5 Death, Bones, and Stately Homes

by Valerie S. Malmont

  The answer to all the questions was yes. But I didn't care.

  I was particularly pleased with myself for identifying the trunk from the hardware store as the one I'd seen in front of the Bride's House several weeks ago, put out for bulky trash pickup by the new owners of the house. I smiled as I corrected a few typos, printed it out, and slept the sleep of the just.

  P.J. had wanted to publish my article about my father while his whereabouts were still unknown. That, plus the exciting discovery of a skeletal bride in the hardware store, was enough reason to put out a special edition.

  P.J. had appeared grateful when I dropped my articles off on Monday morning. By all of us working diligently for the rest of Monday and all day Tuesday, an abbreviated version of the weekly paper was ready to be delivered on Wednesday morning.

  Ethelind was sitting at the kitchen table reading it in a blue haze of smoke when I came down to breakfast shortly after ten. "Here you are," she said, quickly stubbing out her cigarette. She and I had had words recently about her smoking around food, and now she only smoked in the kitchen when I wasn't there. She folded the paper and handed it to me. "It's so nice having a morning paper during the week. I do wish you'd talk to P.J. about making it a regular event."

  "I'm not sure there's enough going on in Lickin Creek to warrant a semiweekly paper," I said.

  "Can I fix you some bacon? Maybe some scrambled eggs?"

  "No thanks, Ethelind. I've got a date to meet Maggie Roy for lunch today, so I'm going to skip breakfast. I've got to get started on my diet again."

  "You should never skip breakfast, Tori. It's the most important meal of the day. I'll just pour a small bowl of cereal for you."

  "Any calls?" I asked hopefully.

  She shook her head. "You know I'd have come to get you if there had been. Try not to worry, dear. I'm sure your family will be found safe and sound."

  While I ate the cereal and drank the fresh orange juice Ethelind insisted on squeezing, I skimmed the front page. It was all about Ramona Houdeyshell finding the body of the missing bride. Nowhere in it was Rodney Mellott's name mentioned.

  Inside, the second page was devoted to my article about my missing father. It was good. Really good. I couldn't wait for him to read it.

  On page three was my feature article about the anthills, with two pictures that could have been anything but certainly didn't look like anthills.

  I flipped to page four, the editorial page, and finally found my article about the tragic end of Rodney and Emily tucked away in the lower left-hand corner. Cut to twenty lines, with no mention of Rodney Mellott's perversions or diary.

  "What's the big idea? How dare you cut my article like that?" I spluttered into the telephone.

  "Calm down, Tori. Cassie and I decided it was too inflammatory. You have no proof that any of those things happened."

  "I have the proof in Rodney Mellott's handwriting. Mr. Rodney Pervert Mellott's very own diary. Which wasn't even mentioned," I said with indignation.

  "Perhaps you read something into it that wasn't really there."

  T.J. He masturbated into kids' sneakers. He described in detail how he taught a teenager with the initial B 'the meaning of love.' I didn't read anything into it. I didn't have to."

  "Tori, all this happened a long time ago. Why dredge things up if we don't have to? Besides, we really don't know that Rodney and Emily were murdered, do we?"

  "Oh no," I shouted indignantly. "Emily probably put on her wedding dress and climbed into that truck and waited to starve to death there. Motivated by grief, of course. As for Rodney, it was probably an accident that walled him up in the springhouse. Maybe he was down there washing up for the wedding and the walls just opened up and swallowed him."

  "You are practically accusing someone local of murder, Tori. That's not going to win you any friends."

  "I didn't mention any names. I can't even think of a suspect."

  "It doesn't matter. Half the people in town would have read that article as you wrote it and suspected the other half of being murderers. At least, the way I've edited it won't outrage too many people."

  "The way you've buried it on page four it will be a miracle if anybody even sees it."

  "Judging from the irate calls I've had already, Tori, plenty of people have seen it. You've taken a part of Lickin Creek's history that everyone loved and ruined it. And you've insinuated that one or more of our local, upstanding citizens has covered up two murders for forty years. I have just one more thing to say to you."

  "What?"

