Everybody Knew Pete

EVERYBODY KNEW PETE

By Marian Mathews Hersrud

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Marian Mathews Hersrud
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-1497-1

Chapter One

The scream that erupted from Jenny McKnight's throat was high-pitched, gut-wrenching. She sat up in bed and turned on the light. 4:00 a.m. She shivered as she recalled her recurring nightmare. A man came toward her from the shadows of a tree-lined street and stopped under a bright streetlight. He advanced slowly. She couldn't see his face. Each time she experienced the nightmare, she awoke screaming before she could recognize the man.

Her roommate, Kate, called from the other bedroom. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Sorry to wake you." Jenny got up, grabbed a robe, and went to the kitchen. Maybe a cup of tea would put her back to sleep. Kate came in and slipped into the other chair. Jenny filled two mugs with water and put them in the microwave.

"What are you going to do about those nightmares?" Kate asked.

"I don't know," Jenny said. "Teaching's done for the summer. Maybe I'll drive up to Sowatna and visit my family. Maybe a change of scene will end the problem." She smoothed back her auburn hair and rubbed her eyebrows.

"I'm curious," Kate said. "Something must trigger them. Do you suppose it's something that happened in the past?" She made tea and gave Jenny a mug.

Jenny sipped her tea and stared out the window over the sink. "I don't know." She watched as dark clouds hid a half-moon, breaking and reforming. Drops of rain began to pelt the window. "The only thing I remember is a crazy night when I was a high school senior ten years ago. My friend, Erin, and I sneaked out and smoked pot upstairs in the Presbyterian Church." Jenny laughed. "You can't believe how cool we thought we were."

Kate laughed. "Who didn't smoke? My boyfriend and I tried pot on the fifty yard line at the high school stadium."

Jenny nodded. "I've never told anyone this before. She paused. "It's difficult to talk about, but something weird happened that night."

Kate leaned forward. "Really? What?"

"I remember it, every detail. The wind, the cold rain. It was late October. Erin and I brought our marijuana stuff and climbed up the stairs to the steeple. At the top was a small room. Just enough space for us and a huge bell. Erin did most of the smoking and went to sleep on the floor. I took just one drag, put it out and went over to the window. The mist had turned to rain." Jenny shivered. "I looked out and saw ..." She stopped and stared at Kate, her eyes wide, not seeing her.

Jenny's mind had left the kitchen and was at the window of Sowatna's Presbyterian Church in October, 1998. "There's a streetlight on the corner, and I see a man bent over, carrying the body of someone on his back, the feet drag along on the sidewalk. The man moves slowly, but I can't see his face. He walks past, dragging his burden down the street toward the pier. Now he's beyond the streetlight. I can't see him any more, but I hear a car door slam, and the sound of a motor starting up."

"Did your friend see the guy?"

Jenny blinked, and memory faded back into the past. "No, Erin was asleep. I had to shake her to get her down the stairs and point her toward her house."

"Have you ever talked to her about that night?"

"No. After graduation, we lost track of each other. She works here in Portland, but we haven't seen each other. I've called and left messages, but she hasn't returned them. Now I'd like to see her again. Play catch-up." She finished the tea. "Maybe what I saw that night is related to my nightmare." Jenny stood. "Thanks for listening, Kate. I sometimes wish that I didn't have these psychic moments. Last Christmas, I went skiing. I stopped at the side of a run and watched a guy whiz past me, totally out of control. As he went by, his body looked to be all dark, almost black. When I reached the bottom of the run and saw the ski patrol and the stretcher, I knew that he was dead. They told me that he had run into a tree and was killed instantly. That's not fun, Kate."

"Do you have brighter happenings?"

"Oh, yes. I've seen my mother late at night just before I go to sleep. Mom died when I was eight. I remember the perfume she always wore, Patchouli. Sometimes my bedroom is filled with that scent, and I can see a faint shadow in the corner of the room, a shadow with a beautiful white aura around her. I know she's with me, Kate, and that's pure joy."

That night, she tried to erase ten years of nightmares from her mind and hoped that talking about it with Kate had erased her fears, but sleep was a faint hope as she turned over, punched her pillow, and turned again. After thirty minutes of turning and punching, she picked up the phone.

* * *

"Louise, he's back." Her niece's voice on the bedside phone was a quivering whisper. Now fully awake, Louise switched on the light and checked the clock.

"Jenny?" she asked, already knowing the answer. No one but Jenny would call at this hour.

"I hated to wake you, but I'm scared."

"When was the last time you had that vision?"

"Tonight. I want to come home."

"Of course. You can stay with me."

Jenny's sigh of relief was clearly audible. "Thanks. Yesterday was our last class. My third graders have all gone home, and I can drive up this morning."

"Good. Come in time for lunch." Louise replaced the phone and lay back in bed.

