by M. M. Silva
Gus ignored me. “Back in 1919, molasses was the standard sweetener in this country. It was also fermented to produce rum and ethyl alcohol, an active ingredient in other alcoholic beverages.
“So on January 15th of that year, the temperature had quickly climbed over the single-digit temperatures of the previous few days. It got up to about forty degrees, and it’s believed to be one of the contributing factors of the tank’s collapse.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Well, the rising temperatures would have increased the pressure within the tank. Couple that with the fermentation process, and that would have created a great degree of stress.”
“Carbon dioxide?” I asked.
“Very good,” Gus said.
I am such a scientist.
“But Gus, those two things had to have happened in countless other tanks as well. Temperatures rise. Fermentation occurs. Tanks shouldn’t just explode.”
“True. But it was proven later the tank had also been built poorly. It had been filled to capacity only eight times since its construction, which put the walls under an irregular, cyclical load. The force exerted in a full tank would have been the greatest at the base. Sadly, there was a manhole cover near the base of the tank, and it’s believed a fatigue crack started there.”
I nodded. “And with all that pressure building…”
“It was just a matter of time,” Gus said, his voice tinged with sadness. “Of course, there was an inquiry done after the tank exploded. The people responsible said it had been blown up by some anarchists, but that was a bunch of hooey. As it turns out, the man who oversaw the construction of the tank didn’t do the basic safety tests, like filling the tank with water to check for seepage. It’s said the tank leaked so badly it was painted brown to cover up all the dripping goo. The local residents would actually stand under the holes and collect molasses for their meals.”
“That’s gross,” I said.
His eyes narrowed a bit. “Life wasn’t as easy then, young lady, and free molasses was free molasses.”
I flushed but still thought it was pretty disgusting. “So I assume people were hurt as a result of this explosion?”
He nodded. “It killed twenty-one people and many horses as well. Over two million gallons of molasses flooded the streets, and they say the wave was over fifteen feet high. In addition to the deaths, Bostonians were injured by the hundreds.”
I covered my gasp with my hand. Okay, so now I felt a little bad for saying collecting the molasses through seepage was gross. “What a way to go,” I murmured.
“You can say that again. It wiped out houses as well as the structure supporting the elevated train. It literally destroyed everything in its way.”
I slowly shook my head while picturing the scene. “Molasses seems thick and, well, it just appears like it would be slow-moving, doesn’t it? Do you think some people outran it?”
Gus shook his head. “If you think about a jar of molasses, you’re right. But over two million gallons? Think of it. The speed was estimated at thirty-five miles per hour. And many didn’t see it coming; you don’t exactly expect something like that to happen as you’re walking down the street. It swallowed children coming home from school. Houses collapsed on the people inside, killing them instantly. One man who was eventually found was compared to a preserved body from Pompeii.”
I shook my head. “How awful.”
“That it was.” We sat in silence for a few moments until Gus spoke again. “To bring this full circle, the rescue workers and cleanup crews who were laboring in the streets on January 16th were suddenly surprised at the ringing of church bells all across the city of Boston.”
“In honor of the victims?”
He shook his head. “No. Nebraska had just voted on, and ratified, the 18th Amendment. Prohibition had become law, and the churches who’d lobbied for it were celebrating the victory. Those poor men and women who were literally up to their ankles in the making of rum had to wonder at the irony of it all.”
“My God. Adding the ultimate insult to injury.”
“Despite months of cleanup, it’s said you could smell molasses in that section of the city for decades afterwards, especially on hot days.”
“Which would have been a constant reminder to those people. There must have been lawsuits?”
“Yes. United States Industrial Alcohol was eventually found liable and paid out somewhere in the neighborhood of a million dollars. Each of the victims’ families got about seven thousand dollars.”
“Pennies in today’s world,” I mused.
“It was a good bit of money back then, but I’m sure those folks would have rather had their family members with them.”
“Of course,” I said sadly.
