Chapter Five

During a lull in activity at the library the next day, Sunny and I shared notes.

Sunny, arriving around eleven, was brighter-eyed than me, even though we’d both stayed up late the evening before to comb the Internet for any information pertaining to the former commune members. But since Sunny was scheduled to work until eight in the evening, she’d been able to sleep in, while I had been required to get up early to open the library.

Motioning toward the list I’d unfolded and placed on the circulation desk, Sunny pointed out a name. “Okay, that one—‘Stanman’ Owens. I did locate someone named Stanley Owens who’s around the right age. He became a lawyer, specializing in environmental cases. Seems like he retired a few years back, though. Last known address is in Baltimore.”

“I found him too,” I said. “Could be the right guy. But if it is, I don’t think I’ll need to inform him of anything. According to an obituary I found, he’s dead.”

“Really?” Sunny wrinkled her brow. “The grands didn’t mention anything about that.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty recent. Some sort of accident.” I tapped the list with one finger. “According to the info I found, he fell off a footbridge over some gorge up in the mountains. No one knows why, or can figure out what he was doing up there alone.”

Sunny’s eyes widened. “They suspect he jumped?”

“No, it seems to have been an accident. He had a camera with him, so the authorities assume he was leaning too far over the edge to get a photo or something. Anyway, he’s obviously off our list. But there are a few others I can talk to fairly soon. Like Peter O’Malley. Your grandparents already confirmed that he’s the same guy who owns the equipment repair shop in Taylorsford. You know, the one that’s out on the eastern end of town, near the strip mall and car dealerships.”

“That surprises me, to be honest.” Sunny popped her aqua-blue-framed glasses off the top of her head and put them on before peering at the notes I’d scribbled on my list. “He seems like such a good ol’ boy. Not someone I’d ever have pictured belonging to a commune.”

I shrugged. “People change. Anyway, as far as I can tell, a couple other of these folks have died. And this one”—I ran my finger across one line, which identified someone called Belinda Cannon—“is missing, according to something I read in an old newspaper article. She wasn’t linked to the commune in that report; I only found info on her when I was doing more research on missing persons from the area. Maybe she left Vista View before her own disappearance and her family didn’t want her involvement with the commune mentioned or something.”

“So, two former members went missing?” Sunny frowned. “Because from what I’ve found, Jeremy Adams disappeared soon after leaving the commune too.”

“Yeah, I suppose that wasn’t uncommon back in those days especially among the hippie crowd. They often lived like gypsies, I guess,” I said, keeping my tone light. I’d wanted Sunny to make that connection on her own, so I technically wasn’t betraying anything Brad had told me in confidence.

“I also unearthed a few obituaries.” Sunny leaned in and tapped the list with one brightly painted fingernail. “But Ruth Lee, who my grandparents knew as Rainbow, is definitely the lady who owns the consignment and antique shop in Taylorsford.”

“That means I can talk with her and Pete O’Malley easily enough.” I stepped back. “Did Carol or P.J. say anything about this Daisy Miles they listed? That’s one that’s eluded me.”

“Only that she was a writer, or wanted to be or something.” Sunny took off her glasses and stuck them in the pocket of her pleated navy skirt. “Of course, Daisy probably wasn’t her real name. Most of the commune members used nicknames.”

“We don’t even know if her last name was real, so …” I shrugged. “Could be tough to find her.”

“I’ll ask the grands if they have any more information on her.”

“Fortunately, most of these people didn’t bother to change their last names.” I tapped the paper. “So, while I don’t have an address yet, I did find a Dean Bodenheimer living in Frederick, Maryland. From what I gleaned from his social media, it seems he could be this guy on the list. He’s the right age and was involved in the music industry when he was younger. In fact, it appears he still plays percussion with a retro rock band.”

Sunny’s blue eyes brightened. Like me, she savored the thrill of the hunt. “That would make sense, since the grands knew him as Drummer.”

“Yeah, a musician. Like Jeremy Adams.” I shot Sunny a quick glance. “Do your grandparents ever talk about him?”

“Not much. I know he was Walt’s older cousin, and that he went missing after he left the commune, but that’s about it.”

