Before Rich could cuff him, Woodrow’s phone rang. He looked at the caller’s identity, and appeared relieved. “Where the hell have you been?” he answered. “I don’t have much time, so listen carefully—I need you to call my lawyer, Barney Cook, and tell him I’m being arrested. It’s a total setup—it’ll be the easiest money he ever made. We’ll own this town … check that, we already do.”
“But you’re not really being set up, Dad, if you did it … that would mean you just got caught,” the voice on the other end said.
He looked up, defeated, realizing that he wasn’t speaking to Nap or Louisa. I held up their phone for him to see, punctuated with a smirk, and then spoke into it one final time, “One other thing—I just want to make it official that I won’t be running for first selectman. Arrests tend to not go over well this close to an election. The candidate who would be in charge of upholding the laws, connected to the man who’s breaking them, you can see where I’m going with this, right?”
Woodrow dropped the phone … it was over.
Well, almost.
Rich Tolland looked to me. “If you’re done, JP, I’d like to get him booked so I can get home at a decent hour.”
“Just one more thing.”
“And that would be?”
“Geronimo!” roared a voice from atop the guardrail of the bridge. Everybody looked up to see Carter leap off, and land a flying elbow on the back of Woodrow’s head, knocking him to the ground. Messing with Carter’s girl is never good for your health.
Carter looked to me with a satisfied grin, and then flexed for the rest of the crowd.
Having written this play, I was feeling very Shakespearean at the moment, so I proclaimed, “When sorrows come, they come not in single spies, but in battalions.”
“ Hamlet—Act IV Scene V,” Murray said, recognizing the line.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Rich said with a smile as he cuffed the suspect. “Miranda Warning. First right, final scene.”
We then watched as Rich walked Woodrow “offstage” and put him into the back of the police car. The door shut behind him.
The End.
Epilogue —
The Last Thanksgiving
Chapter 83
Rockfield—Thanksgiving
I stepped inside the A-frame house with the package tucked under my coat.
I had attended many Thanksgiving dinners in this house, but I’d never seen anything like this. It was wall-to-wall people like a subway stop at rush hour. It felt more like a bon-voyage party than a family dinner.
Fall had gone by fast this year. It seems like it always does—it’s my favorite season, and like all good things in this world it speeds by before we can grab hold of it. But more so this year, knowing that next week my parents will be moving to Savannah, making this their final Thanksgiving in Rockfield.
I know, I know, they haven’t died, and can return whenever they desire, just as they already have planned for next Thanksgiving. But it won’t be the same, and I think all these people here today feel the same way—it’s the end of an era.
I maneuvered my way through the room, until I came upon my brother, Ethan. He was still dressed in his coaching uniform of green sweater-vest over a gold turtleneck, along with the happy grin of a winning coach, after his team knocked off its rival New Milford High earlier today in their traditional game.
By his side were my niece, Ella, and her new BFF, Gracie Cooper. Their budding friendship was good to see. At least for me—I’m not sure it was a positive development for Eliot.
I briefly chatted with my brother about the game, and traded a few “I can’t believe they’re really moving” comments about our parents, before I was on my way—I didn’t have much time.
But I didn’t get far.
My progress was stopped by none other than Bobby Maloney. I guess I should refer to him as First Selectman Maloney, as he won the election a few weeks back in a landslide. I could only hope that it ends better than the last time he held the position.
He shook my hand with gusto and profusely thanked me. I wasn’t exactly sure what for, but it could have been a multitude of things. Perhaps for saving his life from serial killer Grady Benson last year, or maybe for not standing in the way of his political aspirations, even though I had certain information that would have thrown a monkey wrench into his plans.
He and his wife had been involved in a conversation with another couple. The woman was in a dress that I don’t believe the Pilgrims would have found appropriate, and her date reached out his clammy hand for me to shake.
I had wanted no part of inviting Lauren Bowden and Cliff Sutcliffe, but Gwen insisted. This was related to Lauren saving Gwen’s life earlier this year, and if you can’t be thankful for that, then why even have Thanksgiving? she said. I couldn’t argue with the sentiment, but I still would have preferred to send a Thank You note, or give them a subscription to the “Jelly of the Month Club.”
I’d been avoiding Lauren’s attempts for me to do the interview about my brother Noah, which I’d promised her. “You can’t run from me forever, John Peter,” she said as I tried to slip away once again. Which was exactly what I was afraid of.
I checked the package under my coat, and it was starting to drip—I needed to get to Gwen. And I almost reached the kitchen when I entered the land of misfit couples. I could only imagine what they were discussing, as they all had lives and journeys worthy of a novel. I planned to continue by with just a friendly wave, but Carter stuck out his knee to impede my progress. It sent a sharp pain through my leg, and his smile told me that it was payback for that elbow I landed on him outside my brownstone.
Doc Mac stood behind Bette’s wheelchair, and he was in a conversation with Archie and Joe Jr., who had flown in from California yesterday. Archie was honored at the Rockfield High football game today, and had his jersey number retired. He scored the second most touchdowns in school history, which was doubly impressive since he missed most of his senior year due to the whole “disappearance” thing.
