Thackery “Thacky” Olsen III was the oldest son in the Olsen family, owners of the largest trucking business in the county. In August of 1951, as part of the Old North Church’s welcoming committee, Mrs. Olsen sent her son Thacky to the train station to greet the newest addition to Portico Community Schools’ teaching staff, Miss Enora Roman, and show her around town.
After their initial meeting, Enora and Thacky were seen together daily, and rumors spread that they were more than friends.
And so, on the morning of November 5, when the principal of the school reported Enora Roman missing, police officers went directly to the Olsen Trucking office.
Thacky Olsen, visibly upset, led them straight to the Witch’s Throne.
There, at 11:17 a.m., Enora Roman was found dead at the base of the Witch’s Throne, strangled by her own scarf, ten weeks after she arrived in Portico—and three days after she had sat on the Witch’s Throne.
Thacky admitted to the police that he told Enora the legend of the Witch’s Throne. The two of them had driven out there more than once after sunset. Enora had been drawn to it, fascinated by the story, and that only three days ago, she had climbed up and sat on the Throne to tease him, to try to scare him.
Despite his alibi, Thacky Olsen remained the only suspect in Enora Roman’s murder. There were simply no other leads. Enora had been a loner, an introvert. Whatever you called her, she had made no other close ties in Portico.
Thacky was Enora’s only friend.
No other person could give any clue as to what might have happened. The only other explanation was that a random stranger passed through town, somehow targeted Enora, and killed her for an unknown reason.
Wanda Olsen was twelve years old when her brother Thacky was questioned by police regarding the murder of Enora Roman. She remembers those closing months of 1951 as some of the worst she ever endured
The Olsen family suffered over months of grief and shame, so much so that—even though Thacky was never officially arrested—the Olsens closed the trucking business by the end of that year and moved their family to California. No member of the family ever returned to Portico.
Except the youngest, Wanda. After moving the family, her parents both died within eighteen months. While her older siblings stayed in California, Wanda returned, married her childhood sweetheart Arthur Willis, and maintained—over the next half century—her brother’s innocence.
Interview with Wanda Olsen Willis
Wanda: We had a family dinner that evening. Sunday. Thacky skipped church, went to Medford with Enora, but then she dropped him at home around three.
George: She wasn’t invited to the family dinner?
Wanda: No, none of us liked her that well. Thought she was better than anyone in town. She was always quoting books, or speaking in French, when she bothered to speak to us at all.
George: Was Thacky angry that Enora wasn’t invited that day?
Wanda: I don’t know. I never asked him. He should have been grateful for that family dinner. His whole family gave him an alibi for that night. That’s what got him released. Police had no evidence whatsoever to suspect him, only that he was the last to see her.
George: What did he think happened to Enora?
Wanda: He never said. He didn’t talk about Enora, even before what happened. When anyone asked him about her or referred to his “girlfriend,” he just clammed up. That’s how he was. Shy, easily embarrassed. He’d never had a serious girlfriend before.
But that winter, Thacky wouldn’t talk about anything. He stopped speaking altogether. People in town were awful about it, the accusations. The rumors. My entire family suffered. It got worse when he left.
George: Where did your brother go?
Wanda: He never said, just disappeared one morning. We think he went to find her family, her old friends, anyone who might know what happened to her. Anyone who might have wanted to hurt her.
George: And did he?
Wanda: No, he never came back to Portico again. He’d call every Sunday, but he only talked to Tom, my next older brother. Mom and Dad wouldn’t speak to him.
Tom told everyone Thacky was coming back, that he’d gone to Chicago to find out who might want to kill her. Tom was convinced that Thacky would figure it out, that he was coming back to clear his name.
But weeks passed, then months. Then a Sunday when Thacky didn’t call. Then another. Tom stopped talking about it. I think the last phone call was right before Christmas 1952.
George: What do you think happened to Thacky?
