Salem's Daughters (16 page)

Chapter 24              Vacating Guests

Bob could not think of a worse position to be in. All their guests were vacating Murcat Manor and demanding a refund—which he would have to give them. It was mid-June and news of a second death at the bed and breakfast could ruin reservations for the rest of the summer. The first of many bills, including the mortgage totaling twenty-five thousand dollars, would be due in less than two weeks.

He sat next to Debbie at the kitchen table. She looked numb, staring out the kitchen bay window as she sipped a glass of ice water. He was worried for her. The violent death of DeShawn Hill still loomed over them.

They’d been so busy preparing to open Murcat Manor and hosting the first wave of guests, they had not had time to properly mourn Hill’s passing. After talking with him almost every day for nine months, the general contractor had become like family.

But this second death happened in her kitchen—Debbie’s domain. This was her
home
and the one place where she thrived. Everything she did originated from here. He could see her soul was damaged from the fight and death of Paul Knudson.

But these weren’t the worse of their problems.

Bob looked at the yellow police tape wrapped throughout the kitchen. A corpse lay on its back a few feet from him. The Battle Creek coroner was lifting the red and white checkered tablecloth Bob had tossed over the dead body to examine the head. Police officers took pictures of the kitchen. Broken plates and glasses littered the floor. Chairs were tipped over and strewn about.

And things only got worse.

Across the large oak table sat Detectives Darrowby and Kowalski. Staring. Waiting for Bob to say something. He looked to Debbie, who tried to formulate her thoughts, but could only manage a shrug.

Darrowby, tapping his pen on the table, finally broke the ice. “Two deaths in Murcat Manor. One in May. One in June. You’re averaging one a month.”

Bob squeezed his eyes shut and took a long deep breath to calm himself. Debbie rubbed between his shoulders for support. “Look. I know DeShawn Hill was a close friend of yours. And I’m sorry he’s gone.”

“Are you?”

Bob opened his eyes. All he could see was a pompous, misguided, arrogant twit whose mission was to make his and Debbie’s life miserable. Blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy. Darrowby had only been inside a few minutes, and Bob was allowing the detective to get the upper hand.

Time to take a few slow breaths. Calm down. The man’s a professional. A professional asshole, that is. Can’t let him to get the better of us.

“Tell us once again. What exactly happened here?” Darrowby looked around. “There are shattered dishes and glasses everywhere. Looks like one helluva fight occurred.”

Bob sighed. “It was self-defense. Knudson had serious anger management problems. I’m sure you can dig something up on him.”

“Wrong,” Kowalski said, scrolling through his iPad. “Matter of fact, he had no police record. Looks like he paid his taxes on time. Awww, look here. He adopted a rescue puppy a few years ago.”

“Now isn’t that special,” Darrowby said. “Looks like Paul Knudson was just a large misunderstood teddy bear. You ask me, I’d say he was an upstanding citizen.”

Blood pressure rising. Shortness of breath. The urge to throw Darrowby out of his house. Bob needed to control his rage. He took another slow breath and stood.

“Listen to me.” He pointed at Knudson, pausing to keep his emotions in check. “This guy was the most belligerent, obnoxious numbskull I’ve ever met.”

Darrowby stood to meet him. “Last time I checked, being obnoxious isn’t against the law.”

“You have to admit,” Kowalski added, his big, thick, flat head pivoting this way and that on his shoulders. “Things do look suspicious. That’s why we’re not closing the DeShawn Hill case.”

Bob threw his arms in the air. “Oh, that’s just great. I suppose you’re not going to close this case, too.”

“Not until we resolve what happened to Hill. As far as we're concerned, we see a pattern forming.”

Bob couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "Pattern? What pattern?”

"A pattern of dead people on your property. And not just dead. These two men have died violently.”

Bob pointed at Knudson. “And I suppose calling the coroner out here rather than paramedics and transporting the body to their office only makes your visit more dramatic.”

Darrowby smirked. “No, Mr. Stevens. You’re being paranoid. The coroner only comes out directly if the death is unexpected.”

Bob was really starting to hate Darrowby and the way the detective twisted his words.

“You can translate that as suspicious,” Kowalski added.

Bob looked back and forth at the Numbskull Duo. There’s no good cop bad cop routine with these two guys. They’re both assholes.

Darrowby looked over to the coroner. “How’s it going, Jimmy?”

“Almost finished. We’ve examined and documented the scene and the body of the deceased.”

“Looks like you’re finishing recording evidence.”

“Evidence?” Bob said, looking round the kitchen. “Since when is any of this evidence?”

Darrowby ignored Bob’s comment. “I’ll have one of my men safeguard Knudson’s personal effects.”

