Three May Keep a Secret (An Endurance Mystery)

by Susan Van Kirk

  “And this will tell you—?”

  Grace squirmed a little and poured the last drops of wine into her glass. “I’m not sure. But at least it’s part of the puzzle that might help me see a little clearer.”

  TJ set down her glass, checked her watch, and stood up. “Sounds like an interesting puzzle to me, but I’ll still put my money on Wakeley.”

  “I’ll let you know if my information on the pictures can help you any. You may be right and—”

  Her cell phone rang, Grace glanced at it, paused a moment, and then hit “ignore.”

  TJ looked at the screen on the phone. “Maitlin, huh?”

  “He can wait.” She looked at TJ for a few seconds. “What do you think of him?”

  “Think of him?”

  “I mean . . . what do you think?”

  “Ohhhh . . . that kind of ‘What-do-I-think?’ Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d say go for it.”

  “He seems like a pleasant person, attractive, intelligent, and it’s hard to find someone like that in a small town—at least someone who isn’t married. And that’s not my style.”

  TJ scrunched up her eyes and answered, “I usually go for other—attributes.”

  “We’ve noticed.” Grace smiled and arched her eyebrows. “You know, it’s just so hard to meet someone, especially at my age. And those online dating services aren’t really my style. I’d prefer to meet someone in person. And, speaking of online dating sites, how do you even know if a stranger tells you things that are true or not?”

  “Well—”

  “What if these online dating sites have psychopaths and people who lie through their teeth about who they are? You read about that all the time with sexual predators.”

  “I agree, Grace. After all, I keep telling you you’re naive.”

  “It’s just that I don’t know anything about Jeff Maitlin, like how come he’s single. Has he been married, divorced, or is he a widower? And what was his life like before he came here? If he’s still single, at his age, what’s the problem?”

  “Probably good questions to consider.”

  “Did you know, TJ, that he knows all about fires and sociopaths? He said he’d interviewed one at some small paper where he was working when he first started his career. What if it wasn’t an interview? What if he knows a lot more about fires than he’s letting on?”

  “I know I keep telling you you’re naive, Grace, but now you’re becoming suspicious of everyone.”

  “Don’t you find it coincidental that he came to town just before these murders occurred? We know nothing about him and we don’t even know if his past—as he tells it—is true. Has anyone thought to check him out?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe he’s moved around a lot. Maybe he has a reason to do that—like fires?”

  “Why don’t you just ask him? Gotta go,” and TJ headed out the back door. “ ‘Dear Abby’ I’m not!”

  Grace walked back to the stove and checked to see if the soup was simmering. Then she turned and watched as TJ crossed the street to her own house. Changing her thoughts, she shook her head gently back and forth. She picked up her wine glass and the good-luck piece on her counter and thought about her afternoon. She had only a few touches to put on her centennial stories and then she’d give them to Jeff. Her eyes narrowed. Maybe she should get on her computer and do some detecting herself—check out his background and see if he’s been at other newspapers. After the parade on Saturday and the big dinner/dance on Saturday night, she’d be able to settle back and write her book reviews. She sighed. Somehow that prospect sounded bleak.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  * * *

  “Nice hair, Grace,” Bill Tully said as he gazed at her newly arranged 1800s hairstyle.

  “Lettie did that. We tried to figure out how to fix it to go with the dress for the parade. I haven’t had the courage to pull it apart yet.”

  To change the subject, he remarked, with a smirk on his face, “Told you it was Wakeley all along.”

  It was Thursday afternoon and she had stopped by his sports bar for a cup of coffee and a piece of apple pie after turning in her stories for the centennial edition on Saturday.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure, Bill,” she said, and stirred some cream into her coffee. “He’s innocent until proven guilty, you know.”

  Tully shook his head. “Small town, Grace. Lots of talk, talk, talk. I heard, for instance that they found a gun that was registered to him out by the cemetery road.”

  “How do these things get out?”

  “You’d be surprised what people talk about. We have a regular coffee group here in the morning that plays cards and they know everything that goes on in town. Don’t know where they hear it. Must be a leak at the police department.”

  She took a sizable bite of apple pie and chewed it thoughtfully. “He definitely would have the knowledge to start a fire, but somehow I can’t imagine a fireman doing that.”

  “Ah, Grace. They’re just people like everybody else. When pushed against the wall they react like other humans. And I hear tell that sometimes firemen start fires because they’re bored and want to have something to do.”

  “Really? That’s crazy.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s a crazy world out there.” He put down the glasses he was inspecting and leaned over the bar. “You wanna know my theory?”

  “Sure. Hit me with it.”

  “My theory is that Wakeley tried to break it off with Brenda when he decided to stay with his wife. They were hot and heavy—him and Brenda—in here on several occasions. I know Ronda noticed it. She saw an opportunity to make a little money and threatened to tell his wife. Other people in town were aware of him and Brenda here at the bar, but some folks just let people mind their own business. I can’t believe no one else told Jennifer Wakeley.” Grace noticed his eyes narrow and his face take on a darker look. “Maybe Ronda had other ideas. I know you like—liked—Ronda, but I gotta tell you, I’ve seen her when she’s out for herself. And I’ve heard her opinions about people—not exactly kind. So if Dan Wakeley set that fire to kill Brenda—and he certainly knew how to do that—then maybe Ronda was his unfinished business. ‘Loose ends,’ as you often say. Anyway, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.”

