Dia de los Muertos
The group of dedicated volunteers that met at the Puritan Falls town hall on the first of every other month to organize various community social events and raise money for municipal projects had no official name. Patience Scudder, the town librarian and the group's current chairwoman, referred to it simply as the "town team."
On the evening of the first of February the nine members traveled to the Essex Street municipal building in below-freezing temperatures and despite predictions of snow to discuss plans for the annual autumn harvest celebration. Josiah Barnard, owner of the Sons of Liberty Tavern, made a large pot of coffee, and Rebecca Coffin brought a selection of pastries from The Quill and Dagger's coffee shop. Refreshments in hand, the members took their seats at a long conference table, and the meeting was called to order.
"Does anybody have a suggestion for our fall fundraiser?" Patience asked after finishing her chocolate-filled croissant. "Preferably something we've never done before."
"How do we top the mardi gras celebration we had last October?" asked Shawn McMurtry, Puritan Falls' ever-popular police officer.
"You liked that one, did you?" asked Ezra Graves, owner, editor and senior reporter of The Puritan Falls Gazette. "I liked the black-and-white Royal Ascot Ball we had the year before that."
"Both events made a great deal of money for us," Patience said. "Enough to buy new swings and play elements for the elementary center. And then we still had money left over to purchase the Fourth of July fireworks."
"Two really successful affairs in two years—we're on a roll," psychiatrist Lionel Penn declared with a laugh. "We really have to come up with a good idea to maintain the momentum."
"Or, better yet, surpass the previous events," Dr. Sarah Ryerson said.
There were a number of excellent suggestions posed: a community-wide scavenger hunt, a Christmas in October fair, an American Idol-inspired talent competition and a haunted house and hayride. These were all good ideas, but none of them had that "wow factor" the team was looking for.
Finally, Rebecca Coffin, who had vacationed in Puerto Vallarta in January, proposed, "Since the event will be held in October, I think it's a good idea to stick with the Halloween theme. It always brings in a lot of teenagers and college students. But rather than the typical events that everyone and his uncle has to offer, we could be more creative. Why not a Day of the Dead celebration?"
"Day of the Dead? Isn't that a TV show about zombies?" asked Josiah Barnard, who did not keep up with current pop culture.
"No," McMurtry said with a laugh, "that's The Walking Dead. My kids and I watch it all the time. My daughter has a major crush on Daryl."
"The Day of the Dead, or Dia de los Muertos, is a celebration held in Mexico and several other Latin American countries to honor the dead," explained Abigail Cantwell, the proprietor of the Bell, Book and Candle New Age shop. "It's quite an extravagant holiday, filled with festivities. According to old beliefs, the gates of heaven open at midnight on October 31, and the spirits of all deceased children are free to reunite with their families for twenty-four hours. Then on November 2, the spirits of the adults can join in."
"November 1," Shannon Devlin, owner of the Green Man Pub, pointed out, "is Samhain, the Celtic New Year. It was also a time for honoring one's ancestors."
"And it's no coincidence that the Catholic Church celebrates All Saints Day and All Souls Day on the first and second of November," Abigail added. "Most Christian holidays have their roots in Pagan holy days."
"If we do decide to hold a Day of the Dead celebration, what kind of festivities would there be?" asked Shawn McMurtry.
"It's customary for celebrants to build altars for their deceased loved ones, but I suggest we not be quite so morbid. Let's pick one person—say, Stephen Prescott, the founder of Puritan Falls—and honor him. We can put tables around his statue in the Common and heap traditional Day of the Dead offerings upon them."
"What kind of offerings are we talking about?" Sarah Ryerson asked. "No dead animals, I hope."
"Flowers, candles, foods, trinkets ... all things we can sell as fundraisers. But that's only the start. People dress up in colorful costumes and have their faces painted as skeletons. There are parties, dances, music and sometimes parades."
"We could have a sugar skull competition," Patience suggested eagerly. "And we can give out prizes for the best costumes."
"Why don't we make this an all-day event?" Lionel Penn proposed. "We can have a fair on the Common in the morning, featuring crafts and food items for sale. Then we can hold a parade in the afternoon, which will end with placing the offerings in front of Prescott's statue. The parade can be followed by the judging of the various competitions we'll hold throughout the day. Finally, we can have a skeleton costume ball at night."
"That sounds wonderful!" Shannon exclaimed. "We can count on attracting not only the local people but also tourists who enjoy going to Halloween attractions."
When the proposal was put to a vote, it was unanimously approved.
