The wind kicked up. I shuddered again, which was just unfortunate timing. I didn’t want this kid thinking I was worried. The justice system had done its job. Johnson had been rightly convicted. His appeal would result in nothing more than a media circus.
He wouldn’t get my attention, though. Between the coverage during his first trial and my subsequent book, I’d already spent enough of my life absorbed with that man’s crimes. I needed a break.
Leah was new to my inner circle, but she seemed to understand. Just before my flight had taken off, she’d texted a promise to keep me apprised of the headlines and send links as soon as the decision was handed down by the courts. But I wouldn’t be sitting around waiting for it.
Partway up Griffis, Reed indicated an access road that had obviously not seen a snow plow. Loose and soft, the ankle-deep snow sloughed underfoot. It was like slogging through frozen sea foam.
“I'm not worried about Johnson,” I said firmly. His appeal would definitely be denied. “I am worried that I won’t have a relaxing Christmas vacation if I can’t keep a low profile. If you can refrain from telling any more residents of Birchardville who I am, that would be great.”
Reed snorted. “It won’t matter who else I tell. I’m pretty much your only fan here. I mean, you saw them back in The Store. Nobody cared.”
He had a point.
Reed turned around just in time to keep from running into a gate. Instead of opening it for me, he bent forward and hitched himself up. He swung one long leg and then the other over the top. Awkwardly, I followed suit.
“My Uncle Levi listens to The Usual Suspects sometimes, but I wouldn’t call him a fan. I’m pretty sure he only listens when I make him. He did say you have a soothing voice, though.”
This was news to me. Online commenters tended to criticize my voice. I’d stopped caring a long time ago.
Reed swung around suddenly. “Hey! This is private property. Aren't you worried about trespassing?”
“My assistant Leah e-mailed the owners last week and asked for permission. They said they'd be visiting their kids over the Holidays but I should feel free to wander around to my heart’s content. Leah said they sounded really nice.”
“They are.”
“Aren't you worried about trespassing?” We mounted a second gate.
“Are you kidding? I grew up playing in these woods. And I worked up here last summer, picking fruit and helping in the apiary.”
“It doesn't bother you to work on the site of one of the most horrific local murders of the nineteenth century?” Probably any century. Birchardville didn’t exactly seem riddled with crime. Although you never could tell about these small towns.
Reed shrugged. “I honestly never thought about it.”
We crossed the third gate and found ourselves at the top of a rise. In front of us stood a clearing studded with wood-framed enclosures and fenced in with chicken wire, the harsh edges smoothed by a soft drape of snow. Small hand-lettered signs stood on posts: Peaches, Blackberries, Strawberries, Goats, Chickens, Bees.
The very center of the clearing, however, remained open.
This was it.
Birchardville Hill.
6
This is where it had happened.
I stepped forward into the clearing. The black-and-white historical overlay forming in my mind was not too different from the muted winter scene before us. Jedidiah Roth, the father, stumbling up the slope, feet slipping against a fall of dead leaves. Ezra and Silas Roth, his two grown sons, their faces tight and set. The muscled arms swinging upward. The dull thuds as the axes fell. The soft light filtering through the clearing glinting against the sharpened blades.
In the present, the pale winter sun emerged from behind the clouds, warming my face. No breeze rattled the bare branches. No birds chirped.
Through the silence, Reed’s phone buzzed. Whistling lightly between his teeth, he fished it from his pocket.
“You have cell service?”
Reed nodded. The tips of his hair waved gently in the cold. “It’s spotty up here, but you can sometimes get a signal. Especially at the top.” He gestured to our right, where a path led out of the clearing and on an upward rise toward the summit. He frowned at his phone, tapped a quick reply, and slipped it back into his pocket. “Sorry. That's the old ball and chain. He's not thrilled I didn't check in after my shift. Ready to head back? I can take you down the shortcut.”
