by A. L. Jambor
"Shut up," Charlie said.
Charlie thought about Celia Morton. This was all her fault, that reporter. She should have left town when she got better. Her presence was stirring things up, and Celia Morton was helping her instead of resting in peace in the old cemetery behind the asylum in Oceanville where she belonged.
As Charlie bit into his sandwich, part of it fell from the bad side of his mouth and landed on his lap. He chewed, and a thread of saliva ran down his chin. His frustration over his disability caused him to throw the sandwich, envisioning it sailing through the air and hitting the wall, but it only went as far as Beelzebub's feet, and the feline grabbed the slices of turkey from the bread and ran away.
There is no dignity in old age, Charlie thought.
He hated being helpless. He didn't understand why he hadn't died, why he had to be reduced to this nothing existence when no one cared whether he lived or died anymore. He'd been alone for twenty years since Olivia died, and his estrangement from his kids, which he never understood, was painful. No, he hadn't had time for them, for their recitals, their ball games. Yes, he had used them as props when he spoke in the park on holidays, but still, he'd provided for them. Didn't they at least owe him some respect?
He left the rest of his lunch on the table for the cat and rolled to the living room. He turned on the TV and thought he'd watch an old movie, but TCM was playing "His Girl Friday," the story of two reporters, and he thought of that woman again.
Charlie wanted that cottage razed, and Constance Penny, a thorn in his side since the day she'd formed the historical society, was the only thing stopping it from happening. As much as he loathed her, he decided he would have to go and see her, reason with her, convince her that tearing down that eyesore would be the best thing she could do to retain the historical continuity of their community.
Charlie unlocked the door, turned the knob, and pulled on the rope around the knob to open the front door. He rolled onto the porch, looked at the ramp leading to the driveway, and then looked at the sea. He had bought this house in 1965 and it was worth more than three and a half million now. All that stood between it and the sea was a small road, and as he watched the sea gulls bobbing around, he saw her at the end of his driveway. Oh, how he loathed the old bitch.
Celia stared at him. Why wouldn't she leave him alone?
Charlie went back inside and shut the door. Beelzebub sat in the center of the foyer licking his paws. Charlie rolled a few feet toward him, but the cat didn't move.
"Get out of my way, you old devil," Charlie said.
The cat glanced at Charlie, and then he arched his back and hissed.
Constance
Mari braced herself as she carried the books into the Historical Society office. Constance Penny was sitting behind her desk, and when she saw Mari, she folded her hands on the desk, straightened her back, and looked down her nose at Mari, who approached her with caution. Mari kept the books in her arms and avoided Constance's eyes as she stood in front of her.
"I'm sorry it took so long to return these," Mari said.
Mari lay the books down and Constance pulled them toward her so she could look them over. Without raising her head, she looked up at Mari.
"You're forgiven." Was that a smile creasing her lips? "Why don't you sit down?"
Before she sat, Mari looked around the office. It was spruced up with real spring flowers in Victorian era vases placed in a pleasing array.
"Did you get these from your garden?" she asked.
"I don't garden," Constance said. "I never liked being on my knees. So, have you read the books?"
Mari squirmed in her seat. "Yes, I did, and I have so many questions I'd hoped you could answer." Constance kept a steady gaze on Mari. "But first, can we be friends?"
"Perhaps we should start as acquaintances." Constance pushed a manila folder toward Mari. "When you first came to see me, I found some things I thought might help you. I've kept this folder for you."
Mari opened it and saw the articles. "You printed these out for me?"
"I wanted you to do that program."
Mari looked at the photos in the folder and found one of Celia.
"This is Celia."
"I was given that photo by her daughter, Isabelle."
"You met Isabelle?"
"Twenty-five years ago, she wanted to set things right. She didn't believe her mother had killed Charlotte and wanted me to help her by finding something that would acquit her. There was no internet in those days, and it was long after they shuttered that damn asylum in Oceanville, so there was little I could do to help her. I did keep that photo, though. It was taken by Isabelle when she went to visit Celia at the asylum."
Celia's eyes were brighter than in any other photo. She didn't look as sad.
"She almost looks happy." Mari looked at Constance. "I've been reading about Charlotte, and about Celia's arrest, and the whole thing just doesn't make sense."
Constance sighed and stood up. "Charlotte was a tragic figure." She went around her desk and scooped up some petals that had fallen on a table top. "When I was a girl, we used to play on the beach near the lighthouse, and the kids would make up stories about seeing her ghost." She walked to the window near the front door. "Even then, the cottage was in ruins. A hurricane had damaged it and the town wanted to tear it down, but the railroad contested it. They hadn't used it since the murder so it was odd, but maybe they wanted to hold onto the land."
Constance folded her arms across her chest and walked back to her desk.
"Sometime after Charlie Jackson took office, the railroad decided to sell the property to the town." She returned to her chair. "They bought the land in the late 1800's when it was dirt cheap. No one wanted to live on the beach in those days. Gable liked providing a home for his workers; it was good public relations. When they finally decided to sell it to the town, that little piece of land was worth a million dollars."
