by Etta Faire
I spent all of Saturday morning cleaning the house and trying to memorize the house agreement. Rex followed my every move, jumping up on my skinny jeans excitedly whenever I put the dishes away correctly, making me wonder if he really did care about this silly agreement. He was a dog. How could he even know?
I was just making sure the Tupperware was organized by size, according to the diagram provided in the house agreement, when the phone rang. I threw down a plastic lid and answered it.
She didn't even let me say hello. "I saw the news. That was your house, wasn't it? I recognized it straight away, plus your horrible ex-husband was all but formally named the murderer."
My mother. I should’ve called her. I’d spent so much time avoiding thoughts of her I didn’t think to call her when it mattered.
Her voice was fast, almost southern sounding, a part of her childhood that spontaneously popped up when she was anxious. She continued, "I'm just glad you're alive. Who knew you were living with a murderer for eight years of your life? And to think, the only thing I used to worry about was why on earth you weren't having children. Now, I have to say, I'm glad you didn’t. We'd have little half-murderers running around right now. Don't get me wrong. That isn't to say, you shouldn't be worried about time. You don't want to wait too long to start thinking about children like I did."
Even when dead bodies are being lifted from my yard, the woman will still finds a way to take a swing at my aging fertility, in the same breath. "Yes, I'm fine," I said, even though she hadn't asked. I told her about the press and the police, about how they took my laptop.
There was a silence that spoke volumes. Why hadn't I called her sooner? I was terrible when it came to guilt-ridden phone calls. It wasn't just the ones to Tina.
"I wonder why they didn't interview you," she said after a minute. “I only ask because I told everyone you'd be on the news, but I never saw you."
I ignored her. "I'm sorry you bragged for nothing. I’ve actually been avoiding the press.”
Someone knocked on the kitchen door. I knew exactly who it was even though I hadn't heard his truck.
"I gotta go, Mom. I've got a friend coming over for brunch."
"A friend? You have friends now? You make brunch? Is it a boy... friend?"
My mother always treated me like the pathetic girl in high school who spent every Friday night reading Agatha Christie with the family cat, not that that's a bad way to spend a Friday night, by the way.
"I'll call you later," I whined into the phone, clicking off before she could say something embarrassing that my friend might hear. I reminded myself I was Just-Carly now. I didn't need to be influenced by the past, or my mother who still wanted me to be Basement-Carly-Mae. I pulled open the back door.
Brock leaned casually against the door frame, almost posing, taking up most of it. He looked good in a pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt, his hair still moppy.
"It smells delicious," he said, looking around, teasing me because I told him I'd cook.
"It will." I motioned for him to have a seat at one of the kitchen stools along the back side of the island. "And you're just in time to help. I'm making my famous pancakes from a box." I held up the instant-pancake box already sitting on the island.
I didn't mention the part where I was just making pancakes so I could bring up how they were my favorite, and also how I liked Harry Potter, peonies, and babies. I rethought talking about that last part.
He was good in the kitchen as we mixed pancake mix together and threw the microwavable bacon I'd bought in to the microwave. His arms were massive, bulging, tree-like limbs barely contained in the thin fabric of his t-shirt. I could hardly concentrate on my pancakes. I definitely saw why my ex-husband was jealous. This man was drop-dead gorgeous and my ex was just drop-dead. I wondered what our kids would look like then smacked myself out of it. We hadn't even kissed yet.
Why did my mother have to call? Now all I could think about were babies.
The microwave beeped. "They sure shrivel up," he said, and I almost thought he was talking about my eggs. He pulled a plate out of the microwave with five tiny pieces of what looked like dark brown rubber.
"They definitely don't look as good as what's on your package," I said. "The package." Ohmygod, Carly, stop talking about packages. And stop thinking about shriveled eggs.
A gentle breeze blew through the veranda as we sat out on the porch to eat. I almost couldn't go out there. It was the first day the police hadn't been there or the press. And it made me realize how much I had when compared to the women who were found here, how lucky I'd been in life.
