Chapter 17

Tara

 

 

I vividly remembered the headline from about a year ago:

 

“You Took My Life, So I'm Taking Yours.” Woman, 92, Allegedly Kills Grandson Who Tried to Put Her in Nursing Home

 

It was hard to forget a murder where an elderly grandmother shot her grandson, then killed his girlfriend, for trying to force her into a nursing home facility against her will. Ginger and I had even talked about it, with Ginger saying she could relate to the woman if Benson ever tried to do something like that to her. And now here it was, almost the exact same situation in front of my own eyes.

The typed letter in my hands was addressed to Ginger from Happy Homes Assisted Living. I skimmed what appeared to be a notice canceling her admittance upon request:

 

Dear Miss Mallowan:

Thank you for contacting us about the change in your plans to join our top-rated facility. After meeting your son Benson, we regret that you won’t be able to enjoy our personalized care that he had looked forward to providing for you. If your situation changes, we at Happy Homes Assisted Living will do our best to accommodate you.

 

There was no way Ginger needed assisted living, let alone allowed Benson to force her to go. She had always been fiercely independent; her ex-husband had made sure of that. Dropping the paper back into the box, I continued rooting.

Digging further through the pile, I found another document with a law firm’s printed letterhead. The date was recent, only two months ago. It appeared to be a cease-and-desist letter:

 

Dear Benson Mallowan:

This letter shall serve as notice that your unwarranted and ongoing harassment against my client, Corbin Roth, in recent weeks will not be tolerated. Therefore you are ordered to cease and desist all verbal and physical attacks, including but not limited to threats to “take back what’s mine,” trespassing at my client’s home residence, leaving phone messages, and any other written or verbal harassment.

My client has not acknowledged any wrongdoing with regards to business dealings with your mother Ginger Mallowan, and any lawsuit you file against my client will be met with the fullest defense in a court of law. In addition, retaliatory action may be taken seeking monetary damages, as well as pursuing all available legal remedies for your harassment.

This is your final notice before legal action will be taken against you.

 

I vaguely recognized the name Corbin Roth. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I did a quick Google search of the name, instantly recognizing the oily black hair and dishonest smile that were plastered across several park benches in town:

 

Corbin Roth, the premier real estate developer of Bloodson Bay.

 

Back in the 1980s, when he was in his mid-twenties, Roth had scooped up nearly all of the prime beachfront properties of Bloodson Bay. Forty years later, he hadn’t changed much, those beady eyes as reptilian as ever. I remembered Ginger mentioning he had essentially stolen her family home out from under her when he first began developing condos by skyrocketing her property tax and forcing her to either sell or foreclose. Roth took advantage of her desperation and got her property for a song. A very sad song.

So why had Benson been revisiting ancient history with Corbin Roth? And had it ended up getting him killed? With every paper I picked up, more facts tumbled out, more questions surfaced, more motives for murder appeared.

In the kitchen I heard the dull thud of a knife chopping, which meant Ginger would be done any minute. I didn’t have much time, but I needed more. I needed whatever secrets were housed in this box if I was going to piece together what had happened to Benson, and how it could free Chris.

Near the bottom was a short stack of yellowed newspaper clippings. Gently drawing them out so as not to tear the delicate paper, I settled on the first newspaper article. A shiver ran down my spine. It was the article from the Bloodson Bay Bulletin that detailed the night Chris’s parents died. The accompanying photos—one of the Christies, all smiles on a family vacation; the other, the mangled remains of their vehicle—sent my heart into overdrive.

This didn’t make sense. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Why did Ginger have this clipping?

The date was missing from the article, but I knew it by heart. I had been there when Officer Martina Carillo pulled up the driveway in a squad car that rainy night. Nora was just days old, young enough where every step still ached in my groin from delivering her.

I read the article in its entirety, which I had never done. Not back when it happened in 2006, and not since. The final gory moments of their lives had been inescapable on local news broadcasts. I didn’t want to relive them, but I read the article now as my heartbeat thrummed in my ears:

 

Deadly Car Accident Takes Lives of Bloodson Bay Couple

 

Louis and Elizabeth Christie, well-known and admired in the community for their charitable activities, were killed Monday night when their car overturned and struck a utility pole, according to the Bloodson Bay Police Department.

