“I see.” Ivy folded and unfolded her hands in her lap, feeling her own eyes filling with unexpected tears.

“The Army didn’t officially declare him dead until three years later when the remains of the helicopter and Ev and the rest of his crew were found way out in the jungle,” Mr. Jones went on. “The waiting to hear was awful. For all of us, but most of all, for Diana. She and my granddaughter were living here in this house, because my company transferred me out to Seattle. She decided to stay here in Tarburton while Ev was overseas, because it was a free place to live.”

Ivy looked puzzled.

“Anyway, after we finally got the news that Everett was missing, Diana decided to move closer to her own folks, who lived down in South Carolina.”

“That makes sense,” Ivy said. “I talked to a neighbor, Sally Huddleston, who told me she and Carlette were best friends, but she lost track of Carlette, after the family moved away.”

He looked up sharply. “Sally? That must be the same little girl who lived across the street—in that house with the awnings. You talked to her?”

“Yes. I’ve become friends with her daughter Phoebe, who works at the courthouse.”

“Could I see the note again?” He held out his hand and she gave him the note.

He studied it closely.

“What about Carlette?” Ivy persisted. “And her mom? Where are they now?”

Lawrence Jones looked up. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why do you want to know? They’re strangers to you, right?”

“It’s the note,” Ivy said slowly. “It’s like a clue. Isn’t it? A little mystery. And since I found the note, somehow it feels like my responsibility. I’ve been wondering, since I found it, about Carlette, and her mama. And, of course, Everett. I’ve been wondering about Santa Bob too. I found a trunk full of letters from children to him, old Santa photos, and newspaper clippings. But why did he keep this one note, in the pocket of that suit? What was special about that particular letter?”

“I can’t answer that,” Mr. Jones said sadly. “If you find Carlette, maybe you could ask her yourself.”

Slowly, he pulled himself up from the chair and, with the aid of the walker, left the room. When he returned, he was holding a large, hinged picture frame, which he handed to Ivy.

The photo on the left showed a handsome young soldier in uniform, standing proudly in front of an American flag. “That’s Ev,” Mr. Jones said, pointing. The photo on the right showed a young teenage girl, with long coppery hair, braces, and a wisp of a smile.

“And that’s Carlette. Her eighth-grade school picture. It’s the last photo I have of her.”

Ivy handed the photo frame back to her host. “What happened?”

He lowered himself into his armchair, grimacing from the effort, and Punkin sat expectantly at his feet.

“The first couple years after she and her mom moved away, we’d hear from Diana pretty regular. We were still living out in Seattle, but we’d visit when we could, at Christmas and such. But then Polly, my wife, got sick with heart disease, and we couldn’t travel as much. She died in 1976. When Diana didn’t come to the funeral, didn’t even send a card, well, that hurt. I figured something was going on, but I kept on writing, sending birthday cards and such to Carlette.”