Secrets Can Be Deadly Page 4

  9 Sunday, May 22, 1977 (Sam)

  I woke up to water dripping on my forehead. A leaky ceiling wasn’t going to ruin the happiest day of my life. I got up and slid the bed three feet to the center of the room so my pillow and sheets wouldn’t get wet. I grabbed a bucket from the bathroom and set it under the leak.

  “What’s that racket?” Grandfather yelled up the stairs.

  “Sorry, Grandfather. There’s a leak in the ceiling. I moved the bed, put a bucket down.”

  Grandfather cursed then yelled again, “Don’t touch the ceiling. I don’t want you causing any more damage.”

  Today, I didn’t care what he said. I took a shower and put on my best clothes before heading downstairs for breakfast.

  “What you so gussied up for?”

  “I graduate today. Aren’t you coming to the ceremony?”

  “Not now. Got a leaky roof to fix. Rain’s stopped. I’ll eat later.”

  Grandfather marched out the door in a huff. Part of me knew I should go out and help him, but the other part of me was hungry. I needed to be at the school in my cap and gown in forty-five minutes.

  I cracked two eggs in a bowl and whipped in some shredded mozzarella and hot sauce, poured it into a hot skillet, stirring a few times. I buttered two pieces of bread and poured a glass of orange juice. The perfect breakfast for a perfect day.

  I devoured every morsel. I quickly washed and dried the dishes and went upstairs to brush my teeth and comb my hair. I emptied the bucket, put on my shoes, bounded down the stairs and out the back door.

  “Grandfather, I’m leaving for graduation,” I yelled.

  “Come home right after the ceremony. I’ll need some help when you get back.” He turned and continued working on the roof.

  On the drive home, I kept glancing at my diploma on the passenger seat to make sure it was real. I was eighteen, had my high school diploma, and ready to start a new life. Tonight I’d pack all my belongings, along with the three hundred dollars I’d saved, and head to Florida. Grandfather would soon be out of my life.

  I heard sirens and pulled to the side of the road. The ambulance whizzed by, its lights flashing.

  As I turned down the gravel driveway, I saw the ambulance at Grandfather’s house. The last time I remembered seeing an ambulance outside a house was when my daddy and brother died. I sped down the drive, slamming on the brakes when I got near the back door. I ran in the house and saw two paramedics.

  “What happened?” I was out of breath.

  One of the paramedics looked at me, slung his stethoscope around his neck. “You must be Sam. Your grandfather fell off the ladder and punctured a lung. He’ll be in the hospital in Maquoketa a few days.”

  The other paramedic took Grandfather’s blood pressure. What if he blames me for his fall? I jumped when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “We’re taking him to the hospital. You can visit him tomorrow,” the paramedic said. “We’ve given him pain medication. The hospital will run tests, see if he has any other injuries.”

  “Who called you? We don’t have a phone.”

  “A man named Red called it in. Told us he was here helping fix the roof. Drove to the neighbor’s house to call to the hospital. He left ten minutes ago.”

  I glanced at Grandfather. He looked scared behind an oxygen mask. I saw that his wrists were bound to the stretcher as the paramedics took him out the back door. I’d never seen him like this—so fragile, so helpless.

  I stood in the kitchen, starring at the back door. I heard the siren and turned to watch the ambulance drive away. Pieces of torn paper scattered the floor. Grandfather wouldn’t want the house messy. I started picking up the pieces. As I threw the paper in the trash, I realized it didn’t matter to me anymore if the house were a mess.

  I went upstairs, changed into jeans and a gray t‑shirt. No water in the bucket. Grandfather must have fixed the roof before he fell.

  After living in this house nine years, it was the first time I felt free and independent. I wouldn’t have to worry about Grandfather listening to every sound I made. I wouldn’t be in fear of what I did or said that would bring on verbal abuse. I could slam drawers shut, run down the steps, sing, put my feet on the coffee table. I wanted to explore all the rooms that I’d never been allowed to enter.

