Windward Secrets

by K. A. Davis

  Ike barked even louder.

  “I’ll take my painting things up and see if I can get Ike to come down,” Caroline said, leaving the kitchen.

  “Jill, does Ike bark this much when he’s with Drew?” Claire asked, as she removed the breakfast dishes from dish rack and put them in the cabinet.

  “No. He rarely barks.”

  “Do you think there’s something about us he doesn’t like?” Claire asked, turning to face Jill.

  “No. I think there’s something about this house that bothers him.”

  Ike suddenly ran into the kitchen and slid across the linoleum to Claire’s side. Grabbing her pant leg with his teeth he pulled her into the parlor.

  “Oh Ike, what is it?”

  “Girls, come up here!” Caroline shouted. “The door to the locked room is open.”

  Claire pried Ike’s teeth off her pants and started up the stairs. Ike scrambled past her nearly knocking her down.

  Caroline met them at the second floor landing and together they climbed the stairs to the third floor. They could hear Ike already inside the room sniffing and whining.

  Slowly opening the door the whole way the women cautiously peered inside the room.

  “It’s just another bedroom,” Jill said.

  Claire walked farther into the room. “Let’s look around. There has to be some reason Ike is so interested.”

  The room was definitely decorated for a little girl. It was large with two windows overlooking the sea and two facing the driveway. An ornate, iron bed with a once frilly, pink bedspread held an assortment of tired looking, stuffed animals. There were pictures of ballerinas on the walls. The furniture, once white, was now grey from years of dust permeating the paint. The windows had the same lace curtains as the other bedrooms, and there was a window seat in an alcove under one of the windows facing the ocean. At the foot of the bed was a wicker settee with an old fashioned scrapbook propped against its back.

  Claire sat down on the settee and a mushroom of dust floated into the air. She picked up the scrapbook and examined the brown leather cover now cracked and brittle with age. When she opened the book and started to turn the pages, they nearly disintegrated. Carefully she studied the old snapshots held in place with black triangular holders at each corner.

  Opening the closet Jill pulled out a little girl’s dress. “Look at this. The closet is filled with little girl’s clothes and shoes. These styles are at least forty years old.”

  Diane examined the top of the bureau, which held a mirror on a stand, hairbrush, comb and miscellaneous bottles and hair barrettes. Pulling open the top drawer she said, “Old clothes here too.”

  Caroline was standing next to a bookcase containing books and dolls. “This room looks like nothing has been touched in years.”

  Claire suddenly gasped. “I can’t believe this.”

  Diane quickly crossed the room and sat down beside Claire. “What is it?”

  Claire pointed to a picture of five children playing on a beach. “This is me.”

  “What?” Jill said, returning the dress to the closet and hurrying to stand on the other side of Claire.

  Caroline moved beside Diane and they all looked where Claire was pointing.

  “Look. This is me. This is my brother Will, and the other three children are Betsy, Patty and their brother David. We played with them every year that we came to The Point.”

  “Did they live in this house?” Diane asked.

  “I don’t remember that, but they must have. We were always on the beach, playing games, or riding bikes. If we came to this house I don’t remember. That’s so weird, how could I forget this big old house?”

  “How old were you?” Caroline inquired.

  “I think I must have been about eleven. Will would have been fourteen. He and David were the same age. Patty was a year older than me; and Betsy was, I think, about three years younger.”

  “What was their last name?” Jill questioned.

  “I don’t know. I’m sure I knew their name. I believe Mom stayed in touch with their parents over the years. I can’t remember much else. I think this was the last year we came to The Point,” Claire said, slowly turning the pages. There were more pictures of the children digging for clams, building sandcastles and in front of the house sitting on bicycles.”

  The corner, picture holders were dried out and no longer secured many of the pictures. Claire studied each picture closely before moving onto the next page. Halfway through the scrapbook were two old, yellowed, newspaper articles, one of which had a picture of Betsy and a headline that read, “Local Child Missing.”