The Christies were returning from a fundraiser for the Loving Arms Children’s Home, where they served as President and Director, when their car veered onto the shoulder of the road, where it overturned and hit a utility pole, according to a BBPD report. Mrs. Christie was found in the passenger seat, decapitated by the guardrail, and died instantly, the coroner’s report stated. Mr. Christie, who was driving, suffered a severed artery during the impact and died during transit when he was life-flighted to the hospital.

It was unclear if the accident was caused by wet road conditions during a storm that night. Investigators found a leak in the brake line, which may have been a contributing factor.

The Christies volunteered regularly at the children’s home and raised funds benefitting several local social welfare programs. “Lou and Liz were beloved figures in the community,” said Rena Lowell, Adoptions Coordinator at the children’s home. “Their selfless devotion to local causes was an inspiration to all. They will be greatly missed.”

The couple is survived by two grown children, son Chris and daughter Peace.

 

Beneath this article was their obituary, detailing arrangements for the funeral attended by hundreds of friends and family paying their respects. It had been such a dark day for us all, but the darkest of days for Chris…until now.

In another corner of the box was a collection of photographs. Some that appeared to be from the 1990s, based on Ginger’s turtleneck peeking up under an oversized patterned sweater, paired with pegged acid-washed jeans, Keds canvas shoes, and Jennifer Aniston haircut. Other photos dated back to the 1980s as I noted Ginger’s larger-than-life teased hair, blinding neon colors, and shoulder pads that could have just as easily fit under a football uniform as a blazer (several such outfits I could have sworn she still wore). All of the pictures included a little boy I presumed to be a young Benson.

The more I rummaged through Ginger’s past, the more mysteries I unearthed. A restraining order against her. A foreclosure statement on her old beach house. An offer for purchase of the property, from none other than Corbin Roth. A flyer from 2007 when 7 Deadnettle Drive first went on the market shortly before she bought it and moved in. A recent bank statement showing numerous overdraft charges and a negative balance, along with several past due notices.

Alone, each document appeared innocent enough. Lots of people kept old paperwork and memorabilia. But when pieced together, it all told a more sinister story. A story that ended up with one man dead and another man behind bars.

Deeper down, at the bottom of the box, I uncovered a sheet of lined notebook paper with Ginger’s neat print, a letter draft of some sort with scribbles and words slashed out and additions made all over the page. It was dated May 4, 1987, and as I read it, my hand began to shake. Nausea flooded me, and suddenly I was terrified of my best friend, now a stranger.

“What are doing snooping through my stuff?” Ginger zeroed in on the page in my hand, the EVIDENCE box at my knees.

I nearly wet my pants. She had caught me red-handed. Any lame excuse was caught in my throat.

“What are you reading?” As Ginger stepped toward me, I dropped the handwritten letter back into the box and scrambled to my feet.

“Nothing,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

I felt trapped somewhere between wanting to run and wanting to stay. There were truths too horrible to forget in this box.

Ginger rushed forward, her bright skirt swooshing, and slammed the flaps closed, casting a dangerous glare at me. This had been my best friend for sixteen years. Why was I suddenly afraid of her? An unbridgeable gulf yawned between us as I wondered how she could have possibly hidden so much from me for so long.

“Ginger, what is all this?”

“Out!” she yelled, charging me. Her bony, wrinkled fingers clawed into me, snatching me by the arm as she dragged me toward the front door. “Get out!”

“Ginger, please! I need to know what this means!”

Her face brightened to a deep shade of purplish-pink as she shoved me with a strength I didn’t know she possessed. “Just leave, Tara! And don’t come back!”

As I stumbled outside onto the porch, the mystery of her present and the question of my husband’s future all crashed into one terrifying realization:

Ginger was dangerous, and I had no idea what she was truly capable of.