Moments later, the woman peered at him from the door to her quarters. “Did you want to check out? You’re all paid up—you can just leave your key.”
“I, um, was thinking of maybe staying one more night, if you have the space.”
She approached the counter, the Boxer trailing just behind her and eying Frank. “Sure.” She cast an odd look at him. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I had some trouble sleeping. Long day yesterday.”
“Sorry to hear that. Maybe tonight will be a little more restful for you. It’s forty.”
Frank handed her his credit card and tried to sound as casual as possible as he opened the conversation. “How long have you been here?”
She froze. “What do you mean?”
He hadn’t expected such a guarded response. “Oh, I just mean, how long have you owned the place? Is there any history to this building—it seems older, though you keep it in good shape.”
She seemed to relax a little. “Well, I’ve owned it less than a year. Original owner died a few years ago and it sat for a while.” She slid his card and receipt toward him on the counter. “Funny you should ask. I was just curious about something myself a little while back and checked. Used to be a sawmill here before the motel. Burned down one day. Guess some people died in the fire. For whatever reason, they didn’t rebuild, and eventually someone built the motel.”
“Did you say sawmill?” His hand trembled slightly as he slid the signed receipt back toward her.
* * *
Eileen glanced at the receipt that still lay on the counter. Frank Foster. She’d never heard of him, never laid eyes on him before he showed up last night looking for a room. She watched as he strode across the motel parking lot. Probably headed to The Cannery for some breakfast, if she had to guess.
Something about him made her uncomfortable, though. What was with all the questions? At first, she’d thought he was nosing into her business. But then he seemed more fixated on the building’s history, rather than her past. That was a relief. She was doing all right for herself with the motel, and didn’t need someone or something from her past rocking the boat.
So what was his deal? She thought back to when he checked in. He’d looked a little tired then, but he looked far worse today. A little trouble sleeping, indeed—he’d had one hell of a rough night, from what she could tell. His eyes looked pretty bloodshot. Maybe he’d been on a solo bender or something. The motel had been pretty quiet last night, so it wasn’t the fault of some loud party in a nearby room.
But something in his face changed as soon as she told him about the sawmill. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him. She was usually much more guarded about telling people anything. That was usually the safest policy. She’d never gotten into trouble by saying too little, that’s for sure.
But he was staying in #8. Feeling chilled, she absently rubbed her arms.
* * *
Frank stepped inside The Cannery. The breakfast crowd looked pretty much like the dinner crowd: a few people at the tables, and some nursing drinks at the bar, even at this time of day. The place must be the one-stop destination for the locals, whether they wanted food, drink, or some of each.
He parked himself in the booth he took last night and scanned the Breakfast side of the greasy, plastic-encased menu. Dinner had been decent, for basic bar food. He had gone overboard with the scotch, though, and he needed some food to soothe his jittery stomach while he absorbed what the motel owner had told him.
An older waitress ambled by, armed with a full carafe of coffee. “Want some coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Some good, strong, black coffee sounded mighty fine about now.
She deftly plunked a diner mug down before him and filled it. “What else you want today?”
He wanted grease. That’s what he wanted. Mindless of his arteries for the time being, he ordered. “Couple of fried eggs, up, bacon and hash browns. Thanks.”
He watched her saunter to the kitchen like she’d made that trip thousands of times before. She had an air about her like she’d seen plenty and nothing could rattle her. Didn’t even carry a pad to take down the orders. The kids he saw working in restaurants could take a lesson from her. Well, maybe not. None of them had the attention span of a gnat, let alone the ability to remember things longer than the time it took them to text or Tweet.
Frank took a sip of his coffee and twitched in surprise. That was some powerful stuff. It could probably start a corpse’s heartbeat back up in a flash. He took another sip, hoping to revive himself.
As he waited for his food, the significance of the motel owner’s words began to sink in. In the nightmare, he didn’t know where he was, only that it looked industrial. But as soon as she said sawmill, it hit him. That’s what he’d dreamed about. A sawmill. And deaths. Horrible deaths. But there was something else in the dream that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Then he realized what it was. Somehow he knew the door wouldn’t open, and that’s why the corpses were stacked high right in front of it. He could only think of two explanations for that. The more innocent of the two involved unsafe working conditions and a lack of functional exits. Inexcusable, but not deliberately malicious.
It was either that or someone wanted to make sure no one could escape and had deliberately blocked the doors.
Either explanation sent a chill down his spine. He’d witnessed the terror and agony of the workers as they struggled and failed to save themselves from the raging flames. He didn’t think he could ever forget it. It was just as if he had been there firsthand.
Frank glanced up as the waitress approached with his breakfast. He took a closer look at her face than he had before, and realized she had to be in her late sixties. Perhaps she knew a little town history.
She set the plates down and put her hands on her hips. “Need anything else?”