  "I'm still the publisher and editor of this newspaper, and you have totally pissed me off! Don't bother to come in for your check. I'll mail it to you." My ear rang as she slammed her telephone down.

  Heads swivelled toward the door as I entered the drugstore. It was twelve on the dot, and the place was filled with the Old Boys' Club members and their cigar smoke. Maggie waved from a booth near the kitchen door, and as I walked back to join her I smiled and nodded to the men in suits and greeted a few of the women in sundresses by name. Nobody returned my greeting.

  "What have I done now?" I asked Maggie, as I slid onto the torn yellow vinyl bench.

  I could always count on Maggie to be blunt. Today was no exception. "It's that article you wrote," Maggie told me. "The locals are all abuzz about what you said." Maggie picked up the menu encased in greasy, yellow plastic and began to study it.

  "I tells it as I sees it," l joked. I picked up the rolled paper napkin containing my tableware and peeled off the tape.

  "You should learn how to tell it with a little more tact, Tori. This isn't New York where nobody knows each other. You're writing about real people here. People who have grown up together, are related, and treasure their local stories. They don't like outsiders to come in and make fun of their comfortable lives. What are you going to eat?"

  "I wasn't making fun of anything. I was informing the community that it had made a folk hero out of a monster, that's all."

  "Perhaps they'd rather not know."

  Mildred, the drugstore's veteran waitress who seemed to own an endless supply of vintage fifties-style pink nylon uniforms, hovered over us and interrupted. "You'uns ready to order? Today's special is chicken-fried steak."

  "Sounds good, Millie," Maggie said. "I'll have it. With mashed potatoes and gravy, please."

  The waitress wrote something on her order pad, flipped the page, and looked expectantly at me.

  "I'll have the same thing. With French fries."

  Mildred stared me straight in the eye and said, "Sorry, we're all out."

  "But you took Maggie's order," I protested.

  "That was the last one. Are you ready to order?"

  I glanced at the menu, chose a grilled bacon and cheese sandwich, and asked her if she had any fries left.

  "Yeah, I think so. You'uns want a red beet egg if we're out of fries?"

  "No. Fries or nothing."

  She made a notation on her pad, which I assumed said, "No fries," smiled at Maggie, and said, "Be right back."

  "Sure is cold in here," I said. Since the inside temperature was close to a hundred degrees, Maggie knew what I meant.

  "Did you hear about Ramona Houdeyshell?" When I shook my head, she went on. "She had a nervous breakdown last night. Turns out she's been having nightmares about being chased by an angry ghost in a wedding dress. Her husband had to drive her to Hershey."

  "I thought 1 was the only person who thinks of chocolate as medicinal."

  "You're so silly, Tori. That's where Penn State has its medical school and a state-of-the-art hospital."

  "I suppose crashing through the lid of a trunk and smashing a skeleton to bits would be rather traumatic."

  Maggie nodded as she unwrapped her silverware. "I wonder how Henry's ever going to put the body back together to determine cause of death."

  Our waitress presented us with our meals. As I had expected, there were no fries on mine, only a few broken potato chips, and a bright red
pickled egg.

  "How's everything here, ladies? Everything okay?" Wilbur Eshelman, the drugstore's owner, looked down at us with pale blue eyes magnified by thick glasses. "Nice article about the anthills, Tori. Very nice article. Bet you didn't know Brunhilda, who gave you all that good info about ants, is my niece. My sister's kid, Brunhilda is. Nice girl, though I think it's kind of funny, her tramping round in the woods all the time looking for bugs and things. Didn't Mildred get you anything to drink? How about if I fix you one of my special homemade cherry Cokes? I know you like them. Like them a lot."

  He scurried off before I had a chance to answer and was back before I'd finished my chips. "Here you are. With a double shot of syrup. Cherry syrup."

  "Why thank you, Mr. Eshelman. That's very kind of you."

  "No problem. No problem at all. Anything for my favorite reporter." He gave me a broad wink, patted Maggie on the shoulder, and walked back to the kitchen.

  My eyes began to burn, and I dabbed at them with my paper napkin. What was wrong with my self-esteem that one person being kind could bring me to the brink of tears?

