Secrets Can Be Deadly Page 6

  Ten minutes later, he was back to work. The York name meant something to him. But from where? He decided to call his father.

  “Hey, Dad.” Mason took a deep breath. “Does the name York mean anything to you?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Working on a case. The name came up and I thought it sounded familiar.” Mason didn’t like lying to his father, but he couldn’t tell him the truth. Not yet.

  “Don’t know any around here. Sorry I can’t help you. I’m missing the game. Talk to you soon.” Walter hung up.

  His dad was surely hiding something now.

  Minutes later, the phone rang. Mason hoped his dad had changed his mind and wanted to chat.

  “Hey, Mace. Question. Can you run a background check on someone?” Carl asked.

  “What’s going on?” Mason felt concerned Carl was in some sort of trouble.

  “Katrina’s been acting strange. I know it’s only been two weeks, but something’s off.”

  “I thought this was something serious. I—“

  Carl interrupted. “It is serious. I really like her.”

  “Look. I can’t run a background check on someone without an official case file—otherwise I lose my job. And I’m not losing my job over a woman you’ve known two weeks.” Mason was already regretting it, but he decided to ask, “Why do you think something’s wrong?”

  “I can never call her, she always calls me. I can never pick her up, we always meet at the restaurant, movie or bar. I…I think she might be married or something.”

  Mason rolled his eyes. “Did you ever think that she might be very cautious? Maybe she wants to make sure you’re not a serial killer first. There are some strange people out there.”

  “I’m no serial killer.”

  “I didn’t say you were. Get a grip.”

  “I do sound paranoid, don’t I?”

  “Yes you do. Why don’t you ask her to go on a double date this weekend?”

  “Fine. I’m seeing her tomorrow. I’ll ask her then.”

  “Feel better?”

  “A little. Later, buddy.”

  Mason did think it was strange the way Katrina was acting. Carl was a handsome guy, good job. Mason wondered whether Carl knew where she grew up. Maybe she had lived out east and wasn’t used to the friendly Midwest personality. He shrugged off the thought and got back to his research.

  17 Friday, June 3, 1977 (Sam)

  Grandfather had been home a week and was still using a cane. I could tell he hated that he wasn’t getting stronger. He let it slip one night at dinner that he was taking afternoon naps. Grandfather was still a mean man, even though he was weak. He found any reason to punish me. He couldn’t hit me hard, but the cane left bruises on my legs.

  I heard Grandfather yell. “Where’s my coffee and breakfast?”

  “Be right there, Grandfather,” I shouted back. Today was a happy day. I was leaving and never coming back. Grandfather wouldn’t live too many more days. The poison was taking its toll. I’d leave the house when Grandfather took his afternoon nap. Only six more hours in this dreadful place. I had to control my happiness. I slowly walked down the stairs just as I’d done the last nine years. Grandfather sat at the kitchen table.

  “What would you like for breakfast, Grandfather?”

  “Two scrambled eggs, two pieces of toast. Lightly buttered. Don’t get them too dark. I don’t like burnt toast.”

  I made Grandfather a specially prepared pot of coffee and poured a cup.

  “Still tastes bitter,” he grumbled. “You sure you bought the right coffee?”

  “Yes, Grandfather. The doctor said your medication might affect your taste buds. You only have to be on your medication another week.”

  “I’m going to die of starvation if you don’t hurry up.”

  I felt a smile, but made sure Grandfather didn’t see it.

  I cleaned the lunch dishes and decided to bake a batch of cookies. It would keep me busy and I could watch when Grandfather went in his room.

  First, I baked a tray of chocolate chip cookies that I could take on my trip. The rest of the batter was Grandfathers. I added a double dose of powder.

  I pulled the last tray of cookies out of the oven when the bedroom door closed. That was my cue. I went upstairs and grabbed two bags of clothes, along with a bag containing the letters, diary, and photo album. I tried to tiptoe down the creaking steps. When I reached the last step, I dropped my bags. Grandfather was standing by the front door, looking meaner than ever.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Grandfather demanded.

