Loonies (10 page)

Noah introduced Brian, and the three entered the one-room apartment. A bed stood against one wall, a couch against the opposite, with a coffee table before it. A small television sat on a wheeled wooden stand. A bureau was on the front wall between two windows that looked onto the porch. That’s all there was for furnishings in the tiny room. Brian thought that a tall man might feel claustrophobic in such cramped quarters.

Sherman Thurk sat on the end of his bed, and Noah and Brian took their places on the couch opposite him.

“What can I do for you?” Sherman asked. He sounded tired. He had bags under his eyes.

“You were out wandering last night,” the chief said, sounding matter of fact, not accusatory.

Sherman grunted. “What else is new?” Though it really wasn’t a question.

“Do you know where you were?”

Sherman shrugged. “Not really. Think I was downtown when I woke up.”

Brian remembered seeing him on Main Street when he came out of the Odd Fellows Hall to go to the fire scene.

“Someone said you were up on the ridge.” The chief locked his eyes on Sherman’s.

There was a blank look on Sherman’s face, though he held the chief’s gaze. Then he shrugged again. “Could be. Don’t know.”

“No recollection?”

Sherman shook his head.

Noah nodded, looking around the room, from one corner to the next. Then his gaze fell back on the man opposite him. “Your clothes from last night still around?”

Sherman didn’t look surprised by the question. “In the hamper.”

“Can I look at them?”

“Sure,” Sherman said, rising and going into the bathroom.

Brian looked at Noah once Thurk was out of the room. “Clothes? What gives?”

“Sherman has a habit of collecting things when he’s sleepwalking,” the chief said.

“Collecting?”

“Yeah. Picks things up off the ground.” The chief kept his voice down. “Totally unaware of it. Must be related to being a sanitation worker. Always picking up trash.”

Sherman returned with a pair of pants and a jersey, handing them to the chief.

Noah looked up at the man who now towered over him. “Do you remember emptying the pockets when you got undressed?”

“No.” He sat on the end of his bed.

The dark blue shirt had one chest pocket. The chief reached in, but came out with nothing. He set the shirt on the couch. He picked up the pants and dug his hands into the front left pocket. He pulled out a comb and a hole punch, setting them on the coffee table. He reached in again and extracted a cigarette lighter.

Brian’s eyes widened. “Do you smoke?” He asked.

“No. Not mine.”

The chief flicked the lighter and a small flame popped out. He put it out and put the lighter in his front pocket. The whole time the chief never took his eyes off Sherman, who remained expressionless. Brian watched the chief reach into the front right pocket and could tell as his eyebrows arched that Noah had found something. The chief withdrew his hand, turning it over and uncurling his fingers. The three men looked at the object sitting in Noah’s palm.

It was a glass eye.

St. John’s Church was at the beginning of Main Street, just before the business district, a brick building with tall, arched stained-glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross. A white steeple pointed toward a bright blue sky. A brick house connected to the side of the church served as the living quarters for Father Lehman Scrimsher and Sister Bernice.

As Brian and Darcie exited their car in the parking lot, he noted another building, set back from the road. It was a two-story, flat-roofed structure, also made of brick. It had been abandoned for quite some time. The windows on the first floor were boarded up with plywood. The second floor windows were mostly broken. Cracked slate letters above the wooden front door said “St. John’s Home for the Aged.”

Darcie had insisted they come early because she wasn’t sure how crowded the Mass would be. It had been quite some time since Brian had gone to church, and he wondered if they still drew a lot of people. Once inside, they took their seats in a pew about halfway down the aisle. Brian wanted to watch the people who turned out for the Mass and scanned the faces as they all took their seats.

Like Noah’s Ark, almost everyone showed up in pairs. There was Leo Wibbels and his wife. He was dressed in a suit and tie. His wife, silver haired, wore a flower-print dress and pink hat. Beverly Crump was there with her husband. Selectman Eldon Winch and his wife, an old, crabby looking woman. In fact, all three selectmen were at the church with their wives. Must look good to the voters, Brian thought.

Also in attendance were the Shives, the Moncks, the Cullumbers, and, of course, Mrs. Picklesmeir, who glared at Brian, as if doubting his right to be in the church.

