The Sullivan Sisters

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  “We were on some group projects together, growing up,” the sheriff continued. “He dated my friend Faith for a few weeks.”

  “Did he, now?” Cathy said. “Way he turned out, I couldn’t picture him dating a soul.”

  The sheriff smiled. “Well, he was sixteen then. That was before the murders. A lot of things can change a man.”

  “Can they ever.” Cathy pounded the table, causing Murphy to hack on one of her special-order cheese curds. “Well, we’re meandering around the meat of it. Though I warn you girls, it’s ugly.” She stopped and peered at Murphy, who’d managed to swallow the offending curd. “How old is this one, exactly?”

  “Sixteen,” Murphy said, smoothly. “I look young for my age.”

  Claire was impressed—almost as much as she had been by her own silver tongue.

  “She’s fine,” Claire said. “Please, Cathy, what can you tell us about the day of the murders?”

  That was something a journalist would say, right?

  “Oh, it wasn’t day,” said Cathy. “Middle of the night. And the murders didn’t happen together. No, months apart. It started the night after high school graduation. Mark, the middle son? He’d graduated top of his class. There’s one boy I didn’t peg as odd. Out of that whole Enright clan, I’d say he was the most normal. God’s truth, that’s what I would’ve told you back then. He worked as a busboy here the summer before it happened. Mark was charming, he really was. Handsome, too. Customers raved about him. Somehow, between busing, he managed to strike up conversations left and right. Kerry, if you were in Patrick’s class, that means Mark was, what, a couple years older than you?”

  “I was a sophomore,” said the sheriff, Kerry.

  “Don’t you think Mark was handsome?” Cathy shouted across the diner.

  At that, Kerry smiled and said, “I don’t know if I’d be the best judge of that, Ms. Hollins.”

  Cathy seemed to recall something, and then she smiled too. She waved off Kerry, like she’d told a big joke that Claire didn’t understand. Then, sober again, she went on.

  “That was Mark. Whole town loved that boy—I don’t think that’s too strong a way of putting it. He was class president and a real talented artist; sensitive type, but not too sensitive. Got a real good scholarship. PSU, was it? Or maybe Lewis and Clark.”

  Claire winced, and at first she was unsure why. Then she remembered.

  Yale.

  No college.

  Her bleak, education-less future.

  Of course. How could she ever forget?

  “It was the night of graduation,” Cathy said. “After midnight, said the police. That’s when Mr. Enright was killed. Blunt force trauma to the head. There was blood all over those parlor walls. On the piano keys too, they said. Mrs. Enright’s prized piano.”

  Claire was grateful not to have touched her parfait. She felt sick. The piano she’d seen, admired with her own eyes. She hadn’t thought, when they’d made their tour of the house, to check it for bloodstains.

  “Morning comes,” said Cathy, “and Mrs. Enright discovers the body. She screams bloody murder, calls the police straight away. And what do they find when they arrive? Mark Enright has left town. Fled, in the middle of the night. Now, what innocent man would do that? Especially when he had a big homecoming dance the next day.”

  Claire frowned, raising a finger. “I … sorry to interrupt. You said it was graduation night?”

  Cathy blinked. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “But … then you said homecoming.”

  Cathy’s eyes widened. “O-oh. I did, didn’t I? Well … let’s see, when was it? I thought it was spring, but …”

  “No,” called out Wyatt. “Definitely fall. I remember, it was right before Halloween. There were pumpkins on the front porch in the newspaper photos.”

  “Were there?” Cathy said, dubious.

  “I’m with Cathy,” said Orson. “I remember it being spring. It rained that night, a real April shower.”

  Cathy, who had begun to look distressed, shook her head dismissively. “Oh, well, it was two decades ago. You’ll have to forgive our collective memory, girls. Point isn’t the date; it’s what happened next. And that was this: Police tracked down that boy at an Amtrak station in Portland. Brought him back, placed him under arrest, put him on trial. It was a real tragedy.”

  Cathy heaved a long sigh, as though she’d finished a Herculean task.

  Claire was still playing the part of the journalist, though. She had to ask the question.

  “Cathy,” she said. “You said murders. Murders, plural.”