  I wasn’t going to lie. I looked Grandfather straight in the eyes. “I’m leaving.”

  “Where would you go? You’ve got no friends or family. And, no money.” He was partly right.

  “I have plans.” I picked up the bags and walked past him. He hit my back with his cane. I stumbled, dropping the bags. The photo album slid across the floor.

  “You snoopy child!” he yelled. “You’ve been in the attic. You were told never to go in the attic!”

  Grandfather’s face turned red. He started brandishing his cane. I bent down and pulled on the rug. Grandfather lost his balance and fell. He didn’t move. I grabbed his cane and poked him. His head tilted to the right.

  I had to leave—now. Grandfather was injured and knew I had things from the attic. Grandfather had to die today.

  The oven was still on. I walked over and turned on all four burners. I grabbed the bag of cookies I’d made for myself, and made a quick stop in Grandfather’s room to grab the two other containers of white powder.

  I picked up my three bags and walked out the front door. Everything I owned was now on the back seat of the Rambler. The barn was the last place I wanted to enter, but inside were things I needed. I took the lighter from the counter, grabbed a gas can, stuck a rag in the spout, and walked back to the house. I opened the back door, lit the rag, and threw the gas can in the kitchen. I walked calmly to the car and drove down the gravel driveway.

  I didn’t even look in the rearview mirror as the house started to burn.

  18 Monday, February 4, 1980 (Mason)

  Researching other people’s family history had made Mason want to know more about his own. He had little information on his mother. He didn’t know her parent’s names, if she had siblings, or if any living relatives existed. Was it possible she was adopted? Raised in foster care? Mason needed answers.

  Mason had been ten when he moved 345 miles from Clinton County to O’Brien County. He couldn’t take another day off work, not so soon. Instead, he’d call the recorder’s office in Clinton County on his lunch break.

  “Jean Reynolds. How may I help you?” The voice was smooth, calm.

  “Hi, Jean. My name’s Mason Pierce. I’m looking for information on my maternal family history.”

  “I’d be glad to help you, Mr. Pierce. What type of information?”

  “Birth, marriage, and death records for my mom and her relatives. I’m trying to put my family tree together.”

  “Okay. First, tell me what you have. Then, I’ll tell you how long it’ll take to find what you need.”

  “My mother’s name was Evelyn Pierce. She died January 16, 1968 in a car accident with my sister. She was born June 20, 1938. Married my dad, Walter, on October 20, 1956. Unfortunately I don’t know her maiden name or her parents’ names.”

  “And you’re certain she was born and married in Clinton County? I can only search records for this county.”

  “Far as I know, yes.”

  “Give me a few days. Call back on Thursday and I’ll let you know what I’ve found.”

  Mason felt conflicted. He wanted to feel closer to the mother he could barely remember. But what if he found out something about his mother he didn’t want to know. Maybe that’s why his father was protecting him from finding the truth.

  19 Saturday, June 4, 1977 (Sam)

  I woke up in the back seat of the Rambler with a stiff neck
and a growling stomach. The two-hour drive to Elkader last night had given me time to practice my story. Luckily, St. Joseph Church’s parking lot was still empty. I opened the back door, stretched my arms and legs.

  Eight-thirty. I couldn’t believe I’d slept that late. I’d seen a Hardees on my way in town last night. I’d go there for breakfast and use the restroom to freshen up. Then it would be time to meet my great aunt.

  Grandmother had received a birthday card from her sister every year and kept them in a locked pale blue suitcase under her bed. Grandmother had never mentioned that she had a sister. She was a liar, kept secrets. I was glad she was dead.

  She kept a few cards in their envelopes, with return addresses. I’d never know why Grandmother hid the cards, why she kept them, or why we never celebrated birthdays. I hoped my great aunt was as nice as she sounded in her letters.

