Back in the sixties, issues were just twelve pages each. But with weekly issues from March through June, I still have nearly two hundred pages to plow through. I try to stay focused, but it’s hard not to be distracted. For instance, there’s this totally weird column you’d never see today called “It Says Here…” about who’s coming to town to visit relatives, such as, “It says here that Mrs. Grace McKinnon will be serving a roast-beef dinner on Saturday, March 7, to her brother Mr. Clyde Waterston, sister-in-law Mrs. Bess Waterston, and nieces and nephew Wilma, Bonnie, and Fred Waterston, formerly of Wolf Hollow, now residing in Spruce Grove, Iowa. Save some for us, Grace.”
Then there are the ads. The pharmacy has a sale on Brylcreem and other hair gunk; Kresge’s is offering two-for-one hula hoops; and the Co-op has tractors you have to see to believe.
After taking forever with the first couple of issues, I force myself to stick to the headlines. Mostly they’re things like: “Roller Rink to Open by End of April,” but on the last page of the third week of March, I see one that makes my eyes pop.
Local Man Reported Missing
Mr. Matthew Fraser has gone missing, according to his cousin, Mrs. Hannah Murphy. “Matthew disappeared two weeks ago,” she told the Bugle. “Police Chief Cole has done nothing.”
The police chief denies the allegation. “We contacted Mr. Fraser’s former employer at Wolf Hollow Plumbing,” he told the Bugle. “Mr. Fraser had notified his employer that he would be leaving town. It is a shame that he failed to inform his cousin of his decision. However, there is no reason to suspect that Mr. Fraser is in any danger.”
Oh my gosh. Mrs. Murphy! That must be Cody Murphy’s great-grandmother! This is it!
The next issue has a front-page photograph of Mrs. Murphy standing on an egg crate in front of the police station. She’s yelling into a megaphone while hoisting a sign that says, “Justice for Matthew Fraser.” She looks pretty crazy, like Cody when he punched me, and they have the same square jaw and bumps on either side of their forehead. The story reads:
Accusations Lead to Arrest
Mrs. Hannah Murphy was arrested outside the Wolf Hollow police station Saturday, March 28, and charged with creating a public nuisance. She was demanding action in the matter of her cousin, Mr. Matthew Fraser, who left Wolf Hollow a little over three weeks ago.
Speaking into a bullhorn on the steps of the police station, Mrs. Murphy accused Mr. Frank McTavish, a farmer on Guthrie Road, of involvement in what she termed her cousin’s disappearance.
“McTavish’s wife and son are missing too. Where are they?” Mrs. Murphy demanded. “What has he done with them?”
After taking Mrs. Murphy into custody, Police Chief Andy Cole told the crowd that neither Mr. McTavish’s wife nor his son has been reported missing. He reminded those present that Mr. Fraser left town several weeks ago of his own accord.
Mrs. Murphy’s husband, Mr. Reg Murphy, was unaware of his wife’s protest and arrest until he was contacted by police. After a meeting with Chief Cole, the charge against his wife was dropped.
“Hannah hasn’t been herself since Matthew left town,” Mr. Murphy told the Bugle. “We look forward to hearing from Matthew, and ask that our family’s privacy be respected.”
Next issue, the case is on page two.
Police Visit McTavish Farm
Police Chief Andy Cole and another officer dropped by Mr. Frank McTavish’s farm on Guthrie Road last Thursday afternoon.
“We had no reason for concern,” Chief Cole said, “but made inquiries to reassure anyone who may have questions arising from last week’s disturbance at the police station. Mr. McTavish welcomed us onto the farm. He reported that his wife, Mrs. Evelyn McTavish, left the area with their ten-year-old son, Jacky, three weeks ago. He said he had not filled out a missing persons report because he does not consider them missing.”
Following an inspection of the property, Mr. McTavish gave police a letter that his wife had mailed him at the time of her alleged disappearance, postmarked Ramsay.
“Mrs. McTavish wrote that she and her son are traveling in the company of Mr. Matthew Fraser,” Chief Cole said. “Given disagreements between herself and her husband, she has no wish to disclose her whereabouts. With her husband’s agreement, we respect that decision.”
