by Lynn Bohart
“What do you mean?” Blair asked.
He snapped back to attention and straightened up. “What else can I tell you about the property?”
His desire to change the subject was obvious, so I followed his lead. “What was life like on the island in those days?”
He shrugged. “Our family didn’t spend a lot of time together. My father wasn’t home much. He’d often stay in Seattle overnight. Sometimes even on the weekends. So Rose would sneak out to be with Chrisss…,” he said, drawing the boy’s name out with obvious distaste, “while Emily was in the barn talking to her dolls. And as I said, I’d go to Timmy’s house. The only time we spent much time together was during the holidays.”
“So Emily spent a lot of time in the barn,” I said carefully.
He paused a moment, watching me. “Her behavior wasn’t a secret back then. Her teachers knew it. And the other kids knew it. It’s one of the reasons friends didn’t like to come over. Anyway, she used to say that a woman lived out in the barn.” A cynical laugh erupted from his throat, and he shook his head. “Emily said a lot of weird stuff like that. But it got worse after I was sent away. Around the time Rose died, Emily was diagnosed with schizophrenia and hospitalized.” He stopped suddenly and began to rise. “Look, I don’t feel comfortable talking about any of this, and I certainly wouldn’t want any of it in a book.”
Blair jumped in. “If you’d like to see the section on your family before we publish it, we’d be happy to show it to you.”
He relaxed back into his chair, but my senses were on alert. Emily had mentioned a girl who lived in the walls out in the barn, not a woman. Could she have been talking about Lollie?
“I’m curious,” Blair spoke up. “I have a younger brother who used to spy on me. He was such a pain in the ass. Is that how you know Rose would sneak out to see her boyfriend?”
An evil smile slid across his face. “Yeah, little brothers,” he said, as if they all had espionage in common. “I followed her and watched her and Chris a couple of times.”
“You mean you watched them have sex?” Blair asked.
His eyes flared and his right hand balled into a fist. “Not something I want to discuss.”
“It’s funny when you think about how many teenagers had sex back then, and yet so few ever got pregnant.”
Foster went still, and we all sat for a few seconds, staring at each other. April was right; Blair had balls. Finally, I decided to go from one awkward subject to another.
“So why did your family move after only two years? There have been lots of reports of paranormal activity at the inn. Did you experience any of that?”
He shifted those intense brown eyes to me, picked up the pencil and started tapping it rapidly on his desk. “First of all, I don’t believe in ghosts. Let’s get that straight up front.”
“But did anything happen that you were aware of? Your sister said there was a woman living in the barn. I assume that wasn’t true.”
“No. There was no woman living in the barn,” he said with irritation. “Emily has mental health issues, I already told you that.” He paused, still tapping the pencil. Finally, it seemed like he made a decision, and the pencil stopped. “But my mother said she saw a woman in the parlor once, who just walked through a wall. And in addition to the woman in the barn, Emily said there was a dog she used to play with, a big black Lab. But of course, there was no dog, either. We didn’t have any pets, and my father would have never allowed a dog on the property. You have to understand that my mother suffered from depression and, well, you already know about Emily. So there were no ghosts.”
“You never saw anything?” I asked.
“No. Of course not.”
“But we have,” I said.
Count to three.
“You’re serious?” he finally said.
“Yes. We’ve had paranormal investigators out to verify it.” I paused for a second and then decided to take a chance. “We’ve even heard voices out in the barn. Up in the attic.”
“In the attic?”
“Yes. Did you ever experience anything like that? As a kid, you must have spent time over in the barn.”
Inside, I felt like I was hyperventilating, wondering if he knew about the baby in the diaper bag. But on the outside, I maintained a semblance of calm.
“Yeah, sure, we all played over there when we first moved to the island. We’d play hide and seek up under the rafters until my father made it off limits.”
“Why was that?” I asked.
