“Is this Ethan Tanner the journalist asking?”
He rolled his eyes. “Enough with that.”
The cologne he wore was different this morning—stronger, more crisp. Yet equally distracting.
“Tell me what that was last night.” The hard edge to his voice surprised her.
“I’d rather not.” His hard gray eyes bored into hers, but she’d fortified her resolve the previous night. “Thanks for your help, though.”
Less than a half hour later, Audrey drove down the frost-covered roads with Ethan thumbing through his phone, hoping an internet connection would materialize the closer they got to the library. Her cowl-neck sweater matched the evergreen trees lining the road as she curved and cut through the fallow brown fields. Staring at a phone or reading anything if in Ethan’s seat would have made her carsick. Which is probably why she wasn’t a writer.
A small, historic graveyard passed the driver’s side window, a short, iron-rod fence surrounding the slight hill up to an expansive oak tree, spreading its amber limbs across a pond’s edge. Audrey could hardly wait to see the spot that fulfilled her soul, and yet almost dreaded the familiar sorrow that was sure to follow. But she didn’t gaze too long, not wanting Ethan to ask questions. Or see her weakness.
The small, one-story library appeared another half mile down the road, nestled among tall pines and cedars and desperately needed an update. The corners of the foundation crumbled into the gravel parking lot and deep cracks in the brick façade cut like tributaries stemming from a main stream.
“How charming,” Ethan said as he finally looked up. Still no Internet connection.
“Are you saying you’re too good to use a facility older than your ratty tennis shoes?”
“Not at all,” he replied, replacing his small frown with a grin. “The older they are, the more secrets they have.”
So the genuine concern was gone. He was back to the journalist.
“Ha, ha. Call me when you’re done with emails. Try not to piss of the librarian.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be her best friend by the time I’m done. See you later, honey.” He blew her a mock kiss and climbed out, laptop bag in hand.
The uneasy, I’m-gonna-regret-this feeling in her gut didn’t hit her until she saw Ethan grinning after her as she glanced in the rearview mirror pulling onto the paved road. That grin was both unbelievably attractive and annoying simultaneously.
The rumbling in her mind didn’t stop when she pulled onto the side of the road, climbed out of her car and approached the wrought-iron fence in front of the graveyard. Her black coat provided less warmth than she expected, but she had to do it.
The chill seeped further into her clothes as she climbed the small hill between gravestones, her feet leading the way as if they knew her mind didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to remember.
Leaves blew across the moist earth and thickened as she approached the top of the hill, where the trees grew higher surrounding the pond. Her place of refuge and inspiration, just beyond her ultimate spot of sorrow.
Finally she reached the one gravestone she both craved and regretted, sitting at the crest of the hill. The black marble among a field of stone and concrete markers stood out, much like its occupant used to do in life. The small, metal vase imbedded in the ground next to it held wilted yellow roses, less than a week old.
Etched across the marble in bold letters read the one Audrey missed most:
JACKSON ALLEN DAVIS
June 12th, 1985 - November 28th, 2003
Perhaps they are not the stars, but rather openings in Heaven
where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us
to let us know they are happy.
Audrey brushed the leaves off the marble, and let her hand rest on the cold stone. “Hi, Jack,” she whispered.
This time she let the tears flow. Fighting them wasn’t allowed here.
Chapter Seventeen
The smell of old libraries should be made into a home fragrance scent. Maybe there wasn’t a large enough market for it, but Ethan would be the first to buy ten cases.
As he approached the stacks, he couldn’t help wondering if it was the volumes of old books on the shelves that emitted the lovely smell, or the building itself. Places like this were jackpots for media gold, but people had to be willing to sift through dirt to get it. And Ethan was more than willing.
An older woman, short white hair holding her spectacle lanyard in place, peered up from the cart of books she perused behind the reference desk and stopped. Her thin and fragile frame looked as if she’d blow over at the first sneeze. The deep wrinkles proved she may have been as old as the building itself, and might know the stories he itched to uncover.
“Good morning,” Ethan drawled, his buttering smile in place.
“Good morning,” she replied, still considering him. “Can I help you find something?”
“I hope so.” Ethan placed his satchel on the counter and held out his hand. “I’m Ethan.”
“Margaret Simon.” She shook Ethan’s hand, and he felt every bone and vein in her freezing grip.
“Not many libraries would be open the day after Thanksgiving. I was told you have an internet connection I can use.”
“Yes, the two computers there have access.” She pointed to the far wall where two large box screens sat, the archaic grayish-brown color of early Apples and Hewlett Packards, with cords thicker than hoses. “Or you can plug in your own computer to the open ports.”
“Excellent. Thank you.”
Only after he realized he didn’t have an Ethernet cable did he force himself to try the massive paperweight already in place. The mouse was like a clunky butter dish with a gray button in the center. But thankfully, the internet window wasn’t much different than what he expected. Just insanely slow.
A few minutes later, he hadn’t found any Mackineer newspaper articles. He couldn’t even find the Mackineer local paper’s website. Surely they had a local paper. Every town had one.
