Secrets Can Be Deadly (13 page)

3
7
Monday, August 20, 1979 (Sam)

W
orking at the supermarket served its purpose. I got a paycheck while listening to conversations. Sometimes I felt invisible as people would chat about their lives while I stocked cans of beans or corn a mere two feet from them. I kept a pen and paper in my apron to make notes.

After my shift, I walked
the two blocks to my
basement apartment. Bertha Hampton needed someone who could cook and clean and, in return, I could live in the basement rent-free. My plan was to be in town a few months so I could save money
and research names from the family tree I found at Harold and Connie’s.

I
kept my car parked in Bertha’s two-car garage.
The other side of the garage she used for storage. Her kids had made her give up driving after her last accident. Bertha had tried to drive on ice and spun into a ditch. She had knee surgery two months ago and wasn’t doing well. She complained every time I
saw her.

“You know how much I hate doing these exercises?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. “They’re dreadful. If I don’t do them, the doctor will know. He’ll tell my kids. There’ll be an argument. I should be doing them because I want to get better, not because I don’t want to argue with my kids. Don’t you think that’s silly?”

A moment of silence. She finally wanted an answer.

“A little, y
eah.”

“Yeah, I agree.” Bertha glanced at the TV
. “Cubs
lost again. Can’t believe it. Their coach needs a good talking to. Players, too. I’m sure they want to win, don’t you think? I mean, what team would want to lose.”

“Soup is ready.” I said
, hoping this would shut her up a few minutes.

Bertha spent most of her time in the living room and it showed.
Boxes of cookies, crackers, and magazines were scattered around her chair. She even ate in the living room. I moved the folding tray in front of her chair.
Little House on the Prairie
would be on in five minutes. I’d have an hour of quiet. Bertha didn’t like interruptions during her favorite TV shows.

I sat at the kitchen table and read the paper
, now that I could concentrate.

38
Sunday, March 2, 1980 (Mason)

M
ason went shopping at Ogaard’s Five and Dime to purchase colored index cards, colored markers, masking tape, and a card table.

He moved the bed in
his guest bedroom, set up the card table, and cleared pictures from one wall. The blank wall would become his case board. He was going to take all the information he had on his family and set up his own investigation.

Yellow
index cards represented each member in his immediate family, blue cards—grandparents, green—their siblings, red—non-blood relatives, and orange—non-related names. Every time he came upon a missing piece of information, he wrote it on a white card.

By six o’clock, his family history was in plain
sight to review. He also had a list of questions. Too many.

Mason
took a short break. He ate leftovers while he watched
60 Minutes
. He went back in the guest bedroom and double-checked his work. He needed to be accurate not only personally, but as a cop.

He wasn’t ready to face his father and
tell him what he’d learned. His father had lied to him too many times in the past. He needed to find more evidence. And find his sister.

3
9
Friday, December 7, 1979 (Sam)

I
dedicated every Friday morning to finding out more about my family—the family I never knew I had. My family had kept many secrets from me and I needed to know why. I’d become a liar, fitting situations to best suit my interests. I wasn’t happy with the life I was living. I wanted to be a better person and knew I would be, one day. More work needed to be done before that could happen.

Every time I went to the library, I
stopped to see the famous Estherville Meteorite. The meteor landed two miles north of Estherville in May of 1879, separating into three large pieces. One piece landed with such fury it was buried fourteen feet below the surface. Its destructive force, rough edges, metallic glitter fascinated me. A part of history right where I lived. Maybe one day I’d have a place in history. That would depend on how many family members I had to kill—my destructive force.

I’d alternate visiting
the library, the genealogy room, the courthouse. I’d read books on how to search for ancestors. My obsession was finding more relatives. If they had secrets, they’d ultimately meet the same fate as Grandfather, the Rileys, the Ponders. I couldn’t allow liars in my family.

My notes
filled several spiral notebooks. In addition, I had the letters and photo albums. I kept all my possessions in a box in my room, making sure to put my important research away before I left my room each morning. I covered the box with a tablecloth, two books, a box of tissues. I made sure to put the things in a certain order so I knew if someone had been snooping. I trusted Bertha, but she had two nephews that came by occasionally, and them I didn’t trust. I kept my door closed, but they looked like they could pick a lock.

By four, the weather was so severe that the town sent out an emergency broadcast. Snow, ice, wind, and single-digit temperatures created a nasty mix. Only necessary personnel were to be on the roads. Most of the staff had driven home an hour ago. I stayed and helped the store manager close the store. We both lived within walking distance.

I hadn’t realized how bad the weather was until
we walked outside. I could barely see five feet in front of me.

C
overed in snow when I reached the back door at Bertha’s, I brushed myself off and tapped my boots before stepping inside. I’d never been so cold. Even when Grandfather shut off the heat in my room in the middle of winter, I couldn’t imagine ever feeling that cold.

“I thought you got lost in the snow. The radio said they closed the stores an hour ago. Where have you been?”

This was going to be a long snowstorm if Bertha was going to talk nonstop. “I helped the manager close. With just the two of us, it took longer.”

“You must be frozen like a popsicle.” Bertha sounded
like she actually cared. “Take off that wet coat first. Drink some hot cocoa—that’ll warm you right up. Then go take a hot bath. Put some Epsom salts in the tub. Good for your muscles. Epsom salt is under the sink in the bathroom. Blue and white box. Let me know if you can’t find it.”

