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at Warrior, who’s already harnessed in safely, I reach over and rub his sweet, velvety head. I then study a notebook with my list of clues. I add
beat-up blue metallic van with PA plates?
as
#7
, right after
#1 Scranton/Moosic hang-up calls #2 dead bird in box from Scranton; #3 Teresa & Frankie,
the names on the scrap of paper in the bird’s beak;
#4
Scranton numbers on Juliana’s cell
; #5
the initials
BT
scratched out on her phone pad; and
#6
Juliana’s
you’ll-ruin-everything call
. OK. Time to go.
    Warrior and I take off for Pennsylvania to see if we can learn anything more about the beautiful Juliana Wentworth via these phone numbers. I turn on the music. Oh, did I also mention that besides road trips with Warrior, I love classic rock, mostly from the 1970s and ’80s. I turn up the volume on Blondie as my dog and I drive west, channeling some Deborah Harry attitude while I sing along with “Heart of Glass” at the top of my lungs.
    ~~~~~
    A couple of hours later, I find myself south of downtown Scranton heading toward Moosic, where several of the hang-up calls originated. I spent time yesterday doing additional online research, and I now know that Moosic is an old coal-mining area that in the last decade has experienced a surge in commercial development. Although, this particular Moosic neighborhood where I’m driving looks a bit down on its luck.
    Arriving at my first stop, Stan’s Diner, I park in the shade. I fasten the top on my car and open all the windows enough for Warrior to get plenty of air, but not wide enough for him to jump out.
    Once inside the diner, I choose a booth in order to keep my dog in view. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, and I’m the only customer, the breakfast rush no doubt having cleared out earlier. A bottle-blonde waitress with two inches of dark regrowth at her roots comes over carrying a pot of coffee and a menu. “I’ll give you a minute to decide on your order,” she says, as she pours me a cup.
    “Already know what I’ll have.” I smile and hand back the menu, enjoying the aroma of the coffee. Her name tag says
Mary
. “Can you make me a two egg-white omelet and wheat toast, no butter, please?” She nods. “And, Mary, skim milk for my coffee?”
    “Will do,” she answers and heads behind the counter to place the order with the cook. Not exactly the chatty type.
    I look around the place, which has a classic fifties interior. The red leatherette booths rest on a checkered black-and-white linoleum floor, while a vintage jukebox and old-fashioned enclosed phone booth stand over in the corner.
    I go over and check out the jukebox and see that it’s all music from the fifties and sixties. I drop in some change and select 1950s and early ’60s heartthrob Ricky Nelson, and he sings “Poor Little Fool.”
    I walk into the phone booth and pick up the receiver to hear a dial tone. OK, don’t laugh. The number on the phone matches the tiny numbers I wrote on the palm of my hand before I came in—from the list that Laura had given me. I now know someone called the farm from this phone on each of the last several mornings. I step out of the booth to full-on crooning from long-gone Ricky.
    Waitress Mary watches me, and her gaze isn’t friendly. “Hey, we’re in a cell phone world,” I say and laugh nervously. “Can’t believe you actually have a phone booth here. Had to see for myself if it was real.” She smiles a little. Might she be warming up a bit?
    Mary brings over my food. I gaze at my health-conscious choices, imagining my favorite diner breakfast instead. “Truth be told, I’d rather eat two fat blueberry pancakes with hot maple syrup, four pieces of crispy bacon, and a creamy hot chocolate.” I sigh and dig in. “Oh well. Mary, my heart doctor thanks you.” For the first time since I’ve come into the diner, the waitress cheers up with a hearty laugh, and her tired looks turn pretty with a sparkle in her eyes.
    “Mary, I’m Ronnie,” I