* * *
Realtor Jacqueline Astor did not mind waiting for her client to appear. It was a warm April day, and she stood on the front steps of the vacant home, closed her eyes and lifted her face toward the warm sun. When she opened them again, she was startled to see a woman standing in front of her.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," the client apologized.
"I didn't hear a car pull up."
"That's because I walked here. It's such a beautiful day that I wanted to get some fresh air."
There was something vaguely familiar about Martha St. James, the woman from California who was looking to relocate to Massachusetts.
"Have we ever met?" Jacqueline asked.
"I don't think so," Martha replied and then changed the subject. "This is the house, then?"
"Yes. Why don't we go inside, and you can look around."
When Jacqueline put the key into the lock and opened the door, the West Coast client crossed the threshold of the two-story, federal style home and instantly fell in love.
"The wainscoting is original as are the hardwood floors," the real estate agent informed her client. "The heating system was upgraded two years ago, and the owners recently installed central air."
As Martha silently walked from room to room, there was no expression on her face, and Jacqueline despaired of selling the house. Without a word or even a look at the realtor, the woman walked up the stairs to the second floor. When she came downstairs fifteen minutes later, Martha St. James had a smile on her face.
"I want to make an offer on this place."
* * *
In a town the size of Puritan Falls, a new resident moving into the community was a big deal. Roseanne Dwyer, owner of the Days Gone By antique store and a representative of the local Welcome Wagon, could always be counted on to spread the news. Weeks before Martha St. James moved her belongings into her newly purchased Danvers Street house, most of the villagers knew that the woman from California would be making Puritan Falls her home.
"That must be her," Abigail Cantwell said to Rebecca Coffin and Shawn McMurtry when they saw Martha pass by the Essex Street bookstore.
"She looks familiar," Rebecca noted, "but I don't know where I've seen her before."
"I have that same feeling," Shawn said.
"Me, too," Abigail declared. "I wonder if she's ever done any modeling or television commercials."
"It's possible," Shawn said. "She is from Los Angeles, after all."
Other people had similar feelings during the day. When Shannon Devlin saw Martha at the post office, she experienced an odd sense of recognition, as did Sarah Ryerson, Lionel Penn, Josiah Barnard, Patience Scudder and Ezra Graves when they encountered the new neighbor.
Martha was tight-lipped about her personal life and carefully avoided answering questions as to why she wanted to leave the Golden State and live in Massachusetts. It was Shawn McMurtry's daughter, Brittany, who provided the first clue as to the mystery of the woman's identity.
"Martha St. James?" the teenager cried with excitement when she overheard her father discussing the new resident with his wife, Penny. "Is that who bought the big house on Danvers Street?"
"Yes. Do you know her?"
"Of course, I do. That's Belladonna Nightshade, the host of Classic Horror Movies on the Thriller TV network."
"Belladonna Nightshade has long black hair," her father argued. "Martha St. James is a blonde."
Brittany rolled her eyes in a gesture every parent of a teenaged child is familiar with, one that indicates the child considers the parent hopelessly out of touch with the world.
"She wears a wig and makeup on the show."
"Well, she's much prettier in person than she is on television," Shawn declared, making a mental note of this bit of news so that he could share it with his friends at the police station and at The Quill and Dagger where he stopped nearly every morning for coffee and to peruse the new mystery and true crime books that came in.
However, before he made Martha St. James's secret known, he wanted to confirm her identity first.
* * *
Martha St. James was in the middle of unpacking her dinnerware when she heard the doorbell ring. After putting a stack of saucers on the cabinet shelf, she walked to the front door. She was surprised to see a policeman standing on her stoop.
"Is something wrong, officer?" she asked warily.
"No, not at all. I'm not here on official business," Shawn replied in his Andy-Taylor-from-Mayberry manner. "I just wanted to welcome you to Puritan Falls."
"Roseanne Dwyer has already been here."
"I'm not from the Welcome Wagon," Shawn said with an amused smile. "I'm from the Puritan Falls Police Department."
"I know; the uniform gave it away," Martha joked and invited the officer inside. "I can offer you coffee, if you don't mind instant."
"Thank you."
He followed Martha out to the kitchen where she put a pot of water on the stove.
"Speaking of uniforms," he said as the new homeowner searched for two coffee mugs. "I didn't recognize you without yours."
"I don't wear a uniform."
"I suppose the more accurate term is costume."
"Why did you come here?" Martha angrily demanded to know. "What do you want?"
