Bad Moon (Kat Campbell Mysteries)

by Ritter, Todd

  “What else did the report say?”

  “That in 1990, one Maggie Olmstead of Perry Hollow contacted the Fairmount police department. She claimed the Dennis Kepner case was related to one involving her son.”

  At least Nick now had confirmation that Maggie did tell the police about her suspicions. Since he and Tony were still looking into it, clearly nothing had been done.

  “I guess they didn’t believe her,” he said.

  “Not really. They did some poking around. Called Perry Hollow PD. Tried to talk to the chief.”

  “Kat’s father?”

  Tony shook his head. “He had just died. There was no chief at the time, which is apparently another reason this slipped through the cracks. Perry Hollow PD was in disarray. All the Fairmount guys learned was that the Charlie Olmstead case had been ruled an accident years ago. With the Kepner boy, they suspected from the beginning that abduction was involved.”

  Which, as far as Nick knew, was different from the cases involving the other boys. He thought of the waterfalls, unfriendly forests, and abandoned mines police assumed had swallowed them. “Why did they think that?

  “They searched every inch of this park and found nothing.” Tony raised his arms and swept them outward. “And there’s not a hell of a lot to search. They also brought in bloodhounds, which lost the boy’s scent as soon as they entered the park.”

  Nick looked to his left, where the duck pond sat. It was small—about the size of a hotel swimming pool—and probably not very deep. Still, he had to ask, “Did they dredge the pond?”

  “If you count stepping in there with waders on and kicking around, then yeah, they dredged the pond.”

  “Did anyone consider that maybe he just ran away from home?” Nick asked.

  “I asked Sophie Kepner that same thing. She said Dennis was as happy as a ten-year-old could be. He had friends. He was doing fine at school. There was no household strife he was dealing with.”

  “So no reason to flee his happy home?”

  “None,” Tony said. “Plus, we both know runaways are usually older. Midteens and beyond. The kid was just ten. And runaways also take things with them. Clothes. Money. Personal items they can’t live without. According to Mrs. Kepner, the only thing missing from Dennis’s room were the clothes he was wearing and a model rocket.”

  “A rocket?”

  “The police report described it as wrought iron, painted white, about four inches tall. Dennis had scratched his name on the side with his father’s pocketknife. One of the boy’s teachers told police he had brought it to school that day, on account of Apollo 12 landing on the moon. She said Dennis had it with him when they watched the moon walk on TV in the school auditorium. It usually sat on his nightstand, which is why Mrs. Kepner later noticed it was missing.”

  “What does she think happened to it?”

  “That Dennis took it with him into the park. And it disappeared. Just like him.”

  Hearing this prompted another question from Nick, although one not directly related to Dennis Kepner. “One thing I’m not clear about is why you’re telling me all of this.”

  Tony stopped again. He looked at Nick, eyes slowly drifting to the cane he no doubt had chipped in money to buy.

  “Because you got a raw deal, Nick. Everyone knows it. And you’re the best investigator I know. So your help in this matter would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Does that mean I’m once again working with the state police?”

  “Unofficially, yes,” Tony said. “Officially, no. Because Gloria would kill me, even though you did the right thing by telling us what was going on. We owe you. Big-time.”

  Nick should have told him that calling Gloria Ambrose had been Kat’s idea, but he didn’t want to spoil Tony’s generous mood. “When did the police give up on the Kepner case?”

  “They never really did. You know how it goes.”

  Yes, Nick knew how it went. Cops looked for days, which turned into weeks, which eventually became months. They vowed to keep looking. They promised families they wouldn’t stop. But time moves on and man’s inhumanity to man marches in lockstep along with it. More crimes take precedence. More murders occur. Time continues to tick by. Before long, decades have passed and an unsolved mystery remains just that.

  “So what’s next on your agenda?” Nick asked Tony.

  “I’m going to Lasher Mill State Park. It’s about fifteen minutes out of town.”

