On the Cutting Room Floor (A Ghosts of Landover Mystery Book 8)

by Etta Faire

  I hung up and spread out the copied pages of the interview transcriptions on the table in different spots so we could all read them together.

  “Let me know if you guys see anything interesting,” I said, picking up the first interview. It was with Graham Smalls, the day after Mandy’s body had been found.

  RECORDED INTERVIEW

  Date: 09/26/1987

  Location: Landover Police Station

  Conducted by: Sheriff Glen Bellings and Officer Trevor Gilbert

  OFFICER GILBERT: We just want to let you know this interview is being recorded. Could you please state your full name for the record?

  SMALLS: Graham Frederick Smalls.

  OFFICER GILBERT: Thank you, Mr. Smalls. Now, please explain the relationship you had with the deceased?

  SMALLS: Geez, are you kidding? I mean, I get it that you have to do an investigation, but is this really what they make you guys ask? I just lost my wife of twenty-one years. I’m grieving, and you sound like a bad episode of Hill Street Blues.

  OFFICER BELLINGS: Just answer the questions, numbskull, as they are asked. Can you tell us the relationship you had with Mandy Smalls?

  SMALLS: I just told you. She was my wife. We have two kids at Landover University. Olivia and Frederick. We owned a horror production company together. And we were supposed to be wrapping up production on our newest film soon. Look, I don’t mean to be rude here, but I just lost a ton of footage on that film that I put all of my savings into. My friends are giving up their time to do this for me. And one of them is Ned Reinhart. He’s a big director. You’ve probably heard of him. We don’t have time for this. We have to see if we can piece things together and make a coherent movie. That reminds me. I’m going to need most of that film you guys confiscated back. I need to see what can be salvaged.

  OFFICER BELLINGS: Your wife is dead, and you seem more concerned about your movie.

  SMALLS: People grieve in different ways. I have to think about the movie, or I’ll die inside right now.

  OFFICER BELLINGS: I see. You’ve been married a long time. You and your wife happy?

  SMALLS: Are you and your wife?

  OFFICER BELLINGS: Answer the question. Were you happily married?

  SMALLS: Yes. We had our moments, and we’re not perfect. But, yes. We were happy.

  OFFICER BELLINGS: Not perfect. Does that mean you or your wife were having an affair? We found a roll of condoms in your wife’s sock drawer. Were those for y’all?

  SMALLS: (pauses) No. Are you sure you found condoms? I loved my wife. I don’t know if she was having an affair. I don’t think she was.

  I looked up from the paper. “You had condoms in your sock drawer?” I asked, pointing at the paper.

  “No,” she said. She scanned the part I was talking about. “What? I… I wasn’t having an affair. I have no idea how they got there. Graham or someone must have planted them.”

  “Okay,” I said, looking back down at the interview. “We’ll figure it out.”

  OFFICER GILBERT: Did you have life insurance on your wife?

  SMALLS: Everyone does. She had it on me too.

  OFFICER GILBERT: How much is the policy?

  SMALLS: I don’t remember.

  OFFICER GILBERT: We looked it up. It’s three-hundred thousand. That’s a lot.

  SMALLS: If you say so. It’s standard, I think.

  OFFICER GILBERT: Were you having financial problems?

  SMALLS: Isn’t everyone?

  OFFICER BELLINGS: Just answer the question. Were you having financial problems?

  SMALLS: Yes, but nothing big.

  OFFICER GILBERT: We’re still checking on your alibi. You say you were at Slap Pappy’s all night, then you went to the fraternity house after the bars closed. Is this still correct?

  SMALLS: Yes.

  OFFICER GILBERT: Was your son at the fraternity house when you arrived?

  SMALLS: I was too drunk to notice. We stayed downstairs and found a place to crash.

  OFFICER GILBERT: You say ‘we.’ Can you please tell us who crashed with you?

  SMALLS: (pauses) Just one of the crew.

  OFFICER GILBERT: Do you remember who that was?

