“Afternoon, Martha,” Sheriff Carmichael greeted the woman as she drew herself up from her chair and made her way over to the front desk. Then he asked, “How is she today?”
Constance glanced around the clean but small lobby area. The squat, somewhat new sign at the entrance to the semicircular drive read Holly-Oak Assisted Living Facility. Inside, the building itself looked more like what her grandparents use to call a “rest home.”
Holly-Oak was obviously well maintained, but from an architectural standpoint it had definitely been around a while. Of course, that seemed to be an ongoing theme in Hulis, as with many other small towns where time itself seemed to be on an extended holiday. It also hadn’t escaped her notice that a funeral home was located directly across the street, well within view from any of the facility’s front windows; in her way of thinking, not exactly the most comforting vista for the residents. In fact, it brought the old adage, “location, location, location,” right to the forefront of her thoughts.
“Afternoon, Skip.” The woman returned the sheriff’s greeting, then answered, “She’s Merrie,” punctuating the words with a shrug, as if that simple statement and gesture said it all.
Given the knowing nod the sheriff offered in response, for the two of them, apparently it did.
“So, how’s Kathy?” Martha asked as Sheriff Carmichael signed the visitor’s register. From her posture it was readily apparent that she was ignoring the fact that Constance was even present. There was also an audible tension in her voice that more than indicated the pleasantries, while sincere, were for some unknown reason forced.
“Feisty as ever,” he replied. “I stopped tryin’ to keep up with her a long time ago.”
She nodded. “Smart man. And the girls?”
“Fine, fine. Doing fine,” he replied. “Cyn came home on break Friday.”
“This is her last year at Mizzou, isn’t it?”
“Supposed to be,” he grunted. “But she takes after her mother, so she’s making noise about going after her Masters.”
“Good for her.”
“So, Martha,” Carmichael said, shifting the subject toward the inevitable as he wagged a thumb at Constance. “I’m sure you know why we’re here. This is Special Agent Mandalay from…”
“I know, I know,” she replied before he could finish. “I’ve been expecting you all morning. Then I got the call from Stella not fifteen minutes ago.”
“Yeah, not surprised. She’s got a big mouth, just like her mother.”
Constance reached in to her jacket to extract her credentials, but the woman stopped her. “Don’t bother. You’re with Skip, that’s all I need to know…or want to know, for that matter.” Her voice held more than a hint of disgust as she almost spat the comment.
“I’d like to speak with Merrie, if that’s possible,” Constance said, leaving her badge case stowed in its pocket and slowly pulling back her hand.
“When are you people going to leave that poor girl alone?” the woman demanded. “Don’t you think she’s been through enough?”
“Calm down, Martha,” the sheriff said. “She’s just doin’ her job. You know that.”
“I thought her job was to find whoever is doing this killing,” she replied, directing herself solely at him. “I don’t know how dredging up the past for that poor girl every year is going to do that.”
“I know, Martha, I know…” he soothed.
She scowled at Constance for a moment, then snorted in disgust as she turned away from the counter and headed back toward her desk. “She’s in her room, Skip,” she called over her shoulder. “Just keep an eye on the time. You know as well as anyone what day it is.”
“What does she mean by that?” Constance asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” Sheriff Carmichael said as he stepped back and pointed toward a door off the side of the lobby, indicating that she should go first. “It’s this way.”
Mandalay gave him a puzzled look. “Shouldn’t we wait? You did contact her state-appointed advocate, correct? I assumed that was the call you were making earlier.”
“Nope. She doesn’t have one.”
“If she has diminished faculties as you’ve said, then she definitely should.”
“Special Agent Mandalay,” he replied, a mix of bemusement and disingenuous formality in his words. “In case it has escaped your attention, this whole damn town is Merrie Callahan’s advocate. We’d all pretty much adopted her even before her parents were killed in that accident. Believe me, if you get your toes anywhere near the line, they’re gonna get broken, I don’t give a damn who you work for.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to protect our little girl…so will anyone else here in Hulis. And just so you know, that’s not a threat, sugar; it’s a promise.”
