Local girl Norma Jean Fredrick, 16, was found dead last night at the back of the high school gym after the annual Birdwell high school Halloween dance. She was discovered by custodians after apparently falling to her death from the top of the basketball risers, which had been folded up to make room for the dance. Friends and chaperones were unable to explain how the girl got onto the risers in the first place, and her parents George and Sandra, also of Birdwell, were unavailable for comment. The dance raised over two hundred dollars for local Four-H clubs.
The last statement seemed so absurdly inappropriate that I found myself laughing out loud for the third time in the last half hour. The other three turned to stare at me. Sobering quickly, I scrolled on to the next day, trying to discover when Norma Jean's "tragic accident" had become murder, if indeed it ever had.
The next day had just a small article on the third page to give directions to young Norma Jean's upcoming funeral and a shiny obituary that called her "an angel," "totally charming," and "the dream of every American boy." It also helpfully pointed out that she was a member of the Feed the Children coalition, a 1969 debutante, and the editor of her school paper. All of it was well and good, and even I could feel her parents' pain at the loss of such a child, but it looked like I was back to square one to explain Penny's bizarre behavior.
Just for kicks, I scrolled through the next day, which had a page-six editorial about whether or not the Fredrick parents had a right to be angry with the school for their lax chaperoning. November 4th had no mention of Norma Jean at all, but on the very front page in the November 5th, 1969 issue, I hit pay dirt. There I found this headline in enormous type: "Norma Jean Fredrick Murdered?"
My very question.
"Aodhagan, this is it." The excitement in my voice brought an immediate halt to their conversation, and in a second, all three were by my side. I objected to the presence of Marian and Junior but figured they considered the inside scoop part of their payment for taking time out of their red-hot romance to open the library on an off day. I pointed to the headline, giving a brief summary of all I had already read.
Aodhagan read the article aloud.
Norma Jean Fredrick, 16, who was found behind the risers after an October 31st high school dance in Birdwell was considered dead from a long fall. However, the coroner released the autopsy report today, stating that many of her injuries were inconsistent with this conclusion. Police believe that Fredrick, who was the only daughter of an important cattle family, was beaten and her neck was broken before she ever fell from the risers. The police are in an uproar as this is the first murder in all of Tallatahola County since the 1931 murder of Victor Twyler by his wife, Nadine. The Baxter Police Department solved that murder in three days. Let's hope that young Norma Jean finds justice just as quickly.
"So all those Norma Jean high school gym ghost stories were true," Junior mumbled, his voice a hint of sadness mixed with surprise.
"Why would someone go and break the neck of a sixteen-year-old girl?" Marian wondered aloud.
I think we were probably all wondering as much. "I don't know, but I think that's what my aunt was trying to find out."
We spent the next two hours going through every edition of the Tallatahola Star that Penny had requested on all seven microfiche spools for any mention of Norma Jean. All articles containing any information about her, or the murder, were copied and put aside for later. Marian, whose job had become to go and fetch the copies and put them in chronological order, pointed out that Penny had done the same.
"What?" Aodhagan and I both asked at the same time. We turned and looked at each other.
"Penny, she made about a million copies and took them home with her for about two weeks before…for about the last two weeks." She looked sheepish, as though there was something inappropriate about mentioning someone's behavior before death. Or maybe only before getting murdered.
"I didn't see anything like that in her house," I said hesitantly. It was possible I had missed it. I hadn't really been looking for papers, and the house had been completely trashed.
"Me neither," Junior agreed, which seemed worth more, since he'd been part of the search.
"Marian, when we're done here, I want you to pack up all these rolls, and you and Junior take them back to Tallatahola and return them to the newspaper office. Can you do that?" Aodhagan asked her, speaking slowly, the way I would to a child.
For confirmation, Marian looked to Junior, who just shrugged his indifference. "I guess so, if you think it's important."
"And Marian, if anyone comes in here asking about these papers, anyone at all, you tell them you sent them back a long time ago, and you don't know what they were for. Okay?" I pressed, catching a hint of Aodhagan's paranoia.