He cleared his throat and hoped she wouldn’t think he was some weirdo. “I was just passing through town, and was curious about something. Have you lived here long?”
She glanced at the other tables before answering and seemed satisfied that no one else needed her for the moment. “Sure. Been here all my life. What do you need to know?”
“I’m staying at the motel up the street. The owner mentioned there used to be a sawmill on the site before the motel was built. Do you know anything about that?”
She tilted her head and gazed into the distance as she remembered. “Oh my, I hadn’t thought about that place in years now. Yeah, sure, the old Cromwell mill.” She shook her head. “Terrible thing.”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes flared with anger. “It’s not right, what happened. And that sonofabitch got away with it. Pardon my French.”
Frank forgot all about his food. “What happened?”
“Well, some people can’t be satisfied. Never enough money for the likes of them. Douglas Cromwell was making money hand over fist from that plant. Worked his men to the bone, he did. Before the fishing picked up around here, that was the main place for jobs in this town. And he knew it. My brother worked there, so I know what I’m talking about. The working conditions were so bad, some of the men were trying to get the union in there. But Cromwell wouldn’t hear of it. Said he’d run the place his way or no way.”
She sniffed, then wiped her eye with a quick flick of her hand. Her voice hardened. “The fire happened soon after that. No one made it out alive. The local cops were probably bribed. They didn’t find anything, just called it an accident. So the bastard lives alone up on the hill outside of town, untouched. Cromwell Road, no less. What an ego. Rumor has it that he just collected the insurance money after the fire—his own way of liquidating the business.”
Her face flushed red and she sniffled some more. “Sorry, I need to go check my orders.” The waitress turned and disappeared through the swinging door to the kitchen.
Frank sat back in his booth, stunned. Her account of the event and his nightmare corresponded perfectly
. Too perfectly to be a coincidence.
Too perfectly to ignore.
MIDDAY TODAY
Frank sat in his car, still parked in front of his motel room, and stared at the map displayed on his cell phone screen. A little while ago, right after the waitress had told him about the sawmill, this had seemed like a good idea.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
Who did he think he was, sticking his nose into town business after all these years? The waitress told a good story, and sounded like she honestly believed it, but the cops had looked into the matter back then and found nothing. Old man Cromwell might not be too thrilled to have a surprise visitor show up.
Maybe he just wanted to see if he could rise above his lackluster performance as a second-rate newspaper reporter at that crappy little rag that employed him. His usual beat—if it could be elevated to such a term—consisted of covering kids’ swim meets, local flea markets, and the like. They didn’t even trust him with the crime report, as mundane as the typical crimes in his town were. Yeah, the occasional house egging or kids sneaking cigarettes in someone’s backyard. Real hot stuff. Here, at minimum, perhaps there was a scandal to unearth and rehash, old though it may be. Maybe there was more. He could at least hope.
Frank noted the street he’d need to turn off and started the car. He pulled out of the lot and made a right onto the main drag, new territory for him. He soon discovered the north end of town past the motel was just as bleak as the south end, with its dumpy little houses. The persistent fog cover compounded the desolation. He wondered if this place had ever seen good times, or if it had always wallowed in its own misery.
After a few miles, he spotted his turnoff and signaled, even though there was no traffic whatsoever behind him. From there, it was only a half mile or so before he turned onto Cromwell Road. Old Cromwell must have been an important man in his day, to have the road and the town named after him.
And the mill.
Cromwell Road curved and twisted upward into even thicker fog. Poor visibility forced Frank to slow to a crawl as he searched for his destination. Here, the town gave way to a rural area, all fences and lots, but with the houses set back so far among trees that he couldn’t see them.
Up ahead, a black mailbox on a wooden post bore the name Cromwell in small, mean white letters. He’d nearly missed it in the heavy fog. He braked to a stop and glanced at the property. A fairly long driveway led up to a dark brick house.
No gate.
He hesitated a moment, then turned and proceeded up the driveway. He drove slowly, just in case there were vicious guard dogs strolling around, or some other device to discourage trespassers.
The driveway hadn’t been maintained in some time. Weeds grew between gaping cracks in the pavement, and grass stood high on either side. It didn’t look like anyone came around here much. Maybe the guy was truly as reclusive as the waitress described.
Frank stopped the car a short distance from the house. He reminded himself he could still turn back, return to the motel, get his stuff, and head back home. But what would be the point of that? He’d spent the days since Roger’s murder castigating himself for having the most useless and unexceptional life he could imagine.
Here was a chance to be the stone in the pond, to make an impact of some sort, even if it were fleeting and perhaps minor. That horrific, all-too-real nightmare, backed up by the waitress’s account of events, was too much for him to ignore. Cromwell was probably culpable to some degree or another, and the cops had let him skate. Maybe he couldn’t change the outcome, but Frank wanted to at least stir the pot, to try to demonstrate some sort of competence at his putative profession. He knew, given the same set of circumstances, Roger wouldn’t hesitate.
