Beyond the Tree House

by Gudrun Frerichs

“The police are on their way” Scott puts his phone on the table and walks over to me.

  “Are you okay?”

  He knows I’m not well. A warm feeling of gratitude spreads through me. I’m surprised how much I rely on him and how much I’m used to him. Less than half a year ago I dreamed of nothing other than freedom and independence. How quickly that has changed. Today I can’t imagine a life without him. I never would’ve thought it possible that we would ever again trust another man. I nestle into the safety of his embrace.

  “If only we could stay like this forever without the outside life disrupts our peace.”

  As he kisses my forehead, I realize the times of dreaming are over. Someone murdered my aunt and people are breaking into my house looking for something. All that is alarming. There is an enemy out there and he or she has not shown her face yet.

  “I hate being the bringer of bad news, but that will not happen.”

  Scott’s arm tightens around me and he pulls me closer.

  “Don’t worry. The police will be here soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lilly: 18 March 2017, late afternoon, Wright’s Homestead

  Since when has the sentence ‘The police will be here soon’ been a comfort to me? Sometimes Scottie gets me one hundred percent, at other times—like now—he totally misfires. I reach for the envelope he found under the skeleton. The handwriting is the same as in the diary we found last year. My fingers shake as I pull out the paper. It’s most likely the last thing Auntie held in her hand before she died. My breath hitches as I start reading.

  Wright’s Homestead, 23 February 1988

  Today I went to the cemetery and put fresh flowers on the grave of Eugene and Sarah. It soon will be two years since they died. Strange isn’t it, I never was very close to my sister after she married Eugene, but I miss her. Before her marriage we were inseparable. Especially after she had August when she was fifteen years old and still at school.

  She needed my help to raise him and I loved to do that. He was such an adorable boy. It all changed when she married Eugene and he insisted that she gives up the child to the Feldmans. I don’t think she ever got over losing him to the old geezer. Sarah became a shadow of herself when she lost her boy. When I asked her why she turned into this hysterical being that I didn’t recognize. She never talked about August after that. When Elizabeth came along, I hoped she would come round but that never happened.

  I feel guilty about not being there for her. I should have tried to help her, to find happiness or to get away from Eugene if that’s what it took. Well, all the ifs and buts are too late now, aren’t they? I hope she’s in heaven. I hope the good Lord is forgiving enough. She didn’t have an easy life; she deserves a better one in the afterlife.

  It’s weird that they died so early in their lives. Thirty-one years is not a normal age to bow out. But then, they wonder whether it was suicide, or he drove too fast. That’s also strange. He was always so OCD about everything and would never drive too fast. Everything had to be right in his life, otherwise, he would have a colossal meltdown.

  When I heard that the brakes of their car apparently failed and it went over the cliff, I couldn’t believe it. Not only did Eugene check everything at least twice before he made a move, but he also was a careful driver. He drove annoyingly slow. That rules out an accident in my books. And suicide? Not Eugene. He was too afraid his God would punish him and he would end up in eternal hell.

  On my way home from the cemetery, I ran into Jesse Milton and we had a long talk about the accident. He was the one who pulled Eugene’s car out of the water and thought something wasn’t right. He’d kept the brake hoses. They were cut. Well, that’s what he said. I understand nothing of these things. I told him the whole suicide or accident theory wouldn’t sit right with me as well. So, we decided to talk to the police again, although they didn’t believe him two years ago.

  I left his garage and went home. Since then, I can’t shake the suspicion someone is following me. I think there is something sinister going on.

  Wright’s Homestead, 25 February 1988

  I’m upset and don’t know what I’m supposed to think. In town today, at the grocery store, people were saying they found Jesse Milton dead in the lake. They say he must have been fishing, slipped on a stone, and fell. It sounds all so plausible, and yet, I can’t get rid of the feeling that there is more to the story. Yesterday he showed me the tampered brake hoses and we were going to the police about it.

