In the bottom of the box was a handful of clippings. First her fingers touched a thin, yellowed news story and she carefully unfolded it, lest the fragile edges fall to pieces. It was a story from the Indianapolis Gazette dated November 26, 1975. As if she needed to be reminded of the date. She glanced at the bold, black headline: “Two BHC Students Die, One Injured in House Fire.” The fire had happened in the wee hours of the morning so it still made the evening newspaper. Grace read silently, unfolding the paper as she went.
“A fast-moving fire on the second floor of a two-story frame house at 4587 East Wayne Avenue claimed the lives of two college women and injured a third. All three roommates were students at Benjamin Harrison College and lived in the off-campus house. Robin Ellis, 20, of Vincennes, Ind., and Gail Prestrella, 21, of Effingham, Ill., were pronounced dead at the scene, and a third victim, Grace Eklund of Indianapolis, was taken to Our Lady of Hope Hospital, where she is listed in fair condition.”
Grace was startled by squealing voices and looked across the street at the Pratskis’ two shrieking children. She watched them a few moments and smiled wistfully. To be so young and fearless. Then she looked back at the clipping, which was practically falling apart at the seams, willing herself to read more. A neighbor had called in the fire when he was out with his dog at two a.m. And she, Grace Eklund, had survived. Yes, I did. I lived. I lived to marry a loving man and have three beautiful children and a grandchild and I guess that was how it was supposed to be.
Gingerly placing the clipping next to her on the chair, she dug into the box again and pulled out two small funeral programs. Gail and Robin. (G and R as she called them.) This was a direct blow to her gut. She looked up and took in a deep breath. I couldn’t go to their funerals because I was still recovering. The three of them had met during their freshman year and had been inseparable throughout college. She remembered their joy at snagging an off-campus house. Their senior year was going to be amazing. Oh, such fun we had that year, knowing that we were living off campus and could do whatever we wanted. The house was perfect and it was ours. She had never considered G and R’s funerals. It was as if those events hadn’t happened since she, Grace, hadn’t been there.
She glanced across the street as Ms. Pratski sprayed her screaming children with the garden hose and their screeches rose in a crescendo. She set the box on the floor and got up for a few minutes, wandering around on the porch and stretching her legs. Silently she watched the water babies across the street. Gail’s and Robin’s parents exchanged Christmas cards with her every year, and she always sent them a card on G and R’s birthdays. Well, we used to call ourselves GGR. How young and silly we were back then. Their parents were well into their seventies now, and Robin’s father was into his eighties. So many years to exist without their daughters. Sadly, she shook her head and her chest tightened with that familiar feeling of anxiety. She sat down to finish opening the articles. It seemed so strange that she had never seen these clippings before. But then, why would she have seen them?
Setting the box back on her lap, she reached in and pulled out still another Gazette clipping. This time it was about the autopsies. I hope they never woke up in that fire. Everyone kept telling me they didn’t. After reading the report of a Dr. Lambert C. Brown, Marion County coroner, she gazed out to the corner of Sweetbriar, absently staring at the street sign.
Wayne Avenue. In the years since the disaster, Grace had visited her parents in Indianapolis, first with Roger and later with the children. But they had always scrupulously avoided Wayne Avenue. The only exception was when they went back for her five-year college reunion and drove past the off-campus house. She had expected a blackened, charred dwelling looming up over the landscape. Instead, she saw a somewhat familiar house that had been renovated after the tragedy. A woman sat on the front steps watching two children draw chalk pictures on the sidewalk. It should have been an ordinary house where people lived now. But one glance at it and the dread that had hounded Grace came right back, and she closed her eyes and looked away. Even that was years ago.
Now she looked down at the scar on her hand and rubbed her fingers across it. Such a little spot to remind me—always there, always causing me to remember that I lived.
She sat deeper in her chair and took in a long breath. Glancing at the clippings on the seat beside her, she shook her head. A small set of words to describe such an enormous event. Then she reached into the box and pulled out the last item. It was a clipping about the inquest a week or so after the fire.
“Despite the best efforts of the Indianapolis Fire Department, electrical malfunctions cost the lives of two Benjamin Harrison College coeds and injured a third. Ironically, the students would have left the house to go home for Thanksgiving later the day of the fire.”
That’s right. How could I have forgotten the next day was Thanksgiving? She glanced back down at the fragile piece of newsprint and read that Robin and Gail died as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning and asphyxiation from the smoke and fumes. The pathologist, Dr. Francis Willis, concluded that they had a carbon dioxide level of thirty-five percent in their bloodstream and a body can usually absorb three percent or less “with no deleterious effect.” So they did die without regaining consciousness, right?
She vaguely remembered sitting in the courthouse listening to the inquest witnesses. Their testimony had vanished like the first wisps of smoke, signaling fear and then escaping from her memory—as if lingering might make it all too real. And she hadn’t wanted that.