"Please don't get upset. I just wanted to see if my daughter was right, that you were actually Belladonna Nightshade. I didn't realize you were here incognito."
"I'm not," Martha said in a much calmer tone of voice. "Anyone can go on the Internet Movie Database and find out that I'm Belladonna Nightshade."
"That's true. But then why were you so upset a few minutes ago?"
After a moment's hesitation, Martha answered, "You're a police officer. I suppose I can trust you."
She poured boiling water into the coffee cups, and then she and Shawn sat down on stools by the kitchen island.
"I'm not exactly an A-list actress, but I am a celebrity," she admitted. "Tens of thousands of fans show up at Comic Cons for my autograph, and I have more than a hundred thousand members in my fan club. Unfortunately, one of those fans has taken things a little far."
"You have a stalker?"
"Yes. It began with letters and phone calls. The police assured me the guy was just a harmless nut, but he wasn't. He waited outside the studio one night, and when I was walking toward my car he zapped me with a stun gun. He then took me in his truck to an abandoned factory."
Martha stopped speaking to wipe the tears from her eyes and take a sip of coffee.
"I thought he was going to kill me," she continued. "He probably would have eventually, but lucky for me two graffiti artists snuck into the factory and found me there. One of them untied me while the other phoned the police."
"Did they catch the guy?"
"Yes, but the assistant D.A. claimed he didn't have enough evidence to make a case, so he was released. I decided I had enough of living in the public eye. That's why I moved to Puritan Falls. It seemed as far removed from Los Angeles as possible."
Shawn finished his coffee and rose to leave.
"Thank you for sharing your story with me. I promise to keep it confidential. And, rest assured, if you ever need help, just give me a call, any time night or day."
* * *
By the Fourth of July, Martha St. James had the opportunity to meet nearly all of her Danvers Street neighbors. While most of them knew she was a former television host, no one made a fuss over her. Instead, they respected her privacy. The ex-celebrity soon felt so comfortable in her new environment that she attended the annual Independence Day picnic on Puritan Falls Common.
Carrying a plate of potato salad and a hamburger, she headed toward an empty chair next to Shannon Devlin.
"Is this seat taken?"
"No," Shannon replied. "Go ahead and sit down. Do you know everyone here?"
"I've seen most of you around town, but I'm afraid I don't know your names."
One by one, the others introduced themselves: Lionel Penn, Sarah Ryerson, Patience Scudder, Rebecca Coffin, Abigail Cantwell, Ezra Graves and Josiah Barnard. Shawn McMurtry, the remaining member of the town team, was on duty patrolling the streets of Puritan Falls.
"Are you all moved into your new house yet?" Abigail asked.
"Just about. I ordered custom furniture for my home office, and it hasn't been delivered yet. Once I get it, I'll be done decorating."
"How do you like our town so far?" Sarah inquired.
"I like it very much. I originally considered moving to Nantucket, but since I had a connection to Puritan Falls, I decided to stop here first. One look at the house and I was hooked."
"What connection do you have with our town?" Patience asked.
"My family was originally from here way back in the seventeenth century."
"Really?"
Martha smiled, nodded toward the statue prominently displayed in the center of the Common and replied, "That's my great-great-great-whatever-grandfather. St. James is my professional name. I was born Martha Prescott."
The jaws of the other eight people sitting at Martha's table dropped in unison, and furtive glances passed among them. Could that explain why every one of them was certain they had previously met the newcomer?
Once the shock of Martha's lineage passed, it was as though she were an old friend. She joined in the volleyball game, ran with Josiah Barnard in the three-legged race and teamed up with Shannon Devlin for the water balloon toss.
"I've been meaning to stop at The Quill and Dagger," Martha told Rebecca Coffin as they waited in line for a slice of fresh watermelon. "I could use some more reading material, not to mention a good cup of coffee."
"While you're there, why don't you pop in at the Bell, Book and Candle?" Abigail Cantwell suggested. "It's right across the street. I'll give you a tour of the place and then you, Rebecca and I can go to the Green Man for lunch."
"Thanks. I'd like that."
After finishing their watermelon, the women joined Lionel Penn and Sarah Ryerson who were sitting on a blanket that had been spread out on the ground.
"This is the best place to see the fireworks," Sarah announced, as she pulled a can of bug repellant out of her bag and passed it around.
Lionel did not agree with her.
"Actually, the best place is from the deck of my boat, but I'm afraid there is not room enough for everyone."
In the middle of the pyrotechnics display came the piercing sound of a police siren.