Gus toyed with the pages of his newspaper and glanced out the window as if he needed to ground himself in the present again. “So how long are you visiting Newport?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s kind of an open-ended thing.” And then I remembered the reason for my visit. “Gus, if you’ve been here your whole life, did you happen to know Ava McGraw?”
His blue eyes grew wide, and it was clear I’d struck a nerve. I wondered if I’d upset him. In town less than twenty-four hours and already terrorizing senior citizens. Nice job Meagan.
“Why do you ask?”
Answering a question with a question. Hunh. “Ava McGraw owned the house my friend bought. That’s where I’m staying.”
Gus’s posture stiffened. “That’s where Charlie O’Neill died a couple days ago.” It was a statement, not a question, and I wondered if Gus had known Charlie.
I realized I’d barely thought about the victim, but that was the name of the man who’d been at the bottom of Jeff’s stairs. “Yes, that’s right. Did you know him?”
Gus rubbed his face with his big left hand. “I did know him, and I knew Ava as well. She was a peach of a woman; they don’t make ‘em like her anymore. I hope your friend appreciates that beautiful house and the view.”
I nodded. “He definitely does, Gus, but he was pretty upset about finding a body the minute he walked in.”
“Well, I should think so,” Gus responded. “Would you mind talking about it for a little bit?”
I cocked my head and quirked my lips. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”
Gus roared with laughter, lighting up his face and making him appear ten years younger. “At my age, Meagan? Fat chance, I couldn’t keep up with all the computers and cell phones and gadgets those people use. I’m not here to ask the questions. I’d just like to give you another little history lesson if you’re up for it.”
“That would be great,” I said and genuinely meant it.
Eyes twinkling, Gus motioned to Shelley that we’d both like more coffee. She plopped a kiss on the top of his head before she walked away, and that’s when I saw their profiles were nearly identical.
“You two are related,” I said.
Gus beamed. “Shelley’s my granddaughter. She’s looking after me while going to school full-time. She’s a good girl, that one. She’s going to be an attorney and lock up assholes like the person who killed poor Charlie, pardon the language.”
Okay, that was quite enough. “Gus, let’s get a couple of things straights. First, I’ve heard and used words like damn, asshole, and much worse during my lifetime. So please don’t apologize when you let a bad word slip out. It makes me feel like I have to be on my best behavior, and that’s a tremendous effort for me.”
Gus chuckled.
“Second, you think that Charlie was murdered? Why?”
Humor fled from his face. “I do think that. Charlie was in good shape; he didn’t fall down some stairs. Something bad happened to him.”
“I’d love to hear your thoughts.”
“Are you sure you want to be bored by an old man when you could be running your errands?”
I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Believe it or not, Gus, I’m a private investigator, and I’m here
in town because of what happened at Jeff’s—well, at Ava’s—house. And something tells me you’re going to be way more helpful than anyone else I might speak with today, especially the cops.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t like the police?”
“Oh, I love the police! And I respect what they do; don’t get me wrong, please. I just seem to have a way of irritating them with my questions and then end up with no information. All I manage to do when I’m around the police is tick them off.” I spread my arms wide. “Please, Gus, by all means—tell me your story.”
He studied me for a moment and licked his lips. “Let me begin by telling you about Ava McGraw’s nephew, Rusty, who spent most of his adult life in prison.”
CHAPTER 4
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I FELT LIKE I’D DISCOVERED A GOLD MINE. Ava McGraw had never married but had become the guardian of her nephew when his parents died in a car crash. She’d done her best but didn’t really know how to relate to a ten-year-old who was mad at the world for taking his parents so abruptly.
Rusty muddled through school as a less-than-average student. He didn’t participate in sports, and he also didn’t really seem to have any close friends. He was introverted and kept to himself.
