Jennie Bentley - Spackled and Spooked

I had requested the microfiche for a couple of years before the Murphy murders, just in case Brian Murphy had buried someone under his house, and also for the time around two years ago, when Venetia Rudolph said there had been squatters in the crawlspace. The idea that the body might belong to one of the squatters made a certain amount of sense. It would explain why they cleared out suddenly, too. Does a body buried in the ground smell? I wondered. Nah, probably not. If buried bodies smelled, then nobody would ever visit churchyards.

The thought inspired a pang of guilt, and I promised myself I’d go visit my Aunt Inga’s grave again shortly. It had been a few weeks since I’d been there, and the flowers I’d put out had probably died long since. Pushing the thought aside for more pressing, or at least more immediate matters, I went back to microfiche scanning.

Nobody seemed to have gone missing during the time the Murphys had lived on Becklea, and there was no mention of any missing persons two years ago, either. I scanned the pages for any information about the squatters, but couldn’t find any. I’d have to ask Venetia again, to see if she knew anything more about them. I didn’t even know if they were old or young, runaway kids or professional hobos. Waterfield didn’t seem to have a large homeless population, so maybe it had just been someone passing through on their way to or from Canada, maybe. Illegal aliens or something.

Since it was still early, and the Waterfield Weekly was located just across the street, I dropped in there, as well, and went through the same process of requesting microfiche and access to the machine. The Waterfield Weekly , being a weekly, could squeeze more issues of their newspaper into a microfiche box than the Clarion could, and the woman behind the counter gave me several boxes that covered several years each. I popped one in the machine and started scanning idly.

I wish I could say that I found a marvelous clue that explained everything, but no such luck, I’m afraid. I came across a few photographs of members of the Murphy family taken at various times, though. There was one of Peggy, taken around Christmas, outside her place of employment on Main Street. Apparently the town did a Dickens Christmas celebration every year, during which the shopkeepers and business owners dressed in period costume and handed out grog, hot chocolate, and toddy, along with Christmas cookies. Peggy was kitted out in a long dress and velvet bonnet, and her cheeks glowed with cold. She looked familiar somehow, although it was difficult to see her face clearly under the bonnet. As part of the same article, I also saw a picture of Dr. Ben in frock coat with tails, and bushy sideburns he must have grown especially for the occasion. I printed it out, just so I could show it to Derek, although he’d probably seen it before, come to think of it.

I could find no pictures of little Patrick Murphy, although his father made it into print in an article about St. Patrick’s Day. Apparently there were a fair few descendants of Irish immigrants in the Pine Tree State; enough to enable a Maine Irish Heritage Society, which put on a big shindig in Portland every year, with a St. Patrick’s Day parade and everything. Brian was redheaded and freckled, with a green wool newsboy cap on his head. He didn’t look unhappy or particularly homicidal in the picture, but then it was a special occasion, so maybe he’d put on a happy face for the camera. He was hoisting a tankard of beer, anyway, seated at a table in the Shamrock, celebrating.

Shortly after that, I came across an article about the Waterfield High School prom for the year the Murphys died, and I squinted at the pictures of smiling girls in poufy dresses and boys with fluffy hair. A familiar face caught my eye, and I leaned closer, giggling, at the sight of a tragically hip seventeen-year-old Derek in an ill-fitting tuxedo, side by side with a plump girl with big hair and a strapless dress with an enormous ruffle around the hips. I printed it, too, looking forward to sharing it with him.

Like the Clarion , the Weekly had no information about any missing runaways or hobos during the time frame that Venetia had mentioned. But since I’d gotten into looking at prom photos, I looked for the articles about prom two years ago and was gratified to see a picture of Josh and Paige, and one of Shannon with some good-looking boy I’d never met. She looked like a Hollywood starlet in a white, clingy gown, with that dark red hair falling over her bare shoulders, while Paige looked small and waiflike next to the tall Josh. The top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder.

The year before yielded no one of interest, but since the Weekly microfiche boxes covered more time than the Clarion boxes, I had prom pictures for four years ago, as well, and was gratified to see both Brandon Thomas and Lionel Kenefick among the featured faces. Brandon was handsome in a well-fitting tuxedo, with his arm around an absolutely gorgeous brunette in a low-cut, green dress, shiny and clingy like fish scales. Lionel’s tuxedo was less well fitting, and the bow tie rather emphasized his prominent Adam’s apple. His date wasn’t anything special, either: a slightly plump blonde in a too-voluminous pink dress. Her name was Candy Millikin, and her face was vaguely familiar as well, but I couldn’t place her. According to the caption, Brandon ’s date was Holly White.

I looked at Holly again. She was the girl Brandon had talked about earlier, who had moved to Las Vegas to become a showgirl. Or Hollywood to be an actress. The one he had gone to our house on Becklea with.

I didn’t know that I could blame him. Even in the grainy newsprint photograph, she had the kind of beauty that jumps off the page and hits you between the eyes. Las Vegas was lucky to have her. Or Hollywood.

By the time I got back to Becklea with the four pizzas I’d picked up from Guido’s on the way, the excavation was well underway, and a small crowd had gathered outside Brandon ’s yellow crime scene tape. As the chief of police had predicted, Josh Rasmussen was there, along with Shannon, Paige, and Ricky Swanson. The latter peered furtively out through his curtains of brown hair, just like Venetia Rudolph’s lined face peered out through her lace curtained window next door. Meanwhile, Paige looked solemn and Shannon perky and interested. The small group was standing off to the side while Josh argued with his father.

“… invited me,” he insisted. “To help with the fix-up.”

“M-hm.” Wayne nodded, not even bothering to sound like he believed it. “You’re here to help Derek renovate. Sure.”

“He did offer,” I said over my shoulder, hauling pizza boxes off the front seat of the truck. “Two days ago. Derek said Josh could come, as long he could be useful.”

“And I wield a mean hammer,” Josh said, with a grin. Seeing his chance and seizing it, he moved to relieve me of the pizza boxes. “Let me get those for you, Avery.”

“Fine.” Wayne knew when he was outfoxed and outnumbered. “You can come in and see the house. And have some pizza. But don’t get any ideas about going down into the crawlspace to see what’s going on. And until we’re finished down there, no more work gets done on the house, either.”

“No more work?” I repeated as I followed Josh and the pizza toward the house. Behind me, Shannon lifted the yellow crime scene tape so Paige and Ricky could duck under and into the yard. “For how long?”

“It’ll just be for a day or two,” Wayne explained. “We have to make sure there’s nothing else down there. And we should probably have a look at the house, too, while we’re at it.”