* * *
Frank stood at the front door and took a deep breath to steel himself. Something like this was so far out of his comfort zone, he couldn’t believe he was standing there. He glanced at the front of the house. Was this Cromwell’s castle—or was it his prison? It was hard to tell. The enormous, imposing house sat on a vast lot. In that respect, it bespoke of wealth.
Yet it somehow managed to look bleak at the same time. Bright green moss covered a good portion of the bricks. The paint on the black shutters cracked and peeled. The grounds looked unkempt, though not completely untended. Did the old man keep to himself out of guilt, knowing what he had done, or merely as a haughty demonstration that he had no need for the company—or approval—of the people in his namesake town?
Frank knocked on the door and prepared himself to try to find out. He shifted his feet as he waited, feeling as if he were being watched, yet seeing no one around—no cameras, no nothing. He reached up to knock again, when the sound of sliding metal startled his heart into a staccato beat. The peephole opened and he could just see a single brown eye with a yellowed sclera peering at him.
“What do you want?”
His bravado fading, he choked out the words. “I’m looking for Douglas Cromwell.”
“Why?”
“I’m doing some research in the area, and I understand you’re an…influential figure in this town.” He hoped it sounded innocent, yet was enough of an ego stroke to get him in.
The door opened a crack and now both eyes stared out at him. “And who are you?”
“Name’s Frank Foster. I’m a reporter with a small paper up near Oakland. May I come in? I won’t take a lot of your time.”
“I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I don’t much like people coming up here unannounced, but since you’ve already gone to the trouble...”
The door crept open to reveal an interior bathed in murk. The guy sure didn’t believe in excessive use of electricity. Frank stepped inside, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
Cromwell moved in obvious pain with each step he took. He gestured toward a faded couch upholstered with an old-fashioned brocade fabric. All the shades were drawn; the only light came from a small lamp with a yellowed fabric shade and a beaded fringe. It stood next to the couch on a small round table with long, slender, carved wooden legs.
Frank felt like he had fallen into a time warp.
Cromwell again gestured for him to take a seat on the couch, as he lowered himself with difficulty into a chair covered with extra pads.
“Get on with it, then.” He turned to the table beside him, which held several prescription bottles and a tall glass of water. He shook out a couple of capsules from one of the bottles and swallowed them as he waited.
Clearing his throat, Frank pulled a small pad and a pen from his shirt pocket. All his press work to date had been dependably inconsequential. He’d only interviewed the mundane, the boring, the subjects an eight-year-old could probably handle as well as he had.
Never a possible murderer. Mass murderer, even, if he suspected correctly.
“So, um, I presume the town is named after you. Why is that?”
“My paternal grandfather founded the town some time back.”
“Oh, okay. Is this the family home, then?”
“Yes.”
After enduring a series of bumbling questions that garnered a one-sentence response at best, a one-syllable response at worst, Cromwell cast a pointed glance at his watch. “Your time’s nearly up, are we about done?”
Frank’s mouth went dry. It was now or never. “Commercial fishing seems to be the main industry out here now, but at one time, wasn’t your sawmill the central industry in Cromwell?”
Cromwell’s eyes narrowed just a bit. “Yes, it was. A very long time ago.”
“What happened to it?”
“Shut down.”
“Why?” Frank noticed the muscles in Cromwell’s jaw flexing.
He paused before answering, a hard look in his eyes. “There was a fire. Building was a total loss. I decided not to rebuild.”
“Was anyone injured…or killed?” Frank held his breath and scrutinized Cromwell for his reaction.
“Yes, there were some men in there at the time who didn’t get out
fast enough.” The hard look became an outright glare. “You know, this is all public record, been reported on years ago. You can look it up in the archives without bothering me about it.” He raised himself from his chair with great effort and started toward the door.
At a loss as to how to press for more, Frank stood. “Thank you, um, sorry to bother you.”
THIS AFTERNOON
Frank let himself into his motel room and closed the door. He tossed his car keys onto the fake wood grain Formica table and dropped into the stiff wooden chair next to it.
Failed again. Led Cromwell right up to the crux of the story, then was shown the door before anything useful could come out. He shook his head. Maybe it was just time to forget about it and head back home.
He checked his watch. Nearly two o’clock. If he got going, he could get back home by dinnertime and settle back into his mediocre world. A world without his best friend. Oh hell, let’s be honest. His only real friend.
With a new mission in mind—such as it was—he got up and tossed his belongings into his bag. It didn’t take long. He’d packed sparingly for the funeral, and hadn’t planned on any sort of extended stay in a glamour spot like Cromwell Bay.
He made a quick check of the room to be sure he hadn’t left behind any prize possessions, then locked the door and headed for the office.
Frank set his bag down on the floor, tapped the desk bell and waited. In a few moments, the woman emerged from her quarters and cast him a puzzled look.
Ash and Bone Page 4
