murder diary

I drove by St. Regis today. The Cathedral. Or rather, what is left of the cathedral.

Stupid writing assignment. We were instructed to visit a place that has “unresolved emotional value.” Whatever that means.

Well, I guess I know what it means.

So, Larry picked me up this morning at 10:00 which was too early for both of us. “Are you stoned or just tired?” I asked him, not really knowing the answer, as I climbed into his truck and saw his droopy eyelids.  He grunted, “Baby was up last night. That means everyone was up with him.”

15 minutes later, after a quiet & sleepy ride, we arrived at St. Regis. “What’s the assignment again?” Larry asked.

“I have to write a story that ‘resolves’ any issues I have with a particular physical location.” I jumped out of his truck into a puddle of mud. New Hampshire doesn’t have spring…we have 6 months of winter, followed by “Mud Season,” before  summer begins the marathon of sweat.

“You sure this is a good idea?” he asked me, slamming his squeaky door.

“No.” I pulled my hood over my head. New Hampshire also gives the Bible a run for it’s money with the ’40 days, 40 nights of rain’ thing. “But it sure is an interesting way to spend Easter!”

“At a scorched cathedral?” He joked.

We walked toward St. Regis Cathedral in the light rain. It was only 50 degrees, mild by NH’s standards, so Larry just had his flannel with jeans. Both of us, as usual, had our boots on as we trudged through the mud and grass.

St. Regis Prep “Academy” still exists. Normally full of lively teens, grades 9-12, during the regular school week, the academy is a force to be reckoned with. But its neighboring “cathedral” burned dow last fall. A homeless man seeking shelter in the basement set it on fire.

Larry whistled and shook his head. “Well I’ll be damned, this is sad.”

We looked at the charred remnants of what appeared to be the black wasteland of the foundation. “It’s awful,” I agreed. I was grateful Larry agreed to come with me after overhearing me talk about this assignment at the Crown & Rose last night. “By the way, thanks for coming,” I added.

He smiled and adjusted his baseball cap. “At least they’re rebuilding it.”

And slowly we walked toward the brick structure of the academy, where, on the other side, we could see the very beginnings of a brand new cathedral.

“The ground is thawing, so they’re starting to build. Rain should be done in a few weeks. They’ll have the whole summer to work construction,” Larry explained.

“The opening ceremony is set for fall.” I continued his thought about the new cathedral.

St. Regis has acres of land surrounding it, so the church decided to build the new cathedral on the side of the academy opposite of the old cathedral, presumably to disassociate it from the bad energy of the fire. They’d have to rebuild in Alaska to succeed. Who knows what will become of the old cathedral spot – a parking lot? A monument? A new memorial?

Larry interrupted my thoughts. “Paige, you sure you want to torture yourself like this?”

We began to stroll on the campus grounds near the front entrance of the academy where my best friend had plunged to her death many years ago. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Larry.”

In my next post, I will tell you about the deaths at St. Regis.

Any why I am the way I am.

This week has been hell. My writing class, Intro to Creative Writing, started on Tuesday. It’s only one class, but it’s already kicking my butt. It’s not for a degree or anything, so I’m fine, but the first week is always tough as they load us with a bunch of bullshit homework overload. My assignment for tonight is to watch 10 TV commercials and  write full stories based on the commercials (background on the ‘actors’ lives, scenes, whatever, just make it all up). Surprise, surprise, I am the oldest one in the class minus one senior citizen couple who decided to light their golden years with some fiction.

BTW, my face has healed nicely. Well…I mean that it looks the same as it did before the fight. And Crown & Rose looks fine. Maybe even better than it did before the fight as the floor is spit-shiny now. And word got around fast about the fight, so the local busy-bodies peppered me with questions for a couple of nights.

I also tried to ask around about the fighters. Did you recognize them? Did you see where they went? Hear anything? Did you see their cars? Anything unusual aside from the fact that they wrecked my bar and accidentally smashed my face?

Nothing.

Except one tiny lead.

Aimee McDane, a waitress from Parker’s that night, said she saw Brown Jacket at Remy’s autobody 3 weeks ago when she picked up her car. He wasn’t a customer – and Remy verified this – but Aimee said he was acting strange, just loitering and smoking in the parking lot. “Like he was waitin’ for someone.”  She’s adamant it was him, brown jacket and all.

Crap, I have to get back to my writing assignment. More soon.

So, Larry seemed relieved when I rejoined him in serving the masses that night. Two Anchor Steams and one Amstel Light later, I heard loud voices from one of the far corners of the bar, near the dartboard. Crown & Rose is weird in that it’s three rooms, but each room is visible from any other room. Lots of open space. The bar is in the center room, which is massive, then there’s a room to the right (full of classic video games and a pool table), and a small room to the left with a dartboard and another TV.

