Chapter 32
Chapter
Thirty-Two
As I pull closer to the cottages, I notice that Keith hasn’t returned. My car is the only vehicle as I park along the circle. I hadn’t given it much thought, but I bet when all the cottages are rented, this area is more crowded. I wonder if they restrict the number of cars per cottage.
After locking my car, I walk the dirt path to cottage two. Twigs from the tall trees crunch beneath my shoes. The sound of a motorboat roars from the lake on the other side of the cottage.
I let out a long breath.
The weather is warming, and soon the season will be underway. The current boater is most likely a Blue Gillian, trying to enjoy the last few uncrowded boating days.
Unlocking the back door of the cottage, I stand for a moment on the stoop and listen inside. With more trepidation than usual, I enter, locking the deadbolt behind me.
I know I’m reacting to everyone’s warnings, but with my pulse thumping in my ears and my heart beating against my breastbone, I’m helpless to stop the onset of nerves.
Scanning the kitchen and beyond, nothing appears out of place.
The two glasses from last night, as well as my breakfast—really lunch—dishes and coffee cup are upside down, drying in the drainer where I left them after handwashing them.
When I asked about a dishwasher, Becky said her parents opted for a washer and dryer instead of a dishwasher in most of the cottages, claiming a water issue.
I’m not sure how much of an issue there could be.
After all, there’s a beautiful lake full of water barely one hundred yards away.
My computer and notes are still on the breakfast bar where I left them.
I wiggle the mouse, bringing the screen to life. It turns on to my lock screen. That isn’t a precaution I installed for this trip. It’s an old habit from sharing a dorm room in college.
A noise—a tapping sound—from the bedroom attracts my attention.
My pulse kicks up a notch.
Tap. Tap.
I tell myself that whatever it is, it’s too light to be footsteps.
With the sun still shining, natural light brightens the rooms. Step by step, I move toward the sound.
I scan the living room. As I do, I notice that the bolt on the front door is in the locked position.
The door to the bathroom is open. Slowly, I step inside.
Taking a deep breath, I pull open the shower curtain.
“You’re being childish,” I whisper to myself as I stare into an empty tub and shower.
Again, I hear the tapping.
The door to the bedroom I’m using is closed, and while I can’t recall closing it, I also can’t say for certain I left it open.
I’m considering going back to the kitchen for the wine opener and push away the notion.
Twisting the doorknob, I hold my breath as I push the door inward. I immediately spot the culprit.
The windows facing the lake are both slightly raised as are the blinds.
A gentle breeze off the lake is tossing about the wood tassel at the end of the cord.
With no rhythm, that small piece of wood is colliding against the knotty pine paneling.
With a shake of my head, I lower and lock each of the windows.
I remember opening them earlier when I was dressing before Keith’s and my adventure to recover my car.
Just for shits and giggles, I make myself go around the entire cottage, checking each window. One by one, I push them down and secure the levers to the locked position.
Once I’m done, I wrestle with my thoughts.
I’ve spent five nights in this cottage and was not frightened during any one of them. Okay, I’ll admit the rainstorm the first night had the trees creaking and the cottage moaning, but my fear wasn’t of a giant man who can carry full-grown women to a shed or again to his car.
It hits me.
If Keith is right, the killer transported Marty after she was dead. That transportation happened in a vehicle. What kind of vehicle is best for transporting a body?
That’s a trick question.
Make or model isn’t as important as size.
Of course, many cars have large trunks. Still, my first thought is a truck.
Fortunately, or not, Blue Gil does not have a shortage of trucks. From working a farm, to four-wheeling, to hunting, to simply preferring a truck, I would conservatively guess that sixty percent of all households in Mills County own at least one truck.
My dad has a truck. It’s at Ollie’s, but still there is a truck. Matt has a truck. Hank drove a truck over here yesterday. And Keith drives a truck—a blue one.
Was Keith’s truck here Saturday night?
I refuse to fall victim to Theo’s concerns about Keith.
However, that doesn’t mean I’m not curious.
Hunger wins over curiosity as I make myself a turkey sandwich, add a handful of potato chips and a small cup of fruit.
Then, I pour myself iced tea. With my dinner at hand, I sit at the breakfast counter and turn on my computer.