  “I know,” Nick said. “It’s my next stop, too.”

  The park, where Noah Pierce vanished more than fourteen months after Dennis Kepner, made him curious. It was February when Noah disappeared and, according to the newspaper article about him, snowy. He knew the boy, a native of Florida, wanted to play in the snow. But his grandparents lived in Fairmount, which because of its close proximity also had snow. So why the unnecessary trip?

  “What was the park’s appeal? I mean, it was most likely too cold for hiking.”

  “For hiking, yes,” Tony said. “But not for sledding.”

  Nick didn’t need to ask how Tony knew this. Looking at the police report on the Pierce boy was the only way.

  They had reached the part of the path that dove directly through the pines. From the way the trees’ branches intertwined, it looked more like a tunnel than an open-air walkway. Adding to the tunnel effect was the way the path curved slightly to the left. Standing at the entrance, Nick couldn’t see the exit on the other side.

  He and Tony headed into the thick of it. The lower branches of the pines reached out and brushed their legs. Nick swatted them away with his cane.

  “Did the file on Dennis Kepner mention these trees?”

  “Yeah,” Tony said. “It mentioned how a couple of officers were on their hands and knees sifting through pine needles.”

  “So these were around in 1969?”

  “Unless it was raining pine needles, then I guess they were. Why?”

  Nick told him about losing sight of the woman with the dog earlier as she walked the very same path. “From the Kepner side of the street, this section of the park is a visual dead zone.”

  “I wonder,” Tony said, “how it looks from the other side.”

  He veered off the path, cutting through the thicket on the right. The land there was slanted, rising until it was about three feet higher than the path. Nick followed, even though he knew he was going to get whacked in the face by a branch.

  He was wrong. He was whacked in the face by two branches.

  The second one came as Tony burst out of the trees. Nick did the same, although since he had sap in his eyes, he really wasn’t paying attention to where he was going.

  “Nick! Watch out!”

  Tony’s shout came from behind him. Approaching from the left was the unmistakable blare of a car horn. Nick jerked his head in the direction of the noise, seeing a UPS truck about ten feet away. He felt a tug on his collar as Tony yanked him backward.

  Looking down, Nick saw that as soon as the trees ended, the street began. There was no grass berm or sidewalk. Just a length of street lined with row houses on the other side.

  “Dude, what the hell are you doing?” It was the UPS driver, who had stopped the van in front of them. “You could have gotten killed.”

  Nick raised a hand to signal he was okay. “Sorry about that. My fault.”

  Looking up at the truck, he noticed how it temporarily blocked out the row houses across the street. He assumed the vehicle also did the same thing for anyone watching from those homes. He couldn’t see them. They couldn’t see him. And if he climbed into that truck right now, he was all but certain that anyone on the other side of it couldn’t see him leave.

  “Hey, Tony,” he said. “I think I know how Dennis Kepner vanished.”

  FIFTEEN

  When Kat knocked on Glenn Stewart’s door, she didn’t expect an answer. Which was good, considering she didn’t get one. Had it been someone else’s house, she would have assumed no one was home. But sinc
e it was the town’s recluse she was dealing with, she knew Glenn was there.

  Only he wasn’t responding, not even when she pounded on the door a second time and called out, “Mr. Stewart? This is the police. I need to talk to you.”

  Once again, she got the same haunted sensation as the day before. Dead-end streets always felt a little abandoned, but on this one the feeling was especially acute. She wondered, not for the first time, if it was Glenn Stewart’s presence that made it this way or the other way around. Perhaps he only became reclusive because the lonely cul-de-sac demanded it.

  She knocked one more time, knowing it was fruitless, and stepped off the porch. Moving backward toward the street, she craned her neck to look up at the rickety house Glenn called home. Its absurd height and proud dilapidation made Kat think of the Addams Family. Only they would have had more fun with the place. A guillotine in the front yard. A cauldron of boiling oil on the roof, ready to drop on unwelcome visitors. Mr. Stewart was content to just let it rot.

