by Etta Faire
Even in the light of the full moon, things were too dark to see. I stopped myself from reaching for the flashlight on my phone, reminding myself that beacons of light were attention-drawing, and therefore, life-threatening at this point. And instead, I studied the dark window, willing my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
It appeared to be lifted just a crack, and under the crack, was a thin metal bar protruding out like a bit of a clothes hanger. I tugged on it and the latch moved. It worked. I tried it again, and someone screamed from the other side of the window, but the latch closed. My heart dropped, almost as fast as I bolted back down that trellis. The lights in the room came on and a male voice asked what in the hell was going on, but I was already down and running.
I took off into the parking lot. I really needed better plans in life. Any plans, actually. I kicked myself, realizing I probably should’ve stayed around for that career counselor, after all.
But at least I could prove for certain the escape route the murderer had taken, and why the police hadn’t noticed anything. And I hadn’t killed myself doing it.
Sitting in my car, I tried to breathe normally again. My hand shook as I turned on the heat, pulled out my phone, and brought up the pictures of the evidence I was planning to take over to the police department tomorrow, as soon as I picked it up from Paula.
Paula was only letting me borrow “certain pieces:” the gloves, the gun, and the witness accounts. I wasn’t allowed to take the dress because, apparently, steaming out the wrinkles in a murder victim’s gown and pinning it to a mannequin had been pretty costly. And in return for her generosity, the Purple Pony agreed to take half the net profit, something Rosalie was not at all happy about.
But with the glove alone, I could prove Bessie hadn’t committed suicide. And that was probably enough to get her death certificate changed and the case reopened.
My phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize, but I still answered it.
“Carly Mae? This is Mildred. I know I said I wasn’t going to get the man’s hopes up, but they’re up. Horace wants these books out by tomorrow afternoon because we’re leaving town soon. The lake house is only our summer home.”
“Perfect,” I said. “I think I’m about to get Bessie’s death certificate changed.” I was lying. I had no idea how hard that was going to be, and no idea what I was up against.
Chapter 23
Then and Now
“I love it when the lake’s like glass,” Mildred said the next day when I came to pick up the books. We were standing in her backyard, staring off at the water, which didn’t have many ripples disturbing it.
I clicked another photo on my phone. The dark water, the cloudy sky, the million-dollar backdrop. It was gorgeous. No wonder rich people paid so much to live here.
Mildred pointed across the lake. “You can’t see it from here, but the country club’s just behind that bend,” she said, a gentle breeze blowing her soft white curls. Her property was one of the smaller houses along Landover Lake. There were only a few charming older ones left, most having been knocked down for fifty-story mansions. At the end of her backyard, where it met the water, was a lopsided dock with two boats: a pontoon, and a small speed boat.
A family of ducks quacked off in the distance, and I had to remind myself I had nothing to fear. Those were ducks, not skull-crushing, mutant crows. “Tell me why you think the birds are back,” I said, my gaze darting all around.
“Delilah’s not the only one who’s heard them. I have too,” she said.
I looked at her. “How do you know it was them? And not some other animal?”
“They don’t sound like other animals, certainly not other birds. They make an almost growling noise that seems a little human sounding, if you wanna know the truth.”
I actually wasn’t sure I did.
She looked around and lowered her voice. “I was in Potter Grove at the Bait ’N Breath last week with my great grandchildren getting stuff to go fishing. Horace and I both heard it. A chill went straight up my spine and we hustled those kids back in the car faster than his pacemaker probably liked. And when I looked up, I thought I saw one in the branches. They like the high branches, so you can’t see ‘em as much.”
The Bait ’N Breath was right next to the Purple Pony.
I must’ve looked terrified because she quickly changed the subject. “Just keep your eyes and ears open, and you’ll be fine. Thanks for taking my books.” She looked down at her dark sandals. “You sure you want ‘em? There’s probably more than a thousand left.”
I coughed on nothing. “Yes,” I said, even though I hadn’t thought about the amount yet. “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything until Bessilyn’s death certificate has officially been changed. But I’m close to getting that done, and I made a promise to her…” I stopped myself before I sounded like the crazy lady who makes promises to ghosts. People knew I did seances, but a lot of them thought I used sleight of hand and magic-trick gimmicks. Admitting I was friends with ghosts was going to put me on a whole new level of crazy for many people.
“You promised who?” she asked, leaning into me like we were old friends, and she wasn’t about to let me get away with not telling her. I didn’t answer. She grabbed my arm and continued.
“My dad was the caretaker at Landover Country Club when I was growing up. Did you know that? Sometimes he’d take me into work and some of the rich ladies there would feel sorry for me and pay me a quarter to help them out to their cars with their golf clubs and bags and things. They’d look at my torn-up dress, filthy from playing in the garden, and they’d say, ‘Millie, you may have a terrible life now, but you save up your quarters and you’ll be somebody someday.’ Thing is, I never knew I wasn’t somebody already, not until they told me that someday-part. I never thought my life was terrible.”
