by Jane Suen
“Lacey Walken. Anything about her and what happened at Murder Creek.”
The librarian, wearing a name tag with “Agnes” pinned to her shirt, raised her eyebrows. She came around the counter and gestured for me to follow her. We entered a room with a table, chair, and a microfiche reader. She showed me how to use it. “We have the articles on Lacey from our local newspaper stored in the cabinets here,” said Agnes, proudly.
“Thank you,” I said. “Can I get print copies?”
“Yes, you’ll need to pay for each copy.”
“Good deal.”
“Just see me before you leave. I’ll get you squared away.”
I settled in, dropping my backpack on the carpeted floor and flipping my notebook open. No wonder I didn’t see these articles on the internet. These were local, going back several decades.
My fingers moved the guide on the reader, scrolling across and down the pages as I scanned the microfiche. Sandwiched in the local articles were a few from the major papers, having made it to the national news. I couldn’t believe my luck. I saw the same name over and over, Mark Sewell, the reporter on the local articles.
I found the pizza place articles Mike had mentioned over dinner. Mike was right about the manager, whose name was Clint Madden; he sure wasn’t shy. He was interviewed, but it was consistent with the timeline I had diagrammed in my notebook.
I didn’t find the cousin mentioned, but they interviewed Sally the roommate. My interest piqued, I read the article, focusing on what she said, looking for the reference to the locket. There was none.
My eyes needed a break from the intense work. I found myself with my nose almost to the screen. I had to squint to read, and I felt a throbbing headache coming. I got up and stretched, walking out of the room for a breath of fresher air. There was only one other person there besides me. I ambled to the circulation desk to chat with Agnes. She was checking a stack of books in from the return slot.
“Agnes, do you have a phone book?”
She reached under the counter and pulled one out; the handwritten words “library copy” inscribed in black magic marker across the cover. “That’s my only copy. Be sure you get it back to me.”
I nodded my thanks. “By the way, what time do you close?”
“Today we close at seven.” She looked up at the clock. “You’ve got twenty-five minutes.”
I murmured my thanks and went back to the microfiche room, the phone book tucked under my arm.
I dialed Mark Sewell first. He answered on the second ring.
“Mark Sewell? This is Eve Sawyer.”
“I know who you are,” Mark said. “I figured I’d get a call from you sooner or later.”
“But … but how did you know?” I stammered. Yet a part of me thought, It’s his business to know.
“A reporter never reveals his source.”
“I’d like to meet with you. Would you have time tomorrow?”
“I’m tied up tomorrow, you know, covering the funeral.”
My ears perked up, having heard the motel clerk mention this at least twice. “So who died? Some big-shot around here?”
I felt the hostility over the phone. The silence stretched.
“You need to do your research.” The line clicked dead.
I jumped up and grabbed my backpack. I rummaged inside, searching for the paper. It was crumpled and shoved in the bottom. I pulled it out, laid it on the table, and smoothed it out. Whew … how did I miss that? On top of the front page was a banner headline about the funeral. The service was scheduled at eleven tomorrow morning. I shrugged. I didn’t know this person, and I was about to put the paper away when I saw, “A businessman, former owner of Pizza GoKing and other local establishments …” There was a headshot of a stern-looking silver-gray-haired man dressed in a tailored suit. “Mr. Travis Madison III.”
Chapter 20
I MADE IT a habit to pack one thing whenever I traveled—my little black dress. It had come in handy more times than I could count. It wasn’t a fancy dress, just a plain one without decorations. It saved my butt many a time: when I needed a dress for dinner, even a semi-formal event, and now a funeral. I thanked God I had packed it this time. I rushed back to my motel room to look for it since I was going to the funeral. I had my good luck charm; I held the dress and hugged it, sighing with relief.
I had a feeling most of the town would be there. I was disappointed in the demise of Mr. Madison before I could talk to him. I wondered how many secrets he was taking to his grave.
I felt sad, even though I didn’t know him.
I pulled out my laptop and turned it on. It was time to learn all I could about Mr. Travis Madison III. There was a lot on the Internet. He had a long life, having lived for eighty-three years. He grew up on a farm, around farming and livestock. A stocky boy, he played football well enough to get a college scholarship.
He was a shrewd businessman. Early on, he had tinkered with farm machinery and discovered he had a talent for it. He made good money fixing equipment.
Travis came up with an idea for an improvement to the seed drill, a machine which planted seeds in rows at a precise depth, preventing birds from eating the seeds or them being blown away. He eventually patented this part and a smaller-size seed drill which was more affordable.
In the early years, he traveled around the country as a salesman. He worked tirelessly to build his business, a step at a time. He gave a warranty for double the number of years his nearest competitor gave. Fortune smiled on him, and a buyer placed a large order. From then on, the business really took off. Travis became a local success.
On his fortieth birthday, he had no heirs. In fact, he had no wife. Too busy to love, Travis Madison had spent the first half of his life building his business, working relentlessly day and night. Travis cultivated the image of a successful, wealthy man. There was a long line of women who wanted to be Mrs. Madison III. He spun the roulette wheel and picked a number. Literally, that’s how he chose his wife. Not out of love or even lust. Travis used to joke about it when he was drunk—it was God’s hand that picked his wife.
