Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Shaking off the avalanche of emotions I neither want nor appreciate, I trudge back through the squishy ground to the lane. Scrape by scrape, I work to rid my shoes of the mud, as if doing so would erase the past.
The colors of the sunset are gone, obscured by billowing clouds rising high above the horizon. With the sky growing darker, dusk gives way to nightfall.
While I’m unsure of many things, I know that I’m not ready to face my parents, not yet.
What options do I have?
My hometown has many things. A hotel isn’t one. Hell, I’d take a motel—you know, the kind from Criminal Minds?
The sentiment makes me scoff as I settle back into the car, the one that is now parked in the cemetery after dark.
Pulling my cell phone from my purse, my finger hovers over a recent contact.
Becky isn’t only a recent call. She’s my childhood best friend and my only non-family connection to Blue Gil over the last six years.
It isn’t that I left this village on bad terms. I just left, closing most doors behind me, looking forward to new horizons, bright beginnings, and all that shit. The last remaining connections have been family and Becky.
Before I make the call, I notice the time on the screen.
In this time zone, it’s after seven in the evening.
That means there’s a good chance Becky isn’t alone.
Her husband is home. Hank Sanders and I have never seen eye to eye.
He doesn’t like me, which works out well because the feeling is mutual.
Our animosity started our senior year when he and Becky began dating.
Much like a slow-growing malignancy, our discord eats away at me, things I should have said and shouldn’t have done.
The details aren’t my story to tell, yet the sentiment is the silent antagonist to Becky’s and my ongoing friendship.
One of the hardest things I ever did was decline Becky’s invitation to return for her wedding. The way I saw it was that her wedding was her special day. My presence wouldn’t add to the festivities.
Thankfully, our friendship survived.
Instead of calling Becky, I send a text message.
“BECK, CAN YOU TALK FOR A MINUTE?”
I stare expectantly at my phone as thoughts of the recently deceased swirl through my mind.
Craig Gilbert, Blue Gil high school teacher, football coach, husband, and father.
Those are the adjectives used in the obituary I read online.
The local funeral home has a section on their website for people to leave condolences.
The comments I read contained the usual sentiments, taken too soon, struck down in his prime, an unbelievable loss, and the ever-present—will be dearly missed.
The circumstances of his death are fuzzy at best. Craig Gilbert was reported missing nearly two weeks ago after he uncharacteristically failed to report to work.
The local sheriff’s department did the usual questioning, talking to his wife, as well as friends and colleagues at the high school.
The school’s security has no record of him entering the high school building the day he disappeared.
Each teacher has a keycard that records their activity in an overall system.
There are also cameras at each entrance and in areas of congregation.
He left the night before at 5:48 p.m., nearly two hours after the final bell.
Craig’s wife claimed her husband was awake and already gone when she woke up the morning of his disappearance.
She also claimed that his early departure wasn’t an unusual occurrence, as he often met with students before school for coordinated workouts.
However, their home is southeast of town, and miles from the school, yet his car was in the garage.
Also, his workout bag was in the back hatch.
What time did he leave his home? Are there home security records? Did Mrs. Gilbert hear him stir?
Serena Gilbert told the authorities she thought she had heard him up and moving. She couldn’t recall checking the clock.
As with any community, the people of the village made their assumptions.
He vanished of his own accord.
Marital problems.
Perhaps a secret affair.
The spouse is always on the radar.
The sheriff’s department found nothing definitive.
Three days after his disappearance, Mrs. Gilbert pleaded for any clues during a news conference broadcast on social media and through a Kalamazoo television station. Her plea was picked up by some national syndicates and even made its way to Crime Daily, the podcast that I often listen to.
McKenzie Shaffer and Allison Buckley do their research. They’re not all about sensationalism. On a recent podcast, they described how Serena Gilbert’s cheeks were covered in tears, and their three-year-old son was at her knee, as she begged for information.
Though the sheriff’s department did all that was required of them, a week after his disappearance, the high school organized a search.
Springtime in Southern Michigan brings everything from sunny days to snow showers. Rainstorms can transform dry creek beds into rushing rivers. If the weather is anything here, it is unpredictable.
Coach Gilbert was found by two members of the football team, partially submerged in the ditch beside a remote county road.
The sheriff claimed the area was searched earlier.
It’s hypothesized that the recent rain temporarily hid his body until the water receded.
The same rain, as well as the delay in locating him, contaminated vital evidence.
At thirty-two years old and being an avid health advocate, Craig, it’s now assumed, was out running on the morning in question.
That begs the questions, was he struck, did he slip and fall, or did he have a health issue?
It seems the answer would have been evident during his autopsy.
The ringing of my phone pulls me from my thoughts. As the caller’s name appears, I hit the answer icon and speak, “Beck.”
“Jillian,” she says, “what’s up? Is everything all right?”
Her hushed tone causes the small hairs on the back of my neck to stand to attention and my teeth to clench. “Can you talk?”
“For a minute. Hank is finishing up out in the barn.”
I let out a breath. “Beck...” I want to tell her for the hundredth time to leave him. I want to tell her that she deserves better. Instead, my words of warning fade away.
“Tell me why you wanted to talk,” she replies, more curtly, no doubt sensing my initial reaction.
My gaze again peers beyond the windows out to the darkened cemetery. “I’m here.”
“Here?” Her voice grows stronger. “What the hell, Jillian? Where’s here? Not in Blue Gil.”
