by Jaime Maddox
Synopsis
Sandy Parker left and never looked back after Hurricane Agnes washed her childhood home into the Susquehanna River. Her lover, Jeannie Bennett, died in the flood, and although Sandy went on to live an extraordinary life, she regrets that she never really said good-bye. Now, Sandy returns to bury her grandmother and finally find closure with Jeannie. Instead, she uncovers secrets long buried in the debris of the flood, secrets that at least one person is willing to kill to protect. Will Sandy discover the truth that will change her life forever, or will a murderer put another Parker in the grave?
Agnes
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Agnes
© 2014 By Jamie Maddox. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-033-1
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: January 2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Shelley Thrasher
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
Acknowledgments
It is easy to type words on a keyboard and then tuck them away in a computer file, away from the scrutiny of others. Far harder a task is finding the courage to allow another to read your words and infer your thoughts and feelings. I was hiding there in my comfort zone, happy to write stories for my eyes only, until my partner forced me out of the literary closet. If not for her, Agnes would still be a very large document on my Zip drive instead of a published novel. Thanks, Carolyn, for your always-gentle encouragement.
While this book was written mostly between the hours of ten p.m. and midnight, it was edited at all hours of the day and night, and I am very grateful to Carolyn, Jamison, and Max for sharing me with Agnes during that process, and for only whining a little.
Agnes is a work of fiction based on an event that really happened. I’ve heard the stories my entire life, and while the tale of Sandy and Jeannie is a creation of my mind, I have no doubt it could have really happened. Thanks to all of my family and friends who shared their memories of the flood and the little town of West Nanticoke; it is all of those stories that are the foundation of this novel.
I have relied on people’s memories, now fading after forty years, as well as multiple sources to create the story and verify details. Everything from the newspaper to videos on YouTube was used to help me put the pieces of that time back into place. I’m sure there are errors; they are unintentional and not meant to be offensive.
After that little push from Carolyn, my manuscript still needed a home. Thanks to Len Barot for reading it and offering me the opportunity to turn it into a book, and to my editor, Shelley Thrasher, for showing me how. Thanks, too, to everyone at Bold Strokes Books who helped in this production.
To Carol, Linda & Karen—
my fabulous, much older sisters
for guiding me through all of life’s disasters
Chapter One
The Obituary, May 23, 2011
Northeastern Pennsylvania
Nellie Davis Parker
Nellie Davis Parker of Mount Pocono passed away peacefully yesterday at Pocono Medical Center. At 98 years of age, she lived a long and full life. Although she spent her early and last years in the Poconos, Nellie lived for 40 years in West Nanticoke, leaving only after Hurricane Agnes destroyed her home.
Mrs. Parker was the daughter of the late William and Matilda Barnes Davis, of Mount Pocono. Her father was the holder of many engineering patents, and she inherited his thirst for knowledge and learning. She was valedictorian of Mount Pocono High School, class of 1931, and a graduate of the Fitzgerald Mercy School of Nursing. She married her childhood sweetheart, Dr. David Parker, and until his death, she worked beside him caring for their patients.
A former president of the Anthracite Golf Association, Mrs. Parker continued golfing into her eighth decade. She was the first female board member of the Nanticoke State Hospital and later also served on the board of directors at Pocono Medical Center. While she was president of the Tilbury Volunteer Fire Company in West Nanticoke, she spearheaded the effort to secure the funding for the town’s first ambulance. She supported many charities and was active in her community both in West Nanticoke and in Mount Pocono.
She was preceded in death by her husband, Dr. David Parker, and her son, David Parker Jr., as well as her brothers William, Joseph and Arthur. She is survived by her granddaughter, Sandy Parker; her great-granddaughter, Angela Key and her great-great-grandson, Leo Key.
There will be no calling hours. Memorial contributions may be made to the charity of your choice. Interment will be beside her husband and son at Riverview Cemetery, West Nanticoke.
The sun had barely begun its ascent over Harvey’s Lake when Dan Parker sat down to breakfast. An architectural masterpiece, his house was designed to capture both the morning and evening sun through the glass walls that formed the front and both sides of the house. A fastidious man, he placed the crisply pressed linen napkin in his lap, carefully protecting his silk suit. His breakfast menu—two eggs over medium with fried potatoes and four slices of bacon—hadn’t changed in over fifty years. Each of the chairs at the shiny table was pushed neatly into place, and the vase of fresh flowers at its center sat upon a plate to prevent staining the wood. It was all very orderly, just as he preferred.
He was used to having things his way. Groomed from boyhood to run the Parker Companies, he had begun issuing orders to his parents’ household staff when he was barely old enough to ride a bike. He was just a teenager when he followed his father and grandfather into the family business, learning the ropes from them as he worked after school and on weekends. He stayed home and earned his business degree from King’s College in just three years, and began working beside them as soon as he did. Upon his father’s untimely death, it was a natural transition for him to run the multitude of companies his family controlled.
