What She Deserved

by A. L. Jambor

  The store didn't open until noon on Sunday, so Phil drove to the lighthouse and parked in the parking lot. He hadn't planned to go to the cottage, but now that he was so close, maybe he could soothe Mari's nerves by seeing it and describing it to her. He got out of the car and headed to the wooden walkway.

  Someone had cut away the tangle of bushes that had kept it hidden from view and put a sign on the door saying it was scheduled for demolition. Besides the sign, a padlock had been put on the door.

  Phil stood back and looked at the cottage. Boards covering the windows had come loose and were hanging sideways. Some had fallen to the ground. The gabled roof sagged, and he saw an old rocking chair on the porch that had somehow remained in place for over seventy years.

  He climbed the porch steps, mindful of a loose board, and peered inside a gap at the dirty front window. It was too dark to see anything. He tried to pull a board down to open the window and was surprised when it loosened and fell at his feet with ease. He looked around, but people on the beach were far away, so he lifted the window and climbed inside.

  The smell of wet wood and death lent an indescribable aroma to the air. He took out his phone, put on the flashlight, and swept the beam of light from left to right. He saw an old sofa, and behind that, an icebox and stove. In the space between the kitchen and the bedroom door sat a table and chairs, one of which was on its side. He detected the scent of mildew now, too, and felt a scratch in his throat that made him cough.

  Phil held the beam on the floor and saw the Oriental rug, its faded colors mixed with large, brown stains. They could have been rust or mud, but when he realized they were blood stains, he shuddered. He ran the beam from the stain to the door and saw a trail of smaller stains.

  His cough grew worse, and the heavy smell was getting to him. It was time to leave; he didn't want to look at Charlotte's bed.

  Phil turned off the flashlight, left the cottage, and wondered whether he should tell Mari. He didn't like the idea of her coming down here alone and seeing that stain on the rug. He knew how attached she'd gotten to Charlotte, how real she was to Mari, and it might be a bit too much reality for her to actually see the remnants of Charlotte's murder.

  He drove back to the hardware store in time for his shift and parked behind the store. Jerry had given him hell for parking there, but Phil ignored him. Jerry was full of shit. He wouldn't have it towed. He needed Phil to cover the Labor Day weekend.

  Mari

  Sunday morning, Mari woke up determined to go to Cheryl's house to look at Seth Brennan's stuff. She felt guilty for having waited so long, but the more she learned about Charlotte, the more caught up she got, and Cheryl's offer had slipped her mind until Constance reminded her again a week before.

  "She's going to burn that whole lot," Constance said. "It will be too late then. Get over there."

  She and Constance had bumped into each other at the grocery store and then gone out to lunch. Mari was surprised by how well they got along considering their inauspicious beginning. She learned a lot about the origins of the town and grew to appreciate the old houses as Constance talked about the people who had lived in them a hundred years ago, many of whom had waved at Mari as she walked past them. She decided not to share that with Constance.

  "I want to be passionate about something, too," Mari said.

  "You're passionate about this murder," Constance said. Yes, she was. Her passion was investigating, seeking clues, and understanding motives. "You could be a detective," Constance said.

  "I don't want to be a cop."

  "Then a private detective."

  Mari thought about being a P.I. Her uncle had made a good living that way, but he didn't seem to mind taking photos of people in compromising positions. Still, it was an idea, and she gave it some serious thought as she walked to Cheryl's house.

  Cheryl lived near the center of town about two blocks from Cassie's house. Mari was shocked to see Cheryl's dining room, which was full of boxes stacked against each wall.

  "I'm sorry it took me so long to get here," Mari said.

  "You get caught up in stuff and forget. I know, I'm just glad you came because I have these guys coming by to shred it later this week."

  Mari started at one end and worked her way around, looking for anything that pertained to the year 1941. She found two boxes of files and several notepads full of Sheriff Brennan's scribblings. When she was done she was brimming with ideas, and her excitement made Cheryl smile.

  "You look thrilled," she said.

  "I can't wait to look at this stuff."