He shook his head and seemed to turn inward. “My dad was a strict disciplinarian and had all sorts of rules.” His expression became guarded again. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really do have to get back to work. There’s not much more to tell. I hope I’ve been helpful.” He stood up and we stood with him.
“Yes, thank you very much, Judge,” I said. “I’ll let you know when we think we’re ready to publish.”
We moved towards the door, but I stopped. “By the way, you don’t have any family photos from back then that we might include in the book, do you?”
He stopped with his hand on the door knob. “I’m afraid you’d have to go back to Emily for that. She’d have any of the family photo albums.”
Great.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When Blair and I made it back to the inn, we found a young man at the front desk talking to Crystal.
“Oh, Julia,” Crystal said when she saw me. “This man is here to see you.”
The young man had short, blond hair, wide-set eyes and a gold ring in his left ear.
“What can I do for you?”
“Are you the owner?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m Julia Applegate.”
“I understand you’re writing a book about the inn.”
I paused a moment, wondering how he would know about the book. “Yes. My friends and I are researching the history of the property. Why?”
“I was hoping to talk to you about it. I’m a reporter.”
“I’m afraid we’re not ready to promote it yet.”
“I don’t mean to promote the book,” he was quick to say. “I meant to help research one of the stories.”
That piqued my interest. “Why don’t we sit over here,” I said, gesturing toward the breakfast room.
“I’ll be in the apartment.” Blair took my key and then disappeared down the hall.
“My name’s Jake Dooley,” he said, reaching out a hand.
I shook the young man’s hand, but his name sent my mind whirring. Where had I heard that name before? We moved to one of the tables, where he placed his shoulder bag on the floor.
“What is it you have in mind, Mr. Dooley?”
He rested his elbows on the table, and I noticed a set of tattoos on one arm.
“My grandfather used to be the editor at the Seattle Times. He’s the one who told me you’re working on a book.”
I inhaled quickly. “Of course. Your grandfather is Rush Dooley.”
He gave me a shy smile. “Yes. He mentioned that he talked with your friend, Rudy. She told him about the book. And she was particularly interested in an article that Peter Vance wanted to publish fifteen years ago about the brothel that used to be here. Pops also mentioned Frank Miller down in Puyallup, the grandson of the guy who owned the brothel back in the thirties.”
I felt a nervous twitter inside. “I’m not sure we’re going to include anything about Mr. Miller,” I said, remembering the guy with the tennis racket-sized hands and his aggressive friends.
“I’d still like to know anything you might know. I’ve decided to do an investigative piece of my own.”
“On the brothel or on the death of one of the girls?”
“Both,” he said. “I have Peter Vance’s notes and original draft, and I went down to see Miller a couple of days ago. But he wasn’t very helpful.”
“I see,” I said with a smile, remembering what Frank Miller had said about someone else coming to int
erview him. “We spoke to Frank Miller, too. He wasn’t very helpful to us, either. But even if he knows anything, he probably wouldn’t want to talk about it. At least not about any deaths on the property. And not to a reporter.”
“I think he knows much more than he lets on,” he said. “Fifteen years ago, Vance had somehow found out about a guy named Jack LaRue. He worked for Gramley Miller in the brothel. According to his notes, LaRue’s family told Vance that Jack was paid to bury one of the prostitutes. I asked Frank Miller about that and he was pretty brusque with me. I got the feeling he knew something, but didn’t want it divulged.”
I shrugged. “Can you blame him? You’re talking about his grandfather. Is Vance still around? Maybe you could ask him where he got the information.”
“No. He was killed in a car accident up in Bellingham quite a while ago.”
“Well, if Frank Miller isn’t interested in talking, how will you investigate it?”
“I was hoping you could help.”
I chuckled. “Sorry. We only know about it because of what your grandfather knows.”
“Yes, but you’re out talking to people. You’re liable to hear something,” he said, hopefully.
I thought about Lollie and everything we’d learned about her, but it didn’t feel right to mention any of that to a reporter.
“Well, we haven’t learned anything, yet.”
