by Gregg Olsen
Dr. A: It’s good to be grateful for what you have.
Me: I am alive. And I’m grateful for that. (pause) I remember when she opened the door, how much she looked like me and my mom. She was about my height. Her hair was long, not Mormon-sister-wife long, but close. I remember how she reacted when I told her who we were.
Dr. A: Go on, Rylee. What did she do?
Me: She looked nervous. Scared. Anxious. Her light blue eyes narrowed, and I watched her eyelids flutter. She looked around the street, her yard, the driveway, and told us to hurry inside. The first thing she asked was where her sister was. I told her, “He’s got her.” And then she did something weird.
Dr. A: Weird? How so?
Me: It was something no one other than my parents had ever done. She hugged me. I didn’t know her. But I just started crying. I mean, tears just streaming down my face. Hayden too. In fact, all three of us just sobbed. I melt into her arms and I cry harder than I ever have since the ordeal began. I can cry loudly because I feel that someone cares and that even though I’m in a stranger’s place, I’m with family. It wasn’t a reunion of joy, but something completely different. We are a sobbing mass of pain, loss and fear.
I tell Dr. Albright how strange it was to hear this newfound aunt call our mother Courtney. Her real name. Not the one engraved on the dog tags that I wore around my neck. My mother’s name wasn’t Ginger. Ginger was my aunt. What’s more, I was stunned by her reaction to us appearing on her doorstep. She wasn’t shocked.
Me: But I was. Hayden and I had been kept away from her for our entire lives and she went along with it. I wanted to be kind. I wanted to think that all of that had been for our own good, but I wasn’t sure. The betrayal was so deep, and apparently, shared. And then she dropped the bomb. She said, “The last time I saw your mother—last Labor Day—she told me that she thought you’d have to move again soon. She thought he was closing in on her. I told her that she was paranoid, you know, more paranoid than cautious. I told her to stay put. I told her that his threats would never evolve into reality. I…” Aunt Ginger was shaking as she spoke. I didn’t want to confront her right then, but I thought, really? Really? Did she see our mother last Labor Day? Did this aunt who we never knew existed up until twenty-four hours ago stay in touch with our mother, and she never bothered to tell us?
I asked her if she knew where my mom was, where he could have taken her. But she shook her head. Didn’t know where he lived. And when I asked if she’d help us to find her, she said, “Let’s figure it out later.”
“There is no later,” I say in the most direct way that I can.
She bites down on her lower lip before speaking. “I mean, after you eat and rest.”
I don’t understand her peculiar reluctance. Her sister has been abducted by a serial killer. Why is she being so weird?
Hayden’s eyes landed on a cheese sandwich and a stack of Pringles potato chips that our aunt has set on two cornflower-blue plates that she’s placed on an enormous table in the kitchen. On the wall adjacent to the table are some photographs. Lots of them. My heart skips a beat and I feel a surge of bewilderment. My school photo is among a bunch of images of complete strangers. There’s an old picture of Hayden, too. We were part of a family. We just didn’t know it.
Aunt Ginger turns to me and mouths some words. She says, “After he’s in bed, we’ll talk then.”
I sit down across from my brother while our aunt pours milk from a glass bottle. I don’t even like milk, but I say nothing. I sit there thinking of how the forces have collided to make my life worse than it has ever been.
And how my mother has less than six days to stay alive if I don’t do something about it.
The air from the open window passes over me. I check my phone before I turn out the light.
Again, nothing.
Is that all I am to him?
I go to Hayden’s Instagram feed. He doesn’t know I’m a follower. My handle was meant to be an inside joke.
Twisted Sister.
Twenty-Six
Just when you need it, the marine layer from the straits sends a blanket of air that drops temperatures by at least ten degrees. Sometimes twenty. I dress in a blue suit. Sheriff Gray and I are attending the memorial. I expect Bernadine to be there too. I’ll be sure to thank her for being such a great advocate—and news source for the Leader.
And though it is a longshot, I wonder if the killer will come. Maybe watching from afar? Enjoying the results of his handiwork. It has happened, many times, though mostly in cases with a larger pool of possible suspects.
Merritt stands alone.
I go over the case in my mind as I drink a cup of coffee, spread blackberry jam on toast.
Evidence from the Wheaton farm is being processed and I expect some preliminary results some time this afternoon. Too bad I won’t be able to get an update in the cell phone iron curtain of Snow Creek. I have time to make a run at the Torrance place before the memorial.
I open my email. Again, nothing other than a bunch of offers for discontinued furniture from Pottery Barn. Half-off a red and white checked sofa is half-off nothing anyone would ever want.
That’s why it’s discontinued.
I check my teeth in the bathroom mirror before leaving. Good thing. Blackberry seeds have found a home on my front tooth. Not a good look for a memorial service.
The offices of the Jefferson County sheriff sound so much better than the night before. The refrigerator hum is definitely in the background where it belongs as deputies, clerks and ringing phones take the forefront. Everyone is talking about the Wheaton case, of course. It’s the biggest thing we’ve had around here in I don’t know how long. Maybe forever. Nan at the front desk looks especially excited.
