Fire Walk (A Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud Mystery Book 12) Page 6

  “I understand,” Suzanne said with a sad smile. “If it were my relative, it would anger me, too. I’m just sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  Lacey dragged in a deep breath. “It’s okay. At least it answers a lot of questions. Now, can I lay the pages out here on the table and take some pictures?”

  ~~~

  TEN

  By the time they walked out of Hillhaven, Lacey had corralled her anger into a seething ball in the bit of her stomach. It sat there, heavy and rough-edged, like an old, unexploded bomb.

  “I’ll drive,” Sam said as he took the car keys from her hand.

  “We’re going to the cemetery, right?” It was less a question than a statement. She stood stubbornly with her hand on the door handle until he answered.

  “Yes,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Come on.”

  The trip down the hill was considerably less leisurely than the one up had been. Lacey stared out the windshield but barely saw the forest that slid by. She crossed her arms over her chest as if only that kept her from flying apart.

  “Can you gnash your teeth a little quieter?” he asked. “The grinding noise is drowning out the radio.”

  Lacey reached out and turned the radio up several decibels. Pink wailed from the speakers. Almost immediately, Lacey snapped the radio off completely.

  “That is just so, so…” She fumbled for the right word. “Draconian! That was a total sham, a smear campaign. They smeared her to cover up for the pregnancy. That’s… that’s… I can’t even think of a word bad enough to describe it.”

  “Hence her rage,” Sam said.

  “Rage; I’ll say. If it was me, I think I’d have done more than that. Kick that preacher’s ass.” She fumed. “The gall, to call her mentally unbalanced. She was no more unbalanced than you or I. Seventeen and pregnant, no family, no support, turning the entire community against her, shutting her away. Argh!” She yelled the last, striking the dashboard with a fist.

  Sam stopped at the stop sign at the bottom of the hill, then wheeled around the corner toward Westbrook. The little town unfolded as they drove into the center of it. He put on his blinker and turned into a small corner diner.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Taking a break.” He glanced over at her. “Relax, Lacey. We’ll go to the cemetery after. Let’s just take a little time out. You don’t need to be biting off the heads of any other townspeople.”

  “Humph,” she flounced. She tried to look at her watch without being too obvious. It was after one. “Okay,” she grumbled.

  Inside the diner, they took a booth at a front window, the daily comings and goings of the townspeople parading by. Lacey forced a smile at the waitress and made a quick decision on lunch. Once the woman walked away, Lacey laid her chin in her hand and stared out the window.

  Sam took her other hand with his. “Now you know some of what I was feeling from her,” he said quietly.

  “That’s for sure.” She sighed and turned to face him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess it’s a good thing I was born where and when I was. I don’t think I’d have done well in a situation like Harmony’s.”

  “A shrinking violet like you?” he joked. He waited for Lacey’s lopsided smile. “No, I have a feeling you would have spit in that old preacher’s eye. Not that he didn’t need it.”

  “I’ll say. But the worst part of this is that this was normal. Just the way the world worked back then. What chance did she have?”

  “Little to none.” He shrugged. “We’re all a product of the time we’re born. Remember the convoluted lives we found in Ireland?”

  “Who could forget?” They’d run into similar circumstances in the Irish castle, clandestine love affairs across class boundaries, lives shattered by the constraints of the time. “It’s funny that people make rules to live by, but human nature just never seems to go along. People love who they love, regardless of class, race, sex. You’d think at some point, the rule-makers would figure that out.”

  Their food arrived. The waitress slid plates in front of them, along with ketchup for Lacey’s fries.

  “Thank you,” she said. She was glad to realize she was able to remove the grudging tone from her voice.

  “It’s natural for people to try to create order,” Sam continued when the waitress left, “but it’s also natural to disregard that order when the heart’s involved. Can’t legislate love.”

  “Got that right,” she muttered. She lifted the ketchup bottle, but waited until Sam had stolen a few fries before she poured globs of red stuff on the rest.

  “By the way, that was a good idea to use the genealogy angle,” he said. “That worked pretty slick.”

  “Yeah, it did, didn’t it?” She couldn’t help a smug smile. “Much as I hate to lie, this one didn’t hurt anyone and it got us the information we needed.”

  “And your reaction sealed the deal.” He raised an eyebrow at her.

  She grinned at him. “I did that on purpose. Not bad acting, huh?”

  Sam laughed soundlessly and just shook his head. “Not bad at all.”

  “Okay,” she said, biting into a crunchy on the outside but soft inside French fry. The warm potato flavor appeased her nervous hunger. “So we know her story now. Do we know enough? Was all this—her incarceration, her lost baby—enough to set her off?”

  Sam chewed thoughtfully on a stolen French fry. “I’m not sure. You know what I wonder? Harmony was discharged in April. What did she do between April and June? Where did she go? Where did she live?” He leaned his chin in his hand. “Why didn’t she burn the church down as soon as she got out?”

  “Hmm, good question,” Lacey agreed. “It could be that her depression had something to do with that. She might have been moved to another facility, or parceled out to a local family for more rest. But you’re right; maybe we don’t know the whole story.”

