“I’m just asking.” He thought she was avoiding the question, but maybe she was only mad about what he was insinuating.
A year before they got married, Darcie started to get doubts about their relationship. The summer that year, she wanted some time apart. He wasn’t very understanding. They had been dating two years, and she was suddenly having doubts? She had said she just had been feeling in a rut and wanted to make sure that she really wanted a future with him.
“So you want time away from me?” he had asked, sitting on the couch at her apartment—it came out like a sad plea.
“Just a break, to figure some things out.” She had tried being soothing.
“I don’t understand.” He was pouting and knew she hated that, but he couldn’t help himself.
“I just don’t feel that you’re very passionate about me.”
That stunned him.
“Passionate.” He was dumfounded. “Of course I’m passionate about you. How can you not see that?”
“I see you’re passionate about your job.”
“That’s what this is all about. My job, isn’t it? You don’t like my job.”
“It’s just that you’re always running off, all times of the day and night. I never know when you’re going to be there for me.”
“I’m always there for you,” he said angrily. “Even if I’m not right there. It’s my job, for Christ’s sake.”
“You don’t have to swear.”
He jumped up from the couch, pacing back and forth. “It’s my job. I have to do my job.”
“I just wish you’d pay me the same attention.” Her voice was raised, as her tone adjusted from sympathetic to displeased.
“I pay attention to you.” He tried to remain calm but wasn’t very successful. “When I’m here.”
“That’s right,” she said, almost spitting it out. “When you’re here.”
Before he left that night, she gave him a half-hearted hug.
“I just need some time to think things over.” It was summer, so she wasn’t teaching. Though she did a bit of tutoring on the side, she had a lot of free time. So did the other teacher. Brian didn’t know his name at first but soon found out.
Brian didn’t see her for most of that summer. One night Brian went to see her to talk about the situation. He saw a bouquet on her kitchen table. When he asked who they were from, she finally told him about her co-worker. They were friends, she said. They had worked together for several years and got along well. She was sure she had mentioned him to Brian, and maybe she had, but it was nothing he would have paid attention to. Her world at the school was foreign to him. She had never invited him to work-related functions or activities, always saying that he’d be bored and feel out of place. Maybe now Brian knew the real reason.
“Are you spending time with him this summer?”
“Yes,” she said, not looking directly at him.
He left her apartment angry, thinking the relationship was over, though she pleaded with him to stay and talk. He went to the bar where most of his newspaper cohorts hung out and got really drunk. This is where I belong, he thought, among the lonely journalists whose jobs took precedence over relationships.
It was a couple of weeks before he finally spoke to her. She tried to explain, but he wasn’t very receptive. He was more than willing to give her the space she wanted. As long and much as she wanted. She kept in touch, but he didn’t make any effort in return.
Before the summer ended, she came back to him, professing her love and desire to have a future with him. And Brian felt relieved, figuring she had found the answers to her doubts, though spawning some in himself.
“Then, who are they from?” he asked about the new flowers.
“I don’t know,” she answered with a whimper.
“What do you mean, you don’t know.”
“I found them on the front steps.” She paused, trying to gain her composure. “Someone placed them there.”
He didn’t understand. “Why?”
She looked at him with moist eyes.
“Don’t you get it?” she said, and now her lip was trembling. “It must be from the mother of one of those babies found in our house.” And now she did begin to cry.
The next day, Brian took a break from getting some of the final inside pages done, including the pieces on the Women’s Garden Club tour and the Boston Post Cane award. He walked to Mrs. Picklesmeir’s flower shop on Main Street, which was sandwiched between a couple empty stores. He smoked a quick cigarette during his walk over, thinking there was no chance Darcie would be wandering around downtown and catch him. She would be furious if she did, but the cigs helped calm his nerves, and dealing with Mrs. Picklesmeir put him on edge. He wasn’t sure why. He stamped out the cigarette butt and deposited it in a trash can before entering the flower shop.
He was assaulted by fragrances as soon as he pushed through the front door and he had to catch his breath. Thank god he had no allergies. The shop was bright, almost hurting his eyes. Big glass cases bloomed with vases filled with colorful arrangements. One case contained bright red roses.
A slim young woman with long hair stood behind the counter. He saw no one else and smiled, thinking he had caught a break. He approached the counter and greeted the woman, who offered a friendly smile in return. But before he could even get two words out, a large form stepped through an open doorway behind the counter.
“I will handle this customer,” spoke the deep voice of Mrs. Picklesmeir. The young woman gracefully excused herself, disappearing into the back room.
“What a surprise to see you, Mr. Keays. What brings you here? Flowers for the Mrs.?”
That actually wouldn’t be a bad idea, he thought, but then remembered that she had fresh flowers, which was the reason he was here.
“What I actually was hoping for was some information.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “You need some background on the Women’s Garden Club to go along with that nice feature of the tour you’ll be displaying in this week’s edition of the paper.”
He flashed a smile. “Not exactly.”
“I can’t tell you how excited the members of the club are to see the article and beautiful color photos of those nice gardens.”