“Aunt Lydia says he was a very talented guitarist and singer-songwriter. He supposedly headed out to LA to pursue his musical dreams but then disappeared.”

Sunny frowned as she tugged on a strand of golden hair that had escaped the confines of her sleek ponytail. “They’ve never mentioned him being a musician.”

“That’s odd, but I suppose, since he left maybe not on great terms …” I caught a glimpse of the concern in Sunny’s eyes and lightened my tone. “You know, if he abandoned the commune to chase after money and fame. Something like that could’ve upset your grandparents.”

“I suppose they might’ve seen that as a betrayal of their principles,” Sunny said, her expression still troubled.

I wanted to ask about other information her grandparents might have shared on the former commune members, especially Jeremy, but thought better of it. Such questions could keep for another day. “Are you guys still being harassed by reporters?”

“Yes, and it’s gotten worse since someone at the sheriff’s office slipped up and leaked the fact that the skeleton’s skull was bashed in. Now everyone’s talking murder.” Sunny pressed one hand to her forehead. “It’s enough to give me a headache, honestly. The phone rings constantly. Of course we don’t answer it, but the grands refuse to turn off the ringer. They’re concerned that the authorities might need to get in touch with them and they don’t want to appear uncooperative.”

“That makes sense, but it must be unnerving to hear that jangling all day and night.”

“Tell me about it. And then there’s this one reporter who won’t take no for an answer. Last night she just lurked in her car at the foot of our driveway, but this morning she actually climbed the fence and started wandering the property. Granddad found her in the old barn and chased her off, but I bet she’ll be back. Even though he warned her that she was trespassing and he’d have to take legal action if she showed up again.”

I shook my head. “Some people …”

“But we’d better shelve this discussion for later, because it looks like we’re about to be inundated.” Sunny pointed at the patrons approaching the desk

I straightened and greeted the group, one of whom had a reference question for me, while the others toted stacks of books for checkout.

My questions about the Adams case would have to wait. Customer service always came first.

*   *   *

Spurred on by Sunny’s obvious anxiety, I took a little extra time at lunch to head over to an old cement-block garage that sat on the edge of town. The gas pumps I remembered from childhood were long gone, the ramshackle building having been converted into a workshop years ago. As I parked in the small lot and climbed out of my car, I mentally rehearsed the warning the Fields had asked me to relay.

A pitted tin sign swinging from a rusted iron bracket declared that the shop belonged to Peter O’Malley and promised “speedy repairs” on lawn mowers, boat motors, and other small equipment. The faded image of a grinning tortoise seemed to belie the swiftness of the repairs, but I assumed it was the sort of joke that seventy-five-year-old Pete—known around town for his sarcastic humor—enjoyed.

“Hello, anyone here?” I called out as I picked my way through the tangle of mechanical parts that littered the plank floor of the shop.

A weathered baseball cap emblazoned with O’MALLEY REPAIRS popped up behind a jumble of cardboard boxes.

“Yep, hold yer horses. Just tightening a bolt. I’ll be right with you.”

I leaned over and brushed dust from the hems of my slacks. When I straightened, Pete O’Malley stood in front of me, clutching a metal wrench.

Like a weapon, I thought, then chased that image from my mind. Pete was known to be irascible, or “downright ornery,” as Zelda liked to say. But I’d never heard any rumors about him being violent.

Besides, he was a small man. He barely topped my height, and unlike me, he was as skinny as a fence post. Although, I warned myself, those ropy muscles in his arms might give him a distinct advantage in a fight.

“What do want, miss?” Pete’s cornflower-blue eyes narrowed as he looked me over. “Got a lawn mower you want repaired or something?”

“No, nothing like that. Is there somewhere we could sit down and talk for a moment?” Glancing around the shop, I spied a small plastic table and two folding metal chairs. “Over there, maybe?”

“I don’t usually take time out of the workday just to jabber with strangers,” Pete said, eyeing me with interest. “But I suppose you’re not entirely a stranger. You’re Lydia Talbot’s niece, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m Amy Webber.” I met Pete’s inquisitive stare with a lift of my chin.

“That’s right, you’re the younger sister’s kid. You run the library now, from what I hear.”

“I’ve been the library director for a few years now, actually.”