"They made out."
"Yes they did, and it was Charlie Jackson who got them to agree." Constance had a gleam in her eye. "Do you know why I protest every time the town tries to tear it down?" Mari shook her head. Constance sat back and clasped her hands over her stomach. "It's because it drives Charlie Jackson mad with rage."
Mari grinned. "Really? I take it you don't like Charlie."
Constance rolled her eyes.
"He's the worst sort of swindler, the kind that makes you feel he truly cares about the town, but all the time he's working behind the scenes to undermine its progress. When he was mayor, he and his cronies did all they could to insure their interests would be served. The taxes rose, and people who'd lived here all their lives were forced to move. I was one of the lucky ones. I had inherited my grandmother's house." She leaned forward. "I could have moved up north to live near my girls, but I stayed just to spite Charlie Jackson."
She raised her eyebrows and smiled.
"Wow. You are just full of surprises, Constance Penny."
Constance smiled. "When he had the heart attack during the town meeting, I must confess, for one moment, I truly hoped he would...well, I won't say what I hoped."
"Hey, you're human, and he's a prick."
Constance smiled again. "And then he had a stroke and stopped attending town meetings." She frowned. "I am so disappointed they won't be doing the story on that show."
"Well, I'm sort of working on it on my own."
"It's on hold. I'm sort of working on it on my own."
"Really? Does that mean it will be filmed here after all?
"I'm hoping they will buy the research from me and use it, but I won't know until I have what I need to sell them on it."
"Well, you'd better do it fast. Despite my protests, the town has decided to tear it down. They wanted to get it done before the summer started, but money is tight. That will change come Labor Day."
Mari frowned. That only gave her a few months to find Charlotte's real killer. As she looked out the window next to Constance's desk, she had
a thought.
"Do you know anyone who was around at the time of the murder?"
Constance looked at her computer and typed in a few words. "Lorraine Biggins is still living in Cape Alden." She typed some more, and then looked at Mari. "And an old-timer named Cal Baker is still alive. He likes to spend his time at Morton's Inn. As a matter of fact, I saw him there the other day."
"I know about Lorraine. I'm already set to interview her." She smiled broadly. "If this works out, I just might get my job back."
Mari's eager face saddened Constance. This girl was hanging her hopes on a dream of solving a seventy-year-old cold case.
"And you really don't believe Celia killed her?" Constance asked.
"Let's just say I'm not convinced." Mari crossed one leg over the other and shook her foot. "Do you have any photos of the outside of the cottage? I'd love to see what it looked like back then."
Constance got up and went to a bookshelf near the front window. After looking at the shelves, she came back empty-handed and sat.
"I thought I had something here, but I guess I was thinking of something else." She sat and tapped her fingers on the desk. "You know, I bet Harrison would talk to you."
"Who's Harrison?"
"Isabelle's son. He owns Morton's Inn now."
Mari's eyes grew wide.
"I didn't know she had a son."
"Isabelle married after the war. She had two children, but one died from polio." Constance's eyes misted. "It was a bad time."
"Do you have his number or should I just go over there?"
"He's the bartender."
"So, just go by." Constance nodded as Mari got up. "Thanks, Constance. You've been a big help."
The doorbell jingled and they looked at the door. When no one entered, Mari opened it and saw Charlie Jackson in his wheelchair. She knew who he was and almost felt sorry for him as he tried to conceal his contempt for her with a crooked smile. Mari smiled at him as she stepped aside so he could pass her. She turned and waved at Constance, and made a face over Charlie's head before leaving.
Charlie rode his wheelchair to the desk and waited for Constance to acknowledge him. She sat and folded her hands on the desk before smiling at him.
"Hi, Charlie. I'm surprised to see you all the way out here."
"I get around with this thing, just don't tell my nurse. She thinks I'm housebound and does my shopping for me."
He smiled but Constance looked bored. He remembered seeing Mari.
"What did that woman want?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You were at the town meeting. You know how I feel about her dredging up all that old business." He put his good hand on the desk. "I would take it as a personal favor if you didn't help her. I can't see any good coming to this town if she goes mucking about."
Constance pursed her lips and looked down her nose at Charlie. She was tempted to tell him to go to hell, but she had been raised better than that, and much as she disliked him, she pretended she respected him. She wondered why he was there. He must have heard they were tearing down the cottage. If not, she wasn't going to make his day by telling him.
"I'll take it under advisement."
Charlie looked agitated. His fingers kept fidgeting with the wheelchair knob, and his good leg was shaking.
"It's just such a horrible story, and Cape Alden is such a beautiful place. That cottage is a health hazard. Why, kids might go in there and get hurt. I don't see how that dilapidated old place can be considered an historical landmark."
Constance sat back. "It was built during Cape Alden's gilded age. Of course it has historical value, and if we refurbish it, it will bring in much needed income as part of the lighthouse tour."
"You said that at the meeting, but I don't agree. We don't need that thing causing trouble, making people think about what happened there."
