“Oh Dad, I’m sorry. I forgot all about Teddy.”
“No, it’s okay,” he insisted. “My neighbor’s wife is having some kind of gall-bladder episode and he had to bring him over, but we’ll be fine. It’s good to have him. Even the animal fights are a nice distraction.”
“Good. I’m happy you’ve got some company. Dad, I’m heading to Marquette. I want to talk to the cousin of the girl who went missing up here.”
“Okay, sure, yeah. Do you think it’s related, Bette? Did Weston Meeks do something to that girl?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll call tonight, okay?”
32
1972
Joseph Claude
Joseph stared straight ahead as his daughter drove on the dark road, searching for the opportunity that always appeared.
Greta’s hands were white on the steering wheel, her body tense. It wasn’t the impending murder that scared her, but driving.
He almost smiled at the thought, but in the road before them a man stepped out.
Joseph pulled back and slammed his foot down as if to depress the brake that wasn’t there. His eyes bulged as the black man in the blue tuxedo slipped into view.
The car slammed into the man, but no sound emerged.
The man in the blue tuxedo slid up over the hood, his face pressed against the windshield, his dark eyes filled with accusations as they locked onto Joseph’s.
Joseph pressed his hands against the dashboard and let out a bellow of shock and fear as the man continued to glide over the glass and disappear into the night.
Greta slammed on the brakes, pitching both of them forward in their seats.
She looked wildly through the windows and then at Joseph.
“What? What did you see?” she asked.
Joseph’s mouth hung open, his eyes still staring at the spot where the dead man’s face had been.
He rubbed his eyes and finally turned to look at his daughter.
“Did you see him?” He pointed at the windshield. “The man in the blue tuxedo?”
Greta frowned and squinted toward the windshield.
“No, Dad. You buried him months ago.”
33
Now
By the time Bette reached Marquette, her butt ached from sitting, and she’d gone over every scenario of what might have happened to Crystal.
She drew in a grateful breath when she climbed out of the car, bending her legs and stretching her arms overhead.
Maury’s Pub occupied the lower floor of an aged brick building across the street from a sprawling Lake Superior ore dock.
People sat in stools along the curved mahogany counter.
Bette stopped at the host stand.
A young woman with dark blond hair piled on her head, beamed at her. “Hi there!” The hostess grabbed a menu. “Seat for one?”
Bette shook her head. “I’m actually looking for Whitney Lyons.” As she said the words, Bette’s eye drifted to the girl’s nametag.
“Whitney,” the black letters read.
Whitney’s smile widened. “You’ve found her.”
“Great. That was easy.” Bette sighed. “Listen, my name’s Bette Childs. Do you have a few minutes to answer questions about your cousin, Tara?”
The enormous smiled faded. “Did they find her?”
Bette shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. My sister’s missing and I think her disappearance could be connected to Tara’s.”
Whitney frowned. “How?”
“Whit, table six needs their drinks,” the bartender called, pointing at several beers lining the counter.
“Shoot,” she whispered. “Have a seat over there.” Whitney motioned to an empty booth by the window. “I can get another waitress to cover me for ten minutes.”
Bette walked to the table.
Whitney bustled to the bar and grabbed the drinks. She delivered them to a table of guys who eyed her appreciatively, as much for her good looks as for their beers, probably.
Whitney stopped next to an older woman wearing the same uniform. The woman glanced at Bette and nodded, giving Whitney a sympathetic pat on the back.
“Are you from Traverse City?” Whitney asked, sliding into the booth.
Bette shook her head. “The Lansing area, actually. My sister’s name is Crystal, and she’s been seeing Weston Meeks.”
“The professor? He got divorced, then?”
“No, he didn’t. He was having an affair.”
Whitney scowled. “Yikes. And now she’s missing?”
Bette nodded. “I spoke with Molly Ward, and she said Tara visited you the weekend before she disappeared. Molly was convinced she found out something about Weston’s wife when she was here.”
“She didn’t tell me if she did. She talked a little about Hillary, but mostly just mentioned she got a bad vibe from her,” Whitney offered. “She talked about Weston a lot. How brilliant he was, about the amazing poetry he wrote. She clearly had feelings for him, but he was married, and Tara is not a homewrecker.”
Whitney’s face blanched. “Not that your sister is-”
Bette held up a hand. “It’s okay. My sister had no idea Weston was married. He never told her.”
“What a rat,” Whitney exclaimed.
“Yeah, exactly. But I’m more curious about his wife, Hillary. Do you have any idea where Tara might have discovered something about Hillary Meeks?”
“No. I can’t imagine where she stumbled across something. It’s not like we spent a lot of time talking to people that weekend. She left early the last day. She ran into town to get a newspaper and some donuts, and when she came back, she was in a big rush to leave. She didn’t say why. She packed her stuff and hit the road.”
“Where did she get her paper and donuts?” Bette asked.
“A bakery called The Bread Box. It’s a block away from here on Washington Street.”
“Hmm… okay. I’m going to check it out. Thanks, Whitney.”
Bette stood and Whitney grabbed her hand.
