Secrets Can Be Deadly (9 page)

22
Friday, February 8, 1980 (Mason)

T
he phone rang at five. Mason had been having a wonderful dream—fishing off the pier, sun bright, warm. He woke up to a cold winter day in Iowa.

“
Pierce.” Mason’s voice was groggy.

“Sorry I didn’t stick around to say hello yesterday. You’ll see me another time.”
Click.

What was the caller talking about? He had to think what had happened the
prior day. The house. The empty house. The caller had been in the house, but got out before Mason arrived. This definitely wasn’t a
prank his friends were playing. He had to decide whether it was smart to make it a case and bring it to the Chief. All he had were a couple of notes and a few
phone calls.
If anyone brought this kind of information to him, Mason would dismiss the case based on lack of evidence.

“That was a great meal,” Mason said as he patted his stomach. “My sufficiencies are suffancifulled.”

“I laugh every time you say that expression. Where did it come from again?” Sophia asked.

“Jeff’s dad said it after every meal. Means the food
was fabulous, you’re stuffed, and can’t eat another bite.”

Sophia
ate the last bite of stroganoff. “Well, I guess
my sufficiencies are suffancifulled, too.” Sophia laughed.

Mason picked up both plates, silverware.
“My turn to do dishes. You relax.”

After Mason
had done the dishes, he sat next to Sophia on the couch and took her hands in his.

“I got another phone call this morning. This guy wants something from me
, but I don’t know what.”

“You’re scaring me
,” Sophia said.

“The guy doesn’t seem violent. He’s never angry. Always in control. He’s toying with me.”

“You’re a great cop. You’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll need you to pay extra attention to strangers. This guy broke into an empty house.”

Mason held Sophia tight. He thought back to the morning’s phone call.
You’ll see me another time.
This guy had better like handcuffs and jail.

2
3
Friday, January 13, 1978 (Sam)

C
onnie rushed in my bedroom. “Come quick, Sam. It’s Harold.”

“What’s wrong?”

“We need to get to the kitchen. Hurry!”

Connie didn’t wait. I untangled myself from the covers and rushed
downstairs. Harold and Connie were standing by the kitchen table.

“Happy Birthday
, Sam!” Harold and Connie sang in unison.

My heart stopped. On the table
, a two-tiered birthday cake and two presents. Tied to the chair were three helium-filled balloons, a white, a yellow, and a silver with
Happy Birthday
on it. I felt a tear trickle down my cheek and quickly wiped it away.

“I’m hoping we surprised you,” Harold said.

“Oh my, yes. The best surprise. I never expected anything like this,” I said.

“
We’re glad. It was hard to keep everything out of sight last night,” Connie said. “Sit, Sam. Open your presents.”

I
sat, savoring each moment. I took the smaller package and held it. The wrapping paper was red with white polka dots. Taped to the top, a white bow.

I carefully took off the paper
, opened the box. Inside was a key chain with the word
sam
carved in wood dangling from a silver key ring. I ran my finger over my name.

“I found
it in a shop in Dysart last week. I hope you like it,” Connie said.

“I love it.” I took the key chain out of the box and held it up to the light. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had anything with my name on it.”

“Open the other present,” Harold said.

This box was larger than the first
, heavy. This time I tore off the wrapping paper. I lifted the box top. Inside, a dark blue photo album with
sam
etched in gold.

“I had a few reprints made
of pictures of your mother and grandmother. They’re in the front. The rest of the pictures are since you’ve been living here. There’s extra room in the back for you to keep adding memories,” Connie said.

Holding back tears,
I looked at Harold and Connie. “It’s the most beautiful gift
ever
. Thank you.”

“Now you have a place to put all the pictures you’ve been taking since Christmas,” Harold said.

I had been putting most of the pictures in my journal. Harold and Connie didn’t know about my journals. Never would. The journals were my secret. The leftover pictures I could put in the album instead of using an old shoebox.

“
I tried a new recipe. I know how much you like chocolate and cinnamon. The batter is a white cake, mixed with bananas and cinnamon. The frosting is chocolate with a hint of cinnamon. We’ll have the cake after dinner,” Connie said. “I’m going to make your favorite. Pork chops with spinach and dumplings.”

“Thank you
, Harold. Thank you, Connie.”

“Not to spoil the fun, Sam. But you better hurry and get ready
.” Harold pointed to the clock. “You don’t want to be late for work.”

It was seven o’clock. I needed to eat breakfast, shower, and get dressed in
half an hour.

“Oh
, my gosh. I think I’ll have cereal. Is it okay if I take the bowl to my room and finish while I get dressed?” I had never done this before. I always ate breakfast at the kitchen table.

“I think we ca
n make an exception today,” Connie said.

24
Tuesday, February 12, 1980
(Mason)

A
n envelope was sticking out of the mailbox when Mason got home after his shift. It was the package from Jean Reynolds.

Inside, a
note.
I hope this is the information you were looking for. Please contact me if you need anything else.

The first
document was a birth certificate. His mother’s name: Evelyn Mildred York. Mother: Mildred Tally York. Father: Ernest Dwight York. York. That name was in the Ponders’ obituary.

Mason
knew his mother was born on June 20, 1938, but didn’t know until now that she was born at 11:38
pm
.

N
ext, a marriage license. Mason’s parents were married October 20, 1956. A judge had signed the license. This was the first time he realized his mother had been pregnant when his parents married. Mason thought back to the talks his dad had given him growing up—be careful, always use protection, make wise decisions. Those talks had a new meaning now.