  Kat waded into the knee-high weeds that made up the house’s yard. Her presence stirred up the army of animals living within it. A rabbit sprinted out of hiding and took shelter underneath the porch. Late-summer grasshoppers leaped from the blades and descended a few feet away. A garter snake, fattened by all the available bounty, slithered toward the woods that ran along the edge of the yard.

  She moved around the side of the house and into the backyard, where the grass was lower and the wildlife less prominent. But it was louder there, with the roar of Sunset Falls blasting through the woods. Kat caught glimpses of it through the trees, streaks of water descending rapidly.

  There wasn’t much to see in the backyard—a woodpile, a clothesline, a meager strip of garden that proved Glenn Stewart stepped outside at least sometimes. He also apparently drove. A rusted Volkswagen van sat under a carport that had seen better days. Kat didn’t know if the van was in running condition—it certainly didn’t look drivable—but it had to have been at some point.

  Peering upward again, she saw the widow’s walk perched on the center of the roof like an antique hat. It was higher than the trees and probably provided a good view of both the waterfall and the bridge just upstream from it. Had Glenn been up there that night, he could have seen Charlie Olmstead pedaling innocently on his bike toward the falls.

  But he had told the police he was asleep at that hour, an alibi that could neither be confirmed nor denied. He could have been lying, of course. He could have been up on that widow’s walk, watching the neighbor boy make his way toward the bridge. Then he could have climbed down from his perch, rushed through the woods, and snuck up behind the unsuspecting boy.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The voice, suddenly breaking the silence of the yard, startled Kat.

  “Mr. Stewart? Is that you?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  The voice wasn’t angry. It didn’t contain enough emotion for that. It was more flat and weary, as if its owner had been expecting her presence for a very long time. Shielding her eyes, Kat tried to pinpoint where it was coming from. Rows of windows ran along all three stories of the house. Most of them were closed. One, on the second floor, was open, but the shade had been drawn.

  “I’m Chief Campbell, with the Perry Hollow police.”

  “I know,” the voice said. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’m here to talk about Charlie Olmstead.”

  The shade covering the window—as yellowed and brittle as parchment—rose slowly. Mr. Stewart stood just beyond it, a shadowy figure with no discernible features. The only thing Kat could see clearly was an animal nestled in Glenn’s arms. Much longer than a cat, it had slick brown fur dotted with patches of white. Tiny paws swatted the air, and when the animal poked its head into the light, Kat saw a band of black across its eyes.

  Glenn Stewart was holding a ferret.

  “That’s a beautiful animal.”

  The shadow in the window moved slightly, head tipping forward in a nod. “The compliment is appreciated.”

  “May I come inside and see it?”

  “You may not.”

  “It would be helpful if we could speak face-to-face.”

  “We are,” Glenn replied. “In a sense.”

  Kat sighed. “Did you know the Olmsteads well?”

  “No. As you can tell, I prefer not to socialize.”

  “Why is that?” Kat knew there had to be a reason. Agoraphobia was the most likely one. Plain old insanity also could have been the cause.

  “Personal preference.”

  “Do you ever go outside?”

  “I do,” Glenn said. “But not in the daytime. I don’t particularly care for the sun.”

  “How do you get your groceries?”

  “They’re delivered to my door every Tuesday. You can ask the manager at the Shop and Save.”

  “When was the last time you left the house?”

  “Chief Campbell, these don’t sound like questions about Charles Olmstead.”

  “Fine,” Kat said. “In 1969, you told my father you were asleep when he disappeared. Is that true?”

  “If I said it to the police, then it must be.”

  “And you didn’t see anything that night? Hear anything suspicious?”

  “If I had,” Glenn said, “I would have reported it to your father.”

