by Etta Faire
When I heard him again, his voice was lower, sadder. “After our argument, I wanted to say something to you in the woods to comfort you. You looked so beautiful leaning against that tree. But pride wouldn’t let me at that point,” he said. “And you went back inside. I stewed in my anger for a long time, just sitting in my car, wondering what to do next. That’s when I noticed people sneaking around the side of your house. They seemed to be running from one window to the next, actually. So I went to investigate.”
An audience member screamed out “bullshit” when I told them this. Maybe the ladies club was that kind of an audience.
He went on. “Two young women, dressed in party clothes. They were giggling by an open window to the kitchen. Your friends…”
“Kate and Agnes! They did show up. I knew they would,” she said, her voice trailing off.
“I confronted them, in a good-natured way, of course. I knew they were your friends from the Suffragist Society, and I wanted to help them surprise you. I wanted there to be something good about your birthday for you. We laughed and talked for a while. I was just convincing them to come inside the proper way, and not through the window, when we heard the shot.”
I looked out at the audience, to the many red, watery eyes.
He continued. “We ran inside, and in my haste, I lost my hat. We were devastated like everyone else to learn what had happened. That you took your own life. That’s what we all believed at the time. That you took your life, not because of me. But because, somehow, you weren’t allowed to live the life you were meant to live. We had that struggle in common. Both of us caught in family businesses. I loved you more than words will ever express.”
He hovered closer to Bessie as he spoke. She could easily have moved away, but she didn’t. She probably knew he couldn’t get too close, anyway.
“This is the part I didn’t want to tell you. Kate and I consoled each other, and a year later, I realized I could love again, and we married. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t also love you.”
“I will never believe it,” she said.
“My parents were the ones who encouraged me to end our engagement. I found out later it wasn’t really because of your age. It was because they were hoping your parents would be angry enough to end the business deal if we broke up.”
I gasped through my microphone then filled everyone in on what was going on.
He continued. “The cannery was in jeopardy of closing. Your family was going bankrupt. The only way out of the deal was to have your parents demand it.”
“Lies,” Bessilyn shouted then disappeared and, after about 10 seconds, so did Walter. I could tell they were done. I folded my arms onto the table and rested my head into them, exhausted. I still felt a presence. A smaller, but stronger, one. One very eager to be heard. And one I recognized immediately from my channeling. Martha. I was pretty sure of it.
I blew it off, shooting back to the present when I heard the applause. A standing ovation.
“You didn’t solve any murders,” Caleb said, “because there weren’t any murders. It was a suicide.”
“I guess this story will have to be continued,” I said in my mic to more applause.
“And now,” Rosalie said. “Who wants to see if a dearly departed loved one came to see them today?”
A wind circled through the broken windows as Paula glared around the room at the mess she had to clean up, that was going to cost a fortune. I had a feeling, along with Bessie’s murder, our seance agreement hadn’t exactly been solved yet either.
Chapter 18
Honored Guests
I skipped down the stairs the next afternoon, my mind still reeling with the clues from the night of the seance, more certain than ever that Martha held some real information, not just about Henry and Eliza and their meet-up in the bathroom, but also about who killed Bessie. Martha saw something the night of Bessie’s death, just after she handed her the washcloth to put over her eyes. I heard it that night when she stumbled over her words, and I was determined to find out what that was.
There were three messages on my machine.
The first one was slow and shaky. “Hello. This is Mrs. Nebitt. I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful time I had last night at the seance. I’ll never know how you did it, windows breaking, paper floating across the room. Wonderful performance. I talked to my friend Mildred. You know Mildred Blueberg, the woman who wrote the book I was telling you about,” the librarian said, like there were hundreds of Mildreds running around. “We’re meeting…” Beep.
The answering machine cut her off and moved to the next message. It was Mrs. Nebitt again. “I am not a fan of technology. Anyway, if you are so inclined, Mildred is at the library now if you would like to come by. As you know, she is only here for the summer. So, hello? Hello? Did this thing cut me off again?” Beep.
I was certain now the third message was going to be the librarian again. I actually couldn’t wait to meet Mildred. I had a very important question to ask her about running retractions on thousands of self-published books.
But the next message was Rosalie. “I’m gonna kill that woman. You know what she said? She said we had to pay for damages.” She sighed heavily into the recording. “I’m about to show her what damages really are.”
Rosalie was still pretty upset when I called her back.
“A thousand bucks. One thousand dollars for each window. And you’ll never guess who that sparkly troll wants to pay for them.”
It took me a minute to understand what my boss was talking about. “Wait. What? But we didn’t break those windows. Bessie did. I have no control over what ghosts do at a seance. I’m so glad we added that into the agreement.” I stroked my dog’s short golden fur as I talked. He looked up at me with his soft brown eyes, the cute little V-shaped scar on his nose. I knew the agreement was ironclad, too. Jackson had his attorney write it up, which was the least that attorney could do for me, considering all I knew about him.
“She thinks you broke out the windows on purpose as part of your show. And she says all elements of your show should’ve been disclosed in the agreement before she signed it.”
“I’m sure her insurance will pay for it. We’ll split the deductible.”
