Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  “Caretaker,” I shout. “Caretaker at Woflhowl Manor!”

  “Right,” Beckan says, almost pleased. “He stahted the yeeah before the Olenevs took ownership.”

  “Wow.” I lean back to abosorb this new information, truly shocked. “Did he know the significance of where he was?”

  “No.”

  “Well, wait a minute.” The cogs in my brain are still turning. “If he didn’t know, then how do you?”

  “My great grandfather loved a good puzzle. He’s the one who stahted the research and worked it all out. The story’s been passed down in my family for ages.”

  The click in my brain is almost audible. “Beckan…what was his name? What did Emily Lenore name her son?”

  Beckan’s smile finally returns, but it isn’t joyful. “His name was Patrick,” he says, “and she gave him his father’s last name. She named her son Patrick Ethan O’Dwyre.”

  I gasp. “You can’t be serious!”

  His laugh is mirthless. “I wish it was a joke.”

  “You’re telling me,” I say, rising to my knees, “that you, Beckan O’Dwyre, are a direct descendant of Emily Lenore? You’re telling me you’re a direct descendant of that house?”

  His face is grave. “Yes, Rose, I am.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  What Letta Has Been Up To

  We sit in silence for a while before Beckan finally stands, helping me to my feet.

  “It’s gettin’ late.” Keeping my hands in his and pulling them to his chest, he pulls me close. I’m drawn into the green seas of his eyes as electricity sizzles between us.

  Beckan suddenly drops my hands and steps back. “I bettah get you back home. But listen, before I do, everythin’ I’ve told you, I told you in confidence, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t know if it’ll help you any,” he says with a shrug, “but given everythin’ that’s goin’ on, it seemed like the right thin’ to do. What happened the other night was a warnin’, Rose. Pop and I will do everythin’ we can tah protect you, but if you go diggin’ ‘round and stirrin’ things up, it’s goin’ tah make things more difficult than they already are. As it is, I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”

  I nod again, knowing what he’s afraid to say; it might be too late to save my family.

  I help Beckan fold the damp blanket and he slips the thermos into an inside pocket in his coat. He holds out his hand and I take it, keeping my smile hidden as he leads us back down the path to his truck. The evening is loud with the noises of nature. The music of crickets falls into a rhythm with the hooting of the owls, out early in the darkness of the forest surrounding the trail.

  Beckan holds the driver’s side door open and I hop in, sliding to the middle instead of the passenger side. Beckan doesn’t comment as he climbs in beside me, but he smiles as he turns the ignition.

  We head back into town, which is already beginning to fall under the blanket of night. It’s a few minutes past five by the time Beckan pulls into the Bauer’s driveway so I can pick up Liam.

  “Do you want me tah wait and drive you back up the hill?” Beckan asks.

  “Actually, I was going to walk Liam home.”

  “You sure?” He looks through the windshield at the sky. “It’s goin’ tah storm tonight somethin’ fierce.”

  “I know,” I say, “but Liam’s been so weird lately. He acts like Mother and I don’t even exist when we’re at home. I just want to enjoy a little extra time with him before he starts ignoring me tonight.”

  “Okay,” Beckan says. “Be careful. And you call me if anythin’ weird happens, alright?”

  “I will. Promise.”

  “One more thin’,” Beckan says as he reaches inside his jacket and produces a small black leather book. A diary. He hands it to me with great care and holds onto it for an extra second when I take it. “This was my muthah’s diary,” he explains. “I think you should read it. It might help you make sense of…thins. But for the love of God, Rose, don’t read it out loud.”

  I laugh and slip it into a jacket pocket. “Lesson learned… Thank you.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I nod. “Goodnight, Beckan.” I zip up my jacket and hop out of his truck, swinging the heavy door closed, and he drives away.

  The Bauer’s house is nice, more traditional than the Victorians I’ve seen in town, and small. The porch light flips on and the front door swings open, revealing a small silhouette in the yellowy light.

