by Ellen Hart
Butch felt as if a firecracker had gone off inside his head. “What?”
“His name was Stewart Ickles. Right around the time he and my mother were married, he got Lena pregnant. I don’t know all the details, but you and I, we were born within months of each other. At the funeral for our grandfather, it all came out. There was a big family row. When my mother and I returned home, she asked my dad for a divorce. He had no idea he’d fathered a child with Lena. She’d kept it to herself. When he found out, he drove to Saint Paul looking for you. He wanted to take you away from Lena, bring you home to his place in Milwaukee.”
“Jesus,” whispered Butch.
“Somehow or other, he ended up dead in that garage. Were you and Lena still at the house when he showed up?”
Butch stared into space. “So that’s who the guy was,” he said after a few seconds. “He was the boogeyman in all my dreams when I was growing up. He scared the shit out of me. See, I have these really vivid but confusing memories that I’ve never quite been able to place or understand. I remember a man who wanted me to sit on his lap. I squirmed away from his hands and hid under Lena’s legs. And then, while we were sitting at the dining room table, he grabbed my arm and yanked me outside. I must have been yelling or fighting him because he hit me across the face, told me that if I didn’t shut the eff up, I’d be sorry.”
Britt grimaced.
“I remember thinking, this guy’s kidnapping me. He seemed like he was eighty feet tall. He dragged me into this room, began stomping around, like he was really pissed at me. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. The next thing I remember, Frank was carrying me into the house. I think he put me to bed, because I remember him telling me not to worry. The man was gone and was never coming back. ‘I took care of him, Tim. He’s a goner.’”
In a tightly compressed voice, Britt asked, “Was Frank saying he’d done it? That he’d killed him?”
Butch hesitated. “You know, I’ve always wondered about that. Yeah, I think he was.”
Silence caught and held.
“Listen, I’m meeting Jane Lawless over at the Skarsvold house at four. We’ve decided that the only way to get answers to our questions is to demand them from Eleanor. She lied to the police about how our father died and we can prove it. I’m hoping it will give us the leverage we need to get her to open up. You want to come?”
“Are you kidding? I want the truth as much as you do.”
She squeezed his hand. “Great. Let’s go find it.”
39
Jane was coming out of her restaurant later that afternoon, heading for her Mini, when the sound of a honking horn stopped her. Squinting into the late afternoon sun, she watched Cordelia’s new black Subaru ease up next to her and the tinted passenger’s window come down.
“Quentin,” said Jane, surprised to see him inside.
“Howdy,” said Cordelia. “Meet my new best friend.”
Jane had been waiting for a report. This was apparently it.
“I now know all,” said Cordelia. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. We both slept in because we were up most of the night.”
“You were?” said Jane. “Why?”
“Quentin’s a ghost hunter. That’s why he rented a room. The house is haunted, you know.”
“We can’t actually say that,” said Quentin, turning to her. “Not until I’ve studied all the data.”
Cordelia tapped a finger to her head. “This is all the data I need. I knew there were ghosts in that house from the first moment I stepped inside. Anyway, we’re on our way over to the theater. I want to introduce Quentin to Gilbert and Hilda King, the official Thorn Lester Playhouse disembodied spirits.”
“She said they bicker,” said Quentin. “Hard not to want to investigate something like that.”
“I expect it is,” said Jane. “So the digital recorder upstairs—”
“For recording anomalies,” said Quentin. “I ask a series of questions each day and hope to get a response.”
“It’s all about quantum theory,” said Cordelia, nonchalantly examining her nails.
“Okay,” said Jane, now completely confused.
“Oh, and I found out Eleanor was in Lena’s room talking to her night before last.”
“Around one in the morning,” offered Quentin.
“Really?” said Jane. “Eleanor said she’d gone to bed early.”
“Another whopping Eleanorian fib. Anyway, I’ll give you all the details later,” she added. “But right now, Quentin and I gotta boogie.”