While raising him, Ava was always worried about finances. Toward the end of Rusty’s senior year of high school, it was clear he had no desire to go on to college, for which Ava was quietly grateful. She didn’t have the funds or the knowledge to help him further his education, and she’d always worried he’d get even more lost if he unsuccessfully attempted the world of higher education.
The summer after Rusty’s graduation, Ave spoke with a neighbor who was a groundskeeper at an exclusive country club in the area to see if he might be able to take Rusty on for a while. He didn’t have any room for the boy on his crew, but he was able to secure him a job as a caddy, even though Rusty had never hit a golf ball in his entire life. The man explained Rusty wouldn’t need to do much more than carry the clubs, be deferential to the players, and keep his mouth shut. He’d have to learn the layout of the course and the greens, but that wouldn’t be hard for him. Ava had thought it the perfect match.
“That summer turned Rusty bad,” Gus said with a shake of his head.
“How so?” I asked.
“I don’t know who it was, but he met someone at the fancy country club who sent him down the wrong path. And it was tough to blame the kid. He hadn’t had a father figure in a long time, and someone took him under their wing, but it was to use him rather than help him.”
Father figure? “It was an adult who got him in trouble? From a fancy country club? That seems odd.”
“It’s sick,” Gus said flatly. “Rusty went to prison and would never say who was paying him for their little schemes. But I need to start at the beginning…”
Once the weather turned and the golf course closed for the season, Rusty started doing odd jobs around town. Even though he’d always struggled in school, he was a self-taught handyman who could do just about anything around a home. From repairing leaky plumbing, to replacing hardwood floors, to finishing abandoned electrical work, to building additions to the already huge residences the Newport elite owned, Rusty could do it all.
“You said he wasn’t good in school. Was he licensed for any of those jobs?” I asked, ever the practical one.
Gus chuckled. “No, he didn’t bother with that. But the funny thing is, a lot of the rich folk like to do things under the table, so it was never really an issue.”
“So what happened?”
“Well unfortunately, the access to those fancy homes finally led to Rusty’s demise. A series of break-ins occurred in Newport, and rumor had Rusty being behind most of them. On one fateful night, the family Rusty was robbing returned early from an overseas vacation, and the father caught Rusty in the upstairs office. The father had a gun on him, and after some type of struggle, the gun went off and killed the man instantly. The wife and kids were at the bottom of the stairs and started screaming when Rusty ran out of the room with blood all over him. They thought he was going to kill them as well, but he didn’t. He froze. Rusty would have never dreamed of killing someone. He was a thief, not a murderer. He didn’t even try to fight the charges. And the rest was history.”
“What was he stealing?”
“Anything and everything, but he never stole any money. It was mostly…what should I call it? Trinkets. Collectibles. Antiques. That type of thing.”
“Why would Rusty want stuff like that? You’d think he’d take money if he wanted to help out with finances. It doesn’t sound like he’d have any black market connections to unload his wares.”
“Exactly right, Meagan. That’s how everyone knew someone was financing his small-time operation, but nobody ever figured out who it was, and Rusty never told.”
Rusty had gone to jail over twenty years ago and was in his forties now. Ava McGraw and Charlie O’Neill’s wife, Eileen, had always been friendly, so Charlie had been checking in on Ava ever since Rusty had gone to prison. Charlie would visit Rusty regularly as well, and he had his suspicions about the person behind Rusty’s thieving activities, but Rusty never ratted out his backer. It drove Charlie nuts.
“But why would a rich dude hire Rusty to take…well, stuff from other rich people?
Gus shook his head. “I wish I knew what made people tick, Meagan. Some rich folks have to make sport of things like that because they’re bored. Or because someone has something they want, so they just decide to take it. Who knows what goes through the minds of certain men?”
I was intrigued by the wealth of information Gus had unloaded on me, but it didn’t seem to relate to Jeff’s house just yet. “So why on earth would Charlie end up dead in my friend’s house?”
Gus pursed his lips. “Maybe Charlie was looking for something,” he said.
I tilted my head to the side until my left ear almost brushed my left shoulder. “Such as..?”
