‘I’m not an idiot,’ I said.
‘Well, whatever. Pop’s dead. He can’t see anything.’
He took a few more drags, then stubbed the cigarette against the deck and rubbed the wood with his fist. He tossed the butt from one hand to the other, to make sure it was out, before tossing it onto the drive.
‘Why did you come out here?’ I said. ‘It’s not like you’ll miss this place. It’s not like you care.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Fletcher. ‘I didn’t grow up here, but of course I’ll miss it. I had happy times here. And I’ll miss Pop, even if he had some weird grudge against me.’
‘But you’ve got your money and that’s all that matters.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ Fletcher shrugged. ‘But since you mentioned it, yes. Pop tried for years to make a go of things here. He was almost always broke. Showing off in town in that white suit, but actually broke. Never able to sell the place and just relax and enjoy himself. But now he’s gone – dead and buried – and we’re set for life. So if you want to know how I’m feeling, Ewok, that’s how I’m feeling. Like I’m one of the lucky ones.’
I could see where he was coming from. Pop was covered over and we could all move on. Except that’s not how things work in real life, is it? Not everyone who was on the estate that day had been telling the truth about what happened. Someone had a secret. You can bury bones but not secrets.
PART THREE
The Trial
Two things were important to Mack as he raced across town. To tell the Kellys personally that Fraser’s body had been found. And to reach them before Harry Prior could get the news onto the Monitor’s website.
Sheridan Kelly’s first words were: ‘Are you sure?’
‘I can’t be one hundred per cent sure until we do the DNA,’ said Mack. He was sitting in an armchair opposite the two of them, who sat side by side on a sofa in their lounge room. ‘But the clothes you said he was wearing and the helicopter he had …’
Greg Kelly fought tears.
‘But how did he get in there?’ he asked.
Mack didn’t know. Had he gone onto the castle roof to fly the helicopter? That seemed the most likely explanation. The Kellys had other questions: What was the cause of death? Did he suffocate? Did he starve? Or was this a hiding place for the body? Again, Mack didn’t know, and he feared there was a lot they’d never find out.
Fraser’s skeleton had been cradled out of Alden Castle, and taken to the morgue in San Luis Obispo. Mack left the Kellys to return to his office, where he tore the old files apart, trying to figure out Fraser’s last movements. He wanted to know who had been on the estate, but also on neighbouring properties, on the day of his disappearance: Jack, for certain, but he was dead. Owen, also for certain, also dead. Not Fiona, not Tim, not the boys. They were living in the Bay Area. Jesalyn, Eden, Don Burnbank from next door. He’d been home, as had his wife. Don had, in fact, led one of the search parties.
Mack told Alexa: ‘We need to start from scratch. Big Tony at the morgue is going to give it everything, but he’s not optimistic about finding much.’
‘You mean he won’t be able to identify the body?’ said Alexa, surprised.
‘No, they’re doing DNA and teeth so that will be fine. The parents have already provided samples. And there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that it’s him. But finding a cause of death will be tricky. We were out of luck with Owen, and more than likely, we’ll be out of luck again.’
And so it had proved. Two days after the retrieval of the bones from the hearth, Mack returned to the morgue with Alexa. Tony met them by the orange tree in the courtyard.
‘What can you tell me?’ said Mack.
Tony, in blue scrubs, shrugged and took a puff on his cigarette.
‘It’s Fraser Kelly,’ he said. ‘I can tell from the dental records. And he was stuck in the chimney a long time.’
‘Six years?’
‘Yes. My guess is, he died in there.’
‘Do we know how?’
Tony was holding the cigarette between four fingers and his thumb, with the exposed end facing inward, towards his palm. He drew smoke in, and before exhaling, said: ‘We do not.’
‘Not much luck we’re having.’
‘That’s how it is sometimes. This one has been in the chimney too long. That one had been in the ground too long. But speaking of Owen, what is the plan? Does this change your investigation? Do you want his body back? Because I’ve got no further use for it.’
Mack pondered the question.
