Secrets Can Be Deadly (14 page)

42
Friday, March 7, 1980 (Mason)

M
ason and Sophia arrived at the Clinton County courthouse at eight-thirty.

“Good morning. My name
’s Jean Reynolds. How can I help you?” Jean’s white hair, petite frame, was not what Mason expected.

“We’ve spoken on the phone
. I’m Mason Pierce and this is Sophia Knox.”

“Oh
, yes. I remember. Working on family history.”

“I have
more information since we last spoke. I need to do some research on other family members.”

“Sure.
I’ll get you set up in the back room.”

Sophia
put the scrapbook on the table, along with the list of questions.

“There
are a lot of books in here. We could be here all day,” Sophia said.

“Luckily I’ve done this twice before, so I know
where to look.”

Mason
walked down an aisle and found the first book.
deaths
1968. He took it back to the table, opening to the first page. His finger scanned the names. He stopped. Mason, age 10. Walter, age 29.

“Oh
, my!” Sophia was looking over his shoulder.

“
My social security number is wrong. The middle numbers are reversed,” Mason said. “Sophia, look up my dad’s number.”

Sophia
flipped through the scrapbook. “His middle numbers are reversed, too. What does
that
mean?”

Mason
thought. “It means my dad had help in covering up the truth.”

Someone had altered the records. Two people died in a house fire—in his childhood home. Who were the two people
who’d been identified as Mason and Walter?

Sophia
started looking through the microfilm for information on Mason’s grandfather’s house fire. Mason looked at land records. He wondered who owned the properties where he had lived as a child, and who owned his grandfather’s farm. Mason found that Ernest York was still listed as owner for both properties.

“Found it
!” Sophia said. “I found the information on your grandpa’s house fire.”

Mason
was trying to read the small print over Sophia’s shoulder. “Can you print it?”

“Yeah. Jean gave me the instructions.”
Sophia pecked a few keys and the machine hummed.

“Check the following few months and s
ee if there’s any follow-up story. The article says a gas can was found near the stove. It doesn’t say if they suspected foul play.”

“Here’s the obi
tuary. I’ll print it, as well.”

Mason
read the obituary aloud. “
Ernest Dwight York passed away on June 3, 1977. He lived in Delmar for the past fifty years. His wife Mildred precedes him in death
. That’s it. No mention of any children or relatives. I’m surprised there was even anything in the paper.”

The machine hummed again. “Find something else?”

Sophia read:
York farm sale. Saturday, July 16, 1977, 9:00
am
to 1:00
pm
. Tractor, car, miscellaneous farm equipment. Contact Red McFarland.

“My dad has a friend with the last name of McFarland.”

“What are the odds it would be the same person? If your dad was so intent on leaving this area, why would he be friends with someone who lived here?”

Mason looked through the list of questions. “I think we’ve found as much as we can. It’s almost one. Let’s grab a bite, then drive to Delmar. I want to stop where I grew up first, then we’ll go over to my grandpa’s. Talk to the neighbors. Hopefully someone will still be around from back then. Maybe somebody can tell me about my sister.”

Sophia
squeezed his hand. Mason looked at her and smiled.

The drive to Delmar took forty minutes.
Mason turned off the highway and drove down the gravel road. He started remembering. “That pink house with white shutters. I called it the cupcake house. My mom would add food coloring to turn the cake batter pink and make white frosting. I’ve no idea why she always did that.”

They made a few turns
, then Mason pulled into the driveway. Nothing was left of his childhood home. He and Sophia got out of the car. “I learned how to ride a bike on this gravel driveway. Took quite a few spills.” Mason paused. “My sister and I set off bottle rockets by that tree. We got in so much trouble.”

Mason
bent down and picked up a rock. “Souvenir,” he said. He couldn’t believe that twelve years ago he was a happy child with a mother, father, and sister. Now, he had no idea whether his mother or sister where dead or alive, and that his dad had been lying to him all this time. Mason had learned a lot these past two months.

“Ready for the next trip down memory lane?”
Mason said.

Sophia had the plat book and directed Mason to his grandpa’s other property.

“Anything look familiar?”
Sophia said.

“Not so far.”
Remains of the house still stood. It looked like no one had set foot on the property since the farm sale.

“There’s a barn over there
.” Sophia pointed to the south.

“Let’s walk that way,”
Mason said.

Mason
opened the barn door and peered inside. It was dark and musty. “Doesn’t look like there’s much in here.” He shut the door, looked around what was left of the farm. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before. Nothing looks familiar.”

“You were only a
kid when you moved to Sheldon,” Sophia said. “If I didn’t have pictures to look at, I wouldn’t remember much about my childhood.”

“Yeah.
Guess you’re right. I don’t have any pictures of when I lived here.” Mason and Sophia started walking back to the car. “Unless my dad has them hidden in the basement somewhere.”

“
Mason. Enough!” Sophia stopped. “I know this is a difficult situation. Don’t go blaming your dad for something that may or may not exist.”

“I was lied to about so many things. I
don’t trust him.”

“He
’s your father. There may be some very good reasons why he lied to you and keeps lying to you.”

“You always look for the good in people.”
Mason cracked a smile. “Come on. Let’s go talk to the neighbors.”

No one was home at the first house. The next farm looked unkempt. Several cars sat on the north side of the house, grass grown over the bumpers. The screen door hung at a slight angle. The white paint on the house was cracked. Shingles lay strewn on the ground.

Mason
pulled around back. An elderly man was sitting on the back stoop. Mason couldn’t tell whether the man was putting his boots on or taking them off. The man held a boot in his left hand, scraping mud off with a pocketknife in his right hand.

