Microphones and Murder

by Erin Huss

  The second episode, “The Suspect,” released a week later. Within twenty-four hours we had a grand total of 135 downloads.

  I wasn’t great at math, but I did know that 135 is less than 200. Downloads should go up each week not down. This was a bad sign. And I made a conscience decision to ignore numbers and trudge forward. Which would be easier if I had interviews scheduled. Leads coming in. Even bogus leads. Where was my spaceship lady?

  It was complete radio silence.

  On the day before episode three’s release, I went to the closet and sat in solitude. I cried. I prayed. I cursed. I crumbled up the show notes and threw them against the wall. I lamented my frustrations to the creepy doll. The podcast was a complete flop. I’d failed Amelia. I’d failed Leon. I’d failed Camry. I’d failed my podcast posse. I’d failed myself.

  I was a complete and total failure.

  Mad, I kicked Leon’s box and it fell to its side. I couldn’t help but wonder what our investigation would have been like if he hadn’t died, if he’d been around to translate these stupid notes.

  I yanked a book and flipped it open.

  For example, on December 18, 2009, he wrote:

  Thiwlimg bach I...If? Riwanl pluwdmmu lile a fulle...and a long paragraph of the same gibberish.

  What does this mean?

  “What does this mean?” I yelled to the ceiling, holding the notebook open.

  It didn’t answer back. Instead, the closet door opened and Oliver poked his head in.

  “You’ve been in here for a while,” he said.

  I checked the time. It had been about four hours.

  “I’m pouting.”

  “Would you like company?”

  “Not really.” This misery didn’t want company, but Oliver took a seat anyway, wedging himself between an old dollhouse and me.

  “Find anything new?” He pointed to Leon’s notebook on my lap.

  “No. I can’t read gibberish.”

  Oliver grabbed the notebook and ran his finger under the lines. “Thinking back...I wonder...if Richard played me like a fiddle?” he mumbled.

  “Can you read this?”

  “About every third letter then I fill in the rest.” He returned his attention to the notebook. “Looks like Leon had the same feelings about Richard that Detective LeClare has.”

  I hugged my knees to my chest. “What can I do about it?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. Sucks to think that Richard Clark could be guilty and walk.”

  Sucks was a good word for it.

  Injustice was another good word, too.

  What a complete disaster this turned out to be.

  “S-sorry to interrupt,” said Austin appearing at the door. “But w-we’ve got a problem.”

  “We have lots of problems,” I said. “Which one are you referring to?”

  He showed me his iPad. It was open to the CinnaMann Bakery Facebook Page and a post dated October 9, the day before the first episode was released.

  To My Loyal Customers,

  As many of you know our beloved daughter, Amelia Clark went missing on October 10, 2008. Janet and I worked tirelessly with local law enforcement to find our Amelia and bring her home safely. Unfortunately, this still hasn’t happened. Recently a group of amateur podcasters has taken interest in Amelia’s case. Janet and I were supportive at first. We thought the exposure would bring us the answers we’ve been praying for. Sadly, these podcasters have taken Amelia’s story and twisted it for their own financial gain. There is very little information in the case, and once the Missing or Murdered producers realized this, they filled in the gaps with conspiracies and manufactured “facts.” They are using our tragedy to line their own pockets. They’re making a mockery of our community. We ask you to please not support them. We are living every parent’s worst nightmare and have been for many years. We appreciate your prayers.

  Sincerely,

  Your Local Baker, Richard Clark.

  Below was a picture of Richard and Amelia at the bakery. She looked to be about sixteen. Both of them had on chef jackets and megawatt smiles. They looked happy, but knowing what I did, I wasn’t sure Amelia was happy. Her body language was…was…what the heck am I doing looking at this? I handed the iPad to Oliver. “What do you make of Amelia’s body language in this picture?”

  “She’s smiling but pulling away from him. There’s no affection on her part and, dang, there’s over six hundred comments and it’s been shared almost seven hundred times.”

  “A-a-a-nd everyone is supportive of the Clarks,” said Austin. “Y-you need to release a statement.”

  He was right.

  I pulled up Facebook on my laptop and shared Richard’s post to the Missing or Murdered page. Before I posted it, I wrote a six-paragraph response talking about our encounter at his home, his black eyes, the question on whether Janet was in town or not, about Leon and LeClare’s reservations, and about Todd’s encounter. I signed it with “Your Local Podcasters, Liv Olsen.”

  Then highlighted the entire thing and clicked delete.

  Venting frustrations online wouldn’t do anything but prove Richard right. Instead, I typed: There’s a reason the Clark’s don’t want you to listen, and it has nothing to do with manufactured facts, I inserted the link to the first episode and posted it.

  There. I dusted my hands off.

  Guess we’d have to wait and see what happened next.

  Episode Thirty

  Press Conference

  I woke the next morning to Camry screaming. She flipped on the light and danced around the room. It was probably a spider, again. I twisted myself more deeply into the sheets and fell back asleep. She could kill this one herself.

  “We’re sexy?” Camry jumped on my bed. “Sexy! Sexy! Sexy!”