In the next paragraph the fire chief, William Ancel, talked about the fire itself. An extension cord in Robin’s room shorted, sending out deadly sparks that caught the bed coverings and adjacent curtains on fire, spreading through the upstairs very quickly. All three women were asleep in separate bedrooms on the second floor. Out loud she said, “And I was the only one to survive because I happened to be in the farthest bedroom and woke up.” Her throat felt scratchy and her voice broke. She bit her lip but read on, determined to finish.
Reading the electrical inspector’s words, she thought, I know I was there that day, but I don’t remember any of this testimony. I know I was there because I testified too. She looked back down at the fragile paper.
“Grace Eklund, a third roommate who survived the fire, said that she woke up in the middle of the night, smelled smoke, and realized the house was on fire. Before she could check on her roommates or find a way out of the bedroom, she was overcome by fumes and heat and passed out. She expressed her gratitude to the fire department whose quick arrival saved her life. Miss Eklund’s appearance was brief since she still appeared to be shaken. She had a bandage on one of her hands. Her testimony was very slow and halting and she had to stop occasionally to regain her composure.”
And now Grace’s hands were shaking, and she dropped the clipping into the tissue paper, set the box aside, and stood up. A gentle breeze touched her cheeks as she stood next to the column supporting the porch roof and then she leaned against it. Yes, I was there. I said all the right things. But I couldn’t save R and G and I couldn’t even save myself. A single tear crept down her face from each eye and she wiped them away. That was all.
She realized she was looking back through a distant expanse of time and she was stronger. Her mother was right. She laughed as she heard what her mother would have said: Of course, I’m right. What did you think? She walked back to the chair, picked up the inquest article, and read the very end, as her mother had suggested.
“The fire chief theorized about the events of that night. He finished by saying, ‘Miss Eklund’s room had a window, and she could have knocked out the window and climbed out on a flat roof from the attached garage. She attempted to crawl to a place of safety even though she was probably suffering from shock. She was unconscious when my men rescued her. She was fortunate that they were able to get to her in a matter of minutes. Fires kill very quickly, and because she dropped to the floor beneath the smoke, they were able to save her.’ ”
>
So you were right—I did do something right, Mother. It was a combination of luck, amazingly brave firemen, and my decision to drop to the floor. Grace sat in the chair, totally still, for several minutes. Her eyes shining, she reread the last sentence. How many years had it been? She added it up in her head. Thirty-six years and I have never been able to face this Pandora’s box. But now it feels as if I’ve released its hold on me and diffused some bits and pieces of the darkness. Her facial features softened and her clenched fists loosened into a calm stillness on her lap.
And I have years of life ahead to keep getting stronger.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
* * *
The following night Grace worked late at the newspaper, going over Brenda’s papers once again, trying to figure out her cryptic notes. After her description of the Kessler fire investigation back in 1968, Brenda had scribbled some question marks on the right side of the page and written “Poe” and “279.” No matter how many times she looked at those notes, Grace could not figure out their message. I’ve been trying and trying, Brenda, to figure out what you meant by that. Help me. She decided to sleep on it. Maybe her subconscious would kick in with an answer.
A couple of pages later, Brenda had written more question marks, “Lawler,” and another number: “32.” Try as she might, Grace was at a standstill on those numbers. Sitting forward, she arched her back, stretched her arms, and let out a long breath. She understood most of Brenda’s notes, but these little details still weighed on her mind. She put down her pencil, wandered out of her office, and got a drink at the hallway fountain. Glancing out into the newsroom, she saw light under Jeff Maitlin’s door, so she walked over and knocked lightly.
“Come in,” his voice said absent-mindedly.
“I didn’t realize you were working late.”
“I’ve got some figures here I have to deal with, you know, the business end of the paper.” He leaned back, pointed to a chair, and put his hands behind his head. “I don’t think we’re paying you enough to be working late.”
She sat down across from him. “I don’t mind. I’ve been trying to make heads or tails out of some puzzling notes Brenda left about the Kessler fire so long ago. She was alive then too—back in 1968—and probably not much younger than the Kessler boy or that Lawler kid. Maybe she knew something. At least she must have had a theory.”
“She didn’t say anything to me about that story. It was as if she were waiting to spring the unexpected on everyone. You know Brenda—master of surprises.”
“Very true,” Grace said. She glanced at Jeff. “You mentioned that you worked at a paper before with a fire-setter incident. What do you remember about that?”
“Oh, that was in a little town in North Carolina. Went there to write news stories and it was only my second job. Before I moved to town they had experienced several fires, mainly at night, all of them set. So I spoke with several experts in the area about fire-setters and their motives. I believe some are psychopaths.”
“Really? Did they ever catch this person?”
“Yes. A teenage boy, fifteen or sixteen, who used a slow fuse and kerosene. Most of the houses he lit were empty, but the last one wasn’t.” He stopped and rubbed a hand over his chin, remembering something terrible. “Unfortunately, the family was home at the time and the mother and two kids were killed. The father and another kid survived.”
“That’s horrible. Why did he do it?”
