Black Rite

by Allen Caraway

  ‘I think it’s an obsession, passed down through blood,’ Heather said.

  ‘What, strippers?’

  ‘No, silly: mining.’

  ‘Oh. How old is he now?’

  ‘Eighty-four.’

  ‘He’s crawling around a mine and slobbering over strippers at eighty-four?’

  She nodded. ‘Uh-huh. Just keeps on going, like the Energizer bunny. That man has incredible stamina.’

  ‘But he shuffles around like a turtle.’

  ‘Yeah, true, but like I said, he just keeps on going.’

  ‘Whatever he’s taking, I want some.’ I shifted my gaze from the shabby, dirt-covered old man to Heather. ‘Is there anything about this town and its residents that you don’t know?’

  ‘Well, I am the town historian.’

  ‘How did you learn this stuff about him anyway?’

  ‘Acute hearing and sharp eyes.’

  ‘Thank God you’re one of the few people in Harkinen who doesn’t gossip.’

  ‘Never been my thing, but you’re family, so it’s different. We share stuff.’ Heather grinned mischievously.

  ‘Does that mean my teddy bear collection remains a secret?’

  She closed her mouth and pulled across an imaginary zip. ‘My lips are sealed.’

  I grinned back and then looked at my godfather and Beau, the two men deep in conversation. They made for an interesting contrast.

  A well-respected third generation rancher and businessman, Jack Douglas was sixty-six years old but looked younger. Tall, muscular. Hair short, gray and parted at the side. Thin lips under a pencil moustache. A steady, confident, unblinking gaze that tended to unnerve people. There was a hard, steely quality to the man that came over with palpable force, Jack’s overpowering magnetism and intimidating personality making one instinctively treat him with respect.

  Harkinen and Jack shook hands, an indication that their conversation had ended, and then Jack walked over and shook mine.

  ‘Hi, Son. How’re you coping?’

  ‘Okay I guess.’

  ‘I know I’ve already said this, but remember we’re always here should you need anything.’

  ‘I know, and thanks. I appreciate it.’

  ‘How’s the decorating going?’

  I thought of the magic circle and the books.

  ‘Oh fine.’

  Jack studied me, reading something in my face. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘How’re you settling in?’

  ‘Okay. It’s kind of hard, y’know, what with all of Gary’s stuff there, but also sort of nice at the same time, reassuring, if that makes any sense.’

  He nodded. ‘Come over for dinner tonight if you want.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Jack squeezed my shoulder. ‘And if you want any help with sorting out Gary’s stuff …’

  ‘I think I’ll be okay.’

  He nodded again. ‘I’ve still got some errands to run, so I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We shook hands again and I watched him stride away; a loyal, successful, virile man who cherished his family and worked longer and harder than ranch hands half his age.

  ‘He worries about you, y’know,’ Heather said. ‘Took his role as your godfather even more seriously when your folks died. And now that Gary’s gone …’

  Tears formed in her eyes and I took her into my arms. ‘I know. I miss him too.’

  ~

  I sold the business I had bought with my half of the inheritance and worked full-time on the ranch, keeping myself as busy as I could. It helped to keep thoughts of Gary, the circle and the books at bay. Aurelio replaced the floorboards in the den and as the ranch had a warm, friendly atmosphere - a seductive quality that made me feel like I belonged there - Stefano’s suggestion that I ask Father Kearney to bless the house now seemed unnecessary. As the weeks passed, I completely forgot about the books and the journal and it wasn’t until I was looking for a space to store a recently acquired wok that I came across them.

  After staring at the dusty covers for a moment, I placed some of them on the kitchen table, made a cup of coffee and then looked through the grimoire. Some of its contents were weird. Some plain nuts. And some stomach churning. There were spells and rituals that catered to one’s every need, but the most unnerving were for necromancy. There were pages of them. Everything one needed to know about bringing the dead back to life so they could predict the future, become a slave or perform other unsavory tasks. Shaking my head, I closed the grimoire and put it to one side, then picked up Richard Beaumont’s A Guide to the Old Religion and read the introduction.