  "I think I've been fired," I confessed, after eating half my sandwich. It was hard for me to admit.

  "You think?"

  "P.J. didn't exactly say so, but she did tell me not to come in for my check. She'd mail it to me."

  Maggie shrugged. "P.J. is easily annoyed. But she cools down just as fast. By now she's probably forgotten all about it. If I were you I'd just show up for work as if nothing had happened. What did you do?"

  I told Maggie what was in the article as originally written, and I unloaded everything I knew about Rodney and Emily. It felt good to get it off my chest.

  "Oh, my," Maggie said. "No wonder P.J. was upset with you. By the way, have you noticed I've lost twelve pounds?"

  I congratulated her on her weight loss, finished my lunch, and looked for the check.

  "On the house, Tori," Mr. Eshelman called from behind the counter. "On the house. My thanks for doing such a good job for the paper. Really good job. If you ever want to write an article about the drugstore for that local business series, you just see me. I'll be happy to talk to you. Very happy."

  "I'll be in touch, Mr. Eshelman." I left Mildred a generous tip, hoping she'd be more hospitable the next time I came in, and left with Maggie.

  After the dimness of the drugstore, the midday sunlight was unbearably bright. I blinked, while Maggie sneezed. "Bright sun always does that to me," she muttered.

  Several shots rang out, causing me to grasp Maggie in alarm.

  "It's just the kids shooting firecrackers to scare the crows," she said between sneezes. "Nothing to be scared of. Got to get back to the library. How about next week, same time, same place?"

  I gave her a hug. Friends like Maggie were to be treasured.

  "Just keep in mind, Tori, that what happened to Rodney and Emily occurred a long time ago. Some things are best forgotten."

  "I can't do that."

  "Dog and bone. That's you. Gotta run."

  I'd left the truck behind the building, and to get to it I had to walk down the alley between the drugstore and the bank.

  "Third time's the charm," said a voice, coming from somewhere down near my ankles.

  This time, because it was daytime, Big Bad Bob didn't startle me half as much as he had the last time I encountered him in an alleyway.

  His snakelike head and then his shoulders arose from a window well, and I saw that he was wrapped in a heavy khaki blanket.

  "Warm enough for you?" I asked. It was Lickin Creek's traditional summertime greeting.

  "Got thin blood," he said. "Have to stay bundled up or I gets sick."

  He smelled of vomit and wine, and I covered my nose.

  "You all right there, Mizz Miracle? You look kinda pale. Not gonna be sick, are ya?"

  "I'm fine, thanks." It touched me that one of the few people who was concerned about me was the town drunk. If he hadn't smelled so bad, I might have hugged him. Instead, I smiled and said, "I enjoyed your music Saturday night, Bob. I didn't know you played."

  "I play seventeen instruments, Mizz Tori. Just came naturally to me, I guess. I could hear a song, then play it on whatever was nearby. Was in the band, back in high school, 'fore I dropped out. Want me to play you a song? I got my recorder right here."

  "Maybe another time. I have to get to the office now," I fibbed. "It's been nice talking to you, Bob."

  "You, too. Not too many people'round here see Big Bad Bob. It's like I'm invisible to'em. But you always take notice."

  He pulled back into his hole, and I continued on to where I'd left the truck, thinking he and I had a lot in common. We were both unpleasant blotches on the serene Lickin Creek landscape. Stains to be ignored in the hope they'd go away. Or, as in Bob's case, have the good sense to become invisible.

  I strolled casually into the office as if I weren't scared to death of what my welcome would be. Cassie sat at her rolltop desk in the outer office, looking exquisite in a simple linen sheath that skimmed her body. Her silver hair was pulled back into a French twist, and around her neck hung the silver and amber necklace that symbolized her position as leader of the local coven. It was only because she was a third-generation Lickin Creeker that her unorthodox beliefs were tolerated. If word got out that I'd attended a few of her coven meetings, I'd probably be burned as a witch.

  "Is it safe to come in?"

  Cassie nodded. "The worst is over. Just watch yourself, though. Try not to rile her up any more this week. Her blood pressure's through the roof already."

  "Is she here?"

