by Etta Faire
A little bell chimed my entry when I opened the front door. The place smelled like ink and chocolate chip cookies. I looked around, mostly for the cookies. All that talk about mice with cookies was making me want one.
Five desks of various sizes were crammed around the room, each about as cluttered as Rosalie’s, except Rosalie’s was still cluttered with bloody leaf cuttings right now.
A young, auburn-haired woman sat in front of a police scanner. She took off her headset when she saw me come in.
“Hi. Are you here to see the Herndons? You’re early.”
“No. No one’s expecting me. I’m here to see whoever’s in charge, though.”
“The Herndons. They own the paper. I’m just an intern from LU. Lynette.”
“Landover University. My alma mater. English grad.”
“Journalism.” She nodded politely. “Go Bears,” she said, raising a fist.
I raised my fist too, like I’d known we were the Bears.
“There’s Mrs. Herndon now.” She pointed toward the backroom where a squatty middle-aged blonde in a bright red sweater and a colorful, flowered accent scarf hustled through the doorway, carrying a plate of cookies. She looked startled to see me. “Can I help you?” she asked, wiping crumbs from her chest.
I introduced myself, making sure to mention that my dead ex-husband’s great aunt used to own this place.
“Well, isn’t that something?” she said in a tone that made me know it really wasn’t.
“Jackson Bowman,” I continued.
She smiled like I’d said Jeffrey Dahmer then motioned to the intern who was staring at us with wild, interested eyes. “Lynette, I hope you’re not missing important police activity. You have to be the one to make the most of your time here,” she said sternly.
The intern put her headset back on, or pretended to. I had a feeling a stranger walking into the newspaper office was a little more interesting than anything the police were doing around here.
“So, what can I help you with?” Mrs. Herndon asked, setting the cookie plate down on her desk without offering me one.
I tried to ignore my stomach rumble while faking some confidence. “I think I have a story you might be interested in.”
“Another murder at Gate House?” she asked.
I shot back. “He was innocent, you know.”
She put her hands on her hips and gave my sweatshirt and leggings a suspicious once-over, making me kick myself for not spending more time trying to look professionally cute this morning like I’d planned to.
I swallowed and continued. “I know this is going to sound strange, but I’m a medium. I work at the Purple Pony,” I began. Her plastered-on smile went from polite to condescending. She sat down in front of her computer, and I felt my nervous facial tic coming back. I was losing my faked confidence. “I’m also a writer, writing a book about ghosts. You know, the ones here in Landover. I have a seance planned about the boating accident that happened in 1957, which was not really an accident…”
She was clicking her keyboard now. “We don’t cover seances, sorry. That’s not real news.”
I resisted the urge to point out how chili contests usually made the headlines around here. “I’m not asking you to cover the seance, but there is a bigger story here. The newspaper’s coverage of the boating accident back then. Or lack of. I believe it was part of a much larger cover-up.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I know it seems unbelievable now because I’m sure you are an honest and trustworthy owner of this newspaper. But, if you look in the archives about the accident, I’m positive you will see the newspaper might not always have been.”
“Okay, thank you,” she said while I stood there.
She kept typing like she expected me to leave. When I didn’t, she added a very sharp, “Thank you, again, for the tip. I will jot it down. Have a good day.”
“If you’re not interested in the angle, maybe I could just go through your archives myself to see if there’s anything I missed at the library. It was almost like they were doing bad reporting on purpose… using journalism as a weapon.”
She pressed her lips together so forcefully they drained of color. “You come in here and insult this publication, saying it helped to cover up a murder… that wasn’t even a murder. It was an unfortunate accident.”
Jackson appeared next to her, leaning against her desk, mocking her outrage with a puppet hand, minus the sock. “My, my. You would think dropping the Bowman name would have more clout than this,” he said, making me smile. A part of me was happy Jackson was here. The other part couldn’t believe he’d been traveling on me the entire day and I hadn’t even noticed. I needed those stinky sachets asap.
He went on. “But then, I suppose I know why she’s so upset. This is Grace, my distant cousin. She and her husband, Dan, own the paper now. They had to buy it for fair market value from her grandmother, that great aunt I was telling you about, because she wouldn’t give it to them. Aunt Ethel. Lovely woman.”
I knew by now that whenever my ex said lovely woman, he meant anything but. He said that a lot about my mother.
“Okay, so now I get it,” I said to the woman whose neck veins were bulging. “Your grandmother was part of the cover-up, most likely. I’m sorry you had to find that out from me, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make things right.”
“Get out now,” she said through gritted teeth. “Or I will call the police. You’ve been asked plenty of times.”
I yanked the door open and left. A chilly wind punched me in the face as I made my way over to my car. I was now late for my shift, and that was time I wouldn’t get paid for. And it had been for nothing. I couldn’t afford to cut my own hours.
I looked back at the newspaper. I could see Grace’s red sweater between the slats of the blinds. She was watching me at the window. It was all I could do not to one-finger salute her. She was just as lovely as her grandmother.
