I swallowed hard but kept my face steady as Mary looked at me and then at Jerome, who rubbed a finger under his nose but didn’t look away from her glance. When she looked at me again, I nodded; one quick nod that would have gotten me disbarred, if I’d ever passed the bar in the first place.
“It probably doesn’t matter much right now anyway, young man,” Mary said to Jake. “Yes, I knew the Cylas family. Gent was one of my students; he was a wonderful boy. He, his sister, and his parents all worked at the Kennington Bakery, that wonderful . . . and that horrible place.” Mary’s eyes swam with tears, but none fell down her cheeks.
“What happened the night of the fire, Mary?” I asked.
“I taught William Kennington to read. He was my student, too.”
“One of the owners of the bakery? He didn’t know how to read?” I said.
“No, he didn’t. And we would have all been better off if he’d never learned.”
“It wasn’t as uncommon as it should have been back then. School, reading, none of it was mandatory as it is now,” Jake said.
Mary sighed again. “That night, the Cylas family was there by accident. I’d been called to come in and help Howard read some contracts.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “So the Cylas family wasn’t called into the bakery, too?”
Mary thought a long moment. “No. Gent had forgotten his shoes that day. He only had two pair—a work pair and a pair he wore outside the bakery. He forgot to change when he left the bakery and it was against the rules to wear your work shoes outside the bakery. He came back to switch his shoes. His family and a friend came with him, but I’m not sure why.”
“I see,” I said, understanding one more piece of the puzzle.
“I helped Mr. Kennington with the contracts, but it wasn’t a good outcome. He was angry. I don’t remember the exact details, but there were some inequalities when it came to the banking. Mr. Knapp was clearly making more money that Mr. Kennington, and they were supposed to be equal partners. Mr. Kennington called Mr. Knapp to the bakery. It was some time after both men were there that the Cylas family arrived, but no one knew they were there at first.
“When things became heated between the two gentlemen, Gent, with his friend—her name was Missouri, I remember that very well, were exploring the racket. Right as the two of them passed by the office, Mr. Knapp slapped me hard for ‘talking foolishness’ to Mr. Kennington.”
“Oh no,” I said.
“Gent and Missouri rushed into the office to help me. Then events happened quickly after that. Mr. Knapp drew a gun, shot Mr. Kennington and then Gent. He missed Missouri with a bullet, but he charged and hit her over the head with the gun, knocking her to the ground. The rest of the Cylas family came running, but Mr. Knapp grabbed me and held a gun to my head and told them to sit down or he’d kill me and them.” She paused as the events from so long ago must have come into focus in her mind. She turned to me. This time, the tears in Mary’s eyes flowed freely down her cheeks. “Then he pulled the gun from my head and aimed it at them. He pushed me away, backwards. I was overcome with a need to try to save the girl named Missouri. I didn’t know what to do. My instincts took over, and I swear it was like someone was guiding me. It was such a strange feeling. The building had big windows and they opened out. Missouri had fallen to the ground next to one, and she and I were now behind Mr. Knapp. As he continued to aim the gun at the rest of the Cylas family as they made their way to a bench, I grabbed the poor girl and heaved her out of the open window. I knew he would kill her. I thought it was her only chance. I don’t even know how I lifted her up the little bit I needed to lift her, but I did. Of course I thought I might end up killing her too but it was worth the risk.” She paused again and blinked a couple tears away. “Mr. Knapp told me that because of what I’d done to her, I was a killer, too. If I ever told anyone what he did, he’d tell them what I did. I thought he’d kill me, too, but he seemed to like to have that to use against me more than he wanted me dead.”
“I guess you got lucky,” Jake said.
“Probably, but the sadder and perhaps truer fact is that I would have been missed. I was a teacher. The Cylas family was poor and not as well known. “
“I see,” Jake said.
