Beyond the Tree House

by Gudrun Frerichs

  All-day yesterday police crawled all over our backyard and the cellar. The area is now cordoned off with yellow tape. It took Scott a diplomatic masterstroke to get us permission to access our water pump. Did the police tell me anything about what they did or didn’t find? Of course not. That would be too easy.

  ‘Sharing is caring’ doesn’t seem to apply to them. The culprit could get away if the police showed their cards and revealed their hand. Oops. What am I saying? He or she already did thirty years ago, I guess because back then the police were corrupt or stupid.

  So, off to the police station I traipse, hoping to get answers. No luck there. Detective Smith stares at me as if I grew horns when I asked for an update on their progress.

  “The team is not finished yet. They’re combing through every square inch of the property and the cellar. It’ll take at least another day—perhaps even two.”

  I can tell she tries to be friendly and accommodating.

  “Have they found anything yet?”

  “We need to wait for the report from the ESR team. We don’t want to spread an unconfirmed rumor.”

  What she says makes sense. I suspect that ‘waiting for the report’ is code for they didn’t find anything that points to my aunt’s killer. I’m not a police person, but I used to watch Midsomer Murders. The clues are often there from the beginning.

  “What about my aunt’s letter? Doesn’t it show a convincing link from my parent’s so-called accident to Jesse’s accident to Thomas’ impending visit and my aunt’s murder?”

  She looked at me as if I’m a half-baked fruit-cake.

  “So far it’s only hearsay and there’s no hard evidence that connects those incidences. I understand you want to help and the team appreciates everything you can provide. It would be a great help if you could find your brother’s whereabouts. He could hold vital information given that he was the last one who saw your aunt alive. Other than that, I suggest you leave the detective work to the professionals.”

  Ha! We know how that’s worked out in the past. I admit, she said that in the nicest and friendliest way, though not without tagging on a veiled warning not to interfere with the current police investigation.

  No way we’ll become best buddies anytime soon, so much is clear.

  “I wonder how my conclusion drawn from my aunt’s letter is inferior to you people digging in my garden after thirty years looking for clues.”

  She looked at me tiredly, like a mother who has to answer the endless questions of her five-year-old who turned into one of these annoying Chihuahua dogs with their high-pitch bark. It’s safe to say that a career in the police force is not in my foreseeable future.

  “Please, be patient. We still don’t know enough to connect the investigation to your case from last year and the burglaries.”

  I gave them the notes and papers from last year’s court case but they weren’t impressed. They didn’t want to make the connection with auntie and our case, but there are still the burglaries. In my mind, it makes sense that they are related, but I have not the foggiest clue how. If someone wanted to kill me, they could do so with one of those sniper guns from among the trees. Bang, bang, and I would be history.

  It’s all so confusing. In the Midsomer Murder stories, the criminals leave behind DNA or empty gun shells. Real-life scum, I guess, is not as accommodating as that. I leave the police station frustrated and with a headache from all the unanswered questions and the lack of solutions. By now the drizzle is soaking through my jacket. Could the day get any worse? Yes, it could.

  I slip into the cozy Vanilla Bean. Not that I hope the rain will stop by the time I go home, but coffee might clear my head. A girl can hope, can’t she? I order a steaming cup of cappuccino and one of those sinful, delicious cinnamon buns with scrumptious icing. The waitress brings both to my table and for a wee while I’m in cinnamon bun heaven. It’s not fancy when it comes to cakes, but we all love, love, love them.

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  Surprised, I startle. Simon Baker stands in front of me, rain dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. Didn’t my face announce that I want people to leave me alone? His voice sends a chill down my spine, even though he acts the perfect gentleman. Something is off but I can’t put my finger on it. Am I picking up something fishy or am I still smarting from my visit to the police?

  Since we’ve achieved the current level of integration, I’ve lost my ability to see into people’s hearts when I touch them. Not that I’m unhappy about it. Not at all. It was always more of a nuisance than a blessing. Although, this would be the perfect situation to check whether he’s trustworthy. I point to the empty chair.

  “You’re welcome. It’s wet outside, isn’t it?”

  “Typical West Coast. I’m used to it. I heard they found a skeleton in your garden?”

  I’m not surprised he knows about it. The news must have spread like wildfire in the community.

  “Not in the garden, but yes, we did find a skeleton. Good to know the bush-telegraph is working alright.”

  “Creepy, was it?”

  “At least it’s clear now someone murdered my aunt.”

  “Does the police have any clues yet?”

  What is it with people’s fascination with bad stories? What happened to how are you doing or I haven’t seen you for a while?

  “If they do they are not telling me. I guess we’ll be told soon enough.”

  “Maybe now is a good time to think about selling?”

  “I congratulate you on your timing. It took you all of four sentences to feed in your sales pitch. Have you anything other on your mind than getting me to sell?”

  I’m annoyed. With him for having such a one-track mind and with myself for hoping people could be interested in me instead the dramas connected to our person. It’s silly to be annoyed. After all, I’m not looking for friends.

  “Not, it’s my job. Otherwise, I won’t survive. When we talked a while ago your objection was you thought Gateway was not a reputable group and you don’t want to do business with them.”