  Since my first week in the house, I’d wanted to see the attic. I thought back to the one and only time I tried to go up the stairs. “Stop! You’re forbidden to go up there.” Grandmother yelled. “Grandfather has traps and poison for the squirrels and mice that get in the attic. It’s no place for a small child. Good thing I caught you. Grandfather would’ve taken you to the barn and shown you the horsewhips.”

  I didn’t learn about horsewhips that day, but did two days later.

  Nine years ago, the attic steps had seemed so big. Ten steps—ten small, dusty steps. I’m not sure anyone had touched the stairs these last nine years. I didn’t see a light switch, so I went back to my room for a flashlight. I tapped my foot on each step, thinking Grandfather might have set a trap and my foot would go through the wood. I reached the last step. Cobwebs filled the corners of the doorframe. I gently turned the door knob. It opened. A string dangled from the ceiling three feet ahead. I gingerly walked in, pulled the string. The room filled with light. The attic was smaller than what I’d imagined—no bigger than my bedroom. A few rays of sunlight tried to enter from the plywood-covered window. The only things in the attic were two boxes in the corner. No traps, no poison. Grandmother had lied to me.

  Walking over to the boxes, I had to shake the feeling Grandfather would rush in and tell me I needed a whipping.

  Duct tape sealed both dust-covered boxes. Picking up the first, I was surprised how light it felt. The second wasn’t much heavier. I carried both boxes to the living room. Reading mystery novels had been a source of pleasure for me, and now I was experiencing my own mystery. What could be so important in these two boxes that they’d been sealed and stored in the attic all these years?

  I went to the kitchen, opened the junk drawer, pulled out a box cutter, carefully cut the duct tape. I took a deep breath, opened the first box. Inside, a photo album filled with black and white pictures. I quickly scanned page after page. No one I recognized.

  Inside the second box, a diary and two stacks of letters—one bound with string, the other wrapped in red ribbon. The first stack was letters Grandfather sent to Grandmother when he was in the army. The stack wrapped in ribbon was letters addressed to my mother from Grandmother. All these letters had the words RETURN TO SENDER handwritten over the mailing address.

  The diary was dated 1956. I opened the cover, saw the word Evelyn written in red ink. My mother’s name. This was her diary.

  My heart raced. I could learn so many things about my family’s past. What would I look through first? Why hadn’t my grandparents wanted me to see these things?

  It was getting dark, my stomach grumbled. I fixed a bologna sandwich, pickles, and potato chips. Grandfather would never let me eat a meal like this for dinner. He always had to have meat and potatoes.

  I sat on the sofa, started looking at the letters from Grandfather. His handwriting was hard to read. I could tell he missed Grandmother. He signed each letter I love you. I’d never heard Grandfather say those words to Grandmother, or me.

  Next, I grabbed the stack of returned letters. In each letter, Grandmother said how sorry she was that Grandfather had hurt her. She pleaded to see her daughter and grandchildren. Grandfather was a mean and stubborn man. Now, I was learning he was this way with his own child, too. Why would my mother abandon me and leave me with Grandfather, given the way he treated her?

  The photo album was dusty and I sneezed when I opened the first page. Pictures from people in the early 1900s, relatives perhaps. I turned a few pages and saw a picture of Grandfather’s house. The trees were small. Three people stood on the front step. The picture was fuzzy, but they looked like Grandmother, Grandfather, and my mom when she was four
or five. More pages of pictures of people I didn’t know. Flipping five more pages, I stopped. A baby picture. Written on the photo: 01/13/59—Sam. I’d never seen a baby picture of myself.

  I flipped the next page. My jaw dropped. Christmas family photographs of Mom, Dad, my brother, and me. Dad’s face was crossed out with a black marker.

  10 Saturday, January 26, 1980 (Mason)

  Mason stopped at the community college library to use the microfilm reader. He had a manila file folder and the two dead couple’s names, hoping he could find newspapers articles that would shed light on his mystery. His instinct was telling him the couples hadn’t died of natural causes.

  Since he didn’t have an exact day or month the first couple died, he searched almost an hour before finding an obituary for Kenneth and Mae Ponder in The Dysart Reporter.