  “Oh God,” Claire declared, as she quickly scanned the articles. “Oh no. Something happened to Betsy. She either wandered off or was kidnapped and they never found her… or, at least, by the second article several months later there was no trace. I never knew this. I wonder if this is why we didn’t come back after that year. Will and I never understood; we loved it here. If Mom and Dad knew about this they never told us.” Finishing the article she looked up at Jill, “Carter. Their last name was Carter.”

  Claire slowly worked her way through the book again, this time from back to front. Leaning forward, and looking closer, she picked up one of the pictures and walked to the window for better light.

  “What is it?” Diane asked.

  “Take a look and tell me what this is Diane,” Claire requested, pointing to the side of the photograph.

  Diane squinted and studied the photo. “It’s an old truck. You can barely see it camouflaged among the trees and scrubs.”

  “Look at the door,” Claire encouraged.

  “It looks like W-E-N-D. That’s all I can make out. Are you thinking it’s Wendell’s truck?”

  “Well, of course it’s not the same truck, it would be too old, but it’s a pickup. I bet if we could see more of the lettering it would say Wendell’s Plumbing.”

  “What are you saying?” Caroline interrupted. “Do you think Wendell may have had something to do with Betsy’s disappearance?”

  “Maybe. I’m going to study every one of these pictures.”

  “Surely, the authorities would have picked up on that?” Caroline offered.

  “Not if they had the same attitude as Chief Peterson,” Claire said.

  “Claire, don’t jump to conclusions,” Diane stated.

  “Diane, look at the way the truck is positioned. There are no houses around and no other cars or people. This truck looks as if it was being hidden on purpose. Someone could have easily been watching us without us knowing.”

  “You could be right, Claire. Do you recognize the beach location?”

  “These rocks,” Claire said, pointing to another section of the picture. “I remember them but I don’t know where they are. They’re probably totally covered with sand or totally exposed by now; could go either way after all this time.”

  Ike had finally settled down and was lying on the floor next to the bed.

  “Look,” Caroline said. “Ike’s calm. It’s like he needed to show us this room.”

  “This is all too weird,” Jill replied. “I’m hungry. Let’s go down and have some lunch.”

  ***

  Claire sat at the kitchen table studying the scrapbook as she ate a sandwich. The other three women looked at each other anxiously waiting for Claire to say something.

  Getting up from the table Claire started opening kitchen drawers. Finally, she pulled out an old telephone book and paged through the yellow pages. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  “Why am I afraid of what she’s going to say?” Caroline asked, nervously stirring her iced tea.

  “Because it’s probably not going to be good,” Jill replied.

  Diane waited in silence and then nodded at Claire to continue.

  Claire looked at each as she spoke. “Wendell lives at 29 Beach Haven Road, that’s farther down this road, a mile or so. Jill, you will take your phone and your car to the edge of Haworth. Caroline you
will take your phone and car a mile past Wendell’s house. You two are going to be the lookouts. Diane and I are going to ride our bikes down to Wendell’s and see what we can find. If either Jill or Caroline see Wendell coming in our direction they will call us. It will be easier to hide the bikes than a car and if we get caught we can say we were just taking a rest from biking.”

  “Claire, you’re nuts. This is dangerous. We have no business snooping around Wendell’s,” Caroline said.

  “Well, he had no business stealing Diane’s underwear. If my suspicion is correct, he’s a sicko and might have had something to do with Betsy’s disappearance.”

  Diane finally spoke up. “I’m game.”

  “Diane, you can’t be serious,” Jill said, surprised at Diane’s statement.

  “I am. I’m sick and tired of creeps getting away with all kinds of crap because honest citizens are afraid to do anything. We’re only going to look around. We won’t break and enter. We’re not planning on stealing anything.”

  Caroline still looked apprehensive. “Who takes Ike?”

  “Ike stays here,” Claire said. “He’ll keep anyone out of the house who might try to come in while we’re gone.”

