by Etta Faire
“Look, Mr. Peters.” I pushed my lips together. “I saw you in my channeling. And I’m just going to be honest. I heard you say some not-very-nice things about Rosalie. I would never tell her about them, but it was still really hard to hear.”
He looked at the chandelier over our table like he was trying to remember.
I didn’t give him a chance to come up with an answer. I continued. “You told Sylvia that Rosalie was controlling, that she kept you on a short leash, and that…” I lowered my voice. “You kind of admitted you asked Rosalie to marry you so she’d break up with you.”
His face turned red. He pulled out the rag from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead again. “I was young and confused. Two women wanted me. Me. Louis Peters. I’d never had that kind of a problem before. It was amazing and awful all mixed together. I’ll admit I didn’t handle it well. So when Priscilla got pregnant, I knew fate had made the decision for me. Just don’t tell Rosalie.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I still didn’t trust Mr. Peters as much as I wanted to. “But what if it happens again?”
He laughed. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with Rosalie and me, but we’re both able to handle it.”
I didn’t tell him the world didn’t need another weird glittery unicorn, but that’s what I was thinking. “Just don’t be a jerk this time around. That’s all I’m saying.”
He nodded.
“Now, tell me everything you remember about the incident and the club.”
He leaned in closer. “There were a lot of conspiracy theories circulating at the time, I do remember that.”
“Such as…”
“Well, Jay was running for city clerk and a few people suggested his opponent did him in because Jay was a threat. But that was insane. For one thing, Jay was losing that race, and two, nobody in the history of the city clerk’s office has ever killed for the job. They’ve killed to get out of it, probably.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know what happened, but when Jay died, the club just kind of fell apart. We said we were going to stick together, but it didn’t happen.” He looked up at the ceiling again.
“What happened to Jay’s house?”
“I think he was renting it from his uncle, who quickly came in and threw everybody out. Sold the place.”
“And what about the members? Did you and Priscilla ever see anyone from the club again?”
“Sure, around town. Just a few people, though. Never said much to each other.”
“What about the artists? Do you know what happened with them?”
He shook his head no. “You mean the people staying with Jay? I knew he always had some there, but I didn’t really know them. At the time, I was only looking to better myself and meet people who could help me up the ladder, not the other way around. No offense to them.”
I nodded, fully expecting him to make a rustic comment.
He didn’t. He went on. “And I’ll admit, a few of us tried to talk Jay into kicking out some people from the club, including the ‘artists.’ But he was a little too comfortable hanging around those types. I think he was trying to blur the lines between workers and executives, between haves and have-nots. I’m not sure it worked out for him. I don’t think the artists liked him as much as he thought they did.”
“So you think one of them could have done him in?”
He shrugged. “They were thug kind of people. There was also a rumor about Curtis and Rebecca.” He lowered his voice and raised his eyebrows. “A rumor that was confirmed during Rebecca’s trial. About a certain type of movie she and Curtis liked to make… not sure you know about that.”
“Yes, I know about the x-rated movie.”
“Good. Then you understand why we were trying to get them kicked out too, along with Curtis’s awful brother.”
“The guy with the neck tattoo?”
His eyes widened. “How did you…? Oh, never mind. Yes, that’s the one. But Jay wouldn’t do it. He somehow had a soft spot for all of them. I guess he learned the hard way to be a bit more selective about his friends. I hate to say it, but it’s true.” He dabbed at his sweaty forehead again.
Talking about the incident made a lot of people nervous, I was finding.
He continued. “Never saw any of those artists after Jay died. Not really surprised. They’d been mooching off of Jay. And, the mooch-party was over.”
“Either that, or they killed him and took off,” I thought, but didn’t say out loud.
He went to stand but sat back down again. “I did see one of the artists, Curtis’s brother, the night of the incident, though, now that I think about it, when Priscilla and I were going to get pumpkin pie after the meeting.”
“Interesting,” I remarked, mentally giving the neck tattoo guy a tentative alibi. “It was apple pie, by the way. You went to Deely’s Desserts and Whatnot on Main.”
Mr. Peters shook his head as he got up from the table, stunned. “Deely’s Desserts and Whatnot. On Main. That’s right. They’re no longer around.” He shuffled off mumbling to himself. I think he was starting to believe me that I saw him in the channeling.
Justin returned just as the waiter brought out my garlic shrimp. My boyfriend’s version was better. But I would never tell him. I wanted him to keep trying.
Chapter 20
Finding Rebecca
The whole time I was getting ready to go to Rebecca’s, trying to find a nonthreatening outfit while stuffing Rosalie’s stinky sachets into my pockets so I couldn’t have ghosts riding on me, Jackson lectured me nonstop about how he should be going too. He wanted to be a “fly on the wall,” gently reminding me to ask the right questions if I forgot anything important.
Just like when he was my professor, it was a very long lecture. And also, just like at that time, I wasn’t really listening.
I stuffed seven more sachets into the pockets of my cute spring jacket just in case the ghost repellant was losing its potency, and waved good-bye.
