by Gerri Hill
CJ looked down at her running shoes, jeans and FBI T-shirt. She supposed she could have brought a suit jacket, but hell, it was still too warm for that. Paige, of course, was dressed as Paige always was. Professional yet practical. She looked back to the woman and smiled.
“If I have to chase down a bad guy, I bet I could run faster than your guys with suits and ties.”
Lizzie Willis pursed her lips. “You young people, so casual these days.”
“Mrs. Willis, we just have a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Paige said.
“Call me Lizzie. I’ve been a widow over forty years.” She stepped back and held the door open. “Come inside. I have the fans on.”
CJ hid her smile as Paige bravely crossed the threshold. CJ imagined this was her first time to be inside a trailer. Everything was tidy and neat. While warm, it wasn’t unbearably hot inside. Lizzie had no less than three fans blowing air around. She imagined in the heart of summer, it would be sweltering inside.
“Sit,” she said, pointing at the sofa. It was torn and the floral pattern faded but a sheet had been placed across the seat cushion. It appeared clean, and she and Paige exchanged glances before they sat.
“I’m sure you heard about the young boy they found down the street,” Paige started.
“Oh, yes. At the Wicker house. A little Mexican boy, they say.”
“He appears to be Hispanic, yes, but he has yet to be identified,” Paige said.
“Why do you call it the Wicker house?” CJ asked. “That’s also what Brenda called it.”
“Well, that’s its name,” Lizzie said simply.
“Spencer was the original builder and owner. The last owners are Underwood,” Paige said. “They’ve owned it for fifty-six years.”
Lizzie waved away her explanation. “The Underwoods only lived there for a short time. It’s been vacant since. The Wickers owned it before that.” She folded her hands together, her thin fingers showing arthritic swelling at each knuckle. “Mr. Wicker went crazy one night. They think he had lead poisoning or something. He made moonshine whiskey,” she said matter-of-factly. “Must have poisoned himself.”
“Okay,” Paige said. “But this boy, he was found—”
“He killed three that night,” Lizzie said, her eyes wide. “Chopped them up.”
CJ frowned. “Mr. Wicker?”
“Yep.” Her voice lowered. “With an ax. On the stairs. They said there was blood all over the walls, just dripping down.”
“And this would have been when?”
“It was in 1948. The Underwoods bought it ten years later after it had been standing vacant. Now who in their right mind would buy a house like that? Probably still had blood on the walls,” she said with a shake of her head.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Paige said, “but how old are you?”
Lizzie let out a surprisingly loud laugh. “Young lady, I’ll be eighty-nine this December.” She tapped her forehead. “But my memory is still strong.”
“You’ve lived in this area then for most of your life?” CJ asked.
“Not most…all. Of course, not here at Shady Pines. No, when Earl was alive we lived closer to town. Had us a nice house. The cancer got him, though. We never got around to having kids so I was on my own,” she said. “Little by little, the money ran out.” She waved her hands out to her side. “I could have moved down to where my younger sister lives, down in Conroe. But no. I moved back out to Pecan Grove. This is home. Been here twenty-eight years now. It’s all I can afford, what with only my Social Security checks.”
“You’ve been here in Shady Pines all that time?”
“Oh, yes. Right here. Bought this trailer new. My sister and her husband helped me get settled.” She smiled brightly. “We have the same birthday. She comes up to see me every April. Brings a pie or a cake or something. Oh, how she can bake. Got that from our mother.”
“That’s great,” Paige said politely. “So you were living here when the four boys went missing then.”
“Oh, yes, dear. It was a horrible time for everyone. Folks were afraid to send their children off to school for fear they wouldn’t come home.” She shook her head. “Some people even moved away. Of course, some wanted to close the elementary school, but they never did. They bus kids over to it now.”
“Did you know any of the families personally?” CJ asked.