  Cathy looked weary. The silence of the diner was sticking to Claire, filling her pores like humidity. She realized, then, that Cathy hadn’t meant to stop her story; she’d had to stop it, because it was too much of a burden to tell.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Claire said, gently resting her hand on Cathy’s.

  Cathy murmured, “That’s all right, hon. It was just … such a horrible thing.”

  She kept on keeping quiet, which left Claire to reflect on how she’d found herself here, miles from home, in a tiny town she’d never heard of till two days ago, comforting a woman she hadn’t met an hour ago. She glanced across the table at Murphy and Eileen and wondered if they were thinking the same thing. Who knew. They were both so different from Claire, it was hard for her to believe sometimes she had anything in common with her sisters, let alone thoughts.

  “Sorry,” Cathy repeated, but this time it was clear she meant to go through with the rest of her story. “As I was saying, they caught up with Mark and brought him back for the trial. We figured it’d be an open-and-shut case. That’s sure what it seemed, in the beginning. The DA, they only had what you’d call circumstantial evidence—nothing scientific, exactly. But the youngest brother, Patrick, he testified in court that his brother told him, ‘Pat, I’m going to get that old man, once and for all.’ See, the father and Mark had been butting heads for years, getting involved in nasty fights. ’Course, none of us knew that. Goes to show, you don’t know your own neighbors. Well, it was a real strong case before the defense brought in these so-called experts, talking about fingerprints and DNA. Then they get this girl who claimed to be Mark’s girlfriend—an out-of-towner, some teenager with no parents to speak of—to say he was with her the night of the murders. And God knows why, but that jury? They believed the story. Acquitted the boy, let him go scot-free.”

  “No,” Claire said, though she hadn’t meant to speak. She placed a hand on her mouth, shocked as much by her reaction as the verdict.

  “Hang on,” said Murphy. “If Mark didn’t do it, who did?”

  “That’s the real question.” Cathy pointed at Murphy. “Because wouldn’t you know, the night Mark Enright gets out of jail, he leaves town again. This time for good, along with the girlfriend. And in the morning? Like before. Patrick Enright finds his mother dead at the bottom of the staircase, head bashed in like a cantaloupe.”

  Claire felt a retch coming on. She clamped her jaw and tried her best to ride out the nauseous wave. The staircase. Those stairs she’d thought were elegant, the height of class. Now she saw splattered blood on the railing, soaking every inch of the carpet runner.

  “Police ruled a suicide this time,” Cathy went on. “Brought on by grief. But others—and I’ll confess myself among them—well, we think a person can get pushed as easily as they can jump. And Mark Enright had a motive. Could’ve even been helped by that girlfriend of his. Not that anyone’s asking me. And I’m not blaming you, of course, Kerry,” she added, nodding toward the sheriff. “Lord knows it was well before your time, and I’ve got nothing against the force.”

  Kerry gave a single, silent nod back.

  “Now, Cathy,” Mayor Orson called out, “we gotta let those wheels of justice turn. I’m sure the jury heard more than you and I know about the case.”

  “Oh, sure, Orson,” Cathy called back. “Everyone’s entitled to their opinion.”

  She tur
ned to Claire and, very distinctly, with her back to the mayor, rolled her eyes. Claire wasn’t sure if she should laugh. She was afraid that if she did, she might end up vomiting.

  “Well!” bellowed Cathy, slapping her hands on the table. “I’ve used up my smoke break. But now you know why I say murders, girls. And if you intend to stay here till Christmas Day, I recommend you ask other folks about the Enrights. If you’re looking for pizzazz for that pod-thing of yours, there it is.”

  “That’s, uh … pizzazz, all right,” Claire managed. “We had no idea the kind of story we’d get out of this visit. Our professor’s going to be … impressed.”

  Claire was finding it increasingly difficult to lie. Her mind was fixated on an image: a woman clothed in a blue silk dressing gown, sprawled at the bottom of those stairs at 2270 Laramie. Why had Cathy said cantaloupe? Nothing could wash the bloody image from Claire’s head.

