by Ann Gosslin
When the woman glanced up for the second time, Erin thought fast. Who was she supposed to be? A tourist, a history buff, a writer? She couldn’t be herself, or reveal she’d spent summers in Belle River as a child. Any mention of a past connection would unleash a flood of questions – what was her name, who were her parents, where had she stayed? But it was too late to mumble an excuse and back out the door. A writer would be a good enough cover. A freelance writer researching coastal towns of northern New England.
‘Can I help you?’ The accent was pure Maine.
Erin cleared her throat and approached the desk. ‘I was… I’m looking for information on the history of local fishing villages. Do you have any books I could start with, or perhaps the local paper on microfiche?’
The woman’s face brightened. ‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘Pardon?’
‘England, right?’ She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
‘Um, originally, yes. But I live in New York City now. I’m researching an article on the fishing industry.’
‘Well, okay.’ She stood and eased her plump figure from behind the desk. ‘Are folks in New York City interested in that kind of thing?’ She beckoned Erin to follow. ‘The Belle River Gazette is digitised back till 1987. If you want anything earlier than that, it’s all on microfiche.’
She opened a door to a small room crammed with archives. Ring binders lined the shelves. A filing cabinet with rows of narrow drawers occupied the corner.
‘That’s the card catalogue by the back wall,’ she said, flipping on the light. ‘You look in there for the year you want, and then cross-reference to the binders on the shelf.’ She crouched down to switch on the microfiche reader. ‘This old clunker needs a good five minutes to warm up. For the more recent issues, you can access our online archive with the computer over there. The log-in code and web address are taped to the desk.’ She swiped at the dust on a shelf. ‘My name’s Gail. Give me a shout if you get stuck or need anything else.’
Erin waited until she was alone before flipping through the card catalogue for copies of the Gazette for the years 1976 and ’77. The microfiche records weren’t searchable, so she’d have to scroll through every issue for any mention of the Sterns. She settled into the straight-back chair and began with the August issues for 1977. But the murders were given scant coverage, just a three-line item buried on a back page. In the early morning hours of August 27th, local police responded to a disturbance at 44 Easton Road. No further details are available at this time.
She scanned through the issues until the end of the year, but there was nothing more on the Stern murders. Surely, a brutal killing in a small town was major news. Why keep it quiet?
She leaned closer to the screen as she scrolled back through 1977, pausing to study the pictures under the School News section. June, May, April, nothing. In the March 19th issue, a headline jumped out: Science Fair Team Triumphs. A group of boys with the shaggy hair and wide shirt lapels of the 1970s held awards certificates against their chests as they smiled for the camera. Congratulations to the Team! Raymond Hopkins, Gary Nelson, and Timothy Stern, members of the Junior class at Belle River High, win first place in the Chemistry Division at the regional Science Fair in Fremont.
The photo was blurry and Tim, looking sheepish in a knitted V-neck vest, was focused on something to the right of the camera. But it was the two boys next to him, Raymond and Gary, who were of interest. She wrote down their names, before scrolling back through the issues to the beginning of the year. But there was nothing more about Tim.
Her eyes burned from squinting at the tiny newsprint, and she was desperate for a glass of water. But she pressed on, loading the microfiche for 1976 and skimming through the months. Girl Scout cookie sales, a Junior League charity drive, new parking meters on Main Street. On the inside pages of the special bicentennial issue for July 4th, 1976, she paused at the double spread of photos. A collage of the town picnic and parade, fireworks and boat races. A man in a white baseball cap looked vaguely familiar, and the caption confirmed it – Master of Ceremonies, Timothy W. Stern, Snr, poised to start the relay race. He held aloft an American flag before a row of runners toeing the starting line.
In another photo, without a caption, Stern appeared again in the same baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, his arm around a dark-haired boy with his face in shadow, wearing a matching cap and tie-dyed T-shirt. She made copies of the photos and stuck them in her bag. It wasn’t much, but at least she had a lead. If she were lucky, at least one of the two boys pictured with Tim in the science fair photo still lived in the area.
