Mary Jane's Grave (12 page)

I didn’t sleep much that night, mainly because Michael didn’t. He was restless and kept getting out of bed to walk around. I hated to see him like this, but there was nothing I could do. He was already dressed and ready for work when I got up, and he was unusually quiet and distant most of the morning until he left. My heart ached for him.

I decided to skip going to my office and drove to Walter Morris’s house. Thoughts about Michael hovered around me during the entire drive until I pulled into Walter’s driveway. I grabbed the photographs of the men’s tombstones and arranged my notes before knocking on his door. After five minutes without an answer, I was getting ready to leave. Walter’s car was there, but I assumed he was still in bed. It was early, but it wasn’t that early.

As I turned to leave, I heard the familiar shuffling of feet coming from the other side of the door. Walter finally opened the door. By the look on his face, though, he didn’t seem too happy to see me.

“Oh, it’s you, young lady. Forget something last time, did ya?” He eyed me suspiciously.

“Actually no, Walt, I didn’t. I happened to discover some other information that I’d like to talk to you about, if you’re willing.”

He stood there looking at me, and I suddenly knew that he wasn’t going to let me back in.

“I told you all I can tell you, young lady. I’m sorry you wasted a trip back down here, but there’s nothing else to say.” He started to close the door.

I put my hand on it. “Walt, please. I have some pictures I want you to look at, and then I’ll leave. You can look at them right here—I don’t even have to come in,” I said in my most enticing voice.

Walt reached up, took off his glasses, and began rubbing his eyes with one hand, the other holding on to the walker. “All right, young lady, let’s see those pictures. I’ve never been one for rudeness, and I don’t intend to start now.”

I shuffled through my folders, quickly in case he changed his mind, and pulled out the digital photographs of Randall Rose’s grave and the others, thrusting them forward. He reached out and grasped them in his gnarled fingers.

I didn’t know how good his vision was, but he only looked at them for a few seconds before handing them back to me. A strange, defeated look was on his face. He let out a deep sigh.

“Can you tell me anything about those, Walt? I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but those men died right after Mary Jane Hendrickson did, including Ceely Rose’s brother.”

“Yep, it’s a bit strange, isn’t it, young lady?” he said cryptically.

“Yes, it is, and I think you know why,” I said. I was getting a bit impatient with his game- playing.

“Maybe I do, but you’ll have to figure it out on your own. You’ve come this far, right? Now you’ll go the rest of the way.” He paused. “You can’t come back here anymore, Sergeant, it just won’t do. No one is supposed to talk about this, ever.”

“If no one was supposed to talk about it, how did the story get started in the first place?” I countered with a somewhat forced smile.

“Because someone
did
talk. Now be on your way, young lady.”

Walter shut the door as I stood there flabbergasted once again. He dangled important information before me, and then shut the door in my face. It was infuriating.

When I got back to my office, I logged on to my computer to research the deaths of James Mengert, Albert Tucker, and Gerald Moffet. It took quite a while to find anything, but I got lucky with James Mengert, who drowned in a nearby pond. Then Albert Tucker apparently choked to death on a piece of food. I couldn’t find any cause of death—odd or ordinary—on Gerald Moffet, but I’m sure it was along the same lines as the others. They had all died of “ordinary, everyday” accidents, but the timing was sure one hell of a coincidence.

Feeling stuck again, I pulled the file on the robbery that had taken place at the gravesite several years ago. I had only briefly skimmed through it earlier, but now I was paying closer attention to the interviews with the suspects. Several had casually commented on some unusual occurrences while they were robbing a carload of teenagers.

First, each of the suspects claimed that the car had “died.” The lead suspect had said, “I don’t know, it just died. It’s never done that before.” Second, one of the suspects said he thought the car had caught fire because he smelled something burning, but no one else did.

All of the suspects, prior to the robbery, were at the grave and tried to cut the pine tree down with an ax; predictably, it wouldn’t budge. After that, they tried to set the tree on fire, but instead, one of the suspects ignited his own arm. Clearly not one of the brightest in the group.