‘I was just about to interview the daughter, Fiona, and her family when Fraser was found,’ said Mack. ‘Jesalyn told us everything: how they burned and buried him. I was thinking: do we charge them with interfering with a corpse or not? Now I’m going to have to interview everyone again. The two things – Owen’s and Fraser’s – probably aren’t connected. But we never assume, Tony. We never assume. So okay, release the body. Maybe they’ll have a proper funeral this time and who knows what will come out of that?’
* * *
The funeral notice was posted in the LA Times, on Fiona’s Facebook page and on the double timber doors of the Kuehl-Nicolay Funeral Home in Spring Street:
A celebration of the life of old Roblian gentleman Mr Owen Alden-Stowe III will be held here this Friday at 10am. All welcome.
‘When they say “All welcome” do you think that means us?’ Alexa asked Mack.
‘Welcome or not, we’re going,’ he replied.
They arrived separately, with Alexa driving the black-and-white patrol car they had used to climb the hill to Alden Castle and Mack driving his truck. The funeral home was one of the oldest buildings in Paso, and one of the most recognisable, with its signature round tower and wide porch, but Mack as well as anyone knew that wasn’t why Fiona had elected to have the funeral there. She’d chosen it because it was in no way connected with the one that had stolen her mother’s body and sold it for dissection.
A large crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. Mack greeted Alexa and they stood back to watch. Fiona was there with her husband, Tim, and their sons. The older one, Fletcher, arrived with his great aunt Margaret, pushing her down the hill in a wheelchair to meet up with her own children. Jesalyn had arrived with Eden. Penelope was there, with a coughing, smoking Rex; and there were some old Roblians who maybe remembered Owen from when he’d been famous around town. And then came the curious, who’d been reading all about the case on the internet.
There was nobody who hadn’t heard at least some of the story: how Owen’s family had found him dead at the bottom of the stairs and buried him in the family plot before busybody authorities could stop them; how they’d promptly sold the property, or passed it over, anyway, to Pinkhound, whose bobcat driver – doing work they weren’t supposed to be doing – had dug Owen back out of the ground; how the foreman had called police; how Pinkhound had expressed sorrow and dismay but also a desire to keep digging in the cemetery to make way for peaches and pistachios … and then, of course, a second body had been found, this time stuffed in a chimney – that of Fraser Kelly.
Poor little Fraser!
The whole town was abuzz with gossip about the case, and that, suspected Mack, explained why the crowd was larger than it might have been. The doors to the funeral home opened and the pews began filling
‘We better go in,’ said Mack. ‘This is the biggest show in town.’
He crossed the street with Alexa and held his arm out to let her go first into the back pew. He looked around with interest at the old-timers in their slacks with firm creases, and comb tracks running purposefully through their thinning hair; and at their wives, with their estate brooches; and at the clutch of reporters, sitting off to one side.
‘See that guy with the iPad on his lap?’ said Alexa, following his gaze.
‘Pink shirt?’
‘That’s the one. That’s Harry Prior. He’s the new editor-in-chief of the Monitor. He’s going to be blogg
ing and doing Facebook updates and live-Tweeting.’
‘What does that even mean?’
‘Updating people who can’t get here, on Twitter.’
‘I still don’t know what you mean.’
Alexa tapped her phone to bring the screen to life.
‘Here, I’ll show you,’ she said. She brought up Harry’s account – his avatar was an old-style typewriter, with a single piece of paper already spooled – and showed Mack some recent Tweets:
Jesalyn is here! #deathsatAldenCastle
And:
Okay, now the hot McBride boys are here! #deathsatAldenCastle
‘I think I get it,’ said Mack.
He looked away from Alexa’s screen and turned his attention back to the crowd.
Penelope and Rex came through the doors and took the second-from-the-front pew. There was a pause in proceedings, then Fiona, Tim and Austin entered, along with Jesalyn and Eden, and Margaret Stoughton, in her wheelchair pushed by Fletcher. The group stopped near Mack’s pew, perhaps wondering where the chair would go once they reached the front of the chapel. Mack heard Fletcher turn to the pretty brunette on his arm and say: ‘You know this funeral home is where they took James Dean after he crashed on the highway?’
‘Who’s James Dean?’ asked the girl.
‘Christ, how old are you again?’ said Fletcher.