“Is this really necessary?” Bob said. “I don’t want a police officer standing guard outside the Roadhouse Blues bedroom door. We have more guests coming in.”

Debbie interjected. “Kathleen Knudson is here. I’m sure the personal effects will be safe with her. And she can stay here for as long as she wants for no cost.”

Bob wrapped his arm around Debbie for support. He knew Darrowby was fuming because he and Debbie were smart enough to challenge his intimidation tactics.

“Jimmy, can you perform an autopsy today,” Darrowby asked as the coroner stood from his kneeling position.

“Probably be tomorrow. But you can be sure I’ll determine the cause of, as well as the manner and time of death.”

“How long do you think it’ll take?” Darrowby said, grinning at Bob as if he was still in control. “A week? Maybe less?”

“Oh, I’d say about two weeks at the most.”

Darrowby’s head spun around to the coroner. “That it? Can’t do it sooner?”

“’Fraid not. I’ll do the best I can. But we’re looking at ten to fourteen days for the results to come back.”

The paramedics placed Knudson in a black body bag, zipped it, and set him on a stretcher. Debbie buried her head into Bob’s shoulder and tried not to cry. Her chest heaved regardless.

They raised the stretcher and wheeled it out of the kitchen. The sound of the metal wheels rolling over the travertine tile in the living room echoed through the house. The police officers had concluded their work and followed the coroner out the front door.

The now silent kitchen framed the glaring eyes of Darrowby. Bob suddenly missed the noise and controlled chaos of the police investigation. What bothered him most was the constant non-blinking stare of the detective. He knew this was part of Darrowby’s strategy; get him to say something to break the awkward silence, anything that would incriminate himself. Or Debbie. The first person to speak lost.

He felt Debbie wrap her arms righter around his waist. They knew each other well. She sensed the same thing about Darrowby. Together, they would stare him down.

Seconds passed. Then a minute. Darrowby had one of the best poker faces Bob had seen. But he had disrespected Debbie in both visits. First Hill and now Knudson. This was motivation to beat Darrowby at his own game.

After two minutes, Kowalski stood and broke the stalemate. Bob knew Turret Head wanted to save Darrowby’s ass from blinking first.

I win this small battle
.

“I think we’re through here,” Kowalski said. “We’ll have the coroner’s report soon enough.”

Darrowby set his pen in his pocket. “Two deaths in two months, Mr. Stevens. You have to admit, this isn’t normal. In my twenty years on the force, this is rare. And I’m not a stupid man. So trust me when I say, this isn’t over.”

“Are you treating these as homicides?”

“Let’s see what the coroner’s report tells us. We’ll go from there. Until then, try not to let anyone else die under your watch at Murcat Manor."

Chapter 25              Spiritual Insight

Bob sat again at the kitchen table, his heart hitting rock bottom as he hit
Enter
on his keyboard, sending the refund for Kathleen Knudson. An invoice printed and he passed it to her while Debbie handed her a tissue to wipe her eyes.

“Mrs. Knudson, I'm so sorry.”

The grieving widow held her palm up, cutting Debbie off. “No, you're not sorry. If you were, you never would have provoked my husband. You knew he had a bad temper.”

Bob was incredulous. He could barely sputter out the words. “What? He attacked me. You were there.”

Kathleen wiped another tear and looked at the floor. “If you’d just left him alone, he'd still be here with me.”

Bob could see her tears and the cloth had wiped away much of her makeup and mascara, revealing recent bruises on her face and a black eye. Bob shook his head. “I just don't understand.”

“I know what you’re thinking. But Paul was all I had. Now he's gone and I'm all alone. I have nowhere to go.”

Debbie waved Bob off before he could say anything else. She helped Kathleen to the front porch for fresh air. Bob sat still and tried to shake off the disbelief of what just happened. Murcat Manor was empty, except for the summer help Raymond Hettinger and Maria Gonzalez and the last couple standing before him. And thirteen lazy cats lounging in the living room. The house was ghostly quiet.

He looked up at the young newlyweds. They were so full of hope and promise. What were their names again? He looked at the invoice. Robert and Marissa Anderson. They stayed in the Love Machine.

“We’re so sorry,” Marissa said. “You have such a lovely place. And I’m sure you’ll do very well.”

Robert stuck his hand out for their invoice. “But you have to understand, we’re on our honeymoon. We don’t need this kind of drama.”

“Where are you going,” Debbie asked as she returned to the kitchen.

“We’ve booked a hotel in Ann Arbor. We wish you well.”

Bob and Debbie walked the Andersons to the front door. Raymond had loaded their luggage in the trunk of their Ford Focus.

