”Blue short-sleeved shirt, tan pants, white sneakers.“
”Did he take any food for the guinea pig?“
Trask looked at me as if I were crazy. ”Food?“
”Yeah. Food. Did he take any for the guinea pig?“
Trask looked at Margery Bartlett. She said, ”I don’t know. I had nothing to do with the guinea pig.“ She shivered. ”Dirty little things. I hate them.“
I looked at her husband. He shook his head. ”I don’t know.“
”What goddamned difference does that make? We aren’t worrying about the whatchamacallit; we’re after a missing kid. I don’t care if the whatchamacallit eats well or not.“
”Well,“ I said, ”if the kid cared enough about the guinea pig to come home and get it before taking off, he wouldn’t have left without food for it, would he? How about a carrying case or a box or something?“
All three of them looked blank.
”Did the shirt he was wearing have a big pocket, big enough for a guinea pig?“
Roger Bartlett said, ”No, I put it through the wash the day before he left, and I noticed there were no pockets. I always go through the pockets before I put things in the wash, ya know, because the kids are always sticking things in their pockets and then forgetting them and they get ruined in the machine. So I checked and I noticed, ya know?“
”Okay,“ I said, ”let’s see if we can figure out whether he took any food or anything to carry the guinea pig. If you’re going to New York or California, you probably don’t want to carry a guinea pig in your hand the whole way. You can’t put him in your pants pocket, and you probably don’t buy him a cheeseburger and a Ho-Jo at Howard Johnson’s.“
Roger Bartlett nodded and said, ”Come on.“
We went up through a center hall off the kitchen to the front stairs. The stairs were wide enough to drive a jeep up.
Where they turned and formed a landing, a floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the bright blue pool. There was a trumpet vine fringing the window, and its big bugle-shaped red flowers obscured a couple of the window lights.
The boy’s room was second floor front, looking out over the broad front lawn and the quiet curving street beyond it.
The bed was against the far wall, a low, headboardless affair that the stores insist on calling a HollyWood bed. It was covered with a red and black spread. There was a matching plaid rug on the floor and drapes of the same material as the spread on the windows. To the left of the door as we entered the room was a built-in counter that covered the entire wall.
Beneath it were bureau drawers, and atop it were books and paper and some pencils and a modular animal cage of clear plastic with an orange plastic base. There was a water bottle still nearly full in its slot and some food in the dish. The perforated metal cover was open, and the cage was empty.
Beside the cage was a cardboard box with the cover on.
Bartlett opened the box. Inside was a package of guinea pig food pellets, a package of Guinea Pig Treat, and a blue cardboard box with a carry handle and a yellow picture of a satisfied-looking guinea pig on the outside.
Bartlett said, ”That box is what they give you at the pet store to bring them home in. Kevin kept it to carry him around in.“
The two packages of food, both open, and the carry box occupied all the space in the shoe box.
I said, ”Can you tell if there’s any food missing?“
”I don’t think so. This is where he kept it, and it’s still there.“
I stared around the room. It was very neat. A pair of brown loafers was lined up under the bed, and a pair of blue canvas bedroom slippers beside them, geometrically parallel.
The bedside table had a reading lamp and a small red portable radio and nothing else. At the far end of the counter top was a brown and beige portable TV set. Neatly on top, one edge squared with the edge of the television, was a current TV Guide. I opened the closet door. The clothes were hung in precise order, each item on its hanger, each shirt buttoned up on the hanger, the pants each neatly creased on a pants hanger; a pair of Frye boots was the only thing on the floor.
”Who does his room?“ I asked.
”He does,“ his father said. ”Isn’t he neat? Never saw a kid as neat as he is. Neat as a bastard, ya know?“
I nodded and began to look through the bureau drawers.
They were as neat as the rest of the room. Folded underwear, rolled socks, six polo shirts of different colors with the sleeves neatly folded under. Two of the drawers were entirely empty.
”What was in these drawers?“ I asked.
”Nothing, I think. I don’t think he ever kept anything in there.“
”Are you sure?“
”No. Like I say he kept care of his own room, mostly.“
”How about your wife; would she know?“
”No.“