Before checking out Theo’s lead in Marquette, I open the email from the Mills County Medical Examiner.
My eyes widen as I read their response.
There is the normal disclaimer regarding anonymity and confidentiality. I check the appropriate boxes and tell them I’m not a robot. A few seconds later a passcode comes through in a separate email.
Entering the passcode, a zip file opens. My attention goes to the attached jpegs.
I’ve opened hundreds of these emails from cases all over our country and yet, for this one, my mouth is dry and my hands are beginning to tremble. I take another drink of tea and stand from the stool. With a cleansing breath, I walk to the front of the living room and peer out the windows.
The sun glistens on the lake like diamonds.
Taking control of my own actions, I chastise myself for letting the warnings of others overshadow what I know firsthand.
Refusing to be a prisoner inside this cottage, I open the glass front door, allowing the fresh air to sweep through the screen door.
The normal sounds of lake life infiltrate my thoughts, washing away my anxiety.
Going back to the computer, I click on the first picture.
Craig’s face is obscured, which is common practice for this kind of information share. His corpse is laid out on a long metal table.
I stare for a moment at what used to be a man, lover, husband, father, son, and brother.
I focus on the picture. Craig was also a teacher and coach, a colleague and friend. A man who was so many things to so many people is now a corpse.
That’s what he is and will forever be.
Time changes perspectives.
From here and now, I can say that Craig Gilbert wasn’t a good man.
By his own brother’s account, he made mistakes with serious consequences.
I have direct knowledge. And yet, he wasn’t all bad.
Today I learned that he helped Austin secure a scholarship to a college that otherwise Austin may not have been able to attend.
I think about what Keith said today. Craig had an illicit relationship with an eighteen-year-old woman—a student—in Marquette, one that cost him his job and reputation in Marquette, and almost his next job—here.
Keith also mentioned fuel as in the substance that kept Craig going. It wasn’t food or air, but his thirst for women, or more accurately, for girls. I’m surprisingly hurt to learn that I wasn’t his first or last conquest.
Craig Gilbert was also a predator.
Keith claimed the same. Yet in the six years since our relationship, I never thought of classifying him that way. It’s a weighty task to reevaluate so many choices. To cast him as the villain would make me a victim. I refused to see myself that way.
My chest aches in a way it hadn’t in years. I assumed that I was somehow special and now, looking at the remains of his life, I know without a doubt, I wasn’t. I was simply fuel.
I thought that after us, Craig learned his lesson. I assumed if Serena heard the rumors, she would make sure her husband was faithful. I may have even assumed that having a child between them would cement their relationship.
Assumptions are a waste of time and energy.
What if he was still sexually involved with students and Serena found out?
Why haven’t people questioned her?
Who is most likely the suspect when a husband is killed?
The wife.
I make a note to check Serena’s alibi for the morning of his disappearance. I thought I recalled reading it somewhere, that maybe she was asleep. If that’s the case, her witness is her three-year-old son, who was also sleeping.
Did they do a toxicology report on Craig?
Could he have been poisoned?
Women are statistically more likely to kill in a less-physical manner. Poisoning is a common method.
I scribble more notes and questions in random order.
Craig Gilbert’s death was factual when Becky called.
It was actual when I stood over his grave and again today at the makeshift memorial, but nothing is as real as seeing his postmortem pictures. Craig is gone. The glint in his soft brown eyes is left to live on only in the eyes of his sons.
Though my glass of iced tea is still three quarters full, I go to the sink; I open the cabinet below and remove my last bottle of wine.
It’s a merlot from St. Julian in Lawton.
I look up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, God, I won’t dump this out.
How about instead, we make a deal?” I talk as I screw the wine opener into the cork.
“Help me learn the truth, and I’ll go back to California and never black out again. ”
The pop of the cork reverberates through the cottage combined with the ding of a text message.
With a filled glass, I go back to the breakfast bar. Before clicking on the picture, I check my phone. The text message is from Echo.
“HAVE YOU READ MY EMAIL”?
I hesitate to text back. I haven’t read any of her emails. I click on the one with the subject line: look at this. But I don’t read. I need to follow through on what I started with these pictures.
Taking one quick sip, I tell myself, this is just research, like any other case.
One bottle isn’t enough wine to convince myself of that.
I go back to the file I opened and click the picture.