Behind the Boater's Cover-Up

by Etta Faire

  I had no idea what that meant. L was probably Lawrence, her husband, and the mayor. D was probably Dwight Linder. R was Richard, most likely, the dead man in the woods. Her code really wasn’t hard to decipher, but then it was reflective of the cocky attitude that plagued this whole town, an attitude that almost dared someone to figure things out and say something.

  Rosalie hobbled out to check on me. “You can go on home early if you want,” she said in a defeated tone. “I can handle things today.”

  I barely looked up from the notebook. “But I have another hour on my shift,” I said, like I was busy and leaving early was a crazy notion.

  She sighed and left, and I continued flipping through the notebook, wondering what Dwight Linder owed Ethel.

  Crime or society pages?

  Did this have to do with the investment the old man from Knobby Creek was talking about?

  And what was the Richard rumor she’d been referring to? The one about the drug deal gone wrong or the greedy relative?

  I scanned for entries from July 1957 when the accident happened to see if I could find anything on the Linders. But Ethel’s notes ended the night before the accident and picked up in December with the best egg-nog recipes. I took a picture of the eggnog recipes for later.

  Flipping back over to her notes just before the accident, I looked for anything strange about the shed fire’s reporting. There wasn’t much about it, but I was excited to see it in there.

  Fire erupted just outside the country club, 2:00 a.m. when a worker’s shed caught fire. Probably all of Ernst’s moonshine. A blowtorch and a welding mask found just inside. The fire was seen clear across the lake. No injuries or threat to the main structures. Shed is destroyed. Arson suspected. Firemen responded promptly. Cause under investigation.

  I bit the end of my fingernail. Every piece of information that could have implicated the good ole boys club had been struck from her notes, of course. Mildred had been right. The fire was started on purpose, to put Mildred in her place and destroy all her father’s hard work.

  In the light of the fluorescent bulbs overhead, I could just see what looked like an erased message scribbled into the margin of the page, just like before. Aunt Ethel’s margin notes were always the hardest part of her notebook to read, little jokes and reminders written in an almost illegible scrawl. But this time it had been erased, making it almost impossible to decipher.

  I squinted and tried to concentrate on the faint lines. An “L” maybe… or an “R.” I brought my face in closer. Nope, it was definitely a “B.” B wants article on FM. DS driving him crazy. Bury it. A loud deep cough interrupted my thoughts. Cigar and coffee breath. I screamed and fell off my stool.

  Mayor Bowman and Dr. Dog. I’d been so into the notebook I hadn’t even heard the wind chimes on the door.

  “What in tarnation is that?” the mayor yelled, pointing a thick shaky finger at his aunt’s notebook.

  I threw the opened notebook into my purse. “Just taking notes on the inventory I need to order,” I said. “Someone has to keep this place stocked. We are busy…” I looked around for a stack of papers to prove it, but I didn’t have my props ready like Mayor Wittle had.

  Mayor Bowman leaned in so close I could see the wild nose hairs protruding from his flared nostrils. Of all the Bowmans, he resembled Henry the most, only the mayor was shorter with a slightly more modern hairdo. Same round glasses, though.

  Dr. Dog towered over both of us. I’d forgotten how huge that man was, easily the largest man in Potter Grove. “This place busy?” He laughed. “You think for one second we believe that?”

  “I don’t care what you and the mayor believe. What do you want?”

  I could tell by the mayor’s cold stare, he wanted me to break open my purse and prove my lie about the notebook, but he could stare all he wanted. I wasn’t intimidated by flaring nostrils or gigantic veterinarians.

  I kicked myself for not tossing the notebook in my purse sooner, though, and for not hearing the door. The one person who would recognize his aunt’s notebook…

  Dr. Dog’s heavy footfalls echoed through the floorboards as he stomped around the store, scanning the place from ceiling to floor. He took a couple dangly turquoise earring sets from their display cases, shook his head, and put them back.

  “Most everything here is done by local artists,” I chimed in, like I actually thought he was interested. “Beautiful, huh?”