The carved, wooden sign on the door looked like one you would pick out from the pages of a personalized gifts catalog-the kind that had overpriced trinkets made to appear worth the cost because of the custom engraving. It was definitely too perfect to have been handmade. The router work had almost certainly been done by a programmed machine in a factory where they churned
out fancy name plaques by the hundreds each hour. In a deeply recessed outline font it read simply, MERRIE’S ROOM.
The door itself was only partially closed, with a gap of just a few inches left between it and the jamb. Through the sliver of an opening, the keyboard-heavy, pop music beat of a song floated on the air, although it was barely recognizable through the scratchy hiss of static that overlaid the notes.
Sheriff Carmichael tilted his head and listened closely for several seconds, then turned to Constance and said, “ Love Will Keep Us Together.”
“Excuse me?”
“The song,” he said, gesturing at the door. “ Love Will Keep Us Together. The Captain and Tennille.”
“Oh…” Constance replied, nodding. “I thought I’d heard it before.”
He shot her a half grin. “I guess you probably aren’t quite old enough to remember it, but they were on the Top Forty that year.”
She nodded but remained silent.
The sheriff reached out, hesitated, then gave a light, tentative knock on the surface of the door. After several seconds had passed with no answer, he cleared his throat then rapped his knuckles against it a bit harder and called out, “Merrie?”
A moment later the volume on the music ramped sharply downward, and a slightly frightened sounding woman’s voice answered, “Who is it?”
“Merrie,” Sheriff Carmichael called out again as he began slowly pushing the door open with his palm. “It’s Deputy Skip, from the sheriff’s department.”
“Deputy?” Constance asked softly.
“It’s nineteen seventy-five in here,” he answered.
“What?”
He didn’t get the chance to explain further. The sound of frantic footsteps was already coming from the other side of the door, and it was suddenly ripped fully open from within. A woman roughly Constance’s height all but tackled the sheriff in a tight hug, her demeanor having suddenly shifted from fear to excitement.
Her hair was a shoulder-length shag of chestnut, streaked ever so slightly with a few strands of gray. She was pretty but definitely looked close to her chronological age, even if she wasn’t dressed to reflect it. It was hard to miss that she was clad in a long sleeve, knee-length pleated dress. It was dark blue with a stark white collar, and looked like an adult-sized version of something straight out of a seriously retro clothing catalog for children.
“Deputy Skip!” she said, joy rampant in her voice as she continued to hug him tightly. “I knew you’d come to see me today. You always do. I told Miss Martha you would, but I don’t think she believed me.”
“Oh, I’m sure she believed you, Merrie,” he replied, giving her a grandfatherly squeeze. “You know how Miss Martha is.”
“Unpleasant,” she announced as she released her grip on him and stepped back.
“Listen to you,” he chuckled.
Just as one would expect of a ten-year-old child, she widened her eyes and rolled them as she cocked her head to the side and muttered a long, drawn out, “It’s true.”
He winked. “You’re right, it is. Just don’t tell her I said that.”
She giggled at their shared secret.
“So, Merrie,” Carmichael continued, gesturing to Special Agent Mandalay. “This is my friend, Miss Constance. I was telling her about some of the people here in town, and she thought that you sounded so interesting that she asked if she could meet you.”
Merrie glanced at her but held her position close to the sheriff. After a moment she said, “Umm… Hi.”
“Hi,” Mandalay replied with a smile. “I like your dress.”
“Thank you. Miss Mavis made it for me. I picked out the pattern and the fabric myself.”
“It’s very pretty.”
“Are you a deputy too? You don’t look like one.”
“No, Merrie, I’m not,” Constance answered. “But I’m a kind of police officer. I work for the FBI. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes,” she said with a nod. “My daddy used to watch it on TV, but it’s not on anymore.”
Constance was actually familiar with the old show, even if it was somewhat before her time. “Did you watch it too?”
