“I moved to New York and started writing for an alternative newspaper, smoking a lot of dope. I wrote articles about Matt, but only a few of them were ever printed. I stayed away from Marquette for about five years, and then I came back. My older brother had a son, and my mom had been harping on me to come home for a visit. I was running away from this place, running away from Matt’s death and the injustice. And honestly, I was mad at my dad. Mad he didn’t go after Greta and make her pay.”
Nate leaned forward and half-heartedly shuffled the magazines together.
“Now that I’m older, I understand. Our justice system isn’t interested in guilt and innocence. It’s politics. Who’s got the biggest bank account? My dad’s as helpless as I was all those years ago. He suspected Greta too, but he couldn’t prove it — and she had money to ensure that if you so much as mentioned her name, you’d get your ass sued. He swore if we ever had physical evidence, she’d go down, but we never did.”
“What about DNA? I mean, I’ve heard about cases that were decades old that are getting solved now. Is that an option in Matt’s case or—?”
“I’ve asked my dad that too. But even if they found Greta’s DNA on Matt, it wouldn’t prove anything. They were boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“But if they found her DNA on the murder weapon…” Bette insisted.
“Except they never found the knife. There was no knife at the scene,” Nate told her.
“But how could she have gotten rid of it? If she killed him and returned to a party within a half hour, where could she have hidden it?”
Nate smiled kindly.
“I hear you, Bette. And believe me, I asked those same questions after it happened. My friends and I scoured the park, the streets between there and Martin’s party. We looked through people’s trashcans. We even went out to the dump and spent half a week walking through garbage and looking for a knife or bloody clothes. Nothing. We never found a thing,” Nate confessed.
“And that never made you wonder if it wasn’t her? If maybe it was a wanderer sleeping in the park that night? A homeless guy or—”
“This is Marquette, Bette. Back then we had exactly one homeless guy, Ralph Simpson. His father owned the bowling alley and Ralph had mental problems. He slept on park benches and the beach. In the winter, he went home to his parents' house. People called him the local idiot. We’re not so crude these days, but the man wouldn’t harm a fly. That was the extent of our vagrant population around here.
”Not to get on my soapbox, but people love to blame the homeless people and, nine times out of ten, they’re the victims, not the perpetrators. Plus, my dad and his deputies interviewed half the town. If there had been a stranger in the area that night, they would have heard about it. People were devastated over Mat’s death, devastated. Everyone wanted that murder solved. People would have turned in their grandparents if they thought they were involved.” Nate’s voice rose as he spoke.
The customer who had walked in peeked around a bookshelf as if to check that everything was okay.
“Hi, Janie,” Nate called, waving.
“Hey Nate. Everything good?” The girl, no older than twenty, glanced at Bette.
“Yeah, we’re good. Grab me if you need help.”
Janie gave him a thumbs up and returned to the shelf.
“The teenagers in this town seem to think I’m the loony uncle they have to keep an eye on,” he laughed.
“Were you at the party that night? The one Greta went to?” Bette asked, returning to the subject at hand.
Nate nodded.
“Martin Bayshore, another senior in our graduating class, threw it. He got his older brother to buy us a keg of beer. I was plastered. It’s one of those things I’ve regretted. I don’t remember Greta leaving and coming back. I have one memory of her from that night. She was sitting on a sofa in the living room, and this girl from our class that everyone called Babbling Brook, because she never stopped talking, was bending Greta’s ear about some nonsense. Greta had this glazed look in her eyes like she’d tuned the girl out hours ago.” Nate shrugged. “I don’t know if that was before or after Matt died.”
“Did Greta have any friends? Anyone she was close with other than Matt?”
Nate shook his head. “Not a single one.”
“Matt’s sister said he was getting ready to break up with her. Do you know why?”
“The excuse was school, but Matt mentioned something weird to me the week before he died. He said he’d found out that Greta’s dad wasn’t dead. Apparently, Greta had told him her father committed suicide, but somehow Matt found out her dad was alive and in an institution downstate.”
“He wanted to break up with her for lying?”
“Nah.” Nate shook his head. “He realized he was in over his head with her. The lie just revealed a side to Greta that he hadn’t seen. Everyone else had seen it, but Matt had blinders on. He was starting to see the real Greta, and frankly she scared him.”
48
Then
Crystal tried to pull the window up, but it had been nailed shut. It didn’t budge. She forced her fingers under the frame and tugged.
Greta had left her untied and undrugged. She’d arrive anytime. Crystal never knew when, nor which, Greta would appear. The angry child who recalled life in the old farmhouse, death and blood and a cruel psychotic father. Or the soft Greta who stroked Crystal’s hair and spoke to her as if they were sisters. Or the adult Greta, the scorned wife whose eyes flashed with jealous rage.
They were all dangerous, all unhinged, and Crystal knew if she didn’t escape soon, she, too, would feed the monster in the forest, the fictitious beast who probably lived only in the mind of the insane woman who’d been groomed to believe it would devour her.
Crystal stared at the floor searching for a ridge or a loose board. But the planks were smooth and firmly locked together.
