by JoAnna Carl
“That’s not my concern,” Joe said. “As Lee explained, we’re not interested in proving or disproving anyone’s story. We just want all of you to understand how easily the most innocent fib is uncovered in a town the size of Warner Pier.”
It was at this point that Kathy Street burst into tears. She opened her mouth and cried just like a baby. “Wah!”
What brought this on? I stared at her, surprised. But none of the Pier-O-Ettes seemed upset by the outburst.
Even the impatient Hazel remained patient. “I’ll get her some water,” she said. She jumped up, grabbed Kathy’s empty water glass, and headed for the kitchen. Julie, Aunt Nettie, and Ruby made soothing noises. And Margo put an arm around her and patted her shoulder as if Kathy were a baby.
I saw that Joe was looking panicky. I didn’t know how to reassure him. Men find emotional outbursts terrifying. I made a little gesture I hoped would say, “Stay cool,” but I don’t really know a signal for “This woman’s nuts, but she calms down in a moment.” The two of us sat quietly, not participating in the exciting moment Kathy had created.
After two or three minutes of petting, Kathy began to gulp out words: “It’s all my fault! I did it!” and other phrases indicating that she blamed herself for something.
Hmmm. Hazel, Ruby, and Julie had “confessed.” Margo and Kathy had not. Now Kathy was taking her turn, but none of us could tell what Kathy was confessing to.
When Hazel came back, she brought water and a box of tissues. Kathy blew her nose and began to talk in understandable words.
“It was me, not Margo!”
Every face around the table was blank. Nobody even asked what she was talking about.
“It wasn’t Margo who left the stadium to make those calls—it was me! This gossipy man got the two of us mixed up.”
She clutched Margo’s hand. “It happens all the time! We’re twins, you know! People can’t tell us apart.”
Joe and I exchanged a glance. Margo and Kathy did resemble each other, but they were not identical. It was easy to tell them apart.
But to someone who didn’t know their names, to someone who’d never spoken to them and didn’t realize how different their personalities were—well, in that case they might be confusing.
“Anyway, Margo didn’t do anything wrong! If anything happened, it was my fault!”
Ye gods. Poor Kathy was confessing, and she hadn’t even been accused. If I hadn’t had an untouched dish of chocolate mousse in front of me, I believe I would have banged my forehead on the table.
Margo was standing up. “Come on, Kathy. Let’s go wash your face. Then you’ll feel better. You’re all upset over nothing.”
“But, Margo—”
“It’s all right, Kathy. Come with me. We’ll help you into your comfy housecoat.”
I was again astonished by how gentle and kind Margo was with Kathy. The stronger sister could be impatient and snappy with other people, but with her needy sister—well, it was a bit inspiring to see how sweet Margo was to her.
They went toward the hall, and I watched them go, almost ready to shed a tear over the scene. But just as they reached the doorway, Kathy turned her head and peeked at us over her shoulder.
And the look was sly.
Kathy was checking to see how we’d taken her confession. Had we believed it? Had we been foolish enough to believe it?
I looked around the table and realized Aunt Nettie was talking and everyone but me was concentrating on her. I was the only one who had seen Kathy’s sly look.
I tried to force myself to listen to Aunt Nettie. I realized she was asking Joe about how the guy in my van could have had a key that opened it.
“Lee says he walked right up to the car and opened the door,” she said. “How could that happen?”
“I’m sure the state police are checking on that,” Joe said. “You’d have to ask a locksmith. But I’m sure car thieves have all sorts of tricks they use to get keys.”
She turned to me. “You haven’t lost your key?”
“No. I keep it attached to that ring on the outside of my purse. The state police probably think I just left the door unlocked. But I’m sure I didn’t.”
Joe cleared his throat. “To abruptly introduce an old subject, ladies, I suggest that you contact Lieutenant Jackson and expand your statements. But I don’t think there’s any serious danger that any of you will be suspected in the death of Verna Rice.” He chuckled. “For one thing, I’m sure you were all here together when the phantom motorcyclist chased Lee around downtown Warner Pier between five and six o’clock.”