Mason
looked at Sophia. “Why don’t you stay in the car?” Sophia nodded. “Lock your door.”

Mason
stepped out of the car and walked over to the man. “Good afternoon, sir.” The man stared at him without a word. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about your former neighbors, the Yorks.”

The man spit. “Why you w
anna know?” Mason could barely understand the man’s mumbled words.

“I’m Mr. York’s grandson.
Mason Pierce.”

The man chuckled. “Mr. York. That man don’t deserve to be called
mister
.”

“You didn’t like him?”

“Naw. He ruled the house like a dictator. He was one
mean
man. His wife visited my wife a few times. Every time she came over, she was crying. Felt sorry for the girl though. Lost her whole family and the only one left was her grandfather. I was surprised she didn’t leave the place the day she turned eighteen, but she stuck it out to get her diploma. I saw her drive away the day the house burned. Good thing. She was a smart girl.”

He was a mean man.
The third time that someone had used the same words to describe his grandfather.

“
You know a man named Red McFarland?”

“Every
body knew Red. Helped a lot of people out in the area. That man had connections. Always thought he was ex-military. Don’t know his real first name.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“Last I knew he moved to Florida. Got cancer. Bad stuff.”

“Thank you for your time
.” Mason paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

The man spit again.
“Name’s Elias Wilson.”

“Thank you
, Elias.”

As
Mason walked back to the car, he looked across the field. He could see his grandfather’s farm.

“One more question
, Elias. I notice you can see the York farm from here. Did you ever see Red at the farm?”

Elias
stood up, cocked his head to the left. “Yeah. Sure did. Maybe once a month he’d stop. Must’ve had a key to the house. Always seemed to appear when York went to town.” Elias spit. “Red sold the farm equipment after York died. Figured they were related.”

“Again, thank you.”
Mason walked to the car and got in.

“Well, did you learn anything?”
Sophia said.

“My grand
pa was a mean man. My sister drove away before the house burned, which means she could have set the fire. And, my dad knows Red. Unless there just happens to be two men with the last name McFarland who both have cancer and now live in Florida.”

4
3
Friday, January 4, 1980 (Sam)

I
called the store manager at seven and told him I’d been sick during the night and wouldn’t be coming to work. Bertha was spending a few days with her sister in Des Moines so I wouldn’t be subjected to all sorts of questions.
Why wasn’t I going to work? Did you eat some chicken soup? What’s your temperature? Have you called the doctor?

The four-hour drive gave me time to practice my speech, and consider what I’d do to Mark and Lisa. I wondered what they were doing right now. Whatever it was, it would be the last time they’d ever do it.

I stopped at a gas station
for directions. An old man sat in a rocking chair next to the restroom door. He looked like he knew everything and everyone in town. I was right. It was going to be an easy house to find thanks to his directions.

Mark and Lisa Amstead lived two miles north of Alta Vista. The back of the house could be seen from the highway. The elderly man also told me that Lisa
had knee surgery three weeks ago and released from rehab on Wednesday.

This news made me change my plans, but the
new scenario would work better. I was becoming very skilled in improvising.

I drove by the house first. It was a small one-story white house
, gray shutters. No cars were in the yard, which meant no visitors. I turned around and drove down the driveway. I parked behind the shed so my car couldn’t be seen from the road. I grabbed my bag of goodies and put on clear latex gloves.

I walked
to the front door and rang the bell. I was ready to knock when a man answered the door.

“Mr. Mark Amstead?” I asked.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I spoke to you on the phone a few weeks ago. Leslie Tankard. I’m writing a paper on the Alta Vista farming community.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember.” He held the door open. “Come in. I’m getting lunch for my wife.”

I walked in and smelled chicken soup. Soup would be perfect.

Mark took a step towards the stove. I pulled a syringe from my bag and removed the cap. A dribble. I thrust the needle in the back of his neck and quickly pushed the plunger. He stumbled, tried to speak, but nothing came out.

I helped him to the floor. “Goodnight,” I whispered in his ear.

On the counter were three bottles of pills. I took one bottle and put it in my bag. It would be useful later.

The soup was still in a pan on the stove. I poured part of the soup into a bowl and sprinkled my special powder on top, making sure to blend it together.

I walked in the bedroom. Lisa was sitting in bed, asleep.

“Time for lunch
!” I shouted.

Lisa’s head bobbed. “Who are you?”

“Home health care. I’m here to make sure you have a good lunch.”

“Where’s Mark?” Lisa
’s words slurred.

“I sent him to the store. I have chicken noodle soup. Open up.” I
quickly realized she wasn’t able to hold the bowl. I felt bad for Lisa. She just married into the wrong family. “I have a shot. Dr. Wallace prescribed it.” I’d noticed the doctor’s name on the pill bottles in the kitchen.

“Okay.” She could barely keep her eyes open. Then
, closed them for the very last time.

I took the soup bowl in the kitchen, rinsed it,
and left it in the sink. Mark was heavier than I expected. I pulled him by his feet into the bedroom. I was sweating by the time I moved him onto the bed. It would appear that they took a nap and died together. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be discovered for several days.

I looked
in the living room, interested to see what kind of people they’d been. What kind of relatives I never knew.

K
nick-knacks on the shelves—a bell, a thimble, a pincushion with colorfully decorated hatpins, a rag doll. A large painting over the sofa reminded me of the poppy field scene from the Wizard of Oz. Romance novels stood on the shelf, mixed in with books on fishing and woodworking.

If only Mark had been nice and shared the land, he’d still be alive. Instead, he was a mean man. Just like Grandfather. He had to die.

I walked to my car, took off my gloves, and drove back to Estherville.