Their voices were loud. “Why don’t you just get the hell out of here then?” a young man with a thin brown jacket and blue baseball cap said to a man facing him in the corner of the ‘darts’ room. “We don’t need you. She’s dead. She doesn’t need you anymore – and I certainly don’t!”

The two guys looked familiar but I couldn’t place them. “Shady-looking” was my first impression, but who am I to judge. Brown Jacket was half a foot shorter than the other man who was wearing a tan cotton sweater and had these enormous sideburns.

Sideburns narrowed his eyes and stepped toward Brown Jacket. Cue West Side Story. Sideburns dared him, “Just do it. Go ahead and do it. See what happens…”

Brown Jacket took the bait. “I don’t give a shit what happens!” And pushed Sideburns in the chest with both hands.

Sideburns, who seemed very skinny by any account, flew into a rage. First, he punched Brown Jacket in the face. Grabbed him by the collar, threw him onto the small table in the corner, and then punched him again. Brown Jacket rebounded with a bloody mouth, only to meet Sideburns’ fist with his stomach.

I screamed and ran over with Remy and Oren. Before we could get there, Brown Jacket had grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it against the side of his opponent’s head, drawing blood. A lot of it. From a gash in the cheek and lips, I think. Blood oozed down the side of Sideburns’ face and chin, and onto his sweater. He was stunned, and in that split second, Brown Jacket kicked (yes, kicked) him in the gut, causing him to fall backwards onto a 4-seater table near the window. But Sideburns recovered and lunged toward Brown Jacket before they locked into a bloody embrace.

Remy pounced on Sideburns, Oren took Brown Jacket, and they successfully pulled the fighters apart.  There was panting and heavy breathing as the scene stalled for a second. I shouted, “What the hell is going on? Get out of here. Both of you. Nowwwwww!”

But Brown Jacket attempted to attack again – and his right arm escaped Oren’s grip as it plowed toward Sideburns face. But before it could do so, it had to cross my path. I tried to lean backward to avoid the impact, and I really think it helped, but Brown Jacket’s fist – actually I think it was more of his arm – hit my cheekbone and then my nose. I felt the burn before I realized I had a bloody nose. But not before I slipped on the bloody mess they had left on the floor. My ass hit the ground, causing a sharp pain to roar up my back.

Remy grabbed Sideburns by the collar and literally threw him out the front door. Then, he came back and helped Oren throw Brown Jacket out. Overall, the commotion lasted maybe 30 seconds.

And it’s funny how the mind works. I felt outraged! Mennnnn!!!! And their effing testosterone!! Why!!!!!!???  And then I felt physical pain. And then more anger as I looked around the bar and saw how trashed it was – broken glass, blood everywhere, over-turned tables, a broken chair…What a freaking mess!!

Remy bossed everyone out. Told them to leave. Jaws-open, they slowly marched out like zombies. Sunshine and Larry came to me with some towels to clean up my bloody nose. Oren tenderly put an arm around me and lead me to a bar stool. I could hear them saying “Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?”

“It’s worse than it looks. I don’t need to go to the doctor or anything.” I tried to laugh but I was still mad. And I felt dizzy. Oh God, this place is a mess. And why for the love of God is Oren here right now?

My friends read my mind. Larry offered, “We’ll help you clean up tonight, don’t even worry. Just rest.” And then Remy addressed Oren, “Oren, why don’t you give Paige some space. I’m sure you can see her another time.” Oren looked braced for an objection, but decided not to argue. He knew it was too stressful for me to have him around.

He let his hand fall off my shoulder. “Paige, I really hope we can talk soon? I’ll check in with you…make sure you’re okay.”

“Thanks, Oren.” I managed a small smile but my face hurt.

When Oren left, I told Sunshine, Remy, and Larry that I felt okay enough to help them clean the place. My nose had stopped bleeding. We spent hours cleaning up the Crown & Rose and chatting. No one seemed to know who the two fighters were – or if they were from Baskin.

As I mentioned, it’s funny how the mind works. Even when I was flat on the ground, sprawled in a bloody mess, I had tried to watch Sideburns and Brown Jacket through the window after Remy tossed them out. I couldn’t see much, but it looked like they definitely hobbled in opposite directions. Scattered quickly like rats.

And even though I’ve been resting the last couple of days with the resulting raging headache, bruised cheek, and swollen nose…I still keep wondering, what did Brown Jacket mean when he said, “We don’t need you. She’s dead. She doesn’t need you anymore…”  ??

Who is ‘she’ ?

