Perennial Boulevard
Blackridge, New Hampshire
Sunday 9 March 2008
I drum my fingers on my steering wheel as I crawl through rush-hour traffic. Driving is when I get my best ideas about a case, and I can use all the inspiration time I can get.
Who are Dean and Sam? How did they manage to show up at the same time as I did? Why did they pretend to be FBI agents? What was their intention behind hiding their ghost hunting background?
Speaking of ghost hunters, there are just as many questions about the victim. Was he there to investigate the first death, or was it merely a coincidence that he showed up so soon afterwards? Why were his van's tires slashed? How did someone get the drop on someone who hunts spirits for a living?
I take a deep breath and adjust my sitting position.
Why is Lockwood such a "haunted" place? And why have the deaths started up again? Why are so many people sneaking onto the property? I would think that if a place is filling up with dead people, I'd stay away.
Of course I say that, yet here I am.
I sigh. There must be something I am missing. Some kind of lore, some kind of local "common knowledge" that I'm missing. Why else would a killer hang out on one property... and still not get caught? Why else would all these people feel drawn to the place? I remember what Hattingson said about the place being "haunted as hell." Why? What am I missing?
I turn into the parking lot for a place called "Lucy's Diner."
Time to gain some local knowledge.
----
"Can I get you anything else, Ms. Nancy?" the waitress asks kindly, setting down my ice water while my meal is being prepared. She is a plump, cheerful woman named "Dot."
"Actually, I had a question," I say, unwrapping a straw and putting it in the glass. I am sitting at the counter, the first open spot in the crowded, 50's style diner. The smell of sizzling beef fills the air, and the chatter of customers is at a cheerful level. Hometown food and atmosphere at its finest.
"Name it dear," she says, holding her notepad at the ready.
"It's about something I heard in town... 'Lockwood Estates?'" I watch her face for a reaction, and I get one.
Her smile fades, and her eyes glaze over. She slowly closes her notepad and puts it in her apron pocket, avoiding eye contact for a good five seconds. The man next to me gives me an odd look before quickly glancing away.
"'Lockwood Estates,' you say," Dot says, crossing her arms.
"Yes," I say, taking a sip of water, "I heard it was 'haunted' or something. Is that a local legend?"
The man next to me, still turned away, says, "More like local fact, missy. Stay away from that manor if you want to stay alive."
Ah, right to the point. Thank you, Diner Guy.
"What does he mean by that?!" I ask Dot in a fake, alarmed tone.
"It's nothing dear. There's been a lot of things happening up there lately. Police just got involved again, I heard. Stay away."
"What Dot means to say is," Diner Guy interjects, glaring at me, "That place is cursed, and has been since that maid o' theirs was killed."
"Maid?" I start.
The woman to my left jumps in. "Bernie, you know that's just a legend."
"Isn't all of this a legend?" Bernie declares, gesturing with his coffee and spilling some. "That maid, Caroline Walker, was killed by the owner of the manor, and her ghost has been haunting the place since."
Dot hurriedly mops up the coffee spill and delivers someone else an order of steak fries, looking happy to leave the conversation.
"You heard wrong," Diner Woman states, "It was the opposite. Maid killed owner, owner haunts maid until her dying day."
"No I did not hear it wrong, Layla," Bernie declares, angrily slurping coffee. "My facts are as straight as my spine after I went to the chiropractor last week!"
'Straight as my spine after I went to the chiropractor.' That's a fun one I'll have to remember.
Their voices rise high enough that we have garnered attention from most of the restaurant. Even one of the chefs pokes her head out of the window with a disgusted look on her face. "You two are both wrong. Sherman killed Caroline, and then himself because they were in a relationship and Caroline threatened to tell the missus."
"What kind of crackpot story are you selling?" Layla exclaims. "That is not what happened!"
"Well, then explain how they both died the same day, hm?"
Layla splutters a moment before shamefully returning to her chicken-fried steak.
The chef points at me with a spatula and winks. "That's the official legend, since you seemed to have wanted to know. May have gotten more than you bargained for though, hm?"
I give a little laugh. "Thank you."
Bernie nods at me. "Caroline Walker's ghost haunts the grounds and gets revenge on those who seek to further humiliate her. That's how all those deaths have happened."
"Or Sherman's ghost," Layla mutters darkly, taking a sip of her tea.
"Sherman's the owner of the manor?" I check.
"He was," Bernie says, "Like two hundred years ago."