  Cheryl drove Mari back to Cassie's and helped her carry the boxes up to Mari's apartment. Mari offered to buy her lunch, but Cheryl declined.

  "Not today," she said. "I want to pull that stuff outside so the guys don't have to come into my house."

  They walked down the stairs together and Mari thanked Cheryl again as she drove away.

  Mari saw the old man in the second floor window and waved. He waved back. She went to the front yard and waved to the lady watering the flowers, and then saw another man wearing a derby hat sitting on the porch of Cassie's neighbor's house. Mari was getting used to seeing them and liked their presence. They were "friends," but she didn't have to carry on a conversation with any of them, and they didn't get offended when she ignored them, either.

  She went back upstairs and sat on the loveseat. One by one, she pulled the files out of the boxes. They were from the late 1930's and the early 1940's, mostly reports of drunk and disorderly men being hauled into the sheriff's jail every weekend, but little else.

  When she found Charlotte's file and read the "official" account of Charlotte's death, it was similar to those found in the books from Constance.

  Charlotte had been dead for at least five days before she was found. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the bed. Her head was bent back, exposing the slash across her neck. She was staring at the ceiling and naked from the waist down with her legs sprawled out in front of her. Everything, including the victim, was covered in dried blood. There was a long, single gash across her abdomen, and what was later determined to be a placenta, lying near her left leg. There were slashes all over her arms and face. No weapon was recovered, and all partial fingerprints belonged to the victim.

  There was no list of possible suspects, no investigation notes, nothing to indicate they had looked at anyone other than Celia for committing the crime, and Mari knew that Josh had been in that cottage. Where were his fingerprints?

  "Suspect related that she had been distraught over the break-up of her daughter and her boyfriend."

  Seth Brennan's neat handwriting filled in the details. Why had everyone been so quick to believe Celia would kill for such a ridiculous reason? Why had no one but her daughter come to her defense?

  She put those files in a box with the other things she'd collected. There was nothing in the other files worth copying, so she put them all aside. She had promised Cheryl she'd shred them, and she'd keep her promise.

  She rubbed her eyes and lay back on her pillows. What was she doing? Why keep working this case when she had no guarantee that anyone would buy it? Because Celia deserved better and whether Mari liked it or not, Celia had chosen her. If Mari dropped the ball now, no one else would ever pick it up again.

  She got up and looked out the window. Gray clouds now threatened the shore. She felt sad for the local merchants. Rain would keep people away. They'd go home early, filling the parkway bumper to bumper, and summer employees would lose half a day's pay as they were let go early.

  Mari opened the window, lifted the screen, and put her hands on the sill. She leaned out the window, and looked at Cassie's house. Thank God for Cassie. If it weren't for her generosity, where would Mari be? Her gratitude was real, and Cassie was a friend for life, which would make it all the sadder when it came time for Mari to leave.

  Who are you kidding?

  It was Mari's voice, but it sounded cold. Whenever she imagined going to
New York, that voice would remind her she couldn't do it. The constant stream of negativism was hard to ignore, and it was right. She still felt a wave of anxiety whenever she thought of going out of town, even to Oceanville. Cassie had asked an occupational therapist at the hospital if she would help Mari without charge, and the woman had agreed to a few sessions, but Mari didn't believe it would do more for her than provide a diagnosis that would help her get disability.

  "Hey up there."

  It was Cassie. She was on her way to work and was waving at Mari. She had a double shift, which meant overtime, and Joey would stay with his grandmother.

  Mari waved and watched as Cassie drove away. She looked at the clouds and decided to go to Elm Street before the rain started to see if Lorraine Biggins' teacher, Sarah Meade, would talk to her.

  Sarah

  As Mari walked toward Elm Street, a streak of sunlight broke through the clouds. It stayed until she saw it over Sarah Meade's house, guarding it like a sentinel, and when Mari saw the house, she smiled. It was a fabulous old pink Victorian with three stories, turrets, gingerbread adorning the wraparound porch, and white shutters. The house looked like a giant wedding cake, and the lady who occupied it was sitting on a short stool near the house as she planted marigolds near the shrubs.