  The last paragraph was not what I had expected from a book that I assumed would encourage the reader to enthusiastically explore Witchcraft.

  Do not dabble. I’ve lost count of the amount of people I’ve met who’ve fooled around with the occult without knowing what they were doing, or adequately protecting themselves. Most got away with it. Just. Some ended up in asylums, living out the rest of their haunted lives as drooling wrecks. A few died. Don’t let this be you.

  I studied Beaumont’s photograph for a moment, then put down the book and stared at the journal. I felt conflicted. Half of me wanted to confirm my belief that it was Gary’s and that it would reveal the reason for his suicide. The other half warned me to leave it alone, that I should respect Gary’s privacy, even in death. Moreover, did I really want to know what he had done over the past eleven years and why he had chosen to die in such a horrific manner?

  Curiosity won and using a set of picks, I had the lock open in seconds. It was definitely Gary’s journal. I recognized his handwriting immediately. Flicking through it, my eyes fell upon an entry dated August 26, 2015. Beneath the date were six words written in block capitals.

  OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE!?

  I stared at them for a long time, trying to ignore the sense of unease that had settled in my gut, and then closed the journal and sat back in my chair, thinking.

  ~

  It was now November 7 and a pleasantly mild fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. I’d spent the morning and early afternoon mending a fence. The next chore on the list was a trip to Anderson’s Hardware in town and I was happy to get away from the ranch for a while.

  After visiting Anderson’s, I walked down to 4/4 Native, Tony’s arts and crafts store.

  He smiled as I strolled in. ‘Hey bro!’

  As always, he was dressed in jeans and an art print T-shirt, many of which Tony designed himself, his long black hair tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘Hey.’ I looked around. The store was empty. ‘Quiet day?’ I said as I joined him behind the counter.

  ‘Unfortunately. No more tourist dollars until next year.’

  Tony was a stocky man and like Gary, he was shorter, wider, heavier and more powerfully built than I was. Even at the grand old age of thirty-five he could throw a football further than anyone I’d ever met. Women were drawn to him, but unlike my brother, he hadn’t used his charm to bed almost every cheerleader in high school. From the moment Tony first saw June Marshall at a pow-wow, he was hooked. She was the one and that was all he needed.

  ‘How’s life on the ranch?’ he said.

  ‘Good. How’s June and the kids?’

  ‘All fine, thanks.’

  After a pause, I said, ‘What do you know about North Oak’s history?’

  He looked at me, surprised. ‘Why so interested all of a sudden?’

  I shrugged. ‘Just curious.’

  Tony thought for a moment. ‘Not much, although I remember my grandfather telling me that a famous actress lived there back in the forties.’

  ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘Dunno. Can’t recall her name.’

  We changed the subject and about ten minutes later, Beau Harkinen shuffled in and began perusing the store’s selection of moccasins.

  ‘Hey Beau,’ Tony said,
‘what’s the name of that actress who lived at North Oak Ranch back in the forties?’

  Beau looked up, shooting Tony a quizzical look. ‘What do you wanna know that for?’

  ‘Bruce is curious about the history of the place.’

  ‘Oh.’ Beau scrutinized me for a moment with his bright jade green eyes that were more like a young man’s than an eighty-four year old’s. ‘Her name was Elizabeth Dashwood. Came over from England in the thirties and bought the ranch in 1940. Lived between here and Hollywood until ‘47, then moved in full-time until 1950.’

  Elizabeth Dashwood? I thought. Her name was familiar, but I couldn’t remember what she looked like or if I’d seen any of her movies.

  ‘What happened after 1950?’ Tony said. ‘Did she move?’

  ‘Nope. Killed herself.’

  ‘You’re shitting me.’

  Beau shook his head.

  ‘Man …’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘Maybe it was ‘cause of all that brouhaha back in ‘47.’

  ‘Brouhaha?’

  ‘Her husband had been screwing his secretary. She caught ‘em at it, up at the ranch. Killed ‘em with a .45.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  For a moment, I thought I’d misheard. I stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘You’re kiddin’ me?’