  Kenneth Robert Ponder, born October 21, 1933. Mae Suzanne Ponder, born July 3, 1934. Kenneth and Mae were united in marriage on July 31, 1954 in the Little Brown Church in Nashua, Iowa. Kenneth and Mae died peacefully together on August 15, 1979. Their love was a testimony for everyone to live by. Funeral services will be held at Overton Funeral Home on August 24 at 10:30 AM.

  Nothing unusual. Mason printed a copy for his file.

  Next, he looked for Mark and Lisa Amstead’s obituary. Since the deaths happened only a few weeks ago, he had to search through physical newspapers in the archives. He found the obit in the third newspaper.

  Mark Samuel Amstead, born February 17, 1929. His adoring wife, Lisa Louise Amstead, born November 15, 1931. Mark and Lisa were married on December 9, 1947 in the Little Brown Church in Nashua, Iowa. Mr. Amstead owned the local car dealership until his retirement last year. Mark and Lisa spent their lives dedicated to each other, and in the end, died together in their sleep on January 4, 1980. The couple is survived by their son Robert Ponder (Jessica) of Portland, Oregon. Funeral services will be held at Pinecrest Funeral Home on Saturday, January 12 at 10:00 AM. In lieu of flowers, donations may be directed to the Cresco nursing home.

  Mason made a copy of this obit as well, tucking it in his folder with the other one.

  He noticed only one thing in common—both couples were married in the Little Brown Church. Murdering married couples because of the location of their wedding? Couldn’t be. Too strange.

  Mason had to make a choice—either stop wasting his time or follow his instinct.

  Instinct had made him a good cop. He decided to start his own case. Mason made a list of things to research. Did either couple have any enemies? Did anything unusual happen before their deaths? Did they know anyone in common? Did someone benefit from their deaths?

  Mason knew he couldn’t use police time to work his own case. He’d use vacation days. Maybe it was nothing, but his gut was telling him to continue.

  Mason arrived at Carl Barnes’ house at seven-fifteen for monthly poker night. He saw Todd’s car parked on the street and wondered whether the fender would ever get painted.

  Mason walked in the back door and set two twelve-packs of beer on the counter.

  “You’re late,” Jeff said. “Good thing you remembered the beer.”

  “Ready to lose your money?” Mason said.

  “Who wants pizza?” Paul bellowed as he entered the house.

  “What took you so long? You eat half the pizza before you got here?” Jeff grabbed the boxes and opened them on the kitchen counter. “I knew it. You ate two slices.”

  “I actually only ate one. Gave one slice to a homeless guy.”

  “Feeding the homeless?” Todd said. “Your girlfriend making you do a good deed a day? I overheard my mom telling dad about the church’s new thing Help Others, Help Yourself.”

  “It was a nice thing to do for someone. Maybe you should try it one day.” Paul put Todd in a chokehold and mussed his hair.

  “Okay, boys, break it up. I’m ready to play poker,” said Carl.

  “Where was the homeless guy?” Mason asked.

  “He was hanging out under the tree at Pizza Hut,” Paul said. “I almost didn’t see him. He was all in black. Not a big guy, didn’t say much.”

  Mason made a mental note to contact Pizza Hut next week to see if they had any issues with a homeless man.

  Mason changed the subject. “Okay, who’s the wise guy that’s been leaving me notes and calling me?” He looked at their faces.

  “My heavy breathing on the phone too much for you?” Jeff laughed.

  “Mace can’t handle my sweet love notes.” Paul batted his eyes, put his hands over his heart.

  “Can you guys be serious a minute? Please,” Mason said.

  “Sorry, dude,” Jeff said. “Wasn’t me.”

  Nobody confessed and Mason’s friends looked genuinely surprised when he told them about the notes and phone calls. None of his friends had good poker faces.

  Jeff helped Carl set up the table and chairs, while Mason, Paul, and Todd got out the playing cards and poker chips. The guys settled in their seats and Carl dealt the first hand.

  “So, Carl, when do we get to meet this mysterious Katrina?” Paul said. “I’m starting to think she isn’t real.” The rest of the guys laughed.