When Oren Walsh walked into the pub that night, I couldn’t look away. But I couldn’t  look directly at him either. I was stuck in this awkward place that left me fumbling with a towel while pretending to dry beer pitchers behind the bar. And I was caught between wanting to ask him 20 questions and wanting to smack him on the head.

“Hey Red!” I heard someone call from the group of  10-12 of them who entered the pub, many still wearing their Parker’s Pizza shirts. I looked up and smiled. Turns out that neither being an adult nor having ‘dark’ red hair provides sanctuary from the “red head” jokes in one’s life.

“I’ll help you tend bar,” Larry offered, quickly jumping up and joining me behind the bar as the crowd approached for drinks. He’s not on payroll, but he knows the routine so I didn’t object.

“How are you, Paige?” said a soft voice.

I looked up and was greeted with a sweet, lopsided grin. Blue eyes. Gentle brown hair. Flushed skin. Puffy navy blue down jacket. Exposed T-shirt with pizza sauce smudges. Longing. Regret. Angst. Love?

“Hi, Oren.” I mentally closed the flood gate. “Could be worse.” I could be naked in the middle of a frozen tundra. “Yourself?”

“The same.” He paused and then pointed toward my computer. “Still writing? That’s really great, Paige…”

I nodded, “Yeah, I’m taking a couple of writing classes at Hampshire Community. Figured you’re never too old to start.”

He laughed, his sweet eyes lighting up.

“Guinness?” I asked and he nodded.

“What else are you working on?” He was always interested in my life.

“Well…classes don’t start again until next week, so in the meantime I’ve been keeping busy writing a blog. Other than that, just working. Hanging out.” And the award for most-awkward small talk goes to Paige O’Sullivan.

“What’s your blog?” He asked, excited.

Damn. Why did I mention my blog? “It’s not really ready for prime-time,” I tried to explain. “Just a diary of stuff. What about you? What’s new?”

Oren didn’t push. “I bet it’s great, Paige. Let me know when you’re ready for me to read it.” Oren took the Guinness. “Not  too much going on here. Helping out at Parker’s until my dad heals.”  (A car accident recently gave Oren’s dad two broken legs.)

“I’m really sorry, Oren. I just heard…”

“No, please, he’s fine. He was lucky. What about you – you okay? I figured you heard what happened…Carolee Cartt…?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely okay.” I saw a few patrons glance toward us. “It’s the families of the victims we should be worried about, not me.”

A glass shattered at the other end of the bar, bringing me back to the reality of a noisy business. Larry yelled over. “Sorry, Paige! I was trying to slide it to someone, but he didn’t catch it. I’ll clean it up.” There were now 20 people seemingly waiting for drinks at his end of the bar. The pizza staff must have called their friends.

“Hey,” I looked at Oren. “I should get back to the beer. Duty calls.”

He looked disappointed, but smiled. “No problem. Maybe we can chat again when things quiet down?”

“Yeah, okay…” I was hesitant, but not because I had any idea that night would be anything but quiet.

Just finished walking Flint. Now he’s eating his favorite puppy chow in the kitchen. Stubby seems to be hiding – maybe under my bed – but she’ll come out soon for some affection because I’m curled up on the couch. Man, what a long day. It was supposed to be my day off, but I had a million things to do…and all of it with a raging headache.

Last night.

Remy and Sunshine came to the bar. Sunshine in all her hippie glory. Rain or shine, night or day, she’s decked out in long yellow dresses, long yellow hair, moccasin boots, beads, flowers  - the whole getup. You’d think she lived in the Haight in the 60′s, but she’s only 40. (I’d swear she looks 25 – claims it’s because she’s never raised any kids. The “whole world is her family” or something like that.)

As soon as Sunshine came through the door, she floated over to me with open arms and her sweet voice. “Honey, give me a hug…are you okay? Relax if you can, breathe some of this…” And she held one of her many sickening herbal fusions in a small brown vial under my nose before I could object.

I gagged. “What the crap is that!?!?”

Larry laughed as Remy took a seat next to him at the bar. Sunshine put the vile vial away and gave me a hug. Then she winked at me. “You okay?”

“Relax, Sun.” Remy’s laconic baritone was a funny contrast to Sunshine’s melody. “She’s not the one who was gutted.”

“I’m fine. Really.” I assured Sunshine and smiled.

“Ok…we just wanted to check on you. I thought…well…that you might be feeling…”

“Hey, no worries. I’m definitely okay.”

“Why’s it still so dead in here?” Larry asked, looking around the empty pub.

“Whole town is dead. No one is out. The murder scared everyone into their cocoons.” Remy said. “I let my team go home early.” Remy owns an autobody shop half a mile away.

He grabbed Sunshine by the waist and pulled her close with a bear hug. She nuzzled his neck.