  “Maybe not.” He grinned at her. “Time to switch into cop mode?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  ~~~

  ELEVEN

  The cemetery was on the far west side of town, bordering farmland. It was bounded by a rock wall and had a rusted metal sign arching over the main entrance.

  Berkshire County Cemetery No. 3

  Sam parked in the dirt area in front of the wall and they ambled in under the sign. The graveyard was a moderate size, stretching back at least an acre. Most of the graves looked cared for. The tombstones were legible and upright, and a few graves sported plastic flowers.

  “Do you think this is all Paupers’ Field?” Lacey asked. “It looks too nice for indigents with no family.”

  “You’re right,” Sam said. He scanned the area. “There’s a cottage over there.” He pointed to the small white house with dark green trim just outside the wall. “Maybe a caretaker?”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  A wooden sign beside the door said Floyd Hoskins, Caretaker. Lacey rang the bell and they waited patiently on the shady porch.

  It took a moment, but the door finally creaked open. A small man, old and bent, stared out the screen door. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Hoskins? Sorry to bother you, but we’re doing some genealogy research and looking for someone who was buried here.” She waved toward the cemetery. “Do you have a register of who’s here, and where they are?”

  Mr. Hoskins blinked at Lacey from behind thick glasses. “Oh,” he said finally. She resolved to speak a bit more slowly in the future. “Uh, yes, come in, come in.” He pushed the screen outward just until Lacey caught the latch, then he moved into the shadowed depths of his house. Lacey pulled the screen open and she and Sam followed.

  The cottage was rather cluttered, but only on every flat surface. Hoskins hobbled into the living room and fell heavily into a dark blue recliner. The floor was covered with a rose-patterned rug but the walkways were clear. Lacey took a seat on a wine-colored velvet couch that had seen better days. The end table beside her overflowed with
books, wadded paper towels, dirty dishes and coffee cups.

  “Now try me again,” the old man said. Lacey thought it was a good thing this cemetery was old and probably not used anymore; this poor man could barely get around.

  “I’m looking for a grave in the cemetery,” she said a bit more loudly than usual. “Can you check your records and tell me where it is?”

  “Uh.” He nodded, put his hands on the padded armrests to push himself up, but then thought better of it.

  “Would you… get me that binder?” He pointed a gnarled finger toward the fireplace beside him. A black binder rested on the mantle.

  Sam got it and handed it to the caretaker. The old man opened the front cover.

  “Name?”

  “Claire Gabrielle Stowe. She was a baby, died in 1928.”

  Hoskins nodded, or perhaps his head just bobbed naturally, and he perused the typewritten pages. As he searched, he mumbled. “Stowe, 1928.”

  On the third page, he found an entry. Lacey peered over; it looked crossed out. Hoskins kept his finger underneath the lined out name, and appeared to be thinking hard.

  “Stowe, 1928,” he muttered again. He glanced up at Lacey. “You say it was a baby?”

  “Yes. Just four days old. She was, uh, born up at Hillhaven.”

  She thought she noticed his eyes widen briefly, although it was hard to tell with the distortion of the thick lenses. He leafed over all the rest of the pages in the binder and pulled a transparent page protector from the pocket in the back. The page protector was full of old newspaper clippings.

  Slowly, his old hands shaking, Hoskins pored through the clippings. They were grainy and stained, aged to a brown color far removed from the original white newsprint. He sorted through a handful, turning the small clipped notes this way or that to read them.

  “Here,” he said. He handed one to Lacey. She took it gingerly; it looked brittle enough to crumble.

  Body Stolen from Cemetery the headline read.

  Lacey glanced up at Hoskins. He watched her patiently.

  She read the short article out loud to Sam.

  “‘Police were notified of a body stolen from the Berkshire County Cemetery No. 3 sometime over the weekend. The caretaker reported the grave was that of an infant, Claire Gabrielle Stowe, who had been buried in Paupers’ Field last February. The caretaker, Norman Lovemark, said he found the open grave Monday morning, the coffin and its contents missing. The police are investigating.’”

  “What’s the date on that?” Sam asked in a quiet voice.

  “June 13, 1928.”

  “Three days before the fire,” he said.

  Lacey nodded. She turned back to Hoskins. “I noticed the name is crossed off your list there. Does that mean the body was never found? Never reburied?”

  “I don’t know about found. Not buried here.”

  “All right.” She took her phone out and took a picture of the aged clipping, then handed it back to the caretaker. He slipped it back into the plastic sleeve.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hoskins,” she said as she stood and put her phone away. “You’ve been very helpful.” The old man looked about to struggle to his feet, but Lacey reached over and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. “Please don’t get up. We’ll show ourselves out.” She took the binder and set it back on the mantle, shook the man’s hand and they left.

  “What the hell?” Lacey exploded as they walked to the car. “She dug up the baby?”

  “It would appear so,” Sam allowed. He unlocked the car. “I can’t think why anyone else would.”

  “Why would she?” Lacey shook her head as she slid into the passenger seat. “Is that some sicko way of keeping the baby with her? Ugh.”

  “I don’t know.” He turned the car back toward Meadeview. “We’ll have to think on that.”

  “Oh, I am,” she assured him. “I am.”