  He cleared some glasses and bottles and pulled them behind the bar, starting a steady stream of water running into a sink. While Grace ate her pie in silence, she thought about how his ideas could be plausible.

  Then Tully moved toward her again and changed the subject with, “So, get your stories done for the paper?”

  “Sure did. That’s why I’m celebrating with your famous pie. My stories are in to Jeff Maitlin and the big centennial issue comes out on Saturday morning.”

  “Guess that means you can really feel retired now, Grace.”

  “I suppose.” Her face fell visibly and she took another sip of coffee. “Somehow that doesn’t feel like such an interesting idea. I wondered about what I’d do if I retired. Of course, I hadn’t planned to step into Brenda’s job because I didn’t imagine that she’d die. To follow her research and write centennial stories has filled a void, since I didn’t know exactly what I’d do when I stopped teaching.” She sighed. “But even things you fall into have to end eventually.” She looked at her coffee and poured a bit more from a carafe on the counter. “I still wonder a lot about that fire story.”

  “Fire story?”

  “Yes, the one I talked to you about the other day—the Kessler fire.”

  “That’s been so long ago, even before I got here. Seems like a lot of fuss for something no one much remembers.”

  “I hate to have loose ends—as you remind me. Know what I mean? I still think Brenda had some clandestine knowledge about that fire story. But I guess we’ll never know.” She started to say something about the photos she’d sent off to Becca but dropped the idea with a deep sigh.

  Tully glanced at Grace’s hand again as she laid down her fork.

&
nbsp; “So would this be a good time to tell me about that scar on your hand? I know I mentioned it before but we were both too busy that evening to talk much.”

  Grace looked down at her hand and held up the scar so Tully could see it. “I got it in college. A fire. I lived in an off-campus house and a fire broke out in the middle of the night. Both my roommates died, but I was rescued by the firemen. I look at this scar often and think about them—Gail and Robin—my roommates.”

  “I wondered about it but didn’t realize it was a reminder of such a terrible event. Fires are sure strange creatures. They’re so beautiful and yet so destructive.”

  She rubbed the scar on her hand. “I don’t like to think much about fires. They frighten me.”

  “Makes sense,” he replied. Then he turned and went back to his work while Grace took a few more swallows of coffee.

  Tully washed glasses and cleared off items on the counter beneath the bar. Grace could hear him whistling a song she remembered from high school. After a few minutes he came back over to Grace and said, “You know, I asked somebody the other night about the Kessler farm—where it used to be and all. Jack Maddox. He’s old enough to have been around back then. After you mentioned that story, I was curious about where it happened. He said the house is gone, of course, but the old barn still exists. Isn’t much to look at but the walls are still intact. He said it never burned.”

  Grace was shocked. “Really? Who owns the land now? I had the impression the Kesslers didn’t have relatives left.”

  Tully shook his head. “No clue.”

  Grace pulled out her phone and opened it to the notations app. “So where is it? Maybe I could still get a picture.” She looked out the window and saw with dismay that it was already late afternoon. “Oh, looks like it will have to wait a bit. So what did Jack say about the site?”

  “Well . . .” Tully looked up and thought about it for a moment. “He said you have to drive out on the old highway west of town, and if you count from Miller’s Corner it’s seven miles exactly and you hit a four-way stop. You get off on the right—a gravel road—and go another three-quarters of a mile. Watch for an old mailbox on the left and you drive in on the lane past that. The road takes you to what used to be the house, and the barn is maybe, oh, fifty yards away. He said you’d have to walk at that point ’cause you won’t find a road from the house location to the barn anymore.”

  She looked at Tully and shook her head. “You’ll have to repeat that so I can get it all down.”

  “I can do better’n that. I wrote it down as he told me.” He pulled a small notebook from the shelf under the counter and tore out a page of paper. “Here it is. I can’t swear that the directions are right—you know Jack Maddox—but they might get you there.”

  “Oh, Tully, you are a savior!” she exclaimed, re-energized from her funk about the end of her journalism career. “I had no idea that any building associated with the Kesslers still remains. I could get a picture of this before the story actually goes to press tomorrow afternoon. You are the best!”

  He smiled at her childish enthusiasm. “All in the line of duty, Grace.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I still have time to stop at home, change clothes, and maybe drive over there to find the place. Then I could go back tomorrow and take some pictures. I’d be able to get them in the story before it goes to press late tomorrow afternoon. Oh, Tully, thank you, thank you. This will work out well to update the story.”

  “Sure, Grace. Good luck.”