My head hurt and just about every part of my body ached for some reason. Who knew seances were so draining? The last thing I wanted was to talk business right now. “I have to admit,” I said, reliving the moment in my head. “Those windows were my favorite part.”
“Paula Henkel’s face when that happened was priceless… Like a money balloon being popped.” Rosalie chuckled. “I’m telling you, though. I can’t handle her anymore.”
“I’ll go over there today,” I said, mostly because I wanted to talk to Martha.
“I’ll go with you,” Rosalie said. “I don’t trust money balloons. They try to re-inflate to new levels.”
“Good. I want to try to talk another one of the ghosts haunting the bed and breakfast into coming back to Gate House with me, to do a channeling.” I mumbled that last part, mostly because I knew she wouldn’t approve. “So I need a distraction.”
“Your distraction?” she said. “More like your enabler.”
I hung up and headed over to the library where I found Mrs. Nebitt in the periodicals section, sitting with two other older women behind the microfilm machine. I recognized the one in bright blue with her long gray hair swept up in a beautiful bun as Delilah Scott. The other woman had bright purple stretchy pants, a naturally yellowed smile, and a sensible short white haircut. She stood to shake my hand when I came over and I realized she couldn’t have been taller than a fourth grader.
“We were just looking up some articles for Delilah,” Mrs. Nebitt said, quickly leaning forward. She flicked off the microfilm machine before I could see what they’d been researching, making me wonder why. “She heard a growling noise a couple of weeks ago. The police came over and basically did nothing…”
Mildred interrupted with a gruff, confi
dent voice I almost wasn’t expecting. “And they only did that much because she’s a Donovan.”
“Only by blood,” she said.
I nodded. I knew that she was a Donovan, one of the founding members of the town and the country club. She was like Potter Grove royalty. But she was about twentieth in line for the throne, and that was her problem.
“I don’t think the police believe me about the growling.” Her voice was low with a quiet, velvety kind of confidence I noticed rich people often had. “I’ve heard it twice since then, and Caleb hasn’t done a thing about it. But then, he’s a Bowman, and the Bowmans have long thought I’m a bit crazy. I’m still sane enough to know it’s the other way around, though.” Her soft blue silk scarf matched her eye color perfectly. “Sorry, dear, I know you’re a Bowman.”
“Just by marriage.”
“Ah, isn’t that the best kind of family? The one you can divorce.”
I almost told her that wasn’t always the case, at least not if your dead ex-husband decided to haunt you.
I told them about how Rosalie’s shop had been ransacked the other day, and how the incidents were probably related.
“Probably,” Mrs. Nebitt said. The other ladies looked at her like they didn’t think so.
I pulled my chair over to them, a loud squeaking noise came with it, but Mrs. Nebitt somehow held in her shushing. Mildred leaned into me as soon as I sat down. “Debbie tells me you’re trying to solve an old murder,” she said, making me smile because I finally knew Mrs. Nebitt’s first name.
I nodded. “Yes, thank you, Debbie, for filling everyone in.” Debbie shot me a look like I should never call her Debbie again. I continued. “I don’t think Bessilyn Hind committed suicide. I tried to figure it out during the seance the other night, but I haven’t quite got it.”
“Yes, we all heard about that seance. It’s the talk of the library,” Delilah said, dismissively.
“Thanks,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure that was a compliment. “So, what were you ladies looking up?” I leaned forward toward the microfilm machine, eyeing the power button. Mrs. Nebitt watched my every move and cut me off at the pass by putting her hand on mine. “Carly, here, did a fantastic job. Best medium I’ve ever seen.”
“How many mediums have you seen?” Mildred scoffed.
Delilah Scott smoothed her scarf along her shoulders with a trembling hand. “Debbie hasn’t talked about anything else. It must have been wonderful.”
“Oh, you bet it was.” Mrs. Nebitt looked at the ceiling like she was remembering it. “You should have been there. The bed and breakfast went all out for the ladies at the country club. Paula Henkel said it cost a fortune, and then the windows blew out.”
“I don’t think it cost that much,” I added. “Paula exaggerates, especially about those windows.”
Mildred put her hand on my shoulder. “Bessilyn Hind, huh? I did a whole write-up about her in my book.”
I sat forward. Now was my chance to ask her about retractions. “I’m glad you brought that up. I’m very close to figuring out her death. It wasn’t a suicide, though. That much I know for sure.”
“Really?”
I looked down. “I can’t prove it yet. But when I do, would you be willing to include an addendum or possibly even a retraction in your book?”
Mildred laughed so hysterically she had to grab the desk so she wouldn’t fall over. “I am not reprinting anything. Horace would kill me if I added even one more book to the book fortress we still have in the garage.”
“What if I took all the books you have and added the retraction as a sticker?”
“Take the books?” she said in disbelief.
I nodded.
“And you’ll do all the work?”
“Plus, maybe we could have you do a signing on the updated version, help you sell a few copies,” I added.
Her face lit up. “You had me at take the books. Horace is gonna die. But still, I’m only okaying this idea if Bessilyn’s death is officially changed.”