  SMALLS: Somer Hawkins.

  “I knew it,” Mandy said, pointing at the paper.

  I noted it hadn’t been a dorm room, but a fraternity house. Caleb hadn’t even bothered to get any of the details right.

  I glanced back at my laptop screen, noticing tiny writing in the top corner of the website, nowhere near the dripping blood font or the photos. Hours for Crazy Hank’s were from 11:00 to 2:00. It was almost 11:00 now.

  “Let’s go,” I said, scooting my chair back. “We’ll have to look at the rest of the interviews later.”

  It was time to meet Crazy Hank in real life.

  Chapter 14

  Crazy

  When most people think of Wisconsin, they think of dairy farms and cheese, but the state also has a booming beef industry, and Noville is one of the cities at the center of it. However, when the air isn’t circulating right, mostly in the winter but sometimes in the summer too, you can smell both the dairy farms and the feedlots coming at you from all directions.

  And it can be worse than special-blend bird repellant.

  My eyes watered with the smell as my GPS took me over a random bridge into the main part of town, where aging storefronts with peeling paint stared back at me. Cow statues adorned most of the street corners.

  There were cows in store windows, cow weather vanes, and cow restaurants like the Slaughterhouse Bar and Grill.

  “So this is historic Noville,” Jackson said as we drove down the main street. “A history of slaughtering. Perfect place for a horror museum.”

  I turned down a maze of narrow side streets full of modest 1930-looking homes with lopsided screen doors and sagging covered porches. Rusty car parts sat in the middle of most of the lawns for no reason.

  “The website did say Crazy Hank’s was located in historic Noville. Hopefully, we’re still pretty far from the historic part,” I said just as my GPS announced that my “destination was on the left.”

  Growing up in Indianapolis, I’d only ever gone to large museums. The kind with T-Rex skeletons and parking lots.

  This place was a small, dark green house with duct tape along its front window. If it weren’t for the sign out front, I would never have known I was in the right place.

  Crazy Hank’s House of Horror

  Established 1998

  Museum Hours: 11:00-2:00 M-F

  Adults: $20

  Children: $15

  Cash Only

  “Such a deal,” Jackson said by my side. “You’d expect to pay twice that in Indianapolis for museums, right?”

  Mandy was already hovering in the heat by the sidewalk. “Let’s go,” she said, eagerly waving to me, because ghosts no longer had the healthy fear of death stopping them from making dumb decisions.

  “If things go wrong,” I said to my ex, getting out of the car, adjusting my sundress so it would hang right along my legs, “just cause a distraction so I can escape.”

  “What could possibly go wrong?” he asked. “You only need to ask a self-proclaimed crazy man what his part was in a murder thirty years ago.”

  I pulled my wallet out of my purse, already resentful I had to pay $20 to die.

  My too-loose sandals smacked against the walkway, making me realize I’d have to take them off if I needed to run for my life.

  The screen door creaked on its hinges as I entered the dark covered porch area.

  Jackson pointed toward the empty flowerpots overturned in the corner next to a lone, dirty flip flop. “House of Horror… I think this has to be one of the most accurately named museums I’ve ever been to,” he said.

  I approached the cobweb-laden front door where I wasn’t sure what to do because this was a house that was also technically a “museum.”

  Do I knock? Do I just walk in?

  I decided to do a
quick one-knock then open the door. A chime that sounded like the piano chords from the Exorcist echoed through the house, announcing my arrival.

  It smelled like stale air mixed with latex, but I was just glad there was air conditioning.

  I looked around the front room, already planning my escape if I needed one. Take your shoes off. Break a window if the door is locked…

  It looked just like the website. Monsters lined most of the living room, along with knives and hatchets, posters and signs. Most everything was behind glass.

  We were the only ones in the place.

  “Oooh, this is nice.” Mandy said, glancing around. “Graham and I kept our collection in the basement. We thought it was scarier down there. I like the living room touch.”