“A producer from Seattle’s KING TV called. Wants to come out and do some interviews on how the murder of Mrs. Wheaton is affecting the town,” she says.
“We shouldn’t be doing interviews,” I say.
She shrinks like a popped balloon.
“Bernadine did one already.”
“That’s Bernie. Not us. We drive the media story when we need to. Not to serve their ratings, Nan.”
She still looks deflated, but she nods.
I poke my head into Sheriff’s office. He’s finishing a call.
“I told Nan no interviews,” I say.
Now he looks deflated.
“Yeah, you’re right. I like that gal they were going to send out.”
I don’t respond.
“Anything from the lab?”
“Not yet,” I say.
He looks me over, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“I remember that suit. That’s what you wore to the interview.”
I shrug. “Not much need for one around here. Besides, nothing goes out of style. I saw a guy in a leisure suit the other day when I was getting coffee.”
“No shit,” he says. “I used to have a few of those back in the day.”
I suspect he still does.
I tell him that I’m going back to Snow Creek before the memorial and I’ll meet up with him around one or so.
He gives me a sly smile. “Leaving no stone unturned, Megan?”
“That’s me,” I say.
In fact, I nearly live for turning stones to see what ugly thing crawls out from under. I did it with abandon when I was fifteen.
Or sixteen.
The ride back to Snow Creek is now autopilot easy. I play Adele on the CD player. Her voice soothes as my mind plays thoughts about Ida Wheaton. Beaten, brutalized, burned, dumped. It was such overkill. At first, I thought the carpet was an instrument of convenience, concealment. But why bother with it if you’re just going to burn her in the truck and drive it into a ravine? Too much effort. Now I consider it was purposeful. Whoever hated her enough to kill her so violently, must have loved her too. That’s why my money’s on Merritt. At some point he must have cared for his wife. Most husbands do. Then for whatever hideous reason, he strike
s her with a hammer and rolls her up in a carpet to hide what he’s done. Not from others. Strictly from himself.
I pass the inventive two-story mobile and barely give it a thought.
When I near Dan Anderson’s place, I consider stopping. Maybe apologizing for not getting back to him. Or say that I had my eye on the carved bear. I play all of those scenarios in my mind and am glad that I keep going. I like him. I can tell he likes me. I just can’t go there. There are too many secrets to hold inside that keep me from being anything other than closed off.
The Torrance place looks exactly the same when I drive up. From where I park, I can see the note to Jared is right where it was. The goats look as though they are being taken care of, but there are no signs that any other car has been here besides Sheriff’s. That bothers me a little. It’s possible that Jared is someone out in the woods and gets there by walking. Maybe the mobile home with the sweet potato vine in the jar?
I scan the field and the tree line that rises up the mountains to the logging road where the truck and body were discovered. There’s an opening at the edge of the forest.
Before I head in for the trail, I knock on the door. At my feet are two purple and one dark blue Croc, the world’s most hideous shoe.
I knock harder.
A dark blue Croc, I know, was found not far from where Ida Wheaton’s burned body was found in the pickup truck.
“Amy!” I call out, leaning toward the door. “Regina! Is there anyone home?”
I don’t hear anything, but for a flash I thought I sensed a vibration on the porch.
I knock one last time, thinking of that Croc. Has Merritt been holed up here? I’m worried about the women. Something feels funny. I make a mental note to call into the office when I get in cell range. Deputies need to swing by here for a welfare check. I’ll pull records on both women later.
As I move down the trail it feels as though I’m entering in a tunnel. So dark in places. Every once in a while a sharp blade of light lacerates the space. The path is wider than a deer trail, though not by much. It snakes through the forest and begins to rise about a hundred yards in.
I have the wrong clothes for such an endeavor and definitely the wrong shoes.
Should have borrowed the ugly Crocs, I think. At least no one would have seen me in them. Maybe a squirrel but I could live with that.
I remove my jacket and fold it neatly to carry the rest of the way. I can’t show up looking like some derelict at Mrs. Wheaton’s memorial. For all I know, Bernie notified the media.
I had no idea they were coming. Really, I’m just as shocked as you are.
The trail leads me to the exact spot where the truck went down. A deep cut in the earth shows where the tow truck driver dragged it up to the road, where a flatbed had been brought to take it for processing at the same crime lab—only to tell us that an accelerant had been used and the VIN hadn’t been completely removed. The last three digits and one of the middle letters were still legible.
The truck was indeed Merritt Wheaton’s.
When I get back to the Torrance house, I try the door one more time. Again, no answer.
Twenty-Seven
Crime scene tape makes for an unsettling memorial decoration. It flaps in the breeze over by the barn and around the Quonset hut. I look at my phone, but of course, no word on the blood and hair evidence that Mindy collected yesterday. A half dozen cars are lined up in the field adjacent to the small apple orchard. I park behind Sheriff.
Before I shut my door, I smell wintergreen.