  Mari walked up the driveway and said hello, but the woman didn't move, so Mari assumed she was hard of hearing. When she got close to her, however, Mari saw that she wore ear buds and heard the dulcet tones of classical music coming from the lady's cell phone. The music, the flowers, and the house created an atmosphere of peace and tranquility that Mari hadn't felt in a long time. She closed her eyes. She wanted time to stop so she could stay in this moment, but the woman had finished planting and saw Mari standing near her.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  Mari opened her eyes and looked at the woman's face. Her eyes were still bright blue and her hair pure white. She looked like a grand dame greeting an unexpected guest.

  "I'm fine. I didn't want to startle you."

  "And you are?"

  "Mari, Marigold Burnside. Are you Sarah Meade?"

  "I am."

  "Lorraine Biggins gave me your name. I'm investigating Charlotte Johnson's murder."

  "I've heard of you." Sarah got up, wobbled, and Mari put her hand out. "No need. I'm fine."

  Mari pulled her hand back and blushed.

  "Should you be doing that in this heat?" Mari asked.

  Sarah stood straight. "My mother died at the age of 105. She died planting marigolds."

  "I didn't mean anything...."

  "Oh, yes you did. People assume too much when they see an old person."

  "Sorry."

  Sarah stuck out her chin. "You're forgiven; now, help me put my tools away so we can go inside."

  Mari carried some of the tools as she followed Sarah to a shed behind the house. It, too, was painted pink, and everything inside was neatly arranged by size. Once Sarah had wiped each tool and put it in its place, they went to the back door and into her kitchen, which hadn't been changed since the early thirties.

  "My mother decorated this kitchen," Sarah said. "It wasn't easy. The Depression hit us pretty hard, but she owned the house and saved what she could from my father's salary." She smiled. "He was an engineer on the railroad."

  The gas stove and sink reminded Mari of those she'd seen at a show in New York City where collectors of miniatures bought items for their dollhouses. The refrigerator was newer, but still fit the décor, and the table and chairs were in the Shaker style.

  The kitchen was immaculate, and Sarah brought out a teapot, cups, and saucers from the cupboard and arranged them on a tray.

  "I hope you like tea," she said. "I have a lovely jasmine oolong."

  "Sounds great." Mari had no idea what jasmine oolong was, but she wasn't going to admit that to Sarah. She watched her movements as she made the tea and marveled at her dexterity. Mari had expected her to be in a wheelchair, attended by a companion, but this woman was vibrant and, well, alive.

  "Sit," Sarah said. "Would you like some cookies?"

  "Always," Mari said.

  Sarah smiled. "I don't bake. I buy them in the grocery store."

  "I don't mind."

  Sarah put some cookies on a plate, put it on the tray, brought the tray to the table, and sat. "We have to let the tea steep for a few minutes, but we can have the cookies."

  Mari recognized the butter cookies. They were the same ones her mother would buy at Christmas. They each munched on one as Mari decided which question to ask her first.

  "How is Lorraine?" Sarah asked.

  "She gave me shortbread cookies."

  Sarah smiled. "She likes to bake. She excelled in her home economics class." She leaned toward Mari. "I never cared much for cooking. My husband used to say if he hadn't learned to cook, we'd have starved to death."

  "He didn't mind cooking?"

  "Not at all. He knew who I was when he married me, and he liked cooking." Sarah poured the tea into her cup and sipped it. "It's ready." She poured Mari's. "So, you didn't come here to talk about my husband."

  "No. I came here to talk about Charlotte Johnson."

  "Oh, yes, so you said." Sarah got up, took something off her refrigerator, and brought it to Mari. "I got that in the mail a few weeks ago."

  It was a notecard with Charlie Jackson's name on it. Attached to it was a letter asking his friends not to indulge the reporter who was trying to bring shame to their town. It bore his signature, but it looked like he used a rubber stamp, not his hand, to sign the letter.

  "I don't know why I kept it," Sarah said. "He was always such a blowhard."

  "He tried hard to stop me from asking questions." Mari looked at Sarah. "You wouldn't know why, would you?"