I turned on my car and waited for the heat to kick in just as a beautiful blonde strutted over to the front door of the newspaper. Grace had been watching for someone, all right, but it hadn’t been me. Lila Donovan. At least now I knew who the cookies were for.
Chapter 18
Whittling Away
“He can’t see you, Carly Mae. He’s very busy,” Mayor Wittle’s executive assistant said the next day before I even had a chance to say “hello” or explain myself. She’d obviously known I was coming.
The lobby was nice, larger than I thought it’d be with American flags and eagle seals as part of its decor. Green velvet curtains covered the one window.
The woman behind the small mahogany desk was an acquaintance of mine who used to work at the Spoony River back in the day. A thin woman around forty with a large head and stringy jet black hair. It was strange to see her in a nice pantsuit instead of a pink 50s outfit.
“Kelly Leone,” I said like we were long lost besties. I gave her a hug and asked how she was doing.
She told me all about how her oldest was just about to attend Landover University and her youngest was learning drums. “The neighbors wanna rip his arms off, of course.”
She looked me up and down. “I heard you were… interesting now,” she said, making me drop my smile. It was like a person couldn’t talk to ghosts anymore without getting labeled.
I laughed like she was joking. “Everyone’s interesting, right?”
“Right.” She curled her lip. “You don’t really think dead people talk to you, though, do you?” She lowered her voice. “I’m only asking because Mayor Wittle told me you’re crazy now. You know, like Tina.”
She was talking about a mutual friend with schizophrenia. And I could tell by the way she was practically whispering that she wasn’t at all comfortable talking about her. She went on. “You seem normal to me, though.”
“I am normal.”
“The mayor’s not. Not anymore, he’s not. He’s been acting crazy. Needy too. He said if I saw you that I s
hould definitely not let you in to see him. He says you only want to talk about your new dead friends.”
Mayor Wittle opened his door, peeked out, and shut the door again.
“Looks pretty busy, huh?” Kelly said, motioning with her large head at the now-closed door. She winked at me. “He’s busy making more work for me, that’s what he’s busy with.”
I moved toward his office which was at the back of the lobby, but hesitated at the door.
“Oh, it don’t lock,” she said then went back to scrolling on Facebook. “Good seeing you, Carly Mae. And if that crazy old man asks how you got in, tell him I tried. He knows I don’t really try. How’m I supposed to keep people from coming in there?”
The mayor’s office was only a little bigger than my walk-in closet at Gate House and just as boring. A photo of his construction company sat proudly on the wall alongside the one of him taking the oath of office. There were also a few family photos and some of the many construction jobs his family’s business had tackled over the years, from the 1940s and up.
In one of the black-and-white photos, the mayor stood arm and arm with five large men, each one looked like a body builder compared to him, including the older man by his side. Broad shoulders, full heads of hair. Kind of like if Bill Nye the Science Guy posed with the Thunder from Down Under.
I pointed to the photo. “The original crew of Wittle Construction?” I asked. “Beautiful family. Your dad and brothers?”
He nodded a nervous yes. “Now my sons and nephews have taken over.” He fiddled nervously with his bow tie, his wispy gray combover flopping into his eyes with each movement. He looked over at the large stack of papers sitting on his desk like he was remembering he should look busy. He sat down in front of them and picked them up. “Carly Mae, Kelly should have told you. I am very busy, and I do not have time to see you today.”
“How about tomorrow?”
He shook his head. “I’m very busy.” he said, holding up one of the papers, like it was proof of that. He checked his humungous watch next, probably in case the paper wasn’t proof enough. The thing looked more like a compass attached to his wrist than a watch. I wondered if it was just for his “I am busy” show.
He never looked at me. “I know you think it’s normal to talk to dead people. But it’s not normal. And it’s a waste of time and money to bring up that old accident.”
“So, you know why I’m here?”
“Of course. I heard about the seance. Everybody has. Vern was right. You’re only doing this ‘cause you’re desperate to make a buck at the Purple Pony.”
“Tell me what you remember about the accident.”
He shook his head. “Ohmygosh. You talk like it was yesterday. I don’t remember anything. Nobody does. Looks like you’ll have to get all your information from your ghosts this time. I’m not helping you drum up old stories so you can pretend later that the ghosts told you them. I know how seances work. They’re all fake.”
He straightened out the stack of papers, his hands shaking. I wondered if it was a condition or nerves.
“Your family built the library, huh,” I asked.
“Yes.” He pointed to the black-and-white photo on the wall behind him of a bulldozer and a dirt lot. “Very proud of that one.”
“Who paid for it?”
“I don’t know.”
“The Donovans?”
“Stop asking me questions. I don’t have to answer, you know?”
“How much did you get for the job?”
He looked at his papers. “I don’t think we charged much. It was for a good cause.”
“Hush money?” I asked.
I sat down in the chair across from him and crossed my legs like I had all the time in the world.
He motioned toward the photo. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re a construction company. We make bids. We’re given plans, and we follow ‘em. Plain and simple.”
“Did you know the Linders? Did your family buy into the investment?”