  “I’m pretty sure this is a whole-house touch,” Jackson corrected her.

  A man appeared behind me, and I jumped about three inches. Hank was older now, but he basically looked the same. Small man with a sunken, clean-shaven face, yellow teeth, and a baseball cap.

  “Crazy Hank,” he said, holding out his hand for me to shake. “You like horror?”

  I nodded slowly. I could tell why he’d asked. This was just like the bar. I didn’t quite look the part of the average customer around here, and he was already suspicious about why I was here.

  He looked me up and down. “Well, I’m trying something new this month on account of the fact I’m not in the best of health anymore. Bad knees and my doctor says I need to take it easy. You can do the whole tour yourself for ten dollars or I’ll give you a guided tour for twenty.”

  The twenty shook in my hand, like it was asking me if I really wanted to do this.

  I held the bill out. “I’d like a guided tour, but…”

  I was just about to tell him I didn’t need to see his house, that he could rest on a chair because I mostly just wanted to interview him about a certain horror movie. But I didn’t get a chance to say any of that.

  “But what?” He interrupted. “I got whatever you’re into, darlin’. Trust me. Got a whole room full of demonic dolls from various movies. Nighty Night, Murder Dollhouse, Death by Dolly. I kid you not. All of them. They’re all upstairs in what I call the nursery.” His laugh morphed into a long, rattly cough. He pointed to the main part of the living room. “I got every kind of monster memorabilia. Monster heads. Creatures from outer space, from lagoons, from nuclear accidents. Got the slasher movies from the 80s, 70s too. They were real popular back then.”

  I must have looked confused because his lip curled. “What’s your favorite horror movie?” he asked.

  “I’m here to see Camp Dead Lake,” I blurted out.

  His face fell into surprise, but he quickly composed himself, tugging the $20 bill from my fingers. “Then you’re gonna love this because I got a whole Mandy Smalls collection that ain’t nobody else has.” He motioned for me to follow him to the back of the living room, by the hatchets.

  “This seems safe,” Jackson said.

  Crazy Hank had a swagger to his walk, and he kept looking back at me to make sure I was following him. “Not too many people come in here looking for Camp Dead Lake. I kid you not. A lot of people look for Toppletree or Ned Reinhart. But not too many people like that particular movie. In fact, you’re the first one.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You’re too young to know this,” he said as he sauntered into the living room. “But Camp Dead Lake was supposed to be something amazing. The late 80s were kind of the end of the good slasher movies. So many solid slasher empires were on their 20th sequel and they were getting a little silly, if you ask me. People like Ned Reinhart were just popping ‘em out like they didn’t care.”

  I nodded. I’d heard that from Mandy too.

  “Toppletree used to be big in the 70s, but then they kind of petered out. I think Mandy was the brains behind the operation, and she let her husband take over a little too much over the years.”

  I looked at Mandy. She straightened out the collar on her acid-washed jacket. I could tell hearing the truth was hard.

  Hank went on. “But Camp Dead Lake was supposed to bring it all back around. I was really looking forward to it. Ned Reinhart was directing. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I never liked his stuff, not even the first one everyone loved. Hippo. Guy getting revenge on his high-school bullies by slicing up the school was a little too artsy for me…”

  I nodded like that seemed artsy.

  He continued. “And then he went from artsy to bikinis. He only made it big when women’s groups started hating him. But I heard Mandy wrote the script for Dead Lake, so I thought it was gonna be different.”

  He stopped and turned to me. “There is no way she wrote that. I would say the movie changed after her death, but I was on the set some days. It sucked then too. It was probably best they lost most the footage when she died. Saved her reputation.”

  He seemed a little too interested in her reputation.

  “Tell me about her death,” I said. “What do you remember about that?”

  He raised an eyebrow again and sucked in his thin lips.

  In the corner where the mannequin was, Crazy Hank had much more than just Mandy’s outfit from her murder. Above the mannequin dressed was the poster Mandy had signed that day, hanging on the wall, protected by a plexiglass container.