  "Not really."

  "Did you know his family?"

  "I knew his brother, Josh. He was one of my students. It was my first year teaching, and I wasn't much older than my students." She smiled. "I can admit it now because it was so long ago, but when Josh walked into my classroom, I nearly swooned. He was that handsome. Like Errol Flynn. Blue eyes and sandy hair, but he looked much older, and it was hard to keep my wits about me. I had to, of course, there are rules about such things, but still, I never forgot him." Her smile was wistful. "The girls would giggle and whisper when he looked at them." She sighed. "And he was smart. It was like he'd been blessed by the gods."

  "Did he have a girlfriend?"

  "No one in particular, but he was charming. Any one of those girls would have gone out with him."

  "Did he ever date Isabelle Morton?"

  Sarah shook her head. "No. Isabelle's father didn't approve of her dating."

  "What about Jack Womack?"

  "Oh." She waved her hand. "That was just rumors. Jack was far too old for her."

  "Did you know Jack?"

  "I did, and I even went out with him a few times. He was another handsome one, that Jack. Dark hair and brown eyes, and he knew how to dance. We went to Atlantic City on the train. Jack always had money. He had left home young, and by the time he was sixteen, he had his own boat and bootlegged Canadian whiskey until they repealed prohibition. I guess he saved his money. He didn't work, but he had his own boat. He liked to take women to his boat and, well, do whatever they would allow him to do."

  Her eyes twinkled.

  "Did you fall for him, too?" Mari asked.

  "He was very likable, but I was a teacher and he was a scamp. I had to protect my reputation, so I stopped going to Atlantic City with him when Jack suggested I visit his boat."

  Mari smiled. "And then you met Mr. Meade?"

  "I did, and he swept me off my feet. He proposed; Jack would never have proposed. He wasn't the marrying kind."

  "What about Isabelle's mother?" Mari asked.

  Sarah's face fell. "Poor Celia. That woman was treated so badly."

  "Did you know her?"

  "She was my mother's patient for many years. Mama was a ho
listic healer. Celia was a classic manic-depressive, I think they call them bipolar now, and Mama was able to relieve her symptoms, but her husband didn't like it. He refused to pay Mama, and then he took Celia to Oceanville." Sarah looked at her hands. "She had a lobotomy."

  "Holy shit." Mari blushed. "Sorry."

  "It wasn't an unusual treatment for the mentally ill in those days, but Celia was controllable. There was no need for that, but Carl Morton was a horrible man."

  "Do you think she killed Charlotte?"

  "She couldn't have. She wasn't able to do anything other than sit in her chair by the window and watch the world go by. Isabelle took care of her. She broke down one day during class and told me how she'd bathe and feed Celia, and how angry she was at her father. There wasn't a thing I could do for her, and it made me so angry."

  "Who do you think killed Charlotte?"

  "At the time, I thought Carl had done it as a sort of roundabout way to get rid of Celia. Then I thought it might be the lighthouse keeper's wife. I can't recall her name..."

  "Joan Jackson."

  "Yes, Joan. They lived so close to the cottage and they all ran away like thieves in the night, but Seth Brennan arrested Celia and never looked at anyone else. Mama was incensed. She tried to find out when the trial would take place so she could testify, but there was no trial, just a hearing, and Judge Orson rendered a verdict. It was all done within a few days. Mama was so upset she refused to see patients for a week."

  "Do you think Joe was the father of Charlotte's baby?"

  "He might have been, which is why I thought his wife could have killed Charlotte."

  "What about Josh?"

  Sarah's eyebrows met and she frowned. "Oh, no, I don't want to believe that. Although now that I think of it, Charlotte wasn't much older than him, and she often reminded me of a child."

  "How so?"

  "Oh, by the way she acted whenever she was in town. I think she was illiterate. She never knew how much money to give the grocer; it was either too much or too little. And she didn't seem to understand how to act in polite society. She was pregnant and unmarried, yet she acted as if there was nothing wrong. The married women in town were appalled. I was young and more forgiving, and I felt sorry for her, but there was little I could do for her without risking my job."