Eli sat in the padded folding chair next to the door, adjusted his glasses, stared at the image for a few moments. Will could see that it was a picture of eight young women, teenagers by appearance. They wore white cotton dresses with aprons, uniforms used by scullery maids and housekeepers. They each wore a floppy white hat.
Eli touched the glass, brushed away some of the dust. ‘This was taken just outside the back door at Godwin Hall. These young ladies worked there.’
‘They all worked there at the same time?’
‘Yes. They worked in the kitchen.’
‘It seems like a pretty big kitchen staff.’
‘Oh, it’s my understanding that there were more people working there than this,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to understand, in its early days, Godwin Hall was quite the place to be. Especially in the 1800s. Back then it was known as the only hotel of taste and elegance in this part of Holland County. Anyone who was anyone stayed there.’
The girls’ names were written along the bottom in faded blue ink. The last girl on the right, the smallest of them, had much of her face obscured by scratches. Beneath her image was a name written in blue ink.
Eva Larssen.
Eli pointed at her. ‘There is a story told that this girl came to a tragic end,’ he said. ‘More than a story, really. It is part of the dark lore of Abbeville.’
‘What happened to her?’
Eli thought for a few seconds.
‘Let me put a few things together for you,’ Eli said. ‘I’ll have it by the next time I see you. I think you’ll find it all pretty interesting.’
‘Okay,’ Will said. ‘That would be great.’
Eli pointed to the row of photographs near the crown molding of the high ceiling. ‘There’s some better pictures up there. We’ll get those down next time.’
Will took a step back. ‘This is great stuff,’ he said. ‘I could spend all day here.’
‘You are welcome to do just that.’
Will glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere. What days are you open?’
Eli reached into his inside coat pocket, took out a three by five card. It was printed in old-style fonts. The museum was open three days a week. Seven days a week in July and August.
‘You’re at Red Oak?’ Eli asked.
‘I am.’
The man reached behind the counter, brought up a small stack of folded newspapers. Will noted that it was a local publication called The Villager.
‘Help yourself to a copy,’ Eli said. ‘It’s all about the comings and goings and doings in Abbeville.’
Will took one of them. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ve got a granddaughter does some writing for them. She’s still in high school. Just an intern, I guess they call it.’
‘Okay.’
‘Think you might have a minute or two to talk to her? Tell her about your plans for the Hall?’
He didn’t really have any plans yet.
‘Uh, sure,’ Will said. ‘No problem.’
‘She’ll be thrilled. Her name’s Cassie Mills. Cassandra is her byline name. I’ll give her a call right now.’
‘I look forward to it.’
The old man once again offered his hand. ‘Welcome home, Will Hardy.’
25
Dallas Lange leaned against the fender of his truck, a perfectly maintained Silverado. Dallas was in his seventies, but stood hickory straight. He wore his hair a little long, but it was always trimmed, as was his handlebar mustache. He was often seen in the village during the summer months on his classic Indian Scout motorcycle.
Ivy had known Dallas Lange as long as she’d known any adult, except her mother and her grade school teachers. Before Dallas began doing welfare checks for the county, he had owned Abbeville’s only picture frame shop.
As long as Ivy could remember, she would take her film to the shop to get her pictures developed. It was just a little more expensive than it was at the Rexall in those days – back when there was a Rexall – but the drugstore didn’t have all the items that Town Frame had. Mr Lange’s shelves were stocked with glassware, custom jewelry, imported stationery, and greeting cards. Now everything was digital and you could buy a color printer for $29.00.
‘Dallas,’ Ivy said.
‘Chief Holgrave. Been awhile.’
Ivy wasn’t sure what he meant by this. She’d seen him just a few days earlier at Sundae in the Park, the ice cream wagon parked at the edge of the Fairgrounds in the spring and summer months. ‘What do you mean, Dallas?’
Dallas looked out over the field. ‘The last time was Thad Morrison. Did you know Thad?’