Also included were
copies of birth certificates for Mason, his sister, and his dad.

L
ast was a four-generation family tree. A note attached.
This information was in a file in the genealogy room. I can’t guarantee its accuracy but thought it might be helpful. Jean

At the bottom of the page was
handwriting. Mason had to squint to read it.
I hope this helps you, Officer Pierce.
It wasn’t Jean’s handwriting.

25
Friday, May 25, 1979 (Sam)

“Y
ou have the phone number for Carlton and Cathy Anderson,” Connie said. “We’ll be staying with them through next Saturday. We’ll be home on Sunday. You can always call the Hendricks if you need anything while we’re gone.”

Connie was
reviewing her list with me while Harold packed the car. “There are leftovers in the fridge and TV dinners in the freezer. Remember to eat healthy while we’re gone. There are apples and bananas on the counter.”

“Connie, Sam is twenty and
quite capable of living alone. We’ve got to get going. I don’t want to be driving in the dark.”

Connie turned toward Harold, “Yes, dear.”

Connie walked up to me, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and put a ten-dollar bill in my hand. “In case you want to eat out one night,” she whispered in my ear.

This was the first time Harold and Connie left me alone since I
’d moved in. They were off to Florida for a week to visit friends. I knew one day I’d have to find an apartment, be on my own. But today I was enjoying being part of a family.

The house was quiet. I was exhausted. It seemed everyone in town was stocking up on groceries for the holiday weekend. Luckily, I had the next three days off. I could eat whatever I wanted, watch whatever TV I wanted, listen to any radio station.

I thought back to the time when Grandfather was in the hospital and I was alone. Those few days and the secrets I uncovered
had changed the course of my life. Did Harold and Connie have any secrets? They both seemed so loving and caring. I couldn’t imagine them lying to me. I’d have to search the house to remove any suspicions.

I started in the kitchen,
opening the top cabinet doors, looking on each shelf for anything that seemed out of place. Next, I opened the drawers, then the bottom cabinets. One cabinet held four bottles of wine. I’d never seen Harold or Connie drink. I bet they didn’t even know those bottles were behind the punch bowl.

It was almost seven o’clock and I was hungry.
I heated last night’s casserole, cut a green apple in slices, poured a glass of milk. I turned on the TV just in time to catch
The Incredible Hulk
.

It felt wrong walking into Harold and Connie’s bedroom without one of them there. I’d been in this room hundreds of times, but now it suddenly felt cold, unwelcome. I needed to know for sure they weren’t keeping any secrets.

The two dressers contained nothing out of the ordinary.
In the closet, I found a small, round hatbox hidden underneath a stack of sweaters. Inside, a blonde wig. Since living here, I’d never seen Connie wear it. It reminded me of a wig Dolly Parton would wear. I envisioned Harold wearing the wig for a Halloween costume and chuckled. I put the wig on the bed and returned the hatbox to the exact spot underneath the sweaters.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the nightstand drawer.
A book on Florida. I grinned. Connie had been so busy reminding me of things she’d forgotten to take this book with her. I picked it up and flipped through the pages. A pamphlet dropped to the floor—
Senior Living at Coastal Acres
. Stapled to the back cover was a business card with a handwritten note.
Look forward to showing you your new home on the 29
th
. I dropped the book and pamphlet and stared out the window into the darkness. A secret. Harold and Connie were liars.

My search
moved to the living room, guest bedroom, and two bathrooms. Nothing. A tiny attic only contained ductwork.

It was past eleven
, my bedtime, but I wanted to finish searching the house. The last place—the basement. I opened the door, flipped the light switch, walked down the steps. I’d been in the basement a few times with Connie. It was dark and I had a fear of spiders. I pulled the cord on an overhead shop light, filling the room with light. Rows of shelves held canned fruits and vegetables—peaches, tomatoes, green beans, pears, cauliflower. Boxes of Christmas decorations were stacked in a corner. I recognized all the boxes, except one. A shoebox tied with twine that once held women’s stiletto thigh-high black leather boots. I looked for any signs of spiders, then picked up the box and took it upstairs.

I
set the box on the kitchen table and studied how the twine was wrapped around the box, the type of knot used. I untied the knot and lifted the box lid. Inside were photos and cards. One photo of Connie and a woman was dated January of this year. Some of the dates on the photos went back twenty years. The cards were signed Mae and Kenneth. I’d never heard those names. Was Connie hiding more secrets?

One photo from
five years ago bore a sticker on the back—a rural route address in Dysart. Connie visited Dysart quite often and guessed that she had visited these people. I looked at the cards closely.
Happy birthday to a wonderful aunt.
Once again, I discovered relatives I didn’t know existed.

I retied the twine and
put the box back. I was tired and angry. Why did my family keep so many secrets from me? It occurred to me that I’d lied a lot myself. What a great family trait to be passed down to all the generations, I thought. I stood under the light, surveying the basement one last time. A framed picture hidden behind the boxes caught my eye. It wasn’t a picture, but a large framed canvas with writing on the front. I tugged at the frame with my right hand. It was stuck on something. I got a better grip with both hands, jiggling the frame back and forth until it came loose. I walked over to the light. It was a family tree. This canvas gave me the answers to several of my questions. I took it upstairs, wrote the information in my journal, adding a passage.

My family is full of people who keep secrets. People who are liars.
Another day that started with happiness and ended with hatred. I hated my grandfather. Now I hate Harold and Connie. More people will die.