A History of Murder

by Lynn Bohart

  “This is Mr. Piper,” I said to David. “He found the diaper bag.”

  “Detective Franks,” David, said extending his hand. The two shook hands, and then David donned rubber gloves. “Where’d you find it?”

  “I went up under the roof to look for leaks. I found it behind a support beam.”

  “And you didn’t know what it was?”

  “No. I just picked it up out of curiosity. But when I brought it down and looked inside…” he said, stopping. He took a deep breath.

  “That’s okay,” David said. “You did the right thing by letting us know.”

  He shifted his attention to the diaper bag and crouched down to take a look inside. He reached behind him and gestured to the patrol officer, who handed him the camera. David snapped a photo before moving anything. As he shifted things around to look inside, he snapped more photos. He took a long moment to study the skull, and then stood up.

  “I think I’d like to have you show me where you found this,” he said.

  “We’ll wait downstairs,” I said.

  David followed Mr. Piper into the hidden room and up a folding ladder. They climbed through the small door that led under the roof and disappeared from sight. As the rafters rumbled with their footsteps, we left the patrol officer to stand guard over the diaper bag and returned downstairs.

  April had a small round table in the corner of her office at the back of the bakery’s kitchen. We each took a chair and sat down.

  “Did you get a headache?” I asked her.

  She turned dark eyes my way and raised two fingers to her temple. “No. In fact, it’s like the oppressive feeling up there is gone.”

  “What about the voice you heard?”

  “It was just a whisper again and very hard to understand.” She was drumming the fingers of her right hand on the table, thinking. “But something tells me this is an important find, Julia. I think someone wanted us to find that diaper bag. Maybe that’s why there’s been such an oppressive feeling up there for so long.”

  “That’s an interesting theory. But, God, who would stuff the body of a baby in a diaper bag? The inhumanity of that is just mind-boggling.”

  “I don’t know,” April said. “This whole thing is getting weird.”

  “No kidding. First the locked door. Then the hidden room. The automatic writing in Lollie Gates’ diary. The letter from Lollie’s mother, and now this.”

  “Speaking of Lollie Gates,” April said, glancing over at me. “You said that her last diary entry made it sound like she was pregnant. Maybe she had a baby up there. Maybe it was stillborn and she tried to hide it. Or maybe this is the baby that was kept in the hidden room for some reason.”

  “But why?” I said in frustration. “No one hides babies, do they?”

  “Again, it could all have to do with that brothel. If Gramley Miller kept women up there against their will, he wouldn’t think twice about keeping a baby up there,” she said.

  She had a watercooler in the corner and got up to fill a small paper cup with the crystal clear liquid.

  I shook my head. “No. Think about it. The furniture up there isn’t from as far back as 1935. Maybe the seventies or eighties. Same with the diaper bag. I don’t think this baby was from the brothel.”

  “So one of the more recent families? After John St. Claire left.”

  “Yeah, and come to think of it, we haven’t been looking at the St. Claires at all,” I said. “I wonder if they play into this.”

  “Don’t you think you would have heard from Elizabeth if they did?” April asked.

  “Not if she was the culprit,” I replied cold-heartedly.

  The door to April’s office slammed shut, making us both jump.

  “I think that’s your answer,” April said, gesturing to the door with the cup.

  I shrugged. “Sorry, Elizabeth,” I called out. I got up and reopened the door and then sat back down.

  “So, what do we do now?” April asked, coming back to the table.

  “Probably nothing,” I replied. “The police will have to investigate.”

  “I guess it has to be murder, right?” April said. “I mean, why would anyone stuff the body of a baby in a diaper bag and hide it unless it was murder?”

  “Yeah, and poor David is so busy with this serial killer. I don’t know how he’s going to find the time to launch an investigation into this.”

  “I won’t,” a voice said as he rounded the corner and stepped up to the door frame. “This is a cold case, so it will have to wait.”

  “But, David, it’s a baby,” I pleaded.

  He filled the doorway, while the patrolman stood behind him, holding the diaper bag.

  “I understand, Julia. But these bones have been there a long time, and I just don’t have time or the manpower. I’ll talk to the forensics guys and see if they think there’s any reason to even come out. I doubt they will. Too much time has passed. And I’ll deliver the remains to the medical examiner. But don’t hold your breath. It could be weeks before she gets to it.”

  “But you do think it was murder,” April said, hardly tempering the hope in her voice that she was wrong.

  “Most likely,” he said. “The skull is cracked. Someone hit this baby with a blunt instrument.”

  “Oh, God,” I moaned, slumping back in my chair. “But wouldn’t that move it up the priority ladder?”

  He leveled a solemn look my way. “I’ll get to it as soon as I can, I promise. But this baby has waited years to be discovered. It can wait a few more days.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if it was your baby,” I said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I called the girls after dinner to report on our discovery of the baby’s remains. Afterwards, I spent the evening wondering how the baby died, replaying our strange interview with Emily Foster, and pondering the potential murders when the property was a brothel. It was true; the rocks turned over as a result of our research for the book had revealed some pretty weird stuff, and the history of the inn was taking us down a dark path.