“Hold on one second,” Whitney pleaded. She ducked behind the bar, emerging a moment later with a slip of paper. “I wrote my name and phone number. Will you call me if you find anything? I think about her every day. I pray every night. Our family needs to know what happened to Tara.”
Bette took the card and promised she’d call.
She walked down the street, glancing in store windows at souvenirs and sweatshirts with slogans like “Yooper’s Rock.”
The Bread Box was a small shop with a fluffy pink cupcake painted on the front window.
Bette walked in to the aroma of chocolate-chip cookies.
“Fresh out of the oven!” a woman said, grinning at Bette. She held a cookie sheet with a purple oven mitt and used her other hand to scoop cookies into a display case.
“They smell amazing. I’m actually here about something else, but I think I’ll take a cookie to go,” Bette told her.
“Oh no,” the woman shook her head, gray curls bobbing. “You have to eat one hot; it’s a special treat to walk in at the precise moment I’ve taken them from the oven. My grandmother called that heavenly timing. If you ignore heavenly timing once, it won’t come again for you.”
Bette smiled. She definitely could use some heavenly timing, and the cookies did smell good. Her stomach rumbled in compliance. Her head had been ignoring her belly lately, but the lady was convincing her to override it.
Bette accepted the cookie the woman handed her and took a bite.
The texture was soft and warm; the chocolate oozed richly against her tongue.
“It’s delicious,” she admitted.
The woman winked at her.
“It’s all in the timing, my dear. Now, what can I help ya with? Birthday cake order? Or” —the woman smiled conspiratorially— “a wedding cake, perhaps?”
Bette sighed and shook her head.
“I wish it was something happy like that. I’m wondering if you were working the morning Tara Lyons came in.
She’s the girl who-”
The woman interrupted before she could finish.
“Yes,” she frowned. “This is my bakery. I was here the morning Tara came in. Her family visited me a few days later, hoping I could offer some clue as to her state of mind that day. Unfortunately, it was a Sunday morning at nine a.m. Probably the busiest time of the whole week for me. I sold her a dozen donuts. She was very sweet, but we didn’t chat. I regret that now. I should have spoken to her more, taken the time…”
“Did she buy anything other than donuts?”
The woman nodded and pointed to a stack of newspapers by the door.
“A dozen glazed donuts and a copy of The Mining Journal. That’s our daily paper.”
* * *
Bette walked into the Marquette library.
The librarian, a plump middle-aged woman in a blue blouse spotted with little gray mice, sat at a large circulation desk swiping a stack of books across the magnetic strip that would make a buzzer sound if they were carried out of the building.
“Hi,” Bette said, pausing in front of her. Can you direct me to old newspapers? The Mining Journal in particular, from 1989.”
“It would be my pleasure,” the woman said, standing from her chair with a groan. “That chair gets my sciatica flaring up like gasoline on a fire. I keep telling Mrs. Nelson, our director, that we need decent chairs in this library, but every year it’s stripped off the budget. I might get me one of those little cushions you sit on. They’re on the home shopping network every other week and come with a lifetime guarantee.”
The woman chattered on about her sciatica, arthritis and indigestion as they walked deeper into the library. She stopped at a square room with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing boxes of newspapers.
“We keep old copies of newspapers in this room,” the woman said. “The Mining Journal goes back five years, but we also have microfiche for older versions. They’re arranged by year, starting with January. Don’t hesitate to call out if you need me. This place is one big echo chamber. I’ll hear you fine if you need some help.”
“Thanks,” Bette told her.
The woman paused as if she wanted to see what story Bette sought.
Bette wandered away, slowly scanning years until the librarian left.
She grabbed the box that contained the newspapers from 1989. Flipping through until May, she found Sunday the twenty-first, 1989.
“Questions Linger as Anniversary of Murder Approaches,” announced the front-page headline. The photograph depicted a handsome teenage boy with long shaggy hair brushing the collar of his varsity jacket.
Bette read the article, which outlined the case of seventeen-year-old Matt Kelly, found slain in Bishop Park in 1974. The brutal murder had remained unsolved for fifteen years.
It continued on page three, where a full spread was devoted to the details of the case and included several more pictures of Matt Kelly.
Bette examined the images, and her eyes caught on a prom picture of Matt. His date, a young woman with pale-blond hair, looked familiar. Bette studied the woman’s face, the sharp angular cheekbones and thin pale lips. Most startling of all were her harsh gray eyes. The eyes of Hillary Meeks.
Bette read the caption below the image: “Matt Kelly at the senior prom with his date and girlfriend, Greta Claude.”
“Claude?” she asked the empty room, eyeing the name for several more seconds. She’d heard it before.
And then it came to her.
The name “Claude” had been spoken by the woman who’d left a phone message for Weston Meeks. Bette had written down the woman’s name and the place where she lived, Sunny Angels.
Bette photocopied the article and examined the shelves. One wall contained yearbooks from the Marquette High School. She pulled the 1974 book down and searched the book for Greta Claude. Sure enough, she was listed as a junior.
