| |
Marley and her dad stare at me.
I squirm in my seat.
I feel my cheeks heating up. “It’s true,” I say meekly. “At least, that’s what Victoria told me today, at the memorial service. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but...”
I look at my friend—my best friend, since kindergarten. Her eyes are wide.
“Really?” she says. “He fell out of an outhouse? How?”
I’m about to tell her that alcohol was involved. Instead, I hear Owen’s voice provide Marley with an answer. “He was drinking,” Owen says softly.
I swivel my head towards him and raise my brows. “Wait a minute. You knew?”
Owen nods. “Of course,” he says. Then to Marley he says, “I’m sorry Sweetie. Your grandfather was a very proud man. He didn’t want anyone to know.”
Marley sets down her wine glass. “You’re saying that the story of the mining accident that killed Grandpa Felix is totally made up? I’ve heard about that accident a thousand times! I’ve seen pictures of it! He—he saved Rich’s life when the tunnel caved in.” Marley’s voice tremors with upset.
Owen reaches out for Marley’s hand, which is resting on the table top. Marley pulls it back, and hides it in her lap. “What else have you been lying about, Dad?” she asks, narrowing her dark eyes at her father.
Of course, it’s at that moment that our waitress decides to swing by to ask if any of us needs a drink refill.
All three of us shake our heads. It seems maybe we’re not so much in a celebratory mood any more.
The waitress senses the tension at the table. “Okay then...” she says. “Is the food all right?”
“It’s fine,” Owen says curtly.
I flash a smile in the waitress’s direction. She nods and then moves on.
Marley’s nostrils are flaring out as she looks at her father. I know my friend. If we’re in flaring-nostrils-territory, things are not going well.
Marley turns to me. “When did you learn about this?” she asks.
“Just today,” I say. “At the church. Victoria told me. I was asking her questions about Rich’s death.”
This seems to satisfy her a bit. I’m glad I didn’t keep the secret any longer than I did.
“So there was no collapsing tunnel...” she says. “That was all a lie... so what happened?”
I wait for Owen to speak. I want to hear his version of the story.
After a brief pause, he does. “Honey... I know we always talk about your Grandpa Felix as if he was flawless. That’s the image he wanted to portray. But he wasn’t flawless. He was just human... like the rest of us.”
Marley and I share a quick look at this point. We both know that we’re not entirely human any more. We’re becoming witches. But that’s not the point.
Owen continues. “My dad wanted to be seen as perfect. He didn’t want anyone to know he had weaknesses. The first time I saw him drunk was after my mom died—your grandmother.”
He pauses and sips his beer. Then he goes on. “He was ashamed of his drinking. He kept it hidden. But I knew. I saw the empty whisky bottles... I saw the flush on his face... I smelled it on his breath. I heard him crashing around once in a while—you know—he’d stumble around a bit. When I moved out at age twenty I think it got worse. I think he started drinking more. He didn’t talk about it though. As far as outward appearances went, he was still the Felix that the whole town knew and loved—the man who had it all figured out.”
Marley frowns. “So really... you’re saying he was a drunk?”
Owen shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m saying. Not at all, Marley. Your grandpa was a wonderful man. A good father. A good leader. A good business owner. He was many things, to many people. And... he happened to like alcohol a little too much for his own good.”
Owen picks up his beer. He stares at it, lost in thought. Finally, he takes a sip.
When he swallows, he wipes his mouth with a napkin. Then he says, “I wasn’t surprised, actually, when Rich told me what happened. Dad was upset that the equipment had to be returned. He was drinking—heavily. He hit his head. He didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Were you there?” I ask.
Owen shakes his head. “Only afterwards. Rich called me—said Dad was in rough shape. By the time I got up there, he was already dead. Had a cut on his head, and he smelled like booze.”
“Was Victoria there too?” I ask.
“I think so. I was pretty much in shock. I was vaguely aware that Victoria was there, kind of tidying things up in the background. I remember that I sort of fainted at first, and Victoria had to catch me and help me sit down.”