“Like I said before, I’m very close to figuring it out. There are just some loose ends that don’t make sense and a couple more people to interview.”
They looked at me like I was crazy.
I turned to Delilah. I was getting used to crazy stares. “You’ve lived here a long time. Do you remember the Timbre family or the Hinds?”
Delilah threw a fragile-looking hand over her chest. “Am I one of the people being interviewed? I don’t know much about either family, sorry. I am old, but not that old.”
Before any of us could do the math, she added. “I only knew of the Timbres and the Hinds. Both families kept to themselves. But I did hear it was Bessie’s parents’ car accident that brought out the news that the Hinds were not doing very well. There was hardly enough money for a decent funeral. And, years later, Pleasant and her husband ended up selling the cannery too, for dirt cheap, to the Timbres, I believe.”
“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Nebitt said, her voice trembling a little. “This is exactly what Sir Walter said last night at the seance. His story checks out. And there is no way Carly could have known those details. She is, by far, the best medium I’ve ever seen.”
“And I thought we were finally going to talk about something other than that seance you were invited to,” Delilah said, glaring at Mrs. Nebitt.
“I told you to buy a ticket, Delilah,” Mrs. Nebitt replied. “And come with me.”
“I can’t stay up that late, anyway.”
Mildred leaned into me. “Why Delilah Scott wasn’t considered an honored guest we’ll never know.”
Mrs. Nebitt’s attention went to her fingernails, and I saw my chance.
“So,” I said, reaching over to turn the microfilm machine on before the librarian could stop me. “What were you looking up about the growling…” I stopped mid-sentence as my attention went up to the monitor in front of me.
“We learned they’re back,” Mildred said.
Mrs. Nebitt shushed her.
Chapter 19
They’re Back
Another Bird Attack in Landover. That was the title of the article from 1954 we were all staring at on the screen. And I had to admit, I was not expecting birds.
“I remember it like it was yesterday,” Delilah Scott said. “This wasn’t the only attack.”
“Nope,” Mildred replied. “Not by a long shot.”
I quickly scanned the article. In it, a young woman recounted an attack by crows on her way home from secretarial school when she tried to take a short cut through the woods.
Bertha Hawthorne, nineteen years old of Landover, narrowly escaped injury today after she says birds attacked her near the country club during the annual Independence Day water ski show.
“I only took the shortcut because I didn’t want to miss the show. I heard growling first. Then, when I looked up in the trees, they came at me like bombs. Birds. Some were bigger than I’ve ever seen. Probably about twenty of them. Good thing I had my book bag. I swatted them away until this dog came out of nowhere and rescued me. He’s a regular hero, like the allies in Normandy,” she said.
There was a photo of Bertha, a petite brunette girl in a perfectly pleated skirt, squatting down by the dog the paper had dubbed “Normandy.” My eyes bugged. The dog looked just like Rex, only this dog’s nose was bandaged.
“This marked the beginning of the crow years,” Mildred said like I would know what that meant.
“They weren’t crows. I’ve never heard of a crow that looked like that,” Mrs. Nebitt interrupted. “They say it was a fluke. Mutant birds crazed with some sort of flu, descending on Landover Lake because they were searching for water in their crazed state. That’s all. We need to forget about it. They’re not back.”
Delilah wrung her tiny, wrinkled hands together. “They were awful. Angry, greasy, black birds with beaks that looked like fungus-infested toenails, thick and yellowed. They would lurk in the trees.”
“Lurk,” Mildred agreed
.
Mrs. Nebitt shook her head. “It only seemed that way. They were searching for water.”
Mildred went on. “You couldn’t see them, but they could see you. Waiting, watching.”
“I was a young mother at the time,” Delilah said. “With three kids. Terrified. Those birds would watch some people and do nothing. But then, suddenly, they’d choose someone, and it was awful. Just awful. They’d attack, one right after the other like little bombs.”
“It seemed like they had an agenda, selectively killing people,” Mildred added.
I realized I was holding my breath, and I exhaled. “C’mon. Did anyone actually die? These are birds we’re talking about.”
“Oh yeah,” Mildred said, matter-of-factly. “Those beaks could penetrate a skull. Horrible when you think about it. And almost unpreventable. How many times do you notice birds?”
“I’ll be noticing them a lot now, thanks,” I said. “In my shiny new helmet.”
Mildred ran her finger along the words and the picture on the screen. “Nobody knows why those awful things chose Landover County or how they selected their victims, but after about two years, they left. Poof, like that.” She snapped her sausage-like fingers to indicate just how quickly they had killed and gone.
“Do you think it’s related to the shapeshifters here?” I asked.
Mrs. Nebitt made a dismissive gesture. “I hope you don’t give in to those sorts of notions.” She gave the other women a hard stare. “Those are just rumors. There is no evidence of shapeshifters anywhere, and I am a highly trained researcher who likes to believe the experts in life.”
Mildred turned toward her longtime friend. “Then, highly trained researcher, explain why these experts hid how many deaths there were? There’s not a count anywhere. And other than this article, there’s hardly any coverage. This is the only article I know of that mentions the growling.”