  “If we’re going to do this, let’s get it done,” Jill said.

  Claire took Ike outside to take care of business while the others got their cell phones and car keys. After doing a final check of the doors and windows to be sure they were locked the women adjourned to the driveway. Jill and Caroline backed their cars out of the drive and headed in opposite directions as Claire and Diane casually rode their bikes toward Wendell’s. Approaching his driveway, they nonchalantly looked for his truck.

  “Looks like he’s out,” Claire said, jumping off her bike and pushing it toward the tall grass beside the road. She walked the bike deep into the weeds and laid it down. Diane did the same.

  “I say we just act like we are looking for Wendell to do some plumbing,” Diane said. “No one can object to that.”

  “Unless they ask why we hid our bikes,” Claire said, with a grin.

  “Minor detail.”

  The drive curved to the right slightly and they could see a small cottage sitting deep among the pines.

  “Geez Louise,” Claire said. “It looks like a puff of wind could blow it down.”

  “What a mess,” Diane said.

  The house was in bad need of a coat of paint. Some of the shutters were hanging precariously from their hinges. There was litter and unrecognizable pieces of junk scattered around the yard. An old sofa, with its stuffing hanging out, sat on the front porch.

  Claire tapped Diane on the arm and pointed to the far side of the house. “Look over there Diane.”

  “Holy hell,” Diane whispered. “That looks like the truck in the picture.”

  The truck was nearly rusted beyond recognition. The tires were gone, the windows were broken and someone had tried to scrape the lettering off the door.

  Claire was about to step up on the porch when Diane stopped her. Pulling a Zip-Lock bag from her pocket she opened it and handed Claire a pair of surgical gloves.

  “What the heck?”

  “Okay, so I’m a germaphobe. I always carry gloves and Clorox wipes in my suitcase for cleaning hotel bathrooms. In this case, we won’t leave any fingerprints.”

  “You’re a genius, Diane.”

  Stretching the gloves over her hands Claire walked onto the porch and tried the front door. Locked.

  Diane tried to see in the front window but dark colored drapes covered the window.

  “Let’s go around back,” Claire said.

  The back door was locked as well.

  “That only leaves the windows,” Claire announced.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Heck, no. He’s probably the one who’s been breaking into Windward Cottage. Turn-about is fair play.”

  Walking to a window at the side of the house, farthest from the driveway, Claire tried reaching it from the ground but it was too high. Looking around she found an old, wooden box and set it under the window. The box gave her just enough height to reach the window, which to her surprise pushed up easily.

  “Look at that,” she said, over her shoulder to Diane. “But I still can’t get up high enough to crawl in.”

  “Move over a little,” Diane said, mounting the box with Claire. Leaning against the side of the house and lacing her fingers together she made a stirrup with her hands. “Step in my hands and I’ll lift as you pull yourself up.”

  It worked. Claire pushed the curtain out of the way, swung her free leg over the windowsill, and stepped into the room. Looking back out the window she whispered, “Diane, get rid of the box and go to the back door. I’ll let you in.”

  Claire closed the window and looked around. She was standing in a bedroom. It was a small room with a single bed, dresser and a small closet. The bed was made and the room was neat as a pin. “Hmmm, weird.”

  Hurrying to the back door she unlocked it and Diane entered the kitchen.

  “This kitchen is spotless,” Diane said, swiftly scanning the room.

  “So is his bedroom,” Claire added, with a curious look. “Diane you search the kitchen and living room. I’m going to look for other rooms.”

  The kitchen cabinets revealed nothing but dishes and the expected dry goods. Frig and stove were clean. Wendell liked TV dinners, applesauce, pickles, and sour milk that needed to be thrown away. Under the kitchen sink were the normal cleaning supplies one would expect to find.

  In the living room, Diane looked behind the furniture, under the sofa cushions, and in the TV cabinet that held Wendell’s big screen TV. Nothing.