"These pancakes are undercooked," Brock said when the top half of the one on his fork broke off from the bottom. "I love that."
I smiled into the air, hoping Jackson was catching all of this. Score one for Team Gorgeous over here.
But I knew Jackson was resting, and I wouldn't be seeing him again for at least a week while he built up his ghostly energy so we could do a channeling together. I could choose to channel in on any chunk of time I wanted. March 30th, the day he was murdered or the 18th, the day of the VIP stripper lounge party with Candace, which was the day of his poisoning. He would take me anywhere. The thought was intriguing, being in someone else's shoes for a moment in time, experiencing things as they saw them, tasted them, felt them. But it required a lot of energy from the spirit doing it so he needed to rest for it.
A small part of me was going to miss him this week. But I also wanted to run research on every living suspect in his murder, if he was murdered, to see if there really was a link there to the women. And I didn't want Jackson asking me about it every two minutes.
"My aunt told me she's coming for a seance next week."
I nodded, my mouth full of pancake.
"You don't really believe in any of that stuff, right? Ghosts and seances. Like dead people can talk. My aunt is crazy." He chuckled, his blue eyes gleaming in the sunlight. "People hovering over their dead bodies or something. Oooooooh." He made a mocking ghost noise.
"I guess we'll see. I'm going to keep an open mind about it, though. Your aunt was getting all sorts of readings on her doohickey thing she brought over. She thinks the house is full of ghosts."
"And what do you think?"
"Well, I don't know," I began. "But I do know that was strange when the kitchen island felt like it bumped into us that first night and then that cookbook fell off the shelf."
He looked off at the woods around us. The cicadas were getting louder, or maybe they just seemed that way whenever there were pauses in conversations.
"I think you've got an old house, and things are bound to fall or shift. There's always a rational explanation for everything." He stared at me a moment like he wanted me to reassure him that the world was still round and that the sun would rise again tomorrow.
I nodded, stuffing my mouth with another humungous bite. He leaned in and wiped syrup from the side of my face lightly with his pinkie, tracing his finger down over the bow of my lips. His skin felt calloused and wonderful and I never swallowed a large bite of pancake quicker, almost choking when it slid down my throat in a weird clumpy lump. But I knew what was coming, or I hoped I knew. I unclenched my hands from their nervous little balls and told myself to relax.
"I've always liked you, Carly Mae," he said, tilting his head, moving his face in closer. He pressed his mouth over mine and we kissed long and hard while the cicadas sang out their approval and the smell of shriveled bacon mixed with his cologne. I unclenched my fists again and took in every second of the moment.
And I didn't even bother correcting him on my name.
It was evening when he left, and as soon as I sat down to watch the news, Rex snuggled into the crook of my arm. The results were back about the bones in the yard. The remains were those of the missing ladies in Landover, exactly what everyone thought.
"We can't say with any amount of certainty, but it has every indication this is a fairly open-and-shut case," Sheriff Bowman said with a suppres
sed smirk during his press conference, which was apparently recorded earlier. "Of course, we're still investigating every angle, but the ex-owner of the house where the remains were found, deceased professor Jackson Bowman, was known to frequent the nude dancing clubs these ladies worked at." He looked down at the notecards in his hand. "We also have witnesses who say he was seen with both victims not long before their disappearance, so we know he was familiar with these two ladies, and the dancing place they worked at. Plus, the murders and disappearances all ended when Jackson Bowman had his heart attack."
Rex seemed to nuzzle in closer to me, as if he knew it wasn't looking good for our dead friend.
"The cases are identical. The coroner made the determination that these women died in the same manner that the first two ladies did, from strangulation."
The camera panned over to the coroner, standing off to the side of the podium, a plump, short woman with a graying ponytail and apple cheeks. The name "Julie Terris" had been typed on the screen underneath her.
