by A W Hartoin
Amy sighed and poured us some coffee. “Well, he was a little off at the end.”
“Dad was sharp right up until the day he died.”
Amy gave me the look that all wives give when they think their husbands are off their rockers and I decided it was time to get away from weird war trophies.
“When did your father pass away?” I asked.
“Three years ago. He was ninety-two.” Dwayne picked up a photo album and showed me his father, a tall, thin man with a gentle smile. He didn’t look like he’d be a combat anything the way Stella didn’t look like she could possibly be a spy. Looks aren’t everything.
“Where did he serve? The Pacific?” I asked.
“No. The European theatre. He dropped in behind the lines on D-Day and won the Bronze Star with two oak leaf clusters.” Dwayne’s voice broke and I thought of Chief Gates. Loyalty to the WWII generation ran strong.
“Did your father know Chief Woody Lucas?”
Dwayne opened his mouth but had a hard time speaking so Amy took over. “Des did not like that man. Oil and water.”
“Dad would never say anything like that,” Dwayne protested.
“Mary, Dwayne’s mother, told me. We were always close. She died ten years ago.” Amy took the album and pointed out a pretty woman, who looked like she’d rather not be having her photo taken.
“Did Mary say why Des didn’t like the chief?” I asked.
“I heard he was a drunk,” offered Lefty as he added a copious amount of sugar to his coffee.
“He was,” said Amy. “Des didn’t approve.”
“Dad respected Woody’s service,” said Dwayne.
“He didn’t respect that drinking afterward.”
“Woody really went through something over there. Dad wouldn’t tell me what, but I know it was bad. They were good friends in high school. They almost joined up together when Pearl Harbor happened, but Dad wanted to be a medic and the Army offered it to him.”
Amy threw up her hands. “We’re not talking about Woody’s service. Miss Watts is here about the nun and you know Woody botched that big time.”
Dwayne shook his head. “We don’t know that. Dad never said it was Woody’s fault.”
Amy rolled her eyes and sat back, eyeing her husband over her mug.
“By the way, please call me Mercy,” I said. “I’m curious about what your parents told you about the murder.”
“That’s easy. Nothing,” said Dwayne.
Crap on a cracker.
“It sounded like you had some details.”
“Not details, details.”
“Please tell me what you know,” I said. “I’ve got some good leads, but there’s conflicting information.”
“I’ll tell you everything I know,” said Dwayne, “but I don’t think it will help you.”
Dwayne Shipley was thirteen years old in 1965, a seventh grader. He confirmed that his parents were avid mushroom hunters and, since his father was a mailman, he worked early and had his afternoons free. He and Mary would go out hiking and hunting for mushrooms on a weekly basis. The Snider land was a favorite spot since the woods were dense and had lots of fallen trees where the fungus liked to grow.
Dwayne remembered coming home to hear his mother sobbing in the bedroom and his father loading a revolver on the kitchen table. Des said that they had found a body in the woods and his mother was very upset. He wouldn’t give any details, except that it was a woman and that they didn’t know her. Mary wouldn’t say anything about it, but she sent Dwayne’s sister over to live with their grandparents for six months and starting locking the doors. Both parents told the two kids not to go with anyone they weren’t very good friends with and never to go into the woods at all. Desmond Shipley was a mild-mannered man and not a fan of guns, despite his service, but he bought two more handguns and taught the whole family how to shoot over Christmas break. Although he never said it, Dwayne understood that it was because of the murder.
“Your parents were scared,” I said.
“You should know that Des didn’t scare easy,” said Amy. “He was sweet, but tough. We got carjacked down in St. Louis right after Dwayne and I got married. Des didn’t bat an eye. He took care of us all, got us out of the car, and handled that maniac like he was returning a library book or something. Cool as a cucumber.”
Dwayne flipped through the album and showed me an old black and white photo of Des and Mary. The couple was middle-aged and dressed like they were going into the Outback with floppy hats and vests covered in pockets. They both carried baskets filled with mushrooms and Des had a large camera on a strap around his neck. Grandad had that same model that he inherited from his own father.