  The next morning I awoke bleary-eyed and a little depressed as a result. But since I had a job to do, I pushed my depression aside and spent the morning paying bills and returning calls that resulted in several more reservations. The elder Mrs. Welch stopped by to inform me that someone had knocked at her door twice during the night, but when she answered it there was no one there. Unless it was one of her grandchildren, I suspected Chloe had finally decided that the elder Mrs. Welch required a lesson in manners. I told her that I would check into it and then, of course, didn’t.

  Blair arrived at 11:00, and we called the Hardliner Pub in Puyallup to see if they would be open on a Sunday, and if Frank Miller would be there.

  “Frank isn’t here right now,” the woman on the phone said. “He’ll be back for the lunch crowd.”

  “Okay, great,” I said. “We’ll come down for lunch. Thanks.”

  I let Crystal and April know where I was going, and then Blair and I headed south to Puyallup in my Pathfinder. Forty minutes later, we pulled up in front of a dive bar off Hwy 167.

  The building was less than inviting. It was square, with a flat roof and in need of a coat of paint and a good gardener to trim the short hedges that flanked the entrance. Only three cars were parked out front, and from the looks of the outside, I wasn’t expecting much in the way of ambience inside. I wasn’t proven wrong.

  The pub was small and dark inside, with a long, chipped bar that ran along the back wall. Square tables were scattered throughout the center of the room, draped with worn and greasy-looking, checkered vinyl tablecloths. A single tired pool table sat off to one side of the room, while the other side was rimmed by faded red leather booths.

  I quickly slid into a booth near the door, feeling out-of-place and wiping something sticky off my shoe. Three bikers, complete with Harley Davidson leather jackets, sat at the bar guzzling beer, while a couple of guys in jeans played pool. That was it. So much for the lun
ch crowd.

  We waited until a young waitress appeared and dropped stained paper menus before us. As she leaned forward to put two foggy glasses of water down, her peasant blouse flopped open, revealing both breasts sans bra, complete with the tattoo of a pink tongue extended and ready to lick her nipple.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said and disappeared.

  Blair turned to me. “How do you propose we do this?”

  I stared after the waitress for a moment, my mind blurred as I tried to erase the image from my mind.

  “Uh…what? Oh, let’s just ask for Miller,” I replied. “We’re not bill collectors or the police. We just want a few minutes of his time.”

  Blair glanced down at the menu, rubbing two fingers together as if she’d picked up something greasy off the table. “Do you really want to eat here?”

  “God, no. Let’s just order iced teas. How bad could that be?” Blair nodded toward the clouded water glasses. I followed her gaze. “Good point. I’m going for a Pepsi.”

  The waitress returned, and we ordered our drinks. “Is Mr. Miller here?” I asked, as she turned to leave.

  “Sure. He’s in his office. Are you the gal who called earlier?”

  “Yes. Any chance we could talk to him?”

  “We’re researching a book,” Blair said.

  Her eyebrows arched. “Are you kidding? Frank loves the spotlight. I’ll let him know.”

  When she’d left, I said, “She probably thinks you meant that we were writing a book about the bar.”

  “I hope so,” Blair responded. “Otherwise, I was afraid he’d blow us off. He could probably care less about property his grandfather owned a million years ago.”

  “Good point,” I agreed.

  A minute later the girl returned with our drinks. “Frank will be out in a minute. Did you want any food?”

  “Um…I don’t think so,” I said, pushing the menu toward her.

  “Good call,” she murmured, picking up the menus and disappearing again.

  I had downed half my Pepsi by the time a big man with a barrel chest and crew cut appeared from a side hallway. His head looked like a revolving bowling ball with facial features, as his beady eyes scanned the room. When his gaze landed on us, he lumbered over.

  “I’m Frank Miller,” he said.

  It sounded as if a bull frog lived in his throat.

  “I’m Julia Applegate, and this is my friend Blair Wentworth.”

  He nodded. “What’s this about? Carey said you were writing a book or something.”

  “Yes,” Blair said, leaning forward. “We were hoping we could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  Blair had worn black stretch pants, a print blouse cut down to her navel, and her signature three-inch heels. Miller’s eyes sought out her cleavage, and a small smile flickered across his thin lips. This was a normal ploy of Blair’s, but Miller’s reaction turned my stomach. This guy just oozed smarm.

  “Sure. I’ll talk to you,” he said in a syrupy-sweet way. “Why don’t you come to my office?”

  I had the distinct feeling he meant Blair only, but he turned on his heel and led us past the pool table and to the end of the side hallway. We followed him into an office that smelled like a blend of human sweat, cigarette smoke and hamburger grease, which almost triggered my gag reflex.

  “Have a seat,” he said. He gestured to two straight-backed, wooden chairs that sat across from a battered old desk. He fell into a rolling chair, which creaked and rattled under his enormous weight. He scooted forward, resting his meaty forearms on the desk. “Now, what can I do for you ladies?”

  I saw how he watched Blair slide into her chair and made an immediate decision to let her do the talking.

  “We live on Mercer Island,” Blair said as she tilted forward with one elbow on the arm of her chair. “Julia owns the St. Claire Inn there.”

