By Seamus McGraw
(Continued)
Another October Night
Oct. 22, 2005
That was the night she vanished.
It was late by the standards of Tara Grinstead's neighborhood, 11 p.m. on a Saturday night in October, cool and clear, a good night for sleeping and most of the neighbors on the schoolteacher's peaceful residential street were taking advantage of it. Not all of them, of course. There were a few lights on in neighboring houses, but not many. Her next-door neighbors were asleep. Joe and Myrtle Portier, "Mr. Joe and Miss Myrtle," Tara called them, often waited up for her, watching for the lamp in her bedroom to be doused. It was their private signal that Tara had again made it home safely. Not that night. That night, the Portiers had retired early. Their lights were off.
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Joe Portier |
No one really knows for certain precisely what Tara did after she pulled into her little carport that night. Neighbors would later say that they heard her dog barking, but that was hardly unusual. Whenever Tara returned home, she would be greeted by the excited yelping and barking of her young German shepherd — the history teacher had named her Dolly Madison — who spent most of her time in the fenced-in yard behind the carport.
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Tara's dog, Dolly |
By all accounts, Tara doted on that dog. She never passed the animal without stroking it, and by all accounts Dolly was equally devoted to her. She was equally devoted to her pet cat, Herman Talmadge — named for a former Georgia governor and U.S. senator who was besieged by personal tragedy and censure for the Senate for financial misconduct — though feline Herman Talmadge was far more reserved in his demonstrations of affection. It was his habit that only after she walked into her bedroom would he come out from under the bed and rub up against her leg. That was how the small gray cat told her that he loved her. He had no use for anyone else, but he was sparing in the way he showed it.
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