As the pieces came together, I realized that Gram had been thrown out the same window that had come down on me, Cliff, and Jerome. She shouldn’t have survived. I wondered if Jerome wasn’t remembering as much as he thought he was. I looked at him and he just shrugged and shook his head slowly. He didn’t remember, but I had no doubt. He’d been there that day. He must have been. Someone must have been. Gram would have been hurt much worse or surely killed if someone hadn’t been there to save her from the fall.
“Then he shot them all, the rest of the Cylas family. Oh, gracious, there was so much blood. Too much to clean up by the time he was done,” Mary continued.
“Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry this is painful,” Jerome said gently.
She sniffed and looked up at him.
“Who set the fire?” I asked her.
“That was his idea.”
“But he died in the fire?” Jake said.
She shook her head. “No, that was Homer Cylas. We put Mr. Knapp’s identification in Mr. Cylas’s pocket and Mr. Knapp took his. Then Mr. Knapp set the first fire. And then . . . the strangest thing happened. We thought the fire would destroy everything. But it didn’t. The fire burned the room, part of the building . . . the people, but then it stopped burning.” Mary looked at Jerome. “I’ve often wondered if even in his death Mr. Kennington could have done something to douse the fire. Is that possible?”
“I don’t know, Mary,” Jerome said.
She nodded. “Anyway, when the fire didn’t destroy everything . . . and everyone, we had to get three bodies out of there. Everyone would think that Mr. Kennington and Mr. Knapp were killed, but the others had to go. We took them . . . Oh, it was awful, but we took them and buried them.”
“Mr. Knapp wasn’t worried about Missouri’s body?” Jake asked.
“No, he thought she was dead for sure, but she hadn’t worked in the factory and he kept telling me that I’d killed her, that it was my fault. He probably thought that if they found her body it would be a distraction from the Cylas family missing, if anyone noticed them gone anyway. Missouri had no ties to the bakery, none at all. I don’t think that evidence gathering then was what it is now, but I’m sure he thought that if they found any evidence on the poor girl, it would somehow point to me. He wasn’t all the way in his right mind by then, I’m sure.”
“I see,” Jake said again.
“Do you remember where you took the bodies?” I asked.
“Yes, of course, I would never forget. There’s a cemetery on the outskirts of town next to what used to be an old church.”
“I’m familiar with it,” I said.
“We buried them right outside the cemetery. In the woods. Later, I tried to use rocks for markers, and I’ve put flowers on their graves a number of times.”
What Mary had done had been illegal. Technically, she’d broken a number of laws, there was no doubt. If she’d been caught in this day and age, she would definitely serve jail time. She probably would have back then, too. But, I wasn’t telling her story to anyone who’d get the law involved. Jake and Jerome wouldn’t, either. Beyond legalities, though, I couldn’t fathom how she’d lived with what she’d done, but I had a small idea.
“Were you aware that Missouri survived?” I said.
“Oh yes! I was grateful to later hear that I hadn’t killed her. It was a miracle really, a true miracle. And I was so happy. It was my only source of happiness for many years. I kept thinking she’d tell the authorities, but no one ever came for me. There were times I wanted them to. Sometimes I wanted to talk to her, too, but I just never could bring myself to do it. Mr. Knapp never knew she lived. I never told him.”
Which might have explained why when he found out that she hadn’t died he lashed out
at me from his afterlife, or I assumed he was dead. He’d tried to kill me with the same window she’d been flung out of. Again, my connection to the ghosts was somehow bigger, clearer than Gram’s. Mr. Knapp might not have been aware of Gram as he traveled through his death, but he must have somehow been clued in to me. I was going to have to deal with this extra sensory skill at some point, but not today.
“Where did Mr. Knapp go?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know. He just left. He took cash from the safe and left. For years, I received letters from him with a San Francisco postmark, but the letters stopped about two decades ago. He must be long dead by now.”
“What did the letters say?” I asked.