Wanda: I think he gave up, that’s what I think. Because of that woman, his life was ruined. My brother had nothing to do with that woman’s death. She brought it on herself.
George: What do you mean?
Wanda: She acted like she knew everything, you know. Always quoting books, speaking in foreign languages. Latin, she said. Or she’d recite a poem in Greek. I think maybe she was mixed up in witchcraft. She read all kinds of strange books, that’s what Betty Calvert at the library said. And she never went to church. Then she sat on that Throne, thought she was smarter than anyone, anything. But she wasn’t, was she? She wasn’t smarter than the Witch’s curse. And that’s what killed her.
George: Are you saying Enora Roman was a witch? Or that she was killed by witches?
Wanda: She was killed by that curse. She sat on the Throne, and the curse got her.
George: You sound very certain.
Wanda: Beverly Donneville came and spoke to me. She was a great comfort. She said Thacky was at peace.
George: What about Enora Roman? Was Beverly Donneville able to contact her?
Wanda: She said Enora was beyond the shadow where she dares not reach.
(End of interview)
Where else can we look for Thacky? On his last phone call, his brother reported him in Chicago, unemployed, in 1952. His siblings have scattered across the country, according to Wanda. She lost touch with them all and isn’t even sure who’s still alive.
Also, we know next to nothing about Enora. What about her family?
We know she was smart, outspoken, and so, like Adeline Tenatree, the town ostracized her. They found a way to place blame on her instead of finding her killer.
No one wants to believe a young, decent man from a well-known family would murder his girlfriend, so they found a more acceptable, no matter how farfetched, explanation.
To Do:
Search for information on Enora Roman. (her family? Any connection to witchcraft?)
Search for more information on Thackery Olsen III (Cook County death records?)
Talk to Officer Tims about talismans found at site around the time of Randle Garrety’s death.
Write draft of first chapter — DON’T put this off!!
Give me this journal back when you’re done. I want to go over what I have so far, and I need to add a few details about Margaret St. Ives.
CHAPTER TEN | OCTOBER 27
Martin Fisher’s log cabin is the same—but different. Instead of secluded and rustic, it seems restful and welcoming. And then I notice the slight changes. Mulched flowerbeds border the porch steps and path leading from the road. A wooden cutout of an elderly couple’s backsides decorates the bed to the right of the front door, the woman in a red polka dot dress with white bloomers, the man in denim overalls. The lawn decorations are bright and vibrant, brand new.
Mitch, Rita, and I walk up the short path to the cabin, passing elaborate and freshly-painted bird houses on tall poles and several hummingbird feeders filled to the brim with clear syrup. On the porch, the single chair and stump table have been replaced with a new sitting area: two cushioned Adirondack chairs and a wicker table between.
I stop at the front steps and look down at the cemetery road, the bridge over the creek, the people gathered around the Throne. We’re high enough that I can see into the center of the crowd. Two cameras on dollies flank the Throne and, small but distinct, Beverly Donneville walks in flowing white robes. I hea
r the collective hum of voices chanting.
“What a circus,” says Mitch. He’s on the porch. I hear the squeak of the screen’s hinges as he opens it and pounds on the front door.
No answer.
Mitch pounds again, and a man’s voice shouts something muffled from inside.
“We don’t want to bother you,” Mitch shouts at the door. “Just a minute of your time.”
The door swings wide open so suddenly that Mitch stumbles back on the step. A young man wearing faded jeans ripped open at the knees and a sleeveless white t-shirt scowls at us. He’s barefoot and bright-eyed, smooth skin freshly shaved, but his yellow hair is a messy nest of bedhead, as if he’s just risen. He’s gripping a can of Coors Light.
“Fuck awwww….” The “off” drags on until he notices me standing behind Rita and falls silent.
“We’re looking for Martin Fisher,” says Rita.
The man continues to stare at me, wide-eyed.