When Travis proposed to her, Chastain had quickly accepted. Their engagement photos with her sporting the enormous diamond ring were splashed across papers and magazines. He let her plan the details of the wedding. In every picture they were together they had posed, holding hands to show affection. They had two children in quick succession, both boys.
About twenty-five years later, when their marriage fell apart, the news printed devastating personal accounts by Chastain of a loveless marriage, one that fell far short of what she had expected. He’d called it a business proposition. But she had turned a deaf ear to that and only registered the words she wanted to hear. Travis came to her and did his duty. And he expected her to do hers, which was to produce heirs. The engagement ring, the wedding—it seemed all so romantic at the time, but in reality, it was a cold-hearted business deal. She had something he wanted, and he had something she wanted. Even the children knew their marriage was a facade, and the end was inevitable.
I had read quickly, fascinated by this man’s story. I was curious to learn more about the man and his life.
Chapter 21
I TRIED TO sleep, but my mind stayed awake. The things I read and found out churned, tossing me until I had no peace. I didn’t know how I made it through the night, but by daybreak I was ready for the day.
So many unanswered questions. It seemed the deeper I dug, the more questions I had. I didn’t expect to be in this situation now. I worried about what was yet to be uncovered. But I came here for the truth, and I was more determined than ever to find it.
I washed up and applied makeup carefully. My usual was light, just a touch of gray eyeshadow and pale pink lipstick, but today I added blush and twirled my hair up in a bun, sticking in a pair of chopsticks to hold it up.
The night before, I hung my black dress on a clothes hanger, straightening out a few wrinkles. For some reason I felt nervous, not only because I d
on’t like going to funerals, but I felt like an intruder, someone from the outside witnessing the mourning of unrelated family and their friends. A part of me was curious about this man and his hometown. According to the papers, he had a second home in the city and already had a public memorial service. This one was more intimate, in the bosom of where he was born and grew up. Back to the place he left, years ago, then returned to. His final resting place would be in a private cemetery next to his parents. Travis Madison III had planned for this and purchased the plots, enough for his entire family.
I topped my attire with a strand of pearls and walked out the door.
Chapter 22
THE CHURCH WAS probably the biggest building in town. It was painted white, a spire on the roof, a sign swinging from two chains dangling from a sturdy wooden post.
Mike was waiting for me outside, all dressed up in a dark suit. The sunlight glinted, playing hide-and-seek between his thick clumps of hair. His eyes lit up when he saw me, a bare tilt of his head in an approving nod.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” I said.
“I dug out my Sunday best.”
His fingers touched a button, making sure it secured the suit over his concave belly. “You look nice.”
“Shall we?” I said, eager to move inside the church, which was rapidly filling. I took a program on my way in.
Mike offered his arm and steered the way to an inconspicuous spot at the far end of a pew, about three-quarters of the way from the back. He sat at the edge, and I squeezed into the empty space beside him. It was so tight we rubbed shoulders. I opened the program and glanced down to see who would be speaking. I knew from my research Travis Madison III’s ex-wife had preceded him in death. His remaining heirs were their two sons, Jeremy and James.
I felt a soft jab. Mike threw a look at the first row. “The guy sitting on the left is his oldest, Jeremy. James is the younger child.” Both his sons would be speaking, delivering eulogies. I figured Mike would be close in age to the two sons.
I raised my head, making a mental note of faces as Mike whispered in my ear, mentioning their names as people passed by.
When Jeremy got up to speak, the expectant silence was thick. I found myself holding my breath. He looked to be in his early forties. He had a thick, full head of hair, precisely cut. Masculine designer spectacle frames accentuated his square jaw. He spoke from a scripted speech. Quiet, dignified, and measured—the unhurried speech of someone in mourning, and used to having people hanging onto every word.
James got up after his brother finished. Strikingly handsome, he was a slightly younger version without the glasses. He lacked the smooth assuredness of his older brother. His voice cracked as he spoke, and he had to pause before he could continue. He seemed oblivious to how he looked and ran his hands through his hair in a nervous gesture. But when he got going and his voice gained tenure and strength, he dispensed with the prepared speech and instead spoke from the heart. Soft, but powerful, the words spilled out. I felt his pain, and he did not hide his tears.
The service was over in an hour. Afterwards, the family was proceeding to the burial site for a private graveside ceremony. The sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows, heavenly rays casting an ethereal glow on the beautiful flower arrangements and casket sprays. Mike’s hand touched my elbow, guiding me toward the door as we left the church.
Chapter 23
MIKE INTRODUCED ME to people. I saw Agnes from the library. She was dressed in severe black mourning garb. I didn’t see Sally—frankly; I didn’t expect to see her here. Mike walked toward Jeremy and James, who were standing together. He gestured for me to come closer. I had fallen back, reluctant to approach the two brothers, feeling out of place. They stood next to each other, greeting each guest as they offered words of support and comfort, expressing condolences. Mike paused, seeing my hesitation.
“Please, come.”
I shook my head. “No, you go ahead.”