  I’ve talked to an officer as well. He shoved my suspicions aside as old wive’s tales. Old wife? I’ll give him old wive’s tales. I don’t know who to talk to. Somehow the police in Port Somers aren’t interested. I saw my nephew August sitting in the waiting room of the police, smirking at me.

  He’d probably got into trouble again, irresponsible hothead that he is. At least poor Sarah is spared having to watch how her son is going off the rails.

  Who would have a reason to kill Sarah and Eugene? I mean we come from modest backgrounds. There are no riches to steal. Tomorrow I’m taking the bus to Greymouth to speak to the police there. Somebody must see how ludicrous the suicide idea is.

  I can bring at least twenty witnesses who are just as baffled as I am that they died the way they did. Eugene would never commit suicide. He would never go against God’s Commandment. Never. And going by the tampered break line, we can exclude accident as well.

  I wonder what August wants from me. When he said he’d come over today, I was surprised. I don’t believe we’ve exchanged more than a hundred words in the last ten years.

  Before he comes I have to clear my silly head.

  * * *

  My hands drop to the table, letting go of Auntie’s letter. I’m sure it was the last thing she wrote before someone killed her. I sit motionlessly and stare at the brittle paper yellowed by the passing of time. I swallow.

  The remains of my aunt are lying less than twenty yards away in a damp hole in the ground and have done so for almost thirty years. A wave of loss washes over me.

  Maddie.

  She shares with me Auntie’s warmth and the sense of security Maddie had in Auntie’s presence. I wipe a tear away that steals down my cheek as I imagine how she might have died. Scottie says the murderer smashed the back of her skull. That doesn’t make me feel at ease. Not in the slightest. I feel like shouting and smashing something myself.

  What about the mystery brother called August? It would have been nice to know one has a brother even if it’s just a half-brother. I imagine the door opens and a fifty-year-old geezer comes in. “Hello, I’m your brother. Long time no see.” Ha! I don’t need a brother now. It might have been useful back when the shit hit the fan. Someone to protect us. Or having a brother who could have given Horace a bloody nose. That would have been cool.

  He was the last person who saw her alive going by the letter. How come I’ve never heard of him? Is it possible that he killed her? Where is he now?

  Rage rises inside me. Rage against people who don’t even hesitate to snuff out another person’s life like blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. Rage against men like Eduard and Eugene, who treat women like disposable possessions they can kick to the gutter when they no longer have use for them.

  Rage against older men who lay their hands on young girls, destroying lives that have barely begun. Rage against the unbridled violence everywhere that runs rampant like cancer and doesn’t stop for anybody. Rage against the human mind that concocts daily new intricate ways of destruction.

  My hands are locked together in my lap out of fear I’ll smash something. I can’t allow that. It would make me like them, the shovel-wielding abusers and killers who don’t shy away from doing anything to reach their goal.

  Scottie drops next to me on the sofa and puts his hand on mine. I push him away with so much force, he topples off the sofa. I have to stop myself. He hasn’t done anything bad … But he’s a man and that makes him guilty by association.

 
; I run into the laundry and pour the water bucket over my head. I can’t go around accusing every male I meet. It’ll make me no different from the people I despise.

  Scott follows me, takes the empty bucket out of my hands, and puts it down.

  “What is the matter? Talk to me.”

  Finally, a dam breaks and tears gush out of me. My body is shaking as violently as my thoughts were. I can’t hold it in any longer and wail and sob for Auntie, for me, for all the children that are hurting from abuse and neglect. There is a pain inside me that pulls me apart on the inside, slashes through my soul, and leaves me raw and without any layer of protection.

  I sink to the ground. Soaked to the bone, I sit in the puddle of water I just poured over myself. Exhausted from the onslaught, I whisper, “I don’t want to hate you.”

  “I know you don’t hate me. Let me be at your side so you are no longer alone. Don’t forget, you have friends in the village too. Ordinary people who are shocked that these horrible crimes happened right under their noses.”

