Recap: Writer and investigator Hayden McTeague appears to have found gold in the walls of an old sea captain’s house—not literal gold, but modern media gold. His wife and his agent are certain there is not just a bestseller but a hit reality show to be made from the bones of a 19th century mystery. McTeague himself is tantalized by the commercial possibilities. But something doesn’t quite smell quite right about the venture, and the historian is determined to find out what.
This is a recap of Part 2 of ‘The Widow Chase.’ You can read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.
The Widow Chase - Part 3
Again my wife’s guess was uncannily close to the mark; a small portion of an interior wall was all that needed to come down. These bones too were completely desiccated and showed all the signs of being from another century. One can get used to anything, and I became accustomed to the sight of three skeletons laid out in the front parlor. But no one else witnessed the ghastly display, not even Shelly.
My agent was still operating on incomplete information, but he had made the most of it.
“So I’m going back and forth here, Hayden. Crime show, history show, home improvement show, crime show. In the end I decided to let someone else decide. I set up a Zoom with the creative director of the Discovery Channel. They were crazy for the idea. And they like your resume. Best selling history writer, blah blah. Her people said next Thursday at eleven and I said fine, he’ll be there. The creative director’s a busy person. I took the liberty.”
“I don’t know what to say, Frank.”
“Say you’ll be scrubbed and ready in front of your laptop. That pretty missus of yours too. They want to meet her. I can tell they’re already thinking husband and wife, pilot to start, then half hour episodes. ‘Skeletons in the House’ maybe. Or ‘Secrets in the Attics of Old New England.’ Something like that.”
“The bones weren’t in the attic.”
“You’re the writer. You suggest a title. They’ll change it anyway.”
“Two problems. First, there’s no book yet. Second—”
“No book, he says. I can’t tell you how many writing pitches skip the book these days.”
“Second, this is a historically unusual situation,” I said. “Maybe a unique one. There may be other old houses, but they probably won’t have a dramatic history. They almost certainly aren’t hiding human remains.”
“There’s ways around that too. Let the TV people work an angle. You think all those tears on The Bachelor are real?”
“You’re suggesting we fabricate old murders?”
“I’m suggesting that for seven figures we do what they tell us to do and let the chips fall.”
An odor was beginning to attach itself to the project. An odor of corruption, like the wheelwright had complained of in 1824. In this century it came from both inside and outside the property, but I didn’t yet know the full extent of the source. I continued to do my diligence. I’d received in the mail, in the old fashioned way, a postcard from the Basil’s Cove Historical Society. My request had been approved and I could view the artifact in the Society’s offices on Chatham Road no earlier than the twenty-first. That was two days before my Zoom meeting.
I got Shelly up to speed. She loved the way Frank Barnes was handling the deal. She loved the money before it was actual money. She loved that the network people wanted to meet her. It would require an emergency appointment for hair and nails. She told her employer she would be taking a personal day, not for the meeting itself but for a trip to her favorite clothing boutique in Hyannis. Of the quarter million advance, we had held back about a hundred thousand for expenses. Construction expenses for the project, I pointed out. Shelly argued that the definition of the project had changed. I agreed that it had.
My wife listened in her newly attentive way to the news about the second and third finds. She had not gone inside the house since the night we quarreled, and had no wish to do so now.
“It’s disgusting in there,” she said. “And gruesome. Maybe it’s time to get a dumpster.”
“Human remains should receive a more respectful treatment. Even very old remains.”
“Not the dumpster for those—things. Put those in contractor bags or body bags or something. I mean all that crap from the walls. I can’t believe you’ve been sleeping in that house.”
“You’re not exactly making me feel welcome in our condo.”
“I told you, I’ve had it with your drinking.”
“I haven’t had a drink in three days.” This was true; the bourbon had run out and I hadn’t replenished it. I had a feeling I would be needing all my deductive powers.
“And you smell,” she said.
This was also true. There was running water at the construction site but no hot water. That was one of the many things that needed repair. I had been making do with a sink and a washcloth. “I’ll shower at home, then. And sleep in my own bed. Starting tonight.”
We were on neutral ground, at a coffee shop popular with the tourists called The Watery Dark.
She put a friendly hand on my mine. “Could we make it tomorrow, Hayden? The place is a disaster. My things are all over the bedroom.”
“You don’t want me at our condo because it’s messy?” My incredulity was contrived. Perhaps I was unwittingly practicing my acting skills. I must not have been terrible, since Shelly was convinced. She nodded. I smiled, by way of acceding. I had my reasons for doing so. A picture was beginning to emerge, the way it always does for the persistent researcher. “Looks like another night in paradise,” I said lightly. “My new friends are easy to get along with. They don’t bother anyone.”
My wife laughed in her lovely way. The genuine way that had been one of the things that initially attracted me. I rose and kissed her cheek. I waved goodbye to Talia, whose purple hair and piercings were as much a fixture of The Watery Dark, in season and out, as the espresso machine. “See you tomorrow after work, then!” I said to Shelly. “At the condo.”
The steamer trunk would no doubt complete the puzzle, but my appointment with that artifact was still a day away. Another puzzle piece was available sooner, and I went in search of it. I went to the condo—not the following night but that night. I did not park in the driveway, and neither did my wife’s lover. He walked from somewhere far down the dark street and across the lawn to the front door. I watched from behind the rhododendron, just then coming into bloom. The air around me was thick with a fecund scent. The door opened and the light from my home fell on the man’s face. I was not surprised to see that it was Crumbly.
To be continued
Excellent! Can’t wait for the next part.
Part 3 is really good. Smooth-as silk-writing, great dialogue, and mysterious twists and turns. Well done!