Secrets Can Be Deadly (11 page)

29
Monday, August 6, 1979 (Sam)

M
y plan was on schedule. Connie and Harold
thought I’d been looking at apartments and going out with friends the past two months. Instead, I was helping
two elderly women in their homes. Laverne and Beatrice
were helping me with my plan and didn’t even know it.

Harold and Connie were sitting at the kitchen table when I walked through the
back door at eight-thirty—later than normal. Finishing last-minute details on my plan had taken longer than originally thought.

O
nly two boxes remained in the living room. I felt relieved. That meant the movers had been at the house during the day. The bulk of Harold and Connie’s personal belongings were on a truck to Florida. The furniture and appliances stayed in the house for the Hendricks’ son. I no longer had to worry about the contingency plan I’d made to get rid of the boxes.

E
ight days remained until Harold and Connie planned to leave for a new life in Florida. Too bad they’d never see their dreams.

Harold cleared his throat.
“Any luck apartment hunting?” he asked.

“I found a place.
Terry’s roommate is moving to Indiana for a new job.” I grabbed an apple from the counter. “You know, Terry—from the store. Can move in at the end of the week.” Lying to them was easy—I no longer cared what they thought. I was turning into a person I hated—a person with secrets. But, it suited me. Not unlike the others, whose secrets had kept me from my family.
Liars.

“
Good.” Harold coughed, took a sip of coffee cup.
Keep drinking the coffee
,
I thought.
I know the poison’s working or you wouldn’t look so tired.

“We
are
going to miss you,” Connie added. Her voice cracked.

How could she possibly say that to me? She
’d kept secrets from me. She’d lied to me. I’d never again think of her as anything other than a conniving woman. I smiled and nodded before walking upstairs to my room. Too bad Connie would never understand the real meaning of my smile—
goodbye
.

3
0
Wednesday, February 27, 1980
(Mason)

M
ason had stretched out on the couch, half snoozing through
Taxi
and nearly missed the phone call.

“I’m back from Florida,” Walter said. “I stopped and picked up
some Chinese. You want to come over and tell me why you’ve left me four messages?”

“
Be there in ten minutes.”

Mason
wasn’t looking forward to a confrontation with his dad. In his first year of college, Mason and his father argued over the purchase of a car. They didn’t speak for four months. This situation was even more delicate. It involved lies. Family lies. Personal lies. Mason feared his dad would twist the situation to make it look like he was invading his privacy. He felt he had a right to know about his mother and other relatives. One day he’d have a family of his own and he wanted to be able to share stories—good or bad.

As
Mason pulled into his dad’s driveway, he thought back to the first day he’d seen this house. He was ten. When he left his old house, he thought he’d
be gone a few days on a camping trip with his dad while his mom and sister spent a week with her
parents in Tennessee. Instead, the house they lived in had burned to the ground—a ruptured gas line. Dad’s friend, Red, had found this house in Sheldon. His dad had told him
how lucky they were to have been away and not in the house when it exploded. His mom and sister were driving to Sheldon when they skidded off the road and died.

Mason
entered the back door. “Hi, Dad.”

“Grab a plate. The rice is better than usual,” Walter said. “Do you know if they have a new cook?”

“Have no idea, Dad. Guess I haven’t had Chinese since the last time we ate together.”

“You eat too much pizza.
Good thing you have Sophia to fix you sensible meals.”

Walter had tried to give his son balanced meals growing up. That is, if you count TV dinners as balanced meals. Ms. Rutger, who lived next door, invited
Mason and Walter to Sunday dinner once a month and made them take leftovers home. Ms. Rutger died shortly after Mason left for college.

“I’ve been doing some family research.”
Mason wanted to see how his dad would react. “On the York side of the family.”

Walter swallow
ed, put his fork down, wiped his mouth. He shot a look at Mason. “And why did you decide to do that?”

“Over the last two months I’ve
gotten numerous notes and phone calls from a mystery man. I followed the clues and they led me to the name York.” Mason cleared his throat. “I didn’t even know my mother’s maiden name was York until I saw her birth certificate. I also realized Mom was pregnant when you got married. Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?”

Walter
gave Mason an icy stare. “Fine. You want the truth—here it is. Your mom and I dated on and off for a year in high school. I never liked her dad. He was a mean man. I was ready to move away when she got pregnant. Her dad threatened to kill me if I didn’t marry her. We did love each other, but her dad was a meddling jerk. I tried to leave once after your sister was born. Ended up in the hospital with two broken ribs and a busted collarbone. After we moved here, I never talked about your mom because I never wanted you to know your grandparents.”