“I’d like you to meet them,” he said. Mike grasped my hand and gently pulled me forward.
I found myself face to face with Jeremy. I sensed his strength, his firmness. He kept his composure and shed no tears in public, but I had a feeling he’d display his grief in the confines of his home. I shook his hand. His grip was cool and strong. I murmured my condolences, feeling helpless to do anything.
I turned to see James looking at me quizzically. He introduced himself, but I felt like I already knew him after how he’d spoken at the podium. At other times his mouth had silently moved, as if he was talking to someone unseen. But he could have been saying a prayer. I could tell he still had the shocked look. His dad hadn’t been well, and although one could prepare for the end, it’s never how you’d expect it. James, the younger son, had been his father’s favorite, according to Mike. He wasn’t all serious and businesslike, like his brother.
Travis Madison III had left his estate to both his sons. But the Palladian-style inspired home, the coveted plume, had gone to James. I don’t know how Mike knew this, but in a small town everybody knew everybody’s business, especially someone who was a pillar of the community.
James’s eyes were still red. I expressed my condolences. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He shook my hand, and I moved on.
“Hey, Mike,” I whispered as we walked outside. “Can you point Mark Sewell out to me?” I wanted to meet the town’s reporter.
“He’s over there,” Mike said, nodding toward a man who stood farther out and away from the gathering, holding a cell phone to his ear.
I took a step in his direction, ready to get in his line of sight as soon as he’d finish talking. I didn’t see Amos coming from my right, and I almost ran into him.
“Ms. Sawyer,” he said. “I’d like to speak to you.”
I turned, noting his nervous twitch on his cheeks. “Amos Walken,” I said.
He was holding his hat in his hands, turning the rim around and around.
I wondered what he’d have to say this time. I chimed in before he could get the next word out. “You are just the person I want to see.” It was true, and he had been on my mind.
He looked pleased.
“I’ve been thinking about Lacey’s mother,” I said. “I’ve tried to talk to the only other Walken in the phone book. I’m afraid I’ve come to a dead-end.” My eyes searched his, imploring.
“There’s only one Walken left. She’s Lacey’s mom.”
I looked around the place, hoping to catch sight of her. “She’s here?”
“Nope, but she’d like you to come by today,” Amos said.
I was elated, of course, my brain already working overtime to come up with questions for her. She must have changed her mind—and was the woman that hung up on me when I called, before I posted the ad, before I talked to Amos. Perhaps she’d rather let things stay where they were, but not now.
“What time?”
He shrugged. “Well, I’m supposed to tell you to come after the funeral.”
I pulled out my notebook and shoved it in front of Amos. “Is this where I’ll find her?”
Amos squinted at my bad writing. He probably wasn’t the brightest bulb in the room, but he had overcome whatever hesitancy he had from yesterday to deliver this message to me. I wondered if she was too ill or too old to attend the funeral.
“Thank you, Amos,” I said before hurrying to catch up with Mark Sewell.
Mark had finished with his call and was busy scribbling on his notepad. I was trying to figure how to approach him, given his cold treatment of me yesterday. I decided I’d do my best to start over. Mark looked like he was in his late forties or early fifties, with slightly slumped shoulders and bad posture. He was a thin man and reminded me of a bird. He nervously peered at me.
I called out quickly before he could move away. I made sure I had my smile ready along with a warm “hello.” “Eve Sawyer,” I said, adding, “We talked yesterday, on the phone. You’re Mark Sewell?”
He looked
at me for a moment before he acknowledged me. I bet he remembered lots of details, names, places, and dates. A ridiculous thought popped in my head. “Bird brain.” Which wasn’t funny, as his head was rather large compared to the rest of his rail-thin body. He probably had a high IQ to boot. He took his time before he reached out to shake my hand.
“So we meet,” I said pleasantly. “I’ve been reading your articles.”
He grunted, shifting the phone to his back pocket. “What can I do for you?”
“If you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.” Not to sound blunt, I explained, “I’m not reporting on her story; you’ve already done that. I’m a student working on a class assignment about Lacey Walken. I’m doing some research—if there’s anything new on this old case, what I can find out.”
“And?”
“Well, you see, this beautiful woman just up and disappears, and the assumption was she was a victim of violence, judging from her bloody scarf at Murder Creek.” I paused, checking his reaction. I saw a flicker of irritation. Of course, this was old news, what he had reported. “But I don’t think that’s what happened to her.”
“You found out something?” His beady eyes were alert now, his nose for news sharpened on the hunt.
“I’m not sure. I don’t know who would have the motive. Why would anyone go to all that trouble and lead investigators to the creek?”
He acknowledged it. “It was perplexing. There was no body, no trace of her apart from the bloody scarf. The search party combed the creek and along the banks for miles.”
“Do you have any idea who would have done this?”
He snorted, shaking his head. “If you’re smart, I suggest you not waste your time here.”
I noticed Mike off to the side, waving, giving me a curious look. I walked away, toward him.
“Now what was that all about?” he asked.
“Never try digging for a story from a reporter,” I rasped, spitting out my words and my distaste of Mr. Bird Man.
