Salem's Daughters

by Stephen Tremp

  “Bingo was his name-oh.” Bob pointed a finger at her and gave an ironic chuckle. He took the last gulp of wine from his glass and said, like a lecturing university professor.

  “When salts are dissolved in water, they separate into positive sodium ions and negative chlorine ions. These opposite charges, like the opposite poles of a battery, create the potential for the conductive effect. Water’s conductive properties make it very dangerous as it allows an electric current to travel through it rapidly and shock any unsuspecting person in contact with the water.”

  Bob turned on the TV. There were still two news crews in the front of Murcat Manor. Darrowby was live talking with one reporter. The seasoned Battle Creek detective's face filled the seventy-two inch wall mounted TV screen.

  How Bob despised this man. He couldn't remember wishing death on anyone, but he wondered; if he could push Darrowby over a cliff and get away with it, would he? Bob had to be careful not to crush the wine glass in his hand.

  “Yes, the three deaths here early this morning were of suspicious nature,” Darrowby said into the camera using his usual unblinking stare. “As were the previous two.”

  “The son-of-a-bitch. I can't believe that guy,” Bob said, handing his glass to Debbie for a refill. “I should go out there and punch him in the face for the entire world to see.”

  Debbie downed her wine and gave herself a refill as well. “I'm mad as hell at Darrowby, too. Look at him hamming it up for the cameras. And right in our driveway live to the world. He really thinks he's all that. Like he’s some big shot local celebrity.”

  “He's gunning for national celeb status the way he's throwing gasoline on the fire.”

  A tall brunette jostled for position among the reporters. “Records show Robert and Debbie Stevens, along with her grandparents, Ross and Erma Dempsey, are owners of Murcat Manor. Are they suspects? Are you investigating these deaths as possible crimes? Or even Murders?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny at this time. But stay tuned. If there has been any foul play, the good people of this area can rest assured I will arrest any and all appropriate person or persons involved.”

  Bob gulped down his second glass of wine. “He certainly isn't doing us any favors, leaving it wide open for viewers’ speculation that we’re involved.”

  “We've also found,” the brunette reporter said. “That the two previous homes built on this property burned to the ground, killing everyone that lived here. Once in nineteen sixty-seven, and before that in nineteen-seventeen. Rumors around here are that this property is cursed or haunted.”

  “That's correct,” Darrowby said. “The five deaths here at Murcat Manor bring the grand total to twenty-four unsolved deaths on this property.”

  “Are you friggin’ kiddin’ me?” Bob downed his third glass of wine. ‘He's sensationalizing the story through the media.”

  “Ugh. Turn the channel.”

  Bob turned to all the local channels from his satellite dish from Cleveland to Detroit to Grand Rapids to Chicago. They were all carrying the same story from their sister stations in Battle Creek and Kalamazoo.

  But it was scenes of paramedics pushing three gurneys each with a black body bag that caused Bob to know this story would explode nationwide.

  “So Murcat Manor is now a regional story spreading to surrounding states, which by the way, is our market. Next up, CNN will make this a national story.”

  Bob turned to one of the news channels in Lansing. They watched as they were filmed arriving back to Murcat Manor early in the morning. Darrowby exited his car and led the way, posturing like a demigod to the media.

  The camera panned to Bob and Debbie as they got out. Bob was beyond pissed off. One thing was a sure bet, he’d lay the money for next month’s mortgage payment on it; Ross and Erma were watching the same stories.

  “Oh my God. We look terrible.” Debbie seized her face in both hands. “My mascara. It’s running down my cheeks from crying. And look at my hair. It's messy and matted. But that's because we had like, what—three hours’ sleep before the Johnsons died? And the interrogation room at the police station was a sauna.”

  Bob had his hand out, waving off the cameras as Wilson plowed a path for them into the front door.

  “Un. Frickin’. Believable.” Bob shook his head, smacked his forehead. “No way. This can’t be happening to us. Our dream is turning into a nightmare. And we’ve been open barely two months.”