“Sometimes. Do you have a badge?”
Constance nodded. “Yes. Would you like to see it?”
“May I?”
Mandalay withdrew her badge case and opened it with a practiced flip. Merrie inched closer and peered carefully at the credentials. “Cool…” she muttered. After a moment she looked up and smiled. “Do you have a gun too?”
“Yes, but I can’t really show it to you. It’s only for emergencies.”
Merrie nodded. “Where are you from, Miss Constance?”
“Right now, I live in Saint Louis.”
“Saint Louis! Have you ever been to the Gateway Arch?”
“Yes, I have. Where I work downtown isn’t very far from it, as a matter of fact.”
“Did you ever go up inside?”
“Yes.”
“Is it cool?”
“Yes it is. You get to look out the windows and see everybody running around like ants down below.”
“You’re so lucky. I’ve only seen pictures,” Merrie offered. “Daddy said he would take me to see it for real someday. Maybe even this summer.”
Constance glanced over at Sheriff Carmichael and shot him a questioning look by way of furrowing her brow. In response he gave her a barely perceptible shake of his head. Focusing back on the childlike woman, she said, “That sounds like it will be fun. They have a theater underneath where they show a movie about how they built it. Make sure you see that, it’s really interesting.”
“So, Merrie,” the sheriff spoke up. “Would you mind if we came in and visited with you for a little bit?”
“That would be fun,” she told him, stepping back so they could enter. “Do you like The Captain and Tennille, Miss Constance?”
“Yes, I do,” she replied as she followed the sheriff into the room. In truth, she wasn’t really sure if she did or not. If the earlier noise was any indication, however, she was probably leaning toward not. But there was really no percentage in saying as much.
“Me too,” Merrie said. “And I really like KISS, but Sister Conran from school says they play Satan’s music.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I will say they do look a little scary.”
“I don’t think so. I think they look really cool. How about Supertramp? Do you like them?”
“Definitely,” Constance agreed. Finally, that was some classic rock she could get behind.
Beyond the door, the room looked much like any average ten-year-old girl’s bedroom-provided one stepped back in time thirty-five years. Stuffed animals were piled on the bed, and what appeared to have once been a small stack of teen idol magazines were haphazardly spilled across the floor nearby. There was even a pinup page of a teen heartthrob from one of the publications taped to the wall. It was faded and had definitely seen better days, but it was still recognizable. All together the tableau formed a solid, visual indicator that Merrie Callahan’s mind was forever stuck in that tween wasteland between childhood and puberty. Not only that, it was frozen at its own arbitrary moment in time, much like the town of Hulis itself-yet another oddity to be added to a growing list of things that were perplexing about this case.
In the corner of the room was the source of the earlier music, and it became readily apparent why the quality had been so lacking. A black vinyl disk that showed visible scratches, even at a distance, was spinning on the turntable of an old, all-in-one stereo system. With the volume turned low, now only a tinny background noise issued from the rectangular speakers sitting on either side of the unit. And even it was almost overwhelmed by the hissing sound of the stylus scraping in the worn grooves of the record album.
“Pink or purple?” Merrie questioned without warning.
“Pink or purple what?” Constance asked, shooting another questioning glance at Sheriff Carmichael, who simply nodded.
Merrie repeated the question in more detail. “Do you like pink or purple?”
Mandalay shrugged. “Both, I suppose.”
“Pick one,” Merrie insisted.
“That’s hard… Okay. Pink. Why?”
“You’ll see.” Merrie scurried over to a chest of drawers and rooted through a clear plastic box that was resting on top. Momentarily, she returned with a small bottle in her hand that she was shaking vigorously as she seated herself on the edge of the bed. “Come here. I’ll do your nails.”
Constance glanced at her hand. Long nails were one of the fashion accessories she didn’t cultivate. She kept them trimmed short, otherwise they didn’t get along very well with the trigger guard on the. 40 caliber Sig Sauer that was riding on her hip. She silently debated for a second, then stepped over and draped her coat across the footboard of the bed, then took a seat next to Merrie and held out her right hand.