"I wonder where Shawn is off to in such a hurry," Ezra Graves remarked.
"I hope some teenager didn't blow a finger off with a cherry bomb," Dr. Ryerson said.
No one was unduly alarmed. Shawn often turned on the siren in his patrol car when no real emergency existed. On the evening of July 4, however, this was not the case.
* * *
Ezra Graves was the first person outside of the Puritan Falls Police Department to learn the news. Dan Bergen, the chief of police, an old schoolmate and close personal friend of the newspaperman, kept him apprised of any police activity.
"Let me get this straight," Ezra said in the telephone receiver as he hastily jotted notes onto his desk calendar. "Some kids hiking up in the Naumkeag Hills near Gallows Lake found a box containing some bones."
"Not just a few bones," Dan clarified, "an entire skeleton. Someone put the body of a child into a box and hid it in the woods up there."
"How recently?"
"That we won't know until the state police forensics lab has had a chance to examine the remains. But my guess is that the body has been up there for at least fifty years, possibly more."
"That long?" Ezra asked with disbelief. "Seems odd that in all that time no one has found it before now."
"I can't say for certain that the box has been there the entire time. Maybe it was moved from another place at some point."
The editor got the names of the teenagers who had made the grisly discovery, thanked his friend for the tip and hung up the phone. Then he informed his unpaid college intern that he would be out of the office for a few hours.
"Covering a story?" the journalism student asked hopefully. "Can I come?"
"Yes to the first question," Ezra replied. "No to the second. I'm afraid I need you here to answer the phone."
The girl sighed with disappointment, wishing she had taken a summer job at Starbucks in the mall. At least at the coffee shop she would get a paycheck.
* * *
Patience Scudder called a special meeting of the town team in mid-July. Normally they would not meet until the first of August, but special circumstances demanded the meeting be moved up.
"I know you've all heard about the body found near Gallows Lake," she said, after everyone took their seats. "In light of the discovery, I think we should decide whether or not we want to cancel our Day of the Dead celebration."
Abigail Cantwell was the first to object, saying, "I don't see why we should."
"A child has died," Shawn McMurtry responded. "Some people might think such a celebration is inappropriate. It might make us appear insensitive."
"We shouldn't let that poor child's death stop us. It's not as though he died recently," Shannon Devlin argued. "The medical examiner estimates he was killed back in the late 1950s."
"I agree with Abigail and Shannon," Sarah Ryerson added. "I say we go ahead as planned."
"What about the rest of you?" Patience asked. "Does anyone feel differently?"
"I've been painting skeleton masks for the past five months," Rebecca Coffin answered. "Call me insensitive if you want to, but I'd hate to have done all that work for nothing."
"I don't see that we can cancel at this stage of the game," Josiah Barnard said. "How can we organize another event of this magnitude in three months' time?"
"Lionel? Ezra?" Rebecca asked, turning to the remaining two members. What have you two got to say?"
"Honestly?" Dr. Penn replied. "I've been looking forward to this event. So much so, that I ordered my costume back in May. I'd hate to see us cancel now."
Everyone looked at Ezra, who asserted, "I say we go ahead. If people don't like it, they don't have to attend. Besides, you needn't worry about any bad press, not from the Gazette at least."
"Then it's decided," Patience announced with relief. "Our Day of the Dead celebration will be held on November first as planned."
"Maybe by then we'll solve the murder of the boy in the box," Shawn said optimistically.
* * *
Stan Yablonski and Phil Langston, the only two detectives on the Puritan Falls police force, had never investigated a case that had been cold for sixty years or possibly longer. Although the state police had extracted DNA from the child's teeth, they could not match the profile to available DNA samples from relatives of children who went missing during the Fifties and early Sixties.
After exhausting their usual options, the detectives were glad to accept the help of not only the state police but also the FBI and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Not one of these organizations could provide a clue to the child's identity, however.
Two months later, as villagers were getting sweaters and fall jackets out of their attics, McMurtry joined Stan and Phil for lunch at the Burger Barn.
"What's that you've got, Shawn?" Stan asked, nodding his head toward a manila folder in the policeman's hand.
"I've been meaning to run this old case by you."
"Jesus Christ, McMurtry! This is our lunch hour," Phil complained.
"What case is that?" Stan inquired, ignoring his cantankerous partner.
"It's the boy in the box murder, arguably the city of Philadelphia's most famous cold case."
Intrigued, Yablonski asked, "Are there any similarities between our case and that one?"