  “Are you going to stand out there all night or what?”

  “Letta!” A sudden relief rises up inside me and I run up the steps, throwing my arms around my small friend.

  “Well, geez,” Letta says, hugging me back, “no need to get all sentimental.”

  “Sorry.” I release her. “Look, I feel bad about yesterday. Do you still want to tell me where you were?” My chest tightens; will she say she spent the day playing hooky with Beckan?

  “Yes! I played hooky the last two days to check out the library and the historical archives,” Letta explains as she moves to let me in. “Didn’t Shane or Patty tell you?”

  I shrug off my jacket and Letta hangs it on an old-fashioned coat rack in the foyer.

  “I didn’t talk to them yesterday,” I say. “I didn’t see them before school and they seemed like they were in some kind of serious conversation at lunch. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “Oh really?” Letta says, interested. “Hmm…”

  “Hmm what?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Letta replies with a shake of her head. “Well, I’m sorry. I would’ve texted you but…”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, where’s Liam?”

  “You won’t believe this, but Mom was actually able to spark his interest in a game of Chinese Checkers. I can’t believe he’s never played before!”

  “We aren’t much of a board game family.”

  “No kidding. Anyway, he was all pouty after Mom picked him up, just like the other day. I’ve only been here about an hour, but Mom said she finally told him he needed to ‘buck up and be a big boy and big boys don’t pout!’ She tried a few distractions, but Chinese Checkers is what finally won him over. They’re down in the basement.”

  I feel a small weight lift off my shoulders; I’m glad to hear Liam is behaving himself and actually having a little fun. “Thank goodness for that.”

  Letta leads me up a set of dark wooden stairs. “Listen, I found out a ton of stuff, and it has to be important because I had a heck of a time getting into those records, even at the public library.”

  “Really?”

  “Apparently, the town leaders and the historical society aren’t keen on letting anyone in on all the secrets of Wolfhowl Manor. Probably afraid it’ll affect tourism,” Letta says sarcastically.

  Letta’s bedroom is small, much smaller than mine, but cozy. She has a double bed in the center, a comfy chair for reading in a corner, a small closet off to one side, and a desk on the other. The walls are covered in floral print wallpaper with a dark green border trailing the top. One large window lined with dark green curtains looks out over the tree covered front yard. The only light comes from a small desk lamp illuminating some math homework.

  “I was trying to distract myself when I heard Beckan’s truck pull up,” Letta says, indicating the math work. “I’d actually expected you to beat me here. What were you two off doing anyway?” She asks with a smirk.

  “We’ll get to that,” I reply evasively. “You first.”

  “Alright.” Letta takes her desk chair and wheels it around to face her bed, so I sit on the edge of the mattress, the forest green comforter matching the curtains perfectly. “First, I found out there’s one more set of owners that weren’t in Mrs. Carroll’s file. The Hollisters, Clark and Deborah, bought the house in February of 1980. They were one of those what do you call it… flippers? You know, they bought it to renovate and resell.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, thinkin
g of Flip This House, a home renovation show Mother made me sit through a few times before we moved. Remembering what Mother wrote in her diary about renovating Wolfhowl Manor being a family project, I feel guilty again. “How’d you know all that?”

  “I found the original deed with the date of sale,” Letta says. “I also found a ton of permits they filed between February and June for work they were doing. They also placed a couple of ads in the paper looking for a contractor to help them with the work, because I’m sure no one around here wanted to help.”

  “What happened to them?” I scoot further back on the mattress and, running my hands over the cover, I realize it’s a hand embroidered quilt. It’s beautiful and I wonder if Letta’s mother, or maybe grandmother, made it for her. “Why haven’t I heard of the Hollisters before?”

  “Probably because they aren’t dead,” Letta says frankly, “which may also explain why there isn’t a diary for Deborah either. They abandoned the house in September. I found the bankruptcy paperwork to prove it, with a forwarding address in California. They seem to have picked up and left abruptly, and then got as far away from Maine as they could. By December, the house was back in the ownership of the historical society.”

