by Etta Faire
There were lots of photos of the Linders, with the Donovans, with the Petertons, by themselves, all at fancy-smancy fundraisers and campaign parties, such beautiful people, smiling over their champagne glasses. Apparently, Mr. Linder had been a real estate investor and a financial planner, his wife a philanthropist. The Donovans and the Linders looked like they’d been good friends.
It just seemed impossible that the loud splash I heard that night was Bill Donovan enlisting a group of teenagers to help him dump his good friend’s body over the side of a boat. I could totally see him paying a couple of strangers to do that, but lugging dead friends around himself seemed way out of character.
They had to be staging the deaths. It was the only thing that made sense. After searching the rest of the reel and finding nothing, I rewound the microfilm from 1956 and carefully placed it back in its container, craning my neck to see the front desk again. Mrs. Nebitt was still busy pretending to be busy.
I set up one of the reels from 1957, several months before the accident, and continued my search with the society pages. I was hoping to see if Bill Donovan looked at all upset with his friend, Dwight. I couldn’t find even one photo of the Linders in the society section. There were a couple of the Donovans, but the parties didn’t seem nearly as full or swanky.
“Exactly how many boxes do you have there?” a stern voice said by my side, making me jump into the heavy peppermint breath that was already smacking my neck.
I screamed.
Mrs. Nebitt shushed me. Her usual scowl had the undertones of suspicion and disappointment this time. She snatched my purse off the table and the hidden stack of about six boxes toppled over.
“This is why this section needs to be supervised,” she said, making a tsk-ing noise while scooping up three of the boxes. She waddled over to the cabinets with them.
“I was going to put them back when I was done,” I called after her.
She shushed me again without turning around. I got the feeling I was about to be the first person on record to ever get kicked out of a library for quietly doing research.
“I’m mostly interested in the Linders, and their drowning,” I said when she came back and looked like she was going to continue her lecture. It worked. She opened her mouth like she was prepared to scold me about the boxes then waddled away without saying a word.
I opened the box labeled Landover Gazette July - September 1957 while Mrs. Nebitt straightened up the metal cabinet. I’d already checked through this reel, but I must’ve missed the part where the remains had been found.
The only article I found about their deaths was when the search officially ended. It basically assumed they were dead. No bodies. No proof.
The search for one of Landover’s most famous residents and his son was called off yesterday after more than three weeks. Dwight Lender, 48, and his 18-year-old son, Frederick, were last seen on July 20 on a boat owned by family friend and business partner, Bill Donovan.
Dwight Linder, a financial planner at Feldman Martin, was also a volunteer fireman for the county of Landover and a deacon at Potter Grove Methodist. However, Mr. Linder was probably best known for his grandparents’ pioneering efforts to bring Landover Country Club to completion in the early 1900s.
“This is a deep lake with lots of rocks and weeds,” a spokesperson for the Landover County Medical Examiner said. “It’s common for bodies not to resurface right away. The lungs compress and the person sinks, but as decomposition sets in, it could fill with enough gas to resurface again.”
“It’s probably also common for a body not to surface if the person is wearing a pair of cement shoes,” I thought as I scanned the gruesome article detailing the logistics of bodies decomposing.
The last part of the article broke my heart.
Frederick Linder was headed to Yale University where he planned to follow in his father’s footsteps to become a financial planner and a real estate mogul.
He, like Gloria and Nettie, had been robbed of that if he really was dead. And none of it was their fault. I looked up. Mrs. Nebitt was still standing by the cabinets.
“Whatever happened to the Linders? Mrs. Linder and Eric? Did you know them?”
My phone dinged loudly from my purse, and she glared at me, but I could tell there was relief behind the glare. I’d given her an excuse not to talk about the accident.
I turned down my phone’s volume and checked to see if it was Justin who’d texted me back. It had been June.
Yes, I am that June. How do I know you?
I just about fell out of my seat. Here she was. A real, live connection to Gloria, and easier to find than I thought. Thank you, Facebook.
I quickly messaged her back: I am writing a story on the boating accident from 1957. I have reason to believe it wasn’t an accident and that information has been covered up. I would like to get the family’s perspective. Could we talk sometime?
I left her both my numbers then waited for her to call me. Nothing. After a minute of me staring at a blank phone, cursing in my mother’s voice that nobody had common-courtesy phone etiquette anymore, I texted Justin.
We need to talk about our relationship.
I sat with my finger over the send button for probably a good 30 seconds before saying “screw it” to myself and sending it off. He replied almost immediately.
Good idea.
I really wasn’t expecting that reaction, and so quickly too. I stared at his words a second. Were we breaking up? Another text came in while I stared.
Dinner tomorrow at my place?
I texted back a “yes” with way too many exclamation points. This was going to end in one of two ways. The same way it had 12 years ago or with amazing make-up sex. Of course I was hoping for the latter, which I decided he must’ve been hoping for too. It had to be why he’d suggested dinner at his place. But like most things in life, I could also have been reading way too much into it.