Gus reveled in the attention, and the animation in his expression again erased a decade from his face. “Supposedly, one of Rusty’s final heists landed him quite a bounty.”
I burst out laughing. It felt like I was sitting in a bad spy movie from the 1950s. “I’m sorry, Gus. I just haven’t heard the word bounty in a long time.”
“You won’t be laughing when I finish. As the story goes, Rusty got to know the complete layout of the homes he worked in; he knew the alarm codes, and he got to know the owners’ schedules and vacation habits. Prior to finishing his work at each of the homes, he would always leave a window in a neglected room unlocked. Nine times out of ten, those rich folks never changed their alarm code, and they never noticed they had an unlocked window in their house. Rusty would usually wait about six to eight months before he’d ever go back to a place to rob it. I guess he didn’t want to be too obvious or something. Word has it he could crack a safe in less than two minutes, but usually what he took was wide out in the open.”
“Who taught him how to crack a safe?”
Gus shrugged. “Wouldn’t I like to know? He was definitely a handyman. Maybe he was self-taught, but I doubt it.
“So anyway, you know about the heist that got him busted. But it was the second to last job he did that has some people still wondering.”
“Still wondering what?”
“Evidently he’d been given some type of tip about some valuables in a safe. Because on this job, it’s said he had to crack the safe.”
“Looking for valuables? Jewelry? What?”
“For coins.”
“Ummm, okay? They must be some special coins,” I said.
“If they even exist,” Gus countered. “These accounts are a couple of decades old. You know how stories grow and get exaggerated.”
“Do you know if the owner of the coins ever reported them missing?”
Gus smiled. “Not that I know of, but that’s got an interesting twist, too. Rumor has it these coins came from the Whydah.”
“The Who
-dah?”
“A ship called the Whydah. It’s the only pirate ship that sank off of Cape Cod, back in 1717, I think. It was initially a slave ship, but a pirate named Samuel “Black Sam” Bellamy overpowered the crew of the Whydah and then wreaked havoc along the east coast. Legend has it the ship was supposed to finish its voyage in Maine, but it was diverted to the Cape so Black Sam could see his mistress. As fate would have it, the ship ran into a nor’easter and sank before it made it. Only two of the crew of well over one hundred survived, and it’s been said the ship carried at least 180 bags of gold and silver coins, in addition to all of the other loot that was stolen.
“Anyway, as the story goes, the man who Rusty robbed came across those coins in a not-so-legal way, and if that’s true, then it might explain why they were never reported stolen. The guy couldn’t very well admit the coins he had stolen had, in turn, been stolen from him. That would have left a lot of explaining to do. But the thing is…they’ve never been found.”
Wow. So maybe Charlie had been snooping around the house looking for some type of long-lost treasure. Wouldn’t that be something?
I smiled and had never been so glad to have invited someone to lunch. “Gus, this has been amazing. I could sit and talk all day, but I’ve got to go meet someone at my friend’s house shortly. The guest list is an ongoing thing,” I explained. “Is there any chance we could meet here again tomorrow morning?”
“Are you buying?”
I laughed. “Of course. And I’ll probably be bringing my friends, if that’s okay.” I thought of Kayla and thought I should try to prepare him. “One of them is a girlfriend of mine, and well…it seems you’re pretty conscientious about bad language. Let’s just say she isn’t, so I’ll apologize in advance. She’s a great girl, but she doesn’t hold her tongue at all.”
There was a twinkle in Gus’s eye. “She sounds like a pistol. I’ll be fine, but I appreciate you telling me.”
“Then we’ll see you at 11:00 tomorrow morning?”
Gus nodded. “I’ll look forward to it, Meagan. It’s been nice talking with you.”
After leaving breakfast money and a hefty tip for Shelley, I got up to walk away. But I heard Gus utter something after I’d taken a few steps, so I stopped and turned around. “Did you say something, Gus?”