Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3)

by Derek Ciccone

  She could see the threads of Hastings’ mind fray a little more. He needed a drink, and headed to a wet bar to pour himself a scotch. She declined his offer to pour her one, but he brought her a glass anyway—he really didn’t like to be told no. By the time they clinked glasses in honor of a “successful day,” he’d regained his composure. Gwen took a sip of the drink, and swore it was the same stuff she used to remove nail polish.

  He laughed at her reaction, as the scotch burned her throat, and caused her face to convulse.

  “Come on, let’s get you some fresh air,” he said and led her out onto the terrace.

  She didn’t think it was possible for the view to get better, but it did. The spectacular city lights were dizzying, and seemed to go on forever. The night air felt cool on her bare shoulders.

  “If you don’t mind—what type of information did JP have that was so important? I don’t mean to sound nosy, but my family is directly affected by this case, whether we like it or not.”

  “I can’t really get into the details—I’m sure you can understand that—but basically JP believes he now has the evidence to prove that Poca is the one behind Thomas Archibald’s death.”

  He looked distraught. “Are you okay?” Gwen asked.

  “It’s just that I met with Poca today. I can’t believe after all these years I’m still falling for her lies.”

  Gwen knew the moment that JP bluffed about the security video, that Hastings was working on a cover story, or at least some version of damage control. It forced him to admit that he was there.

  She feigned a confused look. “How is that possible? You were with me all day.”

  “When you were getting your hair done, I received a call from Poca. She was in the city, supposedly having a rendezvous with her latest boyfriend at a brownstone in Upper Manhattan. It wasn’t until I was leaving that she told me it was JP’s place.”

  He was truly worried about this security video—too bad it didn’t exist!

  “What are you saying?”

  “That I thought I was involved in a private conversation, and my family’s personal matters were discussed. Since JP has found the evidence he needed, I was hoping he might back off his pursuit of the security video.”

  “I guess that would depend on what was said on it.”

  “I accused Poca of being the mastermind behind this, just as I’d suggested to you this morning. They couldn’t pin Archie’s disappearance on me back in 1959, so they are trying to connect his death to my family in the present.”

  “What was her response to your accusations?”

  “That someone else is behind it … who is trying to hurt both of us.”

  Gwen hated when guys used war metaphors, but since JP started it … “Like a rogue nation getting hold of a nuclear weapon and holding you hostage?”

  “That would be one way to put it.”

  “Why would someone want to do that?”

  “The obvious answer is that they wouldn’t, and Poca is lying. But I can only focus on what I do know—for Thomas Archibald to end up in that river, somebody obviously had knowledge of his whereabouts all these years, and that person or persons was likely behind his death. And since it wasn’t me, that leaves only Poca or this so-called third party. It doesn’t matter which—I’m going to do whatever it takes to protect my family … just as I’ve always done.”

  He paused, staring intently at her, as if to make sure she heard his words.

  Gwen nodded. “As a journalist, it does matter to me who is behind it, and you’ve become a trusted source on the story. So I will do what I can to convince JP to honor your privacy.”

  “That would be much appreciated,” he said with a look of relief, and placed his cold hand on her shoulder. She suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

  He looked at his empty glass, and suggested, “What do you say we call it a night?”

  Gwen nodded, and he led her inside. “Let me show you to your bedroom,” he said. This didn’t make her feel any more comfortable.

  The room was something out of a fairy-princess tale. Except for the monster under the bed, or in this case on the edge of the bed, where Woodrow had taken a seat. And it didn’t appear as if he was planning on leaving any time soon.

  He studied her face intently. “I think you are upset,” he finally said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re upset that JP wasn’t jealous tonight. I might be beyond my prime, but I’m still a worthy adversary for your affections.”

  Gwen played along, “A woman never wants to feel taken for granted.”

  “So are you planning on marrying him?” he asked.

  The question surprised her. She hesitated just enough to add to his interest, before replying, “He hasn’t asked me.”

  “We both know that he eventually will, but I get the feeling that you hope he doesn’t.”

  “I love JP.”

  “Loving someone, and committing until death do you part, are two completely different matters.”

  “I do have some questions, but they’ll work themselves out … they always do.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “You don’t think they will?” she asked.

  “It’s just that so much of your relationship is predicated on past history. Nature has a way of scabbing over the past and creating calluses. We pick at them, risking pain and infection, but our skin never returns to the way it was.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I’ve learned to be very careful when picking at the past—no good ever comes of it.”

  That she did understand—she knew a threat when she heard one.

  Chapter 54

  Monday—Rockfield

  I wouldn’t be able to sleep as long as Gwen was trapped in Hastings’ lair … by her own choice. So I decided to go see someone I knew would also be up at the crack of dawn. I entered the offices of the Gazette with coffee in hand.

  I gave it to Murray, who accepted with a smile. “I see I’ve taught you well, John Pierpont. Coffee is the fuel that drives journalism. A quest for the truth comes second.”

