hmm, guess that’s one of those things the cops never thought to ask. Not sure. Autumn should be coming in soon, though. Maybe she’ll remember.” She picked up the phone hidden somewhere behind the fortress of ledgers and hit a button. “Cleo, we’ve gone over this. ‘What’ is not a proper greeting.” Pause for Mom to put her head in her free hand. “Just say hello like a normal human being. Anyway, when Autumn gets here, please send her up. No, she’s not fired. You can feel free to go to your room and brood as soon as she gets back. Yes. Thank you, honey. I love you.”

“No working cameras anywhere? Not even outside to stop drive-offs?”

“Hah! Fake.” Mr. Sparks was paying more attention than I thought.

“Fake camera?”

Mrs. Sparks flipped through a sheaf of paper, shook her head, and tossed it all in a large green tub with a white recycling logo on the side. “Not even a good one. Homemade. First thing we did was install an actual security system, but your man came in exactly two days too soon for that to be of any service.”

“I did see his car.” Mr. Sparks put his hands on either side of his back and stretched. Standing up, he was a lot bigger than I would have guessed. He was slightly taller than his wife, who was probably about six feet herself, but he was built like he might have been a linebacker on his high school football team. His hands were big and beefy, his knuckles rough, his neck thick. Middle age spread had been kept in check relatively well, but his sweat-soaked shirt, emblazoned with the logo of another college I’d never heard of, was clearly from a younger, thinner age. It was taut around the middle, but also around upper arms that were the result of a good bit of heavy weights. A drop of sweat trickled out of his wavy brown hair and down his forehead. “Or at least I think it was. Only car at the pumps for a couple hours, so I don’t know who else it could have been.”

“You said car. It was a car, not a silver pickup?”

“No, it was a green hatchback. I’m not a car guy, so I didn’t recognize the make. Older, though. Terrible color. Like a faded lime.”

I was starting to wonder if the police had actually been here. “Any chance the truck was there too?”

He grimaced. “I suppose anything’s possible, but nowhere in sight. Oh, the car had one of those window decals on it. Kind you see all the time. Tyrannosaurus eating a stick figure family.”

I wrote that down in my little spiral detective notebook. I still had a box of them in my office Lucas had given me when he retired. “See if there was anyone else in the car?”

“No, I was up at the top of the steps, getting air. AC wasn’t working.”

“I suppose it’s too much to hope you got a plate number?”

He mopped his brow with a hand towel he’d retrieved from the back pocket of his jeans. “Ha, yeah. They were Ohio plates, though. Does that help?”

“Eliminates the other 49. I practically have him surrounded.”