“There they are. Out mushroom hunting.” Dwayne smiled sadly. “When I think of them together I always picture them like that.” He took the photo out and looked at the back. “1964.”
“You have no idea why they were scared?” I asked. “Chief Lucas said it was an outsider and I saw in the paper that it was reported that the priest in St. Louis did it.”
Amy shook her head. “Mary didn’t believe that.”
“What did Mom say?” Dwayne asked.
“Not a lot. Just that it had to be some insane person because it wasn’t a lover’s quarrel like Woody said.”
“Why insane?” I asked.
“She wouldn’t say, but I can tell you this. Mary was still scared and, keep in mind, this was thirty years later when she told me that. She said it was horrible and she still had nightmares about it.”
“Poor Mom,” said Dwayne. “I didn’t know that.”
“She didn’t want to upset you. I don’t think she even told Des.”
“Dad knew she was upset.”
I leaned forward. “How do you know that?”
“My sister told me some stuff after Mom died. I don’t know how true it is.”
“Carrie’s no more a liar than Des was,” said Amy.
Dwayne poured himself a cup of coffee and rolled it between his hands. “Well, she was really upset about Mom dying. Dad was trying to give away her clothes and Carrie was mad at him. I thought she was sort of embellishing. She does do that.”
Amy nodded. “I suppose she does. She’s an artist, after all. So what did she say?”
“That Mom was mad at Dad and wanted to move away after the murder. Dad wouldn’t do it and he didn’t care if Mom was miserable. She heard them fighting,” said Dwayne. “But my parents never fought. Never. I don’t think I ever heard my dad raise his voice. So I don’t think a real fight could’ve happened.”
“Did your sister remember what they were saying exactly?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to hear it. We’d just buried Mom. It was a miserable time and Carrie was making it worse.”
“Oh, Carrie,” said Lefty.
We all looked at him and he reddened with embarrassment.
“Sorry. I just figured it out. Carrie Norton’s your sister?” Lefty sounded astonished and was trying to hide it.
Dwayne laughed. “People are always surprised. There’s Carrie and then there’s me.”
I looked back and forth between them as they laughed together. Carrie must be something. Not normal, I had to assume.
“Sorry, sorry.” Amy pick up a different album and showed me a picture of the family together. I almost laughed. It was like Sesame Street and that song One of these things is not like the others. Carrie Shipley Norton was not like the others and I liked her on instinct. In the first picture, Carrie was a hippy, like an all-in hippy. Flowers in her hair. Bellbottoms and barefoot when the rest of the family was wearing suits and Mom had on a nice print dress with a bow at the neck.
Amy took me through the decades. Carrie in the seventies. Farrah Fawcett hair and Daisy Dukes. In the eighties she went punk rock, then came grunge and oddly a mohawk. Dwayne the buttoned-up teacher’s sister currently had blue dreads and seemed to like overalls a whole lot.
“She’s fun,” said Dwayne. “Just about k
illed my mother until she got married. Mom thought she’d die alone.”
“That’s just silly,” said Amy. “She always had boyfriends.”
“And they were all crazy. Until Yuki showed up. He calmed her down.”
“If you can call that calm.”
“Mom did,” said Dwayne. “Yuki is very focused and he got Carrie together. They own the restaurant, Crabapple’s. It’s vegan, but surprisingly good. Carrie gives art classes and they’re really popular.”
“She’s a lot younger than you then?” Lefty asked.
Dwayne laughed again. “Wrong. Everyone thinks that, too. Carrie’s older, but she’s got a young spirit as Dad used to say.”
“How old was she back then when it happened? I asked.
“She was sixteen.”
Please. Please. Please.
“Did you know your sister’s friends at the time?”
“Sure.” He showed me a picture of Carrie with a group of girls dressed up and showing lots of leg. His sister was the wildest of the bunch by far.
“What about boys?” I asked.
Lefty smiled and helped himself to more coffee. “I bet Carrie will know that guy Irene mentioned. She knows everyone in town. First name basis.”
“That’s our Carrie,” said Amy. “Social butterfly. Who are you asking about?”
“Bertram Stott,” I said.
Dwayne and Amy exchanged a look and shrugged.