The family made their way down the centre aisle, with Tim pushing Margaret, and each of the others holding their own copy of the funeral program.
They parked Margaret near the front pew and took their seats directly in front of a giant photograph of Owen. Fiona had picked it: the picture showed him in his white suit, with a thickly knotted tie in purple silk. He was holding a fat cigar.
The celebrant – middle-aged, female, in a pale pink suit – approached the lectern. She welcomed everyone, and went quickly over the order of service: they would hear first from Tim, who was there as a representative of Owen’s family; there would be a show of photographs and some music; and lastly, a prayer of thanks for the life Owen had lived.
She smiled down at the family and said: ‘Tim?’
Tim rose. Cameras snapped and flashed as he made his way to the lectern, taking a folded pad of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Thank you all for coming. First and foremost, I want to say that this is an honour,’ he said as his fingers flattened his notes down over the lectern. ‘Some of you will know me. For those who don’t, I’m Tim McBride, and I’ve been lucky enough to have been married to Owen’s daughter, Fiona, for more than two decades. And I’m here to speak on behalf of the family.’
Alexa turned the service program over in her hands. She had been reading it, and now she frowned.
‘No pictures of Jesalyn,’ she whispered, pointing as she made her way through the four pages. ‘There’s Owen, Nell, the kids … no Jesalyn.’
‘Is that right?’ said Mack, flipping his own program over to have another look through.
‘But she is here, isn’t she?’ said Alexa.
Mack nodded. Jesalyn was sitting in the front pew, beside Fiona and her family. She had her blonde hair pinned into a sleek chignon, and she was wearing black patent heels and red lipstick and was waving her service booklet like a fan. Eden sat beside her, sporting her still-short hair, and next to Eden sat Penelope, with Rex by her side.
‘Owen James Alden-Stowe III was born in Alden Castle,’ said Tim. ‘And when I say he was born there, I mean that literally. He was in fact born in one of the front rooms, because that’s just the way things were done in 1933.
‘He grew up on the estate, as one of three children: his younger brother, the late Henry Alden-Stowe, died in childhood; his sister, now Mrs Margaret Stoughton, survives him, and is with us today.
‘Owen’s childhood on the estate was idyllic. He lived in the castle, and went to school here in Paso which, in the early days, meant tethering a horse to the school room. He took part in the Pioneer Day parade, doing rope tricks. Most holidays were spent on the Salinas River … when it still ran.’
The crowd tittered.
‘As a boy, he was an expert trapper – and eater – of the crawdaddies that were once found in our waterways. He also fished for largemouth bass. Hard to believe now that the river’s no longer there. But one of the things I never tired of, while Owen was still with us, was listening to him tell his stories of what this town, Paso, was before it became trendy,’ said Tim. ‘Many of you will remember it the way he did, as a proper small town, with small-town values.’
‘He’s doing a good job,’ whispered Alexa, as Tim paused to clear his throat.
‘He is,’ agreed Mack.
‘Owen’s mother, Roberta Alden-Stowe, died when he was a teenager. He grieved her loss for many years. Like many of you, Owen went on to serve his country in Korea,’ Tim continued. ‘Then his father died while he was abroad, and upon his return to America, he assumed management of the Alden-Stowe Estate. And, boy, was he bad at it.’ The crowd laughed.
‘Also like many of you, Owen tried his hand at grapes, and he turned the grounds of Alden Castle into a reception centre, hosting fancy-dress parties, and wine appreciation parties for the whole district, none of it very profitably.’
Mack watched, as Fiona raised a scrunched tissue to her nose.
‘Of course, it wasn’t all business. Owen also raised a family: his wife, Nell, who pre-deceased him, and his children: my wife, Fiona, and her brother, Jack, who died some years back.’
Mourners glanced at each other. Most had been around long enough to remember both the shock of Jack’s accident and the scandal over Nell’s cremation.
‘Owen was also a fabulous grandfather to my sons, Fletcher and Austin, and to Jack’s daughter, Eden. In preparing this speech, I asked each of them for some happy memories of their pop, and amongst other things, they told me how he was always happy to settle down and join them for an episode of Spongebob with a bowl of Cheetos on his lap; plus he liked to take the kids through the old car wash here in Paso. Simple stuff.