There was a moment of silence. Then all four of the Pier-O-Ettes still at the table burst into laughter.
Ruby finally spoke. “I told you that scavenger hunt was a bad idea!”
Chapter 16
Joe and I were mystified. Ruby explained.
The high school vocal music coach had given them quite a workout, she said. After two hours of practice, everyone was tired. They all went back to Aunt Nettie’s house and put their feet up. The conversation continued, and it turned to high school entertainments. “Things we used to do.”
Scavenger hunts were mentioned. And how Warner Pier had changed, and how many of the places of their youth had disappeared.
“First thing we knew,” Ruby said, “we were putting places on a list. Then we each volunteered to find one of the places. We were each to take a photo to prove we’d been there.”
They were dying to show Joe and me the photos. Julie had been assigned to locate the old Root Beer Barrel. Joe and I knew exactly where that had been—in fact, he’d once owned the property. The barrel itself was now gone, blown down by a windstorm, and the scrap lumber had been carried away and sold. Julie had found the site of its demise.
Hazel was to document the spot that was once a lovers’ lane. “It was known as the Three Trees,” she said, “because a tree with three trunks grew there.” The spot was still identifiable, although houses had been built nearby.
“Nobody would want to park there now,” Hazel said. “It’s too crowded. But one of the tree trunks is still there.”
Margo and Kathy—ever a pair—were to report on what had become of the Riverside Chapel, once the site of outdoor religious services at which the Pier-O-Ettes sang. It was now a picnic pavilion, I knew.
Ruby, who still lived in Warner Pier, was sent to get a picture of the building that had once housed Berkowitz’s Department Store. “You could buy anything from shoestrings to a hammer at Berkowitz’s,” she said. “I bought my first bra there.”
Joe nodded. “I think my mom’s office is in part of that building,” he said.
“You’re right,” Hazel said. “The downtown has changed so much, I had to go to the library to look at an old city directory to make sure I had the right address. Your mom’s insurance office and that antique store next door now occupy the building. You’d think I’d have known that, since I’ve lived here right along. But it looks completely different, and I wasn’t sure I was remembering right.”
Aunt Nettie said she’d track down the dressing rooms at Warner Pier Beach. The old wooden buildings had been moved years ago, when updated ones were built.
“They were moved to some camp,” she said. “But I never could locate them. Anyway, I guess they’re now on private property. Or torn down.”
Because the group hadn’t started on this project until it was late in the afternoon, it was after dark before any of them got back to Aunt Nettie’s.
They’d all enjoyed the scavenger hunt thoroughly.
But the upshot was that a few fuzzy photos were the only evidence of where the members of the group had been during the time I chased and was chased by the phantom motor-scooter rider.
Nobody had an alibi. Not that they needed one. I felt sure the person I’d chased had been a man.
I told Joe as much on the way home.
“Why are you so sure?” he said.
“Just the way he moved, I guess.
”
“You told Jackson that you couldn’t guess at his height or weight.”
“No, he had on a loose jacket. And that ski mask.”
“A loose jacket could hide a woman as well as a man.”
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t absolutely swear the person had been a man; I just thought so. I guess when you find some jerk hiding in your backseat, you expect it to be a man. I could have been working on that assumption.
I rode the rest of the way home without saying anything. Conversation between Joe and me didn’t have its usual free and easy quality. I was still angry with him.
And Joe still seemed to be angry with me. He thought I’d taken a foolish risk, and he was upset about it. I could understand that, but he hadn’t had to use the S word. “Stupid” was still hanging in the atmosphere, poisoning the air.
I got ready for bed, almost in silence. Joe settled down in the living room, flipped on the television set, and watched some old movie. I went to bed and read. I didn’t go out to the living room and ask when he was coming to bed.