The squeak of the shelving cart rolled behind Ethan and he heard the librarian’s “tsk” behind him.
“If you’re looking for newspaper articles from around here,” her brittle voice said, “you have to do it the old-fashioned way.”
He swung around on the rolly-chair. “What do you mean?”
“You young’uns.” She shook her head. “By opening a book. Archived newspaper articles are held in those cabinets there.” She motioned to the back wall and waited for him to follow. “They are sorted by year. What timeframe are you looking for?”
“Um, about ten years ago.”
He almost bumped into her when she stopped and looked at him, her piercing stare waiting for something.
“What’s the purpose of your research?”
“I’m a writer.”
Better to keep things as general as possible. Ethan learned a long time ago not to give too much detail when he researched a story, otherwise people wouldn’t be willing to help him if they learned the truth. On the few instances he needed help.
For a split second, her eyes narrowed but she continued to the right cabinet and pulled open the drawer. Long, brown books, that looked more like artist portfolios were each labeled with volume numbers and dates. The oldest in the drawer looked to be from 1990.
“This drawer holds 1995 to 2005. Please be very delicate with these. They are the only archives in the town. If you need to make copies of anything, please let me know and I’ll take care of it for you.”
“You keep newspaper articles in cabinets? Why not online?”
“Because I choose not to spend the time scanning them in.” Her peacock-like face peering over spectacles gave him the uncanny feeling of being scolded by one of his high school teachers. “This is the system we have. The 1970s or earlier is considerably more fragile, so if you need any of those, please ask me and I’ll bring them out.”
When she strolled away and continued filing books, Ethan pull
ed out the 2002 album and perused the carefully preserved pages. The Mackineer Eagle newspaper headlines peered out through plastic sleeves, at which Ethan groaned inwardly. Knowing this was going to take a lot longer than he anticipated, he shrugged out of his coat and relocated to an open table on the other side of the stacks, along with the album.
Searching front page headlines seemed the best idea. Some event, or possible murder, in this tiny town had to make the main headline. Perusing obituaries would’ve been fruitless, since he didn’t know the name of the deceased.
Thirty minutes and the 2003 album later, desperate for more coffee or something to quench his dry throat, he found it. If he wasn’t shocked by the image, he would’ve started drooling.
On the front page of November 29th, 2003, the headline read “MACKINEER QB DAVIS DEAD AFTER CAR CRASH.” The large photo underneath depicted a mangled mess of metal that used to be an old car surrounded by police tape. Ethan’s gut wrenched at the though of a human being inside the twisted heap grimly portrayed on the front page. Next to it was a portrait, a pretty boy with wavy hair smiling out from the black and white ink. The subtext read: “Jackson Davis school photo, courtesy Mackineer High School.”
The article followed underneath:
Mackineer High School quarterback, Jackson Davis, was found dead late Friday night, at the scene of an accident on FM-158. In addition, senior Audrey Biddinger was discovered severely injured. Police suspect the driver lost control of the vehicle and rolled several times, causing both individuals to be ejected over thirty feet from the wreckage. It is unclear who was driving at the time of the incident and police have not indicated what caused the driver to lose control. Biddinger was taken to a hospital in Tyler and is currently in critical condition. The Davis and Biddinger families have declined to comment.
Jackson Davis and the Mackineer Eagles football team had just won their last playoff game on Friday, November 25th, a few hours before the accident. They are due to play the Temple Tigers in the State Championship on Saturday, December 3rd. Davis had planned to join the military upon graduation, and held aspirations to serve in public office. He is the only child of Carl and Claire Davis. His memorial is set for December 2nd at Mackineer Funeral Home.
Ethan leaned back in the small plastic chair, fighting between a grin and grief. He knew this is what he wanted to find, this was the story to start off the rest of his life. Move to the next step and make it to the high rollers of journalism. But a growing part inside of him suddenly regretted what he found.
She was in a car accident that killed someone. That was the news any politician would try to keep covered up. The kind of news that kept many politicians from winning elections. Or even trying.
But this wasn’t enough. There had to something else to this. A reason to warrant a brick through a window, even after all this time. Why people treated her so unwelcomingly, especially her brother.
He leaned forward and flipped more pages, carefully surveying every article. The next day’s paper made his heart jump.
More Investigation Into Mackineer QB Death
Police continue their rigorous ongoing investigation into the death of Jackson Davis, who was involved in a car accident on Friday night with girlfriend, Audrey Biddinger. Officials have determined the vehicle was speeding at the time of the accident, although it is unclear what caused them to lose control. Police believe Audrey Biddinger was driving at the time of the accident, although that has not been confirmed. Audrey Biddinger is in fair condition at Tyler Memorial Hospital, upgraded from critical, but has been unable to answer police questions.
Quarterback Jackson Davis suffered a shoulder injury during Friday night’s playoff game with Rockwall High School, which led police to believe he was not driving the vehicle at the time of the accident, combined with forensic evidence. Davis was pronounced dead at the scene on Friday night. A coroner’s report scheduled for Tuesday will determine the exact cause of death.
