Salem's Daughters (21 page)

Bob felt vindicated. As Wilson helped Debbie out of her chair, a second rapped knuckle sound filled the room. The police officer outside opened the door and stuck his head in. “Detective Darrowby, line one is for you.”

Darrowby picked up the phone in a huff. “This better be Earth shattering news,” he snarled. After a minute, a calm came across his face. He laid the phone back down and stared at Wilson.

“Well, what is it, detective?” Wilson said.

Darrowby looked like he had lost his center. “I think that’s, yeah, that’s a good idea. Let’s go back to Murcat Manor.”

“What do you mean,
let’s
? You’re coming too?”

Darrowby stood and put on his jacket. “Yes. I am. Have to. There’s been another death at Murcat Manor while we were here.”

Bob and Debbie stared at each other, aghast.

“I don’t understand,” Bob said. “We’ve only been gone just over an hour. Another guest has died?”

“Not this time. The fifth person to die is your hired help, Maria Gonzalez.”

Debbie covered her mouth, but still managed to say, “Maria? How?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Darrowby looked at Wilson and pointed toward the door. “After you, counselor.”

Chapter 35              Maria Gonzalez

Bob took his eyes off the red tail lights in front of him and squeezed the sleep out of his eyes. Fifty yards ahead, Darrowby drove steady at fifty miles per hour. The allotted speed limit on this country road. By the book.

The rolling hills, the rhythmic hum of his engine, and the interrogation from Darrowby and his goon Kowalski had drained most of his vigor. Now, Bob had to deal with one more unexpected death at Murcat Manor. Maria Rodriguez.

He looked over at his twenty-six year old beautiful blonde haired wife. She was as stunning as the first day he met her their junior year in high school, even with no makeup and three hours of sleep. Debbie stared out the front window, looking at the morning sun breaking over the rows of elm trees that formed property lines between their neighbors’ properties.

Her silence spoke more than words. Debbie was reeling from the five deaths at Murcat Manor, as was he. Life was moving fast at the bed and breakfast, and the stress of paying the twenty-five thousand dollar monthly bills weighed heavily on them.

Maria’s death hit them with an immense sense of loss. Like their recently deceased contractor, they’d gotten to know Maria intimately, although she had only been employed for a month. Along with the hired hand Raymond Hettinger, the foursome saw each other every day except for their days off work—which were few. They worked together, laughed, and found a common bond that united them.

Bob looked at the digital clock on the radio. 6:12 a.m. It was the dawn of a new day, and he was practically slumping onto the steering wheel, his head slowly nodding forward as he caught himself from falling asleep.

Only adrenaline kept him awake, fueled by a mixture of emotions. Some were natural. Others had a toxic origin that invaded his mind, driving him to think of drastic measures to protect Debbie and their future.

Bob gripped the steering wheel so he could brace himself and sit up straight. In his rear view mirror he confirmed Kenneth Wilson, the one person who could protect them, was still behind him. A patrol car with two Battle Creek police officers brought up the rear.

“Bob, honey. We need to keep our cool. Events are spiraling out of control. We can’t allow Darrowby to get the better of us.”

Bob looked at his wife. Her shoulder length blonde hair was a disaster. Mascara was everywhere but around her eyes. But he would never tell her that. She was still gorgeous, and he was madly in love with her more than ever.

“Maybe we need Kenneth Wilson to stay at Murcat Manor full time.”

Debbie let loose a small sideways smirk. “I know you said that facetiously. But it's not a bad idea.”

Bob squeezed his eyes again and shook his head as the car swayed toward the center yellow double lines dividing Oak Hill Road. “I’m trying to keep my cool. But I’m really struggling here.”

“What are you feeling? Other than being tired.”

“Anger. I want to punch Darrowby in the face as hard as I can.”

“So do I. Actually, I want to scratch his eyes out. But we can't do that. We have to rise above. What else?”

Bob blurted out before he could stop the words. “Well, I’m scared and not afraid to admit it. There are three more dead bodies in Murcat Manor tonight and we’re being escorted back by a pair of overzealous detectives who want to arrest us for murder. Not good, Debbie. Not good at all. Do you understand?”