Ruth Turner is standing next to me. Behind her, a young woman of about twenty. She has long dark hair parted in the center. Her eyes are blue like her mother’s.
“You must be Eve,” I say.
She gives me a shy smile. “That’s me.”
Her mother surprises me and hugs me. I feel her body wilting in my arms. It’s uncomfortable because I don’t know her, but she needs it.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Ruth,” I say. “I know that words don’t fill an empty space. I know that from experience.”
“Thank you, Detective Carpenter. I prayed all last night you’d be here. I’m so grateful that it’s over. Thank you for finding her. Ida is in our heavenly Father’s loving arms. No more pain. Only the joy of being with Him.”
I look up. “Damn, you, Bernie!”
A news crew is setting up.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Ruth and Eve. “Let’s go inside.”
“I had no idea so many would come,” Bernie says.
“I doubt that.”
She glares at me. “Excuse me, Detective?”
I want to say there’s no excuse for you, but I don’t. Given the occasion and the fact that I’m in my almost, not quite mid-thirties.
Sheriff is drinking lemonade.
“Hey,” I say, standing close. “I think I’m on to something.”
“What?” he says, reaching for Sarah’s homemade taffy.
“We need to go back to the Torrance place.”
He wants to answer but his teeth are stuck.
He’s going to lose a filling for sure.
“Later,” I say.
On the beautiful cherry table her husband built is the shroud-wrapped body of Ida Wheaton. Joshua and Sarah are talking with their aunt and cousin. I approach and don’t interrupt. Instead I look over the white muslin used to wrap her. The sad irony of it all comes to me. She was wrapped up after she was murdered. And wrapped a second time the morning of her memorial. I thought it would feel odd, burying someone among trees. Creating an environment that would break down a human body for the good of the earth. It didn’t. In part because of the strange beauty of it all. Ida’s children have decorated the outside of the shroud with orange and yellow nasturtium blossoms, bright green sprigs of spearmint and the dusty green of rosemary. It is needed and so is the fan on the window. It faces out, spewing the underlying odor of their mother’s decaying body. It had been super-chilled at the morgue, but that can only slow decay. It can’t stop it.
I look at my phone. No signal. In ten minutes the memorial is due to start.
“Sarah. Joshua. I’m very sorry about what you two are going through. I heard that the judge will let you stay together.”
“Bernadine already told us,” Joshua says. He looks at his sister. “She is really all I have. We both need each other.”
Next, I say something that I never thought would pass from my lips.
“I love what you did with your mother’s shroud.”
I stand there for a second, thinking that while my words were sincere, they sounded like I was commenting on a pair of club chairs.
“She loved the garden,” Joshua says.
Sarah looks at her mother. “I’ve never done anything like this, Detective.”
“You two can handle it,” I tell them. I want to say that there are lots of people here to support you. But there aren’t—a couple of cops, an attention seeker, an aunt and cousin.
“Okay,” he says. “We’re going to carry our beloved mother to the orchard where Sarah and I prepared a symbolic resting place.”
“Symbolic?”
Joshua shakes his head. “We can’t actually bury Mom here. We’re ahead of the laws, I guess. She’ll go back to the funeral home and then be buried in a green cemetery.”
“Sheriff Gray?” Sarah asks, indicating the table. “It’s time.”
Sheriff makes his way from the taffy bowl to the table.
He’s going to help. Good. This will be interesting.
Ida’s body lays on a cotton tablecloth, and Sheriff and Joshua each take an end. Joshua has his mother’s head, all festooned with nasturtiums, and Sheriff hoists the tail end, which at once seems like a struggle for him.
I hope he can manage.
As we walk from the house to the orchard, I hear Eve talking about how hurt she is that Sarah has forgotten how close they were when they were little. If their relationship is anything like her mother and aunt’s,
I can’t imagine they were that close at all. She’d probably seen her two or three times in their entire lives.
I hear Sheriff asking Joshua if he wants to set his mom down and rest a little.
He says no.
I know that Sheriff is the one who wants to take a break.
Next, he asks Joshua if he wants someone to ask the media to leave.
“We’ll be done before you can do that.”
We encircle the space where grass leads up to a rectangular space neatly cut into the black soil.
Joshua and Sheriff gently lower her on to a trestle, while Sarah brings two shovels; one’s a square edge, the other rounded.
“Like I said,” Joshua starts, looking around, “never done this before. I know it’s what my mom would have wanted. I mean, she would have liked to actually be buried here, but she’ll still be able to be part of the earth. Just not here.”
My eyes meet Ruth’s. Tears streak from her mascara-free eyes.
Joshua soldiers on. “We loved our mom. We will never forgive our father. When he is caught, I hope he gets the death penalty. He was garbage.”
Sarah touches her brother’s shoulder and he stops. He looks at her and she grips his hand.
“No one is perfect,” she says. “Mom was close to it. She was always there when we needed something or when we were sick. Dad pretty much kept us away from her as much as he could. I won’t say more. Everyone’s said enough.”
“Can I speak?”
It’s Ruth.
Brother and sister step back to give her room.