Mason felt there was something his dad wasn’t telling him. “And my grandparents never tried to see me?”

“No. Never heard from them after we moved here.”

Grandparents not interested in their
own grandchild’s life? He took a deep breath and asked one more question. “I looked for Mom’s death certificate. Clinton County didn’t have any record. Do you have a copy I could see?”

Mason
watched his father fidget. “Probably just a mix-up or maybe the Sheriff didn’t fill out the proper paperwork. Sheriff Ardent drank quite a bit. But, when he was sober, he was a damn fine cop.”

His dad was lying, but
Mason didn’t know why. Mason tried to sound convinced. “Yeah. Cops got away with a lot more back in the day. Too many quality controls in place for someone to mess up like that now.”

“Can you help clean up? I’ve had a long drive. Think I’ll go to bed early.”

“Sure, Dad.”

Neither said a word while they put the leftover food in the fridge and filled the dishwasher.

“I’ll call you this weekend,” Mason said as he walked out the back door.

He didn’t know what to think. Should he believe any of his dad’s story? Was it possible his grandparents were still alive? For the first time, Mason thought about breaking the law to get the answers he wanted.

31
Tuesday, August 7, 1979 (Sam)

T
oday was a special day. I got up early to make a pot of coffee and homemade coffeecake with the Oxycontin I’d been shaving off Laverne and Beatrice’s pills. I made sure to put toothpicks in the part of the cake that was safe for me to eat. In the streusel topping, I added a hefty dose of Benadryl, hoping Harold and Connie would fall asleep at the kitchen table.

“Good morning
.” I smiled. “I made coffeecake. It’ll be ready in five minutes.”

“What’s the occasion?” Connie asked.

“Don’t have to go to work until later today. I’ve been gone a lot lately and thought this would be a great chance to say thank you and how much I’ll miss you.”

“Sounds great. Thanks
,” Harold said.

Harold and Connie slowly walked to the table and sat. They looked frail—just like Grandfather did in the end.

I poured two cups of coffee and put them in front of Connie and Harold.

“Looks like it’s going to be a great day,” I said.

Harold looked out the window. “Clear skies. It’s gonna be a hot one.”

T
he timer went off—the coffeecake was done. I pulled it out of the oven and let it sit on the counter for a couple minutes before cutting two big slices.

“Enjoy,” I said.
Nighty-night
is really what I wanted to say.

“Aren’t you eating?”
Connie asked.

“I’m cutting my piece right now.” I cut the end piece where the toothpicks were.

This would be my last meal with Harold and Connie.

I called the grocery store, told the manager there had been a family emergency, and I’d call in a couple days once I knew the status. Lying was as easy as breathing.

I
drove Harold’s blue Malibu on the grass, trying to get as close to the back door as I could.

Grabbing Harold under his arms and around his chest, I
dragged him out the door and put him in the middle of the front seat. Connie seemed heavier, but I’m sure it was because my muscles were already tired from lifting Harold. I shoved Connie in the front passenger seat next to Harold and buckled both of them in.

Sweat dripped off my forehead.
The two boxes from the living room filled the trunk. This would add weight to the car and make it sink faster.

Three miles away was
Harold’s favorite fishing spot. Luckily, part of the drive was through a field and I didn’t have to worry whether anyone would see me. Harold had taken me fishing a few times. He liked the fact that very few people knew about the fishing hole. I remember he said the middle of the pond was fourteen feet deep.

The front tires sat on the edge of the boat ramp Harold had built last year. I
sat a minute, thinking. These people had lied to me—kept secrets from me—kept family members away from me. I rolled down the window, put the car in drive, took one deep breath, and stepped on the gas. As soon as the car hit the water, I swam out the window to shore.

I stood calmly on shore
for half an hour, wanting to make sure the car wasn’t going to pop up in the middle of the pond. I took my time walking home, cutting through the neighbor’s cornfields to keep out of sight, making it back to the house just before noon.

After a
cold shower and change of clothes, I made a bologna sandwich. The coffeecake was still sitting on the counter. I threw it in the garbage—even the baking dish.

There was a lot to do this afternoon. I
had to get rid of Harold and Connie’s remaining personal items. The house needed to look as though Harold and Connie left early for Florida.

I wanted t
heir bodies, their circumstances hidden for a long time.

First stop—their
bedroom. I neatly folded any clothes, put in a garbage bag. Goodwill would get a nice donation.

I turned the corner, ready to walk up the stairs,
when there was a knock. My heart skipped a beat.