"Okay. Do you think that Penny was killed over these papers?"
Aodhagan turned off the microfiche machine. "Not over these papers but over Norma Jean…who knows? Better safe than sorry, right?"
We drove back to Aodhagan's in about three minutes and cautiously toted the large box of papers into his house. We went into the kitchen, and I started reading where I'd left off while he prepared lunch.
Every article basically gave the same information in slightly different words. Everyone had seen Norma Jean Fredrick appear at the dance with her best friends Dennis Strinton, Lloyd Granger, Penelope Cadgell, Kathleen Audbergen, and Frank Lundgren. Apparently the sextet was a typical sight around Birdwell circa 1969. After eight, no one remembered seeing Norma Jean. She was found by the janitor, just before midnight.
I came upon a picture of the 1969 debutantes of Tallatahola County right about the same time that Aodhagan presented me with cold pasta salad and a chicken salad sandwich on what appeared to be fresh baked bread. "I hope that you like chicken salad."
I nodded my thanks. "Why all the debutantes anyway? I mean, it's not like this is high society or anything."
He sat down across from me in the nook. "Actually, mid-century Birdwell, and all the little towns around here, were very popular with Lubbock's upper echelons. Lots of big ranching and oil families lived out here."
"Like the Fredericks." I glanced at all the sixteen-year-old-girls in their white chiffon dresses. I began to read off their names and stopped when I found Penny's. I scanned the picture until I could match name with face. There she was, standing next to Norma Jean Fredrick. "Unbelievable. Penny was a debutante. Look at her in that little dress and huge beehive."
"I remember hearing that the Cadgells were a huge family in their day. I had a little trouble believing it, though, from the way she'd been when I was a kid." He stood behind me and looked over my shoulder. He shook his head. "Look at her."
I had a sudden revelation about my parents and how Penny had come into our lives. I'd always figured that my mother had put aside her revulsion for cheap painted ladies on account of her love for me and her desire that I have an aunt for that project. But the truth was, she probably had not seen Penny since they were teenagers. She probably remembered this sweet-faced Penelope Cadgell with her teased-up hair, tiny white-chiffon-covered waist, and straight-teethed smile.
No doubt that's what she had expected to receive upon their invitation. My mother had never grown out of that phase, so why should Penny? Instead of this sweet teenager, they'd gotten Penny in her grown-up form, cigarettes, cuss words, and too much lipstick. But then they were out of luck, because I was hooked.
They no doubt had spent every moment since regretting that they had not sent a private investigator to stake her out first and make sure she was still their kind. It was all too depressing. It was probably my responsibility to inform my mother that Penny was dead, though I doubted that she would feel anything.
"Did you like Penny?" I demanded suddenly. Aodhagan looked up from his sandwich almost sheepishly, as though I'd caught him in a compromising position. It took me a fraction of a second to realize his behavior was a response to my question and not to being caught eating his sandwich.
"I liked
her when I was a kid. She taught me to throw a ball and play pool because my parents were too busy with their practice. But when I came back a couple years ago, I'm sorry to say that she pretty much hated the adult me and wasn't afraid to say so. So I guess we didn't really get along too well after that."
"Why didn't she like you?" I asked. I realized belatedly that might be a rude question. Or even just a sensitive subject.
He shrugged. "She said I was too busy. I needed to quit cooking, cleaning, and campaigning for better drinking water to the state legislator. I needed to stop trying to put Birdwell on the map, mowing my yard, and trying to solve everyone's problems. She said I was the worst kind of Mr. Fix-it, and no, I could not weed her yard for her. The list goes on for a very long time, but no doubt you've already filled in the blanks."
There was just the slightest hint of something coloring his voice. It took me a couple of seconds to realize what it was. He'd been hurt by my aunt's rejection of what he had grown up to be. He grabbed a handful of the articles I had already read and ended the conversation by burying his face in the pile.