  At least he’s not pretending all is well. That’s a plus on his score-sheet. I’m happy to be similarly candid.

  “That’s right and I haven’t changed my mind.”

  A smug smirk spreads over his face. “I understand. I talked to the leadership of Gateway yesterday and they’ve invited you to visit anytime. They are proud of what they’ve achieved in the last twelve months and are convinced you would be impressed too. Don’t forget, it’s all to improve the well-being of disadvantaged children.”

  That particular argument isn’t new. Gateway used it for years to camouflage the operations in their community. I will not fall into that trap. How does the saying go? Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me.

  “I’m not interested at the moment.”

  “I heard you can’t go ahead with your building plans because of the investigation.”

  He looks at me like a sly fox that has his next chicken backed into the corner. I’ll show him I’m not a chicken.

  “You know quite a bit for someone who ‘accidentally’ ran into me. Are you stalking me?”

  He laughs out loud. “No, not really. I do have other things to do than watch you come and go. I thought because the police and the shitty weather are delaying your building progress, using the opportunity to check out the new Gateway is a good use of your time. No?”

  His point is sensible. I like sensible. It’s much easier to understand than emotions. If we are selling Wright’s, it’ll make sense to know more about the buyer. Simon Barker, the sly fox, notices that I hesitate. His eyes light up. He’s keen to get a slice of this business.

  “Today would be good. They give a community concert after lunch. You’ll get to meet a lot of people and can form your own opinion, independently of me gushing about the place.”

  “Okay, I give in. For once you make sense. You can give Gateway a call and ask if it’s convenient if we come for a view
ing.”

  “Raymond Feldman is the manager now. He’s very keen on creating a good image to counteract the bad news that came through the court case.”

  While he waits for the phone connection, he gives me another lecture.

  “Eugene Seagar, your father, always talked about Wright’s Homestead going to Gateway. The outdoor program is Gateway’s signature project. It’s a rite of passage that makes men out of boys, and strong women out of girls. It would be so great for young people to heal and begin a new phase of their life. They also get government funding and you can imagine that’s not an easy thing to achieve without thorough scrutiny.”

  I sit with a queasy feeling in my stomach while Simon is waiting for his call to connect.

  Gateway.

  Many of my younger parts have bad memories of that place. They might have left for the sanctuary, but their experiences are not lost. Lilly and I have absorbed them. We carry their legacy and we must defend their interests. Should I risk being triggered again?

  However, if it’s like Simon describes, a sale could benefit young people and Scott and I get to have a fresh start in a new place. A thought crosses my mind not to go alone and take Scott with me. That’s a sensible idea. It must have come from Sky. As always, she’s looking out for us. I wish I could hear Sky like I used to.

  “I want my partner Scott to come with us. He will have to agree to any sale.”

  I’m assessing Simon’s reaction. He doesn’t show any ill feelings about my suggestion. “That’s a perfect idea. Ring him and tell him they invited you both to join the lunch-concert with a guided tour afterward. We’ll pick him up on our way.”

  Scott is not at all against a visit and when we pick him up, he whispers, “I’m only coming along so you are not alone. It doesn’t interest me how good or bad they are. I’m not keen on selling. But you are right; we should be prepared for all possibilities. The offer is on the table. That means we should have a look at the place to make an informed decision.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Elise: 20 March 2017, Midday, Gateway

  The drive to the Gateway community is sheer torture. Simon turns out to be one of those people who talk incessantly. He only listens so he can catch the moment you draw a breath to jump in and talk at you some more.

  I wish I could find the off-switch, but this model of a salesman doesn’t seem to come with one. It is perhaps a sales-technique where you talk and talk so the client can’t form a coherent thought and ends up signing on the dotted line out of the sheer need for self-preservation and will to survive.

  By the time we arrive at the Gateway compound, Scott and I know everything about him, from the time he had detentions because he squirted liquid nails on his 3rd form history teacher’s chair to when he became captain of the local senior rugby team last year.

  Embedded deeply in Port Somers’ history, his only mishap was to lose his wife after one year of marriage. She ran away with a fisherman from Greymouth. I don’t say anything but quietly cheer for the woman. An hour with him in the car was all I needed to understand the poor thing.

  “This is Gateway?”

  Scott leans out of the window to get a good look. We stand in front of a breathtaking structure. To the right and the left stretches—as far as I can see—a high brick wall with what looks like a row of ten-inch long gold spears on top. The two wings of the heavy gate itself are made of thick metal bars each with the bottom half filled-in with a thick ornamental plate studded with a Knight’s armor surrounded by stars, planets, and weapons.

  “Yes.”

  Simon speaks with such deep satisfaction it’s as if he forged the gate himself. I can’t decide whether it reminds me of Buckingham Palace or Alcatraz without the water. One thing is clear, though, both getting in and getting out is not a walk in the park.

  I have a thing with fortified properties. I base them on fear and control, whichever way you look at it. Through the bars, about ten yards opposite the gate is a row of bushy trees like the ones farmers use as windbreakers between their paddocks. If the plan is to stop people from gawking deeper into the compound, I’d say mission accomplished.