I might as well. I'd stood still too long. My feet had practically frozen to the ground. And I couldn't concentrate on recreating historical murders with an excitable teenager bouncing on his toes beside me. If I wanted to set the scene, I’d have to come back alone.
“Which way’s the shortcut?”
Reed pointed. “Straight down that ridgeline.”
My face must have betrayed skepticism, because he tilted his head to the side and adopted a pedantic tone. “It's the same route the Roth boys took when they chased their father up here.” He hooked a thumb toward the center of the clearing.
He had me, and he knew it. Cocking an eyebrow at him, I pulled out my digital recorder. He rubbed his hands together, grinning and clearing his throat theatrically. I fell in step beside him as he recounted a quick summary of the murders. He didn’t add any details I didn’t already know, but it was interesting to hear him tell it in his own words. The long-simmering resentment, the fight on the old Roth homestead, the bitter words, the pursuit. I let the stream wash over me, unfazed by Reed’s incessant chatter. At least he wasn't talking about sports or girls or TV or whatever it was that teenage boys talked about.
Not that I knew much about teen boys. I’d missed my chance to figure them out when I’d been a teen myself. Now it seemed too late to worry about it.
That’s one of the complications of growing up in foster care. Never knowing how long you'd stay somewhere had a way of discouraging close bonds. Then after a while, you just stop trying. That had been me. Until Mom and Dad Scott, of course.
Reed and I crunched our way down the ridge, blackberry brambles snagging against my coat. Reed’s creaky voice receded into the background as I mulled over the details of the murder. Jedidiah Roth may very well have been a terrible person, but it was hard for me to imagine children killing their own father.
Frankly, it was hard to imagine having a father.
Even harder to imagine a father that would kill his own children.
Which brought me back to Mitchell Charles David Johnson.
Which didn’t help.
That’s exactly why I'd come up here. To think about something else for a while—even if it was another murder.
Some people might balk at focusing on one horrific crime to stop thinking about another.
I envied them.
“…which brings us right to the back of the Store, just like I was telling you,” Reed was saying as we emerged from the trees.
I lifted my head, immediately aware of two facts.
First, Reed’s shortcut had worked. We’d emerged directly behind the The Olde Birchardville Store, and it had taken considerably less time than my roundabout trek via Griffis Road.
Second, the man with the sandy hair and mustache was back. He stood in our path—and he didn't look happy.
7
Now that I got a good look at him, the man reminded me of a young, sandy-haired movie star. Which wasn’t a bad thing, except that right now, he seemed angry. Reed stopped as if he’d hit a wall of ice. He lifted his hands. “I can explain.”
Muttering into his mustache, the man jerked his head toward one of the houses lining Route 267. “Go on. She’s waiting.”
Reed’s head drooped. As annoying as I'd found the boy moments ago, I was now even more annoyed with this man—who, based on the clear family resemblance, had to be Reed’s father. Reed’s particular brand of exuberance may not be to my taste, but that didn't mean I enjoyed watching him wilt in the face of paternal judgment.
Reed sloped off, half turning to bid
me farewell with a despondent wave.
The man shot me a narrow look, as if this entire scenario were my fault. He then turned and jogged away to catch up with Reed, engaging him in a low-voiced but heated conversation as the two stalked across the snow toward the house.
I could hear snatches from Reed. “…I know…but I told you I wouldn't...I don't care about that...”
His father’s responses were too quiet for me to hear.
Determined not to waste any emotional energy on a situation that clearly wasn't my problem—or even my business—I humped my shoulders to protect my ice-chipped ears and quick-stepped toward the highway, orienting myself with the layout of the town. Coming back a different way had not only saved me time, but also landed me plop in the center of the village directly behind the The Olde Birchardville Store and straight across from my second planned stop of the day: the Birchardville Cemetery. I'd been curious about it, and not just because it was one of the only things in Birchardville listed on Internet maps.