Lizzie let out another laugh. “Of course. Back then there were forty or fifty families living here. Now, not everybody was friends with each other, but everybody knew everybody,” she said.
CJ glanced at Paige, not sure what they were gaining by questioning this woman, other than a history lesson. She was trying to think of a polite way to wrap it up and move on when Paige asked a question that surprised her.
“What do you think happened to the four boys?”
Lizzie folded her hands together tightly. “Something most awful, I imagine,” she said. “Paulie Canton was the only one they found,” she said, her voice trailing off. “Terrible thing for the families.”
“Why do you think he was left at the Wicker house?” Paige asked.
“The Wicker house is evil,” she said. “Whoever did this was probably drawn to it.” She leaned closer, her voice low. “I won’t even drive past it. I take the long way into Cleveland when I have shopping to do.”
“So you still drive?” CJ asked.
“Oh, yes. Now don’t you worry. I’m perfectly capable.”
“Do you think the house is haunted?” Paige asked, and CJ noted the serious expression on her face.
“Of course it is. Those foolish enough to go near it have seen shadows in the upper windows. Some hear screaming, others hear crying.” Again her hands clutched together. “Horrible, horrible place. So many terrible things have happened there. It was before my time, but it started with Mr. Spencer. They say he killed two kids stealing eggs from his chickens. After that, the Wickers bought it. They had eleven children.” She shook her head slowly. “Not a one of them lived to adulthood.”
CJ raised her eyebrows.
“All died right there at the house in one way or another. Two fell from the top of the third-floor stairs. One of the little girls fell off of the second-floor railing. Another drowned after he fell in the well.” She shook her head again. “They say fell. Pushed, more like it.”
“By Mr. Wicker?” Paige asked.
“Evil man,” Lizzie said with certainty.
“Did you know the children?”
“Oh, yes. Back then there was only the one school.” Her glance went past them and there was a wistful look on her face. “Things were simpler back then.” She was quiet for a moment, then a smile lit her face. “I was sweet on Tommy Wicker,” she said. “Earl picked a fight with him one day after school.”
CJ doubted that this would shed any light on the case and they were most likely just wasting time, but she let Lizzie reminisce. Any interviews they did today were more formality than anything else. Fourteen years was a long time to go looking for new evidence.
“That was the last time I saw Tommy,” she said sadly. “He never came back to school.”
“What happened to him?” Paige asked.
Lizzie looked at them, her eyes serious. “He was helping his father remove a pine tree that had fallen near the house.” Her eyes closed for a second. “He was such a pretty boy,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “He took an ax to the head. Mr. Wicker said he was swinging at the tree and Tommy just got in the way.”
“So an accident?”
“Everything was always an accident. Until that fateful night when he killed his wife and his two remaining daughters. Then they finally stopped thinking it was an accident. Of course, the whole family was gone by then. Mr. Wicker hung himself from the third-floor railing.”
“Wow,” CJ murmured.
“They say Mr. Spencer hung himself from that very railing right before he was to be arrested. After he killed those two kids he thought were stealing
from him, you know. The house sat vacant for ten years before the Underwoods bought it. Their children were grown so it was just the two of them.” She shook her head slowly. “I heard the stories Mrs. Underwood would tell. Hearing children running along the stairs. Screaming in the hallways. Feeling hands touching her.” Lizzie shook herself, as if warding off those very hands. “Swore her husband never heard any of it. Nearly drove her mad. Toward the end, she refused to even go upstairs at all.”
“And the house has been vacant again for years now, right?”
“Yes, ever since old man Underwood died. Hung himself from the same railing, same as old man Wicker, same as old man Spencer. They say he tied the rope to the corner post and just jumped.” Her lips pursed. “That’s what they say, but who really knows? Maybe he was pushed.”
“By his wife?”