It was two a.m. when I fell asleep, and my final waking thought was that Margo had never admitted that she left the football stadium the night before. Was she hiding something? Or had Kathy’s outburst simply distracted her?
When I dropped off to sleep, Joe was still in the living room. When I woke up at six—briefly—he was in bed. He had apparently taken care not to wake me when he crawled between the covers.
Things were definitely still not right between us. It was hard to believe we hadn’t had a quarrel. But when I looked back at the events of the evening, I realized we hadn’t. We’d just gotten mad.
Were we both sulking? I hoped not. Nothing is more childish—yes, more stupid—than sulking. But I was angry, and I didn’t want to pretend that I wasn’t. It wasn’t going to be easy for me to get over it. I didn’t want to yell and scream about it, and I was trying to act pleasant and normal. But I didn’t feel normal. At all.
That made the next morning, Sunday, hard to face. But it arrived anyway.
And along with breakfast, I thought about a question that still puzzled me. Exactly why had Kathy asked Julie for forgiveness ? She’d made it clear it was something to do with a guy. But who? And just what had happened? I was as nosy as Greg Glossop.
Joe made French toast, without asking me if it sounded good, and we ate it silently. Then Joe told me he was planning to spend the day at the boat shop.
“Fine,” I said. “I need to go to the office and try to get caught up.”
At least Joe left without lecturing me about not doing anything else stupid. He didn’t kiss me good-bye either.
I took my time getting dressed. The first thing I did when I got to the office was call Aunt Nettie and tell her I needed to talk to her. The girls, she said, were going to the Dutch Reformed Church with Hazel, but she’d try to come by on the way. I saw her sedan pull up in front just after ten o’clock.
I opened the shop’s door for her. “I need to be at the church by ten thirty,” she said.
“I have just one question, and the length of the answer is up to you. Why did Kathy apologize to Julie?”
Aunt Nettie’s eyes dodged away from mine. “Did she apologize?”
“Yes. When Julie arrived Friday, everyone ran to the front door to greet her. There was screaming and hugs and all sorts of excitement from four of you. But not from Kathy. Kathy hung back and waited for Julie to make the first move. And after everyone else had given Julie a major greeting, Julie walked over and gave Kathy a hug. And Kathy said, ‘Please forgive me, Julie.’ ”
Aunt Nettie was staring at her hands.
“Oh, Lee, it all happened so many years ago.”
“That’s obvious. But it’s also obvious that Kathy still felt guilty about something. What?”
“It was one of those high school romance things.”
“What? They had a fight over a boy, and Kathy’s still guilt ridden about it? That seems pretty extreme, even for Kathy.”
“It turned out all right. I guess. Julie got wise and dropped the guy. Not because of Kathy! She dropped him earlier.”
“Was Julie engaged to this fellow?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” Aunt Nettie gave an impatient sigh.
“Julie was engaged to a fellow who worked at the Castle. She broke up with him. Somehow Kathy . . . made a play for him. Phin—that was the guy’s name, Phin Vandercamp—later joined the army. He was killed in Vietnam.”
“How sad!”
“Yes, it was tragic.” Aunt Nettie leaned forward and dropped her voice. “But I never had much use for Phin, especially after the Kathy episode. I thought he—well, he definitely lacked moral fiber. I’m sorry he was killed, but I never thought he was good enough for Julie. Or Kathy.”
Aunt Nettie left then, and I went back to my computer. But before I started on my accounts receivable, I yielded to curiosity one more time. I called up Google and typed in “Phineas Vandercamp.”
At least the assistant manager’s name hadn’t been John Smith. It took only a few seconds for a reference to come up.
“Warner County War Memorial.”
I clicked on the page. It was a part of the Web page of the Veterans of Foreign Wars group from Dorinda, our county seat.