Bob noticed a man and a woman standing against a Cadillac Escalade parked alongside Oak Hill Road. He recognized them as their neighbors on the west side of the property line, divided by the long row of elm trees.

Debbie held his hand. “Look honey,” she said with a hint of hesitance. “It’s the Bradys. I wonder what they want.”

Bob was suspicious. “Strange. They’ve never come to visit.”

“Yeah. They’ve avoided us like we’re infected with Ebola. They didn’t answer the door when we visited, and clearly they were home.”

Bob snickered. “I remember. They turned off the lights. As if we wouldn’t notice they were on when we stepped up onto their porch.”

“They’re just staring at us. What do you suppose they want?”

“Not sure.” Bob waved goodbye to their last guests as they pulled out of the gravel driveway and drove east toward Ann Arbor. The Bradys approached.

“Friend or foe?”

“Well, since they’re not carrying shotguns or torches, I’m guessing friend. I hope.”

Debbie nudged Bob. “Stop it. Remember, we’re not in the boonies.”

“Erm, kinda think we are.”

“Smile. Even if you don’t mean it.”

Bob forced a warm smile. It wasn’t as difficult is he thought. He wondered if he could be a politician someday.

The Bradys were in their mid-fifties. Bob knew they had three kids who had families of their own in nearby towns. They wore jeans. But not like what he expected. They looked expensive, as did their shoes and hair.

He wore a blue University of Michigan collared shirt. Bob had trouble discerning their facial expressions. Their professional yet old country appearance gave him confidence he would not be sacrificed to their corn gods. He held out his hand.

“Hello. You’re the Bradys, right? I’m Bob Stevens. And this is my wife, Debbie.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Eddie. This is my wife Alison.”

Bob was relieved. The Bradys were not at all like what he thought his neighbors might be. Backwoods. Banjo music playing. Hosting a family reunion and the entire town shows up.

But then, all his neighbors up until now had avoided them. Maybe, they saw him in the same light he imagined them, as someone who was light years from what was considered the norm and couldn’t be trusted.

“Mr.  Stevens, I—”

“Please, call me Bob.”

The Bradys retained their stoic looks. He needed to remove barriers and let them know he wanted to be friends.

“Okay. Bob. We see there was another death here.”

Bob sighed deep. “Yeah. One of our guests choked on his breakfast. Or had a heart attack. Or both.”

Eddie retained his unreadable face. “And your contractor died a couple—wait—just over a month ago.”

Bob shuffled his feet, annoyed he was being questioned again. “That’s right. Two deaths in two months.”

“Both accidental,” Debbie added.

“Is that so,” Eddie said, eyeing Bob.

“Yes, that’s so,” he said, setting his jaw and his fists starting to clench. “Sheeesh. What is it with people around here? A couple accidental deaths and all of a sudden we’re serial killers.”

Alison shook her head. “Oh, these deaths weren’t accidental.”

Bob had had enough. First Darrowby. Now his next door neighbors. “Okay, it’s been a long day. We’re going inside. My head hurts. And we need to sleep.”

“Now just hold on,” Eddie said, reaching out and tugging on Bob. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We just want to talk.”

“Won’t you come inside,” Debbie said, snuggling up to Bob. “I’ll make coffee. Or better yet, open a bottle of wine. Maybe two. Like hubby said, it’s been a long day. And it’s only noon.”

Eddie held his hands up in a defensive posture. “No ma’am. No offense, we appreciate the offer. But we don’t want to step foot in that house.” He looked at his wife, then back to Bob and Debbie. “Fact of the matter is, your place is haunted.”

Alison bobbed her head in agreement. “Cursed, actually. And this is as far as we dare to tread on this property. Respectfully.”

Bob started to lead Debbie back inside. “Okay, let’s go, honey. Looks like these local folk are wearing U of M shirts to make themselves look intelligent.”

Eddie blocked Bob’s path. “Now just a minute, young man. I’ll have you know Alison and I are surgeons. We have our doctorates from the University of Michigan and are members of Mensa. So why don’t you slow down a bit and listen to us.”

Alison stepped forward. “Please, I know this sounds strange. But we’ll be forward with you. This property is indeed cursed. It has been since the Turners owned it in the sixties. And the families before them.”

“I don’t believe in curses,” Bob said as he started to turn and walk toward Murcat Manor.

“Please allow me to expound,” Eddie continued. “You just had two deaths in two months. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

Bob stopped. “Now you’re starting to sound like Detective Darrowby and his hooligan partner Kowalski.”

“And if you don’t pay attention to what we have to say, they might connect you to their deaths. There are plenty of people who think they might have been murdered.”

Bob flailed his arms in the air. “But we didn’t do anything.”

“You have to understand,” Alison said. “In their eyes, this is statistically improbable. Yet it happened. So naturally, you both are suspects.”