An hour later, I finally pulled up to the address my GPS led me to, a standard one-story modular home where a chubby brunette around 60 with pale, thick cheeks and stringy shoulder-length hair knelt in front of a flower bed with a trowel resting against her oversized denim jacket. I guessed the woman was Rebecca, but I wasn’t sure.
I got out of my car and took a deep breath. Was I really going to do this? Was I really about to bother this older lady — minding her own business, doing her gardening — by confronting her with an old porno from 1978 and the murder she escaped from?
And all to help a dead person.
It was the only thing I could think about as I shuffled my way over to her perfect little house, with its bench on the porch and garden boxes everywhere you looked. The smell of flowers and herbs almost made me sneeze. I mumbled to myself as I walked.
Look at her, gardening. If she had committed murder forty years ago, she’s clearly rehabilitated herself. I should just turn around and go. This doesn’t matter anymore.
My footsteps were too heavy, and they caught her attention, or maybe it was my mumbling. She looked up and smiled at me. And I saw the same face as the channeling, the aged version of that girl with the skates and the Farrah Fawcett hairdo.
“Hello,” she said, putting the trowel down, resting a shaky hand on her knee so she could get up. “Can I help you?”
I should just tell her I’m selling solar, or worse, Girl Scout cookies, then hightail it out of here when she politely tells me off.
I managed a quivering smile. “This is a long story. And you’re probably going to want to kick me out…”
“You Carly Taylor?”
My eyes widened. I nodded.
“Vern called me. Told me you were coming.” She slowly turned around and walked toward the house. And I kicked myself for not estimating accurately how big Marylou Marvelton’s mouth was. Of course, she was going to tell her boss she gave me the address, if pressed. That awful helpful woman. Well, I wasn’t going
to buy a thing at her next makeup party now, even though I’d almost pretended to be a Girl Scout to get out of this myself. I turned to go to my car.
“You coming?” Rebecca said, motioning for me to follow her into the house. “Let’s get this over with.”
Her house was dark. All the blinds had been drawn and the wood paneling covering most of the walls made it seem like a scene from a bad 70s porno. Or maybe, that’s just where my mind had wandered to at the moment.
Stuffed animals lined her floral couch so I sat in the lumpy recliner by the TV. The heavy smell of smoke lingered from every inch of the place.
“Can I get you something,” she asked. “Just made some iced tea this morning.”
I had to love Wisconsinites. Even when they know you’re there to talk about their secret porno life and the murder they may have committed 40 years ago, they still offer you a refreshing beverage.
I declined the offer then looked around while she got herself one. Paintings lined many of the walls, not hanging up or anything, but stacked one in front of the other along the paneling. Some were bold yellow sunflowers against an ominously darkening sky. Others were less cheerful. My eye caught on one of a large jaw full of sharp fangs. No other part of the animal was visible. Only the jaw.
She moved a stuffed turtle and a panda out of the way and sat down on the couch. “For my granddaughter. She’s four,” she said, motioning to the animals.
I nodded even though none of the animals looked newly purchased for a four year old. And none of the paintings seemed kid friendly either.
Her smile was crooked, yellowed, and thin. “I’m only doing this because I think you might be my best bet to figure out just what the hell happened that night. Not sure I’m ready to think too hard about it, though,” she said as she looked down at her plastic gardening clogs, making me think about Sylvia and her wooden platform ones that night.
She went on. “Vern told me you have Sylvia’s ghost for a client.” She grabbed the pack of Menthols from her coffee table, and I had to give the woman credit. She said that “ghost-client part” with a straight face.
I told her about how I helped many ghosts solve their murders. “Thanks for seeing me,” I said, trying to hide my surprise that she actually was seeing me.
She scrunched her face up, showing just how deep her wrinkles were. “I had a reading done once,” she said as she tapped her unlit cigarette on her palm. “Right before my trial. The lady told me to pack my bags, but that I wasn’t going to jail. I was going to be set free, and that when I was, I should move exactly one hour north. No more, no less. That was the only way I was going to find true love and happiness. She said it might take a while, on account of the fact I had a lot of healing to do. Took six years, but she was right about everything. Leonard told me he loved me the first week we dated…”
The first week? Justin and I hadn’t even said that yet.
“Leonard’s at work right now,” she added.
“Do you work?”
She shook her head. “I have a hard time holding a job. Doctor says it’s PTSD. I don’t know. But sometimes, I just can’t handle even the littlest of things. I get so upset I can’t think straight… all of the sudden. It happens so suddenly.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay. I grow flowers and other plants, do some painting.” She motioned to the stacks of crazy canvases leaning against the walls. “Sell ‘em at three different farmers’ markets a week during the good months. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. We make it work.”
She went on to talk about the murders and how they had likely caused her PTSD. She lowered her voice, staring at the unlit cigarette. “Worst day of my life. I found out my friends had been murdered. And then, a few days later, I was accused of murdering them.” She stood up and opened the blinds. Bright light came through the window and she blinked into it as she strained to crank the window open. “Damn crank is always stuck. It’s on the list, he tells me. He doesn’t really have a list. He thinks I don’t know that.”