She flipped to Greta’s photo and stared at the young woman. It was, without a doubt, Hillary Meeks. Her hair was cut short in a boyish style that barely went past her ears, but her piercing gray eyes were unmistakable.
34
Then
“Thanks, Rick. I’m digging the new t-shirt,” Crystal told the barista at Sacred Grounds.
He grinned and looked down at the shirt, which stated “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in red dripping letters.
“Thanks, Crys.” He handed her a cup of decaf coffee, arching an eyebrow. “Since when are you into decaf?”
She shrugged and took the cup. “Cutting back on stimulants. You know the drill.”
As she worked toward the door, a hand reached out and snatched the hem of her shirt.
“Hey girl,” the woman said, releasing her shirt and gesturing at her table.
It took Crystal a moment to remember her name.
“Greta!” she said, smiling. “How are you?”
Greta flitted her hands, gesturing at the stream of papers spread across the table.
“Busy like a wasp,” she muttered.
“I think the saying is like a bumblebee,” Crystal chuckled sipping her milk-heavy coffee.
“They’re too fuzzy for my tastes,” Greta retorted. “Sit and have a chat.” She pointed at the empty chair.
Crystal glanced at the door, tempted to offer an excuse. A book and a nap sounded infinitely more appealing, but Greta’s hopeful expression got the best of her.
“Sure okay.”
* * *
“Crystal!”
Crystal looked up to see Greta hurrying down the street toward her.
She held up Crystal’s wallet.
“You forgot it at the coffee shop,” she said.
Crystal slapped herself on the forehead. “Wow, thank you. I would have been screwed. My rent is in there.”
“Fancy an adventure?” Greta asked, eyes sparkling.
Crystal took her wallet and tucked it into her purse, puzzling at how it could have fallen out.
“Well, I’m curious, that’s for sure. I rarely say no to an adventure. What are we talking about?” Crystal asked, though her earlier desire to go home and crawl into bed had only heightened in the previous half hour.
It was the anniversary of her mother’s death. She was pregnant with the child of a man who was keeping secrets, and every time she looked in the mirror, she searched for the shadow of death she was sure hid somewhere behind her.
Weston had called several times, and she hadn’t answered or returned his calls. She wanted to tell Bette about the baby. She should have told her sister first.
That night, when they marked the anniversary of their mother’s death, Crystal planned to come clean about everything. Once she’d gotten Bette’s insight, she’d be more ready to face Weston.
“I’ve been hired to research old houses for an author,” Greta explained. “There’s an abandoned house out on old Highway 27. It’s tucked way back in the woods. No one has entered it in forty years, but I,” she held up a small silver object, “got a key.”
“Wow, really?” Crystal eyed the small key.
Bette and her father had more of a penchant for old houses, but Crystal couldn’t deny they held a certain allure. Plus, she wasn’t meeting Bette until five, which meant seven more hours of filling the time and thinking about Wes and the baby.
“Okay,” Crystal agreed. “But I have to meet my sister at five.”
“Not a problem,” Greta assured her. “I’m parked down the block. Why don’t you ride with me?”
* * *
A rusted gate plastered with “No Trespassing” signs barred their entrance to the weedy driveway. It was overgrown and sheltered by trees. From the road, you wouldn’t assume a house lay in the gloomy depths at all.
The old farmhouse was large, the windows not boarded but void of glass. Black holes in the bleached face of the monster. And look like a monster it did.
Moss coated the sagging roof. Trees, bushes and vines crowded around the crumbling structure, snaking through the empty windows. More vegetatio
n swarmed across the porch.
Crystal shivered and wrapped her arms over her chest.
“Coming?” Greta asked, climbing out of the car and grabbing a camera bag from the backseat.
Greta took out her camera and started snapping pictures, walking around the exterior of the house and taking shots of the derelict structure.
Crystal took a final sip of the bottled water, Greta had given her, before she stepped from the car.
The quiet in the forest was thick. It coiled around Crystal, and a sense of menace rose through her feet as if it were a message from the poisonous ground beneath her.
“Poisonous?” she murmured, wondering where such a thought had originated.
The ground looked healthy; overgrown to be sure but, if anything, that signaled good health, not bad.
“Ready?” Greta asked.
She stood on the porch, her smile glowing in the shadow of the rotted eaves.
Crystal considered staying in the car, or rather walking out of there, following the wooded pathway from the house and waiting for Greta at the road.
The dread seemed baseless, foolish, but Crystal had always followed her instincts.
She stepped back toward the car.
Greta peeked inside the half-open door and gasped.
“You’ve got to see the stone hearth in this place. Unreal,” she called, disappearing through the doorway.
Crystal swallowed her fear and followed Greta into the house.
The stone hearth was grand, rising to the ceiling and built from huge boulders, pudding stones and Petoskeys.
“Wow,” Crystal breathed, walking to the fireplace and putting a hand on one of the Petoskey stones. "I’ve never seen one so big. Whose house was this?”
Greta took a picture and the flash illuminated black mold streaking up the walls.
Dark Omen: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel Page 17