Several people arrived solo. Rolfe Krimmer came down the aisle, his Boston Post Cane tapping in rhythm with his steps. He took a spot in a pew by himself. Brian recognized people whose names he didn’t know: the chimney sweep he’d seen around town, and the man who worked at Wibbels Fruit and Real Estate. He saw the woman from the bar, only this time instead of being a blonde, she had long, red hair. Also alone was Wanda, the police receptionist.

For all the people Brian knew who were in attendance, there was an equal number he didn’t know. He wondered, but doubted, if Ruth Snethen would show up. He suspected she was in hiding.

A buzzing drew Brian’s attention to the church entrance, where a motorized wheelchair cruised down the aisle, bearing the man he had seen in the rooming house on Cheshire Street. He was still wearing his Panama hat. He operated the wheelchair by a controller on the right armrest, his hand pushing the knob forward with his three remaining fingers. He motored to the front and took up a spot to the right of the pews. Brian had asked Noah about what happened to the man, but the chief didn’t know. Nor did he know what kind of doctor the man had been, just that everyone in town called him Doc, so Noah did as well.

As Brian scanned the people in the crowd, the one thing on his mind was if any of them had a glass eye. He studied the faces around him, trying to determine if someone had that odd look, where one eye didn’t seem to look in the same direction as the other. The glass eye Noah had found was blue, so Brian immediately dismissed anyone with dark eyes.

He was surprised the chief wasn’t in attendance. He thought Noah would be the church-going type.

Brian didn’t pay much attention to the service. Church had always bored him as a kid. He saw a lot of couples with young children in the pews, and it reminded him of being dragged to church by his parents. He was grateful as an adult that he could choose not to attend. He hoped today’s Mass wasn’t the start of a new trend for Darcie. It was hot in the church for so early in the morning, portending the kind of day it was going to be. The summer had already been too hot way too early. Brian tugged at his collar, which was sticking to the sweat on his neck. Why was it always so stuffy and hot in a church? It was as if they wanted to give the parishioners a small taste of hell to keep them on the straight and narrow.

When Father Scrimsher got to his sermon halfway through the Mass, Brian paid a little more attention.

The reverend was tall and pear-shaped with a long face that melted into his thick, fat neck. His hair was gray and thinning, his eyes narrow, his mouth wide. Brian guessed he was in his early sixties. Probably riding out the twilight years of his priesthood before he was sent out to whatever pastures men of the clergy retire. Brian was glad to get a chance to sit as the sermon began.

“I look out at all the lovely parishioners,” Father Scrimsher began, his voice deep and thick, “and I see such a devoted group of followers. Nice families and couples, old and young.” His hands made a sweeping gesture. “And the children, of course.” He paused. “Children accompanying their parents to such a great holy event before the eyes of our Lord. It brings such sweetness to my heart.” He placed his right hand over his chest. “For it is the children, the innocent young children, who are indeed our most valuable blessings from God. We bring children into the world, to perpetuate our race, to pass on our knowledge, our love, and our belief in the Almighty.” He looked around. “So fortunate for our children to have so much love and faith bestowed upon them. To have parents to cherish them.” He paused again.

“But not all children are loved!” His voice suddenly boomed, waking up a few of the dozing older folks. “No, not all.” Softer. “Right here in the midst of our town, you all know, it was discovered, five young children, children of God, who were not loved. No. They were cast aside.”

Brian glanced at Darcie and saw that her eyes were moist.

“But the good Lord has not forgotten about those children,” the priest continued. “Because God loves those children. Even though they were hidden from the rest of the world. God still loves them. And it was God who made sure that those children were found, that they weren’t lost forever. He let them be discovered, so they can at last be at peace. And now the good people of Smokey Hollow mourn those dear children.”

Brian took out his notebook and began to scribble down quotes from Father Scrimsher’s sermon. But then he felt watched and glanced up from the page to see Darcie’s eyes upon him. They were still moist, even a teardrop clinging to an eyelash in the corner. But her eyes held another look, abhorrence. She mouthed the word ‘no’ and shook her head. He closed the notebook and shoved it back into his pocket.