  "Nope. Gone home for a nap. But she did leave some assignments for you."

  That was a relief. It meant she hadn't seriously fired me, not this time.

  Cassie riffled through the scraps of paper that littered her desk. Amazingly, the woman always knew where to find things. "Here." She handed me a notecard. "P.J. says, be sure to visit the Laughenslagger farm this week. It's a unique business in this area, and the council is counting on it to bring in big bucks."

  Since when was a farm news? In fact, when had any farm in the area brought in more than a bare existence for its owners? But who was Ito argue. "Her wish is my command," I said. "I'll do it now. I need to stay busy to keep my mind off of things."

  "I'll call and tell Bruce Laughenslagger you're on the way. "Have you got your notebook handy? I can give you directions. You can't miss it. Oh, I nearly forgot. This was on my desk when I came in this morning. It's got your name on it." She handed me a folded piece of lined paper torn from a three-ringed binder.

  I stared at it in dismay as if she'd handed me a scorpion. That paper looked familiar. It was exactly like the note I'd found in my bathtub.

  Almost in a trance, I unfolded it and read the message there: YOU ARE NEVER ALONE.

  "What's the matter, Tori? You're white as a ghost. It's not bad news about your father, is it?"

  "It's nothing." I crumpled the paper and stuffed it into the pocket of my slacks. "Nothing at all."

  Fifteen

  As usual, I got lost shortly after leaving the borough. Cassie had given me directions in typical Lickin Creek fashion. "Turn right at the second-to-last traffic light on the Marshallville Road (how was I supposed to know which light was second to last without driving all the way to Marshallville and turning around), go about five or six miles (it turned out to be eight) until you come to where the Seven Star Fruit Stand used to be (used to be?), turn there (she hadn't mentioned whether it would be a right or left turn, which gave me another opportunity to get lost for half an hour), drive past three barns, a house, and a cornfield, then turn left at the second farm road and keep going till you see the pond. (It was dried up and looked nothing like a pond.) Go around it, to the right, I think, and just keep driving up the side of the mountain till you reach the green fence. Keep blowing your horn there, and eventually someone will come to let you in."

  It was late afternoon, and the sun had d
ropped behind the pine trees when I finally reached the green fence Cassie had mentioned. Fence was hardly the word I would have used, for although it was made of chain-link, a screen of dark green netting behind it made it impossible to see through. And I estimated it to be at least ten feet high. A few weeks ago I had watched King Kong, the original Fay Wray version, not the new one, and this tall, dark fence was reminiscent of the wall that protected the islanders from Kong and his prehistoric buddies. If this farmer kept cows in there, he would never have to worry about them getting out and wandering onto the highway, as happened in Lickin Creek about twice a week in the summer.

  I pressed the horn, waited, and wished again that Garnet's truck was air-conditioned, even though he'd told me several times you didn't need air-conditioning in Pennsylvania. I was steaming, both physically and emotionally as I pressed the horn for the tenth or maybe even the hundredth time.

  One more toot and I'm out of here, I thought, just as the enormous gate slowly swung open.

  "Howdy. You Tori Miracle?" The man who came toward me through the opening was well over six feet, but dwarfed by the height of the fence. He had gray hair pulled into a ponytail, which protruded from the back of his green John Deere tractor cap.

  "Sorry to take so long," he said, leaning his arms on the passenger's-side window. "I saw you coming on the security camera, but I thought I'd save myself the hike and wait till the other guy got here."

  "What other guy?"

  "Go ahead and drive on in and wait for me. I'll close the gate."

  "What other guy?" I repeated.

  "There was a van coming up the road about a mile, mile and a half behind you. I thought maybe you were traveling together. But it turned off a few minutes after you parked here."

  An alarm sounded in my head. "Was it a dark green van?"

  "Dunno. Could have been. Looked black to me, but my security monitor's black-and-white. Now hurry up, please, and drive in so I can close the gate."

  I waited while the gate closed. He opened the door and swung himself into the seat beside me with a grace I wouldn't have expected from a man of his age. Which, I judged, to be about sixty, although perhaps I overestimated because of the lines that seemed to be permanently etched into his deeply tanned face.