  Beau shook his head again. ‘Nope.’

  I glanced at Tony. He looked as shocked as I felt. Harkinen’s crime rate was seventy-nine percent lower than the national average. Since 1999, we’d only had three murders and they were dope dealers from Mendocino County who’d pissed off a supplier.

  ‘She offed them in Bruce’s house?’ Tony said.

  Beau nodded. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Man …’

  ‘What happened to her?’ I said.

  ‘Well, she made a run for it but they found and arrested her. After a long trial, they declared her not guilty due to insufficient evidence. Personally, I reckon she did it and was racked with guilt and that’s why she killed herself.’

  A double homicide and two suicides, on my property. Jeez …

  ‘You really think she killed them?’

  ‘Yup.’ Beau nodded, then his expression changed to one of nostalgia as if he and Dashwood had been old pals. ‘Was a shame. She was a sweet patootie.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘A looker.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Beau picked out a pair of moccasins, paid for them, then aimed himself at the door. ‘Well, I’ll see you fellas around.’

  ‘Okay, take care, Beau,’ Tony said as I sketched a wave.

  We watched through the large storefront window as Beau shuffled a few paces down the sidewalk, then climbed into a beat-up ’77 Plymouth Trail Duster. I didn’t understand how someone who looked so frail and moved so slowly could consider himself fit enough to work in a mine. I had visions of him grabbing a pickax, swinging it back, then falling over because it was too heavy for him.

  ‘Can you imagine that?’ I said to Tony. ‘The horror, pain and then rage she must have felt?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s some serious shit.’

  I shook my head. ‘Can’t believe that happened in my house.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time a celebrity iced their spouse, bro, and it certainly won’t be the last.’

  ~

  As soon as I got home, I switched on my PC and Googled her, finding various biographies, fan sites, articles and photographs, some of the latter available to purchase as framed prints and posters, which felt a tad macabre to me. The most interesting and informative article was on the Sunday Times website, dated October 9, 2010, the sixtieth anniversary of her death.

  THE RISE AND FALL OF THE ENGLISH ROSE

  By Geraldine Campbell

  Clark Gable once described Elizabeth Dashwood as the most beautiful woman he had ever worked with, an opinion shared by public and critics alike; Dashwood’s elegant, ladylike and sophisticated on-screen presence and aura of English gentility rarely matched before or since.

  Born Elizabeth Madeleine Dashwood in Durham, England on February 28, 1916, Dashwood made her stage début with a touring company in Adele's Horizon in 1935 and acted in her first film, Sanity’s Veil, later that year. Rapidly rising to stardom in England, her graceful presence lit up the screen in Wallsend Manor (1935), Hearts of Menace (1936), Emerald Jubilee (1936) and Honeymoon in Hackney (1937).

  Impressed by her performance in Hearts of Menace, Alfred Hitchcock cast her in The Shallows of Man, a dark psychological thriller that became a sensation and the highest grossing British film of 1937. Dashwood went from being a promising young actress to an international star virtually overnight. Cited by the Los Angeles Times for a performance that was “captivating, nail-biting and masterful,” Dashwood became very much in demand, eventually accepting a lucrative deal with MGM in Hollywood, moving to Los Angeles in January 1938. Immediately dubbed The English Rose by the American press, she starred opposite Clark Gable in the romantic comedy New England (1938), with James Stewart in the thriller Stratford Lake (1939), outgunned John Wayne in the western Wild Horse Plains (1940) and proved herself to be a gifted comedienne, easily holding her own and almost stealing the movie from Bob Hope in New York Winter (1941). But she is perhaps best known for her riveting performance as Katherine in the critically acclaimed and controversial psychological horror film From Darkness the Demons Shall Rise (1940), which several modern film scholars and directors consider the template for many future horror films.

  During the war, Dashwood was actively involved with the USO and led recruitment and bond drives. In 1942, soon after becoming a naturalized citizen of the United States, she turned her back on Hollywood (telling friends that she had no intention of returning to a town and industry she detested) and volunteered for the Red Cross. Dashwood trained as a nurse and then worked in field hospitals and on troop trains in Italy and France, coming under enemy fire several times whilst attending to the sick and wounded.