In one interview, the suspect had claimed, “I don’t know what the deal was, but that tree didn’t want to come down, so we gave up.”

And last, not one of the suspects had a prior criminal record. They were former straight- A students and college graduates. All of them claimed they didn’t know why they did it. “Something just came over us, I guess.”

For these young men to put on ski masks, grab baseball bats and surround a carload of teenagers, then beat and rob them, was extremely unusual. All had been sentenced to at least ten years in prison.

I threw the case file aside and stretched. I knew I was missing something, and then suddenly it came to me. I grabbed the photographs from the Kari Sutter murder and began flipping through them, stopping at the large photograph of the bloody
M
painted on the tree. I set it aside and grabbed my timeline of the Hendrickson family. I hadn’t paid much attention to it earlier, but taking another look at it, I realized that the first names of all the Hendrickson women started with M: Mary Jane, Made-line, and Maryanne.

Could it be a coincidence? I didn’t think so, but I had to remind myself that anyone wanting to toss a clue to investigators could’ve written M for Mary Jane only, not knowing about the others. I noted this in my file as Coop came striding in.

“Anything yet?” he asked. My clenched jaw was my response. “Oops, I guess not,” he noted, then pretended to back out of the room.

“So what are you up to?” I asked, closing the file.

“Getting ready to leave. Naomi has her monthly checkup this afternoon, so I’m taking off early.”

Last year, during the Carl James Malone case, Naomi’s skull had been severely fractured. Now she had to have monthly exams to ensure that her neurological system kept working properly.

“Everything okay with her? No problems?” I hadn’t asked in a while and I felt bad.

“Nah.” He waved off my question. “She’s as good as gold. Sometimes she jokes around with me, though. The other day we were eating dinner and she looked right at me and said, ‘What’s my name?’ I’m telling you, Cee, she scared the shit out of me.”

I laughed loudly. We had all been tense when Naomi was in the hospital, but she had come through as good as new and with an even better sense of humor, apparently.

When Coop left, I tried the lab again. Bob told me if I called one more time he’d take the final results, when they came in, and stick them up his ass, and I’d have to climb in and grab them if I wanted them that badly.

Wearily, I shook my head as I hung up, then looked at my watch. I had an hour to kill, a rare phenomenon.

Grabbing my bag and keys, I decided to have a look at Malabar Farm. It would probably take me less than an hour, and then I’d sneak home early. It was Eric and Jordan’s time to take the girls, so I had to get them packed and ready to be picked up.

On the way down to Malabar Farm, I realized I hadn’t heard from Michael all day, which was unusual. I tried to call his cell phone, but he didn’t answer. I hoped he wasn’t trying to avoid me so he could give me more bad news in person at home. Actually, I didn’t know how things could get much worse.

When I pulled into the long paved drive leading into the farm property, I was again struck with how inviting and picturesque it was. Certainly, it wasn’t your typical site for a ghost hunt. The Bromfield House, or “mansion,” as it were, sat high up on a hill to my right. The Malabar Agricultural Library sat on my left, across from the Malabar Hostel, and the Ceely Rose House was ahead around a large curve. I parked in front of it and got out, my camera in hand, ready to shoot anything that looked interesting.

It was a simple two-story, white aluminum-sided house with dark green wooden shutters. I walked onto the front porch and tried to open the door, but it was locked. I took a couple of photographs and looked up at the window where, according to local legend, the ghost resides. Seeing nothing but the reflection of a large maple tree that stood beside it, I packed up my camera and headed home.

On my way, I tried to call Michael several times, but there was no answer. So I was somewhat surprised to see his car in the driveway when I got home.

“Hi, Michael. I’m back!” I called. I heard the shower running, so I quickly packed the girls’ things and got them ready to go. Jordan would be there in fifteen minutes to pick them up.

Michael came outside just as Jordan was pulling in. He gave the girls a quick hug and a kiss on their cheeks before going back inside. He hadn’t said a word to me, and I didn’t much like the foreboding that was growing inside me. I kept it together while I helped Jordan put the suitcases in the car and said good- bye to the girls.