Heaving, she pulled the bed aside and got on her hands and knees. Near the wall, she felt a slight give in a board. She stuck her fingernails into the crevice and gently pried it up, shocked when the board lifted. A small metal box lay in the dark cavern beneath the board.
The box, once silver, was now streaked by rust.
It screeched quietly as she lifted the lid.
A spiral notebook lay inside, along with other items; trinkets, a bracelet made from pink and white plastic beads, a single pearl earring, a stick of bubble gum hard and flinty beneath her fingers. In the corner of the box, she dug out a misshapen gold ring with two stones, one a half moon diamond and the other a ruby in the shape of the sun.
Crystal opened the book and saw big loopy writing that took up two lines rather than one. It was a diary, and on the inner cover were the initials MRC.
There were only ten or so entries. Many of the pages were filled with doodled hearts, drawings of horses and trees. A few drawings revealed trees with slitted eyes and mouths with sharp teeth.
The entries had dates but no years listed.
December 10
Daddy says I’m bad because I left the blood rag in the sink, and Mrs. Martell found it. Greta lied to Mrs. Martel and said Daddy cut his hand. I wanted to tell her the blood came from the woman in the black dress. I saw Daddy carrying her from his car last night, but Greta said if I talked, the trees would eat me too.
February 21
Greta and I watched the men in the suits today. Daddy calls them the brotherhood. They took a patient to the stone room in the woods. She looked right at us in the trees. She saw us. I know she did. Her eyes scared Greta, but I thought she looked like a fairy princess. She had hair the color of gold.
The last entry was dated August 6.
I kept the ring from the lady in the black dress. Greta says I should throw it away, but I won’t. The next time the sheriff comes with a patient, I will show him the ring.
The door opened and Crystal dropped the book.
“Clever,” Greta murmured, gazing at the box and the opening on the floor. “This was
Daddy’s room. The last place I would ever have looked. I thought she buried it in the forest.”
“Why did you want it?” Crystal asked.
Greta leaned forward and flicked her fingers through the contents. She pulled out the ring with the two small gems clinging to the gold band.
“It belonged to the woman in the black dress,” Greta murmured.
She slipped the ring over her own finger and twirled it around. Maribelle and I saw it in the paper. They had blown up a picture of the woman’s hand with the ring on her finger. They thought it was distinctive enough that someone might remember it if they’d received it as a gift or saw someone wearing it. Maribelle called it our white horse.”
“Your white horse?” Crystal asked, thinking of Maribelle’s last entry, her intentions to give the ring to the sheriff.
Greta laughed.
“I didn’t understand either, but she always said we’d get rescued on a white horse. She found this ring in the basement after we cleaned. She hid it in this box. She was going to take it to the police and tell them what Daddy had done. For the first time, she had proof.” Greta took the ring off. “I told Daddy that night, and in the morning, Maribelle was gone. They put her in the asylum.”
“Did she tell anyone there?”
Greta shrugged.
“Maybe, but without the ring she couldn’t prove anything. Lots of kids in the asylum made up crazy stories. Daddy said she was insane, had become a pathological liar. She was seeing things.”
“Where is Maribelle now?” Crystal murmured.
Greta snatched the box from the floor, stuffed the journal inside, and left.
49
May 1974
Greta
Greta watched Matt from the darkness of the trees.
He hadn’t heard her approach because she’d removed her shoes and replaced them with flat slippers.
He sat on the rock, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his head tilted back as he gazed at the stars.
She wondered what he thought about. How best to end their relationship? Whether he should tell her at all before he packed his bags and moved seven hours away from her?
She squeezed the hunting knife clutched in her hand. The hard rubber grip pressed into her palm. The knife felt deadly, like a live snake. She knew its power.
Holding her breath, she slipped across the clearing.
He didn’t have time to react. Before he’d even lowered his face from the sky, she’d wrenched the blade across his throat. Blood spurted out, but Greta didn’t see it. As Matt slumped forward, she fell upon him, plunging the knife into his back again and again.
She stopped when somewhere far away a car horn blared, ripping her from her rage-filled trance.
Her hands and forearms were sticky, and when she climbed to her feet, a muscle in her right shoulder spasmed and she dropped the knife.
Shaking, Greta picked it up and returned to the dense grove of trees where she’d hidden her supplies. She pulled a black plastic trash bag from beneath high ferns.
Greta had thrown on a black poncho over her clothes before she’d attacked him. She stripped it off and stuffed it into the bag. She’d worn dark jeans and a dark t-shirt on the chance any blood splattered her clothes, but she felt confident she’d remained clean.
She kicked off her black flats and put on an identical pair, throwing the stained ones in the bag. Wiping the knife clean, she fought a momentary urge to taste Matt’s blood, before sliding the sheaf over the blade and tucking it into the inner pocket of her purse.
The park bathrooms were unlocked, and she ducked inside, gazing at her reflection. Only a single spot of blood had hit her face. It clung high on her right cheek. She pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped it away, adding the soiled towel to the black bag.
As she walked back to the party, careful to stick with the shadows, she paused at one of the many trash bins lining the street. The garbage men would pick up the bins at dawn. She slipped the plastic bag into a bin and walked on.