  I stare at my hands for a minute.

  “What is it?”

  “It just really nags at me,” I say. “Why’s the historical society so determined to keep this house around? I mean, even someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts or curses would have a hard time keeping a house with such a tragic history hanging over it. Why not just demolish it and move on?”

  Letta shrugs. “Revenue probably. Every few years someone writes an article about the house and its history, which makes all sorts of ghost hunters and nut jobs flock here to get a look at the place.”

  “Anything else on the Hollisters? Any reason for their sudden abandonment?”

  “No, not without something more personal, like a diary,” Letta says, “which we don’t have. No newspaper articles about them either, again because they aren’t dead. All I could find was legal paperwork. But,” she turns around and picks up a pile of papers from underneath her math textbook, “I did find some interesting things about the other owners. Here, these are the legal papers on the Hollisters.” Letta shoves a handful of paperwork at me. I look it over. They’re crooked copies Letta made on what was probably a very old copier at the library, but there’s nothing much of interest in them.

  “Now, about Barbara Olenev and Alison Boyle. Their deaths,” Letta says importantly, “were not exactly as reported in those articles from the file.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, according to a couple of coroner’s reports I found, Barbara didn’t die in childbirth like the article said – which agrees with the diary – and Alison and Hagan didn’t die of smoke inhalation. Also, the fire was arson, not accidental.” She shoves more papers at me, and I diligently look them over for the clues Letta mentioned.

  “Barbara actually died a few weeks after Shane was born,” Letta says. She reaches across and points to the date on a coroner’s report; July 15, 1903. Letta shoves another paper under my nose, Shane Olenev’s birth certificate. The date is listed as June 30, 1903. “See the dates? She died two weeks after.”

  “How’d she die if not in childbirth?”

  Letta points to another box on the coroner’s report and the familiar pit returns to my stomach. The typed script in the box labeled Cause of Death reads asphyxia by hanging.

  “She hung herself?” I say in disbelief, my mouth going dry.

  Letta nods. “And it was common knowledge at the time. The cover up didn’t come until Robert was found dead almost five months later. The article you have is the first one that exists saying she died in childbirth. Every article dealing with the deaths in the house since then repeat that lie. In fact, getting that coroner’s report, and this one,” she hands me Alison Boyle’s death certificate, “was the most difficult thing I did all day.”

  “Why?”

  “They were locked in a filing cabinet in Mr. Quinn’s office at the historical society offices.” Letta avoids my eyes.

  “Mr. Quinn? Ronan’s father?”

  “Yeah,” Letta says, “but don’t worry, he wasn’t there. It’s not a full time job after all, and based on the sheer amount of dust on his desk, he hasn’t been there in a while.”

  “How’d you know where to look?”

  “I could only find so much at the library,” she says. “Mrs. Foley, the librarian, who’s about as old as ol’ Enit, helped me find what I was looking for. She showed me the newspaper databases and stuff, but I could only be so honest about what I was looking for since she’s on the Quinn’s side of this…whatever it is. She stood over me the whole time, staring at the screen. What I found was pretty limited anyway, which didn’t really surprise me. The only other logical place to look was in the historical society archives.”

  “And they were happy to help,” I say skeptically.

  “Hell no,” Letta laughs. “The only person there every day is Ms. Talbot. Her husband died a few years ago and she picked up the part-time job with the historical society to kill time. She sits around, knits from nine to noon, and answers the phone, not that it ever rings. Anyway, I made up some lie about an extra credit assignment for history – same thing I told Mrs. Foley – and she wasted no time telling me all the files were under lock and key and I’d have to fill out a request to get access to anything that might be pertinent.”

  “And?”

  “No dice. They’d never give me access to what I really needed anyway, which I realized after I spent an hour buttering up Ms. Talbot and listening to her incessant talk about her nine cats, and agreeing to buy one of her baby blankets for a pregnant cousin I made up – at a rather inflated price if you ask me.”