And I suddenly understood what Jackson meant when he said the coroner might have been in on his death. I was pretty sure she was Caleb's sister. I rushed over to the credenza at the back of the dining room and riffled through the top drawer to try to find that family photo from the campaign kick-off.
It was at the bottom behind some old pieces of junk mail and flyers. I pulled it out. That was her, all right. The thick woman with an almost witch-like grin. The caption printed on the bottom of the photo:
Let's Kick-Off Another Great Election!
Mayor Clyde Bowman, Re-Election Campaign Kick-Off Dinner
March 18th
On the TV, Caleb was taking questions now. "No, we are not comfortable in assuming the threat is over. Our department is committed to keeping this community safe, so we will continue to check every possible lead until we determine Potter Grove and Landover are out of harm's way. But we also feel it is not a coincidence that these terrible acts against women ended when my cousin's life did. Next question."
It sounded an awful lot like the Potter Grove Police Department was pretty much done with their investigation, which was funny because mine was just beginning.
The day of the campaign kick-off, March eighteenth, had also been the day of Jackson's poisoning.
Chapter 14
The Clean Life
The next morning, I got up early and put on my Sunday-decents, black capris and a flouncy top, perfect for church. I was suddenly feeling the need for fellowship with my community.
And the church everyone went to (if you weren't Catholic or Jewish) was Potter Grove Methodist, a typical brown rectangular building with stained-glass windows and a pointy steeple. Music streamed from the sanctuary when I walked up. I recognized the greeters standing outside right away, mostly because there weren't too many people in Potter Grove I didn't recognize. But these two also happened to be two of the people I was hoping to see that morning. Their faces dropped when they recognized me. I don't think they were hoping to see me as much. Mayor Bowman and his wife. Caleb and Julie's parents.
"Carly Mae. Good to see you." The man lied, handing me a program when I approached him. He cupped my hand with both of his, shaking it extra long just like the politician he was. He looked about 80, which was probably spot-on for his age, thicker than most the other Bowmans, with a dark brown suit that barely fit his middle right. He adjusted his round glasses, and the smell of stale cigar came from every angle as he moved. "How are you enjoying the house?" His voice had that shaky tone older people sometimes got, but it was still as boisterous and confident as ever.
"It's fabulous," I said. "You would have loved it. It comes with a maid and a stipend." Their faces dropped farther. "I feel so blessed to have such an amazing Victorian, built by such an artisan. A true masterpiece that I will pass down to my children, if I have any. If I don't, I guess I'll just... give it to the homeless."
Mrs. Bowman pressed her lips together with so much force I expected her to spit out some teeth. She motioned toward the sanctuary. "Well, enjoy the service," she said. "Good to have you back."
I wasn't leaving that easily.
"You both should come over for tea sometime so you can fill me in on all the old stories about Gate House..."
I wasn't sure if I should mention the rumors about Henry Bowman and his brothels. I decided now was probably not a good time.
"We're moving to freeze the assets," the mayor said, abruptly.
"Clyde, not now," his wife interrupted, grabbing his arm. "It's not official yet."
"She has a right to know," he said to his wife. "It's fairly obvious Jackson wasn't in his right mind when he changed his will, and the families of the victims should be given some money from his estate if he was the murderer. It's only the right thing to do."
"And you always do the right thing," I said.
He tried to hide his smirk. "Some people are saying you're involved. But I don't get into all of that gossip. Covering it up for Jackson. Who knows? You sure seem to love your house a lot."
"We're all sad it came to this," his wife dutifully added, nodding appropriately.
"Yes. That's why I felt I should tell you," the mayor chimed in.
"And, I feel I should tell you something too," I began. "I'm doing my own investigation into Jackson's death. He kept a diary..." I slowed my breathing down, trying to keep it steady as I spewed out my practiced lie, but my face twitched a little. "He said he felt he'd been poisoned about a week before his death. March 18th. The exact day you had him over for your re-election campaign kick-off. Do you remember?"
