by A. L. Jambor
Also, Mari imagined Jack's arms covered in tattoos, his beard bristly, his body used to having sex whenever the urge presented itself, and she couldn't imagine Isabelle giving in to his desires. A nice sixteen-year-old girl in 1940 would never do that, but if he had promised to be faithful to Isabelle and left her for a more compliant companion like, say, a widow who might not guard her chastity with the voracity of a virgin, it would have broken Isabelle's heart, and her mother might seek to right what she saw as a terrible wrong, but Mari still didn't believe it.
According to A Murder in Cape Alden, Charlotte had come from upstate New York with her husband, Arthur, right after they got married. They were both just eighteen. They grew up in the same orphanage. He was able to get a job with the railroad company owned by Charles Gable, and they sent Arthur to Cape Alden where they lived in a cottage owned by the railroad company known locally as Gable Cottage.
Arthur and Charlotte moved into Gable Cottage in 1939. She didn't have a job or a child, which meant many lonely hours spent alone to contemplate her choices. There was little known about Arthur, but everything written about Charlotte mentioned he had been cut in half while shifting train tracks. Mari had seen the gruesome pictures of his body in A Murder in Cape Alden and recalling them made her blanch.
After Arthur died, Charlotte lived alone, and the rumors of her trading her body for favors began to spread throughout the town. Women living alone without children were often fodder for the local gossip mill. They were seen as Jezebels who lured men away from their wives with the promise of free and uncomplicated sex.
Due to the nature of her husband's demise, the railroad let Charlotte stay in the cottage and even gave her a small stipend every month, but Mari doubted it was enough to keep body and soul together. Charlotte had no education. She would have done what she could with what she had, even if that meant giving herself away in return for fixing a clogged toilet.
Rumors that Charlotte had had an affair with the lighthouse keeper, Joe Jackson, were confirmed by interviews with local residents, mostly men who frequented Morton's Inn, which at the time was more of a bar than a restaurant. Joe's wife and five kids lived in a small house attached to the lighthouse, too. The area between the lighthouse and the cottage was exactly half a mile and Charlotte would have to pass the lighthouse on her way to town. Mrs. Jackson would probably see Charlotte walking by as she hung her children's laundry. Could she have hated Charlotte enough to kill her?
Joe was a known gambler and drunkard. The men in Morton's said he was a smooth talker and claimed that women liked him. His picture had been in one of the books Mari borrowed from Constance. It had been taken when he accepted the position and looked like a mug shot. It depicted a man with dark hair and hollow cheeks. He was a civil servant and it was part of his official record. Mari hadn't been able to find one of his wife, but the fact that she'd had five kids in ten years meant she had little time for personal grooming in anticipation of her drunken husband coming home from his nightly forays into town.
Other rumors had Charlotte boffing the ice man. Gable Cottage had an old non-electric ice box, so she still needed ice delivered if she wanted to keep her milk cold. The ice man was the one who had found her body and told the cops he'd been with her a time or two. The incident had traumatized him. He moved to Oceanville.
Mari grew to like Charlotte. She wasn't a bad girl; she was just a woman living alone who had married believing that would be her life. She'd been abandoned as a baby and grown up in an orphanage. She and Arthur married because the railroad preferred family men. In 1941, the stipend, which had been taken from Arthur's pension, stopped coming. The circumstances of her life had formed her, and she'd done the best she could.
Thankfully, there had been no children for Charlotte and Arthur. Was Arthur's infertility to blame? Charlotte was pregnant when she died, so perhaps it was a choice they made.
Charlotte's baby was the object of much speculation. The official account of the crime said it had been taken. Charlotte's abdomen had been cut open. Obviously, the killer cut the baby out. Its body had never been found, which gave Mari hope that it might have survived. If she could find that baby...
A spark of hope inched its way through the scars on her brain. If she found out what happened to Charlotte and her child, she might be able to sell her research to the network, or to some other program that might consider hiring her. Her excitement grew as she thought of walking into Murray's office with all the answers, and negotiating with him for her job. It had been a long time since Mari felt excited, and she relished it for the rest of the afternoon.
Now, her research had a purpose other than solving the crime. She skimmed through the yearbook again and wrote down the names of Isabelle's classmates. There had been thirty kids in her graduating class. It wouldn't take long to go through the list as many of them had probably died of old age or during World War II.
Mari gathered her notebooks and shoved them into a backpack she'd bought at a thrift store. She'd input them into her laptop when she got home. The laptop had been in the box from the B&B and Phil had updated it, so now it worked better than it had when it was new, and she could glom onto Cassie's broadband.
She walked down Main Street and looked inside the vintage hardware store where she saw Phil talking to a customer. He worked from ten in the morning until six. After work, he would meet Mari at the café and she'd tell him what she'd learned.
Mari went home and started searching for the girls from Isabelle's class on her laptop. She checked the Social Security website to see who had died. Some had used their maiden name as a middle name when they married so she was able to find ten that were still alive and two that were living in Cape Alden. She wrote their names in her notebook before going to town to meet Phil.
