CHAPTER TWELVE

We arrived at the creamery in about twenty minutes. It reminded me of a very big ranch, the kind in the old western movies. Cows and horses were grazing on a huge tract of land. We drove up a very long driveway past trees and farmland, under and past a huge old wooden sign that read Elizabeth’s Market Farm and Creamery.

“Don’t get out until I give the order!” Pawler yelled as if I were deaf.

I always wanted to be a Marine, I thought.

“Let me look around. Stay down and stay put.”

“I’m as put as can be, sir!” I replied.

“You know, I should shoot you right here myself and save everyone the trouble. I would, too, if I knew there was a bounty on your head, you know.”

“Aw, you love me!” I smiled a real big smile.

“You little turd!” he snapped as he exited the car and walked all around the parking area to view the large property. Then I saw him wave for me to come out.

We were met at the entranceway by the owner of the farm who was waiting for us. She was very concerned to see a police officer, and mistook me for a detective. The sergeant reassured her that there was no police matter concerning the farm. He told her about my assignment and the need to bring the Hagerstown celebrity, Lolita, some fresh-made ice cream.

I explained to Sherri that Lolita was 110 and loved fresh-made pistachio ice cream, and that I wanted to make her happy. But I also wanted to know more about how the ice cream was made and why it was so much better than store-bought ice cream.

Sherri took us on a tour and let us taste a few flavors.

“We’ve never had a big-city reporter here,” she said. “Let me tell you the history of the farm. It was founded in 1893 by the Burnett family, and it stayed in that family until my husband’s father purchased it in 1978. He added in the fresh ice-creamery addition. It was an instant success. Of course, we raise and sell fresh fruits and vegetables, but we also produce fresh dairy products right at the farm. We use the fresh cream in our products.”

“What is involved in the process of ice-cream making?” I asked, as Sergeant Pawler gave me an impatient look.

“Well, our ice cream has a different fat content than most store brands and has twenty-five percent air in it as opposed to fifty percent in store-bought. Ours is also made in an Italian-style batch freezer, and we use a blast freezer set at minus thirty-five degrees so that the tiny ice crystals don’t have a chance to form chunks. To make the pistachio flavor, we mix in a pistachio paste, similar in consistency to peanut butter. Then we fold in the fresh pistachios after the ice cream comes out of the batch freezer. You can easily taste the difference from the store-bought kind.”

Pawler’s eyes were glazing over. He probably wanted his donut fix. Too bad for him. I was doing research.

We tasted the pistachio and quickly knew why Lolita loved homemade.

I found out that pistachio ice cream was created 1940s. They were cultivated over 7,000 years ago, and were loved by the queen of Sheba.

I purchased three two-gallon buckets of pistachio ice cream, and we were on our way. I could tell that Pawler was ready to kick my ass, so I cut it rather short.

Once outside, the sergeant inspected the general area again, while I looked out over the horses that were grazing in the fields. Pawler inspected the police cruiser very carefully, even lifting the hood and getting underneath the car and looking closely at all four tires.

He finally gave me the okay to climb into the back seat, and we took off at a rather fast speed. He was annoyed, but I didn’t really care. Pawler always seemed pissed off at something or somebody. What a way to live your life.

On the drive back, I pulled out Lolita’s diary and thought, God forbid I should lose it. I would never be able to face Lolita or her daughter ever again. I think I would just disappear and not even go back to my job. And what if someone injured or killed me and stole the diary? It was just too much to think about.

I flipped through the 365 perfectly handwritten pages that looked like they had been written yesterday, even though Lolita had written it all in pencil. The year 1923 was a long time ago, but certain world events mentioned in the diary stuck out. They had crazy weather back then, too, just like today. For instance, on July 10 of that year, Russia had a hailstorm with two-pound hailstones that killed twenty-three people and many cattle.

On August 2, Warren G. Harding, the twenty-ninth president of the United States, suddenly dropped dead. He was only fifty-seven. The next day, Calvin Coolidge was sworn in as the thirtieth president. Only fifty-seven, I thought, and here I am reading the diary of a 110-year-old woman. And on September 1 of 1923, a 7.9 earthquake hit Tokyo and Yokohama, killing 142,000 people. Imagine—142,000 dead! That’s three stadiums full at Yankee Stadium—a little hard to comprehend. Life is so precious. Some never live to age twenty-one, while others live, unscathed, to age 110. It all boggles the mind. Life, I feel, is like walking through a minefield; one never knows which step could end their life. And then you have the crazies, like madman Blaine, going around and blasting at people. No wonder I drink. Which reminded me, I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in two days, and I was still functioning. Not bad!

Suddenly, I came across a quote that was underlined in the diary: “An old Cherokee Indian told his grandson, ‘My son, there is a battle between two wolves inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies, and ego. The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, and truth.’ The boy thought about it and asked, ‘Grandfather, which wolf wins?’ The old man quietly replied, ‘The one you feed.’”

It was a powerful statement that hit me hard. Two wolves inside us in constant battle: Good and Evil.

Following the quote, Lolita had noted that her Uncle Walter Klug, the doctor, had told her the quote and that she was very impressed by it.

I was astounded at how many times Lolita was sick in that one year. In one instance, she was laid up for ten days, and her uncle made house calls almost every day, as town doctors did in those days. Of course, the minor sicknesses of today were major sicknesses in 1923, and in some cases were even deadly. Then there were the flu viruses that killed many people of that time, including many children.

