Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

Shutting the trunk, he peeked around the back of the Winnebago. George saw the deputy come out of the police station. He headed across the road again for another trip into Sherry’s Corner.

“Tyler?” George said, moving toward the store entrance. “Deputy?”

The young man stopped to stare at him. “Hey, you’re still around,” he said, half smiling. “So the bitch didn’t scare you away?”

“No, she didn’t,” George said. “Listen, deputy, how would you like to help solve Sandra Hartman’s disappearance, and maybe make your boss look like an idiot in the process?”

“Well, last I heard, dear,” the old woman said. “They sent Amelia to live with Joy’s relatives up in Canada someplace.”

Miriam Getz was petite with thick, cat’s-eye glasses and short curled hair that was light brown with a pinkish hue, obviously from a bad dye job. She wore a string of pearls and pearl earrings with her lavender sweat suit.

After making a few calls, Karen had found out Clay Spalding’s former next-door neighbor was still alive. But the 84-year-old Miriam was no longer living in Moses Lake. She now resided in New Horizons, a rest home in East Wenatchee, just a fifteen-minute drive from the library.

New Horizons wasn’t on a par with Sandpoint View, but it was pleasant and certainly clean enough. Karen had caught Miriam in the corner of the TV lounge, working on her crossword puzzle. There were about a dozen other residents in the room, watching The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming with the volume a bit too loud. Over where Miriam sat, it was a bit quieter, but her cronies still burst into laughter every few moments.

Sitting down beside her, Karen had explained that she was Amelia Schlessinger’s therapist, and she needed to find out more about Amelia’s childhood. Miriam had heard about Joy Schlessinger’s suicide shortly after the family had moved to Salem. But she hadn’t known Lon had died, too, more recently.

“What about Annabelle?” Miriam asked, putting aside her crossword puzzle.

“I’m pretty sure she’s still alive,” Karen told her. “But I don’t know her like I know Amelia. I’m trying to help Amelia remember certain things from her childhood, especially that incident with Clay Spalding fourteen years ago.”

Miriam shook her head. “Gracious, I’d think she’d be better off not recalling any of it.”

Karen gave her a sad look. “Well, she isn’t, Mrs. Getz-Miriam,” she said quietly. “I think she might need to know. I’ve read some of the newspaper accounts of what happened. It sounds like you know more about it than anyone.”

The old woman nodded. “I suppose I do.”

“I was counting on that, Miriam,” she said. “So, can you tell me about Clay?”

She frowned a bit, then shrugged. “Well, he was this Indian who, excuse me, Native American , who used to work for my neighbor, Isadora Ferris. She was elderly….” Miriamlet out a sad laugh. “Listen to me, I’m probably older now than she was then. But she was a frail thing with Parkinson’s. Anyway when Izzy passed away, she left the house to Clay, along with several thousand dollars. And believe you me, that didn’t go over well with the neighborhood. It didn’t help matters either that Clay let the place go to pot, and after he’d kept it so beautiful while he was working for Izzy, too. It was a sweet, little one-level ranch house. I never could figure out why he didn’t take better care of it. Sometimes, he even put these odd art pieces of his on the front lawn, usually some weird concoction made out of tin cans and wire hangers and Lord knows what else. It could look really junky out there.”

She sighed. “But to be fair, he was a nice, quiet neighbor. He even shoveled my walk for me one winter. And he was very sweet to those twins, too, especially Amelia. He didn’t get along with Lon or Joy. But for some reason, that one little girl liked him.”

Karen nodded. “That’s the impression I got, too. Amelia told me about a little playhouse he had in his backyard. It’s one of the only things she remembers about him.”

Miriam sighed, and fidgeted with her pearl necklace. “Yes, well, he seemed harmless enough, at least I thought so, until that day.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” Karen asked. “Do you remember?”

“As if it was yesterday,” Miriam said. “Around eleven o’clock that Sunday morning, Joy phoned me, asking if I’d seen Amelia. Well, Amelia or Annabelle, I couldn’t tell the difference, but I hadn’t seen either one. I guess Lon had gone searching for her over at Clay’s house earlier, and Clay even let him look through the place. Apparently, Amelia wasn’t there. But wouldn’t you know? Around five o’clock, I looked out my kitchen window and spotted that little girl in Clay’s backyard. She was all by herself, bundled up in a jacket. I saw her come out of that playhouse and duck in Clay’s kitchen door. So I immediately called Joy. Then Lon got on the line. He asked me to come over and tell him exactly what I saw. Well, once I told him, Lon announced he was driving to the police station. He said he’d bring an armed police officer back to Clay’s house. Then off he went, and he took Annabelle with him.”

Miriam removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Well, about twenty minutes later, Lon was back, with Annabelle. The child was hysterical, squirming and shrieking to raise the dead. Lon had his hand over her mouth most of the time. He said he didn’t even make it to the police station, because Annabelle starting pitching such a fit. None of us could figure out what was wrong with her.” Miriam put her glasses back on. “But do you know what I think it was?”

Karen just shook her head.

“It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I think Annabelle must have somehow known her twin sister was in distress. You know how some twins have a certain- thing between them?”

“Twin telepathy,” Karen said, nodding.

Miriam nodded, and patted Karen’s knee. “That’s what I think it was. Anyway, poor Annabelle was carrying on so badly, they locked her in her room.”

Karen squinted at her. “The child was upset, and their way of handling it was to lock her in her room?”

“My sentiments exactly,” Miriam whispered. “But Lon ruled the roost in that household, and he’s the one who locked Annabelle in the twins’ bedroom. Then he fetched his hunting rifle and called up the police. He told them he was headed over to Clay’s house to confront him and get his little girl back. All the while, Annabelle was screaming and crying behind that locked door. My heart just broke for her.”

Miriam clicked her tongue, and shook her head. “I told Lon I didn’t think the gun was necessary. I kept saying, ‘Let the police handle it, for goodness sake!’ I was so worried Amelia would get hurt. But Lon couldn’t be stopped, and out the door he went. I followed him down the block. Joy stayed behind. Lon was almost at Clay’s house when I heard the sirens. Two police cars came speeding up the block. Then, over all that noise, I heard screams.

“I turned toward Clay’s house and saw that pitiful little girl climbing out a side window and crying for help.” Miriam closed her eyes and put a liver-spotted hand over her mouth. “All she had on was her underwear. I just get sick when I think about it. After that, everything happened so fast: the sirens, tires screeching, all the policemen shouting, and that poor, sweet child running across the yard, practically naked. And this was November, mind you. Clay came out the front door, and he started to run after Amelia. That’s when Lon shot him. I remember how in midstride, Clay suddenly flopped back and fell on the ground.”