  “Whaaa?” I shielded my eyes from the overhead light and peeked at the clock. It was three forty-five a.m.

  “We’re number sixty on the iTunes podcast chart.” She shoved her phone up to my face. I blinked to focus and...

  “We’re number sixty!” I threw the covers off and jumped with her. “We’re number sixty!”

  Hazel appeared at the door in her nightgown and curlers. “What the frog is happening in here? It’s not even four a.m.”

  “We’re number sixty!” Camry and I screamed in unison.

  “Not sure what that means but, yay!” We helped Hazel up to the bed and the three of us jumped, holding hands, chanting “sixty!”

  We did this until Camry checked her phone and declared, “We’re number fifty-nine!”

  Then we jumped and chanted, “Fifty-nine!” laughing, and cheering, and crying tears of joy.

  By the time the sun rose, we were number forty-five and climbing.

  Missing or Murdered took off and made the New & Noteworthy section of iTunes. Because of this, Audio Ninja was able to land us a sponsor, an energy drink called Force!. Never heard of it before. Oliver drove to Wal-Mart and bought a case. The five of us toasted a can, took a sip and spewed it out almost immediately.

  “Blah, this tastes like watered down Sunny Delight,” Oliver said, wiping his tongue with a napkin.

  “More like vegetable oil.” I gulped water to erase the aftertaste. No such luck.

  “This is offensive to my taste buds,” said Hazel.

  Austin ripped open a tin of mints and shoved a handful into his mouth.

  “I don’t mind it so much.” Camry held the can to her nose. “Smells like puppies and winter.”

  “Ha, ha, you’re hilarious,” I said.

  “D-did I miss something?”

  “No!” I said before Camry could tell the story. “But since you like it so much, Camry, you record the fifteen-second pre-roll spot and sixty-second mid-episode spot. But don’t describe it as puppies and winter.”

  “Hold on! You’re
going to let me touch a microphone? Me? Little ole’ me?” Camry fanned her face and clutched the can like it was a trophy. “I can’t believe this is happening. First, I want to thank Starbucks for scorching what’s left of my taste buds allowing me to stomach this drink.”

  Austin gave Camry a round of applause.

  “Don’t encourage her,” I said to him.

  “...and I want to thank my parents...”

  “Sh-shut up!” Austin said.

  “Geez, I was just kidding.” Camry sat down with her Force! and pouted.

  “No-no not you.” Austin was scrolling through his phone. “My s-source says—” We all knew his source was his dad, but played along. “—after they received an anonymous tip, the Santa Maria PD obtained a search warrant of the Clark’s home.”

  Anonymous tip?

  Camry smacked the table. “That’s unbelievable, we give Detective I could be a Victoria’s Secret model everything we have and she goes with an anonymous tip instead?”

  “What did the tip say?” Oliver asked.

  “H-he said that Amelia was buried in the backyard under the apple tree.”

  “Oh my gosh...” I sank down on a chair and buried my head in my hands. Deep down I knew Amelia was dead. But there was a part of me holding on to hope that she wasn’t. I didn’t realize how big that hope was until then. Between the rocks in a heart, and Richard’s outburst, and the apple through our window matching the apples found in the Clark’s backyard, and Richard refusing to have his soil tested, and then an anonymous tip stating what I thought to be true... “Amelia really is dead,” I said in a whisper.

  “Oh you sweet thing, we sort of already knew that. Right?” Hazel said.

  “I guess so.” It hurt to say it out loud.

  “We need cake.” Hazel declared and scooted off to the kitchen.

  Oliver lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “We don’t know anything yet.”

  “Yes we do.” Camry wrapped her arms around herself. “She’s dead and her parents killed her, bastards.”

  Two days passed before I got a text from Detective LeClare, there was a press conference on Wednesday at nine a.m. Camry, Austin and I arrived early and found seats in the second row. The press conference was held at the Town Hall. There was a podium up front with an American flag, California Flag, and the Santa Maria City Flag hung respectfully behind it. Missing or Murdered had broken the top ten. The popularity had turned Amelia Clark into a national news story and by nine a.m., the room was beyond maximum capacity.

  The side door opened and the chief of police and Detective LeClare walked in, followed by a dozen men and women dressed in suits. The chief spoke first and thanked everyone for coming. He talked about Amelia, saying she was well liked and well known. He said her disappearance had left a hole in the community for over ten years and the PD had been working tirelessly to find answers.

  After his spiel, he turned the time over to Detective LeClare. She was in a gray pantsuit with a black shirt underneath. From the front, you could scarcely tell she was pregnant.

  “Thank you again for coming today.” LeClare grabbed hold of either side of the podium, ready to address the crowd. “Recently, a podcast investigation into the case file of Amelia Clark was created. This helped us tremendously as it brought Amelia’s disappearance back to the forefront of everyone’s minds and put pressure on those who had information. We received an anonymous tip on our hotline. Now, we take every tip seriously, and based on the information we were given, and the information we already had on file, we felt we had enough reason to search the Clark home. For the past two days, cadaver dogs and the forensic team conducted a thorough search of the property. In the backyard, under an apple tree, buried four feet under the ground was a blanket. The DNA recovered from the blanket does belong to Amelia Clark. We were unable to locate a body or any other incriminating evidence. No arrests have been made at the time. But we’d urge the public, if you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Amelia Clark, or have any information at all, no matter how insignificant it may seem, please contact us directly. We’ll now take questions.”

