When Time Was Read online

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  When Time Was

  The Summer of ‘54

  Autumn fell brilliantly this year with its beautiful and radiantly bold colors. They seemed to ballet across the cool autumn sky, painting a picture so pure and true. Late in the evening, you could see the gray smoke mushroom from homes burning wood and coal.

  In the far off distance, you could hear the clickety clack of the Illinois-Georgia train crossing the trestle at Slick Rock Creek. Its whistle echoed throughout the hollow as it turned the point and slowly faded away into the tunnel. When the sounds from the train disappeared the air was filled with the sounds of crickets and frogs. As night approached, I found myself in a somber mood.

  My name is Chigger. That’s what everyone has called me since I was a child. I got the nickname after I was eaten up by chiggers while picking blackberries. I’m studying my notes for my new book and I can’t help but recall the first night when I was working as a reporter for a small newspaper in Stoney Point, a small community in South Central Kentucky. Stoney Point is about one hundred miles from the Kentucky, Tennessee line and lays lazily about the Shiloh Ridge Mountains. The job at the paper was temporary to earn enough money to support myself.

  I’ll never forget that scorching hot summer. It was the summer of ’54 and I was doing research for my new book on the recent murders happening in Stoney Point. There had already been two women killed. My first day on the job, the third body was found.

  That night a call came into the sheriff’s office while I was doing some research on a manor not too far from here. There had been another murder. I dropped what I was doing, raced out right behind the officers and followed them to the crime scene. It was pouring down rain and the air was sticky. I was driving a ‘51 Plymouth. My windows were fogged up and the wipers didn’t work very well. As the lights flashed and the sirens haunted the darkness of the night, we sped down Highway 10 around 10:30 p.m.

  I had never seen it rain so hard. The drops were so big they sounded like popcorn popping on the hood of my car. Thunder roared like a wretch in the night; lightning ripped through the darkness leaving only obscure shadows in the sky. I mashed the accelerator to the floor as I pushed the old Plymouth to its limits. It was eerily silent when we reached the scene. The place was covered with police. The body was not far from the road in a wooded area with a small creek running through it.

  The nude body was lying face down on a small embankment. The sheriff and his deputies surveyed the crime scene and were careful not to tamper with any evidence. I eased down the embankment to get a closer look at the body, but stayed out of the way of the investigators.

  She had cuts and bruises on her wrists and ankles. It appeared that she had been tied up and restrained. She was a young girl, about 18 years old, around the same age as the other two victims. They too were found naked, one in an open field a few miles from here on Highway 231 and the other in a barn off the road near the 31E and 231 junctions. It had been determined by the authorities that the girls were not from around here. There was no sign of cars tracks and none of the victims had any form of identification.

  “Hey, young man,” the sheriff said startling me.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered nervously.

  “I need you to get back up on the bank and make room for the coroner.”

  I had to look away as they took several photos of the body. The sheriff told the coroner that it looked like the same M-O. The coroner squatted down beside the body and agreed that it sure seemed that way. He took the young girl’s wrists in his hands, carefully evaluated the body and confirmed it was definitely the same killer.

  “How long do you think she has been dead?” the sheriff questioned.

  “At least twelve hours I’d say, but I won’t know for sure until I get her back to the lab,” replied the coroner.

  “Let me know what you find out,” the sheriff requested.

  “Okay, boys, take her away,” instructed the coroner.

  “Excuse me, Sheriff Puckett,” I said as I raced to catch up with him. “Could you fill me in on what you know so far about the murder cases?”

  “Aren’t you that new reporter from California?” he questioned.

  “Yes, sir, San Francisco,” I replied. “You can call me Chigger.”

  “Chigger,” he laughed. “What kind of a damn name is that?”

  “Oh, it’s a childhood nickname that I’ve been stuck with all my life,” I replied.

  The sheriff was a short, stocky black man, with a shaved head. He always had an unlit cigar in his mouth. He never smoked the cigars; he just loved to chew on the ends of them.

  “So about the murders,” I questioned.