Pete studied me, concentration deepening the lines on his weathered face. He slapped his hip with the hand not holding the wrench. “I see it now. You’re the spitting image of Lydia’s grandmother, old Mrs. Litton. Couldn’t forget that face, especially those dark eyes.” His chapped lips twitched as he stared at me. “She used to chase us kids out of her garden by threatening to call the sheriff, even though we was only using her yard as a shortcut into the woods. Quite the high-and-mighty lady, that Rose Baker Litton. Always acted like she was better than anybody else in town, but I hear she got her comeuppance. Went a little batty in the end, didn’t she?”

I grimaced, not happy to be reminded of my resemblance to Rose. “Yes, she was my great-grandmother and, sadly, developed a form of dementia later in life.” I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I’m actually here as a friend of Carol and P.J. Fields. They sent me to talk to you.”

The humor on Pete’s face drained like water down a grate. “Now what do they want with me? We haven’t spoken in years.” As he turned away, he motioned toward the table and chairs. “But go ahead, take a seat.”

At the table, I stared dubiously at the chairs. Pete grabbed a roll of paper towels from a nearby shelf and tossed it to me. “Might want to wipe that off before you sit down. Don’t want to ruin those nice gray pants of yours.”

I rubbed as much dust and grime from the chair as possible before balling up the paper towel and sitting down. “Carol and P.J. told me that you lived on their commune back in the sixties.”

“Yep, I stayed out there on the farm for a year or two. Back when I was young and stupid.” Pete’s lips curled into a sneer. “They did all right with that property after we all left, it seems. Turned it into a going concern.”

“They’ve worked hard,” I said mildly. “The thing is, Mr. O’Malley, that Carol and P.J. feel you should be warned …”

“About any connection I might have to those human bones discovered on their land? Heard the rumor that the poor devil’s skull had been smashed. Messy business.”

“Yes.” I examined his weathered face. “Do you have any idea why someone would bury a body at Vista View? I mean, of course you probably don’t, but can you imagine any reason why those bones might have turned up there?”

Pete reared back, lifting the front legs of his flimsy chair off the ground. “Can’t say I do. But honestly, the time I spent out there is mostly a blur to me.”

I pursed my lips as I examined his lined face. “Because it was so long ago?”

“Because I was doing drugs at the time. Come on, you know that wasn’t uncommon back in the day. We was all experimenting with stuff. Trying to expand our consciousness, some said. Me, I just liked the way it made me feel.”

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the tabletop with no regard for the sleeves of my white blouse. “But you were all pretty mellow, right? I’ve heard Carol and P.J. talk about those days, and they always sound nostalgic. They’ve told me it was a simpler, sweeter time.”

Pete snorted and dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor. “They must’ve been still wearing their rose-colored glasses to spout that nonsense.” He pulled the baseball cap from his head, revealing wisps of gray hair plastered across a bald spot. “It wasn’t no Shangri-la. Sure, we had a decent place to sleep and plenty to eat and all that. But you take a bunch of young people—most of us were barely twenty—well, you throw that age group together, with their hormones raging, and free-flowing drugs, and you see what happens.”

I drew a heart in the dust on the tabletop with one fingertip. “The commune members had problems with one another?”

“Some did. Some just had issues with themselves. But we had plenty of arguments and differences of opinion, let me tell you. Then you add in free love …” Pete shook his head. “I shouldn’t go into all that. It was a long time ago. Doesn’t matter now. You should just know there was some hookups, and not all of them worked out so well. Jealousy, ya know. It can turn even the most enlightened pacifists into beasts.”

Feeling I was falling too far down a very trippy rabbit hole, I straightened and fixed my gaze on Pete’s sardonic smile. “You included?”

“Maybe, but like I told you, I don’t remember much about that time. It’s all hazy. Although”—Pete jammed the hat back onto his head—“if someone’s looking for a killer, maybe they ought to be checking out the dealers who were operating around here at the time.”

“Drug dealers?”

“Yep. A few of them would’ve killed in a heartbeat. Someone didn’t pay up for a delivery, and …” Pete swept his finger across his throat in a slicing motion.

“You should tell the authorities that, if they do question you. Or even if they don’t. It might be useful information.”