He sat back with a disappointed look. “Vance’s notes also led me to Frank’s sister. Her name is Mary Haley, and she lives in Leavenworth. I’m going up to speak to her tomorrow.”
“You’ve done some good research. Do you know who Vance’s anonymous source was?
“My Dad thinks it was Gramley’s ex-wife, Miller’s grandmother. Apparently she lived here on the property for a short time and then left Miller and moved east of the mountains with her daughter. Listen, Pops doesn’t know I’m going after the story. I’m in the graduate program at the UW in Communications.”
I dipped my chin and smiled. “So you’re not working for the paper…yet.”
“No. But I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to show them what I can do. I don’t want to float in on my Pops’ coattails.”
“This could be dangerous, you know,” I told him.
He laughed. “For something that happened in the last century? I doubt it.”
I arched my brows. “You’d be surprised what lengths people will go to protect their reputations.” I thought about Frank Miller and the evil thugs he’d sent after us. “I’d just be careful if I were you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Blair and I spent the rest of the afternoon sorting through notes and putting information into the computer, careful to mark things as fact or just rumor. Clouds and a strong breeze rolled in as afternoon moved into evening, and a summer rain threatened. When Rudy swept in after dinner still dressed in her plaid Bermuda shorts and sleeveless blouse, she received a critical look from Blair.
“Is that what you wore to see people in Canada?” Blair said critically, giving her the once over.
Rudy glanced down at her shorts and tanned, weathered legs. “No. I had time for a quick round of golf this afternoon. So what?”
Blair shrugged. “So it’s supposed to rain.”
“This is Seattle. It’s always supposed to rain,” Rudy said with an exaggerated scowl. She leaned over to pet the dogs, who were begging for attention. “Besides, it’s still in the low 70s, so not exactly coat and muffler weather.”
A short knock got the dogs barking again, forcing Rudy to pause. A moment later, Doe stepped in holding up a bottle. “I brought wine.”
Blair cheered, and I went to the cupboard for glasses. As I deposited the glasses on my small antique table, I said, “It just so happens that I have some oatmeal cookies left over from the snack tray.” I returned to the kitchen and took the aluminum foil off of a plate on the counter.
“Jeez, Julia, you’re always so good about feeding us. Next meeting is at my house, and I’ll make the snack,” Doe said.
“Done,” I said. “But you know it’s not a problem. We’re an inn, after all. There’s food around here all the time. And I have the hips to prove it.”
Doe laughed. “I was just about to say that you look like you’ve lost a couple of pounds.”
“Nothing like having a new man in your life to help you lose weight,” Blair said with a lift to her brows. “All that extra exercise.”
“Well, there hasn’t been much of that lately,” I responded forlornly. “David’s been too busy at work.”
“Speaking of police work,” Rudy said. “Any more news on the baby?”
“No, not yet,” I said. “The medical examiner has the remains, so we’re just waiting to hear from her.”
“Did you tell David about what Amelia said?” Doe asked.
“No,” I said with a sigh. “Somehow using our ghosts as a source for police work doesn’t seem like such a good idea. Did you learn anything in Canada?” I said, turning to Rudy.
“Yes, but let’s get settled first,” she said.
We each grabbed our drink of choice. Doe took a seat in my wingback chair under the new Wizard of Oz poster, while Blair and Rudy took the sofa. I dropped into my recliner and invited the dogs into my lap.
“Okay, let’s have it,” I said to Rudy.
She had just taken a bite of cookie and almost choked, realizing she had to talk. “Okay, here goes,” she said, swallowing. “I tracked down Lollie Gates’ niece. Remember she mentioned a sister named Anna in the diary? Anyway, Luanne is Anna’s daughter and Lollie’s niece -- and she still lives in the old family home just outside of Vancouver. According to her, back in the fall of 1934, Lollie met a man at the library where she worked. He asked her if she’d ever thought about becoming a teacher and said that he represented a small school district on one of the islands in Washington State that was looking for someone who could start immediately. He said it didn’t pay much, but it was a nice family community. She was thrilled. It’s what she’d always wanted to do. So he told her to pack a bag and meet him at the train station that night. They never heard from her again.”
