Secrets Don't Sink, page 8
She led me down a long hallway that looked and smelled like Mylanta, with its pale-green shade and medicinal mint aroma.
“Mr. Hart? Your…niece is here to see you.” She nearly spat the word.
A frail voice croaked from behind the beige divider curtain. “My niece?”
“Yes. Your great, great…great niece.” The woman sighed with the last great, her tone heavy with derision and skepticism.
“Send her in.”
On the other side of the curtain, I came face-to-face with the man whose book had captivated me for the past twenty-four hours. He looked how I’d assumed a near-centenarian might look. What remained of his hair was white except for some dark patches near his temples. Thin fluffy strands were combed from the left side of his head to the right. He wore wire-framed glasses, and the refraction from daylight peeking through the window glinted in his gray eyes. His cornflower-blue terrycloth tracksuit was not unlike the one I’d worn in my Juicy Couture phase of 2006.
“Mr. Hart?”
“Yes, dear, come sit. Is she gone? Nurse Ratched, I mean.” He chuckled.
“Yes, she’s gone. She seems nice enough.” I didn’t bother putting much conviction into my words as I eased into the chair at the foot of his bed.
“Oh, Denise is fine. A little preoccupied, but she’s okay. I like to play around, I just wanted to make sure she didn’t catch you in your lie.” He winked one droopy eyelid.
“My lie?”
“My dear, you couldn’t possibly be my niece, great or otherwise. My older brother died in the Spanish influenza epidemic of 1918 before I was even born, and my little sister joined a convent to become a different kind of sister. She’s Sister Maria Ignatius now, and she turns ninety this year.”
“You caught me. My name’s Audrey O’Connell. I’m with the Coastal Current newspaper. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I suppose before agreeing to your request, I should inquire about what information you’re looking to get out of me.” He folded his thin arms across his chest in a pose of defiance belied by the hint of amusement on his face.
“Fair enough. I’m doing a series about Chattertowne for Kupit. Mildred Driscoll suggested I speak with you.”
“Mildred!” His eyes became misty, and the folds surrounding them wrinkled with his smile. “That girl was a firecracker.” His shoulders shook with laughter.
“She still is.”
I chose not to mention the “girl” to whom he’d referred was in her ninth decade of life. People tended to get cryogenically frozen in our memories, forever in our minds and hearts as what they were when we knew them best.
“She said you used to come to her house to play cards with her parents and a few other couples.”
George’s face became wistful. “Yes, with my Sophie. God, I miss that woman every day. She was the social one, between the two of us. I only went along to make her happy. I never fit in with that crowd, not really. She was the buffer who made it possible. I’m quieter by nature, a bit of an introvert. If she hadn’t dragged me along, I would have instead spent those evenings by the fire writing.”
“Mildred mentioned you had a falling out with another member of the card club.”
He tilted his head and appraised me. “Yes. I guess I’m a little surprised Mildred was aware of that. Eddie Chatterton certainly wasn’t a fan of my Christmas gift to him that year.”
“Funny you should mention that. I recently came across a copy of your book about Chattertowne’s history in the Library’s museum, but a few pages are missing. I was hoping you could tell me what they said.”
“We have a museum?”
“I was surprised by that as well. Anyway, I believe they were intentionally removed by someone hoping to bury the information contained on those pages. I’d like to know what was so scandalous it caused a falling out between you and Eddie and why someone would go to the trouble to hide a secret that’s at least seven decades old.”
George stared at me for a long time without saying anything. I squirmed in the molded resin seat under his gaze. I tapped my pen on my notebook. I blinked several times. My confidence faltered with every passing moment of silence.
“I can’t help you.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
He turned to look out the window.
“Mr. Hart, you know exactly which pages are missing and why, don’t you?”
He took a ragged, labored breath. “I can guess.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
He turned back to face me, his expression an amalgam of pain, fatigue, and something else…resignation, maybe. “Young lady, you have no idea the depths you’ve waded into. The information contained in that book could have far-reaching ramifications, even today.” He glanced out his window again. “It already has.”
“If you could just point me in the right direction—”
He cut off my plea. “Miss O’Connell, is it?”
I nodded.
“Take some advice from a very old man. When it comes to the Chattertons, they’ve got more skeletons than a graveyard, literally and figuratively. If you go digging up old bones, you might not like what you find. For your sake….” He attempted to sit up. “For your safety, I suggest you leave this mystery a mystery. Now, it’s nearly ten thirty. Lunchtime is at eleven, and I like to nap before I eat. You need to go.”
His decrepit body slouched. He closed his eyes, indicating the conversation had ended. As I reached the hallway, a feeble voice called, “Miss O’Connell?”
I turned to look at him, but his lids remained shuttered.
“Yes?”
“Please let this matter drop. Some secrets are meant to remain submerged.”
Chapter Ten
Despite George Hart’s ominous warning, I returned to my office more determined than ever to uncover the potential bombshell contained in the missing pages. If George wouldn’t tell me, I’d find another way.
I opened my binder and scoured my notes.