The afternoon passed in relative peace while we sorted the articles into piles. I discovered that four hours of reading at Aodhagan's house didn't really offer up much more information than my ten minutes of reading at the library. Norma Jean Fredrick had been murdered at a high school dance and then either thrown from the bleachers or left behind them. The articles weren't very enlightening, and I was beginning to think that maybe we had been off the mark.
Maybe she had not been trying to solve the mystery. Maybe she had simply been trying to relive the worst time of her life and put it behind her before her life was over. Why she would need to rehash these old articles in order to solve a murder she had been present for, I could not imagine. A murder she had been present for…
"What if she'd always known who did it? What if she was there when it happened?"
Aodhagan jumped slightly when I spoke. He blinked slowly and glanced at his watch. I realized we'd been mostly silent for over two hours. "What?"
I had been so lost in my thoughts I hadn't even noticed it was getting dark. "These articles couldn't have told her anything. I mean, they're not telling us anything, except the barest essentials, and surely she would have already known those things being there when it happened. Then I started thinking—maybe she didn't want to solve a murder. Maybe she wanted to rehash all those old feelings before she died, you know…put it behind her."
"How did you know that she was dying?" He interrupted me, his question very pointed and direct.
I stopped. Me and my big mouth. "I was speaking in general terms?"
"No, you were eavesdropping. I swear to you, Helen, did no one ever teach you manners?"
"Hey, wait a minute. I was listening to something that might mean the end of my life as I know it. I can't trust Dooley to not throw me in jail, and I hardly know you at all. Don't you think I deserve to know if I'm going to be railroaded for someone else's crime?"
His mouth pulled tight, disapproval still evident. Whether it was with me or Dooley, I couldn't say. "I won't let Dooley send an innocent person to jail."
"Great. I really believe you have that power. Anyway, back to what I was saying. I thought maybe she just wanted to read up on it and put all those bad times behind her. Then I thought, what did she want me for? But think about it this way. What if she already knew who did it? What if she saw them or if they told her?
"She's kept it a secret all these years. But now she's dying. She wants to get the secret out. But she can't prove it. Suppose that's what she was trying to do? Gather enough evidence to prove who did it. That way the police would have more to rely on than her testimony. After forty-seven years, what's that worth?"
Aodhagan opened his mouth to answer me when the front door flung open and Dooley yelled at the top of his lungs. "Helen Harding, I know you're in there. Come on out."
Exchanging a quick glance, Aodhagan and I both slid out of the nook and hurried into the foyer. Dooley stood there, looking a great deal worse than he had that morning.
"Have you been drinking?" Aodhagan was clearly horrified, as though he couldn't imagine someone drinking during working hours.
"I got that will I told you about." Dooley thrust it at me, and I took it reluctantly because it looked like it had been dipped in syrup. I hoped this wasn't the master copy.
I read it, then read it again, more slowly this time. She had left me her house and her amassed fortune of over a shocking half a million dollars. Then she had left a letter, copies of which were no doubt safely tucked away at her solicitor's office, to me, Dennis Strinton, Lloyd Granger, and Kathleen Audbergen, but not to the third guy. What was his name? Frank Lundgren? Maybe he was the killer. Maybe she just didn't like the guy anymore.
"What is this supposed to mean?" I wanted him to spell out my guilt, if that's what he meant by it. Aodhagan reached for the paper, and I handed it to him without argument.
"I knew she left that house and money to you. You killed her for it. Who helped you?" His eyes were glossy with unshed tears.
"First of all, I had no idea she intended to leave all those things to me. I haven't seen the woman in a decade and a half. I also had no idea she had any money at all. I mean, why would you live like that if you could be living in a halfway decent house? Thirdly, I think we all know that she didn't have that long to go anyway.
"Would I be so impatient that I couldn't wait a few months, even if I was such a monster? I loved my aunt. When I was a little girl my life revolved around our summer visits. I never would have killed her, and that's the truth."
I couldn't tell if my sincerity shone through or not, because all Dooley said was, "I have to go."
Then he was gone, slamming the door after him. It didn't take much to deduce that he wanted to be alone for the crying I was almost positive he was about to be doing. Aodhagan was right. Clearly Dooley and Penny had been very close.