“I like your shoes,” Merrie said as she started brushing pearlescent pink lacquer onto Mandalay’s nails.
“Thanks,” Constance replied. “I just bought them.”
“I’ll get new shoes soon,” Merrie said. “I always do for Christmas. They won’t be fancy like yours. They’ll be just like these.” She kicked her leg out and pointed her toe to display her footwear.
Constance glanced down. The shoes in question were black Mary Janes with a silver buckle. The patent leather showed scuffs and crinkles from age and daily use. Merrie was wearing white knee socks with her dress, but at this angle Constance couldn’t help noticing the old burn scars marring her bare legs just above her knee. They were faded with time, but still obvious as they marched up her thighs and disappeared behind the hem of her dress. She remembered what Sheriff Carmichael had said about Colson and the cigarette burns on the little girl’s body, then felt terribly sick to her stomach. For the scars to still be this visible this many years later, the original burns had to have been horrific.
“When I get new shoes, they’re really just for school and church,” Merrie explained as she continued laying on the nail polish. “But since it’s Christmas, Mom will let me wear them to dress up for a while. But then I’ll have to put them away. I had another pair, but I lost one of them.”
Constance took the opening and gingerly asked, “You lost a shoe? Did you look under your bed?”
“No,” Merrie answered, unfazed. “That’s not where I lost it.”
“Where then?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No. I just lost it,” she answered succinctly and gave a quick shrug as she shook her head. In the next breath she changed the subject. “Okay, I’m finished with this hand. Give me your other one, but don’t touch anything until they dry or you’ll mess them up. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Constance switched hands, splaying out her fingers and inspecting the fresh manicure. Merrie had done a good job. Of course, the color didn’t really go with her attire, not to mention that it was definitely a disco era shade.
“I do manicures for my sister Becca,” Merrie announced.
“That sounds like fun. What’s her favorite color?”
“Pink. Like you, Miss Constance,” she replied, then frowned and cocked her head to the side as she continued to paint the polish onto Mandalay’s nails. “But Becca’s not talking to me right now.”
“Why is that, Merrie?”
She answered in a matter-of-fact voice, “She’s mad because I pushed her.”
“Why would you push your sister?”
“To protect her.”
“From what?”
Instead of answering the question directly, Merrie replied, “I worry about Becca.”
“Why?” Constance probed.
“Because she still believes in Santa Claus.”
“You don’t?”
“Of course not,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Santa Claus is something grownups tell little kids to keep them from being scared.”
“Being scared of what, Merrie?”
“The man in the red suit.”
“Santa?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean. Why would you be afraid of Santa?”
Merrie ignored the dangling question. “Becca is only five. That’s why she still believes, but she won’t for much longer, I hope.”
“Why won’t she believe for much longer?”
“Because she’s already been learning to read. That’s when you stop believing the story.”
“Why is that?”
“Umm…because…” Merrie rolled her eyes like she was trying to remember something, then with a small dose of young frustration in her voice, tried to explain. “There’s a word for it, but I can’t remember what it is. Do you know what it is when you can make a word out of another word, Miss Constance? You know, when you rearrange the letters?”
“Yes. They call that an anagram.”
“That’s the word. Anagram. Sounds like telegram.”
“Yes, it does a little bit.”
“Well, we learned about them in school, and Becca will too. Then, just like me, she’ll know the truth.
“What’s the truth, Merrie?”
“That Santa is really Satan.”
“No, honey, Santa isn’t really Satan,” Constance offered in a soothing tone.
Merrie continued painting Mandalay’s nails and replied, “Yes, he is.”
“That anagram is just an unfortunate coincidence,” Constance explained.
“I know that it’s true, Miss Constance. Know why?”
“Why?”
Merrie stopped and looked up at her in earnest. “Because he does very horrible bad things to little girls, even when they’ve been very, very good.”