"Take a look at the file," Shawn answered, handing over the folder.
Yablonski scanned the pertinent details that Shawn had highlighted with a yellow marker. The boy in Philadelphia had been discovered on February 26, 1957 in a thickly wooded area in the Fox Chase section of the city. The child, whose nude body was found wrapped in a blanket inside the box, was approximately five years old, was forty inches tall and weighed thirty pounds. He had a fair complexion, blue eyes and light brown hair. The medical examiner estimated he had been dead anywhere from three days to two weeks. An autopsy revealed that the child was severely malnourished, and his esophagus contained a dark, brown residue, possibly indicating he vomited shortly before death. There were bruises from head to toe on both sides of the boy's body, including prominent ones on his forehead and temples. The hair had been crudely cut either after death or just before, and clumps of it were found on the body. Additionally, the palm of the child's right hand and both his feet exhibited wrinkled skin, indicating he might have been immersed in water. The case was investigated as a homicide. However, the medical examiner ruled that although the cause of death was due to multiple head injuries, the manner of death was never determined—the child's injuries could have been the result of an accident.
Accident, my ass! the detective thought as he reached for his bag of French fries.
Munching on the overly salted deep-fried potatoes, he continued reading. The child's finger- and footprints didn't match any hospital records. In an attempt to ascertain his identity, police photographed the dead boy and printed up hundreds of thousands of flyers, which were displayed in public places and businesses throughout the Pennsylvania, New Jersey and Delaware area. The flyers were even sent out with people's gas bills. The search for the boy's identity and his parents eventually extended across the country and into Canada, Mexico and Europe, but all leads resulted in dead ends.
Stan flipped to the last page and read the final paragraph that described the box as one that originally contained a baby's bassinet, which was sold at JCPenney.
"Well?" Shawn asked when Yablonski closed the folder.
"Both children were boys of about the same age. Both died in the late fifties. Unfortunately, due to the advanced state of decomposition of our victim, we can't compare the injuries. What interests me most is that according to the forensics report the state boys sent us, there were scraps of a blanket found inside the box from Gallows Lake—pieces of blanket and human hair."
"Sounds like the same perp to me," Phil declared, removing the wrapping from his second bacon cheeseburger.
"Hold on. We can't go jumping to conclusions," Stan cautioned. "We could be dealing with a copycat. Our guy might have read about the case in Philly and decided to get rid of his victim's body in the same manner."
* * *
In the weeks that followed, the leaves on the deciduous trees turned color and then eventually fell to the ground. Throughout Puritan Falls, people were preparing for the much-awaited Day of the Dead celebration. On the twenty-fifth of October, volunteers erected the "altar" that circled the statue of founder Stephen Prescott.
Shannon Devlin sketched out a map of the Common, indicating where all the vendors were to pitch their tents. There were so many people eager to sell their wares at the festival that latecomers would have to set up folding tables along the sidewalks of Gloucester Street. Meanwhile, Rebecca Coffin had to rely on her employees to mind things at The Quill and Dagger while she and Patience Scudder finalized preparations for the costume ball.
Shawn McMurtry, who had no official responsibilities in the local boy in the box case, was able to devote his free time to organizing the parade with Lionel Penn and Josiah Barnard. Still, he couldn't take his mind off the tiny skeleton that had been discarded so callously. When he went on duty after attending a town team progress meeting, he ran into Yablonski in the police department's parking lot.
"Haven't seen you all morning. Where have you been?" Stan asked.
"Over at the Sons of Liberty."
"Early lunch?"
"No, I had a meeting with Lionel and Josiah."
"Well, let me be the first to thank you for bringing the Philadelphia cold case to our attention."
"You're welcome," Shawn said with a confused look on his face.
"I guess you haven't heard the news. I passed your tip on to the FBI and the state police. I got a message back saying there was a mix-up with the DNA."
"What kind of mix-up?"
"The FBI claimed a mistake had been made when they compared our victim's DNA with that found in the Philadelphia case file, so they had a special agent contact the Philadelphia police. And guess what?"
Shawn had no clue what the detective was about to tell him.
"The DNA in both cases was the same."
McMurtry looked horrified.
"Are you saying some nut dug up that poor kid in Philly and drove him up to Massachusetts to leave him on Naumkeag Hill?"
"Not at all. What we've got her are two bodies with the same DNA."
"Identical twins!" Shawn concluded. "It must be the same perp then. But why were the bodies found more than three hundred miles apart?"