Jane backed up as the window closed and the car roared away. At least Quentin was officially off her list of suspects. Cordelia had been the right woman for the job. And now, she had someone new to play with. A true Hollywood ending, Jane mused to herself. Soon to be a major motion picture.
* * *
Big and bare, and empty, thought Eleanor as she sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. The house she’d lived in and loved for most of her life, the inheritance she’d done everything to protect and preserve, would pass into another family’s hands. It never occurred to her that Frank wouldn’t want it. The rooms, once so filled with life, were silent now. Lena, looking down from heaven, or more likely, up from hell, would be thrilled.
Taking the note she’d received from Iver out of her apron pocket, she spread it out in front of her, and, with shaking hands, adjusted her glasses to read through it a second time.
Eleanor,
This is terribly difficult for me to write. You know how much I care about you. Ever since that day you came to me so many years ago and told me about the horror of that night, what Frank had done, my support for you and your family has been unwavering. I tried my best to do what you asked, to befriend your son, to be a strong male support in his life. I understood why you and Lena hid the body in the root cellar, and I never once condemned you for your actions. I saw it as an untenable situation. I also knew your only goal was to save your son. It was apparent to me that the lie you told the police officer yesterday—that it was your father who accidentally caused Stewart Ickles death—was also motivated by nothing more than your love for Frank. But that lie, Eleanor. That lie.
I’ve searched my soul and all I can say is, for me it was a bridge too far. Again, I know you’re only trying to protect your beloved son, but I also know that I can’t be a party to the defamation of a good man’s name.
Maybe I went too far in giving you the benefit of the doubt all those years ago. If I did, it was because I loved you, perhaps too much. We’re old, Eleanor. We’ll be meeting our maker soon. I would ask you to consider your actions in that light. For the moment, I need to separate myself from you. Perhaps my decision seems harsh, and for that, I’m sorry. I hope we will see each other again somewhere down the line. I don’t know how you will resolve what you’ve done, what you will do to make it right. I ask that you pray about it. God will guide you far better than I’ve ever been able to do.
Tenderly,
Iver
This wasn’t a time to be in earnest, as Samuel Johnson had suggested. For Eleanor, it was a time of endings. There were things she’d never told Iver. If they came out, she doubted he’d ever speak to her again. The man who had saved her, both emotionally and spiritually, the one who had centered her, warmed her as she negotiated a cold, difficult life, was gone for good.
Eleanor’s head snapped up when she heard Lena’s voice whisper in her ear: “Well, if it’s really over, El, my advice is, ChristianMingle.com.” Eleanor laughed out loud. So like Lena, and so absurd.
The phone rang.
Straining to rise from her chair, Eleanor moved over to the wall and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she said.
“Eleanor? Is that you?”
“Yes?” For a moment, she didn’t recognize the voice. Then, “Wendy? You sound upset. Is something wrong?”
“It’s Frank.”
Eleanor steadied herself against a chair. “What is it? Tell me.”
&
nbsp; “He’s been arrested. Last night. He took an ax to someone’s front door.”
“An ax?” repeated Eleanor, the old nightmare bursting to life inside her mind.
“He hasn’t been arraigned yet, but the lawyer assigned to him told me he was being charged with aggravated assault. It’s a felony.”
Feeling dazed, Eleanor lowered herself carefully onto the chair. “I … I don’t understand. Why—”
“It was the woman who rented a room at your place under false pretenses. She’s a PI. She was spying on you, hired by your niece.”
“But … she can’t hurt us. Britt has some strange ideas. That’s what prompted her to hire an investigator in the first place. It’s all make-believe, Wendy. Nothing to worry about.”
“Stop lying,” said Wendy, her voice cold.
A shiver crept down Eleanor’s spine.
“I spoke to Frank. He told me everything. Why oh why did you keep this from me? I should have been told. I’m his wife, for God’s sake, I deserved better.”
Eleanor’s expression tightened.