Besides going to the movies and to dances, the drugstore was another hangout Lolita frequented, as well as a shop that sold fresh-made chocolates. I read that canoeing and swimming locally were a big outing for her friends and family, but the cars of the day frequently broke down. Someone in most homes played the piano, and nearly every house had one. The family members and friends would all gather around and listen to the songs being played. It all sounded so attractive to me, and I envisioned myself in 1923 through Lolita’s writings. It was a simpler time in life and a calmer time in our history, a time when family meant everything and people had time for one another.

Lolita noted a number of additional profound quotes in the diary, some of which had been shared by her Uncle Walter, who was apparently a very strong influence on her. He was very spiritual, as was Lolita, even very early in her life, as demonstrated throughout the diary. I decided to bring up Lolita’s uncle to her when I spoke with her again later that day.

One of the quotes really stood out to me: “When God leads you to the edge of a cliff, trust Him fully and let go. Only one of two things will happen—either He will catch you when you fall, or He will teach you how to fly!”

Then there were others: “Be noble! And the nobleness that lies in other men, sleeping, but never dead, will rise in majesty to meet thine own.”

“Every word of God is pure; He is a shield unto those that put their trust in Him.”

“Boast not thyself of tomorrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.”

This last quote came from Lolita’s Bible, as shared with her by her uncle. Lolita stated in the diary, “Uncle Walter and I once again read the family Bible while on the swing seat in the yard under the shady tree.”

It was clear that Uncle Walter was also a very wise man who passed a lot of knowledge on to Lolita, knowledge that stayed with her throughout her long life. Even at her young age in 1923, Lolita understood that life was unpredictable and that there were no guarantees of a tomorrow. That last quote etched itself in my mind. Before the Hagerstown trip, I had taken each day for granted, fully expecting a tomorrow as if it were due me in some secret contact I had with God. Not until I almost lost my life did I realize that today is a blessing that each of us is given by the big guy upstairs. We must capitalize on today, because tomorrow is not guaranteed. Lolita’s diary made great reading.

I was shocked back to reality as Sergeant Pawler made a sharp turn going a little too fast. At first, I thought he was falling asleep at the wheel, but I quickly realized that he wanted to spook me away from my deep, thoughtful reading. He succeeded.

“Hey, Sarge, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee when we get back, at Millie’s Diner.”

“You’re gonna buy lunch, you tightwad!”

“Sergeant, I’ll buy anytime you want me to!” I laughed.

He went back to driving normal again but kept studying me in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t put my finger on his personality. Either he was tough as nails and just all-around rude, or he had a slight mental problem, or maybe a learning disability. Or perhaps he had some of that PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, that servicemen suffer from after the war. Some veterans come back all messed up, and their personalities are changed for life. Either way, he was weird in a scary way.

Anyway, I kept skimming through the diary for tidbits of information, anything that would help me understand Lolita, her personality in her younger days, the times and customs of the day, and anything relating to the 1923 murders.

It was heart wrenching to read her reflection of the girls’ murders one by one throughout the diary. First there was Lori Gellate, then Ingram Stuart, and then Amanda Harrison. Lolita didn’t get into all the gruesome details, just the tremendous heartache and pain that everyone in the town was enduring.

What caught my eye in particular, toward the end of the diary, were her notes about the many dreams she’d had depicting the dead girls. Lolita had been friends with all of them. “But why so many realistic types of dreams?” she wondered. A couple of her dreams showed a large butcher’s knife and women’s clothing. Then, amazingly, she recounted that a couple of dreams showed chipped red bricks, a religious cross, and the face of a lion.

How much of a coincidence was that? The damaged red brick, the cross, the lion’s head, the large butcher’s knife—I had seen them all in my dream, but I hadn’t read about these details in the diary until today.

But when I had talked to Lolita, she had stated emphatically that she did not want to go back in her mind to speak about the 1923 murders.

In the diary, Lolita commented on her very troubling and graphic dreams of the dead girls. She had tried to confide in the doctor, her Uncle Walter, about the meaning of the dreams. The uncle had a very special talent for seeing some future and past events himself. He told her to keep track of all her dreams, log them somewhere, and not try to over-analyze them. He said that one day, maybe years later, it might all make perfect sense.

As Sergeant Pawler pulled into the parking lot of Millie’s Diner, I wondered whether Dr. Walter Klug had a way of sending dreams to Lolita and me. Or perhaps the three dead girls were trying to send messages from beyond the grave to solve their murders.

My days in Hagerstown were now really numbered, and I was worried that I would leave with no new leads on the Hagerstown murders. Granted, I was not sent to solve the murders that had been unsolved since 1923, but something deep inside me, a force I hadn’t felt before, was pushing me to keep investigating. Maybe it was the faces of the dead girls I had seen in the newspapers, or maybe it was that when I dreamed about the girls, their faces had become etched in my brain.

Maybe it was because I had gotten so pissed at how so many people seemed to get away with murder. I knew that the killer was dead. But someone was troubled by all the attention the case was getting.

Very soon, I would have to return to the Washington newspaper where I prayed I would still have a job. Until then, I was consumed with the murders, and worried that my compulsion to solve them might affect my health.