"I suppose they weren't killed at the same time," Stan replied.
"Were there any cases of twin boys gone missing back then?"
"None that we've found. You know what that most likely means?"
"The boys were killed by one or both of their parents, who never reported the kids missing."
* * *
Martha Prescott, who before deciding on an acting career had earned a master's degree in world history, was sitting at The Quill and Dagger's coffee bar making changes to an outline of a book she planned on writing. When she heard the shop's door open, she turned to see Officer McMurtry enter.
"Hi, Shawn," she called. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"
"Sure," he answered and took a seat next to hers.
"Would you like something sweet and fattening to go with it?"
"No, thanks. I had pancakes for breakfast. Penny and I haven't seen you for a few weeks. What have you been up to?"
"I'm researching a book."
"I didn't know you were a writer as well as an actress!" McMurtry exclaimed.
"I'm not—yet. This will be my first attempt."
"What's it about?"
"England's Richard III."
"You mean the monster that killed those two little princes in the Tower of London."
"The jury's not back on his guilt yet, Shawn. Most of what we know about the much-maligned Richard was written during the reign of the Tudors. I don't believe many playwrights of that day, including William Shakespeare, would want to deliberately offend the ruling monarch and risk reprisal—if not execution—by extolling Richard III's virtues. But I've uncovered other historical accounts that paint him as a kind man and a just ruler and that propose Henry VII, the first in the Tudor line, who took the crown from Richard, had more of a motive to do away with the princes than their uncle did."
"Whatever made you decide to write about Richard?"
"Since they found his remains last year, there are a lot of people interested in him."
"They just found his remains last year?" Shawn asked with surprise.
"Didn't you hear about that? His bones were found buried beneath a parking lot in Leicester. DNA proved the bones were Richard's. More than five hundred years after his death, the body resurfaced. It reminds me of that poor child that was found here back on the Fourth of July. Have you had any luck in learning his identity?"
"No, but I'm fairly certain he wasn't one of Richard's two missing nephews."
* * *
With no new tips, Stan Yablonski began taking a closer look at the leads the state police had already investigated.
"If the staties didn't find anything, how do you expect us to?" Phil asked.
"The troopers have how many cases on the books?" Stan asked. "We have only one, so we have the time to dig deeper."
"The time but not the resources," Phil argued.
Yablonski, the senior detective, decided it was worth taking a closer look anyway.
"What's this?" he asked when he found a report that looking promising.
"What' what?"
"It's a tip referred to the state police by the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. It seems a retired schoolteacher from Boston called them a few years ago claiming she had older siblings—twins—that, according to her aunt, disappeared under suspicious circumstances."
"When did they go missing?" Phil asked.
"The aunt said she first noticed they were gone about the time Kennedy was elected to the Senate."
"That time period fits."
Stan started rereading the state police report until he noticed a detail he had missed when he first glanced over the schoolteacher's statement.
"Forget it," he told his partner. "These twins were girls."
Throughout the day the two detectives read the state police files, hoping to find one minor detail that the troopers may have overlooked. Finally, at half past six, Phil closed the last of the file folders and pushed his chair back from his desk.
"That's it for me. I'm going home. What about you?"
"I'll stay awhile. My wife is over at Shannon's house helping make skull piñatas for that Day of the Dead fair. I'd just as soon stay here and work as go home to an empty house."
After Phil left, Stan began looking through the state police files a second time. When he got to the Boston schoolteacher's report, he noticed that the woman never mentioned having actually known her siblings. She was simply relaying information she got from an elderly aunt, and statements from old people aren't always reliable, he knew from experience.
Without expecting much to come of it, Stan dialed the schoolteacher's number. When she answered the phone, he introduced himself.
"I'm calling because there are details missing in the police report," he explained. "If you could just tell me your sisters' names and their approximate date of birth, I can file your statement away."
"I'm afraid I never knew my sisters. In fact, I didn't know I'd ever had any siblings until I met my father's sister at his funeral. She's the one who told me about the twins."
"She didn't tell you their names?"
"I asked her, but she didn't know them herself. She said she'd only seen the twins once, when they were three months old. That was right before my parents moved to Pennsylvania. She didn't see my father again until he moved back to Massachusetts. My aunt thought it odd that my parents never mentioned the twins and refused to answer any questions about them. I didn't see my aunt for more than twenty years after that."
"So your aunt only saw the twins once, but she was absolutely certain they were girls?"
"Well, she assumed they were girls because they were dressed in pink."