"I do remember the dinner. The poisoning part, I have no idea what you're talking about. The food was bad, but not that bad.” He laughed at his politician joke. “Now, I know you think this is fun and games. But you'd better watch yourself. A lot of people would consider what you're saying to be libel."
"I wonder," I kept going. "If a police report was filed for that day, or if any samples were taken of the dinner. Jackson said he talked to Caleb while he was in the hospital. I also wonder if Julie noticed any poison in his system when she conducted the autopsy. She probably checked, seeing how he claimed to have been poisoned a week before his death. Any good coroner would have checked for that, I'm sure. I'll be asking to see that report and I'm going to talk to a lawyer. I've heard some people say that's a good idea."
Two could play at the "some people" nonsense politicians loved to throw out so they could distance themselves from their own words.
"Sounds like our lawyers will get in touch," he said.
"I hope they do because if Jackson's autopsy wasn't performed to the satisfaction of the estate, we'll have that body exhumed so we can check for poison. I'd better do it quickly while I still have plenty of money." I let my voice emphasize the word "plenty." They didn't need to know I could barely keep the lights on.
The 80-year-old's face turned a dark reddish purple now, the very same color as Mrs. Bowman's pursed lips.
"Do you honestly think," he said through gritted teeth. "The good people of this town are going to be happy about having the body of a murderer dug up just so you can see if he was poisoned?"
"Happy?" The music stopped and I headed inside the church. "I'm not sure what gave the good people of this town the impression I cared whether or not they were happy with me, or my dead ex-husband."
Inside the church, I quickly found the rest of the family. They always sat up front, first pew, hymn books out and bookmarked to the listed pages. Julie and her husband were there next to their two teenage boys.
"Excuse me," I said to the family behind them, squeezing into their pew so I could sit right behind the blondish gray ponytail I knew belonged to Julie Terris.
They were already in the middle of the "greet your neighbor" part of the service. Julie's face made an unnatural grimace when she turned around to greet me. She was dressed like she'd just run an Amish marathon, long blue denim skirt and tennis shoes. She nodded to me, even though we weren
't friends, and never pretended to be.
"I'm still praying for you," she said when she saw me. "God's will be done."
The way she said it made me wonder what kind of will she was praying for.
"It must've been hard to do an autopsy on your cousin," I said. "Especially a man you always hated and were jealous of. The one who got everything from the Bowman estate. You probably thought your side of the family was finally going to get something when Jackson died, seeing how he didn't have any kids."
She studied my face a second, like she was trying to instill the fear of God into me. It didn't work. "Autopsy? Did you say autopsy?" she finally said, her witch eyes softening. "Autopsies are only done if something's suspicious. I always told you Jackson had a lot of demons. A walking Sodom and Gomorrah, if you ask me. Adultery, casual sex, alcoholism, indecency. They are usually defeated with fire and brimstone. And heart attacks."
“Speaking of Sodom and Gomorrah.” I leaned in closely, suddenly getting the urge to stir the pot a little more. "You would not believe the stories I heard about the house your family desperately wants. It was built on the backs of prostitutes."
She bit her lip so hard I thought it might bleed.
"Brothels, as in plural. Old Henry Bowman owned a chain of them, I hear. And the children of the prostitutes who worked there, he put them to work too. I'm actually surprised y'all want that house at all."
She turned her attention back to the pulpit even though the pastor hadn't returned yet.
“Houses can’t sin,” she mumbled.
Caleb came in with his parents, helping them scoot into the open seats next to Julie while the meet-and-greet was still going on. He turned and reached across the people sitting next to me in order to shake my hand. "Good to finally see you here, Carly Mae," he said, as if I didn't know what he was really saying. He knew just how hard it was going to be in this town to prove anything, even if Jackson was innocent and he and his family were guilty. Guilt, innocence, truth, morality. It didn't matter. These were all connected by the blurred lines of whoever was writing the history. And in this case, it was the Bowmans. They controlled every inch of this town.