  Dashwood returned to the States on September 14, 1945, and to everyone’s surprise, immediately resumed her career by co-staring with Clark Gable in their second romantic comedy together, Vermont Vacation, which topped the box office for twelve weeks. Gossip columnist Hedda Hopper praised this triumphant return, writing, “It’s as if she never left. The girl still has it, and that ‘It’ is going to take her back to the top.”

  Three more high grossing romantic comedies in a row proved Hopper right and Dashwood’s status soon rose to become Queen of the Box Office. By the winter of 1946, she was the highest paid actress in Hollywood and living in a vast Mediterranean style mansion in Beverly Hills with her second husband, film director Marty Sabatino.

  Within the next four years, she would lose her career, most of her friends and finally her life.

  Sabatino was having an affair with his secretary, Norma Johnson, and had been doing so for four months. He managed to keep that juicy piece of gossip quiet until his wife caught them in bed when she arrived unexpectedly at their holiday home in Harkinen, California on the afternoon of Friday April 11, 1947.

  Sabatino was due to start shooting a film in a nearby town and Dashwood – midway through filming another project in Los Angeles - decided to join him when her co-star’s ill health delayed production, chartering a plane and flying to Kerorso Airport, picking up her car, which she habitually stored there, and then driving to Harkinen.

  Dashwood’s housekeeper, Rosa Menendez, later discovered Sabatino’s and Johnson’s bodies in a bedroom, both shot to death. There was no sign of Elizabeth Dashwood. The local sheriff’s station alerted other US and Canadian law enforcement agencies and the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office in Washington eventually apprehended her at a friend’s cabin five days later. Initially charged with first-degree murder, Dashwood appeared to be heading straight for the gas chamber. However, after the judge criticized the investigation, calling it “sloppy, rushed and
alarmingly amateurish”, he concluded that the evidence was inadmissible and Dashwood walked free. Despite an attempt to revive her career, she never worked in Hollywood again. To the amazement of her rapidly dwindling circle of friends, Dashwood retired to the house in Harkinen, which she had bought in 1940 before meeting Sabatino, and lived there quietly with her mother and older sister.

  It didn’t take long for Dashwood to be forgotten. Perhaps the film industry and her former friends and fans made a concerted effort to do so. She slipped into a deep depression and suffered from insomnia, eventually becoming addicted to the antidepressants and sleeping pills that were supposed to be helping her.

  When she failed to come down to breakfast on the morning of October 9, 1950, her mother went up to her room and found Dashwood’s cold, lifeless body stretched out on the bed, a half empty bottle of whiskey on the night stand, empty pill bottles lying beside it.

  She was thirty-four.

  Dashwood’s family buried her in Redwood Hill Cemetery on the edge of town and after her mother and sister died in a car accident in 1971, Dashwood’s grave remained bare and devoid of flowers or tributes for years.

  Interest in Dashwood and her films was briefly reignited in 1997, the credit for this largely given to Seal’s chart topping single, Elizabeth. In an obvious attempt to cash in on her newly regained popularity, Sherman Hughes – an American journalist known for his controversial biographies of Diana, Princess of Wales, Tom Cruise, George Michael and John Travolta - hurriedly penned a decidedly lackluster and sordid biography that was trashed by critics yet went on to sell over a million copies.

  A second, much better account of her life, written by former Hollywood columnist and renowned biographer, Joe Hyams, hit the shelves in 1999, later revised and expanded in 2005. The author’s investigation into the murders appeared to have been conducted in a more thorough and professional manner than the one performed by the investigating officers back in 1947. His conclusion, after presenting the evidence to the reader, was that Dashwood had to be innocent, agreeing wholeheartedly with the judge’s criticism.

  A special edition, complete with previously unpublished photographs and a DVD that includes never-before-seen home movies, is out today, timed to coincide with a documentary, due to be broadcast this evening at 9 p.m., on BBC2.