  “Well, Chigger,” he said as he put his thumbs in his waistband and pulled up his pants. “All three were young girls between the ages of 17-26. None of them are from around here, hitchhikers I’d say. It is obvious they have all been killed in one place, and then moved to a random location. All three were raped. Their hands were bound with tape and placed over their heads. Their mouths were stuffed with their underwear and taped shut. Each victim had bite marks on their breasts and necks. Their legs were bound together after the rapes in order to move the bodies. Each victim had a quarter under each eyelid. I’m assuming it’s his calling card.”

  Before he could finish a deputy interrupted, “Sheriff Puckett, look,” he said. “It’s an empty peanut bag.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Near the body,” the deputy stated.

  “Put it with the other evidence,” instructed the sheriff with a puzzled look on his face.

  “What’s with the empty peanut bag?”

  “Probably nothing,” he replied, “but we’ve found peanut wrappers at the other two scenes.”

  “Is there any significance to the peanut bag?” I questioned.

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” he said.

  “Wasn’t there a series of murdered prostitutes called the Twenty-five Cent Murders that happened in the 1930s?”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” replied the sheriff as he opened another cigar and rolled it around in his mouth. “I believe the murders occurred in 1932 and 1933.”

  “I wonder if there could be a connection,” I said as looked into his troubled eyes.

  “This may be the first major break in the case. Come by the office in the morning; there’s a bunch of records in the basement of the courthouse we need to look through. Let’s get home and out of this rain for now,” he said as the rain beaded up on his hat and rolled off the brim.

  I was so keyed up I couldn’t sleep that night. Relaxed by the faint thunder in the distance and the slow drip of rain, I finally closed my eyes and got some shuteye.

  When morning came, I was still tired but I forced myself to the edge of the bed and sat up. I felt like shit. The images of the crime scene had haunted my dreams. It was the first time I had actually been at the scene of a crime and, unfortunately, it would not be my last. The M-O of the murderer, the quarter under the victim’s eyelids, and those stupid peanut wrappers raced through my mind like a whirlwind in a dust storm. I tried to piece it all together, but couldn’t figure it out. Frustrated, I got dressed, grabbed a donut, and headed to the courthouse. The smell of rain still lingered in the early morning air, but my thoughts remained on the night before.

  Hurriedly reaching the steps of the courthouse, I saw Sheriff Puckett talking with a couple of his deputies. As I approached them, I could hear him telling his deputies to cooperate with them and work together.

  “Hello, Chigger.”

  “Good morning, sheriff,” I replied.

  “I was just telling the deputies that the FBI has been called in on the case,” he said. “They should arrive late this afternoon.”

  “I figured that,” I replied.

  “Now, are you ready to look at those files,” he said.

  “You bet,” I eagerly answered.

 
We made our way in and rode the elevator to the basement.

  “What a collection of records,” I said as I looked about the stacked boxes.

  “I’m afraid we have a lot of searching ahead of us, Chigger. What brings you to Stoney Point anyway?”

  “I’m doing research on this summer’s murders and I plan to write a novel from my findings.”

  “Why did you choose these murders? There are murders everywhere and I’m sure California is not lacking in serial killers.”

  “I don’t really know,” I replied. “Something just drew me here.”

  “Well let’s see what we have here,” said the sheriff while he lifted the box off the shelf that was labeled ‘Twenty-five cent Murders, Box 1 of 2.’

  “There must be another box,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it, we’ll look at this one first and find the other one later. Besides, it will take us at least three days to go through this one. Let’s move to a table so we can sit down. Boy, this sure is heavy,” mumbled the sheriff.

  Randomly we thumbed through the documents, not sure what we might find.

  “Arthur Jangdhair? Who is he?” I asked.

  “Arthur Jangdhair, I know that name. Oh, yes, he was the rich man who moved here in the early 1900s and built the mansion up at Victoria Cove.”

  “The old Candlewood Manor,” I replied.

  “Yes, that’s it,” said the sheriff. “That old manor was a real wonder in its day.”

  “Is it still standing?”

  “Sure, what’s left of it. It was built in 1910 by Jangdhair and his wife, Melinda. In 1923 they died, and the house stayed empty for years because they had no children together. In 1930, Madame Christine opened up a house of ill repute. What a house it was! Madame Christine was a classy gal. She used young girls from all over the country. Most of them were either college drop-outs or college girls trying to pay their way through school.”