  Debbie poured Bob another glass, pried the remote from his hand, and turned off the TV. “Time to wind down, lover. Drink up.”

  “I’m turning off my cell phone. And yours,” Bob said. “I know Ross and Erma will be calling. And I sure as hell don’t want that rooster alarm app waking me up tomorrow.”

  ***

  Thomas Darrowby lay in his bed with wife. He sipped his scotch with pleasure as he navigated the late night news stations.

  “Thomas, that wasn't fair. Calling the media out to the Stevens’ place like that. You don't know they killed any of those people.”

  Darrowby didn’t take his eyes off the TV. “Oh, they did. Trust me on this one, Laura. Those two, they’re guilty as sin.”

  Laura Darrowby studied Bob and Debbie as the camera zoomed in on them. “But just look at them. So young. So innocent looking. You know what I think? These deaths have to be a series of unfortunate accidents.”

  Darrowby laughed in a loud boisterous way. He looked over to his wife. “You’re the innocent one. So trusting. That’s why I married you, sweetheart. To balance out the overbearing alpha male in me. In my line of work, we call that a trail of evidence. Oh, don't let their Happy Days or Brady Bunch appearance fool you. Those two,” Darrowby pointed to the TV with his glass in his hand, the ice cubes clinking. “They’re not who they seem to be. They're pure evil. I can sense it when I'm in the house.”

  “Are you sure it's coming from them?”

  “Where else could it come from? Murcat Manor’s not built on an old Indian burial ground.” Darrowby laughed at the preposterous thought. “The only other things in the house are thirteen lazy cats."

  “Well, thirteen is an unlucky number.”

  Darrowby laughed so hard he spilled part of his scotch on the bed. “Sorry, honey. Yeah. Sure. The cats. They killed them.”

  Darrowby slowed his laugh.

  “What's the matter?”

  “Now that we’re talking about the cats, Bob Stevens did mention three were on the roof where DeShawn Hill was working when he fell backwards."

  “Well, maybe the cats spooked DeShawn. That’s plausible. Did you think of that?”

  Darrowby downed his drink and poured another. “Aack—nah, no way. Impossible. Anyway, this story’s plastered all over TV. It’s gone viral on the internet. This is golden for me. That's what I'm after.”

  “And just what do you hope to gain from all of this?”

  “This will place more pressure on Bob and Debbie. It’s just the thing to help counteract their hiring of that slickster of an attorney, Kenneth Wilson. He’s beaten me in court on a number of occasions. This time around, I hope reporters can dig something up that will help me convict the Stevens of at least one murder.”

  Darrowby felt Laura’s fingers now combing through his wavy black hair. “Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. It’s just that the Stevens, well, they don’t look anything like killers.”

  “Hmph. Oh they are, dear. I have four of my best men interviewing all the former guests in person and over the phone. There have been hundreds who stayed there since the place opened Memorial Day Weekend. It's a lot of work, but mark my words. As surely as the sun will rise tomorrow, there has to be at least a few people who can shed light on the Stevens and the five deaths that happened under their watch.”

  Darrowby relaxed and took another long drink. “I swear, I'll see them both behind bars for the rest of their lives.”

  Chapter 37 Winds of Change

  Bob was standing in his gray world again, r
iding the same neutral-colored speeding bullet train. He gripped a handle that controlled where the train could stop. Looking out the windows, he saw countless terminals where people got on and off.

  Bob was never more stressed. He needed to disembark and move forward with his life. But which station was his? It was all so baffling. Until he knew, he couldn’t stop the train.

  Bob woke and turned his head to look at the clock. It was barely seven in the morning. The sleep was healing. He was no longer exhausted.

  But he was drained: mentally, physically, and emotionally. As his head cleared from his dream and he saw the two, no three bottles of empty wine on Debbie's nightstand, he realized he was also financially drained.

  He bolted upright in bed, three sleepy cats grousing and rolling off his chest. Murcat Manor was empty again.

  Debbie emerged from the sheets and mumbled something.

  Bob looked at the elongated lump under the sheets. “I think you asked what time it is. It's a little after seven.”