I gingerly folded the sticky will and stuck it in the table with the hideous lamp. There was a long silent second, and then Aodhagan began to talk about what he should make for dinner. I think, however, that we both knew he was beginning to suspect me again. Or at least beginning to wonder about the timing of it all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After dinner, Aodhagan went to another meeting. When he was gone, I played a little pool against myself, considering how difficult it would be to find Dennis Strinton, Lloyd Granger, Kathleen Audbergen, and Frank Lundgren. Even if they didn't have all the answers, they surely would be able to afford me a little more insight than the Tallatahola County Star.
I still couldn't get a signal out here. Birdwell was a massive dead zone. Aodhagan's wireless was locked, and no G was powerful enough to network this hellhole. I gave up on my phone and searched Aodhagan's bookcases until I could find a Lubbock phone book. I knew he'd have one, even though most people these days never even cracked the spine before dropping the thing in the recycling bin.
I found it, wedged between the Tallatahola phone book and a photo album. Working the thing free, I dislodged both the books on either side. The album dropped to the floor with a loud thump. The phone book was largely silent. It was a small book. I shoved back the phone book and picked up the album carefully, wiping a film of dust from the black leather cover. There was clearly nothing I could do but examine it shamelessly in Aodhagan's absence.
On the cover, curvy, feminine writing in silver marked the leather. It said, "Because I love you and because you'd never do it yourself." It was signed with a heart and the name Alexa.
It wasn't what I'd expected. No romantic assignations or snapshots of lovey selfies. Someone had taken outside shots of a redbrick building. In neon, the words, The Speakeasy, spread across the top. Obviously a club of some sort. Though I had never been involved in it myself, I was aware that there'd been a movement across America to stimulate resurgence in swing dancing through the '90s and early new decade. The Speakeasy was a swing club.
People dressed in retro garb, much like Aodhagan's own wardrobe, danced the night away in every shot.
Aodhagan had several partners in the pictures, but a reoccurring theme appeared in what I assumed must be Alexa, the album maker. I sort of hoped that she'd look like a cheap harlot, but alas, she looked perfectly nice. In fact, she looked as wholesome as the 4th of July and as sweet as pecan pie. As would any girl, I supposed, who would engage the heart of a man like Aodhagan MacFarley.
She was clearly pretty short, as opposed to my own five foot nine, pleasantly plump, as opposed to my own naturally thin and athletic-looking build, and had huge dewy blue eyes and long curly red hair dressed in the manner of World War II, as opposed to my own brown eyes and shorn blonde locks.
Not that I was comparing the pair of us.
There was a picture that I looked at for an unseemly long time of Aodhagan and Alexa kissing under the mistletoe at a Christmas party. Aodhagan was wearing an unbelievably sexy pair of pin-striped pants, a white button-up shirt, and a pair of red-and-green striped buttonhole suspenders. He also had on the very pair of crocodile wing tips he was wearing right now and a dark blue fedora. No one had ever kissed me that way, not in four fiancés and myriad boyfriends.
The next page had an article with the fifteen-point headline, "Big Money Speaks Easy, Too." In one column was a picture of Aodhagan and Alexa dancing. Underneath it read, Benefactor, Aodhagan MacFarley, and his fiancée, Alexa Carpenter, opened the doors today to the renovated Molly Hart Club, closed in 1952. It will now be called The Speakeasy and serve the local swing dancing counterculture.
I heard the front door open and recklessly shoved the books back on the shelf and fled into the living room, phone still clutched in my hand like a lifeline. Heart beating wildly, I watched as Aodhagan strolled into the room, taking off his jacket and laying it on the back of the loveseat. With his weary eyes, ruffled hair, and tired smile, he looked good enough to eat, and I cursed him for even existing in the world, but especially for existing here, where I was supposed to be safe. He crossed to the couch and slumped down into the cushions.
Digging Up Bones (Birdwell, Texas Mysteries Book 1) Page 7