  ~~~

  TWELVE

  Back in their hotel room, Lacey tossed her pack on the bed and immediately opened up her laptop.

  “What are you doing?” Sam asked. He got them each a soda from the mini fridge, set one beside her laptop and took his to the sitting area where he could check his email.

  “Thanks. I’m still wondering who the father is. I wonder if the preacher had a son.”

  “Good idea,” Sam said.

  Lacey pulled up her favorite genealogy website on her browser. Just for grins, she plugged in Harmony Stowe. Even though the girl hadn’t left behind any living progeny, it was possible people on other family branches might have researched her.

  Yes, there she was. Born in 1910 to Harold and Ramona. Died June 16, 1928. The site even showed Clair Gabrielle, the poor child that lived only four days. When Lacey checked for corroborating documents, she found both a birth and death certificate for Claire, and the same for Harmony. It was all right there, if she had thought to look. Well, no matter. They knew the story now.

  She plugged in Emmitt Calder. There were several, so she zeroed in on birth years. By the time Harmony came to live with the Calders, he already had three children. Lacey guessed he was at least ten years older than Harmony.

  One was born in 1924; too young. Another in 1810; too old. A third in 1945; way too young. Then, one born in 1887. Lacey calculated quickly. In 1928, he’d be roughly forty-one years old, twenty-three years older than Harmony. She clicked on the link to see the details.