“Hi,” Rita tries again. “I’m Rita Chase. This is Mitch DeLuca and…”
The man is nodding. A smile erupts on his face. “Thea Drake. I know exactly who you are.” He steps back and waves us inside with his beer can. “Come in, come in. Yeah, I’m Jeremy, Martin’s nephew. Come in, he’s inside.”
We file indoors.
Heavy curtains cover the single front window, blocking all but a thin ray of morning sunlight. The aroma of bacon, coffee, and tobacco lingers. The atmosphere is male and rustic, except for the enormous flat screen television on the left wall showing The Price is Right. A wood burning stove is tucked into the front corner, and to my right, a counter separates the living area from a sparse kitchen.
The cabin is crammed with overstuffed faux-leather furniture. Facing the television are two matching armchairs, one supporting a reclined Martin Fisher watching The Price is Right.
“Have a seat.” Jeremy gestures to the couch on the back wall, a brown monstrosity from which, I realize as soon as I sink into it, I will never extract myself without assistance. Rita, wiser than me, perches on the edge of the couch where she still has control of her mobility. Mitch remains standing.
Martin Fisher’s watery eyes are fixed on the game show. He has not yet acknowledged our presence. He slouches in the chair, a bit hunched to one side, but his hair is neatly combed, his face freshly shaved. He wears a red flannel shirt with the telltale circle of a container of chewing tobacco visible at the pocket, and his lap is covered in an orange and brown crocheted throw.
“Something to drink?” asks Jeremy Fisher. I presume he’s addressing all of us, but he looks directly at me.
“No, thank you,” says Rita.
He smiles at me, waiting.
“Um…no thanks.”
My answer satisfies. He slumps into the recliner next to his uncle. Martin Fisher still won’t look at me. He grunts, his eyes on the television.
“Mr. Fisher,” Mitch says loudly to the old man still glaring at the flashing screen of the television. “Can we speak with you?”
Jeremy lowers his beer can, eyeing Mitch. “You all don’t know... My uncle had a stroke.” He smiles at me sadly. “Happened the same night your husband died.”
“That same night?” asks Mitch.
Jeremy nods. “That’s why I’m still here. I take care of him now.”
“You’re not from Portico?” asks Rita.
He laughs. “No, man. Lived with my mom in Sacramento until four months ago. Never been to Portico in my life, but my grandpa used to tell stories about his crazy-ass brother lived up here in the woods.”
He leans closer to me, talks in a low voice as if revealing a secret. “I loved The Demon Cabin. Read it about twenty times in high school. So, when I find out George Drake’s going to be in Portico? I show up here, ask my long-lost uncle if I can stay a couple days.”
“And he let you?” asks Mitch.
Jeremy shrugs. “I think the old guy needed help. He let me stay if I did yard work, drove him places.” He leans back, crossing his feet at the ankles, and sniffs loudly. “I’m his home health care provider.”
He throws his head back and chugs the rest of his beer, then crushes the can in his fist and throws it behind his head. The can clatters in the open garbage can at the edge of the kitchen counter. He lifts the lid of a small red cooler by his chair.
“So,” he says. He pauses to crack open another beer and slurp the foam. “Here’s what I think.” He holds up his first finger. “Jesse Root, the first one. Little kid, right? Fell in the creek. Kids got scared and froze. Adults don’t want to take the blame for not watching the kids, so they let this curse thing ride.”
Our silence doesn’t seem to concern him. He continues counting death on his fingers.
“Enora Roman, killed by her boyfriend. Margaret St. Ives, slit her wrists. Michael Poste, shot himself.”
I wince at each horrid detail, but he doesn’t notice. Rita puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Now Poste…” Jeremy holds his beer can out at arm’s length toward Martin, “Uncle Martin was the one who found him. Did you know that?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s holding his hand up now, all five fingers splayed.
“Jane Simmons, abducted, maybe not even dead.” He peels a finger away from his beer, counting out the sixth death. “Randle Garrety, car accident.”