  The house was two miles off the highway, up a gravel road. The mailbox was painted red with HAROLD & CONNIE RILEY painted in white. The two-story hunter green house had white shutters. The machine shed was red, trimmed in white. The farm reminded me of Christmas.

  I parked in front of the detached garage. I looked in the rear view mirror, making sure I looked presentable. Today I was going to find out whether I had family that would accept me. I took a deep breath, opened the car door.

  A tire swing hung from a giant oak tree. On the right side of the house was a garden. Sweet corn was starting to grow. A statute of the Virgin Mary, surrounded with red geraniums, greeted me by the front door.

  I rang the doorbell, my hands shaking.

  A woman came to the door. “May I help you?”

  “Are you Connie Riley?” My voice cracked.

  “Yes, I am. What can I do for you?” She smiled.

  “We’ve never met, but I’m your relative. Your sister, Mildred, was my grandmother. Evelyn was my mother.”

  Connie looked at me a moment. “You have your mother’s eyes. Come inside.”

  The living room was painted light green, gold shag carpet. I’d never seen such a beautiful living room—burnt orange sofa and matching chair, large oak coffee table, stacks of books, a big picture window framed in cream drapes, a brick fireplace.

  “Come in the kitchen and meet your uncle.” She gently took my arm and led me to the kitchen. A man was sitting at a square oak table, reading a newspaper.

  “Harold, this is…,” Connie paused. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”

  “Sam.”

  “Harold, this is Sam. Sam’s grandmother was Millie.”

  Harold stood. “Oh my, oh my. It’s been years since we’ve seen her.”

  “My dad and brother were killed in a house fire when I was nine. That’s when I went to live with my grandparents, Ernest and Mildred. My mom abandoned me two weeks later. Grandmother died a few years ago. I recently found the birthday cards you sent her and wanted to meet you.”

  “My poor sister. I didn’t realize she’d died.” Connie sat.

  “She died in her sleep.” I thought saying that might make her feel better.

  “How is Ernest?” Harold’s voice was sharp.

  “Grandfather is fine. I was eighteen in January and just graduated from high school. It was time to leave.”

  “I bet. He’s the reason Millie stopped talking to us. Always had to be in control.”

  “Be nice, Harold. Sam is here now. That’s all that matters.” Connie patted Harold’s arm.

  “Can you stay for lunch?” Connie asked.

  “Yes. Thanks. That’d be great.” I’d ask them after lunch if I could stay longer. If they said no, at least I’d had a good meal.

  Connie and I sat at the kitchen table the next hour, looking at her photo albums, pictures of my grandmother when she was a child. Everyone looked so sad in those black and white photos. My mom looked happy in the photos taken at Christmas when she was sixteen.

  Connie said, “That was the last time I saw your mother or grandmother.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Your grandfather cut all ties the following year. We never knew why.”

  “Did you ever receive letters from grandmother?”

  “No. I wasn’t even sure she got my letters. Harold and I tried see her once. We stopped by the house. Ernest was home and came to the car with a shotgun. Threatened to hurt us if we didn’t leave. We never went back.”

  “Grandfather was a mean man.”

  “Yes, he was.” Connie sighed. “I’m glad you finally got away from him.”

  I continued looking through the photos albums while Connie made lunch—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, creamed carrots, lettuce salad. Connie asked me to help set the table. Harold entered the house at quarter to twelve.

  “Go get washed up. Lunch will be ready soon.” Connie gave Harold a smile.

  “Snickers had kittens. Looks like there are five.”

  Connie looked at me with delight, “We’ll go take a look after lunch.”

  I hoped they’d want me to stay after lunch. They seemed like the family I always dreamed of.

  “Lunch was scrumptious.” I hesitated. “I want to ask you a question. No matter what you say, I’ll be okay with your answer.”

  Connie glanced at Harold, then turned toward me. “What is it, Sam?”