We turned around and walked back up toward the house. “That was when I started noticing we were the poor folk living on the lake, and I resented my parents for it, until I realized, ‘Who the hell are these rich ladies to tell me I have a terrible life?’ I may be different, but maybe being different isn’t a bad thing.” She winked at me, like she thought I would know what being different was like. “And there are still a few of us odd birds from yesteryear hiding out on this million-dollar lake,” she said in a way that made me wonder what she meant by odd birds.
She pointed to her small green two-story that seemed to shift to one side a little. “I could sell this lot for a fortune, easy. Had another offer this last year,” she said, squeezing my arm as we walked back up the steps toward the house. “But it’s my family home, and I’m gonna pass it down to my son, Benny, when Horace and I go, so he can have the stories and the memories inside it, so my great grandchildren can join the water skiing team like their great grand-mom did. So they can know how good it feels to be different on this lake.”
I smiled to myself, picturing this little old lady on water skis.
“But now I want you to make me a promise, just like you promised your friend Bessilyn Hind.”
I gasped. How’d she know I was top-shelf crazy?
“If Benny tries to sell this property after I go, you have a seance with him in this lake house. Tell him how his mom feels about it.”
I smiled. “I promise. But I can’t promise he’ll listen.”
She patted my hand with hers and brought me into the house. “You let me worry about that,” she said.
It was warm in the living room and it smelled a lot like hardboiled eggs and tuna. Her husband, a thin man with a hunch in his back, chopped an onion on the cutting board in the dining room. “Real nice of you to take those books,” he said, hand shaking a little as he motioned with his knife.
“Horace is thrilled to have the garage back; can you tell?” Mildred said. “I suppose my grandson will be too. Instead of boarding up the lake house until next summer, we’ll be letting him and his kids stay here.”
She pointed toward the living room, and I finally noticed
a bald man around 60 laying across her flowered couch, taking a nap. “My son, Benny. I’ll wake him in a minute so he can help you out with those books. You wanna stay for dinner? Horace is making his specialty.”
“Tuna casserole,” he said. “The secret’s eggs and butter.”
“No thanks,” I said, trying to make sure my face didn’t look disgusted while I politely shook my head no. Tuna casserole with eggs and butter did not at all sound appealing, but I also had a sheriff to confront with a box full of evidence. And I still wasn’t 100 percent sure I was right about Bessie’s murder. I needed not only a plan, but a back-up one.
I heard the front door open and a little girl around five with curly dark hair and a chocolate-faced grin skidded into the room on her socks. She gave Mildred a hug.
“My little namesake,” Mildred said. “Meet Lil Mil, that’s what we call her.” She gave the girl an extra squeeze. “Where are your shoes?”
“In the car.”
I knelt down so I was eye level with the girl. “I’m Carly,” I said, feeling that baby-obsession thing all over again. “I hear you get to stay on the lake this winter. Should be fun.”
A man’s voice called from the foyer. “Lil Mil, we’ve talked about this. You’ve gotta bring in your own shoes if you take ‘em off in the car.” I looked up and bit my lip. A tall man in his 30s with green eyes and light brown tousled hair came into the living room carrying a sparkly pink pair of buckle shoes in one hand and a three-year-old boy in the other. He saw me and quickly put the shoes on the counter to introduce himself. “I’m Mildred’s grandson, Parker,” he said with the kind of sparkle in his eyes that made me want to rethink dinner. Tuna casserole with eggs suddenly sounded amazing. Anything with eggs…
Why was I always thinking about eggs?
“This is Carly,” Mildred said after I didn’t remember to introduce myself. She took the boy, who even at about three years old almost rivaled his great grandmother’s height. “Here, let me hold Benjamin while you help Carly load up her car with my books so I don’t have to wake your dad.”
“Take ‘em all,” Horace cackled a little too wildly for a shaky man with a knife. “Every dang box.”
“He’s been very supportive of my writing career over the years; can you tell?” Mildred laughed, throwing her husband a look.
“Come on,” I said to Parker. “I’m the Civic out front.” I turned to leave, but Mildred gently grabbed my arm. “Parker just got divorced,” she whispered, not very quietly. Parker shook his head, and I smiled at him as we walked out to the garage.
“I apologize for my grandmother. She’s always trying to set me up.”
“Sounds like my mother,” I said. “Only mine went so far as to make a profile for me on a dating site. One where I sound terribly desperate and I did not ask her to make it in the first place.”
It was cold in the garage and it smelled like oil. Parker flicked on the light, and I let out a small gasp when I saw the stacks of boxes labeled Mildred’s Books.
“I don’t think they’ll fit,” I said, doing a quick mental count. I went to the back and lifted one of the boxes, quickly putting it back down again. I’d need help carrying them into my house too, and I only had a ghost and a possibly elderly dog to help me.
I took a couple boxes then told Parker I’d come back for the rest later that week.
“I should be here,” he said. “But let me give you my number so you can text me to make sure.”
I fumbled with my phone, almost dropping it when I pulled it out of my jacket pocket, momentarily forgetting how to create a new contact. I was too busy thinking about the cute outfit I was going to wear when I came back for the books and the witty things I would say to his kids.