21
Sunday morning, and the only place open was the newsagent on the square. A bell tinkled as Erin pushed open the door. An elderly man with a weathered face and comb marks in his thinning hair popped up from behind the counter.
‘Morning.’ He slapped his hands together as if brushing off dust. ‘Cold out there, isn’t it? Mother Nature sure is making us wait for spring this year.’
She froze, a deer in headlights. It was the same man who ran the newsagents all those years ago, the one who sold her packets of Wrigley’s spearmint gum and cherry Lifesavers.
Too late to back out, she plucked a copy of the local paper from a pile by the door and placed it on the counter.
She lowered her eyes and pretended to examine the goods below the cash register. ‘Do you have maps of the area?’
‘Ay-uh. Right over there.’ He jerked his chin at the metal rack to Erin’s left. ‘I’ve got the whole state if you’re feeling ambitious, but if you just want the local area,’ he leaned over and grabbed a glossy folder, ‘this one’s for Belle River and Fremont. Does that work for you?’
She nodded and pulled out her wallet.
‘Up here for the weekend?’ He squinted at her over his bifocals. ‘It’s a mite early for tourist season.’
‘Just passing through.’ Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second before cutting away. She could sense him flipping through the photos in his head, a sharply honed Rolodex of everyone who’d ever come through his door. ‘I’ll take the map and a bottle of water.’ From the candy display, she selected a roll of cherry Lifesavers. ‘And this too, thanks.’
He dropped her purchases in a plastic bag. ‘Ever pass through here before? Back in the fall, maybe?’
Was it her eyes that gave her away? The man must have a memory like a steel trap. Nothing she could do now except stick to her story.
She cleared her throat. ‘I just moved here from London. Not here, New York City. This is my first time in Maine.’
He waited a moment before handing her the bag. ‘Huh,
I could’ve sworn I’d seen you before. Never forget a face.’ She escaped into the street and ducked round the corner, waiting in the shadow of Barry’s Lobsters & Crabs for her heart to slow, as she worried about who else might recognise her. Clouds had moved in, and wearing her sunglasses would draw even more unwanted attention.
Back in the safety of her car, she ran her finger down the list of streets on the town map until she found Easton Road. She hadn’t planned on visiting Tim’s old house. A cursory drive-by wouldn’t tell her much. But having come this far, it would be silly to return to Lansford without getting a look at the scene of the crime.
*
On the drive out of town, she glanced at the bay. A pair of gulls, hovering above the pewter sea, folded their wings and plummeted into the water like stones. The raft of dark clouds mustering on the horizon threatened more rain.
Not long after she turned onto a narrow road through the forest, a battered pickup roared up behind her, aggressively close, and honked twice before speeding past.
Her shoulders tensed and she regretted her errand. What did she hope to learn from seeing the house? Pure voyeurism was all it was. She’d already examined the photos of the crime scene in all their gory detail. The bodies and blood. Toppled furniture. The bloody cleaver and kitchen knife sealed into evidence
bags. Surely that was enough.
As the dark spruce gave way to birch saplings, shafts of light filtered through the boughs and the layer of mist above the loamy ground. A dilapidated house set back in the trees showed no signs of life. By the time she turned onto Easton Road, her hands ached from clenching the wheel. After rounding a bend, where the dark evergreens grew right up to the road, she came upon the house. Number 44. The name on the letter box was Gilbert.
Tall stands of hickory and sycamore dwarfed the white clapboard house. When the Stern family lived there, it was painted a pale grey with a dark green door. In summer, with the trees in leaf, the house would be largely invisible from the street. Farther down the road, Erin could just see the nearest mailbox, a good hundred yards away.
A man in a yellow rain slicker rounded the corner of the house, pushing a loaded wheelbarrow. He stopped in front of a sprawling rhododendron hedge at the edge of the lawn, the pink buds just coming into bloom, and began to shovel dark soil on the ground.
Erin parked on a soggy patch of grass in front of the house and stepped out. The cool air was pungent with damp earth and rain-washed pines.