Leah had learned that some of the Roth family members had been buried there in the late 1800s. She recommended I snap a few photos of their headstones to post with the show notes for the Roth Brothers episode.
I stepped among the headstones. The oldest stones seemed to be toward the front, with the more modern-looking ones fanning out toward the back. Based on those lines of slick marble, the cemetery was probably still in use.
I scanned the stones, enjoying the old-timey names. Phineas. Lavinia. Ida. Elnora. Clarence. Abijah. Hiram. Leviticus. Gertrude. Clifton. Although many stones prominently featured the name Birchard, there were other family names represented as well. Chamberlin, Bixby, Snyder, Stoltz, Griffis, Wheatcroft, Booth.
So quaint. I loved them all.
A tall, crumbling monolith caught my eye. Immediately to its right perched a diminutive gray headstone, parts bleached white by wind and sun. It was topped with the legend Betsy E. Under her name, her husband’s name, date of death, and age, appeared a block of faded text. A poem? I squatted on my heels, squinting at the spidery script.
Stop and see, as you pass by.
As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, so you will be.
Prepare for death and follow me.
Awesome.
I pulled out my cell phone and leaned back, trying to fit the entire headstone into the frame without taking the trouble to stand up and move.
Which is why, when a voice spoke directly behind me, I lurched sideways into the snow.
8
I’d always imagined that snow would feel a lot like sand, only colder. I was wrong. Sand was sometimes dry. Snow never was. I drew in a sharp breath and sprang to my feet, an uncomfortable wet seeping through my various layers.
To his credit, Reed’s father looked contrite. Still, his mustache quivered.
“I didn't mean to scare you.” He extended a hand, ostensibly to help me brush off the snow. At the last second, he must have thought better of the move. He snatched his hand back so quickly that his elbow popped. “Sorry, sorry.” He flushed, as horrified as if he’d actually touched me. Which he hadn't.
All this made my frigid feelings toward him thaw. Slightly.
“It’s fine.” I whacked snow from the back of my jeans and rubbed my hands together. Upon closer inspection, I decided that once I got past the mustache, Reed’s dad had an interesting face. Strong jaw, good teeth, straight nose, flaring eyebrows, and—“Your eyes are two different colors,” I said, startled. Although they weren't, technically. But they were certainly two entirely different shades—one rich brown and the other shot through with a starburst of gold.
He waved this away. “It’s genetic. Listen. I’m sorry about before.”
Sorry about upsetting his son or sorry that I'd seen it? Either way, their family drama was none of my business. I folded my arms and waited.
“It’s just that Reed knows he's supposed to video chat with his mother while he's here on vacations—otherwise she doesn't let him come down—but he's always trying to get out of it. Which is obviously not your fault.” He flared his nostrils and let out a long breath. “I'm sorry. I'm just annoyed.”
He clearly was. His forehead creased as his brows lowered.
I'd always heard that parenthood ages people. In this case, I couldn’t say the aging was a bad thing. The crinkles and fine lines were more interesting than off-putting. Which was neither here nor there.
“It’s just that Reed has these weird hobbies and obsessions, and Evie worries that being here in Birchardville is bad for him because there’s not much going on, and he spends a lot of his time on the Internet researching local history and obsessing over dead people. Interesting dead people, by all accounts, but still dead.”
I put up a hand. “He followed me.” This seemed important to clarify. The rest was none of my business.
“You're right,” he said, his nostrils flaring again. “And anyway, that’s not what I wanted to say.”
I folded my arms. Let him get to the point by himself—if he could find it.
“I came to apologize for giving you a poor impression and to—well, that’s it. I'm sorry I lost my temper in front of you.”
“Why would that matter?”
He inclined his head. “It matters because I did it, and it was wrong. I’ve apologized to Reed, and I’m apologizing to you.”
OK, then. I turned to go, but he continued.