After he went back inside, I sat in my car and looked at the photos on my phone before pulling out of Mildred’s driveway, kicking myself for acting even more desperate than the dating profile my mother had made for me. But night-time strolls by the lake with a basket full of wine and cheese seemed anything but cliche right now.
I scrolled on, looking at the pictures I’d taken yesterday at the bed and breakfast before the channeling with Martha, the ones I took for my book.
I knew now the stains on the glove weren’t grease and I needed to match the pattern on the fingertips to the pattern on the dress in order to prove it was used in the shooting. I looked around. I was still sitting in Mildred’s long gravel driveway. Not the best place to reenact a murder. But I didn’t see anyone peeking out at me from her neighbors’ lake-mansions.
The evidence box was sitting on the passenger’s seat, and I pulled out the gun and the glove.
It was strange to hold a weapon of any kind. Colder than I thought it’d be, lighter. I’m not sure why I expected warmth and heaviness.
The glove was also different in person than I thought it’d be, heavier, scratchier, and a lot droopier.
It was hard to hold the gun with what felt like a saggy oven mitt. But I was able to curl my finger around the trigger, remembering at the last second that there could still be a bullet in there. It was a remote possibility, but I didn’t trust the police in Landover to empty a gun before selling it. And it would be just my luck to accidentally kill myself with a stray bullet from a 110-year-old piece of evidence.
The glove bunched up and flopped forward when I pointed the gun down at the angle it would have to have been angled at that night.
I brought up the photo on my phone of Bessilyn’s dress and compared it with the glove. Back and forth. The patterns were similar, especially if the glove was bunched forward like it would have been if the hand in it had been smaller, like mine.
I glanced over at the police report, noticing for the first time that it had been signed by the police chief, Herbert Smalls. And in it, he talked about how he had apparently been at Bessilyn’s party that night, and witnessed how upset Bessilyn had been.
I put the paper down. Herbert Smalls was the anti-suffragist guy. Doris Smalls’s husband. No wonder the police were quick to write this case off as a suicide. The jerk probably didn’t want to have to investigate a death he didn’t see as worthy.
And suddenly I knew why the police had ignored blatant contradictory evidence. The glove with blood splatter should have been enough right there.
At least it was still enough to reopen the case. I took off the glove, something scraped along my thumb, and I turned the glove inside out to inspect it. A small green gem was embedded in the inside threads.
Chapter 24
Back-Up Plans
It was evening when I got there. The sun was already setting. I took a deep breath and grabbed the box of evidence from my car.
I pretty much knew what Caleb’s reaction was going to be when I showed him this proof, but I swore to a ghost I would do this, and I was going to keep my word. Plus, I had to return Paula’s display items by 9:00 tonight or she was keeping my deposit. I didn’t have time to think of a back-up plan.
The police station was on the corner of Main and Washington, just a little brick building with a flag out front and the words “City of Potter Grove Police Department” painted on the front window in block letters.
Justin leaned against a desk in the back next to Christine, a woman around 50 who was Shelby’s biggest makeup customer.
I tried to seem as confident as I could, like what I was about to say was not at all crazy. I set my evidence box on the counter and waited for them to acknowledge me. “I need to see the sheriff. I’d like the police department to reopen a case.”
“What’s the case?” Justin asked, walking over to the counter, giving me a skeptical smile. “And what’s in the box?”
“Evidence.”
He nodded slowly. “Is this about Jackson? I know you think Destiny and Brock killed him, but there’s not a lot we can do without getting the body exhumed…”
“They did kill him,” I shot back. “But that’s not what this is about.”
Christine had short auburn hair a
nd a thick coat of lipstick to match. “I think I know what this is about. The women’s club has been talking about nothing else all month. The 100-year-old suffragette case. Most the vacationers are still around for this reason alone. My mother-in-law says she’s never had more fun.”
Justin peered over the box. “A hundred years? You serious?”
I looked him straight in the eye. “Yes. I’d like to know how to reopen a case that’s more than 100 years old,” I said. “One that’s not considered a case yet.”
Justin laughed then stopped when I didn’t laugh with him. “Let me get Caleb,” he finally said as he meandered down the hall, an almost saunter to his walk. At well over six feet, Justin’s head almost grazed the door frame to the back. I thought I heard him add, “Just as stubborn as always.”
I could hear Caleb before I saw him. His voice echoed off the walls of the small police lobby. “What? This is some kind of sick joke… Tell that woman I don’t have time for her!”
“That woman can hear you,” I yelled back. “And I’m not leaving until you make time.”
Caleb’s neck bones seemed to lead the way, protruding out at sharp, angry angles as he strutted to the front. I lifted the flap on the cardboard box and took a deep breath, prepared to make my statement. Christine practically ran to the counter to see what I was about to pull out.
“Bessilyn Margaret Hind did not kill herself in 1906.”
“Is this what you do with your time now?” Caleb asked. “Think of ways to annoy hardworking folk?”
I ignored him. “And I have proof.” I pulled out the police report, the evidence tags, the gun, and the driving glove. Everything Paula allowed me to take from her display cases that morning. “These are all items Paula Henkel recently bought from this police department, correct?” I said.