Grasping the shovel, the man looked up and squinted. ‘Not selling anything, are you?’ He pointed to a sign by the driveway. No soliciting.
She shivered in the chilly breeze. ‘No, nothing to sell.’
‘Glad to hear it. I don’t mean to be unfriendly, but a man likes his quiet, and these door-to-door snake oil peddlers and Jehovah’s whatsits have got all out of control.’
She wondered how long he’d lived here. If this man bought the house soon after the murders, he’d probably had his fill of curiosity seekers and busybodies gawking through the windows. Or kids spooking each other on Halloween.
‘My name is Erin… Carson,’ she said, exaggerating her British accent. ‘When I was a child my family came over from London to spend the summer holiday here.’ She paused, inventing as she went. ‘My father spent some time in Maine as a boy and he wanted to visit again. Memory lane and all that.’
The man had yet to relax his grip on the shovel or move out from behind the wheelbarrow.
‘I met a girl who lived here. Lucy Tomlin,’ Erin said, pulling the name out of the air. ‘There was a trampoline out back, the star attraction in the neighbourhood.’
What neighbourhood? The question was clearly stamped on the man’s face. ‘Is that so?’ He knocked a clump of mud from his boots. ‘Well, I don’t know anything about a girl named Lucy. Only one other family lived here before we bought the place. There were two girls, I believe, but my memory’s not what it used to be.’
A gust of wind rustled the damp boughs of the trees. Erin hugged her elbows for warmth. ‘I wondered if I might have a brief look inside the house. For old times’ sake.’
Pushing his hat off his forehead, he fixed her with a gimlet eye. ‘Sure you’re not selling something? Religious pamphlets, a plot at the local cemetery? I already got one of those and my own beliefs too, so I’ll thank you to keep yours to yourself.’
She raised her hand. ‘No plots, no pamphlets.’
‘All right then.’ He scanned the sky. ‘I guess the rhodies can wait a few minutes.’
He turned abruptly, and she followed him round the back of the house, where the thickly planted spruce trees, fronted by more rhododendrons, cast a deep shade on the scraggly lawn. She made a mental note of the distance from the back door to the driveway. Fifteen yards, perhaps twenty. No more than that.
They entered the mudroom, where a green duffel coat and black parka hung on hooks. The man levered off his boots and peeled off the rain slicker.
‘Go on in through the kitchen. I guess you know the way.’
Erin stepped through the doorway. Scuffed linoleum in a starburst pattern of mustard and brown. An avocado-green cooker and fridge. Not much changed in here. The photos from the forensic report flashed through her head. Tim’s mother on the floor. Streaks of blood on the walls. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to jar the scene from her mind.
‘Are you okay, Miss? Looks like you’re having some kind of spell.’ Mr Gilbert folded his arms, as if waiting for her to drop the charade and wave a sheaf of religious tracts under his nose. ‘I’ll get you a glass of water.’
‘No, I’m fine. Please don’t go to any trouble.’ She passed a hand over her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t faint. Get a grip. The buzzing in her ears faded to a dull whine. ‘I’ll just have a quick look around and be out of your way.’
‘Suit yourself. Though I hope you’re not planning on pocketing a souvenir or two from your glory days with… What was your little friend’s name?
‘Lucy.’
‘Right. Lucy.’ His eyes rested on her face. ‘Go on, have your look around.’ He shooed her out of the kitchen. ‘There’s a nice view of the bay from the front bedroom upstairs, though I guess you’d remember that.’
Relieved he wasn’t going to trail her round the house, Erin escaped into the front hall. No fool, the man would see straight away she’d never been here before. She peeked into the living room, gloomy with heavy drapes and a distinctive musty smell. A yellow and green crocheted Afghan was draped over a faded chintz sofa. A thin layer of dust coated the walnut sideboard. Sliding glass doors led onto a wooden deck out back, stained black on the edges with mould. Mr Gilbert appeared to live in the house alone. There’d been no mention of a wife.