  “Evening or morning?”

  Bob found enough humor in his wife’s innocence to form a chuckle. “Morning. It's Monday morning.”

  Debbie sat up and held her head. “How long did we sleep?”

  “Let’s see. We came home early yesterday morning. Darrowby left around noon. Then we drank a lot of wine and crashed about five. That's fourteen straight hours of sleep.”

  Debbie shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “The guests. I have to cook breakfast.”

  Bob placed his hand on her shoulder. “Don't worry about it. The place is empty. Again. I'll give you a few minutes to wake up.”

  Debbie gently pushed three sleeping cats off her and crawled out of bed. She looked in the mirror, tried in vain to make sense of her hair, then stuck out her tongue.

  “That's right. I remember now. Bob, just what the hell is happening to us? To Murcat Manor? Three more people died, including Maria. And guests are leaving like a flock of flies.”

  Debbie was interrupted by muffled pounding from above. Bob looked up at the ceiling. “What the heck is that?”

  “I don't know.’

  Bob walked over the bedroom window and opened the shutters. “Strange. I see three pickup trucks in the driveway. They have Hill Construction on the doors.”

  “Now that is weird. I didn’t think they liked us. Anything else?”

  His chest caved in a deep sigh. "Ross and Erma's car.”

  “Grandma and Grandpa. Thank God. They can help us.” She tossed Bob his robe. “Put this on.”

  “This can't be good,” he grumbled as he thrust his arms through the sleeves.

  “As dark as things seem, don't be too sure. Grandma and Grandpa, they always have the solution. We need to trust them.”

  Bob knew Debbie was right. But he did need something to help take off the edge of Erma before leaving the sanctity of their bedroom. He turned on his cell phone and used Voice Command to text Raymond Hettinger.

  We’re coming out now

  I see Ross and Erma’s car in the driveway

  Need fresh java

  Thanks

  Bob then went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He found what he was looking for. Advil. After popping four into his mouth, he turned on the faucet and cupped his hands to capture water and swallow the gel caps.

  Knowing relief was minutes away, he walked back into the bedroom. Debbie had put on her white cotton robe and was fixing her hair with her hands while slipping her feet into slippers. “What a way to wake up. My head is pounding.”

  Bob held up the Advil. “How many?”

  “Three. Thanks.”

  Bob found a wine glass half full and handed it to Debbie, who used it to wash down the pills.

  “I think we’re ready. After five deaths, what's the worst that can happen? Let's go.”

  He took Debbie by the hand and entered the kitchen. Ross and Erma sat at the table. Their laptops were open. Raymond was brewing fresh coffee.

  “Well, good morning, sleepy heads.” Ross made a vain attempt to display his usual jovial way as he stood and gave Debbie a hug. But the smile was forced. It wasn't close to the traditional Ross smile and laugh.

  Erma remained seated, looking down at her laptop. She was reserved. Bob had never seen them this way. It was as if a spell of despondency had fallen on them. Things were far worse than he’d expected.

  “Grandma,” Debbie said as Bob pulled out a chair for her to sit. “I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. But now that you’re here, everything’s going to be okay. I just know it.”

  “There, there child,” Erma said in a soft, comforting tone. “There's nothing you, or Bob, can do at this point. Just leave everything to us. Again.”

  Erma ignored Bob, and that was fine with him. She remained silent as she raised her arm, aimed the remote at the kitchen TV, and flipped through various channels airing morning news shows. The leading stories were the same: Murder at Murcat Manor. Is Murcat Manor Haunted? Murcat Manor, Not What It Seems To Be.

  “Please. Remain seated,” she said, her expression flat, voice even. “Both of you. Coffee's finished.”

  Raymond brought two cups and set them in front of Bob and Debbie.

  Ross again tried, with marginal success, to don a smile. “I know this has been all too traumatic on you. But you have to understand we have a lot of work to do. We can't stop. You both slept all yesterday afternoon through this morning. It's now time to get right back to work.”