* * *
The following day at breakfast Stan's wife, Ellen, announced, "I picked up your costume yesterday."
"Costume?" he asked absentmindedly.
"The Spanish señor costume you're going to wear to the ball. Don't you remember? You did agree to go," she reminded him.
"Yes, dear," the detective said, squeezing his wife's hand affectionately. "I'll dress up like a mariachi player and allow Shannon to paint my face like a skeleton. I'll even do the Mexican hat dance with you, if it'll make you happy."
"The Mexican hat dance!" Ellen exclaimed. "I don't think anyone has come up with that idea yet. I'd better call Rebecca and suggest we find a recording of the song for the ball."
After his wife scampered off to phone Rebecca Coffin, Stan finished his coffee and left for work. Phil was waiting for him at the front door of the police station.
"We can put aside this cold case crap for a while," Langston announced. "We've got a real crime to solve."
"What crime is that?" Stan asked.
"A kid brought a gun to the mall."
"Did he shoot it?"
"No, but he shouldn't have had it on him."
"You take Shawn and go have a talk with him. I've got some phone calls to make."
After his partner left, Stan went to his desk and immediately began dialing.
"What was the name?" the bored public records clerk asked after putting Yablonski on hold for more than ten minutes.
"Oates, O-A-T-E-S, Billy Ray and Carleen."
"And when was the child born?"
"Children, twins. They were probably born in the early 1950s."
"You don't have an exact date of birth?"
"No, I don't."
"Then a records search may take some time."
"Aren't the records computerized?"
"Yes, but ...."
"May I speak to your supervisor?" Stan asked, tired of dealing with the less-than-helpful clerk.
"Here it is," the woman suddenly announced. "Oates, Billy Ray and Carleen. Twins born August 29, 1952: Lynne and Lori."
"Girls," Yablonski said to himself, disappointed.
"You would think so with those names, but no. The Oateses had twin boys."
* * *
Once the retired schoolteacher's DNA indicated a familial match with the DNA of the boys in the boxes, the FBI, the Philadelphia Police Department and the Massachusetts State Police were able to conduct a proper search and fill in the missing pieces. Carleen Oates, a mentally unstable woman, had always wanted a daughter. When she gave birth to twin boys, she gave them feminine names and dressed them in girls' clothes. After she eventually gave birth to a female child, she had no further use for her sons.
"So who killed the boys, the father or the mother?" Shawn asked Stan as the two men were sitting in the Green Man Pub waiting their turn to have their faces painted.
"I doubt we'll ever know, but one of them must have done it. My money's on the wife."
"Why's that?"
"The bodies weren't buried. They were just put in boxes and left in the woods. Call me sexist, but I think the father would have gone to greater pains to hide the remains."
"Any idea why one was buried in Pennsylvania and the other in Massachusetts?"
"Special agent Humbert thinks both of them were buried in Philadelphia, but in different locations. Just a month after the body in Fox Chase was found, the Oateses returned to Boston. They must have taken the body of the other boy with them, and for some unknown reason they disposed of it here."
"Regardless of who the actually killer was, they were both involved."
"It looks that way."
"Why do you suppose he or she cut the kids' hair?" asked Shannon, who had been following the case, along with most of Puritan Falls' residents.
"That's a good question," Stan replied. "Who knows why killers do what they do?"
Martha Prescott, who was applying a layer of white foundation to Lionel Penn's ruggedly handsome face, had a theory.
"Maybe Mrs. Oates couldn't bear losing her daughters. But if she removed the girl's clothing and cut the hair, it would be obvious the twins were boys. In her twisted mind, she could probably accept their death. What do you think, Lionel?"
"Perhaps the mother, or father, suffered from chaetophobia," the psychiatrist replied in a serious, professional voice.
"What's that?" Sarah Ryerson asked.
"The fear of hair."
It took a few moments for his friends to realize Lionel was making a joke. When they did, their laughter erased the gloom that had previously existed in the Green Man Pub.
"I think there's been enough talk about those poor babies," Shannon announced. "Why don't we all agree to just forget about them for one day and enjoy ourselves?"
"I wholeheartedly concur," Stan announced. "At this moment, our boy's remains are on their way to Philadelphia, where the little lad will be buried next to his brother. We've done all that we could for him."
* * *
The Puritan Falls Day of the Dead celebration surpassed both the mardi gras and Royal Ascot Ball. In fact, the turn-out was more than the most optimistic team member had hoped for.