Ivy had never met the man, but she knew the story. At least, the version kicked around the tables at the Bullfinch. ‘Never had the pleasure.’
‘We were tracking deer that time. North of Cumberland. Me, Thad, his two brothers. George’s Remington misfired. Found Thad bleeding at the bottom of the quarry. That was the last time. Until today.’
Ivy now knew what he meant. He was talking about the last he had seen a dead body.
‘Saw my share in Vietnam, of course. More than my share.’ He looked back at Ivy. His eyes were rimmed with red. ‘Never a young one like this. Lots of young boys tore up. Never a girl.’
‘You okay to talk now, Dallas?’ Ivy asked. ‘If you want I can meet you back at the station. Give you some time.’
‘No time like now, Chief.’
‘Okay.’ Ivy took out her notebook, flipped to a fresh page. ‘Tell me how you came to be back here today.’
Dallas gave her a brief recount of his morning, how he’d taken his breakfast at Kate’s Kitchen before waiting in line at the BMV in Jenkintown. He then told her that he had come out to the area north of the Gardner place in order to clear bait before turkey hunting season kicked off the next week.
‘I was just getting ready to head back when I thought I saw something in the clearing. Didn’t even know the clearing was back there, truth told.’
There were any number of glades in the wooded lands of Holland County, thousands of acres that contained small areas cleared of timber years ago when logging was the main industry of the area. Mostly, the areas were cleared to make way for a cabin or logging station, structures that never got built.
‘What did you think you saw?’
‘Wasn’t sure. It just looked like it didn’t belong.’
‘Did you see anybody else?’
‘No one. Not today, anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was out early yesterday morning. Needed to check where the bait needed to be cleared.’
‘And you saw someone?’
Dallas nodded. ‘I saw somebody turn off Cavender.’
Cavender Road was an east-west two-lane, another quarter mile north of their position.
‘Which way did they turn?’ Ivy asked.
‘North.’
‘Was it a car? Truck? Van?’
‘Pickup. White in color.’
‘Have you seen it before?’
‘I think I have. The only reason I know the truck is that set of bar lights across the top. You know how some have the red and white lights in it?’
‘I do.’
‘It was like that. Don’t see that too much.’
‘Are you saying it was a county truck? Some kind of official vehicle maybe?’
‘No,’ Dallas said. ‘I think it belongs to the Deacons.’
Ivy’s pulse picked up. The Deacon family had a long and checkered history of interaction with the police, as well as the courts and correction facilities in Holland County, going back two generations.
‘You’re saying it was one of the Deacon boys?’
‘Can’t say that for sure. Couldn’t see who was driving. I just remember that rack of lights up top, and how some of those bulbs were red.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘Early. Sun was up, but just.’
Ivy made the note. ‘Just a few more questions for now, Dallas, if you’re ok
ay with that.’
‘All the time you need, Chief.’
‘Did you move anything?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Back in the field. Other than clearing the bait, did you move anything?’
‘No. The moment I saw what it was I just froze, to be honest with you. I kept thinking she was going to sit up, like she was just sleeping or something.’
‘How long did you watch?’
‘Maybe a minute or so. It kind of felt like I was snooping for a while there. Like I came up on something private. When she didn’t move I called out a few times. When she didn’t respond, I knew.’
‘Do you know this girl, Dallas?’
Dallas shook his head. He was getting visibly upset. Ivy knew she should wrap up this phase of her questioning soon.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.’
A car crested the road just to the south of them, and for no apparent reason, Ivy Holgrave and Dallas Lange fell silent as it approached, perhaps in unspoken respect to the gravity of their conversation.
‘What happened to this girl, Ivy?’ Dallas finally asked.
Ivy had her ideas, but she’d keep them close for the time being. ‘We’re looking into it. Early days.’
Dallas reached into his back pocket, pulled out a pair of driving gloves. He made a short ceremony of putting them on, fitting the fingers.
