This laundry thing was complicated.
How could one red shirt turn every single one of the socks pink? Not to mention the underwear…
Where did one draw the line between when a garment stopped being considered "dark"? And how could a wool sweater possibly shrink that much?
Hogan sighed as he looked over his pitiful pile of wet laundry. He'd just taken it out of the (brand new!) Westinghouse washer that the nice lady at the department store had sold him, and was wondering how, between putting it in and taking it out, he could have messed up so astronomically.
He figured that all he could do now was hang it out on the line to dry. Maybe that would fix them.
Hogan picked up the wad of dripping clothing and made his way out of the laundry room, possibly losing a sock or two on the way, as he headed for the kitchen door that led into the spacious front yard of his house.
His house.
What a nice feeling it was, after years in the military, followed by years in a prison camp, to finally have a place that he could call his own. Well, mostly his own. He couldn't really claim ownership of the entire place, because half of the place was technically being rented by Newkirk.
The house was a big old yellow one that had two kitchens and two bathrooms, and had most likely been designed with the idea of being able to house two families, but it suited their needs just fine. They could come and go without disturbing one another, and splitting the heating and electric bill with someone was never not helpful.
Sometimes the war felt as though it were a million miles away, but other times it seemed like it was just yesterday that his plane was shot down. He could still see in himself and in his friends some of the habits they had picked up during the war, such as never wasting any amount of food or, if they were anything like him, never not marveling at how great a hot shower could be.
Hogan had just entered the kitchen with the soggy laundry when some movement from just outside the window caught his attention. Curiosity piqued, he plopped the wet mess down onto the nearest chair and walked over to the window that was just above the sink.
Out on the lawn, in a little pink dress, was a little redheaded girl petting his dog.
Well, that's what happens when you have neighbors, he thought, heading out the door. This shouldn't be too much of an issue; the kid's poor mom was probably looking for this tyke, anyway.
At first, the little girl looked as though she was too absorbed in petting Bruno to notice his approach, but once Hogan was a few feet away, she shifted her gaze from the dog to the man standing in front of her.
"You have a nice doggie," the little girl told him with a big smile.
He couldn't help smiling back at her. Bruno was a nice dog. He'd always known that the German shepherds from Stalag 13 were special, which was why he'd requested for them to be sent over to the states when he'd returned.
"Thanks. Uh...say, where did you come from?" he asked, squatting down to be more level with the little girl.
The little girl pointed at the shabby house a little bit further down the road, never taking her attention off petting the dog.
That was funny. He thought that that house was vacant. It seemed that way from all outward appearances, but apparently someone must live there.
"Well, let me...take you back, alright? Uh...what's your name?" he asked awkwardly, scooping the toddler up off the soft grassy lawn.
He was never good with kids. They were so unpredictable and...and...well, little. He hoped this little girl's mom was somewhere nearby.
"Lizzy," the little girl lisped, waving goodbye to Bruno as Hogan began walking towards her house. Tail wagging, Bruno followed them.
"Hmm...is that short for Elizabeth?" he asked her. Gosh, who thought that there would be awkward silence with a three year old?
"Nuh-uh. Is long for Liz," she replied seriously.
He laughed. Cute kid, really. Now to unload her on her mother…
When he arrived at the house, it was every bit as shabby close up as it appeared from the road. It didn't look neglected or anything, because someone had put glass jars of crocus in the window boxes, and it looked as though someone had tried to put a fresh coat of paint on the door. A little elbow grease and the house would look like new.
"Uh...Lizzy...where's your mommy?" he asked.
Big brown eyes looked up at him and Lizzy gave a little shrug.
"Is your mommy home?" he furthered.
Lizzy just chewed on her thumb.
Great. This kid was just a fountain of information.
Hogan awkwardly adjusted the bundle in his arms and knocked on the door. He waited a few minutes and knocked again, but there was still no answer.
"Is anyone home?" he ventured to ask Lizzy again.
This prompt seemed to remind the little girl of something, because she took her thumb out of her mouth and looked up at him.
"Mommy went for a drive."
Alright, they were getting somewhere now. Hogan sighed and wiggled the door knob, surprised to find it unlocked. Well, there was no sense standing out here for who knows how long waiting for the kid's mother to show up.
He opened the door and walked into the little house, which was just as worn as the outside but very clean and tidy.
"Hello?" he called out, hoping that someone was in the house. No answer.
Hogan sighed, and sat down on a small couch that was close to the door. He was sorely tempted to leave the kid here for her parents, but chances were that if she'd wandered out once, she'd wander out again, and she'd most likely just end up back in his yard with his dog again.
Speaking of his dog, Bruno was waiting patiently outside the house, lying on the mat just outside the door.
Hogan let out a sigh. This kid's parents couldn't be gone too long, could they? They left their kid unattended after all, so they must plan on being back soon.
He looked down at Lizzy, who appeared very comfortable to just sit there on his lap. In fact, she looked like she was falling asleep. Well, that was good. At least he wouldn't have to entertain the kid the whole time he waited.