Marley speaks. “But Dad—why the cover-up? Why the story of the mining accident?”
“Your Grandpa Felix cared more about his reputation than anything in the world. He wanted to leave a legacy. He’d worked hard his whole life to be someone that others could look up to and admire. He didn’t want one little incident to overshadow all that.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
Owen fixes his gaze on his napkin, which he’s now shredding into little pieces. It seems hard for him to talk about this, and I’m not surprised. It must have been a very traumatic experience. “Rich told me about my dad’s last words. We all decided that it would be the last thing we could ever do for Dad. We could protect his reputation. He’d done so much, over the years, for us.”
“So you all decided to cover up his real death, and fake the mining accident instead?” I ask.
Owen nods. “It was easy. Rich knew his way around the tunnels. He weakened one of the walls, and then got out of there before it caved in. Dad already had a head wound, so we just positioned his body up by the tunnel. We didn’t really even have to lie. We just left out one vital fact—Dad was already dead when the collapse occurred. But who would guess?”
“No one,” Marley says. “Not me. I thought grandpa was working late... looking for gold. I thought he never gave up. I thought he was brave. I wanted to be like him.”
Owen won’t meet Marley’s eye. Instead he keeps shredding his napkin into the pile of confetti. “Maybe I should have told you,” he says.
“You think?” Marley asks.
Then she stands up. She starts pulling her coat on. “I’ve looked up at that mine so many times... I’ve walked out to the tunnel where the collapse happened. I’ve imagined what it was like for him... working late into the night, and pulling Rich out of the wreckage. All that was just fiction. A story.”
“A story I had to tell you,” Owen says.
Marley frowns.
My friend is not the dramatic type. She’s not just arguing with her dad for the sake of arguing. I know she’s upset. I see it in her eyes. I feel her energy. We’re witch sisters, after all.
She’s hurting.
“I’ve always loved living up at the mine,” Marley says. “I felt so connected to Grandma and Grandpa's spirits. Even though I didn’t know them, it felt like by living in that place, and learning their stories, that I did know them.”
“You did,” Owen says. “You’re so much like your grandmother, Marley. You look just like her. You have her spirit. Grandpa Felix would have loved you very much.”
“And I would have loved him,” Marley said. “If I ever had the chance to meet him. But I never did. All I had was his story.”
She pulls her purse over her shoulder. “Now I find out that wasn’t the real him at all. So who have I been looking up to this whole time? Who have I been respecting? Who have I been loving? A character. A character that you made up.”
She shakes her head at her father.
“I didn’t know it would upset you this much,” Owen says. He stands too. I wonder if he’s going to hug Marley. I think that would be a bad idea. Marley’s in one of those don’t-touch-me moods.
“Yeah, well, Dad, there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she says.
I pinch my lips together and look down at my hands. Uh oh. This evening really isn’t going well. And I don’t see signs of improvement on the horizon.
Marley continues. “Maybe if you hadn’t jetted off to California the instant I graduated high school, you’d know me a little better. But you couldn’t stand it here. You couldn’t wait to get out.”
“I asked you if you wanted to come with me,” Owen says weakly. This is a losing battle and he knows it.
Marley doesn’t answer. Instead she just shakes her head. “I need some fresh air,” she says. “Good night.”
“You want me to go with you?” I ask. I get to my feet.
Marley backs up. I knew it. The don’t-touch-me vibe is up in full force. She just needs to cool down. I’ve learned that while I respond well to being smothered in hugs, when Marley’s truly upset she just needs time alone. It really doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s serious.
“Okay,” I say, even though Marley hasn’t answered me with words.
Owen steps towards Marley. “Sweetie,” he says. “Let’s talk about this.”
Marley shakes her head. Then she backs up some more, turns around, and starts weaving through tables, hightailing it for the door.
Owen and I are left standing awkwardly by the table.
“Well, that didn’t go well, did it?” Owen mutters.
“Nope,” I say. “Not at all.”