Jonathan Chatterton had settled the area in the late 1850s. His wife, Madeleine, died in childbirth in 1862. Nettie, the midwife, had stayed on to care for baby Michael and seemed to be a central figure in the mystery.
A search for Jonathan Chatterton and Nettie on Google aggregated a list of websites. Most were unrelated to my quest, but one elicited an audible gasp.
“Oh, my gawd!”
Keith, the sports reporter who worked on the other side of the partition, banged on the wall.
“Sorry!”
What had caught my attention was a blogging website called “Chattertowne Conspiracy.” At the top of the page was a photo of the site’s admin. He’d called himself “The Veracitater.” Not only wasn’t it a real word, but the name also made him sound like an honest potato with fascist tendencies.
It was none other than Marcus Washburn.
The headlines of his blog read like a catalog of conspiracy theories, with topics ranging from the town council doping the water supply with melatonin to keep citizens compliant to Police Chief Brinks manipulating the streetlights to benefit his golfing buddies.
I clicked on the post titled “The Chatterton Family Mafia Stole My Birthright” and began reading.
Thirty years ago, my father, David Washburn, called home for what would turn out to be the last time. My mother Gayle answered the call, but she hung up on him, believing he’d been drinking. We never saw him again. The police tried to say he’d abandoned us, but my mother didn’t believe them, and neither do I. They said he was a drunk deadbeat, but he never would’ve left his family if he could help it.
Before his disappearance, my father told my mother he’d discovered shocking information and documents to support it, which would turn the town upside down and make us rich in the process. He also told her if anything happened to him, he’d hidden a notebook containing all the dirt somewhere in the house. He told her not to trust the police or the government because they’re in the pockets of the Chatterton family mafia, so when they showed at our house, my mom lied and told them she hadn’t heard from him, but she believed he was in hiding or dead. They dismissed her statements as the ramblings of a woman who was in denial she’d been left by her husband.
I don’t know to this day if my father is dead or alive. I fear he’s at the bottom of the Jeannetta River. Unfortunately, my mom forgot where he said he’d hid his notebook. His disappearance sent her sideways. I didn’t only lose my dad that day, I lost my mom too…in all the ways that mattered.
While cleaning out her house after she died last year, I finally found the notebook, and I plan to reveal its secrets little by little until the whole truth about the Chatterton family mafia has been revealed.
My dad knew things about the Chattertons, and now I know things about the Chattertons. They’re murderers, criminals, and thieves. I’ve already been threatened to keep quiet, so if anything happens to me you know who to go looking for.
Stunned, I picked up my phone.
“Hey there. I’m glad you called.” Holden’s voice oozed like molasses on a warm day.
“This isn’t a social call. I just found something pretty crazy related to Marcus’s death.”
“What’s going on?”
“Did you know he was a conspiracy theorist?”
“Marcus? Yeah, everyone did. You didn’t?”
“It didn’t come up. So, have you read what he put on his website?”
“No, I’d hear it from him whenever we’d go out for a beer, which was about all I could take.”
“Listen to this.” I proceeded to read the blog post to him.
“Oh, shoot. Send me the link, I need to pass that on.”
“Which Chatterton family members are still around who might have a vested interest in preventing these secrets from being revealed? What do you think Marcus meant by ‘stole my birthright?’ Were any Chattertons implicated at the time of Marcus’s dad’s disappearance?”
“Whoa, whoa. That’s a lot of questions. I know Jimmy Chatterton killed himself around the time David Washburn disappeared. If I’m remembering the story correctly, Jimmy was being investigated for fraud and corruption or something. David worked as a cargo loader at the port, kinda like what Marcus does…did. Ugh, that’s hard to get used to.”
“I keep doing that too.”
“Yeah, anyway, as for the birthright thing, I guess he could have meant losing his father’s income. I know they struggled financially. Without a body, there’s no life insurance, and the shipping company David worked for didn’t offer any help. If it weren’t for local charity, I don’t know how they would’ve made it at all. His mom had no college degree or any job skills, and she wasn’t great at keeping the jobs she did manage to get. After David went missing, she started drinking heavily, and that morphed into…harder stuff.”
“He never told me that.”
“He didn’t tell me that stuff either. His mom did one night when she was high off her ass. Marcus was mortified. He kept telling her to shut up and go to bed.”
“x̌ʷubiləxʷ.”
“Bless you.”
“That wasn’t a sneeze. It’s a Lushootseed word meaning be quiet. I’ve never liked the phrase shut up. It’s so harsh.” I spun around in my office chair like a little kid on the tilt-a-whirl. “It’s kind of amazing Marcus did as well in life as he did, considering his upbringing. He had a decent job, owned a home, had three cute kids and a wife.”
If Holden noticed I hadn’t said Marcus had a good wife, he didn’t mention it.
“Marcus was an eternal optimist. He made the best with what he had.”
“On another note, what do you know about Peter Chatterton? He donated an item of Jonathan’s—some big knife—to the archive museum back in nineteen ninety. Is he still around?” I circled Peter’s name on my notes.