  “Who was she?” I questioned.

  “She was the illegitimate daughter of Mr. Jangdhair and a topnotch call girl out of Louisville, Kentucky,” the sheriff replied.

  “What was her mother’s name?” I inquired.

  “Shucks, I can’t think of it right now,” he said. “You know how it is when you get old. Oh, wait a minute, I believe it was Caroline.”

  “How does all of that fit in with the Twenty-five Cent Murders?”

  “Well, Christine inherited Jangdhair’s manor and his fortune after her mother, Caroline, died of tuberculosis. Christine opened up the house and hired a groundskeeper named Howard Etheridge to take care of the place. Between 1932 and1933 five women were murdered. All of them worked at the manor. We believed all along that Etheridge was the killer but could never prove it.”

  “So, he got away with the murders?” I asked.

  “Yes, there was not enough evidence; he had a rock solid alibi. However, we did get him for Christine’s murder. He killed her one night at the manor. There was enough evidence to convict him of first degree murder. He’s in prison for the rest of his life. That guy was a real wacko!”

  “What was his rock solid alibi?” I questioned.

  “Christine swore that he was with her every time,” said the sheriff suspiciously.

  “Were they lovers,” I inquired.

  “I don’t know,” replied the sheriff. “No one has ever said. From the looks of it though, we may have a copycat killer on our hands. It may be someone who is obsessed with the Twenty-five Cent Murders.”

  The door opened and in walked a deputy, “Sheriff there’s two FBI agents here to see you.”

  “Damn,” mumbled the sheriff. “They weren’t supposed to be here until this afternoon.”

  “They apologized for being a little early,” replied the deputy. “But, they wanted to get an early briefing.”

  “Okay, deputy, tell them I’ll be there in just a minute,” instructed the sheriff. “Are you coming, Chigger?”

  “No,” I replied. “I believe I’ll keep looking through the box.”

  “Okay then, but lock up,” he replied.

  “No problem,” I assured him.

  Time passed quickly as I searched through the files looking for anything that might stand out. I came across an old newspaper article dating back to 1919 about Arthur Jangdhair’s life and the Candlewood Manor. It gave his history and told how he made it to South Central Kentucky. It appeared that Jangdhair was a very influential man with many fancy friends in very high places. Mr. Jangdhair was given up for adoption when he was three years old. He lived in an Ohio orphanage for five years until a wealthy family from eastern Kentucky adopted him. He grew up and took over his adopted daddy’s coal mining business. After the passing of his adoptive parents, and tired of the business, Arthur sold the business for a substantial price and then moved to south central Kentucky.

  Next, I found a letter signed by Mrs. Jangdhair herself. Within the letter it read, ‘Years have passed and our marriage has begun to crumble. Arthur stays gone a lot, sometimes days at a time. I hired someone to follow him. The results were shocking. On the riverfront in Louisville, he met with a high-class hooker. He spent a lot of time with her. He was seen escorting her around, showing her off, so to speak.”

  The next letter, written by Melinda, was dated several years after the previous one. It read, ‘I’ve got to the point I really don’t give a damn anymore. I don't have that many years left in me. I don’t really care about the son of a bitch anymore. Let him take his whore and die with her.’ As I read on, it seemed like Mr. Jangdhair had become obsessed with the lady of the night. He set her up in her own place and kept her as his private whore. Life went on like this until Caroline, his mistress, became pregnant with another child. Nine months later, Caroline gave birth to a daughter she named Christine. Once word of this reached Melinda, she wanted to leave him several times, but she was so afraid of him she couldn’t do it. She knew of his connections and feared that something would happen to her. Melinda turned to drinking and drugs to endure the remainder of her life.

  I shook my head in disbelief and placed everything back in the box. It was getting late, so I thought I would come back tomorrow. I wanted to get a bite to eat and maybe ride out to the manor. As I was leaving the courthouse, the sheriff pulled up and informed me they had found another body. I jumped into his car and we sped off in his ‘52 Chevy.

  “Where was the body found?” I asked.

  “A deer hunter found her down in a hollow off Highway 31E.”

  “Do they think it’s the same M-O?”