He felt Debbie squeeze, then rub his knee. “Anything else?”

Bob leaned over and gave her a quick kiss, careful not to take his eyes off the road. “Sadness. Up until now, we didn’t know any of these people. Well, except for DeShawn Hill. That was difficult. And honestly, I don’t think either one of us are over it. I mean, we saw that man every day but Sunday for eight months. Now add to this madness Maria Rodriguez. She was one of the most innocent people I ever met.”

Debbie hung her head and sighed, then looked out the passenger window. “I was thinking the same thing. Maria, she had such a bright future. Her life was taken far too early. Who knows what she would have given to the world? All she wanted to do was become a doctor and help people less fortunate then herself."

The twenty minute ride home allowed Bob to access the more important framework of their relationship. He thought of their personal well-being. But that wasn’t all that was on his mind.

“Debbie. Honey. We need time to heal. Just like you said. We simply can't keep up with things. Kenneth Wilson, he can help. But—”

“But?” Debbie returned her gaze to Bob. He knew that stare. She was looking to him for direction and leadership.

“I’ll just say it. I feel like our lives have been invaded by your grandparents, no offense, by Darrowby and his thug partner Kowalski, and now our neighbors Eddie and Alison Brady. I thought we escaped to the country to avoid all of this.”

Debbie formed a smile. “Listen to me. I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but grandma and grandpa will help us. They always have an answer. Trust me. I’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

Up ahead, the yellow and white spindles of Murcat Manor came into view. As Bob lowered his speed, he could see crowds of people lining the side of Oak Hill Road.

“I can’t tell you how mad I am. Murcat Manor is more than just our place of business where we clock in and out. This is our house. This is our home. This is where we’ll raise our four children. I’m not allowing Darrowby to ruin everything.”

“Boy, girl, boy, girl,” Debbie said softly through teary eyes. “Four kids within eight years. Then you get the ol’ snip snip.”

Bob felt a buzzing in his pocket. “I’m getting a text from Raymond.”

3 fams leaving

Murcat Manor smells bad

I opened windows

Hurry back

“Smells bad? That can’t be good. And I don’t want to sound like Scrooge, but that means I’ll have to refund people their money.”

Debbie hunched her shoulders, then let them fall. “That’s the least of our worries. The news crews are back.”

Bob took a deep breath. “Darrowby. That son-of-a-bitch. He did this. He called the news stations. There’s no other way so many would be gathered this early in front of our house. He loves the media attention. And he’s trying to bring pressure on us. Make us squirm. We haven’t killed anyone. No way am I letting him ruin our lives.”

Bob slammed his palm against the steering wheel, hit the horn by mistake, and jumped in his seat. It was embarrassing, but also brought a bit more consciousness to his groggy state of mind.

Bob followed Darrowby into the driveway. His neighbors stared into the windows as if they were peeking in on some bizarre freak show. Then the news teams descended on his car.

“We’ll have to make this quick. Get out and make a beeline for the house. Wait for me. I’ll get out first.”

Bob exited his door, put a hand on the hood, and vaulted over it to the passenger side. He opened Debbie’s door and pulled her in tight with his left arm, then forged a passage to the front door with his extended right arm.

Three reporters tried to block their path. Crews with shoulder mounted cameras and booms followed close. A middle aged male reporter who Bob recognized from Channel Six muscled his way through the crowd and stuck a microphone in his face.

“Mr. Stevens, what can you tell us about the three people who were killed under mysterious circumstances inside Murcat Manor just a few hours ago?”

Before Bob could react, Kenneth Wilson plowed his way to his side and wrapped his arms around him and Debbie. He helped speed their way to the front door.

“Don’t say a word,” he said as he craned his neck back and forth into their ears. “Let’s get inside. We’ll sort things out there, away from the cameras.”

Two Battle Creek police officers had the front door open. Bob, Debbie, Wilson, Darrowby and Kowalski piled in. The two police officers who brought up the rear kept the news crews at bay.

Bob walked past the guests in the living room. Darrowby was already inside taking control.

“What do we have?” Darrowby barked to the police officers.