  “Whatever happened to the eldest boy?” asked Orson, as Cathy bustled around the counter, reclaiming the coffee pot. “John, wasn’t that his name?”

  “Off at college when it happened,” said Cathy, beginning her refill round. “Other side of the country. Never came back, not even for the funerals or trial. Too much scandal, I guess, and I don’t blame the boy. Of course, everyone here knows what happened to poor Patrick. Went crazy in that house, turned hermit. Eccentric as they come. It’s a shame to die that young, but really, I see it as a mercy. A life like that, cooped up in that home, with those awful memories … you ask me, it’s no life at all. God was right to take him when he did. Just a shame about that burial, insisting it be closed off. Not a soul to attend to his grave. Tragic.”

  “It’ll be interesting to see what comes of the house,” Orson remarked. “I’ve been curious as to what he kept in there. Who do you suppose he’s given it away to?”

  There was a sudden weight in Claire’s stomach, pinning her to the booth. She felt as though all eyes in the diner had turned to her.

  “Can tell you one thing,” said Cathy, hand on hip. “It wasn’t me.”

  She stopped at the sisters’ table with the coffee pot, but Claire’s cup was unrefillable. It had gone cold, full and untouched. Cathy raised a brow at it, shrugged, and headed back to the counter.

  “Maybe,” said the vocal old woman, “he gave it to charity.”

  Cathy snorted. “Hardly likely. Even if he did, that’d mean the house would have to be auctioned off, huh? And who can afford to buy it? No one I know. And no fool is going to move here from out of town. Mark my words, it’ll go unsold. Some pyro delinquent will burn it down.”

  “Well, what about Mark?” asked Orson.

  “What about him?” Cathy grunted. “Patrick testified against him. In a murder trial! You think he’d leave it behind to him?”

  Claire didn’t like this. Any of it.

  “Cathy,” she called, raising a finger. “Could we have our check, please?”

  “Certainly, hon,” said Cathy, before carrying on. “No, I don’t think there’s a mention of Mark in Patrick Enright’s will. But I’ll tell you my theory: We’re due a visit from Mark, all the same. If anything would bring him back to this town, it’d be his brother’s death. And though that house may not be his, I’m sure he’d want to claim it.”

  Claire formed her hands into fists beneath the table. She squeezed and relaxed them, squeezed and relaxed. She was a freshman at OSU. A journalism major. She was not Claire Sullivan, inheritor of the house in question.

  Having finished her work at the register, Cathy walked to the sisters’ table, setting down the check. Claire was ready with cash. She placed the bills down and told Cathy, “Keep the change.”

  Cathy studied the money for a moment, counting it up. Then, it seemed, she decided that Claire had been generous. And she had: 40 percent. It only felt right, given Cathy’s performance.

  “Didn’t you like the food?” Cathy asked, eyes flitting to Claire’s parfait.

  “Uh.” Claire looked to Murphy’s empty plate and Eileen’s half-finished pancakes. “Guess I got too excited by the story. You know, journalist’s stomach. That’s what we call it.”

  Her lying was getting worse. Claire scooted from the booth, and Murphy and Eileen followed suit.

  “Thank you again!” she called to Cathy.

  She felt she should be thanking everyone in the diner: Wyatt, Orson, Kerry, and the two old ladies. It was as though they had been in it together, this shared experience of the Enright murders.

  Cathy nodded amiably at Claire. “You girls take care.”

  “We will. Thanks.”

  It was all Claire could manage. She wanted to be out of this diner, out of Rockport, out of the story unspooling around her.

  They had almost reached the door when Claire felt the lightest touch on her elbow. She turned to see Kerry, the sheriff, standing there.

  She knows, a frantic voice looped in Claire’s mind. She knows, she knows.

  “You girls okay?” The sheriff’s words were kind, not accusatory. But maybe that was the ploy she used on people she knew to be trespassers. Made them feel comfortable, to draw out damning information.

  With effort, Claire put on a smile. “Oh. Yes! We’re good.”

  Kerry nodded, looking thoughtful. Thoughtful about what, though? Whether or not she meant to arrest them?

  “I know you’re college girls,” Kerry said, “and I’m sure your parents have already given you the rundown. But as young women traveling alone on the holidays, out of familiar territory … just remember to be aware of your surroundings.”