"Caroline What's-her-face was the maid," Layla adds. "One of them, at least."
"'Walker,'" Bernie corrects.
"Is there somewhere I can find out more about this legend?" I ask, pulling out my notebook, "It's... for school."
"If you're that interested, you might go to the local museum," Bernie suggests. "It's on Front Street."
"Front Street, huh?"
"That's right."
Dot sets my platter of fish and chips in front of me. "An author also recently came into town," she says lightly, "He's writing a book on the estate. He might know more too."
"Where can I find him?"
She pauses, and pulls out her notebook and scribbles down a number. "He came in about a month ago and annoyed us all to hell. Been planning out the book for a while but needed to be in town to gather more 'knowledge' or 'evidence' or what-have-you." She slides the paper over to me, labeled with the name "Edward Velasquez." "Give him a call."
"Thank you, I will." I smile up at her.
A month ago, huh?
Layla huffs. "You ask me, he's the reason the ghost is killin' again," she mutters darkly.
"Why is that?" I ask, genuinely confused.
"Ask him why," she says, smacking cash on the table and getting up. "If he's got any spine left in him, he'll tell ya." She cocks an eyebrow before striding out of the diner.
I watch her for a few seconds, then turn back to my meal. Bernie and Dot are now determinedly avoiding my gaze.
The conversation has clearly run its course, so I pocket the number and pick up my fork.
----
I pull the number for Edward Velasquez out of my bag, caressing my thumb over the paper in thought. Sitting at the desk chair in my hotel, I dial, holding the phone between my shoulder and ear. I lean back, holding my notebook at the ready.
"Hello?" a man's voice says on the other end.
"Hi, my name is Nancy Drew. Is this Edward Velasquez?"
"It is indeed. What can I do for you, Ms. Drew?"
"I heard you were writing a book about Lockwood Estates in Blackridge, New Hampshire. I got your number from Dot at Lucy's Diner."
His voice rises excitedly, "Do you have information for me?"
"That depends," I say, thinking fast, "Do you have any information you can share with me?"
There is a slight pause.
"What do you want to know?"
"Well, first off, what made you want to write about Lockwood?"
"...I am writing about notable manor owners of the 17-1800's all up and down the coast. Sherman Lockwood was known far and wide, and did many notable achievements throughout his life. He was an excellent business owner and was well-respected in the community. Perfect candidate for my book."
"I see."
"My turn. What do you know about the hauntings?"
"I was going to ask you the same thing," I tell him.
"Well, what's your answer?"
"I know there was a scuffle between Sherman Lockwood and one of the maids, Caroline Walker I believe. One of them killed the other, or a murder-suicide, and then one of their ghosts haunts the grounds, killing all who dare try to spend the night."
"...That is a generally-accepted legend, yes."
"Your turn. What do you know of the legend?"
"I daresay that I know more than the general Blackridge resident because of my historical references, but not by much. You got pretty close."
"So this Sherman and Caroline are the, ah, 'ghosts?'"
"Well, the story goes that the two of them were in a relationship, but Caroline wanted more of the cake, so to speak. She wanted Sherman to leave Edith--his current wife--for her."
"Oof," I can't help but say, writing furiously.
"...Yeah. They got into an argument. In those days it would have completely derailed his reputation if he were to leave his wife for one of 'the help.' Caroline threatened to bring their affair to light, and Sherman killed her, then himself after he realized what he had done."
"And that's the historical tidbit?" I question.
"Yes. As far as what we know--I mean, that's what's been recorded. Sad to say that history can be fabricated. But we do have proof that Caroline and Sherman were killed, and on the same day."
"Is it possible that the wife found out about the affair and killed them both?" I ask.
"You're sharp. She was indeed a major suspect way back when, but her alibi was confirmed by the town priest the night of the murders. She was doing church work in town with the priest's daughter."
"Ah," I say. "So Sherman and Caroline were alone."
"Except for some other housemaids and such. They all confirmed a couple of variations of the same story, so we are fairly certain about the events I just told you about."
"Why only 'fairly' certain?" I ask.
"The time period. For example, if Edith Lockwood had killed them both, she would have had the help tell whatever version of the story she wanted."
"But since Edith had an airtight alibi..."
"...We are back to being 'pretty darn sure,'" Velasquez finishes. "Sure enough, in fact, that that's the story going in my book. Doesn't hurt that it's a juicy twist. Most of the other men I'm writing about died of smallpox or some other mundane thing."
"So that wraps up the facts, then," I clarify.