“Right this way.” They led him toward the back of the house. Darrowby looked over his shoulder and motioned Bob and Debbie to follow.

Bob saw the same coroner working over Sophia Johnson at the bottom of the stairs; the sheet was now off her body. Her head twisted at an ungodly angle, staring at the ceiling, her eyes froze open in what could only be described as pure terror.

Bob glanced a second look. Those wide opened eyes, they looked like crazy eyes, as if she had lost all sense of sanity. No other way to explain them.

Inside the kitchen, Raymond was waiting. He was visibly shaking.

“What happened?” Darrowby demanded.

“I-it was t-terrible. I was. Right here, getting,” he shook all over. “W-water for the guests when I smelled it.”

“Smelled what?”

Raymond looked at Darrowby, his nose crinkled up and his face distorted like a squeezed lemon. “Burning hair and flesh. I ran to the back laundry room and saw Maria.”

Darrowby cocked an eyebrow. “And?”

Kowalski tapped Raymond on the shoulder. “Get a grip, man, this is important. We need facts. Details. Pull it together, okay?”

Raymond closed his eyes, breathed in long, and let out a slow, low-whistling exhalation. He repeated the process, then opened his eyes, his expression now calm, with a fatalistic undertone. He pointed to the deep laundry sink, just a few feet from the dead body of Maria Gonzalez.

“She was standing there, her hands in the water, and she was quivering from head to toe. Her hair was standing on end, and I could swear she was trying to scream, but couldn’t. Suddenly there was a deafening snapping sound, and a flash of light—more like a lightning bolt—and she flew backward, landing on her back, there. Her hair was on fire, her eyes rolled all the way back in her head, and her hands looked like they’d been in the deep fryer.”

Raymond’s countenance withered, as though he’d accomplished a duteous and prodigious mission, and was now sapped dry.

Kowalski stepped over to the laundry sink and looked down. “Radio,” he said.

Darrowby looked his way. “Come again?”

Kowalski whipped around with his hands held up in a ‘stay back’ motion. “Everybody stay clear of this sink. There’s a radio in the water and it’s plugged into the wall. This water, not being pure water, conducted the electricity to and through this poor lady here. The juice grounded through her to the concrete floor and locked her in its death flow until she died from cardio arrest.”

Kowalski reached over the sink and unplugged the radio from the wall, then stepped back and shook his head, looking back and forth between Bob and Darrowby. .

“Poor girl. Looks like she suffered terribly. I don’t know what it is about this place. But even after seeing and smelling this, I’m still not convinced this property is cursed.”

Chapter 36              The Media

Bob looked at the farm-themed clock on the kitchen wall. Eleven 11:53 a.m. He watched Raymond close the front door as Kenneth Wilson, Darrowby, and Kowalski were the last to leave. Darrowby gave Bob one more dubious look over his shoulder. Bob clenched his teeth and balled his fists. If only he could have one open shot to smash him right in his smug jib.

The door closed. Murcat Manor was once again empty. Darrowby had made it a point to drive every last guest out, demanding a full refund, by creating a dramatic crime scene.

Bob looked up at Raymond as he entered the kitchen. “You sure you don't want the rest the day off?”

Raymond rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Stevens. But I’m fine. I'll finish up a few things, then take a nap.”

Bob was relieved. He looked at Raymond as a sentry guarding the place while he and Debbie caught up on much needed sleep.

“Thanks again. I'll triple your pay today. If the news crews knock on the door, don't open it. That especially goes for Ross and Erma.”

Bob let his shoulders slump and he trudged to his bedroom with a bottle of Merlot in each hand. Debbie followed with two wine glasses. Lying on the bed were thirteen sleeping cats spread out across the comforter and pillows.

Bob threw his arms in the air. “Oh—of course.”

Debbie lovingly transferred the felines to cat beds on the floor where they continued their mid-day slumber. She then took the bottles of wine from Bob, popped the cork on one, and poured two glasses.

“Look at them,” Debbie said with a bitter-sweet tone. “So innocent. They have no idea what’s going on. Or maybe they do, but can’t communicate to us how five people died in our home.” She patted Emily on the head. “Sleep tight in your own beds, little ones. Sweet dreams.”