“Oh, no. She wouldn’t go up the stairs, remember? No, she found him hanging there when she got home from the grocery store. She was so spooked, she wouldn’t even go up to check on him. Turned right around and drove away.” Lizzie shook her head. “After all that, she left here. I imagine she went to live with family somewhere. This would have been in the late seventies, I believe. It’s been vacant ever since,” she said. “They used to have someone go by to tend to the yard and such, when that big For Sale sign was out. But that stopped years and years ago.”
“The little boy found last week—do you know anything about him? Or have you heard anything?” CJ asked, wanting to steer the conversation back to the present.
She shook her head. “Not from here, no. I haven’t heard of anyone who knew him. Now rumor is he’s from one of the families who live over at the nursery,” she said.
“Nursery?” Paige asked.
“There’s a big nursery—trees and plants and flowers—north of town, near the National Forest boundary. Thompson’s Plants. He’s got a lot of ‘illegals,’” she said, making quotation marks in the air, “working for him. He’s probably got ten or twelve trailers out there where they live.”
“Did anyone from the sheriff’s office come around here?” CJ asked.
“No. Why would they? The boy wasn’t from here.”
CJ nodded, again glancing at Paige. “Well, I guess we’ve taken up enough of your time then. We should probably get going.”
“Oh, young lady, I love having visitors. People don’t come around and visit like they used to. Everyone’s always in a hurry these days.”
“Us included, I’m afraid,” Paige said and smiled as she stood up. “It was nice meeting you, Lizzie. If you hear anything, give us a call,” she said, handing her a card.
Lizzie stared at the card. “Paige,” she read. “Why, you’re too pretty to be working for the FBI, dear. How in the world did you get dragged into this work?”
CJ stood too, wondering what line Paige would offer her and was surprised to hear the truth.
“I wanted to help people.”
Lizzie took CJ’s card, and CJ waited for a perusal of her as well. Lizzie’s smile faltered. “You seem to fit in okay. Except for your clothes.”
CJ smiled good-naturedly. “Thanks.”
She watched as Lizzie pulled herself from her chair, struggling to straighten her shoulders.
“Let me walk you out,” Lizzie said. “You come by and visit anytime. I miss having company.”
“We may have more questions,” Paige said.
“Well, you come back then.” She held open the screen door for them, then followed them outside. “I see my flowers need a drink of water,” she commented. “It was nice and cool this morning, but the afternoons still get hot, don’t they?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m ready for cooler weather myself,” CJ said as she watched Lizzie’s neighbor come outside with a bag of trash. The woman looked at them suspiciously as she shoved the bag into a trash bin, then hurried back inside without bothering to close the lid.
“Oh, don’t mind Edie,” Lizzie said. “Edith Krause.” She held on to the wobbly railing beside the steps. “Edie hasn’t been the same since she lost her little boy.”
CJ glanced at her sharply. “Her son was one of the four boys?”
“Oh, no, no. He died at least a year before all that happened.” She pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. “He was a small, frail thing. The bigger kids picked on him constantly. Edward Krause. They called him Eddie.”
“What happened?” Paige asked.
Lizzie tilted her head. “Actually, it was one of the four who did it.”
“Did what?”
“They got into a scuffle at school one day, Butch Renkie and him. Butch was a big boy for his age. Oh, we never did learn all the details, but most say Eddie was on the ground and Butch stomped on him.” Lizzie glanced at her neighbor’s trailer. “Little Eddie’s throat was crushed.” Lizzie looked at CJ. “They said he died so fast.”
“And Little Eddie lived next door?” Paige asked.
“Yes. He was their only child. Edie sheltered him so much, wouldn’t let him play like normal kids. She was always afraid he would get hurt or get sick.” Lizzie brushed at her snow-white hair, moving it away from her face. “Edie was never the same after that.”
CJ followed her gaze to the old trailer next door. Not even one screen remained on the windows, and cinder blocks had replaced the wooden steps that were shoved to the side, forgotten, the wood long rotted.
CJ had a ton of questions, but she thought it best that she and Paige discuss all this before bombarding Lizzie Willis with them.