There was a beat of silence. “Peter lives on the hill. Doesn’t come into town much. He’s sitting on dozens of prime view acres which have been passed down through the family, along with a bunch of other real estate in town and several businesses. Occasionally, the city council receives a letter from him complaining about one thing or another. We’ve invited him to discuss his issues at the council meetings, but he never shows.”
“Is he married? Kids?”
“He’s got no kids, as far as I’m aware. I know he went to college in LA on a golf scholarship, I believe, and then stayed in that area for a while. When he came back, he was married to some chick named Mandi…or Brandi…or Kandi. Whichever it was, she definitely spelled it with an I because she always dotted the I with a heart. She left town a few years back. Hooked up with her personal trainer and relocated to Miami, said she hated the climate here. Apparently, she wasn’t a huge fan of old Pete either. I don’t blame her; he’s not the most congenial guy.”
“Geez. Okay, well, I read somewhere Eddie Chatterton was an only child. Mildred over at the library told me he had two sons. James, aka Jimmy, and uh, let me look at my notes.” I flipped through the notepad. “Here it is. Richard, also called Dickie. Jimmy committed suicide in the eighties. Eddie died not long after. Which one was Peter’s dad? Had to be Jimmy, right? Mildred said Dickie ran off to join the military at seventeen and died in the Korean War.”
“I’m almost positive Jimmy was Peter’s dad.”
“Are there any other Chattertons around who might want to shut Marcus up…permanently? To protect their inheritance, I mean.”
“I’m not sure about siblings or cousins. Someone around here should know.”
I groaned. “I know who’d know.”
We spoke at the same time. “Peg.”
“Dammit.” He sighed. “Fine, I’ll talk to her.”
“Good luck. Don’t forget the pastries,” I sang.
“Yeah, right. Thanks.”
“Hey, Holden?”
“Yup?”
“Are we going to talk about, uh, you know…”
“Can we table that conversation until things settle down? I need to get my head on straight first.”
“I understand.” There was a soft tap at my door. “Hey, I gotta go. I’m gonna keep digging here. Let me know what you find on your end.”
“Will do.”
“Come in.”
The door opened, and Darren entered my office. Instead of feeling excitement at seeing him, my breathing became constricted with nerves, and my stomach felt queasy. Something had shifted in our dynamic, and I wasn’t sure how to feel about him. Gone were the days of playful, flirtatious banter, now replaced with weird tension.
“Hey.” I scanned his face but found nothing to indicate his mood, good or bad.
“How did it go at the nursing home?” His jaw clenched and released.
“Oh.” I waved my hand in dismissal. “It was a dead end. You know how old people are. By dinnertime, they can barely remember what flavor Jell-O they had for lunch.”
Darren’s aqua irises bore through me. “Audrey? Wanna tell me what’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not acting like yourself.” He placed his hands on his hips and exhaled a deep sigh.
I stood and moved toward him. “I just have a lot on my mind with my story and Marcus….”
“Shhh. It’s okay.” He brushed hair from my face.
Did he just…shush me?
Before I had a chance to react, he leaned closer, placed his palms on each side of my head, and gently pressed his lips to mine. He ran his hands up and down my arms.
“Audrey, I feel as though you’re not being completely honest with me. You know, I saw you the other day.”
“Saw me?” I was still trying to figure out how I felt about the kiss, and my brain hadn’t re-engaged enough to know what he was talking about.
“You were holding his hand.” He tipped his chin down and stared at me with a look of disapproval and then stroked my hair. “I know you don’t owe me an explanation. I just thought we were starting something. And the guy is engaged, you know.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, he pulled me face-first into his chest and kissed the top of my head.
“It’s fine. It’s all gonna work out the way it’s supposed to,” he said, answering a question I hadn’t asked.
I was about to protest being treated like a child when his taut arms tensed around me. I pulled back to find him staring at my computer screen.
“I thought you said you were doing an article on the festival.” His voice dipped to a quiet growl.
“I am, and Chattertowne history. There was a Native American woman named Nettie, she was Flathead, actually, and well, I was searching, and this came up.”
Darren glared at the monitor.
“Turns out Marcus was a conspiracy whacko, but he might have actually been onto something. I think it’s possible the Chatterton family had something to do with what happened.”
Darren whipped his head to look at me. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Why do you care? Don’t you have your own stories to write?”
“I care because I’m worried about you, Audrey. Don’t you get that? You’re inserting yourself in the middle of a homicide. Someone already killed your friend, and now you’re sticking your nose where it shouldn’t be. You’re going to get yourself hurt!”
“I’m a journalist. It’s my job to tell the whole story.”
“You’re a lifestyles writer at a newspaper with a circulation of about seven thousand people, Audrey. Your job is to write a feel-good piece about the festival, not flip the damn town’s history upside down or insert yourself into a murder investigation because you’re bored writing crappy articles about Edgar and Martha Cavanaugh’s freaking birdhouse collection.”
His face was nearly magenta. I’d never heard him raise his voice before, and his outburst stunned me into silence.
Someone knocked on my door. “Audrey? Everything okay in there?”
“Yeah, Keith, thanks. I’m fine.”
“You sure? Sounded like a riot breaking out.”
“Sorry for the noise.”
