Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
Sometime during the night, the rain finally stopped.
The constant pitter-patter and howling winds reminded me of the thunderstorms that can hit this area.
Thankfully, last night was mostly only soaking rain.
Now, I’m sitting on the front porch. I have a blanket from the spare bedroom wrapped around me, holding a warm cup of coffee, and staring out at the glassy surface of Stark Lake.
Due to the earliness of the season, and barely after sunrise—my body clock is all messed up—there isn’t a soul around. The only sounds are bird songs and those noises made by small creatures scurrying through the remnants of leaves still present on the ground.
I choose to believe those creatures are chipmunks and squirrels, not mice or snakes.
One would think I would have slept later, considering there is a three-hour time difference to California, yet I didn’t. In a nutshell, I didn’t sleep well at all.
Last night after Becky left, I brought my things into the cottage and contemplated opening the bottle of wine.
After searching for a bottle opener, and finding one—thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison—I changed my mind.
Between the traveling and emotions of being back to Blue Gil, I decided to spend the rest of the evening doing what I do, what I explained to my friend that I do—research.
Beck said what I do is fiction. It isn’t.
The screenwriters create fiction. The man you see on your television isn’t truly dead.
He’s spent hours in makeup. Special-effect experts staged the scene.
Oftentimes, that is all it takes. Make fake look real—the perception.
Give the viewer a bit of reality here and another tad over there, fill in the blanks with the desired illusion, and boom, the viewers are convinced.
Let’s say that the goal is to create a scene that represents professionalism. The first step is to make it look less real and more up to expectations. The scene is set with an impressive office, a modern desk with large computer screens, and a backdrop of windows.
I mean, seriously, do viewers really think that every successful businessperson has that view?
Currently, the answer is yes.
Back in the day before I participated in productions, that look included a stately bookcase, hardcover-bound books with spines depicting golden titles.
The point being that creating the scene is as important as what is said or done.
The information that we give the visual-effects specialist is as vital as the script.
Last night, I pulled out my laptop. After changing into pajama pants and a t-shirt, securing my hair in a messy bun, and making sure the cottage was secure, I sat cross-legged on the bed in the bedroom I chose.
Basically, the two bedrooms are mirror images of each other, perfect for someone who hates making definitive decisions. I chose the one to the left because I found one difference. In the one I chose, the windows look out to the lake instead of the parking area.
With the only illumination coming from the small lamps on the bedside stands, I turned on my computer and logged on with the passcode I found.
My job allows me right of entry to records that others can’t access.
Last night, I accessed the Mills County Medical Examiner and made a request on behalf of the production company. Permission isn’t a sure thing, but I had to try.
My message was standard fare: Looking for information regarding abandoned deceased victim. Time of year, spring. Conditions, varying temperatures and wetter than normal. Victim, male. Read an obituary of recent DOA. Any information is appreciated.
I hit send.
Ten o’clock at night on a Friday—the Friday of the funeral—I didn’t expect an immediate response. To my surprise my computer dinged. It was the standard reply to my email: Thank you for your interest...blah, blah...be in touch.
I then spent a few hours going through files I’ve accumulated over the last few years. I tried to match Becky’s words with the facts I knew. Her words came back.
He was barely recognizable.
Serena and his family wanted him remembered...
I remembered.
Throughout the night as I tried to sleep, memories surfaced.
It was the beginning of our junior year when Craig Gilbert came to Blue Gil.
Our high school was his second teaching position.
He came to us from a school system in the UP—Upper Peninsula of Michigan—where he’d taught for two years.
At the time, our football coach had announced his retirement.
The Blue Gil Municipal School System put out a nationwide search for a new football coach.
Since my mom was on the search-and-screen committee, I was privy to some of the inside information.
Craig Gilbert played high school football for a small school in Marquette, Michigan, in the UP. He was drafted by a Division III school where he played for one year until getting noticed by Michigan State, where he played for the next three years.
After completing his education degree and having three years of experience playing football at Michigan State, he returned to the UP where he was hired as a high school assistant coach—offensive coordinator.
Many on the Blue Gil selection committee were concerned about his age—only 25. My mom included.
However, on his second interview with the committee, he mentioned that he was engaged. Somehow, in the grand scheme of life, settling down with a wife gave Craig Gilbert both experience in football and the stability that our small village welcomed.