An image flashed in his head of the page he had just finished. It was not on a color page and he only used one photograph.
“I’m sure they will enjoy the write-up, but as you may be aware, it’s been an unusually busy week of news in town.”
“Oh, you mean those terrible events from several days ago? Yes, very dreadful. I saw all about them on the television news already.” Her eyes on her large face narrowed. “I can’t imagine there is much more to say on the topic.”
Once again he chuckled, trying to stave off his annoyance with the woman. “Well, television doesn’t always devote the time to divulge all the details of a particular incident. I’m sure there are many details you will find interesting when the edition comes out. I don’t think you will be disappointed.”
“I certainly hope I’m not disappointed.”
“What I came in here for is some information about a bouquet of flowers left on my doorstep yesterday by an anonymous person.” He pulled his notebook from his back pocket where he had written down the names Darcie had given him of the types of flowers in the bouquet. He had pretended to be interested in them, not giving his wife the real reason for wanting to know the names. “There were red snapdragons, some daisies, purple lilacs, and chrysanthemums.” He looked at her, hoping the bouquet would register with her.
“And what do you wish to know about the flowers?”
“Well, I was hoping to find out who left them.”
“There was no note?”
She knew the answer; he had told her they were anonymous. She was toying with him.
“No,” he answered. “They were anonymous. No note or anything.”
“Were you expecting flowers from someone?”
“No.”
“If they
were anonymous, then it appears that whoever delivered them did not want to be identified.”
“Yes, I understand that. But I was hoping to thank the person, and would really consider it a favor if I could find out the person’s name.”
“I see,” she said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “But I really can’t divulge the confidentiality of a customer, especially if their intent was to remain anonymous. It just wouldn’t be ethical.”
What does she think she is, he thought, a doctor? “I appreciate your concern, but I was hoping you would make an exception for me.”
“I see.” She looked deep in thought for a moment and then leaned forward on the counter on her big beefy arms, her face inches from his. “And I would appreciate it, as a favor to me, if the Garden Club tour is prominently displayed on the front page.” She smiled.
Blackmail, he thought. That’s what she’s resorting to. His mind drew up an image of the front page he had laid out, with the fire, the murder, and the latest on the trunk full of skeletons. There was no way he could ruin that layout for some little bit of information.
“Of course,” he lied. “I see no reason why that can’t be done.”
She leaned back and smiled.
“Now if I could just have that name,” he said, almost pleading.
“Let’s say we wait till the paper comes out Thursday morning. Come back and see me then, and I’ll see what I can do for you.” Her cheeks grew even larger as her grin reached the ends of her fat face.
As soon as he left the flower shop, he lit another cigarette.
In the middle of the night, Brian was awakened by his emergency scanner. Darcie lay beside him, long accustomed to sleeping through the static, tones, and dispatch calls. Brian awoke to the slightest chatter, an innate reaction from his years as a reporter. It was a fire call, but didn’t sound serious. Turned out to be a dumpster fire at the old shoe factory, a vacant four-story brick building at the beginning of Main Street, where the road branched off State Route 113.
The factory had closed down decades ago, and Brian remembered it being the topic at several Board of Selectmen meetings. Most townspeople wanted the structure torn down. It was an eyesore, they complained. It often was the scene of vandalism and teen parties. The selectmen were hesitant, hoping something good would come of the building. Selectmen Chairman Eldon Winch was behind a proposal to renovate the building into housing for the elderly or low income families, maybe even with shops on the ground floor. He had been CEO of the shoe factory before it closed down and probably still had a vested interest in the facility. But with the economy being the way it was, many people in town thought it wasn’t a wise investment. Besides, they said, there were enough empty storefronts downtown; it didn’t seem practical to open businesses on the edge of town.
With no consensus on what to do with the property, it remained abandoned, windows shattered, bricks crumbling, and the interior wooden beams and floors rotting. The railroad tracks beside it, paralleling Route 113, hadn’t seen a train in decades, either freight or passenger. It was the same rail line Rolfe Krimmer had worked for, long before he became the oldest resident in town, back when passengers actually rode the rails.
Across from the shoe factory was the old train station, also falling into disrepair, and town folks thought it, too, should be demolished. But Eldon Winch believed passenger train service might one day be revived and hoped Smokey Hollow would be a stop once again. Why anyone would deliberately come here, Brian could not understand. Maybe Winch figured people would come and shop in the stores at the renovated shoe factory. Brian would never have found his way here, or even heard of it, if he hadn’t found the job at The Hollow News.
Brian ignored the call, rolled over, and went back to sleep. An hour or so later he heard another call on the scanner—a police call, asking Chief Treece to come to the fire station for an undetermined incident.
Brian sat up, staring at the scanner waiting for more. Incident, he wondered. What the hell did that mean? It seemed unusual enough for him to want more, but nothing else came from the scanner. He glanced at Darcie, still sound asleep, and climbed out of bed. He dressed as quietly but as quickly as possible. Something didn’t sound right about the call. He could easily wait till the morning and check with Noah, but he would find it hard to get back to sleep now that his curiosity was tweaked.