“Well, I can assure you we didn’t kill anyone. We moved here to build a house, start a business, and raise a family. Not kill the guests who pay our bills.”

“Which begs the question, why did you buy this property? The Turner place has been vacant since it burned to the ground almost fifty years ago.”

Bob was caught off guard. The entire process had happened so fast. It took only twenty-four hours to find the property and secure Ross and Erma’s backing. Thirty days later they owned the land and had hired an architect and general contractor.

“We both lost our jobs in Grand Rapids,” Debbie said. “We came across this place. It was cheap. Bob actually had the vision of building Murcat Manor.”

Eddie interrupted. “A vision?”

“Um, yeah,” Bob said, feeling a bit embarrassed. “It was a brief but very clear vision of this bed and breakfast.”

“A vision,” Allison said. “And yet, you said you don’t believe in curses.”

“A vision is very different than a curse,” Bob said. “My mind was probably making connections as a way to make a living and provide for a family. That’s a perfectly logical explanation. But curses, they’re a thing of folklore. Superstition.”

“You can try to explain the two deaths away if you wish. But remember the previous farm house that sat on this same location?”

“The Turner property,” Debbie said. “Our realtor told us it burned to the ground. As did the barn, which stood fifty yards away from the house. Twelve people died that night. There were no survivors.”

“The causes of the fires were never known,” Eddie said. “Don’t you find that suspicious?”

Debbie shrugged her shoulders. “Houses burn down every day, more so in the past when there were no fire alarms and electrical codes were far less strict.”

Bob remembered the story from the realtor who negotiated the deal. Fragments of the conversation came back. He could see Clark Hodgkins sitting on the other side of the desk asking if they believe in ghosts. He mentioned the locals thought the place was haunted. But since that initial meeting, Bob had not given it much thought.

“That’s fourteen deaths, including the two here,” Eddie said, and cocked an eyebrow up. “And an Amish family of seven people died when their farmhouse burned to the ground fifty years before the Turners. Most people around here had parents alive when the Turner place burned. My mom and dad owned the house we now live in.” Eddie pointed to the western ridge of oak trees that divided their properties.

“They knew the people who lived here. The Turner place was actually a commune. It was a haven for Hippies. A bunch of freaks as my father called them. Anything went. Drugs. Free love. Mini-Woodstock weekends with bands playing rock and roll from mid-morning ’til three in the next morning. Young women going topless in the hot afternoons.

“And it was pretty well known they were into some kind of dark arts, too. To what degree, no one was quite sure. But, knowing all twelve souls died that night, it was probably something that ran pretty deep.”

“Well,” Debbie said. “Maybe the hippies had a ritual and started the fire, but were too stoned to leave.”

Eddie lifted an eyebrow. “All twelve? Seven in the house and five in the barn? The fact not one person escaped is highly improbable.”

Bob didn’t know what to think. The Bradys were quite the story tellers. Normally he would dismiss their tale as an older couple spinning a yarn to try to scare younger people. But a total of twenty-one deaths? That number carried weight. His head felt like it had been sledge hammered.

“Do you have anything that can combat evil,” Eddie asked.

Bob stumbled over his words. This topic was foreign to him.

Debbie stepped forward. “Well, we did have a family heirloom my grandmother gave us; a Celtic cross her grandfather made when arriving to America from Ireland. Every generation before me had placed it at the top of their house for good fortune. She gave it to us last summer.”

Eddie looked at the front of Murcat Manor. “Where’s the cross now?”

Bob shrugged. “Destroyed. It shattered in a hundred pieces when our contractor was placing it to the top of the house.”

“That’s when he fell,” Debbie said.

“That’s what your contractor was doing when he fell?” Alison gasped, taking a step back and covering her mouth. “He was placing your blessed family heirloom when he died?”

The Bradys’ eyes were the size of saucers. Bob thought it was terror.

“We’re going now,” Eddie said. “Find a priest.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Alison said in a most charming but rushed manner.

Eddie turned his head as he took his wife’s hand and led her down the driveway. “You both better be aware of your surroundings. Pay attention to what’s going on around. Do not take anything for granted.”

Bob shook his head as they walked back into the house. “That’s an amazing story.”

Debbie clutched his arm. “I’m officially creeped out now.”

Bob held up his hand and started counting off on his fingers. “Two deaths. All of our guests have left. I had to refund their money. I don’t know how this day could get any worse.”

Bob heard rubber from tires pulling onto the gravel driveway. He looked out the front window.
Oh hell no.
Now he knew how the day could get worse.

Ross and Erma were paying an unexpected visit. Bob squinted to see through the windshield. Erma did not look happy.