“Frank needs help. He totally came apart last night and he’s barely holding it together today. His lawyer told me that, after the arraignment, he’ll try to get him a psychological evaluation. He’s suffering from PTSD, Eleanor. He’s a sick man.”
“He’s not sick,” said Eleanor. “Don’t say that.”
“I am so angry.”
“Wendy, listen to me. What he told you … did he mention any of that to the police or his lawyer?”
Silence. “I never thought to ask.”
“Where is he being held?”
“The Hennepin County jail.”
“I’m coming right down. There’s something I have to tell him. I should have done it yesterday; he left before we could talk.”
“Don’t come,” said Wendy.
“You do not tell me what to do when it comes to my son.”
“You’ve been his official fixer your entire life. You’ve babied him, coddled him. You’ve waited on him hand and foot. Don’t you get it? There are things no amount of mother love can fix. This is one of them. When I spoke to him a few minutes ago, I told him I was going to call you. He had one message: Stay away. He doesn’t want to see you.”
“No,” said Eleanor feeling suddenly desperate. “That can’t be right.”
“They have him on a suicide watch. Half the time, he’s spouting gibberish. The other half, he’s so ashamed of what he’s done that he can hardly hold himself upright. Give him a break. I understand that you’re concerned. I’ll call you when I know more. But for now, please Eleanor, respect his wishes.”
As she was about to respond, Wendy ended the call.
40
“Before we get started,” said Britt, standing next to her rental car with a broad Cheshire Cat smile on her face. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Sure,” said Jane, glancing over at the house, wondering if their luck would hold and Eleanor would actually be home and willing to talk.
Britt turned as a truck pulled in behind her car.
When Butch got out, Jane said, “Oh, we’ve already met. I almost didn’t recognize you. You shaved off your beard.”
Butch walked up to Britt and linked his arm through hers.
“Jane,” said Britt her smile turning to a grin, “I’d like you to meet my brother, Timmy.”
Jane’s mouth dropped open. “This is … Tim?”
“Afraid so,” he said. “I just found out about the brother part myself. Go ahead and call me Butch. It was a grade-school nickname that stuck.”
“I have so many questions,” said Jane, shifting her gaze from face to face. Viewing them side-by-side, there actually was a discernible resemblance.
“Look,” said Butch. “I don’t want Eleanor to know who I am. Maybe I will want that somewhere down the line, but not now.”
“Understood,” said Jane.
“To be continued,” said Britt, leading them up the sidewalk. “Let me take the lead.” She trotted up the steps and pressed the doorbell.
Jane didn’t have the same kind of anger toward Eleanor that Britt did, though the more she thought about what Eleanor had done, the more it seemed to be building. Still, she hoped Britt would go easy, start slow.
When the bell went unanswered, Britt tried again. She seemed keyed up, jumpy. Butch showed his nervousness by cracking his knuckles.
Jane finally offered to use her key. Once inside, they found the house quiet. “Maybe she’s not here,” whispered Butch.
“Why don’t you check upstairs?” said Jane, moving through the living room. One of Eleanor’s favorite spots in the house was the kitchen table. If she’d forgotten to put her hearing aids in, she could easily have missed the bell. But as Jane stepped into the dining room, she saw that the French doors to Lena’s bedroom were open. Eleanor was sitting in Lena’s recliner, a phone in her lap.
With Britt following close behind, Jane entered the room. Eleanor’s eyes were closed. Crouching down next to her, Jane was shocked by how pale and drawn the old woman looked, as if she’d aged a decade in a few short days. “Eleanor?”
Eleanor’s eyes fluttered open. She stared straight ahead, breathing softly, her expression unreadable.
Britt moved directly in front of her. “We’ve come to talk to you.”
Eleanor looked up, then tilted her head to watch Butch come in.
“The gang’s all here,” she whispered.
“When was the last time you had something to eat?” asked Jane.
“I can’t remember.”
“Let me fix you something?”
“No,” she said, more firmly this time. She patted Jane’s hand. “But thank you for the kind offer.” Removing her glasses, she rubbed her eyes. “You’ve come for answers, I expect.”