There’s still food on our plates, but Owen and I are eager to wrap up the meal. We’re both here for Marley—not for each other’s company. Now that Marley is gone, the evening is ruined. Owen’s mind seems to be elsewhere. The waitress brings the bill, Owen pays, and we both say goodnight.
When we part ways, I mount my bike and begin riding home.
The snow is thick and soft under my tires, making it slow going.
So slow, in fact, that I find myself gazing into the lit-up windows of the houses I pass. I turn right on Pine Street and then make a left on Willow. The houses that I pass look so cozy inside. I see people fixing dinner in kitchens, hunched over tables wrapping up work for the day, and playing with kids in living rooms.
I pass Mike Mitchell’s house, and catch sight of his rotund silhouette as he leaves a room that looks like a home office.
Screech! I slam on my breaks. Metal grates on metal as the worn brake pads slide against my tire rims. I skid to a stop in the snow.
Then I place my boots on the ground and begin stepping backwards.
Was that really Mike... stepping out of his home office?
What does he do in that home office?
I take another look in the window.
There’s a plant in the corner of the room, some framed documents on the wall, and the warm glow of a standing lamp. A large desk is the central focus of the room, and behind it there’s a high-backed office chair.
This is definitely an office I’m looking at.
To the right of the office there’s another room. It looks like a living room. I see Mike walk into it. A woman is on the couch. Mike leans over and kisses her, and then they talk for a minute. Next I see Mike head out of that room.
He doesn’t return to the office.
I keep watching. A minute later, a light comes on to the right of the living room. Now Mike is in the kitchen. I see him open the refrigerator.
It seems that he’s done with work—at least for the moment. Yes! He’s pulling items out of the fridge. I watch him reach for a loaf of bread. Perhaps he’s going to make a sandwich! That will take a while.
Is it enough time for me to go in and take a look around?
I dismount my bike and prop it against the Mitchell’s mail box. Then I start post-holing through the foot of snow on the front yard. I make my way towards the office window. There’s a snow drift right below it, probably from snow that fell off of the roof. It’s the perfect aid for breaking and entering. Once I’m on the snowbank, it’s easy to lift the window from the outside and then slither in.
Just because the snowbank gives me a height advantage doesn’t mean I make my entrance flawlessly.
Nope! Flawless has never been a word used to describe me or my actions.
One of my cowboy boots gets stuck in the snow. When I finish straddling the window ledge and land fully in the office, I find that my right foot is bare. The snowbank ate my boot and my sock! This simply won’t do. I can’t conduct a professional investigation with one bare foot!
I lean out the still open window and start tugging on my boot. Come... on! You... stupid...
Ah! The boot is free from the snow at last. I’ve been pulling so hard that as it comes free I fly backwards, and my head smacks the window.
“Ow!” I whisper under my breath as I reach up and rub my head as I regain my balance. I place the boot on the floor and step into it.
Next I close the window, as quietly as I can. I don’t want Mike’s wife, in the room next door, to feel the draft and come investigate.
That would not be good!
Now that the window is closed, I turn around and start looking over the room. The office door is closed. The desk is empty except for a few papers. Where is Mike’s computer? Every office must have a computer. I think back to my visit with Mike, and how he said that he rides home with his laptop in his bag.
Right! The bag. Where is it? My eyes roam over the room but I don’t see it.
I walk around the desk. There, on the floor, is the messenger bag just like mine. I reach down, unzip it, and pull out a sleek, thin laptop. I glance at the office door once to ensure it’s still securely shut before I open the laptop and place it on the desk.
My hands are a little shaky. I guess it’s because I know someone could walk into the office at any point. What if Mike forgot to send an email, and he pauses his sandwich-making endeavors and treks back to his office? What if his wife heard me smack my head on the window pane?
I try to get control over my trembling hands, but it’s no use. No matter how many times I do stuff like this, I never seem to get used to it. It’s always nerve wracking!
A password screen pops up on the computer. I’m ready.
I’ve known since I saw that yellow sticky note on Mike’s desk that his password was Pink Panther.