I took a deep breath
, and walked to the front door. I pulled the curtain back and saw Jill Hendricks, the next-door neighbor. I partially opened the door.

“Hi
, Jill.”

“Hi
, Sam. Where’s Harold and Connie? I wanted to ask them about the fridge.”

“Nothing’s wrong with the fridge.”

“I know. Just wondered how old it was and whether it’s under warranty.”

“I know it’s
roughly two years old. They bought it after I moved in because the compressor went out in the old one. I’m sure Connie still has the manual and warranty information.”

“Okay. Great.
Tell her she can leave it in one of the kitchen drawers. See you later.”

I closed the door and watched her drive away.
A narrow escape. I needed to get out of this house sooner rather than later.

There were a few personal items in the bathroom that I threw away. I emptied all the wastebaskets in the house and put the garbage in the incinerator.

My clothes fit in three grocery bags. I took the box of letters and photos off the top closet shelf. These were my treasures. Behind the box was a small metal container. How could I’ve been so careless to forget? I opened the lid to make sure the morphine and needles were still neatly packed. It took two trips to carry my belongings downstairs and put in my trunk.

I found a
n empty box and took everything out of the refrigerator, along with bread, peanut butter, and a few cans of soup and vegetables. I also grabbed a set of utensils and a can opener.

One last time,
I drove drown the gravel driveway. It was two-thirty. I stopped at the bank and withdrew all the money in my account. I’d spend the night in a cheap motel in Dysart before my meeting with Kenneth and Mae Ponder.

When would my relatives realize keeping secrets
wasn’t a good idea?

3
2
Thursday, February 28, 1980
(Mason)

M
ason knew contacting other law enforcement agencies for personal reasons was against department policy. But he needed answers. His father refused to talk about his mom’s death. Mason didn’t believe his dad’s story that a sheriff wouldn’t follow through on paperwork involving a car accident—especially one that killed two people.

The Chief and Billy
were at council meetings all day. George had taken an early lunch. Paul was out sick. Only Georgette was in the office and she sat far enough away from his desk that she wouldn’t overhear. He dialed the Delmar police station.

“Abigail Snyder. How may I assist you?”

“I’d like some information on the Pierce accident that happened on January 16, 1968.”

“
Nineteen sixty-eight?” Abigail paused. “You said Pierce?”

“Yes.”

“As in Mason and Walter Pierce? Who died in a house fire?”

Mason
couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He wanted to correct the woman, but decided to follow the conversation.

“Yes. The house fire.”

“I’ll never forget that day. I knew Evelyn from the beauty parlor. I was with my husband. He was a sheriff’s deputy at the time. We were driving to my sister’s when we saw the smoke and stopped. Poor woman was so distraught. She was yelling at her daughter. It was horrible. The paramedics took Evelyn away and I took the little girl home for the evening. We could do that in those days. The fire department found remains of two bodies inside the house. Evelyn didn’t believe her husband and son had died. Couldn’t accept it. She took her little girl to her parent’s house. I went by a few weeks after the tragedy. The father said Evelyn was gone. He slammed the door in my face. He was a mean man.”

He was a mean man.
His dad had used those exact words. “Are Evelyn’s parents still living?”

“No. The mother died
in her sleep several years ago. The father died a few years back. His house caught fire. I understand his granddaughter was living with him, but wasn’t home at the time of the fire. I heard she moved away. Too much tragedy for the girl.”

“Thank you very much, Abigail.”

“Glad to help.”

Mason
sat at his desk, the phone in his hand. He was in shock. The phone buzzed in his ear. He felt a tap on his shoulder and instinctively put the phone down.

“You going to lunch today?” George asked.

“Yeah,” Mason said.

“Y
ou don’t look so well. If you’re getting the flu bug, maybe you should go home.”

Mason
shook his head. “No. I feel fine. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Mason
grabbed his coat, made a fast exit out the back door, stood against the building. He needed to process what he’d just heard. Getting behind the wheel of a car wasn’t a good idea, so he walked the two blocks to China Buffet.

Mason
sat in the back booth, ordered honey chicken, fried rice, soda. He took out his notepad and started making notes.

D
ad and I supposedly died in a house fire. Find death certificates.

Grandma died in her sleep.

Grandpa died in a house fire.

Mason
looked around the restaurant. He felt everyone was looking at him and they knew the terrible family secrets.

“Enjoy your lunch
officer.” The waitress put his lunch plate down and walked away.

My
sister was alive up until a few years ago. Was she still alive?

Was Mom still alive?

My mom and sister were alive the day Dad said they died. Why did he lie?