Phil
As the days went by, Phil found himself looking forward to seeing her face. Mari wasn't gorgeous, but she had a sweet face, eyes that always looked as if she were squinting, and freckles. Her curly red hair had grown to her shoulders. Phil thought the color suited her. He would never admit that he was falling for her, but deep inside, he knew that his feelings were more than platonic.
Mari was waiting for him at their table by the window, and when she saw him, she grinned, and his heart beat faster. He bought himself a cup of decaf and joined her at the table.
"I found two women who live here," she said.
"I had a lovely day, Mari, how was yours?"
She slipped a piece of paper across the table. "Yeah, yeah, how was your day?"
"Awful. I hate it." He looked at the names on the slip of paper. "I know where they live. They should know me, too."
"That Isabelle was one hot babe," Mari said. "If she was holding out on Jack, I could see why he would leave her and go for Charlotte."
"Maybe she wasn't as nice as Charlotte."
"I think it's because Charlotte gave out and Isabelle wouldn't."
"Do you really believe men are that shallow?" he asked with a smile.
Mari nodded. "I think it because it's true, Phil. Men are led by their privates, and Jack was older than Isabelle by ten years. He wasn't a boy -- he was a man, and I doubt he was a virgin." Phil blushed. "She would have been lonely, and he would have been horny."
Phil looked around the room at the other patrons. "Geez, Mari, keep it down."
She giggled. "Phil, you're such a prude. You're forty, right? Come on. It's only sex."
"But you don't have to say it so loud." He tapped on his mug. "My grandmother waited for my grandfather to come home from the war. They waited until they were married. That's what people did back then. If Jack really cared for Isabelle, he wouldn't have left her just because she wouldn't sleep with him."
"I bet your grandfather didn't wait." She moved her eyebrows up and down.
"What makes you so cynical?" he asked. "Why is it so hard to believe that a man might feel it's important to wait?"
Her eyes widened. "Oh my God, Phil! You're a virgin."
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His cheeks burned red and he lifted his shoulders as he tried to hide inside his shirt.
"Please lower your voice," he said.
"Sorry." She looked around. "It's just that I've never met a man over thirty who hasn't done it." She folded her arms and leaned forward. "It's fascinating."
His ears were red now. "Are you done?"
She suppressed a giggle. "All right, all right, I'll stop. But I still say Jack wouldn't have waited. He's too good-looking, and he was a sailor. He's got horndog written all over him."
Phil noticed that Mari seemed more at ease with each meeting. Gone were the reticence and the dour expression she'd worn. She actually seemed happy. Perhaps doing the research had lifted her out of her depression. Whatever it was, he was glad. He liked her this way, except when she talked about sex.
"You look good," he said.
Now she blushed. "Yeah, well, I feel better."
"You're not so depressed."
"Nope, and it feels good to be working again."
Phil smiled. "Did you get a job?"
"No, not a job, just this, but I think I can use it to get a job. I just meant that I'm doing what I love to do, the research, putting the mystery together, and that's why I feel good. I don't get headaches so much anymore either."
She saw his face fall and put her hand on his arm.
"You promised you wouldn't do that anymore," she said.
"What?"
"Get all guilty about the accident. I have to be able to talk to you and not police my words."
"I don't feel guilty."
"Oh, yes you do, and you will stop it right now."
Phil sighed. "Okay, you're right, I still feel guilty."
"I'm always right, Phil."
He smiled. "You did tell me that."
"So, these ladies," she nodded toward the piece of paper, "should remember Isabelle and Jack, don't you think?"
"I remember people I went to high school with."
"Yeah, but this was what, over seventy years ago? We'll be lucky if they remember their names."
"It's the new stuff they forget. The old stuff is permanently wired to their brains."
Mari drained her coffee cup. "I wonder if Jack went to war."
"He would have to, wouldn't he?"
"Not if he was like George Bailey." She smiled. He looked perplexed. "You know who George Bailey was, don't you?"
"I'm afraid not."
"He was the guy in It's a Wonderful Life. He couldn't go to war because old man Gower boxed his ears and he was deaf in one ear. Come on, Phil, you must have seen that movie. Everyone has seen that movie."
"I'm afraid I don't share your predilection for old movies, Mari."
"Well, then, it's gonna be my job to show you what you've been missing."
Phil's stomach clenched. She was so full of life, and his was so empty. He'd grown accustomed to his bland, vanilla existence, but she seemed to think he needed more, and was determined to "show him what he had been missing" all the time. He wished he had brought his antacid tablets with him.
"So, how would you sell this research?" he asked.
"I told you what I used to do, right? So, the show about Charlotte was never produced because every time they sent someone to cover it, they got hurt. I think they started to believe the project was cursed, and dropped it. If I go in there with the whole story, they would be impressed and might even offer me my job back, or at least pay me for my research, which would get them off the hook because they invested a lot in that episode and it hasn't paid off."
"I didn't know you were hoping they would take you back."
She started tapping her fingers again. "I wasn't until this afternoon. That's when I started to think about it. The truth is I'd rather sell the information and get a producer credit while I look around for something better." He nodded. "What about you, Phil? What are you gonna do when the summer's over?"
"I've sent my resume to an IT company in Oceanville."