  But his smile faded when he held up this morning’s paper. It featured Gwen’s Exclusive Inside Look! into a movie premiere, put on by “local philanthropist” Woodrow Hastings.”

  He opened it up to page three, which was completely made up of red carpet photos.

  “I was instructed by Gwen to purchase the use of these photos from an entertainment company covering the event. That is a first for the Gazette—I see you are bringing the tabloid nature of cable news to our little corner of the world.”

  “My boss ordered me to go—I’m just an employee around here.”

  “She seems to have fallen under your charming spell,” he said, as my eyes focused on a photo of Gwen and her dapper date. Thankfully, Murray shut the paper.

  “Before you make preparations for Armageddon, last night was about the Archibald investigation,” I said.

  “And how is that going?”

  I outlined all the happenings since the car was discovered in the river. Including our plan to track Woodrow and Poca, which intersected at my brownstone. I eventually got to the part where I crashed the movie premiere, and how Gwen had spent the night undercover at Hastings’ city apartment. We both winced at that one.

  I also had to concede that we were no closer to solving this than when we started.

  Murray sipped his coffee, and offered, “Perhaps you’ve been too focused on the night he disappeared, and should look backward.”

  “Go back to the beginning to figure out the ending—I’ve heard that one once or a thousand times.”

  “You’ve already done your due diligence on the history of the curse. I was referring to the days and weeks prior to when Archibald went missing. I doubt this was a spur of the moment event—something led up to it.”

  I took Murray’s advice, and headed for the Rockfield Historical Society. There, I found another person who believes that slee
p is a waste of valuable time—my mother.

  “You’re here early,” I greeted her.

  “I needed to get a jump on things. So much to do before we go, and so little time.”

  “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  She smiled, but didn’t comment. She was never big on repeating herself.

  She held up her copy of today’s Gazette. “You would think you’d have slept late after experiencing so much glitz and glam last night.” She opened to the photo of Lauren and me. “Anything you’d like to say about this?”

  I shrugged. “Ever since Murray took over the paper, it’s turning into tabloid trash. I’m thinking about canceling my subscription.”

  “I meant about the girl in the photo.”

  “I think Lauren Bowden daughter-in-law has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “For some lucky mother, I‘m sure it will,” she said, impressively maintaining a straight face. She flipped to the next page, specifically to a photo of Gwen and Hastings hand-in-hand on the red carpet. She set it down on the table, and let it sit there for a moment, like it was a punishment for the Lauren comment. “Since Gwen was involved in this caper, I’m going to assume that there is a purpose to it—such as figuring out who killed Thomas Archibald,” she finally said.

  Speaking of which … “Murray suggested that I look into the days and weeks prior to his disappearance. So I was hoping to look through some of your archived photos and picture albums.”

  “That depends—will you be stealing these photos like the others?”

  When we were kids, my parents used to make my brothers and me sign contracts—stuff like to continue playing Little League will need to get X grades—the thinking being that the formality of the signature made it more binding in our eyes, and removed any perceived wiggle room. I thought I was going to have to do so again in this case, but she led me to the archives, and gave me full access. I guess I was officially a grownup.

  But that didn’t mean she was done providing advice, “Murray said to look backward, but you might want to also look forward, to the days and months that followed the disappearance.”

  The first thing I did was go through the photo album of the 1959 Rockfield Fair, which took place one month prior to the Archibald disappearance. I searched for any photo of Archie, and I came across three. In two of them he was solo, which did me no good. He was smiling, looking like a happy teenager—nothing that would predict the storm clouds on the horizon.

  In the other, he was hamming it up for the camera with what looked to be a friend or classmate. I asked my mother if she’d recognized the other boy—as if she remembered every kid to come through Rockfield, years before she had even lived here.

  But in this case she did. “That’s Joseph Hastings Jr.”

  Interesting. Especially the fact that Thomas Archibald would be associating with a Hastings, and vice versa, considering that their families were in the middle of a battle over a potential sale of their land. I carefully lifted the photo out of the book and put it in my jacket pocket. My mother shook her head with annoyance and returned to what she was doing.

  I then located an archived newspaper article of the 1962 ceremony, when the Hastings’ and the Samerauks got together to supposedly end the curse. The focus of the front page was on Joseph Hastings Sr. and Chief Vayo, but I took note of the next generation of family that stood behind them. Poca was her radiant self. She wore a fringed, suede dress with headband; her long black hair falling halfway down her back. Woodrow and Joe Jr. were dressed identically to their father in dark suits; their hair gelled to the side. They didn’t exactly look thrilled to be in each other’s company. The one sibling not present was Bette, who indirectly was the reason for this peace offering.

  I opened the photo album of the 1961 fair and went directly to the photo of Bette that I’d seen on my last visit—the one that also featured Vivian and Poca. I then searched the album to see if there were any more of Bette. On my second sweep I came across one. I could tell from the angle of the sun that this photo had been taken much earlier in the day than the previous one.