Davis’ memorial will be held on Friday at 5 p.m. at Mackineer Funeral Home.
Bingo. Not only did someone die, but she was driving. He could almost hear the nail in the coffin of Audrey Allen’s political career.
As he read more and more throughout the rest of the week’s papers, tidbits here and there arose of more details surrounding the accident. But the most important article crushing any doubts were on that Saturday’s column.
No Justice for QB Jackson Davis
Jackson Davis, beloved quarterback of the Mackineer Eagles, was laid to rest yesterday, surrounded by his family, friends, and teammates. However, justice for his stolen life will not be delivered now that police announced his death as an accident and will not press charges against Audrey Biddinger for manslaughter.
Police suspect Biddinger was driving the vehicle at the time of the accident, although conclusive evidence has not been determined. Police have described Biddinger’s interviews as uncooperative, at best. Both families involved in this tragedy have refused to comment to the media.
Although friends described Davis as the quintessential All-American boy destined for glory and larger-than-life aspirations, no one understood his attraction to girlfriend Audrey Biddinger, characterized as an outsider, combative, and suspected of at least half a dozen pranks on school property.
The Mackineer football team is scheduled to play Temple High School for the state championships tonight, and players will wear Davis’ jersey number taped to their helmets in tribute of their lost leader.
“That whole mess was a mountain of shame.”
The librarian’s dejected voice carried softly over his shoulder. He turned and saw her glancing at the album, sympathy filling every wrinkle and carefully placed hair.
“You remember this story?”
“Of course. Biggest thing to happen around here since the New London school explosion in the 1930’s.”
“Wow.”
“I knew you were lookin’ for this when you said ten years.”
“Then why’d you make me take the time to search?”
“’Cuz you boys need to learn how to look for things the right way.”
“You boys?”
“Reporters.”
Another one. The whole town has a serious aversion. Maybe something in the water.
“The first reporter there caused a whole lot of unnecessary ruckus and pain. All because he didn’t look hard enough for the right stuff, and only stopped at the surface.”
“Common practice around here, from what I’ve seen.”
Ms. Simon looked at him curiously. “You’re a peculiar one, Ethan. You seem to pay attention more than your brethren.”
My brethren? “Have there been other reporters in here?”
“Not for a long time.”
The air whooshed out of his lungs, although he tried to hide his relief. Another journalist digging his claws into this story would have crushed him.
Ms. Simon took the seat beside him and moved forward a few pages in the album, carefully turning the preserved articles between her bony fingers.
“The rest of this story happened weeks after the accident. All starting with the loss of the State Championship game.” She stopped at the following Sunday’s front page headline:
Mackineer Eagles Lose State Championship to Tyler: 36 – 0
Underneath the headline was the entire front line of the football team pictured walking off the field with ripped pants and mud-covered jerseys. Their dismal faces portrayed all the physical and emotional anguish of a team unexpected of such defeat.
“A lot of dreams were crushed that day,” the librarian continued, almost solemnly. “When they lost that game, most of them lost their scholarship aspirations for college. Only a few even continued to university, while the coach resigned and moved away.”
“What about the rest of the players who didn’t go to university?”
“Some moved away, but most are still right here. Working the rigs or other jobs. Broke a lot of girls’ hearts too. Expe
cting to leave on parade floats with their boyfriends. But none more broken than that poor Audrey Biddinger.”
Ethan swiveled in his chair and crossed his arms. The recorder in his pocket burned against his jeans and he itched to bring it out and catch the rest of this for his article.
“How long was she in the hospital?”
“Several weeks. But that was only the beginning. That journalist painted her as the murderer of the town’s golden boy. And he hounded her and her family for months afterwards trying to prove it. Went after the Davises, too.”
“Is the journalist still around, so I can talk to him?”
“No, he died a few years back of liver disease. But by the time the girl had left the hospital, he’d turned the whole town against her. It was easy for people to blame her, since she was already so different than everyone.”
“How do you mean?”
“Audrey came here a lot. She loved to read. I remember putting back so many Renaissance era books and artist biographies after she came in. But of course, like most artists, she had a rebellious side. Never ran with the main crowd. In fact, the only people I ever saw her with were her brother and the Davis boy. Most folks didn’t approve of that matchup. Didn’t understand what he saw in her. But I suppose it was inevitable.”
“Opposites attract? Good ol’ boy and the town deviant?”
“Not at all. The three were inseparable throughout childhood, the two Biddingers and Davis. Spent so much time together and knew each other better than anyone, it was bound to grow into something more.”
“What did his parents think about her?”
Ms. Simon paused and stared at him. But she didn’t answer.
“Are they still here?” He pressed more.
“Don’t try digging up that stone. That family was traumatized enough. And I won’t be the one leading another prowling journalist to their front door.”
This woman really was a pistol, but for some reason Ethan liked her. Reminded him of a pushy grandmother set in her ways, but did everything out of love, even overzealous protective instincts. He watched as she pushed the book cart along, chin high and tough heels. Even though she refused to say more, Ethan couldn’t thank her enough for all of the information. Nor could his boss.
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