I type it in quickly.
‘Incorrect Password!’ the screen informs me.
I try again: ‘Pink_Panther’
Nope! ‘Incorrect Password! You have used two of your three available attempts. If you’ve forgotten your password, click here to have an email sent to the address on file’.
I try one more time. PinkPanther.
Voila! That works. I quickly locate an icon of the Miner’s Bank logo on Mike’s home screen.
This brings me into a screen where I have several options.
What I really want to do is look at Victoria and Rich’s account. Will I be able to find records from twenty-nine years back?
It takes some digging, swearing under my breath, and many dead-ends before I finally locate a place where I can search for account histories.
‘Transaction History Archives. Please enter account number’
––––––––
Shoot. I don't know Rich and Victoria’s account number. Or do I?
I drum my finger on my lip, thinking.
As I think, I hear a noise.
It’s a voice coming from the hallway right outside of the office.
“Yes, I was hoping you’d call,” the voice says. It’s Mike’s wife! She must be on the phone because I hear her pause before speaking again. “I think the 26th would work for us... let me grab Mike’s calendar... he keeps in the office.”
As she speaks, I close the laptop. I stuff it into the bag that’s still on the floor. Then I look left and right. Where to hide? There’s no time to think much. I take a few leaps towards the office door. I press my back against the wall. Palm fronds from the plant right next to me are right in my face. The door opens, and swings towards me. This is good! The door might totally hide me!
I hold my breath as Mike’s wife enters the office. She’s still on the phone.
“I know,” she says. “Last time when Mike had a tooth pulled it was such a nightmare... mm hm? You’re right. Do you have laughing gas? Yes... yes... that would be great. Here’s his calendar... looks like the 26th at two-thirty will be just perfect.”
I dare not breathe. She has no idea I’m in here!
This hiding place was genius!
She laughs into the phone. “You’re too funny... tooth-hurty! Haha... oh, you’re too much. Now tell me... did you ever hire a new hygienist? Because you know Manuela from the clinic is looking for...” her voice fades as she steps out of the room. The door moves away from me, and then I hear the soft click as it closes.
I’m once again alone.
I exhale a giant breath, and then push palm fronds away from me as I step away from the wall.
Back at the computer, I resume my work. Account number... account number. I have a tickle in my brain—I feel that I’ve seen a bank account number recently, and not my own.
A quick bit of magic confirms it. I perform the Power Spell; closing my eyes and breathing for just a minute makes everything clear.
I have seen an account number recently! It was when I was rifling through Victoria’s drawers in her sewing room There was a bank statement right beneath her checkbook.
I pull my phone out of my messenger bag and start flipping through my pictures. Within minutes I have the picture pulled up. I zoom in on the numbers. Yes! I captured the entire string of digits.
I quickly type them into the archives search bar.
It takes me nearly twenty minutes to dig through the transaction history. Luckily, Mike’s wife doesn’t have any more dentist appointments to book, and Mike stays occupied with his sandwich building and eating. I have the office to myself.
My search yields positive results. Positive puzzling results.
I hold my camera to the screen to take a picture of the transaction. Well, two transactions to be exact. I’ve found a deposit for eleven million dollars. The timing makes sense—it was right around the time that the gold nugget was sold.
Then, two days later, there’s a transfer. Victoria and Rich transfered money from their account to another account. A full eleven million dollars—all of the money from the gold—was transferred, leaving Victoria and Rich with exactly what they started with before the deposit. It’s a very modest amount. No wonder the two don’t strike me as wealthy. They’re not!
The man who received that money is named Declan Nelson.
The only Declan I know in Hillcrest is a guy in his fifties. I don’t know him well... in fact I don’t even know his last name.
Why would Victoria and Rich give all of their money away to this man?
I want answers. I also want to get out of this freaking office!
I put everything back where I found it and exit through the window.
Back out on the snowy lawn, I fight my way through the deep snow to my bike.
With the name ‘Declan Nelson’ on my mind, I start pedaling home.