And he waited. For three hours. He might have even fallen asleep himself a few times.
Great. Now what? Lizzy was still dozing peacefully, but he didn't think she would stay that way all night.
At midnight, he finally decided that he'd waited long enough. Carefully, very carefully, Hogan stood up, trying not to wake up the sleeping little girl. No such luck.
She squirmed and grabbed his shirt, mumbling something.
"Go back to sleep," he said softly, trying not to make it sound like an order. Thankfully, the little girl seemed to listen, and the short trip back to Hogan's big yellow house was made quietly, save for the sound of trotting dog feet following them back.
He was surprised to see that the lights were on in the house, and when he opened the door, Newkirk was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, looking only mildly surprised.
"I was wonderin' what you'd gotten yourself into, gov'ner," he said, staring at the little girl nestled in Hogan's arms. "Awfully late, it is."
"Yeah. Could you look after her for a bit? I've got to head down to the station and check something out," said Hogan, as Newkirk found himself with a lap full of sleepy toddler.
"Wh-?"
"She wandered into the yard earlier. I brought her to her house and no one was there. I waited and no one showed up. I'm going to see if there's been any reports of missing kids in the area," he explained quietly, putting on his belt and grabbing his hat.
"Thank you very much," Newkirk hissed, but his small smile took some of the venom out of his voice. "I needed this."
"You're welcome," said Hogan, choosing to ignore his friend's sarcasm. "Oh, and her name's Lizzy, by the way."
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sheriff LaFever was getting too old for night duty.
"No, Hogan, no missing children have been reported," the sheriff sighed, rubbing his temples. Why did stuff like this have to happen when he was on duty?
"Well, do you know who lives in that house?" asked Hogan, leaning on his elbows on the sheriff's desk.
"Lemme look," said the older man, rummaging through some folders in the top drawer of his desk. Hogan barely suppressed an eye roll when he saw him shuffle away what looked suspiciously like a few copies of Beauty Parade magazine.
"I read it for the articles," said LaFever, in his own defense. He pulled out a rolled up map from the drawer and spread it out on his desk.
"Alright, let's see," he mumbled, scanning the map. "Hogan, you live here, and the house is…."
"Right there," said Hogan. He'd maneuvered his way behind the desk and was peering over the sheriff's shoulder at the map.
"Hmm...that's Mr. and Mrs. Brenner's house. Well, Mrs. Brenner, now. Mr. B was killed in the war," said the sheriff, letting the map roll back up again.
"How?" Hogan couldn't help but asking.
"Flyer. Went down with the plane's what I heard."
Hogan sighed. The world just didn't seem to want to let him forget what had went on overseas a few months ago.
"Well, there was no one in the house, that was for sure. I'm gonna call a few guys and we'll do a quick search for this Mrs. Brenner," said Hogan, shrugging into his uniform jacket.
"Good luck," said the sheriff resignedly. There was no use trying to stop Hogan when he had set his mind on something.
Retirement was sounding better and better every day.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Now that Hogan knew the name of who he was looking for, it was easier to ask around to see if anyone knew of this woman's whereabouts. Well, it should have been, anyway. The other neighbors proved to be no help at all, none of them having the faintest idea where the elusive Mrs. Brenner was. The only real clue Hogan had to work with was that little Lizzy had told him that her mother had gone out for a drive. While a toddler's testimony was not the most reliable thing to go on, it was all he had at the moment.
He had two other officers driving around the town looking for any sign of Mrs. Brenner's car, a tan 1931 Chevy, which had been described to them by one of the other neighbors. Officers Baxter and O'Keefe were driving around the commercial section of town, and Hogan had taken to the dirt roads on the east side of town. It was pretty out there in the daytime, with the few old farmhouses and meadows, but the rain that had hit earlier this morning had left the road a muddy mess, and Hogan was having trouble keeping his car from swerving.
The only good thing about the muddy road was that he could see some tire tracks in it, illuminated by his headlights, and they looked fresh. It wasn't a huge lead or anything; anyone could have driven on this road earlier, but something about how the other car's tire marks swerved around the road made Hogan follow them.
All of a sudden, the tire tracks on the muddy road vanished. Hogan stopped his car and got out, flashlight in hand, getting a sick feeling in his stomach when he saw that while the tracks had indeed no longer continued; instead they veered off violently to the left, straight into the woods.
Sloshing through the mud, Hogan followed the tire tracks towards the woods. It appeared as though there was a steep ravine off this side of the road, and he shined his flashlight around in the shrubbery down below.
He swept his flashlight around, but stopped immediately when he noticed it reflecting off something large down below. Half sliding, half walking down the ravine, Hogan made his way over to the object, his worst fears confirmed when he realized that it was a car.
It was a tan 1931 Chevy.
He swallowed the dread welling up in his throat as he approached the vehicle.
"Hello?" he called.
No answer.
Making his way closer, he peered into the vehicle.
He had found Mrs. Brenner.