“Well, again, thank you for your time,” she said. “We’re going to drive around, see if we can talk to anyone else. Maybe some of the neighbors of the four boys.” She paused. “We were told Mark Poole’s grandfather was still here,” she said.
“Yes, he lives down the way a bit,” Lizzie said, pointing down the narrow street. “Lot Thirty-five, I want to say.” Again her thin lips pursed. “I don’t envy where he lives,” she said with a shake of her head. “Got him some dreadful neighbors.” She lowered her voice to nearly a whisper. “Moved in a couple of months ago. Drug dealers, they say.”
CJ’s eyebrows shot up. “Drug dealers? Has he not called the sheriff’s office?”
Lizzie waved her question away. “Like they would do anything. He’s called them out here many times. They keep saying they don’t have…” She closed her eyes, her head tilted a bit. “What’s that they say on TV?”
“Probable cause?” Paige supplied.
“Yes, that’s it. Why, he was telling Mrs. Baker that Deputy Brady basically told him not to bother them anymore.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Can you believe that? Drug dealers right under their noses.”
“Well, we’ll go see him. Mr. Poole? What’s his first name?”
“Allen. Nice enough fella. Gettin’ on in years, though.”
CJ smiled. “Thank you, Lizzie. You’ve been very helpful.”
The old woman nearly beamed, and she tried to straighten her humped shoulders.
“You come back anytime,” she said.
CJ and Paige waved as they drove away and Lizzie watched them round the corner.
“What a delightful woman,” Paige said.
“Yeah. Full of stories.”
“There’s nothing in the original file about Eddie Krause. I guess that didn’t come into play for them.”
“A little bit of a coincidence, yeah.”
Paige smiled quickly. “But we don’t believe in coincidence, do we?”
“No.” CJ picked up her phone and called Ice. “Let’s see if the boys hit on anything.” It only rang once before Ice answered.
“Please say it’s lunchtime.”
“It’s not even eleven, baldy. Did you find anything?”
“What were you expecting us to find? Just like the report said, unidentified Hispanic male, approximate age six to eight.”
“Who all did you talk to?”
“We spoke with the deputies who were the first on the scene. We then talk
ed to the team investigating the death. They got nothing.”
“Howley said the medical examiner would have the final report in this week. Did you ask?”
“Yeah, they don’t have it yet. They’re putting a call in. Maybe we’ll get something later today.”
“So where are you now?”
“About to head back your way. You get anything?”
“Yeah, we got a little history lesson. Listen, before you leave there, see if they have anything on file regarding the death of Edward Krause. It would have been a year or so before the four boys disappeared.”
“Who’s he?”
“He was six. He was killed at school. Deemed an accident. One of the four boys was involved.”
“Okay. We’ll check on it.”
“We’re going to interview the grandfather of one of the four boys, then we’ll wrap it up here. Let’s just meet at the hotel instead of you coming out here, then we’ll head out for lunch.”
“Deal.”
CJ put her phone down and glanced over at Paige. “They got nothing.”
Paige nodded. “This is Lot Thirty-five,” she said.
An old Ford truck sat in the driveway. CJ pulled off to the side of the road. The trailer was much like the others, years past its prime. Five tires leaned against the side of it, the weeds grown almost tall enough to cover them.
As soon as they got out of the truck, they heard ferocious barking. CJ turned quickly. Across the street, a vicious-looking dog was chained to a tree. The pit bull strained against its collar, barking loudly at them, slobber dropping from its mouth as he bared his teeth.
“I hope that chain holds,” Paige said.
“You and me both, baby,” CJ murmured, aware that her hand had automatically landed on her gun.
Before they could knock, the front door ripped open and a man bellowed out in a loud voice, “Shut that damn dog up!”
CJ automatically took a step back. “Mr. Poole?”
His eyes narrowed. “Could be. Who are you?”