Sleep would return slowly as she thought about Jenny lying awake and afraid in Portland. Her niece loved to teach, but her visions had marred the experience. When she had returned to Sowatna during Christmas vacation, she'd told her aunt about the man who appeared mysteriously at any hour. "He's big, heavy set. I can't see his face. He walks toward me, then disappears."

Jenny's visions were not unusual. Psychics often had presentments that baffled and plagued their lives. Louise had great respect for friends and family members who experienced strange visions. Maybe it was their Scottish ancestry. She'd experienced strange disappearances and reappearances, a new black dress gone from its box in her closet and her sorority pin, no longer in its cushion, both of them mysteriously reappearing months later in their original places, and the chilling premonition of her sister, Betsy's sudden death. Louise's experiences were minor compared to Jenny's.

"I usually know who's calling before I answer the phone," Jenny had confided one afternoon as they shared a Coke at Louise's craft shop. "It's a creepy feeling."

Louise laughed. "But just think, Jenny, you don't have to pay for Caller I.D."

Louise recalled other, less pleasing incidents in Jenny's life and hoped that peace of some sort might be possible for her niece. At last she rolled over and fell into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, Louise dressed, ate a hurried breakfast, and walked downtown to her craft shop on Sowatna's Front Street. She liked the morning's walk. Five blocks down to the pier where waves of the Atlantic Ocean lapped against tall-masted sailboats, yachts, fishing schooners, and a wharf that stretched out into the sea. Her walk took her past the Presbyterian Church whose steeple reached up into the sky, past homes of her neighbors where friends nodded and waved. Sowatna, Maine's six thousand inhabitants got up early, went to bed early, and knew almost everyone in town.

"We're just a small fishing village," Louise explained to friends in faraway places. "Lobster mostly."

She stopped in front of the craft shop, picked up a discarded soda can and unlocked the door. The sign, 'Sew What?' etched on the glass panel produced her usual smile. Summer visitors returned each year asking for new designs and assistance with last year's patterns. Neighbors and people from an ever-spreading local area kept her busy during the rest of the year.

Six years prior to opening her shop, Louise, an accomplished seamstress, began to order craft supplies for her friends. Word got around. "Ask Louise, she'll get it for you." Soon her living room became mired in cross-stitch kits, knitting supplies and needlepoint yarns and patterns. Once her interests broadened into quilting and weaving, passage into the kitchen became an obstacle course around, through, and over looms and quilt frames. It was time to either move herself or her craft supplies. David McKnight, Jenny's father and her brother-in-law was president of Old Maine Bank & Trust Company. Louise had done the paper work and had shared her portfolio with David. "You have a keen mind for investments," David had said. "No need to call in the Small Business Administration. We'll give you what you need."

Louise found an empty building on Front Street, located the owner, and six months later, 'Sew What?' was open for business.

Inside the shop, she reversed the 'closed' sign, turned on the computer and plugged in the coffee maker. As she sat down at her desk in her office at the rear of the store and began to attack yesterday's mail, she heard the front door open. She walked to the front counter and welcomed a young man who looked around at the store's merchandise. A tangled mop of brown hair framed a sun-tanned face. A firm chin softened by a dimple. A pleasant-looking young man, Louise noted, and yet he had a serious, almost solemn look about him.

"Hi, I'm Charlie Brewster. I'm new. Just got a job with the Chronicle as a reporter."

"I'm Louise Campbell. Where are you from?" The usual question to a newcomer.

"Florida. I was a crime reporter for the Miami Herald, but I did a lot of articles on all kinds of fishing. My life sort of changed, and I wanted something new. I remembered summers in Bar Harbor with my folks, checked the internet, and here I am, ready to do lobsters and deep-sea fishing."

Louise smiled. "We have a lot of both, but we're pretty quiet. Not much excitement."

"Sowatna is an odd name. Sounds Native American."

"It's Abanaki, one of the tribes that lived here before we came over and displaced them."

Charlie picked up a cross-stitch leaflet, glanced at it briefly and laid it on the counter. Almost casually he said, "I read about a murder that happened here about ten years ago. They arrested a guy, but he wasn't brought to trial."

"Yes. I remember it well. It was rather exciting. The victim was Pete Clampton. He grew up here. Was a lobster fisherman and ran a charter service. Pete knew the best fishing areas, and he had a thriving business."

"They found him on his boat, didn't they?"

Louise nodded. "He was slumped over the wheel. Stabbed. Funny thing. He was stabbed from the front. Somebody had moved him."

"And they found a guy on the pier and charged him with the murder."

"Yes," Louise said. "The man overdosed on heroin and was out cold. He testified before the grand jury that he'd made an appointment with Pete and went on his boat to buy heroin and to arrange some sort of a trip with Pete. He said that Pete was dead when he got there, so he searched the boat and stole some drugs."