  “Not only is Murcat Manor empty once again,” Erma said in a calm but lifeless monotone. “There have been many cancellations through August and well into September. Do you know what this means?”

  She lowered her arm and turned off the TV. “I don't think I need to go to any more channels. We all get it.”

  Ross folded his hands on the table and leaned in. “Bob. Debbie. You realize at this rate, we will begin to miss monthly payments. That's eighteen thousand to the bank. Five thousand in food bills. And another two thousand in utilities.”

  Although Bob’s brain was mush, he still needed to try to take the lead. Can’t let Ross and Erma run the entire show.

  “We won’t have the huge food bills while we’re empty. But yeah—we just need to get people back in here. Once we show the banks we have full occupancy again, they'll work with us.”

  Erma closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “No, no Bob. No. The bank will not help us. Since there have been three more deaths, I doubt they will restructure the loan. And we have to think of the insurance on the place. A total of five deaths in just a few months? Think about it. They could cancel the policy on Murcat Manor at any time.”

  Debbie did what she usually would do when overwhelmed by stress. She folded her arms on the table and buried her head in them. A muffled voice escaped. “I’m sorry. I don't know what to do.”

  Ross patted Debbie's hands and stroked her hair. “But we do, sweetie. Once again, it’s Grandpa and Grandma to the rescue.”

  Bob could hear more noise upstairs. Hammering. Cordless drills. Nail guns firing off. More miscellaneous banging. Footsteps walking back and forth. Orders shouted out.

  “I saw the pickup trucks in the driveway. What's going on up there?”

  Ross stood, sucked in his gut, stuck out his barrel chest, and took an exaggerated breath. That was his way of taking control when changes were needed.

  “Bob, we need to do something drastic to save Murcat Manor.”

  “How?" Debbie said, lifting her head. "Guests are dying here. Five people in nine weeks. I'm starting to believe the rumors this place is haunted.”

  “Precisely, my dear. Precisely.”

  Ross's jovial smile returned. But this time, his expression was different. Bob discerned there was something sinister behind the face. “Now you’re onto something. And this, we will turn to our advantage.”

  Bob didn't know what Ross and Erma had in mind. But he didn’t like whatever was coming. Ross continued to
stand, chuckling, as if he had lost a portion of his sanity. Jared Leto’s portrayal of The Joker in The Suicide Squad came to Bob’s mind. Ross seemed maniacal. And money—the one thing that Ross could get maniacal over—was always the driver behind his decision making processes.

  The banging from upstairs became louder, the pace of work faster. Bob craned his neck to look through the living room at the front door. Carpenters and painters came down the stairs and exited the front door.

  “Who are they?”

  Ross pursed his lips, sequence-tapping his fingers against his chest. “Men from Hills Construction, my boy.”

  “What are they doing here? With Hill’s death, I didn’t think they’d step foot on our property. They thought we had something to do with his accident.”

  Bob noticed Erma staring at him with an incredulous look when he said the word accident. Ross gave Bob a stern look. His lip quivered. Bob could see spittle coming from his mouth. He felt he was back in the board room being stared down by a really pissed off CEO. Ross was quickly rising to the level of detest Darrowby had so far held all by himself.

  “I have my ways, Bob. I have connections. Okay?” He pointed toward the front door where two workers entered while locking eyes with Bob. “DeShawn Hill’s wife and brother have kept the company in business. So I brought in those familiar with building Murcat Manor to help with the changes.”

  “Changes? What kind of changes?”

  “We're converting the themes on some of the rooms,” Erma said with little reflection in her voice.

  Bob didn’t like change. Major changes meant he failed and was no longer in control. He stood and stepped into Ross. “Whatever you’ve concocted, just stop. Okay? I don’t like any of this.”

  Ross was relentless. He stuck his forefinger in Bob’s chest. “Listen to me, my boy. As of today, Murcat Manor is a sinking ship. If we stay the course we're all going down. This bed and breakfast is a post-iceberg-collision Titanic, and we need to make a serious transformation. Right now.”

  Two more workers entered the front door, loaded down with—what? Bob couldn’t make the items out.