  I wish I could believe him. “All I can see at the moment is abuse and hurt. I’m so tired of it.”

  He reaches for my hand. “Come, stand up and get into some dry clothes. I don’t want you to catch something. Meanwhile, I’ll make a fresh cup of tea to warm you through.”

  I fly upstairs and after a good rub with my towel, I jump into my tracksuit and rush down again. I’m old school. In the olden days, a cup of tea was the remedy for everything, from cold feet to heartache and natural disasters. Let me get you a cup of tea was always the first thing offered. It never fails to work for me.

  As I cradle the hot mug in my hands, Prince jumps up and listens at the door. The next minute he’s barking and—as Scottie lets him out—races through the front garden.

  “A car arrived.”

  I hadn’t even heard a car arrive. My heart is pounding in my chest. I expect police officers, instead, two middle-aged men and a young woman in civilian clothes are standing in front of me.

  “Ms. Seagar?”

  “Yes?”

  My first thought is that the intruders from ten days ago have come back. Panic jumps quickly at me like a jack-in-the-box when I don’t see a police car but an ordinary Holden Commodore parked by the gate.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Grogan.” He points to the young woman. “My colleagues are Detective Smith and Constable Williams. You reported you found the remains of a person in your cellar?”

  To my relief Scottie steps in at this point. He must have noticed that I’m swamped with emotions, unable to string a sensible sentence together. He opens the door a bit wider and motions the officers inside.

  “I rang, actually. I’m Ms. Seagar’s partner Scott Thompson. Please come in.” He motions to the table. “Do you want to sit down or see the cellar first?”

  “If you can show us where you found the remains. We’ll take it from there.”

  I let Scott take the lead and together we watch the officers climb down into the cellar. Their flashlights bring much more light to the cellar than my oil lamps and Scottie’s lighter. My brain replays the image of a young woman kneeling in the damp cellar waiting for the deathblow.

  I choke.

  “I have to go back to the house.”

  “Shall I come with you?” He studies me, his brows knitted with concern.

  “I’ll be okay. I just can’t get the image of my aunt out of my mind. I should go inside.”

  I flee back into the living room with Prince by my side. He seems to know that I am out of sorts because he doesn’t stop licking my hand. It may sound strange, but it seems to help. My breathing comes back to regular. I put my arms around him and my head on his strong, furry neck.

  Not long after the female officer returns. She dusts off dirt and cobwebs from her suit and sits down at my humble dining table while Scott puts a mug with tea in front of her.

  She pulls a small notebook out of her pocket and nods to me.

  “This must have come as a shock to you. It doesn’t happen every day that one finds a skeleton in the basement. How about you tell me what you know?”

  I want to shout at her that there’s my aunt bashed to death in my cellar, what do you think? But I can’t. People often talk of brain freeze. I don’t know exactly what that means. For me it’s not like the brain freezes, it’s more like a large nothingness occupies the space where my brain is supposed to be. It’s like floating in outer space. In the distance—so far away you’ll never reach it—are thousands and thousands of shiny dots. Nothing is around you but darkness and silence. If you fall into it, you’ll disappear and nobody will be the wiser. That’s me. Floating away without a trace.

  I try to pull myself together and strain to come up with a thought or find the beginning of our story that would make sense to the Detective. But nothing. My heart is pounding loudly in my ears when I see Detective Smith studies me with a frown, while she makes short notes in her book. I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart.

  “I … I. Didn’t. Do. It.” The words don’t come to me easily. I fashion each one by forming them on my tongue and letting them out one by one like marbles on a marble run.

  At last, the Detective smiles. “Of course you didn’t. I know. You probably weren’t even alive when the murder happened.” She takes a sip of the coffee and nods a thank you to Scottie.