"And the grand jury didn't arraign him?" Charlie sounded incredulous.

"It was circumstantial evidence. No witnesses. There was something strange about the entire affair. He refused to talk about his planned trip with Charlie, and the grand jury didn't pursue the matter. They said the trip was irrelevant and immaterial. And the man had been too high on drugs to make much sense anyway. He had a drug problem, but I didn't think that he was a murderer."

Charlie nodded. "Sometimes it's hard to tell. They come in all shapes and sizes. I learned that in Miami. But I read his testimony. It's an interesting case."

"Interesting, yes, and we'll probably never know who killed Pete." Louise shrugged her shoulders.

Charlie shook his head. "I've had enough excitement working at the Herald to last a lifetime. Now I want to get the feel of a small town again." He grinned. "And I might find time to work on the play I started last year after I read about the murder."

He turned around as the door opened, and Jenny ran past him. She put her arms around Louise and kissed her forehead.

"It's great to be here," she said, then turned to acknowledge Charlie who stood back and smiled.

"Jenny, this is Charlie Brewster from Miami. He's going to work for the Chronicle."

Jenny shook his hand. "Glad to meet you. I'm Louise's niece. I just drove up from Portland."

"Hi." Charlie walked to the door and looked back. "Maybe I'll see you around."

He left quickly, and Louise sensed that he didn't want to linger. Odd, she thought. Jenny was a beautiful young woman. Long, thick auburn hair, brown eyes, classic features, and great legs. Men usually took a second look.

* * *

Charlie's second look was inside his mind, shoving visions of Dierdre aside. He shook off his memories of their Jamaica honeymoon in 2004, nights on South Beach, beer and a blanket, sex and sea grass. He tried to block out the morning three years later when he found Dierdre's e-mail on his lap top. "Charlie, I don't want to be married any more. I'm filing for a divorce. I've met someone else." An e-mail! She could have called, and he could, at least, have heard the sound of her voice. They could have had lunch at the pier. She could have held his hand, spoken kindly.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked to the wharf. Here were rocks and a heavy Atlantic surf. Not Miami, Charlie. Get real. He locked his car, and walked up the hill to Pine Street. A four-block walk helped to clear his head. He located the newspaper office between a florist shop and a bakery. He opened the door, and familiar odors and sounds welcomed him. The chugging and churning of the presses, the smells of paper, coffee, and cigarettes. No one was at the reception desk, so he walked toward the nearest office. The door was open. He saw a woman seated at a desk, telephone in one hand, a sheaf of papers in the other. On her head, a black, wide-brimmed hat trimmed with a massive black feather that swooped and fluttered as she spoke.

"Goddammit, George, I need that release ASAP. Now!" A deep voice, raspy, harsh. She slammed down the phone. Charlie grinned. The cast of characters may have changed, but the dialogue was the same. It was good to be home.

"Hi, I'm Charlie Brewster, your new reporter. You must be Charlotte Quincy, the editor."

The woman nodded. "Sit down. I read your resume and your articles. I like your style. We don't have much crime around here, but there's a lot of news to report." She pulled out a package of cigarillos and lit one. The first drag produced a hacking cough. "Oh, shut up," she said before Charlie could open his mouth. "I never have time to finish one of these." She leaned back in her chair. "When do you want to start?"

"Tomorrow's fine. I've moved into a motel and ..."

"You don't want to get permanent yet, huh? That's okay. Be here at 8:00. Talk to Sara on your way out. She does salaries."

Charlie moved to the door and took a last look at the editor. Under the plumed hat, a tumble of hair in shades of gray and red. Green eyes dressed in horn-rims. A sharp nose. She wore a white shirt covered by a heavy purple cardigan sweater. Sixty-something probably.

"I suppose you wonder about the hat," she said. "I raid my grandmother's trunk sometimes. She was one of the first newspaper women in North Dakota. I like the continuity."

Charlie laughed. "I'll bet she was a good one."

Charlotte swiveled her chair around to face a computer behind the desk. The interview was over.

Charlie found Sara in the next office. Dimples, blonde pony tail, low-cut T-shirt. "You're Charlie," Sara said, cracking her gum. She worked her computer, turned on a printer, and handed Charlie a form. "This is salary and a job description. The last part is pure conjecture. You'll like it here." She flapped her heavily mascaraed eye lashes and smiled. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Not right now, thanks." He paused. "Were you here when the Clapton murder trial took place?"

"No, I was just a kid in Bangor."

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

Charlie walked back down to Front Street and headed for the pier. He thought about his meeting with the women at the craft shop. Louise, the owner, would be a source of information when he had time to work on his novel. Her niece was good looking, but she wasn't Dierdre.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from EVERYBODY KNEW PETEby Marian Mathews Hersrud Copyright © 2009 by Marian Mathews Hersrud. Excerpted by permission.
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