“Well . . .” He paused and glanced thoughtfully into the newsroom. “It was a combination of things. He came from a family that had—I guess you’d call it ‘impulse control problems.’ From what I learned back then, such a characteristic can be somewhat genetic. Father was an alcoholic and mother was a far-right religious nut. She probably should have been hospitalized in a mental ward or program. They had several kids and he was the youngest. And then, you know, the usual: abuse, neglect. He, in particular, was the most neglected one, being the youngest. Failure at school and the suggestion that he had been bullied. And he was a loner, didn’t have any friends. So one day he decided to set an old, empty house on fire. He did a thorough job, too. Then, when the fire department attempted to put out the fire, this kid was there on the front lines, watching.”
“What satisfaction can there be in destroying property like that?”
“I think the satisfaction comes from eluding the police, doing a great deal of damage, and getting people’s attention.” He raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair. “Now, at least, he was getting attention, more so than he was getting at home.”
“Did you ever talk to him, I mean, as a reporter?”
“Yes. At the jail. I was allowed to interview him after the trial was over—he’d been found guilty. I don’t think I’ll forget that interview till the day I die. He just sat there and smiled at me as he admitted to killing those people.” He shook his head. “A demented whack job, a lot like his crazy mother. Sat right across from me and smiled as he talked about how he set the fires. No remorse—no compassion—as if that family, those children, meant nothing. He was consumed by his cleverness and how long it had taken the police to figure out he was the fire-setter. That’s mostly what he came back to. Every time I asked him about why he did it or how, he always came back to how clever he was. All the while he had watched those fires from the civilian lines and reveled in his brilliance while firefighters were putting their lives in danger. I’ll never forget his eyes—just blank—or his smile.” He shook his head and rearranged some items on his desk—a stapler, a couple of pencils.
Grace was silent for a moment. Then she cleared her voice and said, “I keep reading the notes from the Kessler fire and the newspaper clippings. Seems as if the Kessler boy could have had some of the qualities you describe. He was a loner—well, except for befriending this Lawler boy—and he had been in some trouble at school. I keep wondering where he is now. And since he did get away, I keep wondering if he’s set fires elsewhere.”
“Good question. Of course he’s living under an alias. And I seem to recall that often pyromaniacs can have a period of remission. But I think it’s like many other compulsions. At some point the gratification and the arousal of setting fires would become too much for him.”
“Do authorities have any way to verify his identity now?”
“Not if his prints had never been taken. What about dental records?”
Grace raked her hand through her hair. “I gather from the news coverage back then he hadn’t been to a dentist, so those wouldn’t exist either.”
Jeff leaned forward again and put his hands on the desk. “So he could just have escaped into the night and, even if his fingerprints had been put in the system since then, he would be living under an assumed name. Or possibly in prison by now. He’s one of those shadow people who fall through the cracks.”
“Yes. And no current DNA testing would work because his relatives—his parents—are long gone, and, as far as we know, he had no other relatives. So, dead end.”
“That does sometimes happen, even for the most intrepid reporter,” Jeff smiled. His eyes held hers for a moment before she looked away.
“I’d better get back to work,” Grace said, and rose to go back to her office. She walked toward the door, then turned and added, “I keep thinking I’ve seen some of those Kessler fire photos before somewhere, but I just can’t remember where.”
“Perhaps.” He rose from his seat and picked up some books to put back on the shelf behind him. “Say, I haven’t had much to eat today. Are you at a stopping place where you could use a little food at Tully’s?”
Grace considered. Dinner with Jeff—well, kind of like a date, and she’d been sitting for quite a long time and hadn’t had anything to eat since noon. “Now that you mention it, I’m hungry, too. Sure. I’ll just go close up my office.”
“Might as well take both cars. Meet you at Tully’s in ten minutes.”
“I know the police are feeling tremendous pressure to come up with a
suspect in Brenda’s death. Talked to TJ yesterday and she said she’s ‘dancing as fast as she can,’ ” Jeff said as he spread mustard on the bun of a huge tenderloin. “I feel kind of bad for her. She’s such a professional, and I know she’s had a lot of state help on all this, but how often do you have a murder in this town? I think I read that it’s been quite some time.”
“Could be whoever it was is long gone,” Tully chimed in, standing behind the bar and monitoring the room. “I don’t think the town’s had as bad a fire as Brenda’s in years. Leastways I can’t remember one and I’ve been here about twenty years or so. And I suppose they’ll never know if anything was missing with all the destruction. Her house was isolated. Could have been a burglar thinking no one was home. Maybe set a fire to cover the crime.”
“I don’t know what TJ’s theory is just now, but I have a feeling she has no lack of suspects. Between the newspaper stories and some creative blackmail on Brenda’s part, sinister possibilities abound,” Grace said.
Another voice came into their circle with a querulous remark. “Blackmail?” Ronda Burke asked, leaning closer over the edge of the bar. “Brenda?”
“Rumors are flying around town about Brenda blackmailing people,” Tully said. “Not sure where they started. Don’t know if they’re true. But if she blackmailed the wrong person, well . . .”
“Wow,” Ronda said. “Really? Brenda blackmailing people. Well, guess I wouldn’t have put it past her, now that I think about it.” She picked up some napkins from the counter and walked toward the other end of the bar.
Three May Keep a Secret (An Endurance Mystery) Page 12