  Oh, what a relief. Everything inside my brain goes back to function normally again. The terror I felt a moment ago dissipates like morning mist in the sun. A reminder of one of the little ones, I’m sure.

  “Oh, yes, I was. I was ten when my parents died and I started living with my foster parents. My aunt must have been killed shortly after that.”

  “You think the remains we found are your aunt?”

  “Yes.” I pull out the old photo book from under the stack of books and papers on the table and open the page with Aunt Amanda’s photo.

  “See, that’s a photo of her. This was her house. See the dress, it’s the same as the material bits scattered around the skeleton.”

  “Hmm.” She takes the book and studies the picture. “You might be right. Did you touch anything or remove anything?”

  I shake my head. “No. I was too stunned.”

  Scottie shows her Auntie’s letter. “I found this next to the skeleton.”

  At that moment Detective Inspector Grogan comes in through the back door.

  “I think we’ve got everything for now. I secured the crime scene. You can’t go down the cellar until our forensic people have been here.”

  “Ms. Seagar thinks the remains are her aunt. And they found this letter next to the remains.” She shows DI Grogan the letter and the photo of Aunt Amanda.

  “The material of the dress seems to be the same. That solves one mystery.” He reads the letter and puts it aside. “This is intriguing. Do you know where August Wright lives now?”

  “I have no idea. It’s the first time I’ve even heard that I have a brother. My aunt went missing in 1988. They found her car in the riverbed further down Flatbush Creek Valley with bloodstains. Back then it was assumed she had an accident, went into the bush, disoriented, and was never seen again. Years later she was declared dead but her body was never found.”

  “Well, if the remains belong to your aunt, that theory no longer holds. We will look into the letter and your brother’s whereabouts. The person found in the cellar was killed with a blow to the back of the head with a sharp instrument. It would help if you could give the ESR team a sample of your DNA for testing. Just to be one-hundred percent sure.”

  “ESR?”

  “Environmental Science and Research team. They deal with all the evidence we find.”

  “Anything I can help to clear up this murder.” It was strange to use the word murder, but that is what it was. Someone murdered my aunt.

  “Thank you. We are done here for tonight. It’s late. I’ll be back tomorrow with the forensic team.” The officers stand up and are about to leave w
hen Scott puts the empty mugs into the sink and turns around.

  “It might be important to tell the police about the intruders.”

  “What intruders? When?” DI Grogan stops.

  “That’s how we found the cellar. We had no idea of its existence. Someone broke in four days ago. They were gone by the time we arrived from the hospital. Ten days ago Elise caught two men who broke in.” He shows them how they broke the lock of the backdoor.

  “I overheard them talking about looking for something. They said… Whatever Arty remembered, it couldn’t have been this house. They moved every single thing in the laundry and the pantry and searched every inch of the floor. ”

  “Do you have any idea what they were referring to?”

  “Since we’ve found the cellar outside, I think that’s what they were looking for. Why? I don’t know. The only thing odd is that a day after that burglary Simon Barker, the real estate agent, came to the door and asked if I would sell the house. He said he had a buyer who had shown interest.”

  “I’ll make sure we talk to him.” DI Grogan makes a note in his book.

  “Is there anything else you need to know?”

  “That’s all for now. Are you around tomorrow when we come back?”

  “I have no plans to go away anytime.”

  “If you remember anything else, please make a note. It could be important.”

  I’m glad when they leave.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Elise: 20 March 2017, late morning, Port Somers

  I want answers.

  If nobody volunteers to give them to me, I just have to get them. As I leave home it starts to drizzle. Low hanging rain clouds cover everything and strip the coast of all colors. Even the exhaust fumes of the odd passing car crawling along State Highway six have nowhere to go but to hang around. I shiver and roll up my window.

  By the time I reach the police station the slow, steady drizzle is showing no aspiration of becoming heavier. It’s too little to drive you back into the house, but too much to go without an umbrella. I left the umbrella at home, so I’m wet. It fits my current mood.