He thought about waking Darcie to tell her he was leaving, but she seemed really tired now that she was pregnant, and he didn’t want to disturb her. She was used to waking up and finding him gone. She had come to expect it.
He scribbled a quick note and left it on her night stand, just in case. Then he scurried downstairs and out to his car. He lit up a cigarette on the short ride to the fire station.
When he approached the station and eased into a parking spot on Main Street, the fire engine was sitting in the middle of the street, lights on, before the open bay doors of the station. Chief Treece’s car was parked near the station, along with another patrol car. Some of the firefighters were standing in the street by the engine, looking into the open bay.
Brian didn’t see the State Police car belonging to Steem and Wickwire and was glad that whatever the incident was, they weren’t involved. Night Shift Alvin greeted him as he approached the brightly lit bay.
Noah was there, standing between Fire Chief Warren Shives and Assistant Chief Simon Runck. They, and everyone else, were looking up. Brian followed their gaze to a fire hose running up and over one of the rafters in the ceiling.
Dangling from the fire hose wrapped around his neck like a noose was Simon’s dummy, Marshall.
Chapter 6
VIEW TO AN EXHUMATION
Brian thought it was some kind of firehouse prank, something firefighters might do to rib each other. But when he looked at Simon Runck and saw his trembling lower lip and ashen face, there didn’t seem to be any humor in the incident.
Simon stepped forward, reaching his right hand toward the dangling feet of the puppet, and then turned to the crowd. “Let him down,” he yelled, he face flushed. “Dammit! Someone let him down!”
Fire Chief Shives approached, put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, and motioned to another firefighter, who ran to where the end of the hose was attached to a wall strut and began untying the knot. Once it was loose, he lowered the dummy till Marshall was within reach, and Simon pulled his friend into his arms, gently resting him on the concrete floor. He untied the hose from around the neck and cast it aside with disgust.
The puppet’s eyes were open, and Simon stroked its cheek.
Brian looked at Noah and shrugged his shoulders, begging for some sense to the bizarre scene. Noah smirked and shook his head.
“Who would do such a thing,” Simon said, now almost on the verge of tears. He lifted the puppet’s right hand and let it go. It fell limply by its side. He reached up a hand and closed the puppet’s eyes. “He’s dead,” Simon said.
Brian scanned the faces in the bay and the others standing outside by the fire truck. All the faces were solemn. He expected a few grimaces or gazes of bewilderment. But everyone was taking the scene seriously.
“Why would someone want to kill him?” Simon said, still on his knees by Marshall’s side.
Murder? Brian thought. Was this now a murder scene? It was ridiculous. He didn’t even have the urge to take a photo. This wasn’t something he’d consider putting in the paper. He almost got the feeling everyone was pulling a big prank for his benefit. He might even have believed that was the case if not for the look on Noah’s face.
He wanted to ask the police chief if Simon really believed Marshall was alive.
Simon scooped the puppet up in his arms and took him into a back room.
“Let’s get that engine in here,” Chief Shives barked before following Simon.
The firefighters broke out of their trances and began to move, unloading their gear and directing the engine into the garage. Brian finally got a chance to approach Noah.
�
�Noah, what the hell is this?”
“I guess someone got tired of the mouth on the little guy,” Noah said. He wasn’t cracking his usual smile.
“Is this thing serious?”
“It seems Simon thinks so. Someone silenced Marshall.”
“Does he think that thing’s real?” Brian couldn’t believe he had to ask. “It is just a puppet.”
Noah looked at him. “Of course. Don’t you think I know that?” The chief seemed insulted.
“Phew,” Brian exhaled. “I was getting worried I was the only one who could see that. It’s just kind of strange.”
“No. The strange thing,” Noah said, “is whether someone else believed Marshall was real.”
On Wednesday afternoon, Brian put the weekly edition of The Hollow News to bed, transmitting the final galleys to the printer. He kept the front page intact, with the dramatic stories and photos of the asylum fire, Dr. Wymbs’ murder, the missing inmates, and the latest update on the trunk skeletons—of which there was little. He did not connect the trunk and the asylum, other than through the fact that the mysterious container was found in the home once owned by a retired nurse from the Wymbs Institute.
He had included a short bio on Dr. Wymbs, what little he could find with the help of the newspaper’s archives. In that dimly lit cellar were bound books of all the past editions. Brian had scoured those editions for some history on when the institute had opened forty years ago. He had interviewed a few people in town who knew the doctor, including Selectmen Chairman Eldon Winch and real estate agent Leo Wibbels. But no one knew the doctor that well. It seemed in years past he’d visit town infrequently, but in the last decade or so had become more reclusive. Brian’s notes from his conversation with the doctor were not very useful, but he added them. He might have been one of the last people to talk to Wymbs.
If only he had gotten the name of the housekeeper. That would have been helpful to paint a picture of what went on in the Mustard House and how many patients and staff were usually there. It surprised Brian and Noah that no staff member had come forward to provide any information to the authorities. That was a piece of this puzzle that just didn’t seem to fit.
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