  “It appears to be,” he answered. “The FBI will be there so you’ll have to stay out of the way. They are in charge of the case now. Did you find anything in the files?” he questioned.

  “No, not really,” I replied, “but I know there’s something I’m overlooking. I’m going back tomorrow to look some more.”

  When we arrived, the FBI agents were already there. I was standing beside the road when the ambulance pulled in. Her body was barely visible and lying face down in the leaves. The agents were questioning the hunter who found the body.

  “It’s another one,” the coroner cried out.

  Once the agents finished investigating the crime scene, the ambulance driver hauled her body up the embankment toward the ambulance. I held my breath because the smell was horrible. Unexpectedly, the sheet that covered her body was snagged by a limb and it pulled from her face. I saw the quarters under her eyelids. The men hurriedly placed her in the ambulance and shut the door. I knew her face would be forever etched in my mind.

  “Are you alright?” Sheriff Puckett asked me.

  “Yeah,” I said softly.

  “Do you want me to take you back to town or to your hotel?”

  “I would like to go out to the old Candlewood Manor and look around,” I said.

  “Okay, to the old Candlewood Manor it is,” replied the sheriff.

  We compared not
es and discussed the evidence on our way to the manor.

  “We’ll go up to Eddyville Prison tomorrow, if you want, and talk to Howard Etheridge.”

  “He’s the guy that killed Christine, right sheriff.”

  “I also believe he’s the one that killed all the other women,” said Sheriff Puckett. Here we are, Candlewood Manor.”

  I immediately began to recall the things I had read in the article. Even though the manor lay in ruins now, it must have really been something in its prime, I thought. As I opened the car door and stepped out, I noticed an old ‘34 two-door Chevy. The giant columns were stained and tarnished. We entered the manor to look around. A musty smell reeked the air. The wallpaper was ripped and torn, dangled from the walls and flapped in the stirring breeze. It was huge, cold, and empty inside the manor.

  “Can you believe this place,” I asked in amazement.

  “It’s a sight to behold,” replied Sheriff Puckett. “Look out here on the balcony.”

  I turned to see what he was talking about. The balcony hung thirty feet high over the raging Barren River.

  “Wow, what a view,” I cried.

  Giant pines and cedars that guarded the edge of the cliff. They stood tall and bold like an unmovable fortress. Down at the river, out in the cove, we noticed some men fishing. We waved, but they didn’t see us. You could hear the water below as it spattered onto the rocky bank. The air had a heavy dampness so we wiped our faces and returned inside.

  “Hey, Chigger,” yelled the sheriff, “Look!”

  “What is it?”

  “Look at all these cola bottles with peanuts in them.”

  “You’re kidding!” I replied.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Sheriff Puckett. “I’m going to call this in.”

  I began to wonder if this was where the murders took place.

  “An investigative team is on the way,” said the sheriff, “don’t touch anything.”

  After the team arrived, they investigated for several hours. All they found were cola bottles, peanuts, and the wrappers. They were packing up to leave when one of the men on the team yelled he had found something.

  “What is it?” the sheriff shouted.

  “A quarter,” laughed the deputy, “I’m rich.”

  “Let’s wrap it up,” said the sheriff, “and head back to town. Come on Chigger I’ll drop you off at your hotel. We’ll have to get an early start tomorrow if we’re going to Eddyville Prison.”

  The sheriff let me off at the hotel. After he drove off and was out of sight, I got in my car and headed to the courthouse. They were locking down the building when I got there. Carefully, I snuck in and made my way down to the basement. I had placed a small card over the door lock to keep it from locking. The box was still on the table where I left it.

  I read the transcripts from the trial. Caroline, Jangdhair’s mistress, was placed in a foster home at the age of four in a small coal mining town in Kentucky. Soon after she was placed in the foster home she was abused by her foster father and then by some of the other relatives. The abuse went on for years. She ran away and lived on the streets of Louisville where she learned to turn tricks. While living on the streets at age 17, she was raped. She became pregnant and gave birth to a bastard son. She refused an abortion because of her beliefs, and she definitely didn’t want the child in the hands of the State. Her son’s name was Howard Etheridge; he was thirteen when Caroline gave birth to Christine, Jangdhair’s illegitimate daughter. Howard became the groundskeeper at Christine’s whorehouse. After years of prostituting, she moved up to high-class calling, the Riverfront. She entertained wealthy and influential clients.