"It's like a circus!" Shawn McMurtry exclaimed as he, his family and Martha Prescott watched the colorfully costumed celebrants parade down Essex Street while the Puritan Falls High School marching band played La Cucaracha followed by La Bamba.
"A rather morbid circus," Martha laughed, noting that the faces of everyone present were painted like skeletons.
"How's your book coming?"
Shawn's mention of her biography reminded Martha of a gift she had for him. She reached into her purse and took out a package wrapped in Halloween paper.
"I almost forgot. This is for you."
"For me?" the policeman asked with surprise.
"A little thank you present. If it weren't for you keeping an eye on my house, I'd probably still be sleeping with my light on at night."
Inside the wrapping paper was a copy of Josephine Tey's book, The Daughter of Time.
"Rebecca told me you enjoy reading mysteries. I think you'll like this one. It's fiction, but it'll give you some insight into generally held perceptions about Richard III."
"Richard III?" Brittany echoed. "My dad is more interested in reading James Patterson than William Shakespeare."
Martha smiled at the girl, and then took her leave of Shawn and his family. She had agreed to watch Abigail's table while the Bell, Book and Candle owner helped judge the sugar skull competition.
* * *
When the clock at the town hall struck the first hour of midnight, Martha Prescott, still dressed in her frilly Spanish ball gown, raised her head and looked into the faces of the nine people whom she now considered her closest friends.
The clock struck two, three, four.
The ten people looked at one another and wondered how they had gotten to the old Puritan Falls Church cemetery. Not one of them remembered leaving the Common.
Five, six, seven.
Martha had never been to the old graveyard and did not recognize the weathered stone at the center of the human circle.
Eight, nine, ten.
Although she couldn't make out the writing on the centuries old headstone, there was a smaller, more modern metal marker that identified the grave as that belonging to Stephen Prescott, founder of Puritan Falls.
Eleven, twelve.
As ten people watched in silence, a blue mist formed over the founder's grave. No one seemed frightened when the mysterious vapor coalesced into a semi opaque figure of a man dressed in Puritan attire.
"My children," his unearthly voice echoed through the dark, lonely cemetery. "Now that Martha is here, the circle is complete."
There were no questions from any of the spectators. All of them behaved as though they had fallen under a trance. They could hear the spirit's words but had no will to respond.
"You live in a town unlike most others. It is a place where there is a thin veil separating the rational from the irrational, the logical from the illogical, the sane from the insane. I have been keeping watch over this town for close to four hundred years, trying to make sure that veil doesn't completely disintegrate.
"Most of you have already noticed strange things happen here, things people tend to forget about shortly after they occur. The rips in the veil get patched up, and life goes on. But recently the veil seems to tear more frequently, and it takes more energy to mend it. I cannot do it alone. I need your help."
The ghost of Stephen Prescott looked each human in the eye: Lionel Penn. Sarah Ryerson. Rebecca Coffin. Abigail Cantwell. Shannon Devlin. Josiah Barnard. Ezra Graves. Patience Scudder. Shawn McMurtry. Martha Prescott.
"The ten of you represent the last branches of the Prescott family tree. You and your children are my descendants through my daughters and sons. I need your help to preserve the town I started. You ten are the protectors of Puritan Falls. It is up to you to patch the tears in the veil. I have faith in you, and I will always be watching over you to aid you when I can. Good luck, my children."
Stephen Prescott's spirit dissolved, its misty blue form returning to the heavens from which it came. Once he was gone, his ten descendants had no memory of seeing a ghost or hearing their ancestor's charge. But a bond had been formed nonetheless.
"I suppose this visit to the old cemetery concludes our Day of the Dead festivities," Sarah Ryerson said nervously.
"I'd say so," Shannon agreed, shivering in the cold November air.
Without questioning how they had gotten there, the ten men and women left the graveyard and headed back to the center of town.
As she approached her car, Patience Scudder joked, "Now we'll have to come up with an even better idea for next year's fundraiser." She placed her key in the door lock, and then turned and added, "Martha, we could use another hand. Would you like to join our town team?"
"I'd love to," the former horror movie host replied. "Although I wasn't born in Puritan Falls, I'd like to think I'm one of you now."
Rebecca Coffin spoke for all nine current team members when she said, "I know it sounds crazy, but in a way I think you've always been one of us."
This story was inspired by the actual case of a boy found in a box in Philadelphia in 1957. To date, his identity has not been discovered.
Salem wanted to paint his face for the Day of the Dead fair and then got a little carried away when he noticed the lines made him look thinner.