“The Dorinda VFW is a primary sponsor of the Warner County War Memorial,” it read. “The Memorial was established after World War I, and new panels have been added for each American armed conflict. Over the years, approximately fifty young men and one young woman from Warner County have given their lives for their country. Their names are listed on the memorial.
“In addition, a listing of young men killed in the Civil War may be found at the Dorinda Cemetery.”
In larger letters it added, “Their Nation Honors Their Sacrifice.”
I now remembered seeing the memorial. It was in the northeast corner of the courthouse square. A life-sized statue of a World War I soldier was in the middle, and panels inscribed with names stood on either side.
The Web page continued with a listing of names, sorted by “armed conflict.” Among the Vietnam listings I found Phineas Vandercamp.
How sad. And how odd that neither the Pier-O-Ettes nor the Castle’s two bouncers had mentioned him as they talked about the old days. Or was it? If the whole group knew that he’d dallied with Kathy despite his link to Julie, they might not have thought it tactful to bring him up.
I closed the VFW site and went to the Warner Pier Gazette’s site. I knew that all the obituaries it had run for the past seventy-five years were accessible online. I called up Phineas Vandercamp.
Phineas had been killed eighteen months after Dan Rice was found shot to death at the Castle Ballroom. He had been twenty-three years old. Details in that first report were a bit sketchy, though knowing exactly where and how he was killed wouldn’t have told me much. I was more interested in the account of his life, and I found them in a more formal obituary in the next issue.
Specialist Vandercamp was born in Warner Pier and was a Warner Pier High School graduate, the obituary said. He had attended college for two years. He had worked as assistant manager of the Castle Ballroom. I subtracted his birth date from the date of Dan Rice’s death and realized he had been barely past his twenty-first birthday when he worked at the Castle. I wondered what his duties had been.
After the Castle closed, Phin Vandercamp had apparently abandoned or postponed his plans for college and had enlisted in the army instead. He reported for duty with the U.S. Army the next fall. He had been sent to Vietnam about a year later, just two months before he was killed.
“Tragic,” I said aloud.
The list of survivors included his parents and a brother, Victor Vandercamp.
Again I thought it was sad that Phin Vandercamp’s name hadn’t come up in the reminiscences at Aunt Nettie’s house. He must be a painful memory.
Maybe these thoughts inspired the rather odd thing I did next. Or maybe it wasn’t odd. After all, it�
�s well-known that I’m the nosiest person in Warner Pier—and there’s quite a lot of competition for that title. But that morning I surpassed myself.
I called Shep Stone’s cell phone number.
He answered quickly.
“Shep? This is Lee Woodyard. I have a question for you. Is this a good time?”
“Actually, no. I’ll call you back.” Click.
No excuses, no reasons. Just click. Hmmm.
I got started on my own work, but about a half hour later Shep knocked at the front door. I let him in.
“I guess I need chocolate,” he said.
“What flavor?”
He picked a mocha pyramid (“milky chocolate interior in a dark chocolate pyramid”) and I added one of the souvenir items—a dark chocolate pastille in the shape of a mortarboard. I had made a small pot of coffee when I arrived, so I got him a cup before I asked what had brought on his craving for chocolate.
“I just spent an hour with the Michigan State Police,” he said. “They asked me not to leave town. It seems they think I might be some guy who chased you last night.”
“Oh.” I thought about that. “I hadn’t considered you for the role.”
“That’s a mercy!” He bit his mocha pyramid. “I was alone in a motel room, so I don’t have an alibi. But they didn’t explain exactly what happened to you.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it.” I suddenly had a vivid memory of the guy in the ski mask walking up to the door of the van—with a key in his hand—and I shuddered. No. I didn’t want to talk about it.
Shep immediately looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Lee. I shouldn’t have come here and bugged you.”
“No! It’s all right. I called you, remember.”
“Here I am. You said you had a question. Ask away.”
“I just learned from Aunt Nettie that Julie Hensley was engaged to the assistant manager of the Castle.”