  I searched deeper within the box and found two birth certificates. The certificates revealed that Christine had given birth to a set of twins. The father was unknown.

  When I read the pages of another document, I learned that it was believed, but never proven, that the killer followed the prostitutes to their homes when they left the manor. He waited until they were asleep and made his way up to their bedrooms. There was one prostitute mentioned in the document that was able to get away. She stated in her testimony that when she left the manor that night, she as if she was being followed. But, she never saw anyone. When she got home, she didn’t think anything else about it and went upstairs to bed. She was almost asleep when she sensed someone standing over her. She looked up, but there was no one there. However, she sensed it again. This time when she opened her eyes there was a man standing beside her bed staring down at her. She screamed and struggled with him as he threw her about the room. Fortunately, her roommate came in and startled him. The intruder grabbed a blanket from the bed, covered his head, ran downstairs and out the door. She wasn’t sure what the man looked like or if she had ever seen him before. Between the fear, the darkness, and her well-known problem of being a habitual liar, the lawyers were unsure of her testimony.

  There were facts of the case jotted down on several pieces of scrap paper. Howard Etheridge became a prime suspect because he had easy access to the ladies; he knew them all and had a motive. The problem was Christine claimed he was with her each time. Soon after Christine’s defense of Howard and the birth of her twins, she was his final victim. The case papers stated that Howard was tried and convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life without parole. The killings stopped after that.

  But in 1954, the murders started again. In the twenty-five cent cases, all the victims were prostitutes. These victims were young girls thought to be hitchhiking. Nevertheless, all have died the same horrifying death with the same M-O.

  I looked at my watch. It was late; I had to go. I eased open a window and slipped out. I definitely did not want to get caught. I made my way to my car and wanted to get back to the hotel before morning.

  It seemed as if I had just gone to sleep when the sheriff honked his horn outside my front door. I jumped out of bed, got dressed, grabbed my usual donut and took off with him to Eddyville Prison.

  “Did you get plenty of rest last night?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “One of my deputies saw your car illegally parked across from the courthouse last night. He asked me if he should give you a ticket. I figured you were working late so I told him to let it go.”

  A little embarrassed, I thanked him and told him I wouldn’t let it happen again. After a few hours, we arrived at the prison. We went straight to the warden’s office to inquire about Howard Etheridge. After a short wait, we were allowed into his office. Sheriff Puckett introduced me to the warden and we all shook hands.

  “Yes, sheriff,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

  He asked about Howard Etheridge. The warden let us know that Howard had committed suicide the day before. He had hung himself in his cell. I looked at the sheriff and he looked at me; we were speechless.

  “I’m sorry,” said the warden. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “May we view Etheridge’s visitor documentation?”

  The warden replied, “Give me a moment.”

  He picked up the phone, called, and asked the chaplain to come into his office and bring all the visitor paperwork for Howard Etheridge. While we waited, we asked the sheriff if we could look at Howard’s personal belongings.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, “since you are conducting an investigation.”

  He took us to a room, several doors down, where his things were.

  “Help yourselves,” the warden said. “The chaplain will be here in a moment.”

  It felt eerie digging through a dead man’s things. There were books, a ring, and a billfold with three dollars in it, a pencil and nail clippers. The rest of his belongings were clothes. I picked up a Bible from the box and opened it up to see if there were any papers in it. There were no papers, but the back cover had a note written on it.

  “Look,” I said
to the sheriff.

  “What does it say,” he replied.

  ‘Christine gave birth to a set of twins. She gave the older boy by two minutes, to her best friend, Jackie that worked at the house. Jackie left with him, so I have never seen or heard from him. A family not far from here took in the youngest son, Jesse. She thought I would hurt them, but I wouldn’t have. Instead it caused me to hurt her. I loved my two sons. I hated her when she sent them away. I wrote this in my Bible so the truth would be known before I died. I read in here that we are to confess our sins.’

  The warden interrupted, “The chaplain is here.”