Then I marched right back into the house and found Michael in his office, looking out the window at Jordan’s car as it drove down the street.

“Michael?” I said, but he didn’t respond. “Michael, are you okay? Is this about last night?”

He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “Sit down, Cee.” His voice was quiet and held a note of sadness.

Apprehensive and on edge, I sat on the couch. “Oh God…What now, Michael?”

He sat next to me. “I had these served on me today.” He reached over to the table beside the couch and grabbed a set of papers, handing them to me.

The papers were a temporary motion filed by Vanessa to revoke all Sean’s visits, pending the outcome of the custody case. A judge had signed the papers, which now meant Michael couldn’t see Sean until the matter was resolved, which could take months, if not a full year.

I’d been wrong thinking things couldn’t get any worse. I felt the familiar lump in my throat rise and a jolt through my stomach. Next came the tears.

“Did you call your attorney?” I whispered.

He nodded and cleared his throat. “He’s trying to get the hearing date pushed up so we can take care of this sooner.” He bowed his head and spoke softly. “She won’t even let me talk to him on the phone, Cee.”

I felt so many simultaneous emotions I wanted to throw my head back and scream. I was sad, angry and devastated, but most of all, I was torn into little pieces by Michael’s anguish. I pulled him into an embrace, and we just held each other for several minutes.

“Michael,” I said, while stroking his hair, “I’m so sorry.”

He squeezed me harder. “I don’t know how I’m sup-posed to go for months without seeing him. I can’t do it.”

I wanted to tell Michael that this could easily be solved if we just bumped off Vanessa, but I didn’t think he’d be amused—especially since I was only half kidding.

After barely eating dinner, Michael went to bed early, emotionally wiped out. I stayed up and finished an entire bottle of wine, which did nothing but add to my own emotional imbalance. Then I headed to bed.

The next morning when I woke up, I was astonished to see that Michael was gone. I’d thought I’d heard him earlier but was too sleepy to call out to him. He obviously hadn’t fallen asleep and decided to head to work early.

Hungover and depressed, I was looking forward to working all day about as much as standing in front of an oncoming eighteen- wheeler. And then the day really turned to crap when the phone rang. Vanessa.

“Hi, CeeCee!” She sounded upbeat.

I began to shake. “You’ve got a lot of nerve calling here. As far as I’m concerned any communication will be done through the courts, and you are
not
welcome to call my home again!”

“Now, now. Let’s be fair. You know how you can end this,” she chastened me, the lilt still in her voice.

I imagined a number of ways I could eliminate Vanessa—permanently—from our otherwise happy lives, then decided to see where she was heading with this. “Really? How’s that?” I was sarcastic.

“I’ll tell you, but you need to listen carefully.”

I should’ve hung up, but didn’t. “I’m listening, Vanessa.”

“First of all, he won’t win. You both need to realize that up front. My brother knows the domestic relations judge well. They’re tight. Shall I say more?” she goaded.

“How can you do this to your son?” I demanded.

“I’m not doing anything to my son because I know you’re going to go along with me. He’ll see his father.”

I was confused. She had me so shaken that each of my two million nerves seemed to stand on end. I knew that to continue a conversation with her would likely be a game of Russian roulette so I bit back my reply and waited silently.

“I’m assuming you’re there, CeeCee, so I’ll finish. The only way Michael will see his son again is if you break it off with him, and I mean
entirely.
No relationship, no living together, and clearly no wedding.” She snorted. “I know you won’t tell him this, because if you do, I’ll tie this up in court for years. Do you hear me? Years! If you really love Michael, you’ll quit being so goddamn selfish and let him go. For his son.”

She waited for a response, then, getting none, continued, “As soon as I get word that you two are kaput, I’ll let Michael see Sean. And don’t even think about trying to sneak around behind my back because I’ll refile the motion. Again, you’re going to do it in a way where he’ll never know this conversation took place. I’m waiting for an answer.”

She had me, and I could’ve died right there in my kitchen. I had to suppress the urge to threaten her life, but I had no other choice. She was probably recording the conversation in case I did, editing out the blackmailing part, of course.