At the rear of the house, teenagers had trickled out of the house and spread across the lawn. Red plastic cups of beer lay strewn across the grass.
Greta slipped from the trees and rejoined the crowd as if she’d never been gone at all. Most of her peers were drunk. Not one of them focused on her.
She spotted Nate, Matt’s best friend, leaning against the wall as he gazed down at one of the bubble-gum popping, gooey-eyed cheerleaders. Her name was Jenny or Jessie, and she giggled as if he’d just made some dashingly clever remark.
Fighting a smile, Greta brushed passed him into the house.
None of them would be laughing tomorrow.
50
Now
Bette returned to the hotel and asked to use the telephone. She dialed the number Eliza had left on Weston Meeks’ phone.
“Sunny Angels Retirement Community. How may I be of service?” The woman’s high voice held a false cheeriness that Bette felt sure didn’t translate to the person behind it.
“Hi, I’d like to speak with Eliza Sanders, please.”
“Phone calls are permitted between the hours of ten a.m. and two p.m.”
Bette looked at her watched.
“It’s 9:52.”
“Phone calls are permitted between the hours of ten a.m. and two p.m.”
Bette squeezed the phone and bit back the angry words that exploded in her mind.
“I’ll call back,” she said tensely and replaced the phone.
She paced away from the phone and back, checking her watch a dozen times. This time, the number directed her to Eliza’s room. An older woman picked up on the first ring.
“Hi, is this Eliza?” Bette asked
“I certainly hope so,” the old woman laughed, “but around here, sometimes it’s hard to say.”
“Eliza, my name is Bette Childs. Could I visit you today? I have questions and I’ll be driving downstate from the Upper Peninsula. Sunny Angels is on my way.”
“I never say no to a visitor, Bette. I rarely see a friendly face other than my son, and he only makes it once or twice a month. Come on by.”
* * *
Bette parked outside the retirement community. It was located in Harbor Springs, a picturesque lakeside town busy with tourists despite it being a weekday.
The name Sunny Angels felt oddly portentous, as many of the residents would be little more than that when they left the fieldstone house.
The house was high and long, with a gabled roof and clean white shutters on every window. The lawn had the vibrant green color that reminded Bette of limes. She imagined they had to use fertilizer and some other magic powder, aka poison, to produce such an unnatural color.
Inside the front door, Bette found a cheery welcome area. A middle-aged woman with hair dyed red sat in a plush office chair, her manicured hands tapping on the keys of a typewriter. She looked up when Bette walked in.
“Hello there!” She stood and slipped from behind the desk, extending her hand. “You must be Jessica. I’m delighted you’ve decided to tour Sunny Angels. Your mother will absolutely adore our cozy home.”
Bette faltered, gazing at the woman’s teeth, which seemed so bright Bette squinted at them. “No, actually, I’m here to see Eliza Sanders.”
The woman’s smiled vanished, and she placed a hand on a jutting hip.
“Visitors are expected to call ahead, unless you visit on Saturday afternoon, of course. And today, if memory serves me, is Monday.”
Bette didn’t smile. Crystal would have. More bees with honey and all that nonsense, but Bette had never been one to bow down to rude people, and this woman was rude. She would have been nice to Jessica, because Jessica was a potential check in the mail, but Bette meant no benefit to her.
“I’m sure her son would be disappointed to hear I was turned away,” Bette lied. “He’s actually in Ann Arbor this week on business. There are some really beautiful retirement communities down there. Have you ever been?”
The woman, named Linda according to the little gold sign propped on her desk, scowled at Bette.
Behind Bette, the front door opened and another young woman entered. She was short and mousy, and wore stiff-looking khakis beneath a white blouse. She looked timidly from Bette to Linda.
Linda’s eyes fixed on the woman, and Bette could see her honing in on her prey. She brushed past Bette and held out her hand.
“You must be Jessica,” she gushed in the same syrupy voice she’d unleashed on Bette a moment before.
“Yes,” Jessica told her, her voice barely a whisper, nearly drowned out by the paddle fan whirring overhead.
“Welcome to Sunny Angels, the loveliest retirement community in Michigan,” Linda told her, glancing at Bette as she said it, as if challenging her to disagree.
“Before you get wrapped up, can you direct me to Eliza’s room, please?” Bette kept her voice even, though she wanted to put the woman in her place.
Linda glanced at Jessica and pursed her lips.
“Follow that hallway to the end,” she said, finally. “Room 104, the last door on the left.”
“Thank you.” Bette didn’t wait to hear more.
She left the reception area and walked down the hall, gazing at the paintings of sleepy seaside fishing villages and sailboats drifting in still water. Behind the closed doors, she heard the low murmur of voices from televisions. From one room, she heard loud snoring.
She stopped at room 104 and knocked on the door. There was silence within, and she wondered if the woman was sleeping.
Before she could knock a second time, the door swung open and a tall woman with long white hair and bright blue eyes stood glaring at her.
Her eyes softened when she saw Bette.
Dark Omen: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel Page 24