An alcove off the living room contained a narrow bed, a cracked leather recliner, and an ancient television, boxed in a fake mahogany veneer. A well-thumbed paperback mystery, with a raven-haired woman in a ruby dress on the cover, lay on the bedside table. Black-capped chickadees swooped around a feeder hanging from the branches of a dogwood tree, its white petals ghostly in the mist. She held her breath. Other than the ticking of the grandfather clock, the house was silent as a tomb.
As she climbed the stairs to the upper floor, she counted the steps, trying to picture Tim, his mind intent on the deed to come, approaching the bedroom where his sisters slept. She reached the landing to find all the doors closed. On a scalloped-edge table, a vase of dried flowers gathered dust in the stillness. When she blinked, the crime scene flashed like a strobe light in her head. The sisters laid out on the twin beds in the room to her left, blood covering their chests.
A shadow passed over her like a living presence, and she grabbed the bannister. Don’t be stupid. There was nothing behind that door. No evil in the air, or traces of the horror. And certainly no ghosts of the two girls in their white summer nightgowns. Erin placed her hand on the tarnished brass knob, cool under her damp palm. The hinges squeaked when the door swung open. Bunk beds pushed against the wall, a poster of a hockey player and a rock band she didn’t recognise. She breathed out and shut the door.
The other bedroom had pale pink walls and a white bookcase filled with children’s books. A stuffed giraffe lay on the pillow with its legs splayed. An empty stage set, waiting for the actors to appear. Directly above her head, something scraped along the ceiling. Faint at first, then growing louder. Scritch, scratch, punctuated by an unearthly yowl, and the scrabbling of fingernails on the floorboards. She held her breath and waited. A desperate whimper erupted from above, then faded into silence. Her instinct was to bolt.
A man’s voice boomed from below. ‘Find what you’re looking for?’
22
Mr Gilbert stood at the bottom of the stairs, his neck stuck out like a snapping turtle. Erin shrank from his blunt stare. It was time to make a hasty exit.
In the kitchen, she retrieved her bag and pulled on her jacket, not bothering with the buttons.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said, moving towards the door. ‘But I should be going now.’
He rinsed a coffee mug in the sink and dried it with a tea towel. ‘Notice anything different from when you were here before?’
‘Not especially.’ She gripped the strap on her bag.
‘Well then,’ he returned the mug to the cupboard and swivelled to f
ace her, an amused flicker in his eyes. ‘You might want to get yourself checked out by a doctor. The house that used to be here was destroyed in a fire.’
Her cheeks flushed. Destroyed? He’d known all along she was lying.
‘Six months after we bought the place,’ Gilbert said, running a damp sponge over the countertop, ‘the whole thing went up in flames. The police suspected arson. My wife didn’t care either way. A blessing in disguise, is what she said, and that if the old Indian gent hadn’t banished the bad spirits from the house, the fire surely did.’
Indian gent?
‘You’d make a terrible poker player, Miss… Carson, is it?’ He dropped the tea towel on the counter. ‘There never was any Lucy, was there? It’s the murder house you came to see.’ He chuckled. ‘I can spot ’em a mile away. Though we don’t get many these days. The last one was three, maybe four years ago. Some nosy parker claiming he was writing a magazine article. Don’t know if anything ever came of it, and I don’t care. But I could see it in your face, plain as day. Fascination, fear, horror, whatever you want to call it. My wife wouldn’t let them inside. But I figured, what’s the harm, just this once.’
She dropped her bag and sank into a chair, embarrassed at having been caught in a lie.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Cup of coffee’ll fix you right up.’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Erin cleared her throat. ‘Thank you.’ She stood. ‘I’ll be on my way then.’
‘I was already planning to make some for myself, so it’s no trouble. You’ve come this far, and I have yet to see any pamphlets.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘Weekends are awfully quiet since I sold the store.’ At the sink, he scrubbed his hands with a block of white soap and filled an enamel kettle with water from the tap.
Clearly, the poor man was lonely. The least she could do was stay for a coffee.
She perched on the edge of the chair. ‘You owned a store?’