It was the one-and-only time he would publicly be Thomas Archibald again, and he went right back to being Ward Seifert the moment the ceremony ended. Life is complicated for all of us, but the life of Thomas Archibald/Ward Seifert appeared to be more complex than most.
Next to them stood Poca and Carter. The less attractive of the two told me, “Gwen’s looking for you … and she’s pretty hot under the collar.”
“She’s mad at me?”
He looked at me like I was speaking alien. “I meant from the collar down she’s looking seriously hot. Have you ever noticed what a great set of legs she has on her?”
“Thanks for the update—I never really noticed.”
“Oh, and she is pretty pissed off too … since you asked.”
Poca laughed. “She’s not mad, JP—just stressed out. She’s trying to pull off this dinner all by herself—she should have let us help her.”
I was supposed to be the one helping her, which was why I really needed to get to the kitchen. And as I made my way, I glanced back at the happy couples. It struck me how much lighter the mood was than it had been just a few months ago. Funny what having a fifty-year burden lifted from your shoulders can do. The truth did set them free.
But it doesn’t always. The truth came back to bite Woodrow Hastings in the ass. And the irony was, the past he was willing to kill to cover up never really existed. It was just a grand illusion. One that was set into motion when he decided that Thomas Archibald was a threat to him, and needed to die. It would take fifty years, but he was finally being held accountable for that decision.
Woodrow has spent the last couple of months in prison, having been denied bail. His latest excuse was that he was a victim of a fraud, perpetrated by Thomas Archibald and Joe Jr. And because he felt he was going to be set up for the supposed Archibald murder, he was forced to protect himself. Sounded absurd to me, but I never count out the wealthy in a court of law. Justice might be bli
nd, but she does accept most major credit cards.
That said, he would be facing an uphill battle at trial. Even if his lawyers get my version of Masterpiece Theater thrown out of court, he still would have a long line of eager folks willing to testify against him. One of those would be Jill Leezy, who had cooperated with authorities to take him down. This shouldn’t have been a surprise to Woodrow, as he had to be aware that her loyalty was rather fluid. She was dating Hastings but also pretending that she was Chayton’s mistress. Chayton believed he had a spy inside the Hastings camp, when all the while she was really spying for Hastings.
She wore a wire, and delivered him to the bridge that night, in return for a lighter sentence for her attempt on Chayton’s life. She still would be doing some quality vacation time the next few years, and it wouldn’t be at Martha’s Vineyard.
Chayton took a leave of absence from the law firm to check himself into a drug rehab. His mother reported that he’s doing well, and he should be home by Christmas.
Vivian also cooperated, designing the costumes for my “play,” including turning Thomas Archibald back into a letterman jacket-wearing teenager. She had lied about the night of Bette’s accident. Her story was that when she’d heard about Poca and Bette going off to smoke peyote, that she first went to get Woodrow, who was home packing for college, and they drove to the bridge together. But the truth was, Vivian went directly to the bridge and Woodrow was already there, searching for his sister, still dressed in the bathrobe, and probably also searching for the mask she tore off him.
Vivian had protected him all these years. She did it out of the hope that her loyalty would one day be reciprocated with his love. But her Woodrow obsession had its limits, which for Vivian was possible jail time.
Archie and Joe Jr. were cleared of any wrongdoing in the disappearance of Thomas Archibald, and the shootings of Louisa and Nap were declared self-defense.
Dr. Will MacDougal is currently in a psychiatric hospital, as ordered by the court. The criminal charges, including kidnapping, were dropped. It would have been difficult to win a conviction anyway, since none of his captives were willing to testify against him.
That left one last participant, and the one whose inclusion was most complicated. Poca admitted being the ringleader in Bette’s accident, which at the very least could have brought a reckless endangerment charge. She had also lied on a police report in the case of Thomas Archibald. But it was determined that she had no criminal intent, and no charges were filed. She still had to face the ultimate jury in Bette Hastings, and it seems that she acquitted her. Bette understood all about going to great lengths to protect the people you care about.
There was still the matter of the “curse business,” which allegedly helped Poca’s family and the Hastings’ to gain immense power and wealth through the use of murder and extortion over multiple generations. It was ruled that there was no evidence that any such “curse” was used during her leadership as chief of Samerauk Nation. And she wasn’t held responsible for the acts of her ancestors. But while she would be personally acquitted, the matter was still a stain on our little bubble-wrapped slice of goodness called Rockfield.
And despite Bobby Maloney winning the election, Poca decided to pull her support for the casino, citing a change of heart. Which meant that it wouldn’t happen, as long as she was the chief. This of course made some of us happy, while it enraged its supporters. So it sounded like things were getting back to normal around here.
But if I’ve learned anything this past year—there is no such thing as normal.
Chapter 84
I pushed through the saloon doors to the kitchen and stepped inside.
Gwen was running around, dare I say, like a wild turkey, checking on each dish. And continuing with the food theme, she really had bitten off more than she could chew, taking this all on by herself.