  It said: Crazy Hank, Never be afraid to make your dreams come true. Mandy Smalls. September 25, 1987

  “That was signed the day of her murder,” I said, pointing to it. “So, you were on the set that day too?”

  I already knew he had been, but I wanted him to elaborate.

  He nodded. “That poster is theft-proof. Fireproof, too. It’s one of my prized possessions right there, and I’ve spent some serious money acquiring the rest of my stuff, so for me to say that means a lot. I got Mandy Smalls to sign that poster the day she was murdered. I kid you not. I had her put the date on it. Thank God I did, because most people don’t believe that part. Got it appraised once at a convention. It was the last known signed piece of memorabilia from Toppletree, the last known one from Mandy Smalls. Perfect shape. Guess how much it’s going for? You’ll never guess.”

  Mandy watched the man’s every word.

  “A thousand,” I said.

  “More.”

  “Two thousand.”

  “Yeah, that’s what the guy said. Two thousand dollars.” He looked disappointed that I’d gotten it on the second guess. “For one poster, though. And that was way back in 2004 when I got it appraised. Gotta be worth more now.”

  He coughed for another ten seconds before going on. “Most people wonder how I got that poster. They think it’s kind of weird that it was signed the day of the murder…”

  He took a step toward me, and I took a step backward, my hand instinctively reaching down to my sandals, prepared to tug those shoes off and run toward the door. I could tell he was studying my reaction.

  Jackson motioned toward the both of us. “Does anyone else hear banjos?”

  I ignored my ex and tried to defuse the situation. “What? I don’t think there’s anything weird about that poster,” I said. “But then, I’m from Landover, so I know there were a lot of locals on the set of Camp Dead Lake. A lot of people having Mandy Smalls sign stuff.”

  Crazy Hank’s eyes were a little less bugged after I said that. “Yeah, I was just one of many. I lived in Landover at the time. I worked with the owner of the house it was filmed at. Some lady at a psychology center, can’t remember her name…”

  “Ruth Locke. You both worked at Brownstone,” I said, then kicked myself for saying that.

  “Now, how’d you know that?” His grayish face lost its ashen color. “Ruth Locke. That’s right. You sure know a lot about Camp Dead Lake, and me.”

  He crossed his arms and glared at me.

  I decided not to hide my crazy like I normally did in life. Any man who called himself Crazy Hank with a house of horror could handle hearing about ghosts.

 
“I’m a medium. I can communicate and see ghosts,” I explained. “And Mandy Smalls is here with us right now. I kid you not.” I added before he could say it.

  “That’s crazy,” he said. “Prove it.”

  I looked over at Mandy. She just shrugged.

  I took a deep breath and tried to remember the details. “Mandy says you were a custodian at Brownstone, the place Ruth Locke worked. Ruth invited you over to her house to meet Mandy. And while Mandy was signing your poster, you begged her to let you stay that last day and take pictures.”

  His jaw stiffened, and his eyebrow twitched just a little. I could tell he wasn’t sure what to make of this. It’s one thing to like horror movies about ghosts and another thing to believe the story lines could be true.

  Hank pointed to two framed photo collages on the wall by the poster. The photos were a little blurry, grainy, and faded. “You ask Mandy who the people are in these photos.”

  In the photos, Mandy was in her acid washed outfit, so I knew they were photos from her last day, but it was the part of the day I hadn’t lived yet.

  “Olivia, my daughter,” Mandy said, pointing to a photo of her and Olivia cheers-ing with some watermelon slices. “The closeup of the hands with the script is Ned. I can tell by the hippo on his cheesy leather bracelet, and his Rolex, of course. He doesn’t go anywhere without that. And there’s Graham, drinking a beer,” she said, pointing to the other photos. “The tall, handsome guy is Frederick, my son. Got his good looks from his mom. Barry’s the guy in the Birkenstocks. He always wore those…” She went on and on, and so did I, relaying all the information to Crazy Hank.