“Of course I did. I mean, of course I knew the Linders, but no about the investment.” He wiped the sweat from his receding hairline with the back of his sleeve. “Freddie was my friend, and his death was a shock to us all. We’re still not over it. I’m sorry the girls got involved.” He looked down at his feet.
I had a feeling if anyone was going to crack, it was going to be this guy. He always seemed like the nervous type who liked to talk but tried not to say too much. So, all I really needed to do was get that last part to change.
“What do you mean you’re sorry the girls got involved?”
“I mean with Freddie and drinking and swimming after dark…”
I leaned across the desk and lowered my voice. “I already know how those girls died, Mayor Wittle, so you can drop the act. My ghost friends told me they were on the Donovan boat being beaten up and thrown overboard.”
His lip quivered as he snapped his chicken neck toward the door. “Kelly!”
“I want to know why.”
“Kelly!”
Kelly poked her large head into the room. “What the hell is it now?”
“Please escort Ms. Taylor out. I told you sh… sh…she’s crazy.”
She motioned for me to follow her. “Come on, Carly Mae.” She leaned into me as we were leaving and lowered her voice. “Ms. Taylor. Honestly. He’s the one acting crazy. Calling me in here to escort Ms. Taylor out. Acting like Rockefeller all of the sudden. I swear if that man wants caviar for lunch, I’m knockin’ him out myself.”
Chapter 19
Pages From History
Mildred finally called me back a couple days later. I was right in the middle of figuring out how to hang Rosalie’s stinky strands along my bedroom and bathroom door frames, (which included a lot of swearing because hanging weird strands isn’t as easy as it sounds), when the phone rang. I jumped down from the chair I was balancing on to welcome the break.
“You were right,” the gruff voice on the other end said when I answered. “I found my diary and I was wearing pink that night. How on earth did you know that?”
“I told you. Gloria.”
“The ghost,” she said, like she halfway didn’t believe it.
“Yes.”
“If there was any doubt in my mind before, it’s gone now. I didn’t remember my pink phase. Used to wear a pink flower in my hair when I water-skied too, apparently, so my mom could tell me from the other skiers. Funny the things you forget. Debbie wore blue…”
I listened for any traces that Mrs. Nebitt had beaten me to the punch here, and that Mildred was now too afraid to talk to me, but she didn’t seem any more reluctant than usual.
I searched the room while we chatted. “Hold on. Let me find my recorder.”
There was a long pause where I heard her smacking her gums again. “I don’t want to be recorded.”
“It’s just for my research. We’ll only record the things you’re okay with…”
“I’m not okay with recording anything.”
I ran my hand over my face. It smelled like dirty diapers from the strands I’d been hanging. “Is this about you and Mrs. Nebitt? What happened with you two anyway?”
She didn’t answer.
“Let me guess. It has something to do with the library.”
Her voice was louder than I’d expected, and I pulled the phone away from my ear. “My father bent over backwards to get us those jobs chaperoning that night. He was very liked and respected at that country club. Best groundskeeper around. He took such good care of that place, the people there, and us. But after Debbie and I were blamed for the accident, the Donovans had the board fire my father. And you know who my family blamed? Me.”
I gasped. “I hadn’t known he’d been fired. That’s a big deal.”
“Damn straight it was…”
I thought about Parker. I didn’t think being fired would be too much of a big deal for the guy, seeing how he had just been hired, but he was so happy about being
employed.
She went on. “Debbie knew the truth about that night, too. She knew we did our best to keep those kids from that punch bowl. That Myles Donovan had been the one to spike it in the first place. That punch tasted just like my dad’s moonshine. Plus, Myles all but demanded I let him do it.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“My dad liked to make moonshine and most the rich folk liked to drink it, too. Oh, I know they probably thought it was quaint or kitschy or however they liked to describe the poor, working-class folk when they thought we weren’t listening…”
My mind went to my own ex-husband and the way he described the Knobby Creek.
She went on. “My dad never asked for a dime for his moonshine, either. Mainly because he liked all the compliments he got, people saying he was a genius for infusing his moonshine with stuff like juniper so it tasted like gin, or cayenne so it had a bit of a kick. He kept a lot of that moonshine in the woodcutting shed, and Myles made me hand over the key to that shed about a week before the dance. I knew why. Debbie was there, too. She knew why.”
I didn’t say anything. I just sat and listened as the woman ranted.
“I tried to get Debbie to go with me to the board, to the police, maybe even to the newspaper to tell the truth. There were inconsistencies in everybody’s story.” She paused for a minute. “You know I’ve spent most my life trying to forget that night, and reading it over in my diary was a little bit painful.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I was tempted to ask if she just wanted to hand over the diary to make things easier for her. But I knew that would never happen.
Mildred’s voice was softer after her pause, slower too. “Debbie called me out of the blue the other day to tell me Parker got a job working for Donovan gym. She told me about your investigation too.” She started to smack her gums again, but stopped mid-smack. “She said she just wanted me to know, as a friend. You know what I think?”