“Eh, not sure what good it would do. Most of those fellas disappeared by the seventies. Not to say new dealers didn’t replace them, but the ones operating in the sixties didn’t hang around very long.”

“But you knew some of them?”

“Only by their nicknames.” Pete’s grin displayed coffee-stained teeth. “It wasn’t like they were sharing their real IDs with us. I do remember there was a skinny little guy who called himself Weasel, and man, was that ever an accurate description from what I heard. And then there was this other dude everyone called the Hammer. He supplied most of the commune, except for me. I had my own sources—ones I’d done business with before and trusted. I wasn’t about to deal with strangers. Fact is, I never met either guy, but I did hear plenty about the Hammer. Seems he was a favorite with the others because he never shorted them and didn’t seem inclined to work with a gang.”

“So he wasn’t really the dangerous type?” I frowned, considering the commune’s possible connection to violent criminals, and whether Carol or P.J. had known all the details about such activities happening on their farm.

“I didn’t say that.” Pete yanked his cap farther down his forehead. “He was a big guy, from what I heard. Intimidating. I think the others didn’t dare cross him ’cause they weren’t inclined to find out what he’d do. Who’s to say a guy like that didn’t kill somebody and bury them out there at Vista View? That makes more sense to me than anybody from the commune being involved in murder.”

I stared at him, my mind registering his immediate jump to that conclusion. Maybe he knew a lot more than he was saying. His supposedly hazy memory might prove more convenient than true. “We don’t actually know it is a murder yet.”

Pete sniffed. “Seems likely, don’t you think? People don’t generally smash their own skulls and then bury themselves.”

“The bones could be much older. Someone from back before Taylorsford was even a town.” I didn’t believe that theory at this point, but thought it might elicit more information from Pete.

“Doubt it. We dredged that creek in the early days of the commune. By hand. Good ol’ P.J. told us it would help with an irrigation system, but we never got that built.” Pete tapped the side of his beaky nose. “I think P.J. just wanted to give us something to do. He didn’t like us sitting around too much. Thought it led to trouble. He was always assigning the commune members chores. Claimed it would improve our characters.” Pete snorted. “P.J. was a great one for building character.”

“Sounds like you didn’t like him all that much.”

“He was all right. Carol too. They was the real thing, you know. True believers. Committed to peace and love and changing the world. Not like some of the rest of us.” Pete lowered his head, staring at the heart design I’d drawn on the tabletop.

I couldn’t read anything in his eyes but sensed tension in the hands he’d clasped together on the tabletop. “They’re good people,” I said.

“Seem to be. I haven’t seen them in forever. When I was living with them … Well, I guess I was too rebellious for their taste. I was more into the drugs and free-love stuff than what they called the true meaning of communal living. But I will say this—with all the bed-hopping that went on, those two never participated. They were always devoted to each another.”

“And you admired them for that.” I met Pete’s sharp gaze as he lifted his head.

“I did. It wasn’t something I was used to. Didn’t have very good role models at home. So, sadly, I never really learned how to have a decent relationship with a woman. Even now, as you see”—Pete lifted one arm and indicated his shop in a sweeping motion—“I’m alone. Just never trusted in all that true-love stuff, I guess.”

“It’s tough to do that sometimes,” I admitted, pushing back my chair and standing. “I’m afraid I need to get back to work. Thanks for talking with me, Mr. O’Malley. I hope this will at least give you a heads-up if the authorities come poking around. That’s all P.J. and Carol wanted.”

Pete rose to his feet. “But you wanted more from me, didn’t you? Some extra information to tuck away in that inquisitive brain of yours.” He tipped his head and examined me, a little smile playing about his lips. “I did know exactly who you were when you walked in here, Amy Webber. I may be old and a bit of a loner, but I’m up to speed on the local gossip. I’ve heard how you’ve gone and gotten tangled up helping the authorities solve a couple of criminal cases over the last few years.”

I inhaled, swallowing a sharp retort. “You already knew about that?”

“Come on,” he said. “This is Taylorsford. How could I have lived here and remained ignorant of such stories? Now”—he spread his grease-stained hands—“it looks to me like you’ve stumbled smack-dab into another murder investigation.”

“Oh, I hope not,” I said in a fervent tone.

But as I told him goodbye, I had to admit he was probably right.