  His eyes shifted momentarily in my direction with a brief look of recognition. “The St. Claire Inn,” he said.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Do you know it?”

  “Um…no.” He turned back to Blair. “So why are you writing a book about a bar in Puyallup?”

  “Oh, we’re not,” Blair said with a demure smile. “We’re writing a book about the property Julia’s inn sits on. Your grandfather, Gramley Miller, once owned a…well, a business there.”

  His eyes narrowed, and the muscles tightened around his mouth. He sat back. “Why all the sudden interest in my grandfather?”

  Blair paused. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Like I told that other guy, I don’t know anything about my grandfather’s business.”

  Blair glanced at me and then back at him. “What other guy?”

  “Some kid. He came here asking about my grandfather and that old whorehouse. Said he was writing an article.”

  “Well, we have no idea who he is,” I said. “We’re researching the history of the St. Claire Inn and the property it sits on, and your grandfather happens to be part of that history.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything,” he said gruffly. He pushed back his chair as if to stand.

  “I’m sure you know more than you think,” Blair said quickly, sitting back and crossing one leg over the other. She dangled her bare ankle in full view of Miller’s gaze. “Your grandfather must have told stories that have been passed down in the family.”

  He followed Blair’s movements and seemed to make a decision. Reluctantly, he relaxed back into his chair. “Sure, there are stories. I never knew him, though. He died before I was born. What kind of things are you looking for?”

  “What life was like,” I said, attempting to sound casual. “The island was pretty isolated back then.”

  “It was the middle of Prohibition,” Blair added. “And yet I bet the brothel business was booming.”

  A smile curled up the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, from what I heard, business on the island was pretty damned good.”

  The note from Lollie’s mother flashed through my mind and the anguish she felt at having lost her daughter to prostitution. I tightened my fingers around the arms of my chair to prevent me from saying something I might regret.

  “How did they get away with serving booze there, anyway?” Blair asked.

  His beady eyes twinkled. “There’s always a way to hide something you’re not supposed to have,” he said. “My uncle said that my grandfather built the floor a couple of feet off the ground with a trap door behind the bar.”

  “So they kept the booze below the floor,” Blair said. “Brilliant.”

  He gave a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the story. But obviously he was peddling more than booze, so Granddad also had a big trunk with a false bottom in it that he used to transport his…uh…other product,” he said with a chuckle. “Old Gramley knew how to get away with things. I wish I’d known him.”

  I felt a sour taste in my mouth at the image of young girls being folded into a trunk so that Gramley Miller could abduct them and transport them to the brothel. And his grandson talked about it like it was a joke. My grip on the armrests grew tighter.

  “You admire him,” I said through clenched teeth.

  His eyes shifted my way. “He did what he had to do to make a living. You have a problem with that?”

  “I have a problem with someone who abuses women.”

  Oops!

  His eyes narrowed, almost getting lost in folds of flesh. “Those women knew what they were getting into.”

  “What happened to your grandmother?” Blair interjected quickly, changing the subject. “It must have been hard for her, living on the island back then.”

  He glared at me a moment longer and then shifted his attention back to Blair. “She didn’t stay there long. Originally, Granddad’s plan was to rebuild the hotel that burned down. But Prohibition kicked in, and he decided he could do better out there with a brothel – away from prying eyes as it were.”

  “So she left him?” Blair asked. “We thought she died.”<
br />
  “No, she packed up and left, taking my mother with her. My mother was only six at the time. They moved to Leavenworth.”

  “I understood Gramley had a son…Joshua,” I said, remembering Lavelle’s comments about the bully who took his revenge out on other kids.

  “Yeah, that’s my uncle. My grandmother left him behind.”

  The contempt for his grandmother was palpable.

  “Is your uncle still around?” Blair asked.

  He shifted those beady eyes to Blair. “No. He died a few years ago. But he raised me.”

  “He raised you?” I asked. “Not your mother?”

  “No. I moved out when I was thirteen and moved in with my uncle.”

  “What did your uncle have to say about living on the island?” Blair asked.

  I knew she was trying to keep the conversation neutral, but it was difficult. Miller had clearly inherited the nasty genes in the family.

  “He had no complaints,” Miller said.

  “It must have been hard for a young boy to grow up out there without his mother,” Blair said.

  “Why? She was a pain in the ass. It was better that she left.”

  “Seriously?” I blurted. “You’re talking about your grandmother.”

  Blair reached out and placed her hand over mine, effectively shutting me up. “Wasn’t the brothel ever raided?” she asked. “I mean it must’ve been pretty well known that there was alcohol out there.”

  He shrugged his massive shoulders again. “I suppose. But old Gramley paid the police to leave him alone. They were even given a little on the side, if you know what I mean.”

  He chuckled, and I felt myself seething inside again. I opened my mouth to say something, but Blair cut me off. “We found a small room out in the old carriage barn,” Blair said. “Up in the attic. Someone told us it was used as a jail for men who got out of hand. Did you hear anything about that?”

  “Yeah. I did hear about that. They were out in the middle of nowhere, so they had to take care of a lot of things themselves.”