  Emmitt G. Calder, married to Agnes, three children. Corroborating documents showed him in Meadeview for the 1920 census; 1930 census, also, but not the 1940. By that time, they were in New Hampshire. This was definitely the family.

  She dug deeper into the children. Two daughters, one son. The girls were born first, in 1916 and 1920. The boy, Emmitt Junior, was not born until 1922. He would have been only four when Harmony came to live with the Calders. Definitely not the father.

  But what about old Emmitt himself? He’d have been thirty-nine when Harmony came to live with the Calders. As a preacher, he’d be considered trustworthy and upright—maybe that wasn’t the right word, she thought grimly—especially to a naïve, inexperienced sixteen-year-old. As a preacher, he very likely would have had a presence about him—charisma—and a persuasive nature. Might the young girl have fallen into thrall of him, and might he have used that to his own advantage?

  She searched more of the corroborating documents on Emmitt, looking for subtle clues. In a record dated 1942, she found a not-so-subtle clue: a record of divorce. Had Agnes left him? Had he traded her in for a younger model? She searched for additional marriage records but found none. She found him in the 1950 census in Boston—alone.

  She drummed her fingers on the desk. These could all be valid clues—or not. At this point it was all still conjecture. Lots of people got divorced; it didn’t mean the husband was a predator with a taste for innocent young girls.

  She got another idea. She did a global search on Emmitt Calder and Massachusetts. She got several articles from the Meadeview Clarion, of course, including the one where he called Harmony emotionally troubled. Nothing else of interest. Then she searched on his name and New Hampshire.

  “I should take video of you,” Sam said suddenly.

  Lacey hit the enter button and glanced over. “What? Why?”

  “You’re in that dog-with-a-bone mode,” he said. “If you could see yourself, staring up at the ceiling, your tongue between your teeth. I can almost see the wheels turning in your overheated brain.”

  Lacey wasn’t sure if she should feel complimented or insulted. She chose the former.

  “Hey, it worked for me as a cop. I think it works for us, now, too—”

  She looked back at the screen and froze. Only her eyes moved, darting across the search results.

  “Holy shit,” she breathed. “Literally.”

  “What have you got?” Sam put his phone down and came to read over her shoulder.

  Methodist Pastor Arrested for Sexual Abuse

  Reverend Emmitt Gabriel Calder, pasto
r at the United Methodist Church of Indian Springs, New Hampshire, was arrested yesterday on charges stemming from a relationship with a fifteen-year-old girl. The girl and her parents were members of his congregation, and her parents said the relationship had been going on for several months.

  “What year was that?” Sam asked.

  “It’s 1941. The year before his divorce.”

  “What a coincidence,” he snorted. “And to top it off, his middle name is the same as my brother’s. Asshole.”

  “Not only that,” Lacey said. She turned in her chair to face Sam directly. “It’s also the middle name of Harmony’s baby. The female version, at least. Claire Gabrielle Stowe.”

  The comprehension in Sam’s eyes signaled the pieces coming together in his mind. “She couldn’t give the baby his last name…”

  “So she gave her his middle name. If the baby had lived, if she’d returned to Meadeview with it, there would have been very little doubt about who the father was.”

  “Smart lady,” Sam said. “It’s too bad it didn’t work out that way. I’d have liked to see someone stick it to the son of a bitch.”

  Lacey nodded emphatically. “You know what I wonder? I wonder if his predatory nature was known to the church. Did he simply move to New Hampshire, or was he transferred? You know that whole Catholic Church scandal? How they’d transfer priests who were caught molesting children, rather than reporting them?”

  Sam’s mouth thinned into a hard, straight line. “Let’s hope not. It’d hate to think any church would harbor a predator like that.”

  “Me, too.” She turned back to the screen. “But it’s certainly possible. I need to print this out, too. And you know what I’d like to do?”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to go pay a visit to Reverend Hillenbrand.”