Mr. McTavish told the Bugle that he is upset his wife has taken this unfortunate step, but that he will not seek a divorce as he hopes they may one day be reconciled.
“As for my son, I think of him constantly,” he said, “but I believe it’s in a child’s best interest to be with his mother. When the time is right, I have no doubt he’ll be in touch. Until then, with the burdens of the farm, I have neither time nor money to try to force his return, nor to raise him on my own.”
The Bugle approached Mr. Ian Sinclair, neighbor to the McTavishes. “Every marriage has its ups and downs,” he said. “The McTavishes are good friends and we wish them well.” He refused further comment.
Police consider the departures to be a private family matter.
My head spins. If Mr. McTavish killed his wife, her friend, and Jacky, he’d have had to get rid of the bodies. The safest place would’ve been the farm. Anywhere else, he’d have risked being caught moving them. There’d also have been the chance of strangers finding them by accident. Anyway, they would have turned up by now. But if he buried them on the farm, why wouldn’t the police have seen the dug-up ground?
So maybe everyone is right. Maybe Mr. McTavish didn’t kill them. Maybe his wife just ran away with Jacky like Mom ran away with me. I mean, she wrote a letter.
But why would Jacky say his mother left him behind? Why would he lie?
My skin goes damp. Maybe there is no he. Maybe Jacky’s just in my mind. I plow on. There’s nothing in the next couple of issues. Then I turn to the last week of April.
Hannah Murphy Charged with Trespass, Assaulting an Officer
Last Wednesday morning, Mr. Frank McTavish called police to report an intruder on his farm.
Upon arrival, Officer Angus Stebbing discovered Mrs. Hannah Murphy at the back of the property carrying a shovel. When he attempted to remove her, she struck him. She was charged with trespass and assaulting a police officer.
Mrs. Murphy told the Bugle that she’d gone to the McTavish farm to search for the bodies of Mr. Matthew Fraser, Mrs. Evelyn McTavish, and Mrs. McTavish’s son, Jacky.
“Matthew had been seeing Evelyn for the past six months, and I don’t care who knows it,” she said. “He’d been planning to rescue her from a life of hell, but something happened. Matthew and I had no secrets. He would have contacted me. He’s dead. They’re all dead.”
In an official statement, Police Chief Cole reconfirmed that the McTavish farm has been searched and that there is nothing to indicate foul play. “Mrs. McTavish, her son, and Mr. Fraser are traveling together and are at liberty to do so. Case closed.”
Last night Mrs. Murphy was admitted to the Wolf Hollow County Sanatorium by her husband. She is currently resting.
Things get juicier in the next edition. There are two articles.
Fraser Car Found
Police have found the car of Mr. Matthew Fraser, who is believed to have left town six weeks ago with Mrs. Evelyn McTavish and her son, Jacky. The car, a 1948 Pontiac, was found nearby in Ramsay. It was parked on Elm Street, a block from the bus station. Ramsay was the postmark on Mrs. McTavish’s letter to her husband.
“Mr. Fraser’s car has been impounded. He has one month to claim it or it will be sold for scrap,” said Police Chief Cole. “Our view is that Mr. Fraser drove his party to Ramsay to avoid being recognized in Wolf Hollow. From there, they proceeded by bus to parts unknown.”
Ticket agent Mr. Harold Robinson reports that he may have seen the three, although he cannot be certain, given the many friends and relations who have passed through Ramsay over the last six
weeks.
The second article comes with a pretty scary photograph of Mr. McTavish standing in front of the farmhouse with a dozen attack dogs.
Farmer Buys Dogs for Protection
The Bugle spoke with Mr. Frank McTavish Friday afternoon at his farm on Guthrie Road. Mr. McTavish has been the subject of recent accusations by Mrs. Hannah Murphy, who is currently under observation at the Wolf Hollow County Sanatorium.
“I’m at my wit’s end,” Mr. McTavish said. “My wife took off with my son. As if that wasn’t torment enough, I’ve been hounded by a crazy woman who has slandered me and trespassed on my property. I’ve had to get these dogs to make sure she stays clear.”