  The mayor’s face relaxed when I said that, a smile escaping his thin lips. “I’m just gonna cut to the point, so you don’t get your hopes up that you might actually have a customer. Rosalie is behind on her rent. Did you know that? I don’t know how you couldn’t.”

  I looked around for Rosalie, but she hadn’t run out from the back like she usually did when the door clanged. She must not have heard the wind chimes either.

  “So?” I asked. “It’s winter. I’m sure she’ll make it up when things pick up.”

  “Dr. Dog’s thinking about expanding his business. To this location.”

  “Location’s good, but it’s a little small,” he said, shaking a package of incense.

  I walked over to the veterinarian and snatched the incense from his grasp. “Let me guess who Rosalie’s landlord is,” I said, gesturing with the box before putting it back on display. “Myles Donovan?”

  The mayor didn’t answer.

  My face grew hot with anger. Rosalie had begun keeping the Purple Pony about five degrees colder than most businesses, but I could feel the sweat threatening my cute curly up-do. I took my cardigan off. “The Purple Pony has been around for decades, and she has quite the following among the wealthy ladies at Landover Lake. I can guarantee if Myles Donovan kicks Rosalie out, the women at the country club will revolt.”

  “Most of ‘em are already pretty revolting,” Dr. Dog laughed from across the room.

  The mayor chuckled. “It’s funny how famous you think you are. I doubt losing the Purple Pony would even make the papers.” He tsk-ed. “And to think, I had such high hopes for that seance to help y’all out over here. Such a shame. Heard it got cancelled.”

  “You heard wrong,” Rosalie said, coming out of the backroom. “It’s actually going on, for free. Here at the Purple Pony. There’s a demand for it, from my new clientele. The college kids.”

  “The college? Everyone hates the college. They’re out-of…” he stopped himself.

  “Out-of-towners?” I said through gritted teeth. I took a deep breath. “Yes, most of them are. And so am I. Maybe that’s why I’m so interested in an accident that involved a couple of out-of-towners, even though it happened way back when. And that reminds me. I’m actually glad you’re here, Mayor Bowman. I have some questions for you about that night. Thank you for saving me the trip in to see you.” I strutted across the room to the checkout counter, a new-found confidence in my step.

  I grabbed my purse and plopped it on the counter, careful not to let his aunt’s notebook out. “Let me just find my recorder. You don’t mind if I record your answers, do you?” I said, sifting through my stuff. I looked up when the wind chime clanged again. He and Dr. Dog were gone, for now.

  I turned to Rosalie. “When were you going to tell me about the rent?”

  She didn’t answer, didn’t even cuss. She just put her head down and shuffled into the backroom again. I grabbed my phone from my purse and texted Lynette about the seance. This needed to be my best one yet.

  Chapter 23

  A Little Bird Told Me

  On my way up Gate Hill, it hit me. B wants article on FM. DS driving him crazy. Bury it.

  B had to be Bill. I was guessing FM was Feldman Martin. But who or what was DS? Not too many people in life were allowed to drive Bill Donovan crazy.

  I put my car into park, flicked on the overhead light, and went back to that page. I glanced up at my gas tank to make sure I had enough gas not to get stranded on Gate Hill, seeing how I no longer had rations.

  Then, I checked through every pa
ge. Sure enough, in between the egg-nog recipes was an almost complete article about Feldman-Martin, including scribbled notes in the margin that read, “Bury behind the recipes, just before Santa’s mall location.”

  Local Financial Firm to Close Its Doors Early Next Year

  After forty years, local brokerage firm Feldmen Marten is going out of business amid allegations of fraud and embezzlement with a scheme some experts are calling reminiscent of Charles Ponzi.

  The firm allegedly took money from new clients to pay off earlier investors until too many clients demanded payment and it became apparent that they could not cover the amounts.

  “It’s devastating to realize you’ve been a victim,” Mrs. Delilah Scott said, of Potter Grove. “You trust people and consider them family.”