I nod my head as I reply, “Yes. Blue Gil. More specifically in the cemetery.”
“At night. What if Joseph or Annabelle sees you?”
Joseph Manes graduated roughly twenty-five years before us.
He’s local born and raised—an insider. Upon his graduation, he went into the military and came back to Blue Gil a local hero.
Since he was an MP—military police—he joined the Blue Gil Sheriff’s Department.
At first he was a volunteer, but that wouldn’t suit a hero.
The village found the funds and Joseph was hired as a deputy.
After a few years, Sheriff Little, a lifelong member of the department, had one too many cups of coffee and his high blood pressure got the better of him.
Despite Manes being younger than others in the department, the town rallied behind Joseph.
Ever since, he’s been the sheriff and head of the small but diligent local law enforcement.
“Who is Annabelle?” I ask.
“Remember Constance Ford?”
I try to recall names from our past. “Yes, we played basketball together.”
“Annabelle is her sister, and the newest member of the sheriff’s department.”
I wonder if that means Blue Gil now has four people in the sheriff’s department. If memory serves me, there is Theodore Morton, close to retirement age, and Ernest Williams, a quiet man, never married, who takes his position seriously.
“That seniority gets her the night shift,” Becky says. “And Joe is constantly out and about. I bet Annabelle does regular checks on the cemetery, especially after today’s funeral.”
I imagine the funeral. Surely, everyone showed up.
“Yeah, I was planning on heading to my folks,” I say.
“Planning?”
The weight on my chest grows heavier. “They don’t know I’m here, and I don’t think I can face Jerry and Shannon. Not today.”
“God, Jillian, I wish you could stay...but you know...I can’t...”
She can’t invite me to her house, not with Hank.
“I know. I suppose I could drive back to Kalamazoo and get a hotel.”
“Wait,” she says with a tone of growing excitement. “Remember the old Iverson place on Stark Lake?”
“Yeah, those cottages are probably a big mansion now.”
“No, they’re not. My parents bought them a few years back.
It’s their retirement plan. Now they’re rentals.
You know, a place for people to stay before they decide they need a lakeside mansion.
They’re rented during the season, but that hasn’t officially started.
Anyway, there are six cottages, and Mom and Dad are still in Florida. ”
Becky’s parents were a bit older than mine and have taken to wintering as snowbirds.
“They didn’t come home for the funeral. Your dad worked with Craig...Mr. Gilbert.”
“Mom convinced him to stick to their schedule. They had tickets for some show she didn’t want to miss. Anyway, five of the cottages are open until Memorial Day weekend. I have the keys.”
That’s two weeks away.
A seed of hope springs to life. “Beck, that would be great. Do you think they’d mind if I rented one?”
“Rent? No way. You can stay there. You’re family.” Suddenly her voice becomes softer as she asks, “Do you remember where they are?”
“Yeah, I think. They’re off Old 44?”
“That’s it. Be careful, the roads are dark out there, especially at this time of year. And we’ve had two cars totaled from deer this spring alone. They’re everywhere and will dart in front of any moving vehicle.”
I nod, recalling my father warning me of that hazard every time I left the house as a teenager.
“And this time of year,” she continues, “most of the houses out that way are uninhabited. No lights. No traffic. The cottages are fully furnished. Grab some groceries. The Dollar Store is open until eight. I’ll tell Hank my dad called, and with the recent rain, he wants me to check on the cottages.
We’re about to eat dinner. I can be there in an hour with the key. ”
A smile comes to my lips. “Thank you. You’re the best.”
“When I get there,” she whispers, “I want to hear the real reason why you’re here.”
“You know why. You called.”
“No way. I want a better reason than that.” Before I respond, she says, “I can’t wait to see my best friend.” The call ends.
Why am I here?
I am here because when Becky called to tell me that Craig Gilbert died, I needed to see for myself. After learning what I could online, I imagined him floating in a ditch, decaying in the elements, his cold body bloated. I imagined all sorts of scenarios.
It’s not that I have a morbid imagination. Fabricating death and medical emergencies is what I do. I’m a visual-effects researcher.
However, before I could get here to see for myself, I had to arrange travel and coordinate work.
A hundred factors delayed my arrival.
Truth be told, I’m not sure I could have done it, walked into the funeral home in front of the entire town. But now that I’m here, I want answers, more than the sheriff is seeking, more than the Mills County Coroner sought, and maybe more than Serena Gilbert is asking.
The entire incident was classified as an accident.
Like every town in the world, Blue Gil has had its share of tragedies.
When I was in elementary school, a girl two years older than me was murdered. It was summertime and she’d been at the county fair. It was always suspected that one of the carnie workers was responsible, but by the time her body was found, the fair had moved on.
The case is still cold.
There are the everyday thefts that plague all communities: bikes, cars, livestock. Okay, maybe not every town has missing cattle, horses, or hogs. There are also domestic disputes, most certainly more than are reported.
A few years ago, a boat capsized on Sapphire Lake. It was a pontoon, a party boat. Six people went into the water. Four were rescued. A mother and child weren’t. Alcohol was believed to have been involved.
Not every crime is solved or sometimes even reported.
Like any town, Blue Gil isn’t perfect.
Nevertheless, to enhance the attraction for the summer residents—the outsiders—when possible, incidents are buried. What better way to avert the spotlight than to classify the incident as an accident?
As I push the ignition button on the car, the headlights illuminate the fresh gravesite.
“I want answers, Craig. I want to know the truth. That’s why I’m here.”