‘It’s not supposed to be girls, Ivy,’ Dallas continued. ‘Boys rough it up, get into dangerous games. Some live that hard life. But girls? It’s not supposed to be girls.’ He looked over at Ivy, a sheen glossing his eyes. ‘That makes me pretty old-fashioned, I guess.’
‘Not at all.’
In the distance, Ivy could hear faint thunder. She had to move.
‘You’ve got my number,’ she said. ‘Give me a ring if you think of anything else. If not, I’ll be in touch to get a formal statement in the next day or so.’
Dallas nodded again. He crossed the road, got into his truck, started it. A few moments later he pulled off the berm, and headed south on Route 44.
Ivy watched until his truck vanished over the crest of the hill. Then, for the moment, Holland County was once again silent.
26
The boy was in the south barn. The smell of the hay and ordure always returned Jakob to his childhood.
He crossed the main area and pushed open the door to the large box-stall. There, in the center of the space, was a table constructed of a pair of six by twelve sheets of laminated plywood on saw horses. Drying on top of the table, propped on sixteen-penny nails, were items of bedroom furniture. This part of the barn smelled of mineral spirits.
The furniture was older, perhaps even antique if one were to stretch the accepted definition of the word – which was far more common in the trade than people were wont to admit, there being a thin line between junk and collectible.
Before long, the boy came around the corner, tack cloths in hand.
‘Did you follow the inscription?’ Jakob asked.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s just like it was written.’
The boy picked up a microfiber cloth. He touched one of the items with a wrapped forefinger. ‘It goes from here to here,’ he said, moving his finger across the breadth.
Jakob leaned close. He could not discern anything that might raise a doubt or suspicion.
‘What about the photograph?’ Jakob asked.
The boy crossed the barn, returned with a pair of printed documents. He handed them to Jakob. Jakob angled the paper to the light streaming through the barn door. It was perfect. The color photograph was just faded enough to give the viewer an idea of the color and quality of the item, without looking too professional. The text beneath the image was concise and to the point, and even contained a typographical error.
‘How much more time do you need?’ Jakob asked.
The boy glanced at the items. ‘Maybe a day or two.’
‘Fine,’ Jakob said.
Jakob again looked at the document.
‘Do you remember where to put this?’
‘Yeah,’ the boy said. ‘And not to do it until you say so.’
Jakob reached into his pocket, removed a single one-hundred-dollar bill. The boy’s eyes lit up.
‘When you place it, do not be seen.’
27
The Deacon spread was a throwback to an earlier time in Holland County, but not a good one. To Ivy it looked like one of those Depression-era small farms where the grass is browned out, the trees are dead or dying, with a half-dozen vehicles in some state of decay and disassembly, perched on blocks.
Then again, this wasn’t a surprise. If the Deacons loved anything, it was cars. So much so that the three boys, of this generation anyway, were named Dodge, Ford and Chevy.
There was a main house, along with two outbuildings. One was a two-car garage, from which one of the doors had been removed, and not with a tool. The roof was caved on the south side.
As Ivy approached she saw no movement on the property, nor did she see a white pickup truck; red and white bar lights above or otherwise. She made her way to the porch, gave a glance through the windows. Nothing stirring. The screen door was closed, but the inside door was open.
A few seconds later Ivy saw Theresa Deacon walk out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
‘Afternoon, Theresa.’
Terry Deacon had been a beauty in high school, a tall athletic girl who’d had her pick of the boys. She was once a Miss Something-Or-Other. Ivy could never keep the small-town beauty queen titles straight, having never been in the running. Holland County had no shortage of festivals, and there was always a girl to lead the parade with a plastic tiara on her head.
But that was a long time ago. Now Terry Deacon looked depleted in a way that only women of an age who’d made bad choice after bad choice in their men and their lives could look. Her hair was up in bright yellow hot rollers.
‘What brings you out here, Ivy?’