“You know a lot about the Throne deaths,” says Rita.
“It’s all online. The website that witch lady runs.”
“You mean Sosie Powell?” I ask. “PorticoWitch.com?”
“Sure. I mean, that site’s bullshit. It buys into the curse, but all the details of each death are there. Every person who died at the Throne.” He drops his hands. “That’s why you’re here, right? Research? To finish the book?”
“We’re here to find out what happened to George,” says Mitch.
“He fell, right? Hit his head.”
“What happened that night?” asks Rita. “When your uncle had the stroke. Were the Donnevilles here?”
“They were in town, sure. They showed up when they heard George Drake was here, just like me. But they weren’t filming at the Throne that night. Or that day that I remember.”
“Where were you?”
“When?”
“All that day. That night.”
“Me? Here until about five. Went to the Corner. Came home a little after ten and found my uncle unconscious.” He does a full body shudder, kicking his legs on the footstool. “Thought he was dead. I’d been here three days, and I come home to find my uncle on the living room floor. Thought I’d be accused of murdering the old man for his money or something. Thank God he was alive.”
“Does your uncle have a lot of money?” Mitch asks.
“He does all right, I guess. Gets an Army pension and social security, and Medicare covers most of his doctor bills. I know he’s got those Donnevilles sending him money, but he’s got a lawyer that handles that. Could be millions, for all I know. Alls I get is an allowance for food and stuff, plus my stipend as his caregiver.”
“Did you use your stipend for this new furniture?” asks Rita.
“He needed an upgrade. He was watching Price is Right on a black and white from his duct-taped lawn chair when I got here.”
“Did he ask you to stay with him before he had the stroke?”
“Yeah. Said I could stay as long as I wanted. Like I said, I think he was getting too old to take care of stuff around here. Or maybe it’s like he knew he was in for it, and sure enough, he had that stroke a few days after I come. No major surprise, I guess. He is an old badger.”
Rita clears her throat. “Can he still communicate?”
“Sort of.”
Rita turns to Martin Fisher who continues to stare at the television. “Mr. Fisher, might we ask you a few questions about the night George Drake died?”
No response.
Jeremy shrugs. “Guess he’s giving you the silent treatment.”
“Mind if I take
a few pictures outside?” Mitch asks.
“Knock yourself out.”
He leaves through the front door.
Jeremy opens the cooler but lets the lid fall closed. “Shit. Empty.” He pushes up from the recliner. “Sure you don’t want something?”
“No, thank you,” says Rita, standing to follow Mitch.
“I’ll have one,” I say.
They both stare at me. A half-second later, Jeremy Fisher recovers, “Awesome, be right back.”
Behind the counter, I hear his bare feet slap on the vinyl flooring, the tinkle of jars in the fridge door as he opens and ducks behind it.
Rita leans over and hisses in my ear. “What are you doing?”
I lay my head back on the couch, sink in a little deeper, and don’t answer.
Jeremy appears with a can of beer in a Styrofoam can holder that says Portico Fire Dept. He tucks his can under his arm and pops mine open before handing it to me.
I am enveloped in an overstuffed couch that smells, not unpleasantly, like minty chewing tobacco. I notice Jeremy Fisher’s eyes are the same warm brown as the faux-leather but with purple shadows beneath, as though he doesn’t sleep well.
“Here you go,” he says softly. “You like The Price is Right? We can change the channel.”
“I love this show.”
Rita, still standing over me, clears her throat.
“Go ahead. I’ll just be a minute,” I say.
She sighs and sits back on the arm of the couch.
Jeremy settles back into the recliner. I tuck my legs up under me, getting comfortable. I sip the beer, and the taste of it is exquisite, the novelty of it at nine in the morning, like camping with George during the early years of our marriage.
The Witch's Throne (Thea Drake Mystery Book 1) (Thea Drake Mysteries) Page 11
