by Nancy Roe
This was going to be a long snowstorm if Bertha was going to talk nonstop. “I helped the manager close. With just the two of us, it took longer.”
“You must be frozen like a popsicle.” Bertha sounded like she actually cared. “Take off that wet coat first. Drink some hot cocoa—that’ll warm you right up. Then go take a hot bath. Put some Epsom salts in the tub. Good for your muscles. Epsom salt is under the sink in the bathroom. Blue and white box. Let me know if you can’t find it.”
Hot cocoa sounded wonderful. I put water in the teakettle and turned on the stove. I opened the cocoa package and emptied it into a mug. Bertha was still talking. I’d stopped listening. The teakettle whistled. I poured the water in the mug and stirred the mixture. I put my hands on both sides of the warm mug, took a sip, and felt the warmth all the way to my toes.
I soaked in the tub half an hour. The wind blew, whistling through the window, and was grateful I had a nice place to stay. It wasn’t as nice as Connie and Harold’s house, but it was a hundred times better than living with Grandfather.
I could easily ignore what Bertha had to say because she wasn’t family. I wouldn’t hurt her.
I stayed in my room and went through my family research. Still too many questions.
I picked up the photo album I’d taken from Grandfather’s. It had been over a year since I had looked at the pictures.
I took each picture out of the sleeve and looked on the back for a date or name of the person or people in the picture. I was familiar with a few names in the family. Maybe I could finally make some other connections.
Only a few of the black-and-whites had names on the back, and those were just first names. I recognized one. My grandmother, Mildred, when she was about fourteen. All the color photos were either of my mother, father, brother, or me. One picture was the four of us in front of a Christmas tree. I wondered who had taken the picture.
On the next page, three pictures of my father with his face crossed out. Did Grandfather do that because he was angry, or did I do it when I was little because I was playing with a marker? I took one of the photos out of the album and flipped it over. Liar had been written on the back. My forehead wrinkled.
Flipping a couple of pages I stopped at a picture of my dad and brother at Christmas. They looked so happy sitting on the fireplace hearth. I took the photo out and a piece of paper fell to the floor. I unfolded it and read the note.
Jan 29. Sam, please forgive me. I’m sorry for leaving you with your grandfather. If I don’t come back, it means your father killed me. I love you. Mom
I read the note four times. It didn’t make sense. My father had died in a house fire two weeks before the note was written. I shook my head. More questions. Why would my mother leave such a note? Did she know my father wasn’t dead? Why would my father want to kill her? Was my father a liar?
If he was, I needed to do something.
40 Thursday, March 6, 1980 (Mason)
Mason and Sophia had spent the week organizing the family information in a scrapbook. When they went on their fact-finding mission, they’d have all their information in one place. Luckily, both had been able to take off Friday.
Mason pulled in Sophia’s driveway at six. Sophia came out of her house with suitcase in hand.
“Let me get that.” Mason took Sophia’s bag—heavier than he’d expected.
“You know we’re only going to be gone three nights. How much stuff did you pack?” Mason laughed.
“A girl has to look good for her man. It takes a lot of stuff to look this beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful without all the makeup.” He gave her a kiss. “I’m glad you’re coming.”
“Me, too. Let’s get going.”
A semi and car collided near Waterloo that added to the drive time. Sophia fell asleep around eleven. The drive to Clinton took almost seven and a half hours.
Mason pulled into the Night Light Motel at one-thirty. They would only be here long enough to sleep a few hours and shower. Mason left Sophia asleep in the car while he went to check in.
“Good evening. I’d like a room for the night.”
The man behind the counter looked up. “Technically, it’s good morning. Still have to charge you for a whole night’s stay, though.”
“That’s fine.” Mason took out his credit card.
“Room 16. Last room.” The man pointed to the east.
Mason drove to the end of the motel and backed into the parking spot in front of room 16. He nudged Sophia’s arm and spoke softly. “Sweetheart. We’re in Clinton.”
“Hmm.” Sophia stretched her arms in front of her. “I didn’t realize I was so tired.”
“I’ve already checked in. Let’s get you in bed.”
Mason had a hard time getting to sleep. Every time he closed eyes, he thought of his sister, what she might look like, would he recognize her. He finally started thinking of Sophia, then drifted away.
41 December 14, 1979 (Sam)
During my research at the library, I found some articles in the newspaper about a land dispute involving Grandfather and his stepbrother, Mark Amstead. After my great-grandmother remarried, she never saw her son again. When she died, Grandfather tried to get part of the land. The court upheld the will and Grandfather got nothing. Mark got the farm in Alta Vista. There was a comment in the paper from Mark: Ernest has not been a part of this family for many years. His mother wrote him out of the will for personal reasons. He got what he deserves—nothing.
I found a phone number for Mark Amstead in Alta Vista. I used the pay phone outside the library entrance.
“My name’s Leslie Tankard,” I said. “I’m writing a paper on the history of Alta Vista’s farming community. Your farm’s interesting because of a family dispute.”
“That was a long time ago.” He sounded angry.