I thought about Jackson telling me the potholes on Gate Hill were on the list. I needed to check on that.
Cold wind rushed through the window when she finally got it open. She pulled the blinds back down again, leaving the slats open, and lit her cigarette.
“I was so gullible back then,” she said. “I got talked into a lot of dumb stuff.”
“The movie?”
Her face dropped and she sucked so hard on her cigarette the tip stayed orange for a while. I don’t think she was expecting me to be so blunt.
She blew the smoke through the slats. Most of it stayed about two inches from her nose, and she fanned it away with her hand. “I don’t regret it as much as people think I should. But yes, the movie. Movies, actually. I was young and I thought it was liberating and empowering. I was free to do whatever I wanted with my body. In fact, my stage name was Liberty Belle. I thought that was cute. Of course, my dad freaked out when he heard I was in one of those. I knew he would.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, moving away from the smoke.
“He died a few years back. Alzheimer’s, thank God. There at the end it was a blessing he could only remember me as a child.”
I didn’t say anything, just nodded at the appropriate times, adding an “I’m sorry” every once and a while. She seemed to have a lot of things to get off her chest.
“Everything came out in the trial, of all places. And he believed every word out of that prosecutor’s mouth. I was a drug addict, a prostitute, a murderer. He had a respected vet business in Landover, but he had to give that up. Got a divorce from my stepmom not too long after. Never heard from her again.”
“But you weren’t convicted…”
“Only because they didn’t hold the trial in Landover. Everybody there had already convicted me. Even with the police botching the investigation.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were too afraid to go into the Dead Forest, that’s what I mean. I told them that night, the very night they came into my hospital room and took down my statement. I told them Curtis was in the woods. That I was worried for him. I was bloody and hysterical and they said they’d send someone to check out my story, but that I seemed fine. They said I was probably just hysterical from the scary movie I’d been watching, got scratched up a little running from nothing.”
“Condescending jerks,” I said, which made her half-smile.
“Who knows if they actually went in the woods that night. If they did, they probably never left the trails. They didn’t believe me. Not until the Darcys wondered where Sylvia was. Even then, they didn’t make the connection. I didn’t either, to tell you the truth. I hadn’t known Sylvia was there until they found her.”
Something about the way she said that last part made me doubt her statement.
She took a long puff on her cigarette, allowing herself to pause and enjoy it a second before exhaling. “Whoever murdered them had a lot of time to clean up the crime scene. Because the police only discovered there even was a crime scene when the bodies had been placed around the perimeter a few days later. That’s when they started looking at me. That’s when they opened the evidence bag they’d collected from me the night of the incident and saw my key, opened my locker.”
I looked at her, studying her face for signs that this was the truth. She never even flinched.
I didn’t ask her how she got the key, or that I knew Sylvia had had it in her possession. I’d seen enough cop shows to know I should get her version first.
“So the key was in your jeans pocket that night?”
She nodded. Grabbing the brown oblong ashtray from off the coffee table, she tapped her cigarette ashes into it. “I was the one who told them what that key was for, too. If I had stuff to hide, do you think I would’ve done that? No. All that stuff was planted in my locker. There was no reason for me to keep an x-rated movie of myself in my own locker. I didn’t go around offering people autographed copies of i
t. And those sex toys… they were ridiculous, totally staged.”
“I know it was staged,” I said. “And I know who staged it.”
Her mouth dropped.
It was time to tell her I liked meerkats. “Vern told you Sylvia is my client. But he probably didn’t tell you that the way I get most of my information from my clients is through channeling. I combine energy with ghosts to relive their memories in real time.”
She chuckle-coughed. “You’re talking crazy now. What?”
“It’s like I’m living it. And, I saw you in the channeling. I also saw Sylvia and her brother planning to stage your locker the night of the incident. The key must’ve dropped out of your pocket because Sylvia found it in the break room. Bruce saw it as an opportunity to put incriminating things into your locker and tell his mother about them so you’d get fired, maybe even get driven out of town by all the gossip.”
“Bastard,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “He hated me.” She looked up at her popcorn ceiling. “I was a damn good manager. I had a knack for it. The Darcys never appreciated me. When I told them Bruce was harassing me, asking me out and following me around, Mrs. Darcy called me a liar. I was basically demoted at that point. Put on scheduling and shift-leader kind of stuff.”
I made a mental note of that one. “So, Bruce was harassing you?”
“Yes. I should have known he was the one who put all that stuff in my locker. It makes sense now. It makes a lot of sense now.”
I tried to bring this around to the key again. She seemed to be avoiding that part. “But, because I relive the memories in real time, I also know, you didn’t have the key in your pocket that night. Sylvia had it. And you didn’t even have pockets. You were wearing a green dress.”
The corners of her mouth spasmed a little. She took off her jacket, fanned herself with the back of her hand then grabbed her cigarettes again. The pack shook in her hands.