"Yes, and that brings us to where the legend part kicks in. The story goes that Caroline felt so betrayed by her murder that she haunts the grounds, taking her anger and sadness out on anyone who tries to spend the night at the manor. Sherman is also said to roam the grounds, horrified at what he had done, and again, taking it out on unwary souls who wander onto the property."
"So there are two convenient 'ghosts' that people can blame for deaths in and around Lockwood Manor."
"Precisely."
My mind whirs. Now that I have a better idea of the legend, all I can wonder is, who would want to use it to their own gain, and why?
"Did one of them die by decapitation, perchance?" I ask on a hunch.
"...Yes. The maid, Caroline. Sword to her neck. Wasn't a complete decapitation, but it did the job."
I straighten.
"What about Sherman?"
"Noose."
"Ah."
"...Can I ask what made you call me?" Velasquez asks, "Curiosity? Do you live in Blackridge?"
"I don't live in Blackridge, but I am here on a case. The sheriff called me in to investigate the latest string of murders at the Lockwood Estate."
"I see... I wish I could say I had nothing to do with it."
I swallow. "But you did?" I ask tentatively.
"When I arrived in town last month, neither of those murders had happened yet. I mean, the Lockwood Estate was known to kill people. But not so many, so close together, and so recently." He says it all in a rush, as if eager to get it off his chest. "I started asking questions about the estate," he continues, "about Sherman Lockwood. It seemed to stir up a hornet's nest among the townspeople. At first, everyone clamored around me to give me their two cents about the legend. Then, suddenly, everything changed after the Monroe kid died. No one would speak to me. I was shorned. It was like they thought I was the cause of the ghost 'killing again' and some even told me as much."
Like Layla, the Diner Lady. "...Why did they think that?"
"They blamed me for that kid's death. Apparently, he'd gone to the manor because of me. Because he wanted to be 'helpful' and get 'more information.' I never asked him to! I never would ask anyone to go by themselves. Especially in a place that is so well-known to be dangerous."
"Did you tell them that?"
"Of course!" he declares. I can hear the agitation in his voice, and it sounds as though he has started pacing. "But no one would listen. I was even taken into the station for questioning. Thank God I had an alibi or else the town would have probably crucified me."
"What was your alibi, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Like I told the police, I was at an all-night coffee shop working on my book. The one on the corner of Main and Lakeside. Cameras put me there until four a.m., and the kid died around midnight."
"Four a.m.?!"
"This is a different time zone than I was used to, you must understand. I thank God that I hadn't adjusted yet."
"Indeed," I agree. I pause for a moment. "Did the death last night have anything to do with you or your book?"
"I'm honestly not sure. I'm worried that it is, and I'm worried that the legend is true. That's why I called that ghost hunter guy in South Dakota."
"What?"
"Never mind." He pauses, and then gives a huffy sigh. "Look. I thought it might be ghosts, so I called a ghost hunter. He recommended his nephews. That's it. I'm embarrassed to even admit it, okay? They don't even know who called them."
I blink. The Winchesters.
"Can you think of anyone who would do this to get back at you?" I ask, "Do you have any enemies?"
"...Not that I can think of. But I suppose it's possible. Although I don't see why they would kill innocent people instead of going after me. If they are just trying to get back at me, and using other people to do it, then they are cowards." His voice has a bite to it. "I would hate to think that I caused this. I have even considered calling my research a wash and leaving town."
"What stopped you?" I ask curiously, "Why stay?"
"I... I guess I felt a responsibility to that first kid. I had met him, you know. We'd had a long talk, discussing my other books and how he wanted to follow in my footsteps. If I can even offer the slightest bit of information to help find his killer, then I want to. He didn't deserve to die. I hope you find the culprit. For his sake. Just... stay away from that house at night. You know, uh, just in case."
"I'll do my best," I promise.
He is quiet for a few seconds. "Do you have any other questions?" he finally asks.
"I think that's it for now," I reply, head swimming with all the new information.
"Well, feel free to call again if you need anything else. I'll do my best to help."
"Will do. Thank you, Mr. Velasquez."
"No. Thank you, Nancy Drew. And please, call me Edward."
"Thank you, Edward," I say with a smile. "I'll be in touch."
"WAIT!"
I freeze, thumb milliseconds away from the "end call" button. I slowly put the phone back to my ear. "...Yes?"
"I have a collection of records for the family around that time. Would that be at all helpful to you?"