  Grace drove to Sweetbriar Court, thankful not to encounter too many Nub Swensens on the road. On the way home she considered what to take with her. Maybe she should call Deb and Jill to remind them about dress try-ons tomorrow morning. No. She needed to get out in the country before it began to get dark. She’d take care of that when she came back. Her camera? Should she take it? She thought about it as she ran up to the front door. No—too dark soon. She’d take it tomorrow to get the photos. Grace was a planner. She needed to find out where this place was. Even though she’d lived in Endurance for years, she didn’t know the countryside or the farm roads well. She raced up the stairs to change clothes, grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen counter just in case, and tore back out the front door.

  She set Tully’s directions on her car seat and drove west through town toward the highway. All the while she thought about a brief write-up for the paper tomorrow that would bring the readers up to date on what the Kessler land looked like now. This will be perfect, she thought. I can figure out the angles of the shots tonight and then get them in the daylight tomorrow before the newspaper goes to print. She picked up Tully’s notes and looked at the first direction about where to count the miles: Miller’s Corner—Count seven miles.

  By the time she reached the mailbox where she was to go on a path toward the site of the Kessler house, she noticed the light was already beginning to fade. She almost missed the turnoff because the gathering shadows covered landmarks. She turned left past the mailbox on a simple dirt pathway almost covered at times by vegetation that had grown over the path. She was surprised to see tire tracks in the dirt that formed a trail for her to follow. Might be hunters at this time of year, she thought.

  She drove carefully over the tracks until they came to a halt in a clearing. Then she stopped the car and reached for her flashlight and cell phone.

  “Ah, I can’t believe I’ve done that again,” she scowled. Her car had bucket seats and a console in the middle, and every so often she dropped her cell between the two. It was impossible to get her hand in the narrow space and she’d have to get out of the car, push her seat completely forward, and stick her arm under the seat and, if she were lucky, she’d find the phone. She sighed at the prospect and got out of her car, dropping her keys in her pants pocket. All around her Grace noticed how the shadows of dusk had crept in without her notice. The sunshine on the highway had given way to deep shade and she was glad she’d brought her flashlight. She started to retrieve her phone but decided, “Oh, I’ll get it later. I’m running out of daylight.”

  She pushed the lock on the car door and began to consider which way to walk. Off to her left was a vast grove of thick trees, whose shadows crisscrossed on the ground. She saw what appeared to be an opening and thought it might have been a long-ago path toward the barn. “I’ll try that way,” she said to herself, as if she thought that talking out loud would make her less nervous. Night was closing in and maybe she should have waited until tomorrow. She could hear crickets chirp constantly and occasionally the trees rustled. Wind or some animal? She wondered. Oh, this is silly. Come on you scaredy-cat.

  She silently trudged toward the break in the dark copse of trees. Watching the ground with her flashlight beam a few feet in front of her, she could see dirt spots where the grass had worn away. Shining her beam on the trees on either side of the path she could just make out as she went along, Grace hummed, hoping to give herself some courage. She thought about the lion in The Wizard of Oz. Courage, she thought to herself. I will find this barn and then I’ll come back tomorrow. It will be brighter in the daytime and I can get some great shots.

  She almost stumbled over a good-sized stone and heard what she identified as an owl hoot. I hope this place doesn’t have bats, she thought as she glanced up nervously at the tree tops. Grace walked as carefully as she could and made good time. She considered the weekend plans to keep her mind off the sounds in the trees and the darkness. Jill and Deb would be over tomorrow morning to try on dresses, and then she’d come back out here and get the snapshots and take them to the newspaper as fast as possible. Jeff wouldn’t send it to press until mid-afternoon, so she should be able to make his deadline. She looked down as she hiked and tried not to trip over any of the clumps of weeds and grass that had grown up in the makeshift path. The sun had gone down and now it was almost completely dark. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, she thought. But just as she formed that idea, she came into an open area and saw a huge, dark structure th
at loomed in the shadows.

  She shined her flashlight ahead of her and spied an ancient barn, crumbling but still standing. It was exactly like she imagined old barns to be—boards nailed together in various lengths, some rotting a little more than others. The roof was barely visible because trees had grown up, around, and practically enveloped the entire structure. The barn must have been red at some point because she could see flecks of paint still visible on a few of the pieces of wood that covered the front.

  She hiked closer and discovered a piece of cement at an angle on the ground that probably led into the barn long ago. The barn door was a double door, closed with a two-by-four that sat on brackets. It didn’t connect to anything now, and Grace decided that time and weather had moved it to this lopsided angle. Several feet to the left of the door was a miniature window in the wall and up high near the roof. It must have been used to let air in to the animals, Grace thought. Walking over to the small window, she shone her light through and up toward the inside ceiling of the barn. She could see the narrow boards, some splintered with age, which held up the underlying roof boards. Weathered and water-marked, they had deteriorated over years and years of neglect. At least I don’t see bats, she thought. Hanging from some of the foundation boards were old wagon wheels and some farm tools that Grace had seen in museums but couldn’t name.

  Wow. This is like a museum in itself, she thought. She walked around toward one of the side walls, which showed through a hole in the overgrown trees and bushes, and she saw another window much lower than the one on the front of the barn. Shining her flashlight into that opening, she could clearly see piles of boards and pieces of metal from who knew what. All the barn contents looked as if they hadn’t been disturbed in years.