He took a sip of his black coffee and opened the newspaper. The financial news was no different than what he’d seen on the television the evening before. He skipped that section completely and, instead, studied the headlines, determining if there was anything worth reading. Next, he pored over the national and local news before turning to the obituary section. When he saw Nellie Parker’s name, he closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them again, he didn’t change his facial expression to match the elation he felt inside.
Dan leaned back into his chair as a tremendous weight fell from his shoulders. For forty years he had held his breath, awaiting Nellie Parker’s discovery of the secret that only he knew. He had wondered what she would do to his little empire if she ever learned the truth. Quite simply, the old lady could have destroyed him. She could have brought down his entire branch of the family tree. At last he could let out that long-held breath in a sigh of relief.
He rose, placing his folded napkin beside his empty plate. He would begin his workday as he always did, by visiting his family companies. With a bounce his sixty-year-old legs hadn’t shown in quite a while, he picked up his briefcase and did something else he’d been doing for fifty years—he wen
t to work.
*
The gravedigger didn’t enjoy cooking, and unlike Dan Parker he didn’t employ a housekeeper with kitchen skills. Hell, he didn’t even have someone to help clean up after him, not that he’d have wanted someone poking around in his private things. The primitive kitchenette in his cabin high up on the edge of the mountain wasn’t designed for much more than boiling water for instant coffee. Consequently, he took most of his meals out of house.
After showering and dressing in his typical work uniform—overalls and work boots—he climbed into this oversize pickup truck and headed to the Flamingo Diner. By reading the free newspaper at the diner the gravedigger calculated that he saved about five hundred dollars a year. His father had grown up in poverty, and his own early life had been the same. Even though he now had more money than he could ever spend, his frugal ways were engrained and habitual. The understanding that he was saving money made his breakfast of pancakes with artificial maple syrup all the sweeter.
Always a shy man, the gravedigger said few words to the other diner patrons. Keeping his nose hidden in the newspaper assured that no one spoke to him. In truth, most of the locals kept a polite distance and wouldn’t have said more to him than a friendly “hello” even if he gave them the opportunity. He had lived in West Nanticoke his entire life and everyone in the town knew him, but no one in town really knew him at all.
The gravedigger was never sure whether he chose his job at the Riverview Cemetery, or the job chose him. He only knew that it was perfect for him, appealing to his need for solitude and quiet. He only wished he could see more of the bodies. As he grew older, with more arthritis and less flexibility, digging up graves and opening caskets had become more difficult for him. Consequently, he had to cut back on his nocturnal activities at the graveyard, and he missed it terribly.
As much as death fascinated him, he was naturally inclined to jump to the obituary section of the newspaper, bypassing world news and sports headlines. He controlled this urge, however, allowing the excitement to build as he leafed through the pages, each turn bringing him closer to the news he craved to know. Who had died? Whose grave would he have the pleasure of digging? Whose casket would he cover with soft brown earth? Who could he then pull back out of that same earth to help satisfy his peculiar cravings?
The Nellie Parker obituary jumped right at him, as if her name were printed in color on the otherwise black-and-white page. He didn’t recognize the face staring at him, but the name sure was familiar. He read through to the bottom, to be sure this was the right Nellie Parker, and when he finished reading, he leaned back into the cracked vinyl of the booth and let a small smile form at the corners of his mouth. It was indeed the right woman. And she was coming to Riverview!
At last! Oh, how long he had awaited word of her death! How many hours had he spent worrying, wondering what he would do if Mrs. Parker had shown up at his door and confronted him with the truth. Strangulation? A bullet? He could have easily murdered her and then buried her among the dead at the cemetery, where no one would ever find her. He had done it before.
The questions no longer mattered. At long last he could rest, knowing that Nellie Parker would take his secret with her to the grave. He signaled the waitress for a second cup of coffee—refills were free—and he was whistling as he walked back to his truck. He was going to dig Nellie Parker’s grave.
*
Jane Bennett stirred her second Bloody Mary of the day with a thick stalk of celery. Standing in the kitchen of her home in Mountaintop, Pennsylvania, she stared unseeing through the large window across from her. Conscious of the time, and knowing she was breaking a promise to herself, she swallowed a mouthful of the spicy mix. Fuck her promise to cut back on her alcohol consumption! She needed this drink, and probably another afterward.
Nellie Parker was dead. The woman had lived for a fucking century, and of course she had to die now, when Jane couldn’t afford to have any trouble. And the trouble Nellie’s death could cause her was potentially catastrophic. In just another few weeks, Jane would have her life back on track. She just needed a few more fucking weeks to get everything in order. Was that too much to ask? But then again, why would the gods change course and start treating her kindly now?
