Randy Byrne was Cynthia's twenty year-old son from her first marriage.
She opened her purse and took out a picture of Randy Byrne and Jen.
Pumpkin looked at the picture of Randy Byrne, one leg up on a boulder, an I-own-the-world smile on his young face and Jen smiling at him with a look of love.
But here was twenty-year-old Randy Byrne, at the threshold of life, batting .362 with seventeen home runs, a slew of RBI's, and a glove that could stop a freight train, being offered the world!
Randy Byrne was joyously married with mother Cynthia in proud attendance, attired in her Radisson original dress.
I can't believe sweet Cynthia Byrne, hitting people!
She's tougher than Cynthia Byrne used to be.
The two had shared Dean's bachelorhood for fifteen years until Dean, an ex-Pennsylvania police detective married Cynthia Byrne seven months earlier.
And what Cynthia Byrne might have become in a different century, under different circumstances, without a David Dean beside her.
The uniformed guys downstairs had drawn lots to see who got stuck informing the next of kin, and since that time, speculation on the disappearance of Jeffrey Byrne had been the chief topic of conversation at the Parkside Police Department.
Jeffrey Byrne, age 38, of 156 Maid Marian Lane, Parkside, apparently drowned in the early morning hours of Tuesday, May fourth while on a business trip in Norfolk, Virginia.
According to sources at the Ocean Shore Motel, Byrne was last seen on his way to the beach shortly after midnight by Leo Sutter, a waiter at the motel.
When Byrne failed to answer a wake-up call the following morning, a clerk finally opened his room.
He was the husband of Cynthia Cosgrove Byrne and the father of Randy Byrne, a Parkside High School senior.
Jeffrey Byrne was employed in a regional marketing position by The World Wide Insurance Company of Philadelphia.
"The son, Randy Byrne," Dean answered.
They were on the same team, only Cummings rode the bench and Byrne was the star—he played shortstop.
Dean spent a few minutes at his desk finishing up some routine paperwork before telephoning the alleged widow Byrne at 9:15, the earliest time he deemed respectable.
The Byrne address was on the east side of town, but as Dean had time to kill, he decided to drive west to what the locals called the beltway, a loop road around the city.
"My heart's in my mouth ever time it rings," she said and added an apology as she moved to answer it, just as Cynthia Byrne entered the room.
Cynthia Byrne, in spite of reddened eyes and trembling nervousness, was a very attractive woman.
Mrs. Byrne, looking embarrassed at the confusion, suggested that she and Dean might be better off talking on the back deck.
Mrs. Byrne sat on the sofa and Dean took the chair to her left.
Cynthia Byrne explained, in nervous little spurts, how she had heard the news of her husband's disappearance.
Jeffrey Byrne had telephoned home in early evening, his usual practice when he was traveling on business trips.
Jeffrey Byrne asked about Randy's ball game and inquired about the mail.
Dean's eyes questioned and Mrs. Byrne clarified, The Mark Hopkins Hotel, in San Francisco—it was our little joke.
Both drank their coffee black and although both took a doughnut, Mrs. Byrne simply picked at hers, lifting the tiniest of crumbs with dampened fingertips.
Jeff Byrne had worked for World Wide for 15 years and seemed at least content with the work he was doing.
Cynthia Byrne handled the finances.
The Byrne family had finally scraped aside enough for Cynthia to go back to school.
How often was Byrne out of the office?
"Hi," he said, "That there's Mrs. Byrne, Jeff's wife."
Did Byrne fool around?
You'd just have to know Jeff Byrne to appreciate it.
Further questioning revealed that Byrne had signed out a pool company car for the seven-hour trip to Virginia.
A picture of Byrne continued to emerge: Mr. Ordinary, homebody, well liked, in a blah job like a million other guys, on a train to nowhere but happy enough to keep chugging along with the ride.
It was beginning to look more as if Jeffrey Byrne pulled a stupid stunt after a few too many drinks in a lonely motel, leaving a widow and a teenaged son to fend for themselves.
Imagine me giving Cindy Byrne a call and telling her she's cut off, at least until ol' Jeff floats in?
Fred's level of interest was sky-high when he learned Dean had been assigned the Byrne disappearance.
He ticked off the items he had learned about Jeffrey Byrne during the course of the day, as much for his own review as to answer Fred's rapid-fire questions.
Jeff Byrne is the last of the straight arrows.