The new Mrs. Gilbert was present when Mr. Gilbert signed his contract. It was a big event including a celebration in the high school gymnasium. Most of the town turned out to welcome our new coach.
We had a decent team before he came. My brother Ollie was in the eighth grade and couldn’t wait to be a part of all that high school sports had to offer.
The first year Mr. Gilbert coached, he took the team to the regional finals. That was good but not good enough. The entire town turned out to listen to his rousing end-of-the-year speech and promise for a better season the next year.
He instituted year-round camp and weight training.
My senior year our team made it to the state finals.
We lost miserably, but you wouldn’t have known that by the greeting the team received as they returned to town.
People came from all around to line the streets, wave banners with the school’s colors, and cheer on their return.
It was Blue Gil’s first appearance at the state final.
Since that time, Blue Gil has won two state championships and is almost always a contender.
It is as I go back inside the cottage for a second cup of coffee that a movement out of the window of the back door catches my attention.
Stepping closer, I push aside the sheer curtain and notice a blue truck backing away from the common parking area.
I watch, unable to see the occupant, as the car turns and drives away.
From my vantage, I can’t make out the license plate, not even if it is Michigan or another state. I question if the truck has been parked near mine all night or if it simply turned on the wrong road and reversed course?
Leaving my freshly poured coffee to cool, I slip on my boots—an excellent fashion accessory to my pajama pants and t-shirt. To complete the ensemble, I add the jacket I brought from home. It was in my suitcase until I unpacked last night.
The screen door squeaks as I push it open to the stoop at the back of the cottage.
For a moment, I stand still, taking in the sounds of nature, the same as the ones I heard from the front porch.
I’m not sure what I want to find as I walk back to the dirt parking area, but once I get there, I know.
There’s a rectangle of drier dirt about fifteen feet from where I parked my rental car.
That blue truck was present long enough to keep the ground beneath it from most of the overnight rain. While I’m relatively certain I didn’t see it when I initially parked, I was distracted by Becky’s presence. The uncertainty is another symptom of my return.
As I approach the door to the cottage, the ring from my phone beckons me inside.
“Shit, don’t be Mom,” I mutter as I swing open the screen door. It slams as I push the solid door closed.
With equal parts trepidation and curiosity, I hurry to where my phone sits on the counter next to my coffee, and I read the screen: Echo.
I let out a breath as I hit the green icon to speak to my boss, a visual-effects specialist. “Echo, damn, it’s early back there.”
“It is, but when I woke and realized you hadn’t called or texted, I wanted to be sure you made it to Nowhere, Michigan.”
I scoff. “I made it. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m a mess.”
“Shit, Jill. That excuse won’t fly,” she replies with a laugh. “You’re always a mess.”
I scoff at her sentiment and the use of my shortened name—the name I go by everywhere but in Blue Gil. The ian will forever live on here. “You’re right.”
“Tell me what you have.”
What I have.
I asked to work remotely from almost literally nowhere because I heard about a recent possible homicide that might work nicely into one of our dramas. I hadn’t mentioned that it was my hometown or that there was no suspicion of foul play. I left out more than I included.
“Not a lot. Not yet,” I reply. “This place is small. I was able to rent a cottage for up to two weeks.”
“Two weeks,” Echo repeats, surprised. “I didn’t know you would be gone that long. You know you have notes from Liam. He has questions about the drowning scene they’re about to film. Be sure to check your email. He said he may need to talk in person. I told him you could Zoom.”
“The internet isn’t great, but I think it will support that,” I say. “I’ll check his notes and my emails. Don’t worry. Today’s Saturday, and I doubt I’ll learn much here over the weekend. This town kind of rolls up its sidewalks, if you know what I mean. I promise I’ll keep in touch.”
“Sounds like a fun place.”
I shake my head as I reach for my coffee. “Then I’m representing it wrong.”
Echo’s soft laugh comes through the phone. “Well, I’m glad you made it, and I sure as hell hope this trip yields some good shit. You know how tough it is to be original these days.”
“I do. Thanks for the time, Echo. I’m off to look for Liam’s notes right now.”
“Stay safe in nowhere.”
“Not much happens here.”
“Then this possible homicide is big news.”
I fight the urge to come clean and let her know that no one else is suspecting foul play. “Potentially,” I say instead. “I’ll talk to you later.” I disconnect the call and look around the quaint cottage. Nothing big ever happens in Blue Gil…
Only accidents.
Right?