My mind races. The deaths do seem to have something to do with Edward's book and the history of the estate itself. If I can crack the motive, and why the Lockwood Estate is so important, I'll be that much closer to discovering the killer.
"That would be exceedingly helpful!" I tell him excitedly.
"Great! I have a fire safe with it all. I was going to give it to the ghost hunters but I have no idea how I would. I can bring it to say, that coffee shop I mentioned? Are you busy this evening? I can give it to you now."
"As a matter of fact, I am not busy. Are you sure you don't mind giving it to me?"
"Like I said, if there is anything I can do to help catch that killer, I want to do it. All I ask is that I get it all back at some point, if possible. But I do have photocopies of everything just in case. Maybe just share it with those ghost hunters, though, if you run into them?"
I bite my lip, not wanting to promise anything concerning the Winchesters. "Thank you so much, Edward," I tell him sincerely. I check the clock. 6:34 p.m. "Meet you at seven?"
"Sounds good. I'll make sure everything is gathered up. See you then."
"See you."
We hang up.
----
I have to park a ways away, but the coffee shop is thankfully easy to find. A well-lit chain store with at least three security cameras outside. I can see why Edward had such an airtight alibi, and why he would be keen to stick around it when possible. I feel bad for the guy.
I hope he doesn't turn out to be evil or something. But this seems to be a safe meeting place.
I walk inside, the strong aroma of coffee hitting me in the face. There is a light babble, but the place isn't too crowded. I gawk at the layout. Two-story tall floor-to-ceiling windows line the two outer walls, and the rest has exposed brick and hand-painted logos. The place is illuminated almost solely by Edison-style light bulbs, and is decorated with an array of different styles of tables, chairs, and rugs. Above the ordering counter is a loft, with a sweeping, dark oak staircase giving access.
"Wow," I breathe, going up to the counter. "Uh, one decaf iced tea please," I tell the barista.
"What size?" he asks with a chipper smile.
"...That one," I say, pointing to the smallest cup in the display.
"One small, decaf iced tea, comin' right up," he says, expertly snatching a small cup and uncapping a permanent marker. "Name for the order?"
"Nancy."
While I finish ordering, I scan the shop for anyone sitting with a fire safe. No one on the first floor matches that description. He's either on the second floor, or not here yet.
I should have asked him what he looks like.
Just as I have come to the brilliant conclusion that I should connect to the shop's Wi-Fi and look him up, a man, perhaps in his thirties, and with a head full of dark curls and a mustache and beard to match, walks in wearing a smart, tan suit and shiny shoes. He is carrying a heavy-duty, plastic fire safe.
He scans the room, seeming to have come to the realization that he should have asked for my description.
I start to wave to get his attention, but the barista gets it first. "Small decaf iced tea for Nancy!"
Edward jerks his attention over to the counter, and then to me. He smiles and gives a little wave as he comes over. "Nancy Drew, I presume?" he asks warmly.
"And you must be Edward Velasquez," I reply with a smile, taking my drink and shaking Edward's hand. "Pleasure to meet you."
"You as well." He looks over to the barista. "One medium mocha latte please. Hot."
----
"So you've spent how long on this research?" I ask, taking a sip from my tea and carefully skimming through the crumbling papers contained in the fire safe. I am glad I had disposable gloves in my bag.
"This particular research?" Edward starts, picking up the birth certificate of Edith Lockwood, "Not long, actually. Only about a year. I got all this," he gestures to the fire safe, "indirectly of course, from the estate sale of the manor when it was abandoned a decade ago. A local history buff had bought it. She sold it all to me when I came to town last month."
"So the Lockwoods still lived in the estate up until ten years ago?"
"No. No one has actually lived there for about a hundred years. Only maintained by the owners, whether it was the Lockwoods--which it was for a while--or some other buyers. All of this was packed into a cardboard box, which was then put in a bin, and then buried in the attic with a bunch of other junk, apparently. The woman who sold it to me was the one who put it in the fire safe."
"It's a miracle this survived at all," I comment.
Edward laughs. "Right? That's what I told her!" He finishes off his drink and checks his watch. "I really ought to be heading out. But I do sincerely hope this will be helpful."
"I can already tell it will be," I tell him with a grin. "Thank you for taking the time to get this to me."
"Of course." He stands, but then hesitates. He stares towards the door. "...Nancy?"
"Yes?"
His face darkens. "Find that son of a bitch. And bring some justice to the kid."
"I will."
He nods at me, and then straightens his jacket with a yank and walks out.