“Reminders that I was to remain quiet. Goodness, he even called a tribute article in to the Noose, mentioned me and everything. Made Maude Kennington suspect her husband and I had been up to no good. We hadn’t been, but it was just Mr. Knapp’s way of making sure I knew he could somehow hurt me whenever he wanted to. Even when I learned better, even when I understood things better, I didn’t tell anyone. As time passed”—she looked at Jerome—“it all seemed to become unreal somehow and then, of course, I only felt guiltier about letting the years go by without saying anything. It’s good to tell someone. I’m so sorry, so very sorry. Were the Cylases some of your kin?” she asked us all.
“No. Missouri is my grandmother,” I said.
“How wonderful. I haven’t lived in town for ten years. I do see some resemblance. You’re just as pretty as she was.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Gram—Missouri—forgot what happened at the bakery that night. I think she spent a long time trying to remember, but it might have been too awful.”
“Yes. Yes, it was truly awful.”
“But you saved her life, Mary.”
“In a terrible, cruel way, but I’m so grateful she lived.”
“Mary, do you have any more details about where the bodies are buried? The woods next to the cemetery are pretty dense,” Jake said.
She smiled at Jake and then looked at Jerome. “Go to the row with Jerome Cowbender’s grave—the historical one, of course—and then walk toward the woods. Once you reach the border of the woods, walk fifty or so steps directly south. You’ll see those rocks. Follow these directions, and I think you’ll find them easily.”
“Thank you, Mary,” Jake said.
“Yes, thank you,” Jerome and I said together.
“No. Thank you all.” Mary sighed. “I’m more tuckered out than I have been in a long, long time, but telling the story has helped. It was a burden that isn’t all the way gone, but it is some. Just some.”
Mary was tired, so even though none of us wanted to leave, she made it clear that we needed to let her rest. We promised that Gram would come out and visit her. I’d twist her arm if I needed to.
As we left, though, Mary stopped us at the door.
“Jerome, I know exactly when I’ll die. I don’t have much time here, but I do have some. Tell me, is it . . . I don’t know what I want to ask.”
Jerome smiled and said, “You’ll be fine, Mary. Just fine.”
“Thank you,” she said and blew him a kiss. He tipped his hat.
Once in the hallway, Jake turned to me and said, “What’d he say, Betts? What did Jerome say to her?”
“He just told her that she’d be okay, Jake. She’ll have nothing to worry about,” I said.
“That’s good. That’s very good.”
Chapter 22
“He’s gone-gone, like no sign of him anywhere?” I said into my cell phone.
“Nowhere to be found,” Cliff said.
Gram, Jake, Jerome, and I were all at the cooking school. I’d called the meeting. After we told Gram Mary’s story and the details of the magazine article, I called Cliff to ask him for an update.
“He must have gotten spooked by the grocery store clerk, knew that I’d try to track down the magazine,” I said.
“Sounds likely. We’ll keep trying, though,” Cliff said.
“Do you think he’s Roger’s killer?”
“We’re not sure, Betts. His disappearance is suspicious, but we just don’t know. We’d like to find him to talk to him and because we’re concerned for his safety.”
I’d been plenty concerned myself, but a deeper sense of disquiet now ran through me. My mind quickly replayed moments I’d spent with Mario III, but those moments didn’t tell me anything new.
“Cliff, do you have addresses of where everyone is staying?” I said.
“Yes, but we’ve got all the students here at the jail. Jim’s about done with them for now.”
“That’s good! Wait, no, can you ask some of them to stay?”
“Well . . . what’s up, Betts?”
“Cliff, I have a hunch, but it only includes Brenda, Jules, Shelby, and Elian. You okay if I come down?” I asked.
“Seems a bit unorthodox.”
“I know, I know. We can pretend you want to question me, but I’d like to . . . I don’t know, look at those four, talk to them. I feel like there’s something I’ve been missing. Maybe I can ‘see’ it.”
Cliff hesitated, but then said, “I’ll see what I can do. Jim or I will intervene if we think you’re causing more harm than good.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“All right. See you shortly.”
I hung up the phone and looked at Gram, Jerome, and Jake.
“Change of plans. I need to go to the jail. I have an idea about our present-day killer.”
“What’s the idea?” Gram said.