  “Here you go,” he said, “but Mr. Howard only had one visitor on our records and that was Jesse Warren. He came quite often, once a week, during the last several months.”

  “That must be the son he mentioned in his note,” I replied.

  “It’s probably his son all right. He must have gone by the last name of his adoptive parents,” said the sheriff. “Thanks, warden for your help. You ready to go, Chigger?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, “thank you warden.”

  On our way back, I thought about Jesse, and how his father must have brainwashed him. Then we heard over the radio another body had been found. We were too far away to get there in time. The FBI came across the radio and they were almost there. From the radio conversation, the body was found on a deserted back road. It seemed to have been there some time, maybe months. It was the same M-O, coincidently, not far from where the last body was found.

  Earlier a young man, named Jesse, had been pulled over by the Kentucky State Police for a broken taillight on his ‘46 pickup. When the officer searched his truck, he noticed a large bundle wrapped in a tarp in the bed of the truck. The trooper gave him a warning ticket for the taillight. As the trooper turned to leave, he started to ask him what he was hauling. However, he got a call involving a car accident with fatalities and had to leave.

  Jesse waited for the trooper to pull off and headed down the highway in the other direction.

  On the way back from the crime scene, the agents stopped at Kelley’s Market to see if anyone had noticed any suspicious travelers. While they were asking questions, Jesse walked in and noticed the two men. James, the storeowner, asked him if he wanted his usual.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, “peanuts and cola.”

  The agents stood back and waited until Jesse left the store to question James.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said one of the agents while the other watched Jesse through the window. “Does he come in here regularly?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied James. “He buys the same thing every time. He’s one of my regular customers.”

  Immediately, the agents ran out of the market to look for him. They sent a call across the radio that they were in pursuit of the suspect. They wanted all law enforcement to follow them on Highway 231 north near the Highway 10 junction. We were not too far away from the area when we heard the call so we joined the pursuit.

  “He’s going to the manor,” said Sheriff Puckett.

  As we raced down the highway, the sheriff radioed the agents and told them where Jesse was headed. Sure enough, Jesse slowed down and the agents saw him turn into the manor.

  “You’re right, sheriff,” radioed one of the agents. “The suspect is pulling in now. All units move in, but use extreme caution and take your positions.”

  We pulled in and Sheriff Puckett took his position and told me to stay down. Sheriff Puckett filled the agents in on what he had learned at the prison. The two agents eased up to the back of the truck and removed the tarp. It was a body.

  “Jesse,” this is the FBI. “Come out with your hands up.”

  Everything was extremely quiet. No one moved or made a sound.

  “Don’t make this any worse than what it is, Jesse,” the agent insisted.

  Sheriff Puckett spoke up, “Jesse, we know everything. We just left the prison. We know your daddy’s dead.”

  “He’s dead and I want to be with him!” yelled Jesse.

  Without warning, a shot was fired toward us, shattering the headlight on the patrol car. The agents returned fire. They sprayed the house with bullets, shooting out what windows that were left. Bullets ricocheted off the giant columns; Jesse didn’t have a chance. When the firing ceased, everything went quiet. I wondered if they got him.

  “Jesse,” yelled one of the agents. “Come out with your hands up!”

  Moments later, the authorities broke their positions and moved toward the house and so did I. The smell of gunfire was thick in the air. They were alert and ready for anything. No one knew what to expect. They cautiously positioned themselves to move in. A couple of the officers broke down the front door.

  “Search the house,” yelled an agent, “but be careful!”

  They swept the house, but he was nowhere to be found.

  “How did he get out?” asked one agent. “Surely he didn’t go off the balcony; it’s a thirty foot bluff.”

  “Sheriff Puckett,” yelled a deputy. “Come here, quick.”

  Sheriff Puckett, the agents and I followed the sound of his voice to the next room. When we got there, we saw the hidden door in the floor. It opened to a long tunnel that led us to the bottom of the cliff on the rocky shore of the cove.

  “There’s no way we’ll catch him now,” said one of the agents.

  “We’ll put out an APB on him,” the sheriff encouraged. “We’ll get him.”