Nellie’s granddaughter Sandy had left Pennsylvania years ago and had never looked back. Thank God for Jane and her family for Sandy’s absence. Her grandmother’s burial at Riverview Cemetery would very likely be the reason to end her exile. This had been worrying Jane for years because inevitably the woman was going to die. Now that the moment of truth was here, though, Jane wasn’t prepared. Since reading the news, she’d been suffering palpitations of the heart and felt like she might pass out.
The spicy cocktail did nothing to calm her frazzled nerves. She retrieved a Xanax from the bottle she kept handy in her purse and swallowed it. She couldn’t face this trouble now. She just didn’t have the strength to deal with it before noon. Slugging the last of her drink, she decided to go back to bed. Unless she was prepared to take very desperate measures, Jane was powerless to control the events about to unfold. The sight of the medicine bottle sitting beside her cocktail reminded her that things in her life had indeed gotten pretty desperate.
Chapter Two
Wedding Day, June 17, 1972
West Nanticoke, Pennsylvania
It was going to be a beautiful day. It was going to be a beautiful summer. It was going to be a beautiful year. It was going to be a beautiful life.
Although not devoid of tragedy, Sandy Parker’s life had been one of comfortable privilege that had helped forge the optimistic perspective with which she viewed the world. Her family had been in the anthracite business, and the fortune the first American Parkers had amassed had been carefully invested and would sustain their descendents for generations to come. She had never wanted for anything, and her needs were really quite few.
Sandy had been awake for nearly an hour on this spring morning, considering with youthful anticipation all the wonders life held in store for her. Even as her mind had been so active, her body had been still so as not to disturb the girl who lay sleeping beside her. Now she felt movement and turned to look at her lover.
Sun rays peeked through the narrow space between the window’s frame and the shade, pulled all the way down in an effort to impede their entrance. Minute particles of dust danced through the morning light, carried along on invisible waves. Shadows were cast, and as the sun followed its course through the morning sky, they dissolved and re-formed before her eyes. Birds chatted outside the window, ignorant of the sleeping humans.
It was going to be an especially beautiful day for a wedding. Sandy felt so happy to have been invited to one. She was happy because of the girl beside her. She was happy to have been given so many blessings. She was just plain happy.
Jeannie still slept, but Sandy moved close to her, snuggling against her back, their heads sharing a pillow. She studied the room that had been hers since she came to live in this house at the age of three. On the precipice of her life, Sandy had recently found her thoughts more reflective and sometimes somber, in spite of the joy she felt for the good things in her life and the good things she was certain lay ahead.
Deep down she felt a fear of change, of letting go of all that was so good for the potential of gaining something better. But that is how it must be, she thought, and how it always must have been—young kids like her, venturing off to college, leaving behind safety and comfort for things unknown. For her, though, the stakes were probably not as high as for most. Those other kids probably enjoyed the freedom to love who they pleased, but Sandy would never enjoy that privilege if she stayed in West Nanticoke. Even though the prospect frightened her, leaving home was the only path that could lead her to the life she craved.
Would she miss this place? Truly the only home she’d ever known, its walls and floors were the canvas of her life, and over the years she had been quite an artist. Working beside her grandfather and the laborers
he hired for home repair, Sandy had learned how to paint and run electrical wiring, unclog a drain, care for the garden, hammer and screw and sand and spackle. The house now had her fingerprints everywhere, from the roof to the cellar, and she loved it even more because she knew it so intimately and her own hands had performed the labor of love to care for it. If her college studies in finance didn’t go well, she could make a living as a contractor building homes.
She studied the room that had changed so little in fourteen years. The big four-post bed was crafted from cherry and sat so high off the floor, she’d required a booster just to climb in when she first claimed this room as her own. The bed had been her great-grandmother’s and was given to her grandmother when she set up her house here along the canal. There were two matching nightstands in a dark stain, a dresser, a chest, and a vanity. Even with all that furniture, the massive room still appeared uncluttered. The wallpaper was the same faded floral print, and although she detested the pattern, by the time she found the courage to tell her grandmother it should be changed, she’d grown accustomed to it.
The ten-foot-high ceilings were framed with crown molding darkly stained to match the hardwood floor. A similar molding bordered the room at the doorways and at the floor. Pocket doors opened to an adjacent sitting room, which she had recently converted into a closet. The craftsmanship of the room, and of the house, was incomparable.
Her grandfathers had built it over a hundred years earlier, in a time when money was being hauled out of the coal mines by the ton, and had spared no expense. The wood and glass used throughout were carved and cut and stained, marble surrounded all three fireplaces, and all of the twelve rooms were expansive.