  “Very funny,” Carl replied. “I’ve only been seeing her a week. Haven’t spent a lot of quality time together, what with work, finding a place to live, and her family issues.”

  “Warning sign, dude. Family issues. Time to walk away,” said Jeff.

  “She lost touch with her brother. Her mom died when she was young and her dad was a deadbeat. She’s had a hard life, but managed to pull it together.”

  “And you’re just the guy to make her world all better?” Mason said.

  “Tease me all you want. I’m going to take all your money and we’ll see who’s teasing whom at the end of the night. Let’s play poker.”

  Mason dealt the last hand at two o’clock. No big winner tonight, unless you counted who drank the most beers. Jeff won by a landslide.

  “Let me give you a ride home. I’d hate to arrest you for public intoxication,” Mason said.

  “Fine, mister policeman.” Jeff slurred his words.

  “I may have to tuck you into bed.” Mason grinned.

  Jeff tried to stand without swaying. “You’re such a funny guy.”

  Jeff managed to stay awake for the four-block ride home. Mason made sure Jeff got safely inside before driving home.

  Mason needed sleep. Sophia expected him at her apartment in six hours for church. He lay in bed, hands clasped behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, his mind racing. His friends weren’t the culprit, so who could be writing the notes and making the phone calls? Someone from his past? Someone he put in jail? Stop thinking and go to sleep.

  11 Monday, May 23, 1977 (Sam)

  Images of people filled my dreams. Headless people. Wandering in a moonlit cemetery.

  Every two hours I’d wake up, turn over. I tried to remember my dad, my brother, my mom. I was nine when I lost my family. There’s one thing I remember vividly—the barn and the terrible beatings Grandfather would give me for not following his rules.

  Someone screamed. I sat up in bed and listened, not moving. It was just the dream. It was seven-thirty. Time to start the day. A long hot shower—that’s what I needed.

  I set the diary on the kitchen table and kept staring at it while making breakfast—burning the toast and overcooking the eggs. I put them on a plate anyway. One of Grandfather’s rules was that no food ever went to waste. I was still following his rules and probably always would. I wondered what mysteries would be uncovered this morning.

  My hand rubbed the dark blue suede diary. It was still soft all these years later. I imagined my mom caressing the cover. I opened it and began reading. She wrote about her friends, going to basketball games, sleepovers, and the movies—things I was never allowed to do. I thought my mother had the perfect life, until I read the entry from September 21. That was the day she learned she was pregnant. The last line of her diary: My life will never
be the same.

  I read the diary again. This time, paying attention to the smallest details. I wondered why my father was never mentioned, and why my mother hadn’t written any more entries in her diary. I speculated that Grandfather found the diary and took it away as punishment.

  Six hours passed. So many questions. The only person who had any answers—Grandfather. I couldn’t ask him. He’d know I’d been in the attic.

  Grandfather would be expecting a visit. He’d question why I hadn’t visited him sooner. I had to come up with a feasible excuse. I grabbed an apple and headed out the door.

  The last time I’d been to the hospital was when my tonsils were removed right before my ninth birthday. The only thing I remembered was the smell of alcohol. The nurse at the front desk told me Grandfather was in room 418, sharing a room with an elderly man who had slipped on a wet sidewalk and broken his hip.

  The door stood slightly ajar. I knocked, walked in.

  “Can’t they give him pain medication so he stops moaning?” That was Grandfather’s way of saying hello.

  “I can check with the nurse on my way out.”

  “What took you so long? I expected you this morning.”

  “I was going to come after breakfast. I noticed the car had a flat, so I put air in the tire. Then I saw grease on my pants. Grandmother always told me to get a stain out right away. By the time I washed my pants, it was time for lunch. I started reading and lost track of time.”

  “You’re going to be late for your own funeral.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” I was still acting like a coward. “When do you get to go home?”

  “Doctor says I have to stay here at least three more days. They’ve got to monitor my lungs, plus my blood pressure is too high. And, I got a concussion. Good thing Red stopped by, otherwise I might have been on the ground for hours and died.”