Later that evening, when I finally got home after work, Gloria and Jackson were already waiting for me in the living room. I was surprised to see Gloria so soon. Most ghosts needed at least a week after a channeling to materialize again. She was nearly transparent, though. So I could tell she was still very weak.
“We had a long talk,” Jackson said, in the fatherly voice he knew I hated. “And we’ve decided. Some things just aren’t worth the effort. Gloria knows what happened that night and who did it, and that’s enough.”
“You’ve decided?” I replied, my voice even snippier than I’d intended. “That’s nice of you. What about me? Don’t I have a say in this?”
Jackson went to open his mouth, but I cut him off.
“And here’s the weirdest part. I’m the only one of the three of us with an earthly life left to lose, and I’m the only one brave enough to do this?”
“That’s the point.” Gloria sat down on the settee, the red fabric taking over her color now. Her voice was so low I could barely hear it. “I don’t want what happened to me to happen to you or anyone else. I was able to remember that night in the channeling. Thanks for that. It’s enough. I don’t need justice for my murder.”
I sat down beside her.
“This investigation just seems to be a little more dangerous than we thought,” Jackson added. “Myles and Bill Donovan did this, but it might be too dangerous and tricky to prove it.”
I stared at the ceiling, unwilling to let them know they had a very good point.
Gloria sat forward. “I’ll still do the channeling to take you to the memories I have from the summer of 1954, don’t worry. You know, when I saw the weird birds.”
I coughed on my own spit. “I didn’t know you actually saw the weird birds in person.”
Her voice was mumbled. It was like listening to someone whispering. And unfortunately, I wasn’t sure I was catching everything she was saying.
“Nettie and I were 15 at the time. I’ll never forget it.” Her voice cut out here and there. “My aunt was an amateur bird watch… She was
the first one to see them and point them out when we were walking along the lake. She had no… what kind of birds they were. Ugliest things… ever seen. Beaks that looked like thick… We saw the girl… attacked. And we saw the hero dog, too.”
The hero dog?
I almost fell off the couch and landed on Rex who was sleeping at my feet. A couple months ago, in an article from 1954, a young woman was attacked by birds while walking through the woods but was saved by a hero dog… that looked just like my dog, down to the little scar on his nose.
I knew it was a crazy idea but something told me if I just got a glimpse of that famous bird dog up close, I’d know for sure if it was Rex.
I took her up on her offer and told her how impressed I was with her bravery that night.
“You weren’t Nettie Jerome’s frog cousin. Not at all. You were strong and quick-thinking. You did everything you could have.”
She smiled. “It was good to remember, in a way.”
“And, I disagree that this is too tricky or dangerous. The people responsible should be held accountable. Plus, your family has a right to know what happened. I found your sister, by the way.”
Her face brightened to almost full color. She turned to Jackson then back to me. “June? What’s she like? How’s she doing?”
“I haven’t been able to talk to her yet,” I admitted. “I left my number. So we’ll see. But I lived that night with you, Gloria. That was a brutal attack. Your family deserves to know the truth, and the people involved shouldn’t get away with it.”
Jackson shook his head at me.
“I’m done treading cautiously.” I continued, this time to my ex. “You always told me to go with my gut when it came to ending this curse. And I think a huge part of it involves uncovering the secrets of this town, and making things right.”
It was a lie. I actually had no idea how to end this curse, but it shut my ex-husband up for once. Gloria disappeared, and he didn’t say a word the rest of the night.
Note to self: Mention that curse more often.
Chapter 13
A Calling
My mother was less than apologetic when I finally got a hold of her later that weekend, making me realize, as we both aged, there was a bit of a role reversal going on in our relationship.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for a week. A week. I was worried sick,” I said.
“Brenda and I flew into Cabo for a few days, spur of the moment. She owns a timeshare there and you know how expensive cell phone coverage is in Mexico.”
I paced the dining room as I talked. “No, Mom. I actually have no idea. I don’t go to Mexico. You don’t go to Mexico. We’re not a spur-of-the-moment, go-to-Mexico kind of a family. We’re a plan-things-out-for-years kind, and then decide it’s actually not a good idea.”
“I don’t like your tone. Should I call back when you remember how to talk to your mother?”
I ignored her. “Stop evading my questions. That’s a big spur-of-the-moment thing to do. Don’t you think you should have called and told me about it?”
She didn’t answer.
Apparently, I was getting the silent treatment now. I went on. “And Brenda is over a lot.” I stopped myself from telling her that Brenda was a bad influence, but she clearly was. “I noticed she’s even on your answering machine now.”
“Of course she is. She lives here.”
The awkward pause between us grew longer as I tried to process this new conversation I was having with my mother. Our conversations usually went something like this: Hello, Carly, I’m very bored with my life, so I called to pry into yours. When can I expect grandchildren? I’ve been eyeing a pair of light blue stretchy pants on clearance in the grandmother section of Macy’s…
Whatever this new conversation was, it was unchartered territory. My mother was no longer my mother anymore. She had secrets. She went to Cabo. She had her own life.