“Did you get it?” she asked anxiously.
I pulled the two pies out from under my coat, and she looked relieved.
I viewed the dishes of charcoal on the counter that were apple pies gone horribly wrong. Gwen noticed my stare, and warned, “If you mention a word about this …”
She let it hang, since my imagination would top any threat she could come up with on her own.
She tossed the charcoal pies into the garbage, and replaced them in the tins with the store-bought ones. “With all the WSW wine Archie brought, nobody will even notice,” I tried to provide support.
She continued to stare at the pies, and sighed. “How come our parents were good at things, and we’re total disasters?”
“We’re good at some things,” I said with a smile.
“I mean your mother could bake a pie, and I burn them. And my dad can fix anything around the house, and you’re completely inept when it comes to that stuff.”
I just stared at her—Carter was right. But she was no slouch above the collar either. In fact, that was my favorite part.
“What?” she asked, uncomfortably.
“You can burn my pie anytime.”
“Thanks … I think. Are we ready?”
“As we’ll ever be.”
“I’m sort of nervous.”
“Just think what you’ll feel like when we get married.”
She smiled. “Don’t you even start, JP Warner.”
I grabbed the tray of turkey, while Gwen picked up a bowl of mashed potatoes and a gravy boat. We headed for the dining room.
All the guests were seated at the long table. It was a packed house—thirty-five people in total—and even the kiddie table was full. A few of the guests offered us assistance, but this was our house now—our Thanksgiving dinner to serve. We made a few more trips, returning with the cranberry sauce and stuffing, among other goodies. Poca had supplied the johnnycakes that the Samerauks were famous for, which were basically fried gruel made from cornmeal, and very tasty.
Lewis Hastings had stopped by earlier, bringing with him the leftover peach cobbler from the lunch at Hastings Inn for his Aunt Bette. We invited him to stay, but he was working right through the holiday, as he was now running all the Hastings businesses, including the movie company. And of the most importance to Rockfield, he’d been put in charge of the Hastings Fund, which he vowed to continue.
My father sat at the head of the table just as he always had. And in a nice piece of symbolism, the new first selectman, Bobby Maloney, sat to his right, and the Samerauk chief, Poca, to his left. Knowing my father, this wasn’t a coincidence. It was as if he was reminding them of their leadership role in the future of the town, and the importance of them coming together.
I just hoped it worked out better than the first time that the settlers and Indians came together for a harvest feast back in 1621, at what became known as the First Thanksgiving. The dessert of that meal was a lot of war and bad feelings that still linger.
Gwen and I took a seat halfway down the table, next to Murray and his wife. Allison sat across from us, next to Gwen’s father. The fact that Allison was still living with them and working for the Gazette, while Byron and Tonya had returned to Charleston to plan their New Years wedding, and Carter and Poca were about to embark on a cross-country trip on motorcycles, meant that I had lost the bet with Gwen. But hopefully my mission to find the only bakery in Connecticut open on Thanksgiving had got me back to even.
As was tradition, my father led everyone in a prayer, and then gave thanks for the years that we got to spend with my brother Noah before he was taken away. We then went around the table and each person offered what they were thankful for this year, the most touching coming from Gracie, who thanked Gwen and Mr. Delaney for taking them in after her father’s death. There was certainly no lack of thanks to be handed out around this table, including from a few of us who were just happy to be alive.
It was now time to carve the turkey. My father stood with knife in hand, but then laid the knife back down on the table. He walked to where I was sitting and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve sat at the
head of this table and carved the turkey for a generation, but this is no longer my house. It belongs to JP and Gwen, and I’m honored to be their guest. JP should be the one to carve the turkey.”
The changing of the guard then took place, as I made the short (in distance) but very long (in responsibility) walk to the head of the table. I stood and looked around the room, eying each guest. I took note of the many couples—my mother and father, Ethan and Pam, Archie and Joe Jr., Doc Mac and Bette. Some were traditional, some as far from it as possible. Some survived the struggle in private like Doc Mac and Bette, and some were cut short like Allison and her husband. But they all had two things in common—their relationships were built on an unyielding love, and the script never went as planned. Like Joe Jr. had said—when the wind blows … and it will … hold on really tight.
I looked to Gwen, who smiled her brilliant smile back at me. At that moment I knew it didn’t matter what each of our visions were for the future. We had no say in what would come our way. But if we believed in each other, and hung on for dear life, we could take on whatever the universe had in store for us, and I liked our chances. And for that I was thankful.
I kept eye contact with Gwen as I raised a glass of wine for a toast. “Last year I was able to make the long journey home, and this year I bought that home. I can only hope that in the years to come this home is filled with as much love as the previous owners brought to it.”
I looked to my mother and father, who beamed with pride.
Archie raised his glass, and added, “To finding something you love.”
It was the unfinished toast from our dinner at the winery, which had been rudely interrupted by gunfire. This time the lights didn’t go out. But they did flicker for a moment.
Logic says it was just a power surge, but I got the feeling that it was the universe’s way of reminding me that there were more storms on the horizon.
Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3) Page 33