  Kat was keenly aware that he was being annoying on purpose, hoping he’d wear out her patience and make her leave. What Glenn Stewart didn’t know is that she was the mother of an eleven-year-old boy with special needs. Patience was the chief job requirement, and she could wait out behavior that would bring other mothers to tears.

  “Why weren’t you watching the moon landing like everyone else?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because it was historic,” Kat said.

  “It was foolish,” Glenn countered. “Man wasn’t meant to go to the moon. Not back then and certainly not now.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s not God’s will. Of all the creatures on earth, humans are the only ones who think they’re better than nature, that they can overcome it. Of course, they’re wrong. Any attempt to prove otherwise is a violation of what God created.”

  “A violation?”

  “Of course,” Glenn said. “Some things are best left undisturbed. If God had intended us to walk upon the moon, he would have given us that ability.”

  “But he did give us that ability,” Kat replied. “Through science, knowledge, and critical thinking, man learned that ability.”

  “I don’t think we’re discussing the same God. Not that it matters. We’ve spoken enough. Good day.”

  The shade began to descend slowly, blocking Mr. Stewart’s silhouette and the ferret still in his arms. Before it was fully down, Kat blurted out, “I have one more question.”

  The shade halted its descent. Glenn Stewart’s voice emanated from the six-inch space between the shade’s bottom and the windowsill. “Yes?”

  “What happened to you in Vietnam?”

  “Enlightenment,” Glenn said. “Glorious enlightenment.”

  He lowered the shade the rest of the way, leaving Kat alone in his yard. Resigned to defeat, she trudged to the front of the house. When she reached the street, she found herself facing the former Clark residence. The FOR SALE sign in the yard swayed slightly in the breeze. The photograph of Ginger Schultz, Perry Hollow’s only Realtor, moved with it, a blur of chubby cheeks and bad perm.

  Kat crossed the street and steadied the sign. She then pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number emblazoned across the bottom of the sign. Ginger herself answered with a perky and unabashedly scripted “Schultz Realty. Let me find you a dream home.”

  Kat already had a dream home, thank you very much. Yet she pretended otherwise as she greeted her old school friend.

  “Ginger? It’s Kat Campbell. There’s a house for sale in town that I want to take a l
ook at.”

  *

  Some people are born to be Realtors. Ginger Schultz was one of them. Plump and friendly, she expressed awe and excitement about everything from Kat’s uniform to the azalea bush outside the former home of Mort and Ruth Clark.

  “It’s beautiful in early summer,” she said while unlocking the front door. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

  Ginger held the door open and Kat stepped inside, taking a good look around. The house was devoid of furniture, carpeting, even color. Their footfalls rose from the hardwood floors, bounced off the ceiling, and died against walls painted a blinding white.

  “There are so many things you can do with this space,” Ginger said as they moved to a living room as clean and bare as a monastery. “It’s so versatile. I assume that’s what you’re looking for. Versatility. You never did tell me why you’re interested in this place.”

  Kat wasn’t quite sure herself. She didn’t think the Clarks had anything to do with Charlie Olmstead or any of the other missing boys, and she was certain there’d be no clues to be gleaned from the house even if they did. She was more interested in the sight lines their home offered. If the Clarks had intriguing views of the Santangelo residence or Glenn Stewart’s house, she wanted to know what they were.

  “James and I are getting tired of our place,” she lied. “We’re thinking about finding something with more space.”

  “This has oodles of space. I think you two would love it here.”

  In the kitchen, Kat gave a cursory glance at the cupboards and peeked under the sink just for show. Then it was upstairs, where she bypassed the bathroom for the two bedrooms. The largest one fronted the street, with two windows that faced the homes across from it. The window on the right provided a diagonal view of the Olmstead house. Kat peered out of it, looking for signs that Eric had returned. She saw nothing.

  She moved to the window on the left, which offered a head-on view of Glenn Stewart’s place. Its large, eyelike windows blankly stared back.

  “This house was built in 1940 by the original owners,” Ginger said.