Little fur coated turds, Bob thought. He kicked off his shoes and pulled the blankets back, grabbed the television remote and lay down, then took the wineglass Debbie handed him.

“I was sure Darrowby would take his time and torment us well into the afternoon with his endless questioning,” Debbie said.

“Wilson's a great attorney. He kept the detectives in line and expedited the process.”

“And Hodgkins really came through for us. Without him recommending Wilson, we'd be sitting in separate jail cells calling Grandma and Grandpa for help.”

“Those two goons in suits. How can they continue to blame us for these, these obviously accidental—albeit bizarre—deaths? I mean, we weren’t even in the house when that frickin’ radio must have somehow fallen into that tub sink, right?”

“I didn’t know that about water and electricity,” Debbie said, pouring herself a generous glass of wine.

“Huh?”

“About electricity not able to conduct through pure water.”

“Oh, that.” Bob sipped his glass of Merlot. “Yeah, I read that somewhere, gosh—think it was back in college.” Another drink, then a gulp. “Most people don’t know, but it’s the impurities in water that allow electricity to pass through. Like salt, for instance.”

Debbie snapped her fingers. “We have a water softener that uses salt.”

“Bingo was his name-oh.” Bob pointed a finger at her and gave an ironic chuckle. He took the last gulp of wine from his glass and said, like a lecturing university professor.

“When salts are dissolved in water, they separate into positive sodium ions and negative chlorine ions. These opposite charges, like the opposite poles of a battery, create the potential for the conductive effect. Water’s conductive properties make it very dangerous as it allows an electric current to travel through it rapidly and shock any unsuspecting person in contact with the water.”

Bob turned on the TV. There were still two news crews in the front of Murcat Manor. Darrowby was live talking with one reporter. The seasoned Battle Creek detective's face filled the seventy-two inch wall mounted TV screen.

How Bob despised this man. He couldn't remember wishing death on anyone, but he wondered; if he could push Darrowby over a cliff and get away with it, would he? Bob had to be careful not to crush the wine glass in his hand.

“Yes, the three deaths here early this morning were of suspicious nature,” Darrowby said into the camera using his usual unblinking stare. “As were the previous two.”

“The son-of-a-bitch. I can't believe that guy,” Bob said, handing his glass to Debbie for a refill. “I should go out there and punch him in the face for the entire world to see.”

Debbie downed her wine and gave herself a refill as well. “I'm mad as hell at Darrowby, too. Look at him hamming it up for the cameras. And right in our driveway live to the world. He really thinks he's all that. Like he’s some big shot local celebrity.”

“He's gunning for national celeb status the way he's throwing gasoline on the fire.”

A tall brunette jostled for position among the reporters. “Records show Robert and Debbie Stevens, along with her grandparents, Ross and Erma Dempsey, are owners of Murcat Manor. Are they suspects? Are you investigating these deaths as possible crimes? Or even Murders?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny at this time. But stay tuned. If there has been any foul play, the good people of this area can rest assured I will arrest any and all appropriate person or persons involved.”

Bob gulped down his second glass of wine. “He certainly isn't doing us any favors, leaving it wide open for viewers’ speculation that we’re involved.”

“We've also found,” the brunette reporter said. “That the two previous homes built on this property burned to the ground, killing everyone that lived here. Once in nineteen sixty-seven, and before that in nineteen-seventeen. Rumors around here are that this property is cursed or haunted.”

“That's correct,” Darrowby said. “The five deaths here at Murcat Manor bring the grand total to twenty-four unsolved deaths on this property.”

“Are you friggin’ kiddin’ me?” Bob downed his third glass of wine. ‘He's sensationalizing the story through the media.”

“Ugh. Turn the channel.”

Bob turned to all the local channels from his satellite dish from Cleveland to Detroit to Grand Rapids to Chicago. They were all carrying the same story from their sister stations in Battle Creek and Kalamazoo.

But it was scenes of paramedics pushing three gurneys each with a black body bag that caused Bob to know this story would explode nationwide.