  Simon pushes a button on the plate in the wall and waves at the security camera on top of it. Seconds later the gates open effortlessly and without a sound. He drives through, turns immediately left, and stops in a parking bay. The gates close behind us with a satisfying plop as they lock again.

  Caught unawares, I feel trapped and fear washes through me. Why did I decide to visit Gateway? No concert can make up for the terror I feel, a terror made worse by not understanding what terrifies me. It must come from our history with this place. I should not have come. No deal is worth feeling this bad.

  Scott seems to notice my tension and slips his hand into mine. It helps. At least I’m not alone.

  “We have to wait here. Ray is sending a car for you.” Simon rolls down the window to let fresh air in.

  “You are not staying with us?” This is the first time I’ve heard about this.

  “No, did you expect me to? I have lots of work waiting. Lunch, concert and the tour will take up all afternoon. I’m sorry if I haven’t been clear.”

  “Shall we stay or leave?” I look at Scott and he weighs up my question.

  “We are here now, we might as well stay. Let’s see what Gateway is all about.”

  It’s an effort to put a smile on my face, but I refuse to show Simon Barker that I’m afraid. The fact that Scott doesn’t seem to worry helps me to stop catastrophizing.

  We don’t have to wait long before a silver Audi convertible stops next to us. A tall man with steel-blue eyes and black hair brushed out of his face leaves the Audi and comes over to greet us. We leave Simon’s car and meet him.

  “Hi Simon, thanks for bringing Ms. Seagar and Mr…”

  “Thompson. Scott Thompson.”

  “And Mr. Thompson. Welcome to Gateway. I’m Raymond Feldman; glad you decided to join our lunch-concert and hope the tour afterward will convince you to consider our offer for your homestead.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Feldman, I hope we don’t inconvenience you by joining you on such short notice.” Scott is all courteous and refined. I stare at him. How can he do that, when all I want is to go home and play fetch with Prince in my backyard.

  “Please call me Ray. When you say Feldman, I always expect Sebastian to sneak around the corner.”

  This is my cue to bring up Feldman. I have no intention to spend today maneuvering around the elephant in the middle of the room.

  “I assume you don’t mind that it was my doing that your father ended up in prison?”

  “There is no need to worry about that. Sebastian is not my real father. I can’t say he ever showed paternal caring or tender father-son feelings. He and his wife adopted me when I was very young.”

  Somewhat relieved we get into the Audi and I follow Scott’s example and offer him to call me Elizabeth. On our way to Gateway village, Ray is charming and full of anecdotes of everyday life at Gateways. He points out the different fields, crops, and forests to the sides of the road and explains how they contribute to the self-sufficient formula Gateway adopted from the very beginning.

  It’s obvious Scott wants to gather as much information as he can get.

  “You sound very proud. Establishing the community can’t have been easy in the early days.”

  “It wasn’t. I wasn’t born then, but the older people still tell stories at our gatherings. We are proud of our early history, from the early twenties when there were no houses, to the early thirties when we had no money, to the forties when they had no food. The wartime was the hardest.”

  “We celebrate our one-hundred-year anniversary in two years. Our community produces everything we need, including electricity. We are completely independent of the outside world.”

  Am I the only one who feels claustrophobic? Isn’t what Ray describes the blueprint of a cult-like religious group? My stomach roils and it’s not from the sin
ful cinnamon bun I had this morning. I glance over at Scott but he is excited and asks Ray question after question about forestry and game management. Hunting game will always be his thing and I’ve given up trying to turn him into a vegetarian. He’ll always be a hunter.

  I give myself a quick scolding. When did I stop keeping an open mind and giving people the benefit of the doubt? My prejudices are running away with me. So far I’ve no reason to think Gateway isn’t kosher. On the contrary, it appears to be a well-functioning, well-organized commune of like-minded people … even if my stomach tells me otherwise.

  “We put lots of effort into being self-sufficient, aim for zero-waste, and recycle everything. We generate power through solar panels and water comes from the mountain and goes through a purifying process at our utility plant. I’ll show you later.”

  “That’s very impressive.”

  I get it. This tour through the compound to Gateway village is to make Scott and me lean toward selling our homestead to them. But it’s turning into a bragging party and I’ve just about heard enough of how wonderful everything is. It certainly wasn’t that wonderful until a year ago. A bit more humility would go a long way.

  Ray disrupts my thoughts. Has he read my mind?

  “Your parents were interested in that too. They were forerunners of modern environmentalists. It was the premise on which Gateway was conceived. It’s very unfortunate that some devious people used us as a cover for their disgusting practices. It’ll haunt us for some time to come.”

  I glance over at Scott. Raymond managed to impress him with Gateway’s set-up. And rightfully so. The estate or compound—I don’t know what to call it—looks like a peaceful paradise. It’s so different from what Maddie remembered. Everything is light and inviting. The buildings, small one-story houses with plenty of flowers in the front gardens, look like someone transported them straight from a Swiss Alpine village.

  Scott nudges me and points to the group of houses at the edge of the park.