  “So how’d you get all this?”

  “I stayed until Mrs. Talbot left, which wasn’t until after one since she was really on a roll with all the cat talk. I walked her to her car and then left the parking lot, pretending to go home. Then I went back and broke in.”

  “Letta!” I say and then lower my voice. “You broke in? What if you got caught?”

  Letta waves a hand. “Trust me; there aren’t many people who spend their time staking out the historical society. Anyway, it wasn’t really breaking in. One of the windows was unlocked. Everything in that building was unlocked except for the front door and the filing cabinet in Quinn’s office.”

  “How’d you get into that?”

  “I have my ways,” Letta winks. “Anyway, we’re doing all this talking and you aren’t learning anything.” She points at the coroner’s report for Alison Boyle.

  I read the cause of death, but I already know what it says – self-inflicted gunshot wound, not smoke inhalation as the news article had said. Letta hands me another sheet of paper – Hagan’s death report. He’d also been shot, and it was listed as murder. It’s just like my dream.

  “So another cover up,” I say. “I wonder why. And how.”

  “I think we know the why,” Letta says. “As for the how, Alison had a rich daddy in New York City. He probably paid the town off to keep the scandal out of the papers. Your daughter committing murder-suicide exactly make for good business.”

  “What about the fire?” I ask. “That part isn’t a lie. There was a fire.”

  “I found an arson report. It’s here somewhere,” Letta shuffles through the pile of papers in her lap.

  “But, Letta, if Alison shot Hagan and then herself, who set the fire?”

  Letta shrugs, and for a moment, we’re both silent. I’m in information overload. Between what Beckan told me and what Letta found, my head’s ready to roll right off my shoulders. I’m taking in all these puzzle pieces, but I can’t fit any of them together. What does it all mean? And how will it help me save my family?

  Letta breaks into my swirling thoughts. “Do you want to hear about the children?”

  “Children?”

 
“Shane Olenev and Emily Lenore Callaghan.”

  “Oh.” I’d nearly forgotten about them. “Yeah, let’s hear it.”

  “Let’s start with Shane, because he almost didn’t even exist based on the records,” Letta says. “I found his birth certificate and death certificate, but that’s it. There’s no mention of what happened to him after his parents died.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t have details,” Letta says. “All I have is the date he died – Christmas Eve 1903.”

  “Oh god, Christmas is so depressing around here! How’d he die?”

  Letta shrugs again. “It’s a question mark.” I think she’s being funny, but when I look at the death certificate, I realize she’s just being honest. The cause of death is literally listed as “?”.

  “Okay, now to the good stuff,” Letta says excitedly, as if she’s talking about going to Disney World and not a string mysterious deaths. “Emily Lenore – the first one. There’s not a file, an article, even one word about Emily Lenore II anywhere. Although, under the circumstances, that’s not surprising.”

  I proceed with caution. I already know plenty about Emily Lenore thanks to Beckan, but he told me in confidence. I’m not going to lie to Letta; I have to tell her what Beckan told me, but I’m going to wait and see what she already knows. Then I can just fill in the blanks and feel a little less guilty about betraying Beckan’s confidence. It’s the kind of white lie that makes me feel better when I know I’m doing something wrong.

  “So what did you find out about Emily Lenore Callaghan?”

  “Well,” Letta’s eyes light up as she makes a mess of the papers in her lap and shoves several at me. “She was adopted by Eamonn’s brother and his wife after the deaths. They left Maine and moved to Fall River, Massachusetts and changed their last name to Murphy. Clearly, they didn’t want anyone knowing where they came from and what they left behind. Anyway, they raised Emily until she was fifteen, when she ran away.” She hands me a missing poster with a detailed drawing of a young girl’s face on it. It’s probably a pretty good likeness of Emily. It looks a lot like Alva, but she has Eamonn’s bushy eyebrows. The poster also shows Emily Lenore went missing Christmas Eve of 1865, in line with what Beckan said.