“Local gossip says you're staying over the holidays. And if that’s true, you're welcome to join us on Christmas Eve.” He nodded toward the church. “And to the Birchardville Store after. There's always refreshments and carols.” When I didn't reply, he shifted his weight and coughed uncomfortably. “I know Reed would love if you came.”
Sure. Reed would love it. “Noted.”
“Unless you have other plans for Christmas, of course.”
As if I’d be in a place like Birchardville if I had. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
I left him standing between two weather-beaten headstones.
9
I was back at Pat’s by midday. The sun had failed to warm the cold brick exterior—let alone the rooms inside. Without taking off my coat, I shimmied out of my wet jeans, flung them over a chair, donned the bobble hat, turned up the heater, dove under the bedcovers, and curled my toes, hoping to recover at least marginal body heat before my next trek outside.
Day one, and I’d already made it to the top of Birchardville Hill. I’d seen the murder site and snapped a few photos. Next, I needed to climb Cobb Hill Road to find the old family homestead, take a peek inside the Birchardville Church, snag a few interviews with local descendants of the Roth family—should there be any left—and type up my notes into something readable. With any luck, I'd be able to add this segment to one of my February shows.
I transferred the pictures from my phone to my laptop and spent the remainder of the time before lunch typing my notes. In all, it would have been a quiet, cozy first day in Birchardville, almost completely uneventful—barring, of course, my weird interaction with Reed and his mustachioed father.
Per her arrangements with Leah, Pat had stocked my mini fridge. She'd also left an electric kettle and a packet of tea on the counter. After a sandwich and a hot tea, I felt decidedly more human. It was time to tackle Cobb Hill Road.
Although, technically I had the site of the old Roth homestead on my agenda for tomorrow, I'd taken a peek at the weather forecast and decided to get it done today. It was only seventeen degrees, but at least it wasn't windy or actively snowing. Smart researchers make notes while the sun shines. At least, that’s what I told myself.
The hike up Cobb Hill Road proved more taxing than I'd expected. Though honestly, having grown up in Florida, anything that wasn’t flat was taxing. My weight broke the frozen crust at the side of the road. Thank God for waterproof boots. The road rose steadily for over a mile, climbing through a twist of bare trees and deadfall reminiscent o
f a fairy tale—and not a happily-ever-after fairy tale, either. The sort that ended with the prince transformed into a bear or eaten by goblins.
It probably wasn't best to think about bears in this particular scenario. I had done some research and assured myself that unless the winter was “unseasonably warm,” the bears should be holed up in caves somewhere hibernating until spring. Hopefully, seventeen degrees didn’t count as “unseasonably warm.”
Something crashed through the underbrush to my left, and I completely overreacted. I levitated to the center of the road, arms raised and feet poised for flight. Six feet of gangly teenager gaped back at me.
Mimicking the gesture he’d given his dad just hours earlier, Reed flung up his hands, palms out. He rolled his lips in under his teeth and bit down, obviously straining not to laugh. He jammed his bare hands into the pockets of his red hoodie and bounced on his toes. “Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you. I was just taking a shortcut.” He gestured down the rocky embankment littered with patches of drifted snow and crisscrossed with deadfall.
How did he know I'd be up here? But oh, wait…consider the evidence. Reed knew I was here to research the Roth murders. This would be the next logical site for me to visit.
“What do you want?” And where was his coat? Did Pennsylvania boys really run around the frozen foothills in nothing more substantial than jeans and a hoodie?
Apparently this one did.
Reed hustled me off the road—and just in time. A truck downshifted as it roared around a bend and passed with a great plume of exhaust. Reed fell into step beside me. “I wanted to remind you to sign my copy of Sins of a Father. And also help you find the Roth homestead. I know right where it is.”
Of course he did. I resigned myself. This kid seemed determined to tag along for my entire research trip, and I might as well get some use out of him. A niggling concern reared its head. “What about—” My gesture toward the center of town must have made my meaning clear.
Murder on Birchardville Hill Page 3