  Claire found a spotless bathroom and several closets with clothing. A search of the pockets of his clothes revealed nothing unusual. She found a second bedroom a little larger than the first with a double bed and just as tidy as the first. There were no stairs leading to a second floor or attic so Claire tried the only door she had not investigated.

  “Bingo!” she called to Diane.

  Hurrying to her side Diane joined Claire looking down into the dark. “Where’s the light?”

  Claire felt around and found a switch. A quick flip and the stairs were bathed in bright light. “Hurry Diane. I’m getting nervous.”

  Diane followed Claire down the stairs to a damp-smelling basement. The basement was unusually well lit and clean. There were shelves lining two walls with miscellaneous tools and neatly lined-up canned goods. The furnace and water heater were tucked under the stairs. The fourth wall was stone.

  “There has to be something here,” Claire said. Not willing to give up, she moved to the shelving and started pushing and pulling. Diane did the same on the other wall.

  Suddenly there was a creaking sound and the shelving unit Claire was pushing started to slide to the side. A little more effort and Claire had an opening large enough to step through. Without waiting for Diane she felt around and found the light switch. She was nearly blinded by the light.

  Standing behind Claire, Diane let out a sharp cry. “Dear God, what is this?”

  The room was like a national security control center. There was a wall of monitors over a table with several computers and a keyboard. Walking into the room Claire touched the space bar of the keyboard and the monitors sprang to life. Four of the monitors showed views from different sides of the cottage.

  “This isn’t good,” Diane said. “He can see anyone approaching the house, and that would include us.”

  Diane’s panties lay on the table beside the keyboard.

  On the wall to their right was a bulletin board with a large map of the eastern seaboard of the United States with colored pins stuck at numerous locations. On the wall to the left hundreds of pictures were taped to a white board.

  “Get out your cell and start taking pictures,” Claire ordered.

  As Diane started snapping pictures of the map, computer area and room in general, Claire walked closer to the wall with t
he pictures. “Sweet Mother of God,” she whispered, as she felt the vomit rising in her throat. The pictures were of young girls; some clothed, some in underwear, and some nude. Some of the children appeared not to know they were being photographed while others stared at the camera in terror. Some were tied up, while others cowered against a wall trying to escape the person behind the camera.

  Claire pulled her cell from her pocket and started snapping as fast as she could. When she got to the bottom right corner of the wall she froze. Her own eleven year old face was looking directly at her. There were photos of the Carter children and Will. They were playing on the beach almost directly in front of Wendell’s cottage. As she moved lower she gasped. There was Betsy, dirty with a tear-stained face, and her once innocent blue eyes wild with terror. She was dressed only in underpants. Her blond curly hair was tangled and matted with dirt. Her body was scratched and dirty. Her little hands looked like they had been digging or clawing at something hard. Her nails were broken and bleeding. Claire grabbed her stomach and bent over. She had to get out of here before she was sick.

  “Diane, run!”

  Diane reached for her panties.

  “Leave them. Evidence. Turn out the lights,” Claire yelled, as she ran through the doorway.

  The two women pushed the shelves back into place and ran up the stairs.

  Claire in the lead yelled, “Lights.”

  They tore through the house and slammed the back door closed. They didn’t care if they made noise. They didn’t care if anyone saw them. They ran for their bikes as fast as they could.

  Diane felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. “Yes!”

  “Diane, he’s coming. Get out of there,” Jill yelled, frantically.

  “We’re on our way,” Diane responded, as they reached the bikes. “Claire, he’s coming from town.”

  The women dragged the bikes to the road and peddled as hard as they could toward Caroline’s location. Caroline was parked on a pull-off overlooking the ocean and saw them coming. Getting out of the car she waited.

  Claire and Diane turned the bikes into the pull-off and collapsed. Both women fell to the ground lungs ready to explode and legs that felt like they were made of burning rubber. Claire burst into uncontrollable sobs. Diane reached over to comfort her. Caroline rushed to their sides and dropped to her knees. “What’s wrong? What happened?”