I never get sick of seeing them together. Her lightness next to his solidness. He’s enough to scare anyone away. A former Hell’s Angel, complete with bald head and black leather.

“Carolee Curtt!” Larry asked, looking at the TV which had just identified Baskin’s latest victim. “Damn, she was so pretty, look at that. Just like Angela…”

“It’s horribly sad.” Sunshine shook her head. “I can feel death in the air, so thick..it’s everywhere.”

“I heard they were slashed with 2o X’s across their faces and chests.” Remy lowered his deep voice to slowly tell the horror story. “Each X making the body into an even bloodier mess. Like someone put them under ‘chop’ in the blender-”

“That’s ridiculous!” I said louder than I intended.

Remy immediately looked apologetic. “Paige…I forgot…” Sunshine apologized for Remy. “Sorry, Paige.”

I shook my head. “I’m fine…it’s really just that your facts are off. That’s not what they said on the news. We’d have no way of knowing about the X’s.” Rumors can derail justice.

“The only facts we know are: identities of the victims and general locations of the bodies.” I explained. “And-”

Larry looked at his phone. “Oh shit. They just shut down Parker’s Pizza. Broken pipe. Everyone is coming here…”

Five minutes later, the entire staff of Parker’s Pizza entered the Crown & Rose. The first one through the door was Oren Walsh.

My heart skipped a beat.

(Ok, I am so tired right now – I have to go to bed, but tomorrow I’ll finish the story about what happened last night. Chaos.  My eyes are feeling too sleepy right now. Sorry…G’nite…)

Last night was chaos.

I didn’t get home until 3 am. And I just woke up a few minutes ago!

Lots to report.  The body has officially been identified as Carolee Cartt. No specific relationship to Angela Price other than they both went to St. Regis (Saint Regis Prep Academy).

Remy, Sunshine, and Larry stayed till closing last night to help me clean up all the broken glass after the fight.

As mentioned, lots to report…I’ll write more soon. But right now I have to pick up Teeny’s groceries and medication before guilt (and her nagging) become the death of me.

I made it to the Crown & Rose ok.

“Ok” meaning “alive.”

It was just my 80-year-old neighbor, Teeny LaCroix, at my front door earlier wanting to make sure I was okay before reminding me that I forgot to put out my trash this week. Again.

Don’t worry, I won’t be dead at the end of this story.

I mean, I can’t technically guarantee it, but I’m 99.9% sure I’ll be okay. But if you log on one day and this blog is gone…well, then, you’ll know I didn’t make it.

You see, there’s a killer on the loose. And every day, when I open my front door to greet the world for a new adventure, there might be a knife waiting to say hello to my heart. Or my throat. Or both.

Not exactly a good reason to get up in the morning.

My name is Paige O’Sullivan. And I don’t live in total fear, but it doesn’t take Clarice Starling to feel the murder madness at a boil. I heard about the second murder while wrestling with my beauty this morning…10 crappy minutes trying to push a 5-inch wad of my unruly hair into a rubber band that I took off a bunch of celery in the fridge.

The news blaring from my TV seemed especially loud at 7 am…A body has been discovered near the front entrance of Dunkin’ Donuts on Main Street in “historic” downtown Baskin, New Hampshire…

Creepy. And not just because they referred to our dilapidated downtown as “historic,” but because I think I heard the sirens in the middle of the night. But the actual Time of Death hasn’t been confirmed…KR-TV’s “News Reporter Extraordinaire” (gag), Kasey Blondeau, refused to divulge the details. Keeping quiet probably has less to do with mandates from the police and more to do with his lack of useful knowledge about anything other than his hair gel.

I’m not sure if the FBI has officially declared this a serial killing, but I did a quick search on Wikipedia and found this:

“A serial killer is typically defined as an individual who has murdered two or more people over a period of more than a month with down time (a “cooling off period”, which may last for days, weeks, months and even years) between the murders, and whose motivation for killing is largely based on psychological gratification…”

Considering that two months ago the body of Angela Price was found slashed in a bloody heap near her front door, I find it reasonable to think that police just might consider a possible connection to the latest body – I know I will.

And so right now I’ve got three things on my mind…

1.) Feeding Flint and Stubby before they land the starring roles in one of those “10 cents a day can save the world’s malnourished animals” commercials.

2.) Getting to work so I can prep the pub for tonight’s TGIW (Thank God It’s Wednesday) event: $2 drafts.

3.) Solving a murder.

Or two.

I’m not looking forward to the silent stares I will pretend not to notice from the pub patrons. Or the memories screaming for my attention. Because Baskin knows that a murder can’t introduce itself to this town without greeting me with a vicious bone-chilling hug…

But first things first.

There’s someone at my front door.