When Mr. McTavish was asked what he knew about Mr. Matthew Fraser, the man currently traveling with his wife and son, he used words not fit for a family newspaper. “Matthew Fraser runs around the country with another man’s wife, and his cousin Hannah Murphy wonders why he hasn’t called her? Why, he hasn’t the shame God gave a monkey.”
In the event that his wife reads the Bugle, Mr. McTavish wants her to know that all will be forgiven if she returns, and that he loves and misses his son, Jacky. “In the meantime, these dogs are my comfort and protection.”
There’s nothing else for the rest of May or June. But there’s a front-page headline at the beginning of July.
Frank McTavish Killed by Dogs
Mr. Frank McTavish, a farmer on Guthrie Road, has been killed by his dogs. His body was found Wednesday. The county coroner’s office believes he died sometime last week.
Mr. Ian Sinclair, neighbor to Mr. McTavish, made the identification. “There wasn’t much to identify,” he told the Bugle, “but I recognized what remained of Frank’s shirt. Frank had kept to himself since his wife and son left him. We got concerned when our boy, Arty, asked why we hadn’t been seeing Frank’s cows out of the barn.”
“We would have called,” Mrs. Sinclair said, “but Frank had his telephone removed because of all the prank calls he’d been getting. And no one could go on that property since he got those dogs.”
The Sinclairs contacted police when the dogs tried to attack their son in the woods that run along the back of their farm.
Upon arrival, officers destroyed the pack. Mr. McTavish’s body was found inside his house. It is believed the dogs killed him when he opened the door to go outside.
Mr. Sinclair, executor to Mr. McTavish’s estate, is attempting to locate the deceased’s widow, Mrs. Evelyn McTavish, and their child, Jacky, who left the area in March.
Mrs. Hannah Murphy, whose cousin is believed to be traveling with Mrs. McTavish, remains in the county sanatorium and is unavailable for comment.
“Poor Frank,” Mr. Sinclair said. “He got the dogs to protect himself, but nothing could protect him from the dogs.”
25
Who knew old newspapers could be so interesting? Wow. I mean…wow! I’d give anything to talk to Cody’s great-grandmother, but she’s in the nursing home. How could I get to see her without getting into trouble?
Speaking of trouble, what time is it? I did into my knapsack and check my phone. Two o’clock. I’m dead. I dig into my knapsack. Mom’s left a dozen messages:
12:15—What’s keeping you?
12:30—Where are you?
12:35—Call me.
12:45—You’re not at the rec center.
1:00—You’re in big trouble, mister.
1:05—Please, Cameron, call. I’m worried.
No way I can just text. I race outside and phone her.
“Cameron!”
“I know, I know, I know, I know. I was in the library. I had to turn my phone off. I got distracted. Sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“Library? What happened to the rec center?”
“I was doing research. I lost track of time. I’m sorry I ruined your lunch.”
“You think I could eat? I was worried sick. You’re still at the library?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be right there.”
The Knotty Pine Inn is an upscale greasy spoon. It basically serves eggs for breakfast and burgers and specials for lunch and dinner, but it has checkered cotton tablecloths and menus with leatherette covers. Mom and I sit halfway back in a booth with red vinyl seat cushions and a fairly clean ketchup squirt bottle.
I know Mom’s trying to be positive because she still hasn’t yelled at me. All the same, she’s way too quiet for comfort. In fact, she hasn’t said anything. She’s just listened to my nonstop apologizing.
Mom orders the chicken-salad-sandwich special, which comes with fries and a Coke. I order a cheeseburger and onion rings. As usual, she’ll give me her Coke and half her fries.
“So,” she says, after the waitress has left, “why were you researching at the library?”
“I had to look up stuff for my history essay.”
Mom has a sip of water and puts the glass back in the exact water ring it came from. She’s no good at acting casual. “I know you’re interested in the ownership of the farm,” she says carefully. “You weren’t researching the Sinclairs, were you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly?”