“I know, sir. I just need a few details for my report. I need to get an A. My parents will be upset if I don’t.”
“Sure.” He sounded calmer. “Whatcha wanna know?”
“My records indicate that your step-brother, Ernest York, sued for part ownership of the land. He has since passed away.” I thought adding that information would allow him to speak more freely. “Your mother made no mention of him in the will. I was hoping you could give me a reason why.” I held my breath. I was hoping he wouldn’t hang up.
“Ernest…he killed his father.” Mark paused. “My mother knew he did it. Couldn’t prove it. A healthy man just doesn’t die in his sleep. Ernest was only sixteen. She left him and the house. As far as I know, my mother never spoke to Ernest after she remarried.”
“I see,” I said. “And you never tried to talk to him?”
“Never saw a reason to. Only saw him one time—at the courthouse. I remember how mean he looked.”
“Thank you so much. Would it be okay if I called you again? In case I have any more questions?”
“You have my number.”
The pieces were coming together.
Killing was in my blood.
42 Friday, March 7, 1980 (Mason)
Mason and Sophia arrived at the Clinton County courthouse at eight-thirty.
“Good morning. My name’s Jean Reynolds. How can I help you?” Jean’s white hair, petite frame, was not what Mason expected.
“We’ve spoken on the phone. I’m Mason Pierce and this is Sophia Knox.”
“Oh, yes. I remember. Working on family history.”
“I have more information since we last spoke. I need to do some research on other family members.”
“Sure. I’ll get you set up in the back room.”
Sophia put the scrapbook on the table, along with the list of questions.
“There are a lot of books in here. We could be here all day,” Sophia said.
“Luckily I’ve done this twice before, so I know where to look.”
Mason walked down an aisle and found the first book. DEATHS 1968. He took it back to the table, opening to the first page. His finger sca
nned the names. He stopped. Mason, age 10. Walter, age 29.
“Oh, my!” Sophia was looking over his shoulder.
“My social security number is wrong. The middle numbers are reversed,” Mason said. “Sophia, look up my dad’s number.”
Sophia flipped through the scrapbook. “His middle numbers are reversed, too. What does that mean?”
Mason thought. “It means my dad had help in covering up the truth.”
Someone had altered the records. Two people died in a house fire—in his childhood home. Who were the two people who’d been identified as Mason and Walter?
Sophia started looking through the microfilm for information on Mason’s grandfather’s house fire. Mason looked at land records. He wondered who owned the properties where he had lived as a child, and who owned his grandfather’s farm. Mason found that Ernest York was still listed as owner for both properties.
“Found it!” Sophia said. “I found the information on your grandpa’s house fire.”
Mason was trying to read the small print over Sophia’s shoulder. “Can you print it?”
“Yeah. Jean gave me the instructions.” Sophia pecked a few keys and the machine hummed.
“Check the following few months and see if there’s any follow-up story. The article says a gas can was found near the stove. It doesn’t say if they suspected foul play.”
“Here’s the obituary. I’ll print it, as well.”
Mason read the obituary aloud. “Ernest Dwight York passed away on June 3, 1977. He lived in Delmar for the past fifty years. His wife Mildred precedes him in death. That’s it. No mention of any children or relatives. I’m surprised there was even anything in the paper.”
The machine hummed again. “Find something else?”
Sophia read: York farm sale. Saturday, July 16, 1977, 9:00 AM to 1:00 PM. Tractor, car, miscellaneous farm equipment. Contact Red McFarland.
“My dad has a friend with the last name of McFarland.”
“What are the odds it would be the same person? If your dad was so intent on leaving this area, why would he be friends with someone who lived here?”
Mason looked through the list of questions. “I think we’ve found as much as we can. It’s almost one. Let’s grab a bite, then drive to Delmar. I want to stop where I grew up first, then we’ll go over to my grandpa’s. Talk to the neighbors. Hopefully someone will still be around from back then. Maybe somebody can tell me about my sister.”
Sophia squeezed his hand. Mason looked at her and smiled.
The drive to Delmar took forty minutes. Mason turned off the highway and drove down the gravel road. He started remembering. “That pink house with white shutters. I called it the cupcake house. My mom would add food coloring to turn the cake batter pink and make white frosting. I’ve no idea why she always did that.”
They made a few turns, then Mason pulled into the driveway. Nothing was left of his childhood home. He and Sophia got out of the car. “I learned how to ride a bike on this gravel driveway. Took quite a few spills.” Mason paused. “My sister and I set off bottle rockets by that tree. We got in so much trouble.”
Mason bent down and picked up a rock. “Souvenir,” he said. He couldn’t believe that twelve years ago he was a happy child with a mother, father, and sister. Now, he had no idea whether his mother or sister where dead or alive, and that his dad had been lying to him all this time. Mason had learned a lot these past two months.
“Ready for the next trip down memory lane?” Mason said.
Sophia had the plat book and directed Mason to his grandpa’s other property.
“Anything look familiar?” Sophia said.