“It’s not fully formed yet. I need to see some of them in person.” It was fully formed, but my theory was weak and I didn’t want to say it out loud just in case that caused it to lose steam. It was the only idea I had.
“So, Freddie—I mean Mario’s gone?” Gram said.
“They can’t find him yet.”
“Shoot. I wish we’d picked up on things sooner.”
“They’ll find him,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure.
“We’ll wait to hear from you before we trek out to the woods,” Jake said.
“It’s getting dark. Maybe we should wait until tomorrow anyway,” I said.
Gram said, “Oh, I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I’ll be checking for those rocks this evening. I’ve wanted to know what happened for a long time. You all have no idea how this has tormented me over the years. I’m relieved to hear the story, but until I see where those bodies are buried, I cannot rest.”
“I’ll go with you to the woods, Miz. Jerome, come with us, too?” Jake said.
Jerome nodded.
“He’ll go with us,” Miz said.
“Isabelle, you’ll be careful?” Jerome said. “No going to the bakery, got it?”
“I’m not going anywhere near that bakery.”
*
My idea was pure instinct and based upon where two of the students lived, where one said he lived, and the fact that one took way too many notes. I suspected that the killer, if he wasn’t Mario Gepetti III, was Elian Sanchez, Shelby Knot, or Jules Broadshed. I really didn’t think Brenda was a killer, but I threw her into the mix because of all the notes.
It was another instinct, the one I hadn’t vocalized to Gram, Jake, and Jerome. My weak idea was somewhat based upon something that could change or be changed easily. I thought that we might be able to figure out who the killer was, or at least who they might be, based upon the way they sounded, their accents or lack thereof. Jake had been so in tune with Mario’s lie. I wondered if I could try to find an answer using the same sort of insight.
In the back of the jail I conferred with Cliff and Jim. “Do you know much about accents?”
“Betts, before we answer that, what’s on your mind?” Jim said.
“Look, Fr—I mean Mario said he was from Maine. He’s from San Francisco. Jake caught that during our first conversation. He knew Mario wasn’t from Maine.”
“Okay,” Jim said slowly, but I could se
e that the pieces of my wimpy theory were coming together in his mind.
“I’m operating on the theory that Roger wasn’t Mario’s father’s killer. I think that’s the safe way to think right now; well, at least an avenue that should be explored.”
“Right. So, someone else killed Mario’s father. Mario followed them here, and they killed Roger,” Jim said.
“Yeah.”
“Why would they kill Roger?”
I shrugged. “I can think of a couple reasons. Roger was killed at the school. He might have been early on purpose but that’s pretty rare this time of year. I think he was called there because he knew what happened with the Gepetti sourdough. He about told us the whole story but was interrupted by Mario spilling flour.”
“So, therefore, the conclusion should be that Mario killed him,” Jim said.
“Except, if Mario killed him, why didn’t Mario leave earlier?”
“You mean—if he came here to kill his father’s killer, why did he stick around after the deed was done?” Cliff said.
“Yes. It’s that little nugget that makes me pretty sure that one of those people”—I nodded toward the four sitting in chairs at the front of the jail—“is a killer—of both Roger Riggins and the Mario in San Francisco, but hopefully our Mario, our Freddie hasn’t been killed. Unless he’s a killer, too.”
Jim rubbed his hand over his bald head. “Betts Winston, you could be onto something. Or not.”
“Right. Well, there’s more. The poison used to kill Roger is from prairies in the western United States. Can we, with questions, and listening to their accents, determine if one of those people aren’t from where they say they’re from? I think I can eliminate two right now, but I’m just not sure.”
“Who?” Cliff asked.
“Brenda Plumb. She’s from Alabama and she sounds like it. And Shelby Knot. She’s well known in Portland, and when Gram and I checked her out, we saw all kinds of pictures of her.”
“But she’s from Portland,” Jim said. “The West. That’s why you didn’t think she should be dismissed?”
“Yes.”
“Why is Brenda Plumb still here then?”
If Bread Could Rise to the Occasion Page 20