  My hand automatically shot up.

  “Yes, Ms. Olsen.”

  All eyes were now on me. I should have thought of a question before I raised my hand. My mind was in shock. I held my new recorder to my mouth and asked, “What kind of DNA was recovered?”

  “Hair.”

  Hair?

  Who buries a blanket?

  The reporter behind me was called on. “Do the Clark’s have an explanation as to why there was a blanket buried in the backyard?”

  “Yes, they said it was a memorial for their daughter that they created on the tenth anniversary of her disappearance.”

  My hand shot up again.

  “Ms. Olsen.”

  “Are Richard and Janet Clark officially people of interest?” I asked.

  LeClare leaned into the microphone and said, “No.”

  My heart sank into my gut. Nothing about this made sense. A blanket with Amelia’s DNA was buried in the backyard?

  Then why did someone throw the apple?

  And more importantly: Where the heck was Amelia?

  Episode Thirty-One

  Anonymous

  “I heard the news,” Hazel said as soon as I walked in the door.

  “Liv doesn’t want to talk about it.” Camry dropped into a chair in the den with a thud.

  I face planted into the sofa.

  “We need donuts.” Hazel scooted to the kitchen and I could already hear her firing up the deep fryer. The last thing I wanted was food, but I had no doubt I’d eat whatever she made anyway.

  The lights around the room flashed on and off.

  “One, two, three, not it!” Camry yelled before I could get the words out.

  “Dammit!” I rolled to the floor and forced myself up to answer the door. It was a woman with a hooked nose and bright eyes, wearing a black silk shirt that clung to her shoulders.

  “Hi, can I help you?” I asked.

  “Are you the one doing the podcast?”

  I hesitated, scared she’d throw an apple in my face and run away. But I was too tired to think of a better response, so I said, “Yes.”

  “My name is Falina Vanderbilt, my family owns Grotto De’Vino. You met my sister Sandy.”

  Oh.

  “Yes, Sandy. We met the night we came in to do a wine tasting. You have a lovely facility.” From what I could remember.

  Falina gulped loud enough for me to hear. “I have information for you about the Clarks and Amelia. Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course.” I stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind me. “Can I record the conversation?”

  “No. I don’t want my name out there, but I’ve tried everything and no one is getting it.”

  “Have you contacted the police?”

  Falina waved her hand, as if the idea was ridiculous. “I’m the one who called in the anonymous tip and look what happened. Nothing!”

  “You’re the one who said Amelia was buried under the apple tree?” I asked in shock.

  “Yes. I’m also the one who—” she snapped her mouth shut.

  “Who what?” I finally asked.

  Falina refused to make eye contact and it dawned on me. “Did you throw the apple?”

  “It wasn’t supposed to go through the window!” She blurted out. “It was just supposed to get your attention.”

  Holy crap.

  I need to sit down.

  So I did.

  “You threw the apple. But how’d you know about the podcast? Did you read it online?” I asked.

  “No, Val told me.”

  Val?

  Who the hell is Val?

  Confusion must have been written all over my face because Falina sa
id, “Val is my babysitter, and she also works at CinnaMann’s. She was there the day you came in to speak to Richard.”

  Oh, that Val. The young girl who was cleaning the display case the first time we went to CinnaMann’s. The one I accidently introduced myself as Amelia Clark to.

  “Val said you worked on Cold in America, which I love. And I thought if you looked in the Clark’s backyard, you’d figure out where Millie was.”

  “You could have slipped me a note,” I said.

  “I just really don’t want Richard to know I’m the one who told. Please.”

  “I won’t use your name, I promise. Now, what do you know?”

  Falina sat down and cracked her knuckles one at a time. I could tell this was difficult for her. “We lived behind the Clarks for many years,” she finally started. “Millie was at our house every day during the summer. She mostly played with Sandy, since they’re the same age. They liked to play outside.” A look of horror flashed through her gaze. “No one knew that our ground was poisonous at the time.”

  I remember what Sandy had said about her brother. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she said, studying her hands. “My parents never got along with the Clarks. My mom thought Richard was a hot head and that Janet was weird. Richard once filed a lawsuit against my parents because my brother broke the bottom of the fence, and he wanted us to pay to replace the entire thing, not just the one broken slat.”

  “In the mid-nineties,” I said. “I remember seeing online that he had a civil suit, but it didn’t say what it was for.”

  “It was dropped before it went to court. My parents ended up paying for a new fence just to get Richard off their case. Of course, it strained our relationship, and Millie never came over again.”

  This story proved nothing except that Richard was a big butthole.

  But that I already knew.

  “That’s why Richard can’t know it was me who told you, because he’ll destroy my family.”

  “I promise you that I won’t tell.”

  “Good, because there’s more,” Falina said. “That heart in the backyard, the one the Clark’s said they put there as a memorial for Millie, that’s been there since at least 2010. They’re lying.”