“Not so far.” Remains of the house still stood. It looked like no one had set foot on the property since the farm sale.
“There’s a barn over there.” Sophia pointed to the south.
“Let’s walk that way,” Mason said.
Mason opened the barn door and peered inside. It was dark and musty. “Doesn’t look like there’s much in here.” He shut the door, looked around what was left of the farm. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before. Nothing looks familiar.”
“You were only a kid when you moved to Sheldon,” Sophia said. “If I didn’t have pictures to look at, I wouldn’t remember much about my childhood.”
“Yeah. Guess you’re right. I don’t have any pictures of when I lived here.” Mason and Sophia started walking back to the car. “Unless my dad has them hidden in the basement somewhere.”
“Mason. Enough!” Sophia stopped. “I know this is a difficult situation. Don’t go blaming your dad for something that may or may not exist.”
“I was lied to about so many things. I don’t trust him.”
“He’s your father. There may be some very good reasons why he lied to you and keeps lying to you.”
“You always look for the good in people.” Mason cracked a smile. “Come on. Let’s go talk to the neighbors.”
No one was home at the first house. The next farm looked unkempt. Several cars sat on the north side of the house, grass grown over the bumpers. The screen door hung at a slight angle. The white paint on the house was cracked. Shingles lay strewn on the ground.
Mason pulled around back. An elderly man was sitting on the back stoop. Mason couldn’t tell whether the man was putting his boots on or taking them off. The man held a boot in his left hand, scraping mud off with a pocketknife in his right hand.
Mason looked at Sophia. “Why don’t you stay in the car?” Sophia nodded. “Lock your door.”
Mason stepped out of the car and walked over to the man. “Good afternoon, sir.” The man stared at him without a word. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about your former neighbors, the Yorks.”
The man spit. “Why you wanna know?” Mason could barely understand the man’s mumbled words.
“I’m Mr. York’s grandson. Mason Pierce.”
The man chuckled. “Mr. York. That man don’t deserve to be called mister.”
“You didn’t like him?”
“Naw. He ruled the house like a dictator. He was one mean man. His wife visited my wife a few times. Every time she came over, she was crying. Felt sorry for the girl though. Lost her whole family and the only one left was her grandfather. I was surprised she didn’t leave the place the day she turned eighteen, but she stuck it out to get her diploma. I saw her drive away the day the house burned. Good thing. She was a smart girl.”
He was a mean man. The third time that someone had used the same words to describe his grandfather.
“You know a man named Red McFarland?”
“Everybody knew Red. Helped a lot of people out in the area. That man had connections. Always thought he was ex-military. Don’t know his real first name.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Last I knew he moved to Florida. Got cancer. Bad stuff.”
“Thank you for your time.” Mason paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
The man spit again. “Name’s Elias Wilson.”
“Thank you, Elias.”
As Mason walked back to the car, he looked across the field. He could see his grandfather’s farm.
“One more question, Elias. I notice you can see the York farm from here. Did you ever see Red at the farm?”
Elias stood up, cocked his head to the left. “Yeah. Sure did. Maybe once a month he’d stop. Must’ve had a key to the house. Always seemed to appear when York went to town.” Elias spit. “Red sold the farm equipment after York died. Figured they were related.”
“Again, thank you.” Mason walked to the car and got in.
“Well, did you learn anything?” Sophia said.
“My grandpa was a mean man. My sister drove away before the house burned, which means she could have set the fire. And, my dad knows Red. Unless there just happens to be two men with the last name McFarland who both have cancer and now live in Florida.”
43 Friday, January 4, 1980 (Sam)
The four-hour drive gave me time to practice my speech, and consider what I’d do to Mark and Lisa. I wondered what they were doing right now. Whatever it was, it would be the last time they’d ever do it.
I stopped at a gas station for directions. An old man sat in a rocking chair next to the restroom door. He looked like he knew everything and everyone in town. I was right. It was going to be an easy house to find thanks to his directions.
Mark and Lisa Amstead lived two miles north of Alta Vista. The back of the house could be seen from the highway. The elderly man also told me that Lisa had knee surgery three weeks ago and released from rehab on Wednesday.
This news made me change my plans, but the new scenario would work better. I was becoming very skilled in improvising.
I drove by the house first. It was a small one-story white house, gray shutters. No cars were in the yard, which meant no visitors. I turned around and drove down the driveway. I parked behind the shed so my car couldn’t be seen from the road. I grabbed my bag of goodies and put on clear latex gloves.
I walked to the front door and rang the bell. I was ready to knock when a man answered the door.
“Mr. Mark Amstead?” I asked.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I spoke to you on the phone a few weeks ago. Leslie Tankard. I’m writing a paper on the Alta Vista farming community.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember.” He held the door open. “Come in. I’m getting lunch for my wife.”
I walked in and smelled chicken soup. Soup would be perfect.
Mark took a step towards the stove. I pulled a syringe from my bag and removed the cap. A dribble. I thrust the needle in the back of his neck and quickly pushed the plunger. He stumbled, tried to speak, but nothing came out.