“That bastard,” Blair murmured, snacking on a cracker.
“Eight months later, Lollie’s parents hired George Bourbonaise to find her,” Rudy continued. “But the man who took her had given a phony school name, and so Bourbonaise had to search every island in Puget Sound looking for it. He came to Mercer Island last. He asked around, but there was no hint of her until someone mentioned the brothel. So he came posing as a john.”
“Oh, God, he didn’t have sex with her, did he?” Blair asked, alarmed.
“No. I don’t think he even made contact with her. His instructions were just to locate her. He had a picture of her, so once he ID’d her, he went back to Canada to make a report.”
“But why not try to rescue her?” Blair asked.
“According to the niece, her family suspected she’d been abducted. When they lost touch with her, they started asking around. Two other girls from the surrounding area had disappeared under similar circumstances. One turned up dead in Seattle. They were afraid for Lollie’s safety.”
“And that’s when they wrote the letter we found,” I said.
“Right. They paid Bourbonaise extra to come back with the letter and deliver it, while they planned a rescue mission. But then Bourbonaise dropped out of sight. So then they weren’t sure if he was lying about finding her or not. They thought maybe he’d just run off with the money.”
“But they knew where she was,” Blair said. “Or thought they did. Why not just come here themselves?”
“Remember, this was back in 1935. Communication wasn’t so easy back then, or quick. No cell phones or social media. So, they waited almost a month after Bourbonaise went back to give her the letter. They didn’t hear anything and couldn’t contact him, so her father and uncle came down. But by that time, the brothel had burned down and the property was abandoned.”
“And any trace of Lollie was gone,” Doe surmised.
“Yes,” Rudy said. “Except the father and uncle started asking around on the island. They found a Baptist minister who had taken in one of the other girls who had escaped the night of the fire.”
“Oh my God,” Doe exclaimed. “That was Milton Snyder’s family.” Doe turned to me. “I was going to tell you that I went to see him this afternoon. But go ahead, Rudy. You finish and then I’ll tell you what he told me.”
“Okay. The young prostitute that the minister took in said that Gramley Miller had come for Lollie one night and dragged her out of the attic. She heard Lollie scream a few minutes later. The next day Miller showed up to take away all of her belongings.”
“Wow,” Blair said with a heavy sigh. “So Gramley Miller murdered her.”
“Looks that way,” Rudy said.
“What about Bourbonaise?” Doe asked. “They never heard anything more about him?”
“Well, we know he went back and gave Lollie the note, but he was never heard from after that. I spent some time with both the local police and the Vancouver Sun up there. That’s their biggest and oldest newspaper. Anyway, after the brothel burned, Jack LaRue, a guy who worked for Miller, returned to Canada and used to hang out at a little pub on the outskirts of town. The owner of the pub directed me to an old guy who lives in a nursing home now. He knew some stories about LaRue. He said that LaRue used to talk about how Miller paid him $200 to get rid of Lollie’s body, and then threatened to kill him if he told anyone.”
“Wasn’t that a bit dangerous?” Doe asked. “Telling tales out of school, so-to-speak? Miller could have come after him.”
“I guess he didn’t have any proof that Miller had killed her, and it wasn’t too long after that that Miller died anyway. Did you learn any more from Snyder?”
“Mostly the same stuff, but more on Bourbonaise. The name of the girl who stayed with Snyder’s great-grandfather after the fire was Kristina Fields. She was also from Canada and eventually the Snyders took her back up there. Anyway, she told Grandpa Snyder that she was the one who initially talked to Bourbonaise. Bouronaise paid to take her to a room, but no, he didn’t sleep with her; instead he pumped her for information on Lollie and gave her a little money for the trouble.”