Take your pick, Ivy thought. They’re your boys.
‘Any of your sons around?’
‘Chevy’s working,’ she said. ‘He’s got them two ex-wives now and y’all gonna jail him up if he don’t pay his alimony.’
‘All due respect, Terry, he was the one who married them. Wasn’t like a village ordinance or anything.’
She flicked a hand, meaning, whatever. ‘Youngest is off doing whatever the hell it is he does during the day.’
Ivy knew exactly what he was doing. Ford Deacon had been arrested twice for possession of meth, more than a half-dozen times for burglaries to pay for his habit. No hard stretch in prison yet. Matter of time.
‘Where’s Chevy working these days?’ Ivy asked.
‘He’s over to Aqualine.’
Aqualine Water Quality Systems was a small manufacturing plant in Geauga County.
‘What shift is he working again?’
‘First,’ Terry said. ‘Got a side job, too. Making deliveries. Why you asking?’
‘All part of a broader investigation,’ Ivy said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
This was her stock answer, and had been for years. She learned it from a lifer in the Cleveland PD.
‘What about Dodge? Is he around?’ Ivy asked.
Terry looked over Ivy’s shoulder, nodded in the general direction of the outbuilding. ‘He’s been sleeping in the shack since it’s warm enough. Comes and goes. Got his music and his trashy girlfriend. He’s been seeing that Warburton girl.’
‘Do you know his whereabouts over the last few days?’
Terry Deacon laughed, but there was no joy in it. ‘Might have been on Mars with that shit he smokes.’
‘Fair enough,’ Ivy said. ‘That’s not my business today.’ She pointed at the shack. ‘I’ll just go give him a quick knock, see if I can have a word or two with him.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘Meant to ask,’ Ivy began. ‘One of the boys has those bar lights on
top of his truck. The kind with the red and white lights?’
‘What about it?’
‘I want to get some for my personal truck, but I can’t seem to find them at Wal-Mart or Target. Any idea where they got them?’
‘I have no idea. But every time one of the boys turns them on it looks like a goddamn tornado coming through here.’
‘Okay,’ Ivy said. ‘Thanks.’
Ivy put away her notepad, looked at the outbuilding. In an attempt to make the decaying building look more like a dwelling there was a blue and white gingham tablecloth stapled over the window as a curtain. As Ivy approached the structure she saw someone walk around the far corner, a black plastic Hefty bag in hand.
It was Dodge Deacon.
A rangy young man in his late twenties, Dodge wore filthy black Levi’s, mud-caked to the knees, camo cap, and a ratty OSU hoodie with more cigarette holes than thread. When he saw Ivy come around the corner of the shack he dropped the sack in his hands and turned to run.
‘Hold up there, Dodge.’
Dodge Deacon stopped, but didn’t turn to face Ivy. If there was anything she had learned in two-plus decades of law enforcement, especially on patrol, it was how to read body language. In her time she’d had people run, jump, swim, shimmy, scurry, lope, and stumble away from her. Or try to. Dodge was in what she called the shotgun-shell mode, ready to blast himself across the field in any number of directions, as long as it wasn’t anywhere near Chief Ivy Holgrave.
‘I’m too old to chase you,’ Ivy said. ‘I think you’re counting on that.’
‘But I didn’t do nothing.’
‘Never said you did. Now, are you going talk to me or are we going to have to ratchet this up a notch or two?’
Dodge relaxed his shoulders, his legs. He turned to face Ivy, hands at his sides, a little away from his body.
Ivy took out her notebook, clicked her ballpoint, flipped a page.
‘Need to know your whereabouts over the past few days, starting with yesterday.’
‘This past yesterday?’
‘That’s the one,’ Ivy said. ‘The one that came before today.’
‘Yesterday?’
‘Still yesterday.’
Dodge wiggled the fingers on both hands. ‘I think I was home all day.’
Murder Scene Page 12