“Still doesn’t sound familiar to me,” said Dwayne. “But I was her little brother. She barely acknowledged my existence.”
“Me, either,” said Amy. “What kind of name is Bertram? Is he British?”
“He’s a murderer living at Shady Glen,” said Lefty with relish.
“That’s him?”
Dwayne and Amy had heard the rumors, but they hadn’t paid them any attention. It was a small town. People talked and truth was subjective.
“So you’re saying he really is a murderer?” Amy asked.
“Definitely.”
“Do you think he killed the nun?” Dwayne asked.
“I think it’s a possibility.”
Lefty held his cup aloft. “It’s a sure thing. That dirtbag showed up right before the fires started up again at the paper and Tank Tancredi’s house.”
Dwayne and Amy fiddled with their cups and shifted in their seats. We’d gone from fifty years ago to right now and the thought wasn’t close to comfortable until Amy had a thought. “What fires? Were there other fires?”
I told them about the series of fires in 1965, but neither of them remembered anything about it. They did remember the pets going missing and the remains being found. That particular story got more traction than Sister Maggie and people were still careful about their pets years later.
“How many fires were there?” Dwayne asked. “Seems like I’d remember that.”
“Eight,” I said.
“Nobody got hurt though, right?” Amy asked.
“No. They seemed to be designed to avoid that. There was a lot of damage though. One family’s house would’ve burned to the ground if they hadn’t been home at the time.”
“Who was that?”
It took me a second to remember. There’d been so many names in such a short time. “The Coulters’ house. They thought it had something to do with their daughter.”
“Kathleen,” Dwayne said. “I remember now. Somebody set their garbage on fire.”
“Actually, they threw a Molotov cocktail in their garage,” I said.
“Jesus. They could’ve killed someone.” Dwayne took the photo album and flipped it back to the page with his sister and her friends. “That’s Kathleen there in the boots. Isn’t she pretty?”
Kathleen was pretty, amazingly pretty, with waist length hair, big eyes, and an open, happy expression that drew the eye to her. I could believe that boys would like her in a huge way and that might turn dark as it seemed to have done.
“Is Kathleen still in town?”
“Oh, no. I think she moved a long time ago. I don’t know if she even graduated from high school here,” said Dwayne. “You can ask Carrie.”
“Would she mind being interviewed?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? It’ll be the highlight of her week,” said Amy. “Should I call her?”
“Please do.” I turned to Lefty. “Do you have to get back to plowing?”
“I know you’re joking,” he said. “I’m not missing this.”
Amy went to get her phone and someone knocked on the front door.
“It’s probably my…” I never knew what to call Fats. Friend? Bodyguard? Genetic freak of nature? I settled on friend because she’d decided we were friends and that’s not something I was going to shake off.
“What friend?” Dwayne asked.
“Pink the Impaler,” said Lefty.
“Who?”
“Pro wrestler.” He leaned over to Dwayne and said, “Mercy says they’re friends, but I think there’s more to it.”
“Oh,” said Dwayne wisely. “That kind of friend. I see.”
“No,” I said. “Not that kind of friend.”
“You’re a lesbian?” Amy asked. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“I’m not a lesbian.”
“It would be okay if you were,” said Dwayne.
“Good to know, but I’m not.”
“It takes all kinds,” said Amy. “We don’t judge. You can be yourself with us.”
God help me.
“I appreciate that. Still not gay. I have a boyfriend.”
“Of course you do,” said Dwayne with a calm, understanding voice.
“You do you,” said Amy.
Lefty nodded. “We embrace the rainbow around here. Our mayor is gay.”
What is happening?
“Can you hear me?” I asked. “Not gay.”
They all nodded and there was more knocking.
“I’ll just get that,” I said.
Amy propped the phone up on her shoulder and gave me a double thumbs-up, for crying out loud. I threw up my hands and jogged down the stairs to the front door. Fats was standing outside with Moe tucked under her arm, looking like she was considering punching her way in.
“What took so long?”
“They think we’re gay,” I said.
“What?”
“Lefty thinks we’re not really friends, which apparently makes us gay.”
