Summertime as a child brings back so many memories.

I think of lemonade stands, likely something I saw in shows like Punky Brewster,

which I always thought were going to make me rich.

I think of going to yard sales with my granny where I would buy comic books and someone else's

old toys that were new treasures to me.

I think of sitting on the porch eating slices of watermelon

with the juice dripping down my chin. I think of my grandma making milkshakes to store in a thermos

until we were done playing at the playground near the town lake. I think of family reunions and going

out to my Aunt Shorty's farm to visit on lazy afternoons. The family at the center of our case

this week, it seems, had a lot of memories like my own, even though theirs were made decades

earlier. They were the kind of family you'd hope would live next door, the kind that handed out

popsicles in summer to neighborhood kids since they had the only icebox in the neighborhood.

They took those same kids for rides in their car, equipped with aftermarket seatbelts, after all,

and taught them how to ride their bikes.

They hosted neighborhood talent shows and built and painted large wooden candy canes to pass out to neighbors at Christmas

so they could all put them in their

yards, earning their road the festive nickname Candy Lane. The father dressed up as a convincing

Santa. They were a family full of festive cheer and goodwill. They sounded like the most typical

1950s family one can imagine, and not one you'd expect

to see filling the headlines because they went missing. But that's exactly what happened.

This is the case of the Martin family.

Music I'm . ... Welcome to coffee and cases where we like our coffee hot and our cases cold.

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