Hot cocoa sounded wonderful. I put water in the teakettle and turned on the stove. I opened the cocoa
package and emptied it into a mug. Bertha was still talking. I’d stopped listening. The teakettle whistled. I poured the water in the mug and stirred the mixture. I put my hands on both sides of the warm mug, took a sip, and felt the warmth all the way to my toes.

I soaked in the tub
half an hour. The wind blew, whistling through the window, and was grateful I had a nice place to stay. It wasn’t as nice as Connie and Harold’s house, but it was a hundred times better than living with Grandfather.

I could easily ignore what Bertha had to say because she wasn’t family. I wouldn
’t hurt her.

I stayed in my room and went through my family research. Still too many questions.

I picked up the photo album I’
d taken from Grandfather’s. It had been over a year since I had looked at the pictures.

I took each picture out of the sleeve and looked
on the back for a date or name of the person or people in the picture. I was familiar with a few names in the family. Maybe I could finally make some other connections.

Only a few of the black
-and-whites had names on the back, and those were just first names. I recognized one. My grandmother, Mildred, when she was about fourteen. All the color photos were either of my mother, father, brother, or me. One picture was the four of us in front of a Christmas tree. I wondered who had taken the picture.

On the next page, three pictures of my father with his face crossed out. Did Grandfather do that because he was angry, or did I do it when I was little because I was playing with a marker? I took
one of the photos out of the album and flipped it over.
Liar
had been written on the back. My forehead wrinkled.

Flipping a couple of pages I stopped at
a picture of my dad and brother at Christmas. They looked so happy sitting on the fireplace hearth. I took the photo out and a piece of paper fell to the floor. I unfolded it and read the note.

Jan 29. Sam, please forgive
me. I’m sorry for leaving you with your grandfather. If I don’t come back, it means your father killed me. I love you. Mom

I read the note four times. It didn’t make sense. My father had died in a house fire two weeks
before the note was written. I shook my head. More questions. Why would my mother leave such a note? Did she know my father wasn’t dead? Why would my father want to kill her? Was my father a liar?

If he was, I needed to do something
.

40
Thursday, March 6, 1980 (Mason)

M
ason and Sophia had spent the week organizing the family information in a scrapbook. When they went on
their fact-finding mission, they’d have all their information in one place. Luckily, both had been able to take off Friday.

Mason
pulled in Sophia’s driveway at six. Sophia came out of her house with suitcase in hand.

“Let me get that.”
Mason took Sophia’s bag—heavier than he’d expected.

“
You know we’re only going to be gone three nights. How much stuff did you pack?” Mason laughed.

“A girl
has to look good for her man. It takes a lot of stuff to look this beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful without all the makeup.” He gave her a kiss. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

“Me, too. Let’s get going.”

A semi and car collided near Waterloo that added to the drive time.
Sophia fell asleep around eleven. The drive to Clinton took almost seven and a half hours.

Mason
pulled into the Night Light Motel at one-thirty. They would only be here long enough to sleep a few hours and shower. Mason left Sophia asleep in the car while he went to check in.

“Good evening. I’d like a room for the night.”

The man behind the counter looked up. “Technically, it’s good morning. Still have to charge you for a whole night’s stay, though.”

“That’s fine.”
Mason took out his credit card.

“Room 16. Last room.” The man pointed to the east.

Mason drove to the end of the motel and backed into the parking spot in front of room 16. He nudged Sophia’s arm and spoke softly. “Sweetheart. We’re in Clinton.”

“Hmm.”
Sophia stretched her arms in front of her. “I didn’t realize I was so tired.”

“I’ve already checked in. Let’s get you in bed.”

Mason had a hard time getting to sleep. Every time he closed eyes, he thought of his sister, what she might look like, would he recognize her. He finally started thinking of Sophia, then drifted away.

41
December 14, 1979 (Sam)

D
uring my research at the library, I found some articles in the newspaper about a land dispute involving Grandfather and his stepbrother, Mark Amstead.
After my great-grandmother remarried, she never saw her son again. When she died, Grandfather tried to get part of the land. The court upheld the will and Grandfather got nothing. Mark got the farm in Alta Vista. There was a comment in the paper from Mark:
Ernest has not been a part of this family for many years. His mother wrote him out of the will for personal reasons. He got what he deserves—nothing.

I found a phone number for Mark Amstead in Alta Vista. I used the pay phone outside the library entrance.

“My name’s Leslie Tankard,” I said. “I’m writing a paper on the history of Alta Vista’s farming community. Your farm’s interesting because of a family dispute.”

“That was a long time ago.” He sounded
angry.

“I know, sir. I just need a few details for my report. I need to get an A. My parents will be upset if I don’t.”

“Sure.” He sounded calmer. “Whatcha wanna know?”

“My records indicate that your step-brother, Ernest York, sued for part ownership of the land. He has since passed away.” I thought adding that information would allow
him to speak more freely. “Your mother made no mention of him in the will. I was hoping you could give me a reason why.” I held my breath. I was hoping he wouldn’t hang up.

“Ernest…he killed his father.” Mark paused.
“My mother knew he did it. Couldn’t prove it. A healthy man just doesn’t die in his sleep. Ernest was only sixteen. She left him and the house. As far as I know, my mother never spoke to Ernest after she remarried.”

“I see,” I said. “And you never tried to talk to him?”

“Never saw a reason to. Only saw him one time—at the courthouse. I remember how mean he looked.”

“Thank you so much. Would it be okay if I called you again? In case I have any more questions
?”

“You have my number.”

The pieces were coming together.

Killing was in my blood.