Constance thought the mayor was protesting too much. She wondered how long he had pondered what he would say when he got to town and saw her. He had used that baloney about the negative impact on the town when the town was deciding whether to allow Mari's show to film there. The highlight of the evening was Charlie's swan dive as he suffered a cardiac arrest.
She looked at his crooked mouth and stiff left hand and thought about what it must have taken for him to ride all this way just to plead his case to her again. He had lost his power over his town and his body, and now he had taken up a cause to keep him vital.
"I know she's not working for the program anymore," she said. "So if I were you, I would let it go for now. She's not hurting anyone, and unless she finds someone willing to buy her research, it won't go further than her computer."
Charlie frowned as he fiddled with the knob again. "Well, I've said my peace." He backed up the wheelchair and turned it around. "You have a good day."
When he couldn't get the door open, Constance got up and opened it so he could roll outside. She watched him roll to the street and stop as if he was unsure which way to go. At least he had enough money and could afford a "nurse."
Her feet hurt, and her hips had been giving her trouble. She wanted to retire, but a lifetime of working for the city hadn't given her a pension large enough to live on.
She had just turned sixty-six. Her daughter told her to take her Social Security and "double dip" by working, too, and Constance had been seriously contemplating it for the past few weeks. A hip replacement was in order, but she would be on the hook for five thousand dollars as her co-pay. It was time; she would do it. She went to her computer, found the Social Security website, and spent the next hour filling in the application.
Mari
Mari looked at herself in the mirror above her bathroom sink. Her hair, a mass of unruly curls, was the bane of her existence, and she hated fussing with it. She'd always kept it short, but had let it go while she recuperated. Now, it was getting out of hand, and she needed to find a salon in town.
Cassie was grabbing a cup of coffee before heading to work and was looking at her tablet when Mari came in.
"Any coffee left?" Mari asked.
"There should be one cup in there." Cassie watched Mari pour the coffee. "You look good this morning."
"I feel good." She brought her mug to the table and sat across from Cassie. "But I need a haircut. Do you know a stylist around here?"
"There's one on the corner of Sixth and Elm, you know, behind McGinty's Funeral Home. It's owned by the woman who does the makeup for them, but she's good with hair, too."
Mari sat back and stretched her legs. The pain in her hip had lessened, but it had rained the night before and her joints had ached during the storm. Now she was stiff, and she had a headache, too.
"I saw Constance Penny yesterday. I took those books back. She told me about Harrison, the guy who owns Morton's Inn. He's Celia's grandson."
"So, she's playing nice now."
"She's not so bad. She just loves her historical shit." Mari smiled. "And she doesn't like Charlie Jackson at all."
"That old guy who used to be the mayor?"
Mari nodded. "She called him a swindler who raised the taxes to send the poor people away."
"I was in the hospital the night they brought him up a few months ago. He was demanding. I guess he's used to getting his way." Cassie looked at the clock over the sink. "Oops, I gotta go." She took her mug to the sink, checked that the coffee maker was turned off, and grabbed her bag. "Lock the door when you leave."
"Okay."
Mari finished her coffee and headed outside. She locked the door and looked at the garage and at the old bike she'd bought so she could pedal around town. She was tempted to take it, but Ron had told her walking was good for her legs, so she walked.
It took her ten minutes to get there, and she was glad to see they took walk-ins. A middle-aged woman named Greta greeted her, and then she took Mari to a sink when she finished her last customer.
"So what are we doing today?" Greta asked.
"Cut it short. I hate doing anything wit
h it."
"But it's really nice."
Greta fluffed Mari's hair.
"I don't like the feel of it on my neck."
Greta sighed, and then washed Mari's hair before taking her to a chair at the center of the salon. Another stylist was combing out an old woman, and a third was greeting a customer. As Greta cut, Mari felt cool air on her skin and closed her eyes. It felt good to have someone caring for her, even if it was just a haircut.
"I've seen you around town," Greta said.
"Oh yeah?"
"Are you that reporter lady?"
"I used to do research for a television show."
"Right. About Charlotte."
Mari's radar went up. "Do you know anything about Charlotte?"
"My grandma went to school with Isabelle Morton."
Oh?
"Grandma lived at the end of Main Street near the beach. She knew Charlotte."
"Were they friends?"
"No, just to say hi. Charlotte would pass Grandma's house on her way to town." Greta combed and cut while she talked. "After the murder, Grandma wasn't allowed out by herself. Everybody got real paranoid." Greta stopped cutting and looked at Mari in the mirror. "It's never a good idea to tell a kid not to do something, because one day, she and her friends snuck into that cottage."
Mari's body stiffened. "What did they see?"
"She said there had to be a gallon of blood on the living room rug. She said the bed looked like it had red sheets."
Mari cringed. The human body contained about one and a half gallons of blood, depending on a person's size, another tidbit she'd learned in her research, so that sounded like a lot. Could there have been another body?
"That's a lot of blood."
"Grandma said it was the worst thing she'd ever seen."
Mari tried to imagine what it would have looked like and a chill went up her spine.