  “I don’t have a place to stay right now. I was wondering if I could stay with you. Just until I find a job and settle into my own apartment.”

  Connie squeezed Harold’s hand. She glanced at him and he nodded. “We would love for you to stay with us. As long as you like.”

  20 Thursday, February 7, 1980 (Mason)

  Mason was excited and anxious. He would call the recorder’s office at lunch, hoping Jean had been able to find information on his mother. Mason put on his uniform and went to work early. Busy work would make his morning go faster.

  When he pulled into the lot behind the station, he noticed the Chief’s car. Today wasn’t going to be a good day if the chief was in early.

  The back door was unlocked. Mason turned on the overhead lights and stopped in the break room for coffee. When he turned, the Chief was standing in the doorway.

  “What are you doing here so early?” The Chief stood tall, hand on his gun.

  “Couldn’t sleep. I came in to get caught up on some paperwork.”

  “We need to talk.” Chief Franklin turned and walked down the hall.

  Mason wasn’t sure what to make of the Chief’s comment. He went to his desk, took off his coat, then walked to the Chief’s office. Mason knocked.

  “Have a seat,” the Chief said. “I’ve decided I’m retiring, end of the year. I informed the City Council at last night’s meeting. Next month I need to provide them a report of who I think should be the next police chief. They’d like the person to come from within the existing police force. You’ve done fabulous work, Mason, but you’ve only been here two years. Officer Arnold has ten years of experience and he’s covered my position when I’ve been out. I’m going to recommend him for the position. I just wanted you to know how much I respect your work.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Mason knew he wasn’t ready for the chief’s position yet, but appreciated the Chief’s comments.

  “Don’t say anything about this conversation. I plan on telling everyone at our staff meeting this afternoon.”

  “I won’t, sir. And congratulations on your retirement.”

  Mason went to his desk and grabbed the top folder. He was getting ready to open it when the phone rang. “Officer Pierce.”

  “This is Bart O’Donnell. Someone’s been in my house.”

  “What’s your address?”

  “224 Madison. Don’t see anyone inside, but want to file a report.”

  “Are you still inside the house?”

  “Yeah. Where do you think I’m calling you from?”

  “You should have left the premises once you realized someone had been in your home. The intruder could still be there.” Mason shook his head. “I’ll be t
here in five minutes. Would you please wait outside until I arrive?”

  “Okay. I’ll be in my car.”

  Mason parked the squad car in front of the house. A husky man got out of the car in the driveway.

  “You must be Officer Pierce. I’m Bart.”

  “I’m going to check inside. You stay in your car until I come get you.”

  “I already looked inside.”

  “I need to make sure the place is secure before I allow a civilian inside.”

  “Okay.” Bart looked annoyed but turned and went to his car.

  Mason opened the door. Flashlight in his left hand, gun in his right, checking each room and closet. No one. He stepped out the front door and waved to Bart.

  “Tell me why you think someone was trespassing.”

  “There’s a bell on the front door. It startled me when I came in. I didn’t put it there.”

  Mason looked at the bell. It was hanging from the doorknob. If someone had been in the house, it would have been a perfect way to sound an alarm that someone was coming.

  “Anything else?” Mason asked.

  “Same kind of bell on the back door, too.”

  “When was the last time you were home?”

  “Oh, I don’t live here. My grandma does. She went to the nursing home in town three months ago. Called me last night. Wanted me to come over this morning and pick up a few things. Her name’s Elizabeth Camp, room 315. So, I guess it’s been three months since anyone’s been in the house,” Bart said. “With permission, that is.”

  “I’ll get started on the report. Just need to see your driver’s license. While you get your grandmother’s things, look to see if anything is missing or out of place. I’ll add it to the report.”

  “Sure,” Bart said.

  Mason started writing. He could hear Bart opening drawers and closing doors. Bart walked from the bedroom to bathroom and finally to the kitchen.