“So Murcat Manor is now a regional story spreading to surrounding states, which by the way, is our market. Next up, CNN will make this a national story.”

Bob turned to one of the news channels in Lansing. They watched as they were filmed arriving back to Murcat Manor early in the morning. Darrowby exited his car and led the way, posturing like a demigod to the media.

The camera panned to Bob and Debbie as they got out. Bob was beyond pissed off. One thing was a sure bet, he’d lay the money for next month’s mortgage payment on it; Ross and Erma were watching the same stories.

“Oh my God. We look terrible.” Debbie seized her face in both hands. “My mascara. It’s running down my cheeks from crying. And look at my hair. It's messy and matted. But that's because we had like, what—three hours’ sleep before the Johnsons died? And the interrogation room at the police station was a sauna.”

Bob had his hand out, waving off the cameras as Wilson plowed a path for them into the front door.

“Un. Frickin’. Believable.” Bob shook his head, smacked his forehead. “No way. This can’t be happening to us. Our dream is turning into a nightmare. And we’ve been open barely two months.”

Debbie poured Bob another glass, pried the remote from his hand, and turned off the TV. “Time to wind down, lover. Drink up.”

“I’m turning off my cell phone. And yours,” Bob said. “I know Ross and Erma will be calling. And I sure as hell don’t want that rooster alarm app waking me up tomorrow.”

***

Thomas Darrowby lay in his bed with wife. He sipped his scotch with pleasure as he navigated the late night news stations.

“Thomas, that wasn't fair. Calling the media out to the Stevens’ place like that. You don't know they killed any of those people.”

Darrowby didn’t take his eyes off the TV. “Oh, they did. Trust me on this one, Laura. Those two, they’re guilty as sin.”

Laura Darrowby studied Bob and Debbie as the camera zoomed in on them. “But just look at them. So young. So innocent looking. You know what I think? These deaths have to be a series of unfortunate accidents.”

Darrowby laughed in a loud boisterous way. He looked over to his wife. “You’re the innocent one. So trusting. That’s why I married you, sweetheart. To balance out the overbearing alpha male in me. In my line of work, we call that a trail of evidence. Oh, don't let their Happy Days or Brady Bunch appearance fool you. Those two,” Darrowby pointed to the TV with his glass in his hand, the ice cubes clinking. “They’re not who they seem to be. They're pure evil. I can sense it when I'm in the house.”

“Are you sure it's coming from them?”

“Where else could it come from? Murcat Manor’s not built on an old Indian burial ground.” Darrowby laughed at the preposterous thought. “The only other things in the house are thirteen lazy cats."

“Well, thirteen is an unlucky number.”

Darrowby laughed so hard he spilled part of his scotch on the bed. “Sorry, honey. Yeah. Sure. The cats. They killed them.”

Darrowby slowed his laugh.

“What's the matter?”

“Now that we’re talking about the cats, Bob Stevens did mention three were on the roof where DeShawn Hill was working when he fell backwards."

“Well, maybe the cats spooked DeShawn. That’s plausible. Did you think of that?”

Darrowby downed his drink and poured another. “Aack—nah, no way. Impossible. Anyway, this story’s plastered all over TV. It’s gone viral on the internet. This is golden for me. That's what I'm after.”

“And just what do you hope to gain from all of this?”

“This will place more pressure on Bob and Debbie. It’s just the thing to help counteract their hiring of that slickster of an attorney, Kenneth Wilson. He’s beaten me in court on a number of occasions. This time around, I hope reporters can dig something up that will help me convict the Stevens of at least one murder.”

Darrowby felt Laura’s fingers now combing through his wavy black hair. “Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. It’s just that the Stevens, well, they don’t look anything like killers.”

“Hmph. Oh they are, dear. I have four of my best men interviewing all the former guests in person and over the phone. There have been hundreds who stayed there since the place opened Memorial Day Weekend. It's a lot of work, but mark my words. As surely as the sun will rise tomorrow, there has to be at least a few people who can shed light on the Stevens and the five deaths that happened under their watch.”

Darrowby relaxed and took another long drink. “I swear, I'll see them both behind bars for the rest of their lives.”