  DS was Delilah Scott, Bill’s cousin. The only person allowed to drive Bill crazy over a bad investment, and probably the only reason the article about Feldman Martin had even been written.

  Carefully, I inched my car around so I could head back down Gate Hill without getting stuck in the snowbanks around me.

  Ten minutes later, I found myself trudging up the front walkway to Delilah Scott’s door. I actually had no idea if she was even home. Ninety-year-olds rarely strayed from home, except this one.

  Delilah Scott liked to go on safaris to exotic lands when the weather here in Wisconsin didn’t suit her tastes. My breath surrounded me in a puffy, frozen cloud as I scanned the snow piling up along her garden boxes. I could not imagine this suiting anyone’s tastes.

  Delilah’s cottage could only have been described as “straight out of a storybook.” It was cream colored with dark green accents and a rich chocolate colored roof that made you want to eat it. Or maybe I was the only one who got hungry over roofs. I made a mental note to my growling stomach that I would replenish my emergency car rations as soon as I got home.

  I knocked at the door, surprised when it opened. Delilah Scott looked around her front porch when she saw me. “Come on in,” she said like she’d been expecting someone else. She motioned for me to hurry inside and offered me tea. The room smelled like vanilla and chamomile, and I couldn’t accept the offer fast enough.

  I’d only met Delilah a few times, but this was the first time I’d ever been inside her house, which was equally as adorable on the inside, decorated with the kind of handcrafted antiques that were designed to outlive all of us. They were at least a hundred-years strong and just getting stronger.

  She motioned for me to sit on one of her claw-footed stuffed chairs that looked a lot like a throne. Her silky turquoise blouse billowed with every movement as she casually peeked around the curtains of her bay window.

  I looked around, too, immediately noticing there wasn’t a TV, but there were a lot of properly bookmarked books and notebooks at every accent table, unlike my books that got dog-eared or left opened on their spines.

  “I heard you were investigating the boating accident from the 1950s,” she said.

  “Yes, the accident,” I replied, emphasizing the word accident so she’d know I didn’t really think it was one. “And, in my research, I keep coming across the Feldman Martin scandal. Can you tell me more about that? I read you were one of the victims.”

  “It wasn’t just me, dear,” she began. “Most of the well-to-do in town were taken in by it.”

  She poured my tea from a shiny silver tea set already sitting on the coffee table, making me wonder if she lived this way, prepared for guests at a moment’s notice, or if she’d been expecting someone else when I showed up.

  She went on. “Dwight was a friend, and it hurt to have him rob me and my husband. He claimed he was innocent. It was always the firm’s fault. They had refused to pay him his owed commissions and they were unduly blaming him for their financial woes. The firm said Dwight had embezzled millions from their clients. There were lawsuits filed and then Dwight Linder had his accident, so we’ll never know.”

  “I assume there was an investigation.”

  “The firm quietly closed its doors, yes, but as one of the victims, I can tell you we did not receive anything. The whole thing was tainted in speculation, rumor, and sneaky trails of paperwork. I never talked to Bill again. He was the one who told me to trust this.”

  “Your cousin,” I said. How could this sweet, refined woman be related to the man who beat Gloria to a pulp? “Did Bill get swindled too?”

  She chuckled. “Nobody swindled Bill.”

  And lived to tell about it… I thought, but didn’t say.

  “Tell me about the investment.”

  “By the time my husband and I invested, it was already the talk of the town,” she said. “I was actually mad at Bill for not letting us in on it sooner. I obviously regret that.”

  “You seem to be doing all right,” I said, looking around.

  “Yes. Thankfully, we were one of the lucky ones who didn’t put everything into it. We were all issued promissory notes, some mumbo-jumbo about investing in Eurodollars after the war that were unregulated by the Federal Reserve.” She paused to sip her tea. “It was really just a pyramid scheme that went on for years, earlier investors being paid by newer ones. That’s all I remember. You’d have to ask someone from Feldman Martin if you want more specifics. ”

  “Do you know of anyone,” I asked. “I’d also like to find out what happened from their end.”