Fats stopped midway to setting Moe on the floor. “What do you mean we’re not really friends?”
“We’re friends. We’re friends,” I said quickly.
“Really good friends,” said Amy as she came to the staircase. “Oh, my.”
Fats whipped off her sunglasses, ate the toothpick that had been dangling on her lower lip, and said, “I can’t speak for Mercy, but I’m not gay. I’m going to marry her cousin, Tiny. Let me assure you that he is all man.”
“What do you mean you can’t speak for me?” I asked.
“I can’t. What you do on your own time is no concern of mine,” said Fats.
“That’s not close to helpful.”
“I absolutely believe you, Miss…” Amy was rigid like she was in front of a firing squad.
“Licata, Fats Licata. Do you mind my dog coming in?” She said it like there was the remotest chance they would say so if they did, which they wouldn’t.
“Of course, not. We love dogs,” said Amy, still rigid.
“I thought as much.” Fats kicked off her boots and hung up her coat.
“I hope we didn’t offend you, Miss Licata,” said Dwayne, leaning over the bannister.
How come nobody ever worries about offending me?
“Hello,” I said. “I’m still here.”
They glanced at me blankly and Amy invited Fats to come upstairs.
Fats leaned over to me. “Sometimes it pays to be scary.”
“Try all the time. You get believed and I’m gay.”
Dwayne called out, “I knew it!”
; Dammit!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BLACKBERRY WINE IS a thing in St. Sebastian and I got to hear all about it while we waited for Dwayne’s sister, Carrie, to snowshoe over. That’s right. Instead of letting Lefty pick her up, she was walking in a negative ten wind chill. Carrie had gotten snowshoes and was thrilled to try them out on the half mile trek to Dwayne’s house, giving me ample time to learn the intricacies of berry maceration.
Fats and Amy were no better. They were discussing the advantages of Lycra versus Spandex. Fats was an expert on stretchy fabric. No surprise there. And Amy had a six foot niece with, from what I gathered, an unfortunately large rear, who was having trouble finding pants that fit. They were pretty excited about stretchy pants. I was not.
Since neither topic was scintillating, I took Dwayne’s vast collection of photo albums and started looking through them. At first, I was looking for more pictures of Kathleen Coulter. I found a few, but none had boys in the pictures and were mainly girls doing girl stuff. Not helpful. But then I started going through the other albums, acquainting myself with Dwayne and Carrie’s parents. I found a very old album from Desmond’s high school days with a lot of pictures of him with a beefy kid that looked suspiciously like Chief Will Gates. Someone had written dates and names on the back of the pictures and the boy was Woody Lucas. They were best friends, Woody and Des. The album was littered with pictures of Woody and, surprisingly, he was still there after the war. Picnics, camping, and the town fair. Woody and Des were in the Jaycees and the volunteer fire department. This didn’t jive with what Mary had told her daughter-in-law about Des and Woody. Their falling-out wasn’t the war and the drinking. Or, at least, if it was, it didn’t happen for some time.
“Amy?” I asked.
She jumped, startled to find me still there. “Oh, I’m sorry, what is it?”
“Do you have some paper I could use?”
“Is there something in the albums that suspicious?” Amy asked.
“Not suspicious, but there’s something…I just need to work it out.”
She got me a legal pad and went back to discussing jeans with the most give. I went through the albums searching for a change between Des and Woody. The last picture I found of Woody was in 1972 at a D-Day event, celebrating the thirtieth anniversary. Woody was in a wheelchair and looked like he was on death’s door, which he was. The most interesting thing about the picture was that the two veterans weren’t together. It was a picture of Des and Mary. He was wearing his uniform and she had a forties dress on. They were straight up adorable and Woody was in the background. The camera caught him glancing at his old friend with a combination of resentment and sadness. Maybe Des had everything and Woody envied him. I looked again. No. That wasn’t quite right. In all those pictures through the years, Des had Mary. He was always happy and Woody didn’t seem to mind, even though the woman I took to be his wife vanished from the album sometime in the fifties. His kids went, too, but Woody was still in the thick of it with Des, clearly sick but welcome. What happened?