I twist my water glass back and forth between my thumb and fingers. “The Sinclairs came up in some of the articles, but sort of by accident.”
Mom doesn’t buy it. “Mr. Sinclair is our landlord. How he happens to have the farm is none of our business.” She looks at me like I’m supposed to say “sorry” again. I don’t. “You weren’t planning on putting any of that in your essay, were you?”
“I guess not.”
“Cameron. Promise me you won’t say or write anything about Mr. Sinclair,” she says, and starts in on her “character” speech, which manages to include why I mustn’t rat out the Sinclairs and also why I need to be where I say I’ll be and on time. It’s full of words like trust, respect, privacy, loyalty, integrity, and responsibility, but mainly what I hear is blah, blah, blah.
Which is fine by me, because as long as I remember to nod and look serious, I can disappear in my head and think about more important stuff, like whether to believe Police Chief Cole or Cody’s great-grandmother about the murders.
Chief Cole was probably right. Matthew Fraser told his employer he was leaving town, and since Mrs. McTavish was running out on a violent marriage, she had reasons not to say where she and her kid were going. Besides, Cody’s great-grandmother looks nuts.
Not so fast. Whacking a cop is pretty out there. But if I thought a cousin was murdered, wouldn’t I do whatever it took to get the truth? Wouldn’t I look crazy too?
Yeah, but what about Mrs. McTavish’s letter about leaving with Jacky?
What about it? Mr. McTavish could’ve forced her to write it. He could’ve said he’d kill her if she didn’t.
Wouldn’t she guess he’d kill her anyway?
If I had a gun at my head, I’d do whatever and play for time. Besides, maybe he beat her till she wrote it or threatened to kill Jacky too. If Dad threatened to kill me, Mom would do anything.
Okay. So she writes it, and when Matthew Fraser comes for her and Jacky, he kills all three of them.
Right. Then he waits till night and drives Mr. Fraser’s car to Ramsay, where he abandons it near the bus station, mails the letter, and walks home. He’d be back before sunrise. And when the car gets discovered, well, it’s a ’48, a junker. Everyone thinks they ditched it and disappeared on a bus.
But Mr. McTavish would still be stuck with the bodies. If he’d moved them off the farm, they’d likely have been found by now. But the cops searched the property and said the ground was undisturbed. Plus it was March, so the ground was probably still frozen. So where did he put them? And what about Jacky? He says his mother left without him and that Arty saw him after she’d gone.
So maybe his
father just murdered Jacky’s mom and Mr. Fraser, and let him live.
But if Jacky was alive, why wasn’t he found after the dogs killed his father? Even if the dogs got Jacky too, there’d have been bones, wouldn’t there? That Davy Crockett cap at least?
“Cameron,” Mom says, “who are you talking to?”
“What?”
The waitress puts our meals on the table. “There we are then. Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” Mom says without taking her eyes off me. The waitress disappears. “I was talking to you, Cameron,” Mom continues, controlled and intense. “Suddenly your lips began moving like we discussed the other night. Where were you? Who were you speaking to?”
“No one. I was here. I was listening. You were talking about integrity and responsibility.”
“What else?”
“Punctuality?”
Mom looks at me like she’s a teacher and I’ve just failed a test and she’s very disappointed. “You were talking to Mr. Sinclair, weren’t you?”
“No.”
“You were asking him how he got the farm.”
“It wasn’t about him at all.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll flip out.”
“I won’t.”
She will. “Promise?”
“Promise.” Mom presses her hands on the table so she can concentrate on not being upset.
“Okay. But remember what you said about trust.” I take a deep breath. “You know that kid who hit me?”
“You were having a conversation with him?”
“No. His great-grandmother thinks that the man who used to have our farm, the man who got killed by his dogs—she thinks he murdered his wife, his kid, and his wife’s boyfriend. I was asking myself stuff like whether he made his wife write a letter before he killed her and where he buried the bodies.”
Mom stares at me like I’m an alien.
“You promised you wouldn’t flip out.”
“I’m not flipping out.” Mom presses her fingers into the table so hard her nails turn white. “But you do know this is unhealthy, don’t you?”
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