  She laughed. “May I remind you I am over 90? I doubt too many of us are still around who can tell you much…” she stopped herself. “No, I do know someone. I was surprised to see her when I visited a friend at Landover Assisted Living a couple months ago. Dwight Linder’s secretary. Waved to me from across the room as if we were friends. I could’ve strangled her.”

  “I’m sure the poor woman had no idea about the firm she worked for,” I said.

  Delilah pursed her lips. “I don’t know about that. She married one of the firm’s owners right after the scandal. Tell me that’s not suspicious. Name’s Bertie Martin. I knew her as Bertie Hawthorne back then.”

  Somehow, I held in my tea, refusing to do a spit-take all over the thousand-dollar Oriental rug under my feet, mostly because I’d probably be asked to pay for it. Bertie Hawthorne was the girl in the bird attack. I thanked Delilah for the tea then headed out the door.

  Glancing over at the last second, I caught the older woman writing something into a notebook on the coffee table, a small glass bird sitting just to the right of her. And my heart flopped into my stomach. From the angle I was standing at, she looked just like the picture of the woman in the scrapbook with the bird figurine, on one of the pages marked “Signs.”

  She closed the notebook before I could see what she was writing then stood to walk me to the door.

  “Interesting figurine,” I said, motioning toward the bird. “Funny, there’s a picture of one just like it in a scrapbook I found at Gate House.”

  “I’m sure it only looks similar. This is one of a kind, and has been in my family for generations.” She smiled. “I adore crystal sparrows, though, mostly because they symbolize spring. Changes. Things coming to light. And new beginnings to follow. Some people fear change. Almost as if they’re afraid to choose sides. Me? I’m having a hard time waiting this winter out.”

  We walked to the door, and I somehow stopped myself from asking just what in the hell was going on here. Why had she suddenly started talking in some sort of cryptic, poetic riddles? And if that crystal bird was one of a kind, how did she just recreate a photo I had sitting in my scrapbook, down to the angle of the back of her head in relation to the bird and the notes?

  I stopped at the door. “I’m glad you were home. I was almost worried you’d be on safari someplace,” I said instead of everything else I was thinking.

  “I try to go where it’s most important to be.”

  I had no idea how to respond to that.

  But I knew where I was heading next.

  “Directions to Landover Assisted Living,” I said to my phone on my
way out to my car. It was already getting dark, and I wondered how long visiting hours lasted.

  Just as I headed down Delilah’s quaint, tree-lined street, a black SUV passed me, heading toward Delilah’s house. I thought about turning around to see if it would pull into her driveway. But I stopped myself. I was acting crazy and paranoid.

  People could have guests, and I didn’t need to know about them, even when 100-year-old photos were unintentionally recreated and cryptic messages were being tossed around like they were normal conversation.

  I did a quick three-point turn and headed back to Delilah’s. Something wasn’t right and I just wanted to check, but it was too late. The SUV was parked in her driveway, the door to her house just closing.

  I shook it off and drove straight home to see the photo in that scrapbook again. I was going crazy. There could be no way one of the 100-year-old photos labeled “signs” in a dead guy’s scrapbook was actually something that just happened.

  Chapter 24

  Photographic evidence

  Dust spilled out from the pages of the scrapbook when I plopped it down on the dining room table, and I held in a sneeze. This thing hadn’t been touched in ages.

  I almost didn’t want to look. The Dead Forest. The weird signs. I was just hallucinating. I needed a break from channeling. It was the only thing that made sense.

  Still, I opened right to the pages on signs. There it was. The exact one-of-a-kind sparrow figurine from Delilah’s, along with the back of the woman’s head. Light, probably gray hair swept neatly into an up-do while the lady in the photo overlooked her notes, wearing what looked like Delilah’s same billowy blouse.

  I closed the book so hard more dust popped out.

  What in the hell was going on?

  I opened it back up again. Same photo. Same angle. Leaning over toward the credenza at the back of the room, I was just able to open the drawer and grab my own notebook.