"You liked that job, didn't you?"
"I had a desk and no one bothered me. I was good at it. I understood the way things worked, and I didn't have to talk to anyone unless I had to go and fix a computer."
Mari imagined Phil sitting at a desk in the dark under the stairs to the basement, the green glow of the computer screen illuminating his face. It did seem like something he would enjoy, being isolated from the world. A touch of sadness was working its way into her thoughts so she pushed that train off the tracks and thought about the old ladies.
"So, can you call those ladies and see when they're available?"
"I imagine they're available most of the time," he said. "And I doubt they go out after dark."
"So you'll take care of that?" He nodded. "Great. Then I guess that's it for today. See ya tomorrow."
Without another word, she got up and left him alone at the table, her half-drunk milk-laced coffee mocking his plain black decaf. She didn't finish the five-dollar drink. She didn't even think about it. It seemed to Phil that she never thought about anything. He envied her. She was a free spirit. He wouldn't be able to leave the table without taking the dishes to the counter. It was the Phils of the world that allowed the Maris of the world to exist. Without a Phil, the world would be in shambles.
He went home to his room over the hardware store. It was more of a closet with a bed, nightstand, and dresser, and he shared a bathroom with another summer employee, but for now it was home. It wasn't so bad. He didn't have to pay for anything, and he had the internet.
He washed up and put on his pajamas. It was seven-thirty. He turned on his laptop and watched the news before going to bed. He looked at the display on his no-contract phone, which showed he had 300 minutes. When he called the ladies, he would make the phone calls as short as etiquette would allow.
The first name on the paper was Lorraine Biggins. He dialed her number and she picked up on the seventh ring.
"Hello, Mrs. Biggins," he said cheerfully. "This is Phil Curry, Myra's grandson."
"Oh, yes, I remember you."
"How are you doing?"
"Oh, I'm just fine. Now and then my arthritis acts up, but it's not too bad now that the cold is gone."
"It is nicer outside now, isn't it? Listen, Mrs. Biggins, I was wondering if I might drop by and ask you a few questions about Charlotte Johnson?"
"Oh dear, Charlotte Johnson, why do you want to know about her?"
"I'm writing a story and I learned that Isabelle Morton's mother was accused of Charlotte's murder. I thought maybe you and Isabelle might have known each other in high school."
"I knew Izzy. We were friendly back then."
"Would you mind talking about her?"
"What would you like to know?"
Phil was tempted to ask her questions, but he knew Mari would be upset if she didn't have a chance to talk to Lorraine, too.
"I'd like to come over sometime tomorrow. A reporter wants to interview you, and I said I would come along."
"Oh, a reporter, well, I have my dinner around four. You can come after that if you like."
"That would be great, Mrs. Biggins. I'll come after four. Thank you. Thank you for seeing us."
Phil looked at Mari's number in his phone's contacts. He'd never called her before, and he felt strange doing it now. What if she didn't answer? Would she just ignore his call?
You're being stupid, he heard her say. Just dial the damn phone.
He hit the number and felt his stomach clench. She answered on the second ring.
"Lorraine Biggins will see us tomorrow after four. She eats dinner then."
"Okay. Did you call the other woman yet?"
"Ah, no, just the one. I will. I just thought that one at a time might be better."
"For you maybe, but we don't have a lot of time here, Phil."
"You're right. I'll call her right now."
"No, it's okay. You do it your way. I'll meet you at the café. See you tomorrow."
Before he could say go
odbye, she had hung up. Phil stared at the phone as if she might jump out of it at any moment, and then he turned it off to save the battery life and put it on the small nightstand before climbing into bed.
Joan
May, 1941
Joan Jackson hung laundry on a line behind the lighthouse's small attached house. Joe was still in bed sleeping off the beer he'd consumed the night before. Her pinched mouth and downcast eyes warned her children away. She was not in the mood to listen to anything they had to say, and if they bothered her, they would feel the sting of the switch.
Charlie, Joan's second child, had turned thirteen in February, and now it was his responsibility to do the chores Joe ignored. His brother used to do them, but Josh had baseball practice after school now, and he had to be there or risk losing his scholarship to Temple. Charlie even ran the lighthouse now. He knew it was up to him to make sure Joe didn't lose his job.
Charlie was a bright boy who had changed with the onset of adolescence. His moods often matched his taciturn mother's, and conflicts arose where none had existed before. He was disobeying her more often, and resented having to watch his younger sisters while it seemed that seventeen-year-old Josh got away with doing what he pleased. Charlie was careful, though, not to raise Joan's ire, because his mother believed in "spare the rod, spoil the child," and it didn't matter how old that child was. If Charlie did something to displease her, no matter how small the infraction, she took it as willful disobedience, and would wail on him until her arm could no longer raise the switch. The only one who escaped her rod was Josh, her firstborn.
Joan doted on Joshua. He was handsome and congenial, always smiling and trying to please his dour mother. He would tease her and hug her all the time and she would smile broadly when she saw him come home from school. He was the light of her life, and, perhaps, the only reason she kept going.
"Joshua will be somebody," she'd say to the ladies at the grocery store. "He'll be the first college graduate in our family."