As Father Scrimsher continued his sermon, Brian heard sobbing behind him. He glanced over his left shoulder. A middle-aged woman sat alone in a pew, eyes red from crying. She had long hair with streaks of gray. She sniffled throughout the rest of the Mass.

When the service had ended, the priest and Sister Bernice, along with a couple of altar boys, walked down the aisle to the front doors. Immediately following them was the man in the wheelchair, as the rest of the parishioners waited for him to pass before filing out of the pews. As his wheelchair passed, the man’s head turned Brian’s way. At least, to Brian it seemed like the man was looking at him, but it was hard to tell. His left eye looked at him, but the right eye looked off in another direction. The man had a glass eye.

On Monday afternoon, Brian found himself staring at the rows of glass eyes in the window of the taxidermist shop. It was another stifling hot day, and he wiped sweat from the back of his neck with the palm of his hand and then rubbed it off on his pant leg. This week’s edition of
The Hollow News
was mostly done, ahead of schedule. The front page was going to be entirely devoted to the asylum fire, Dr. Wymbs’ murder, and the latest update on the skeletons in the trunk. He never imagined he’d be putting out this kind of front-page news when he took this job.

The bit on the garden tour and Rolfe Krimmer’s Boston Post Cane award were getting shoved inside, Mrs. Picklesmeir be damned. He did feel bad for Rolfe, though. The poor old guy deserved his time in the spotlight. He picked the wrong moment to be crowned the oldest resident.

As he scanned the eyeballs on the tiered rack, Brian saw another set of eyes on him. Not the ones in the window, but reflected in the storefront glass. He turned to see Police Chief Treece on the sidewalk and greeted him.

“Just because it was in his pocket, doesn’t mean it has any connection,” Noah said, smiling.

“True,” Brian said, but something was nagging in the back of his mind.  “But you knew enough to look in his pockets. Why?”

The chief shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet. Brian got the feeling he was embarrassed.

“What?”

Noah looked at him. “I wasn’t being completely forthcoming about something.”

“More secrets in this town?”

“No, nothing like that.” He looked up the street, then back at Brian. “When I told you Chief Pfefferkorn found that key that he carried around all these years, the one that ended up unlocking the trunk.”

“Yes,” Brian leaned forward.

“He actually found it in the Somnambulist’s pocket.”

Brian was surprised. “That’s interesting.”

The chief shrugged. “I didn’t tell you right off the bat, because I didn’t want you to jump to conclusions about Sherman Thurk.”

“So you don’t think it’s possible the key belonged to him?”

“Heck no. He picks things up, that’s all. He can’t help himself. He’s just a harmless sleepwalker.”

“Who just happened to be walking on the ridge the night of the asylum fire and had a key that belonged to a trunk full of baby skeletons.”

“Sounds ominous when you put it that way.”

“It would sound ominous no matter what way I put it. But you don’t think so?”

“If I did, I would have told Capt. Steem about the eyeball. But I didn’t think it important enough.” The chief flashed his toothy smile. “At least not yet.”

Brian cracked a smile of his own. Now that was more like it, he thought. The chief holding a few cards to himself. Maybe it wasn’t too late to make an investigator out of him.

“Care to join me inside for a talk with the taxidermist?” Brian jerked his thumb toward the store’s door.

“I’ll have to pass,” Noah said. He nodded down the street. “On my way to Leo Wibbels’. Someone’s been stealing fruit from his market.”

And that dashed his hopes for him, Brian thought, feeling a little dejected for the chief.

“You’ve got the crime of the century happening right here,” Brian said. “A few stolen bananas ain’t going to matter.”

“Duty calls,” Noah said.

As he turned to go, Brian reached out and stopped him, grabbing his arm, gently though. Something had caught Brian’s eye. Whenever he saw Noah, the thing that always stood out was his cheery smile. But ever since they found the glass eye, Brian found himself focusing on people’s eyes, looking for someone with a glass eye like the wheelchair man. But now, looking at Noah, he noticed something about his eyes and he peered closer, almost causing the chief to lean back with surprise.