“So, Brenda is living there now? What does that even mean? Are you guys… I mean, is there something you want to tell me?”
“Are you asking if I’m a lesbian?”
I plopped down at the dining room table. “No, I mean… Well, since you brought it up, are you? Actually, don’t answer that. I know you’d tell me if you were.”
“Because gay people must announce to straight people that they are gay.”
“That’s not it. We used to share stuff…”
“Well then, I must’ve missed your big coming-out-straight announcement.”
“Okay, stop,” I said. “It’s not a big deal if you are.”
Her slight country accent was back. She got that a lot when she was angry. “Brenda and I are friends who enjoy each other’s company. End of story. I realized you had a very good point when you left in such a huff to head back to Wisconsin. I, too, only have one life to live and I get to live it my way. Life is too short to worry about how others see you. You have no control over that anyway. Be happy…”
I let my mind wander while my mother tap danced on her soapbox. I didn’t need to listen. I was the one who wrote that speech when I left Indianapolis. No doubt once she was finished, she’d somehow figure out a way to ask how close to marriage and kids I was.
But she didn’t, and after a while, I got sick of hearing about margaritas and how cold Brenda was in Mexico even though it was 75.
“Look, Mom, I’ve gotta…” My eyesight flickered. It was like I was blinking when I wasn’t. I closed my eyes, a little worried about myself. But I knew from past episodes, it would go away in a second.
“And you know how I get after I’ve had more than one mai tai,” my mother said, like I actually did know or care. She certainly liked to talk about drinking more than she used to. Brenda was her Nettie in life.
I opened my eyes. The flickering was gone, but the room spun a little and I felt a headache coming on. I grabbed the table to steady myself and got up, then walked to the living room to lie down on the couch. The temperature felt like it had suddenly dropped by about twenty degrees. I snatched my super soft throw blanket from the back of the settee on my way by and draped myself in it. “I have to go, Mom.” I mumbled into the phone through chattering teeth. I plopped on the sofa, almost missing the cushions.
“But I haven’t even told you the part about the worm. I drank a to-kill-ya worm.”
“Tequila,” I corrected her pronunciation.
“I’m pretty sure it was trying to kill me.” She chuckled. “I didn’t really drink it, but Brenda tried to dare me.”
I said good-bye to my mother and pinched the bridge of my nose to help the flickering a little. After another minute, just when the throbbing made it seem like my head might explode, it stopped. Everything was normal again.
I was just thinking that maybe another channeling wasn’t such a good idea when I heard a loud thud in the hallway that led to the basement.
“Rex,” I called, looking around the living room. It was quiet, way too quiet. And I was surprised to hear a quiver in my voice as I yelled his name. He was an old dog (supposedly) and my mind went to the worst case scenario. Of course, Jackson was nowhere to be found. When I needed him, he never materialized, but try to fool around on the couch with your boyfriend, and there he was, critiquing things.
I stepped out onto the veranda without even grabbing my coat, almost slipping on the ice. “Rex?” I called. The sun was barely visible through the clouds. The wind smacked my face, making my nose water. I went back in and was just about to check upstairs when I heard something by the second staircase down the hall again. The only staircase in the house that led down.
“Jackson,” I called, slowly walking down the hall toward the noise. “Rex.” No one answered. I knew where the noise was coming from, even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself. The basement.
I’d only ever been down in the basement twice the whole time I lived at Gate House, and that included the first time I lived there, when I was married to Jackson for seven years.
I listened by
the door and heard a definite loud thump coming from down there. Even though logically I knew it couldn’t have been Rex, I still went back to the kitchen and grabbed the key for the basement out of the key cabinet. I also grabbed one of the mace canisters I kept in strategic places around the house ever since the incident with the stripper murders.
I flicked on my flashlight app on my phone, one of the only things it was good for because cell phone reception was pretty much nonexistent at Gate House then swung open the door at the back of the hall.
To strangers, the door appeared to lead to a very small closet. I knelt down on the floorboards, running my hands along the planks to feel for the keyhole. After unlocking it and finding the almost-hidden handhold, I lifted up the trap door and an instant smell of must and mold floated around me from the dank basement underneath.
“Rex,” I called into the dark pit coming off my floor, but it sounded more like a whisper. I shined my light around the walls and the pitted concrete stairs that led down. I didn’t see a light switch, something I probably should already have located in the house I owned.
I stopped myself. What in the hell was I about to do? Rex wasn’t down in this pit of secrets.
Still, I felt compelled to check. Something made me think I should go down there to make sure.
The banister swayed under my very light touch. Slowly, I inched my way to the bottom of the stairs, my eyes darting left and right like I was in a horror movie.
“Rex!” I shouted, my voice echoing off the walls of the basement.
I didn’t hear anything, which was not surprising. How was my dog going to get down here, anyway? Unless someone or something brought him down here.