  Bette didn’t look much like she did in the other photo. She was in more casual clothing, and her hairstyle was less sophisticated. She looked like the breezy child that she was, having a good time with two girls who looked to be her age.

  I called my mother over, hoping to try her luck once more. And I hit the jackpot again, as she was able to identify the girls. “The one on the right is Joan Krupps—originally Joan Coachman, Ed’s sister. When I first started out with the Historical Society, she offered to assist me. But her definition of assistance was to declare herself the historical expert of Rockfield, and tell me how to run the place. Not to mention, all her so-called knowledge was based on gossip.”

  “So she lives around here then?” I asked, thinking it might be helpful to talk to her about that day.

  “Oh, not anymore. About six months into her ‘assistance’ her husband got transferred to Illinois. I think they still live there. We used to get Christmas cards from them, but haven’t recently.”

  I pointed to the girl on Bette’s left—she was pretty, Italian looking, with a sparkling smile.

  “That’s Liza Marrone—she and her husband lived locally up until a few years ago, when they retired to Florida. Really nice people.” My mother’s face drooped. “Built their dream house and were looking forward to the good life, but then Liza got sick. They weren’t there more than six months when she was diagnosed … and she was dead within a year.”

  I could tell my mother was connecting dots to her own life with my father, with thoughts like live every day to the fullest, life is short, tomorrow isn’t guaranteed dancing in her mind. Thoughts that probably added to the urgency of their move—live out the dreams before it’s too late.

  I returned to the 1959 album. This time my focus was on Bette, not Thomas Archibald. I found one photo of her, and it struck me how much she had changed physically in the two years that followed—she would have been eleven years old in 1959, and looked even younger than that.

  I laid out all three photos on the table. 1959 fair. 1961 fair early in day. 1961 fair later in afternoon. Something caught my eye about the first two photos—what Bette was carrying. But it was missing in the third.

  My mother confirmed my thought—that Bette was holding a diary. She went on to inform me that she had one as a girl, and would bring it everywhere with her. What I wouldn’t give to see what Bette was thinking, leading up to the night of her accident.

  Maybe I was making much ado about nothing, but I found it strange that at some point during the last day of life-as-she-knew-it, Bette had discarded the diary … or someone had taken it. The logical answer was that she had left it behind when she changed her clothes, without much thought. But logic aside, I still wanted that answer.

  I noticed something else that was in two of the three photos, or rather, someone else. And that’s where I headed next.

  Vivian had already opened her dress shop. She looked happy to see me, and held up her Gazette. “If I had any question that you were the one to build my menswear line around, they have been answered. You look utterly fabulous!”

  “Not as good as Gwen did in that dress you made for her.”

  She smiled as she set the paper down. “You two are going to start quite the scandal once Rockfield gets a taste of those photos … especially who you’re with.”

  “The only bad publicity is no publicity, right?”

  Her expression was now serious. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let Woody get his hooks into her. Once he does, it’s impossible to get him out of your mind. I don’t think you want that.”

  “He’s not the Hastings I’m concerned with right now,” I said and handed her the photo I’d taken from the 1959 album.

  She shrugged. “It’s me and Bette at the fair. So what?”

  “Is that a diary she’s holding?”

  She looked closer. “She’d carry it
everywhere we went, so I’d assume so. It was as if her thoughts weren’t real unless she wrote them down.”

  I handed her the two photos from the 1961 fair.

  “She was carrying it earlier in the day of her accident, but not in the later photo with you and Poca. Do you know what happened to it?”

  “Her diary … from fifty years ago? How would I know that?”

  “I just find it curious that she’d always have it with her, but it wasn’t with her in the last photo taken of her that day. Do you know if it was found at the scene of her accident? You were one of the first to arrive, along with Woody … did you see it there?”

  She looked perplexed. “I don’t believe so, but frankly, we were much more concerned with saving her life. And regardless, I don’t see what the significance would be.”

  “I was just trying to get an idea of what her mindset was that night, and I thought the diary might help. It was a long shot, I know.”

  She shrugged. “The only people who might know that are Poca and Bette. One who can’t talk, and the other I wouldn’t believe a word she said.”

  Chapter 55

  I settled for the one who couldn’t talk. It was a desperate shot in the dark, but there was something I took from my last visit to Bette. It was like I had gotten through to her during our goodbye.

  I called ahead to Doc Mac, who agreed to meet me at Bette’s place before he opened his practice. But as I pulled in, another car was leaving, and it wasn’t Doc.

  I recognized the man driving the Ford Taurus. It wasn’t his eyes that I remembered, but the curly white hair streaming out of the back of the baseball cap. It was the mystery man who met Poca at my brownstone!

  I sped after him—he wasn’t getting away this time. But he must have also recognized me, because in the few moments it took me to turn my Jeep around, he’d made a run for it. I still liked my chances—I knew Rockfield, and there was only one way out … through Main Street. And there were two ways to get there—the longer roundabout way, or the shorter but more dangerous path over Zycko Hill.