  Claire stared at Kerry, and as she did, realization touched the young sheriff’s face.

  “Oh! Not that I’m trying to scare you.” She lowered her voice, confidentially. “I don’t think there’s stock in these bogeyman tales about Mark Enright. I only mean, be careful in the general sense. People can take advantage of travelers during this season.”

  “Sure,” said Claire.

  She didn’t want to be rude, especially because Kerry seemed to be a nice person, and the way she spoke was gentle, like soft singing. It was hard to be polite, though, with terrible thoughts in her head. She shoved her shaking hands in her pockets and walked out the door.

  What she needed was a plan.

  A plan to leave Rockport as fast as she could.

  FIFTEEN Murphy

  We have to get out of here.”

  Claire’s eyes were hard with purpose, the way they got at home when she scolded Murphy for not wiping up puddles on the bathroom sink. Only, this was more serious than puddles.

  Murder. Murders.

  Murphy was absorbing everything Cathy had said. People had died at 2270 Laramie. Weren’t you supposed to be able to sense a thing like that? Shouldn’t Murphy have gotten a bad feeling walking around that house? The way people did in horror movies, when they stepped into a room, made a face, and said, “Something bad happened here.”

  Murphy guessed her sixth sense was broken. Maybe it still was, because she didn’t see why Claire was upset, or why she’d rushed them out of the diner and been rude to the sheriff. She frowned at Claire’s back as her sister charged down the street.

  “Hey, slow down, would you?” Murphy puffed. “We didn’t ask about a mechanic.”

  “On purpose,” Claire said sharply. “They can’t know we were at that house. I don’t want people asking questions, or suspecting. We shouldn’t have come here.”

  Murphy frowned. Coming to Rockport was an adventure. Their first and probably only sister road trip. How could Claire regret that?

  “Weren’t you listening?” Murphy asked. “Those murders happened a long time ago.”

  Claire spun around so fast that Murphy pinwheeled her arms to stay upright.

  “Weren’t you listening? She said Mark Enright is coming back to town. He could be here now.”

  Eileen had been trudging behind them in silence. Now she came to a stop by Murphy’s side, chewing a mouthful of bubblegum that smacked and clic
ked between her words.

  “She said Mark might come back. Dunno if you caught this, Claire, but it was a little … conspiracy theory in there. You pointed it out yourself: Cathy was getting tons of details wrong. Who knows how much of that was reliable?”

  “Yes, okay,” said Claire. “They were bound to get some things wrong. It’s been twenty years. But do you think Cathy made all that up? Everyone in there agreed the murders happened. And they agreed Mark Enright was the prime suspect—who, by the way, is another uncle we didn’t know existed.”

  “What are you saying?” Eileen scoffed. “You really think this big, bad Mark Enright is gonna come back, Michael Myers style, and kill us?”

  Claire threw up her hands. “I think there are a lot of unknowns at play here. Scary unknowns. Why are you being so chill?”

  “Dunno, Claire,” said Eileen, “maybe I have less to lose.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m not scared I’ll get arrested because I have to maintain a sterling reputation for my big, fancy, Ivy League college.”

  Claire set her jaw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, then why are you taking the word of a diner lady we just met? What, do you think this is actually true crime podcast world? Where a serial killer is on the loose in a sleepy, coastal town?”

  “Oh my God. You’re being absurd.”

  “Uh, no. I think that honor belongs to you.”

  “You’re not evening listening—”

  Murphy had heard enough. She edged around her sisters, leaving them to bicker, and kept heading down the street. She glanced back once to see that neither of them had figured out she was gone and, judging the coast to be clear, pulled out the Tupperware box from under her coat. That was the nice thing about puffer coats: You could hide turtles beneath them, and no one could tell.

  “Siegfried?” Murphy whispered, tapping the container’s edge. “Hey, dude, you okay?”

  Siegfried didn’t answer. He was dead. A tiny explosion of guilt went off in Murphy’s chest, and the cheese curds she’d inhaled felt leaden in her stomach. Their remnant taste was souring on her tongue.