  On the way back to town, the sheriff asked me if I had enough facts and excitement for my book.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied. “It’s been a very unusual summer, and I’ve enjoyed working with you, sir.”

  “It’s been fun having you around, Chigger. When are you leaving?”

  “Probably tomorrow,” I replied.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Yeah, kinda,” I said.

  “Let me buy you a good old southern, all you can eat, catfish and frog leg supper for your going away present,” he suggested.

  “Frog legs,” I said with hesitation.

  “They jump in the skillet as they’re cooking,” he laughed.

  “Oh, no, really,” I chuckled, “frog legs. Why not, there’s a first time for everything.”

  Early the next morning I got everything packed and loaded in my car. I took a deep breath and looked around Kentucky for the last time. It was far from San Francisco, but it was a good place with good people.

  While I drove, I couldn’t get the manor off my mind. It seemed like there was still too many loose ends. Something was pulling me back there. I turned the car around and headed to the manor. After spending quite some time there, disgusted I still couldn’t figure it out, I leaned my hand on the stone fireplace. When I did, I felt a loose stone. I reached up with my other hand and slipped it out. I reached into the hole, stretching my fingers I slowly pulled out a small tin box. I opened it up and found a key. My heart seemed to stop, my lips quivered, and my breath slowed. I had seen the key before. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my key. The keys were identical. I was puzzled at first, then dumbfounded. I’d had my key all my life. I was told that my mother gave it to me when I was born. Was Christine my mother, I asked myself? Oh no, I thought, this is insane. The keys had numbers on them, mine had 26 and the other one had 37. I didn’t know what they meant or what they would open. I didn’t know if I really wanted to know. It must be a lock box, I thought, but where in the world would it be. I thought and looked for places it might be and found nothing. As I thought, I took the numbers of the keys, subtracted them and came up with 11, which was Christine’s bedroom.

  I searched her room, but couldn’t find anything. Then, I noticed some loose boards in the floor of her closet. I reached down and pried them up with my pocketknife. There was the lockbox with two locks numbered 26 and 37. I took the keys and opened the locks. Inside was her journal. I took it downsta
irs to read it. The first of May was written at the top of the page. I began to read.

  ‘Melinda Jangdhair, Arthur Jangdhair, and Caroline, his girlfriend, was all brothers and sisters. I found this out when I was curious to know more about my father and where he was from. When their parents were killed in an automobile wreck, they were sent to orphanages in different states. I am the illegitimate daughter of Arthur and Caroline. Caroline also had a son named Howard Etheridge. Howard and I had an affair and I became pregnant with a set of twins; Jesse and Jonathan. When the twins were born, I was afraid Howard would kill my babies. I gave Jonathan to Jackie, my best friend, along with some money to take him away. Last I heard they were in California. I gave Jesse to a family near here; I gave them enough money to take care of him for life.’

  I stopped a moment and closed my eyes. “My God, what are you trying to tell me,” I cried out loud.

  “She’s trying to tell you, brother, you’re an inbred,” said a voice from across the room.

  “Jesse,” I said.

  “In the flesh, big brother,” he replied. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out.”

  I jumped up, ran toward him and slapped his face. We tangled up and started fighting. We wrestled about the room then out onto the balcony.

  All I could say was, “Why, Jesse why?”

  Jesse laughed in my face and said, “Daddy always said you were probably a wimp. I was the only son he cared about. He taught me his way and his style. My ways made him proud.”

  “You’re sick, Jesse,” I yelled.

  “I’m not sick, brother. You’re a disgrace to our family name. You don’t deserve to live!” Jesse screamed as he erratically ran towards me.

  Jesse reached out toward me, but I jumped back and caused him to go over the balcony railing to the rocky shore of the river. As his lifeless body lay on the rocks below, I went to my knees and wept bitterly. The truth of everything hit me all at once. I cried out to the heavens, “God help me!” When I did, it was as if the dams of Heaven broke and flooded the ruins of the old manor that lay around me. In a sense, the rains brought relief to my shattered soul. I knew there would be a long hard road of healing ahead of me.

  The summer of ’54 forever changed my life. After many rounds of therapy and six months to complete my story, I can say I am well on my way to recovery. By the way, my book was published shortly after I finished the final draft. How do you like it?