‘But Owen suffered a stroke after Nell died, and his last years were marked by declining health,’ Tim continued. ‘He was tended, in the main, by his dutiful housekeeper, Penelope Sidwell, who is with us today. Penelope, thank you for everything.’
Mack watched as Penelope bowed her head in appreciation.
‘More recently, Fiona and I returned to the estate, with the intention of taking care of things until Owen passed. We thought and we hoped that event would be many years into the future. But it was not to be: Owen died suddenly last October and, as many of you know, our family decided to honour his last wish, which was to be buried in the family plot, on his estate.’
Tim paused, then added: ‘Obviously, that didn’t go so well.’
Some people in the crowd turned to look at each other and raise their eyebrows. Others smiled.
The Monitor’s editor, Harry Prior, who had been covering the service on Twitter, posted:
He’s gone there! Admitted that they stuck the poor old guy in the ground. #deathsatAldenCastle
Then:
But not: They loved Owen so much they stuffed him in an incinerator first. #deathsatAldenCastle
Alexa, who had been reading Harry’s Tweets on a phone in her lap, whispered to Mack: ‘He really is vile, isn’t he?’
But Mack, who wasn’t looking at Alexa’s phone, didn’t get what she meant.
‘Who is?’ he said.
‘Harry. I told you, he’s Tweeting.’
Mack shrugged and looked away. Harry Prior’s juvenile musings were of no interest to him. He didn’t get Twitter. Thought Twits were aptly named. He resumed his listening pose. The service went on a little longer. There was, as promised, a slide show, featuring pictures of Owen as a boy atop a giant stallion; and in the Pioneer Day parade; and in uniform; and in the white suit.
Then came a song – it was Nat King Cole’s ‘Unforgettable’, sung by one of Fiona’s old school friends,
in a peacock blue suit with matching shoes. There was a round of applause for a life well lived, something Fiona had suggested, and the celebrant invited the crowd to join Owen’s family on the porch for refreshments.
‘Well, that was lovely,’ said Alexa as she rose.
Mack rose with her. They stood, heads bowed, while the front-pew mourners came down the centre aisle, before following the rest of the crowd out into bright sunshine.
Mack found Fiona standing by the coffee urn.
‘It’s funny, this is exactly what we were trying to avoid,’ she said, lifting her cup to take a small sip. ‘A big funeral with people we didn’t hear boo from when Dad was sick. But it’s actually fine.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Mack.
‘Thank God that’s over’
Mack turned. Fletcher had exited the chapel with the pretty brunette on his arm. Mack couldn’t see his eyes because Fletcher had sunglasses in place, and he was reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket for his phone.
‘You must be Fletcher,’ said Mack. He had studied photographs of all the Alden-Stowes in the file Alexa had prepared.
‘And you are?’
‘Sergeant Helber,’ said Mack, showing his badge.
There was an awkward pause between them. Then Fletcher said: ‘Mom said you’d been calling. I’m planning on leaving town tomorrow so if you still want that statement, you better take it tomorrow morning.’
‘That would be great,’ said Mack.
‘Not that we’ve got anything to say that you don’t already know. We buried my pop there because that’s what he wanted. And if you’re planning on asking how the kid ended up in the chimney, I’m the wrong person to ask. I wasn’t even in Paso when he went missing. You’re looking for a conspiracy where there isn’t one.’
‘I’m not looking for a conspiracy,’ said Mack.
‘No? Then what are you looking for?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe a serial killer,’ said Mack, fitting his own sunglasses into place. His tone was deadpan but the girl with Fletcher gasped.
Mack stepped off the porch, away from the crowd feasting on the little cakes and savouries. As with Fletcher, he knew perfectly well which of the mourners was Eden. She was the one with the short dyed hair, who had been sitting beside Jesalyn. According to Alexa’s notes, she’d recently turned eighteen. He was well within his rights to approach her and to talk to her. But he waited and watched as she hurried down the pathway, towards where her great aunt Margaret Stoughton, in pearls and a blouse and blue velvet monogrammed slippers, was sitting in her wheelchair, smoking.
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