“I’m not leaving until I know what happened to my father,” said Britt.
Eleanor sighed. “Well,” she said, putting her glasses back on, “your timing is perfect.”
Britt and Butch looked at each other.
“Sit down,” she said, “and I’ll tell you a story.”
“I don’t want a story,” said Britt. “I want the truth.”
“The truth,” she repeated with a faint smile. “Well now, that’s always a little more complicated, don’t you find? A matter of perspective? But yes, I’ll do my best.”
Butch and Britt perched on the edge of the twin bed. Jane sat down on the floor with her back propped against the wall. Was it really going to be this easy to get Eleanor to open up? All Jane knew was that the old woman’s normally cheerful, friendly demeanor was completely gone. In its place, she sensed a terrible weariness, a woman who no longer stood at the edge of a dark and dangerous cliff, but someone who had taken the leap into the unknown.
“Stewart Ickles was the devil,” Eleanor began. “He beguiled both of my sisters with a charm I never understood. He got them both pregnant. Lena gave birth to a son and named him Timothy. Pauline gave birth to a daughter and named her Britt. Beautiful children.
“When my father died, everyone came for the funeral. I won’t get into the nitty-gritty, but suffice it to say that Lena got drunk one night and let Pauline know who Timmy’s father really was. It was awful. I tried to stay neutral, but from the start, it was a losing battle. Pauline left, saying she washed her hands of us. She never wanted to see either of us again. I would imagine that she went home and, whenever she saw Stew next, she told him what she’d learned and that she wanted a divorce. On August seventh, a Sunday—I’ll never forget the date—he walked into our house with a handgun stuffed into his belt and demanded to see his son. It was clear he intended to take him away from Lena. In an effort to calm him down, to get him to see reason, I invited him to stay for dinner. Right before we sat down to eat, I realized that Frank was gone, so I went outside to find him. Called his name, said it was time to eat. When he didn’t come running, like he usually did, I gave up and went in.
&nbs
p; “During dinner, Lena said something, I don’t remember what, but it riled Stew up again. He grabbed Timmy and took him out to the garage. We stayed in the house, afraid he’d use the gun if we tried to prevent him from leaving. I had my hand on the phone, ready to call the police as soon as he was gone. But he didn’t go. Next thing I know, Frank is carrying Timmy across the grass and into the house. Frank thought Timmy was dead. When the boy opened his eyes, Frank nearly dropped him he was so surprised. I checked him over and sent them both upstairs.”
“What happened to Stew?” asked Jane. “Why did he let them go?”
Eleanor leaned her head back and gave another sigh. “The reason Frank disappeared from the house that night was because he’d gone to the garage to stick a knife into one of the tires on Stew’s car to prevent him from leaving with Timmy. He made sure the tire was flat and then he hid in the back of the garage. Stew yanked Timmy inside, threw open the passenger’s door and told Timmy to get in. But then he noticed the knife and the flat tire. He roared with anger as he pulled Timmy out of the seat and threw him against a pile of junk on the garage floor. Timmy hit his head and passed out. Frank thought Stew was going to beat Timmy up—or worse—so he grabbed an ax that was hanging on the garage wall, crouched down and waited until Stew had turned his attention to the tire. As he was bent down fiddling with it, Frank jumped out and planted the ax blade in his back. And then he picked up Timmy and ran into the house.”
Britt chewed nervously on her lower lip. “You’re saying that Frank killed my father?”
Eleanor’s eyes rose to hers. “That’s what Frank thought.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Jane.
“I couldn’t tell him the truth, don’t you see?” She began to grow agitated. “He thought he was a hero. I told him as much. Again and again. So did Lena. We showered the boy with praise. I knew his actions might have repercussions, but I would be there for him, I could help him deal with anything. I wanted to give him the whole story yesterday, but he left. And … and … I mean, how could I tell him that his mother had.… no, it wasn’t possible. What would he have thought of me if he knew?”
