Every hidden thing, p.14
Every Hidden Thing, page 14
Parker took a step back. What did he do wrong now?
Rankin didn’t waste any time. “Parker, did you stop by Steadman’s rental tonight?”
He could feel his stomach tightening. “Yeah, at his Bayport rental. I just checked the locks.”
“Something Mr. Steadman asked you to do?”
“No, I just—”
“Did you go inside?”
“What? No—”
“What time did you stop by—and how long were you there?” The guy asked the questions like he was a robot or something. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t smile. Didn’t show any bit of emotion.
Dad raised one hand. “Slow down, Officer. What’s going on here?”
Mom stepped up behind Parker and laid her hand on his shoulder.
Rankin kept his eyes on Parker and explained everything. How the house had been turned upside down. How the neighbor ID’d Parker on his way in. How she’d seen him leave sometime later—at least a half hour.
“I wasn’t there more than thirty seconds,” Parker said. “I checked the lock—and left. And there’s no way she saw me leave. I saw the neighbor’s new security light come on, and a curtain moved, so I wondered if someone had seen me. But I went around the other side of the house to check the windows and then left.”
Rankin flipped a page in his pocket spiral. “The neighbor says different.” The officer said it like he was just repeating what he’d heard. Like he had no personal opinion on the thing. But what he was really thinking was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?
“Then it had to be someone else.”
“Officer,” Dad said, “this neighbor. You said she ID’d him on the way out? But you heard my son. He went around the house the other way. So it had to be someone else she saw.”
Rankin studied his notebook again. “I’ll ask again. But I showed her your picture. Can you describe what you were wearing?”
Parker pointed at his jeans. “And a black hoodie.”
One of Rankin’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Hood up—or down?”
Parker didn’t have to think hard about that. “Hood down. I wanted to make sure I could hear good—and had my full field of vision.”
Rankin tapped his pen on the notebook. “Because you were on the lookout for Mr. Steadman?”
“No, no.” What was it with this guy? “It was Shadow-man I was worried about.”
“Right.” Rankin nodded in a totally exaggerated way. “The mystery guy with the green light.”
“When you left the place thirty minutes later . . . hood up or down?”
Parker looked at his dad, then back at Rankin. “I told you, I was gone in thirty seconds. Around the other side of the house. And my hood was down the whole time—even riding my bike home.”
“Officer,” Dad said. “I think we’re done here.”
Rankin smiled. “Actually, I’m pretty sure we’re not.” He waggled his notebook. “But I’ve got what I need for now. I’ll see what Mr. Steadman wants to do. Sleep tight, everyone.”
The three of them watched the cop pull away.
“Sleep tight? Not likely.” Parker looked from his mom to his dad. “You believe me, right?” But he already knew the answer. “What do we do now?”
Dad put his arm around Parker’s shoulders. “We’ll get this cleared up. The truth always comes out. God’s got this, right?”
“For sure.” He gave the right answer, but his heart definitely wasn’t in it. At this very moment there was only one thing that Parker was absolutely sure of. This whole mess wasn’t going away. And he wasn’t so sure Officer Rankin was impartial enough to give Parker a fair shake. More likely the cop would keep looking for some way to prove his theory. Rankin had questioned him about Devin’s death. About Steadman’s break-in. And now Parker was Rankin’s go-to guy for tonight’s break-in, too. Every time there was a break-in now, would they be getting late-night visits from Officer Rankin?
Parker definitely had to stop counting on the police to get to the bottom of this. To find the truth. And obviously God still wasn’t shedding any light on the situation. Maybe Parker would have to clear his own name, and the only way to do that was to mount a little investigation of his own.
CHAPTER 28
Wednesday, June 8, 7:00 p.m.
PARKER WOKE UP TIRED—and still frustrated. The day seemed to drag by, at least until the meeting at El’s place started after dinner. Mom. Dad. El. Grams. And even Mr. Steadman made it. Actually, he seemed over-the-top pumped that Parker had invited him.
Parker’s mom got a tour before the meeting started. He could tell by the time she came downstairs she loved the place. “Oh, Mercedes. The place is lovely.”
“Call me Mercy,” Grams said. “That’s what family calls me.”
They pulled chairs around the kitchen table. Grams had glasses for everyone and a couple of pitchers. Lemonade and sweet tea.
“Tell me about your family.” It was just like Mom to want to get the backstory.
Actually Parker wanted to get to the real reason they’d gathered at the Houstons’.
Grams had a voice that was as smooth and rich as maple syrup. She grew up in New York. Queens to be more exact. That’s where she met a young man named Gabriel Houston, who wanted something more from life than he’d ever find in Queens . . . which is exactly what Mercy wanted. They married, and after reading an advertisement looking for workers in a fish cannery in Gloucester, Massachusetts, they took a train north.
“We thought we knew what we were getting into,” Mercy said, “but there weren’t many of our kind in Gloucester.”
As in none.
“Gabriel was a hard worker. Clever, too,” Grams said. “He made a good friend there—Art Carson—which was no small miracle.” She smiled like she was picturing the guy. “Art called my Gabriel a human oil can. There wasn’t a production line that he couldn’t find a way to make faster. Smoother. More efficient.”
She told how Gabriel applied for every supervisory position that opened—and got turned down every time. But eventually it was Art who climbed the fishnet, as they called it. He became production manager—and took Gabriel with him.
“The good Lord granted him favor in the eyes of Art Carson. Art would get a bonus—but he’d always split it with my Gabriel. Art knew he wouldn’t be production manager without him. We’ve got Art to thank for us coming to live here in our own little Beulah land.”
“We lived in an apartment in Gloucester worse than a scurvy ship’s hold—just saving the money. Gabriel wanted a real home. We made offers on God knows how many—and some sounded like done deals over the phone. But as soon as we’d show up to look at the place, we’d learn the home had just been sold to someone else—or suddenly they were not so sure they wanted to sell after all.”
Grams let that one sink in a bit.
“Because you’re black?” Mom asked the question—even though Parker was pretty sure everyone in the room knew the answer.
“I suspect.” Mercy had one hand on her hip. “Our money was the same color as everyone else’s, so I don’t know why the color of our skin should’ve mattered.
“Rockport was the first place we’d seen where there were no fences keeping people apart. At least not the privacy kind that says folk don’t want to visit with their neighbors. Just picket fences to keep a puppy from running. Low granite walls. And garden fences. The town was bursting with those. We knew we wanted to live here. Fell in love with the place—even though it was falling apart.”
“So here in Rockport,” Mom said, “nobody tried to keep you from buying the place?”
“We didn’t take any chances. We stayed clear of the place. Never even went inside for a look so nobody would know what we were up to. Art bought the place—then turned right around and sold it to us.”
Mom smiled. “Clever. And a good friend.”
“I put flowers by his headstone every time I go to Gabriel’s grave.”
“It’s a gorgeous house, Mercy,” Mr. Steadman said. “And the house is in wonderful shape now.”
“Gabriel was handy that way. And we raised a family here.” She smiled at Ella. “Ella’s mom got pregnant way too young. She couldn’t be a mom—she was practically a baby herself. That girl was a magnet for trouble. Made more messes than a puppy that hasn’t been housebroke. She moved back to Queens, of all places, but not before we’d adopted our Ella Mae here. Lord Almighty, Gabriel loved Ella-girl. She’d clomp around the kitchen in his work boots when he got off shift. He bought Ella her first pair of cowgirl boots when she was five so they could tromp around together. Now she’s the legal heir to Beulah—Gabriel got the paperwork done proper. He wanted nothing more than to pass on this piece of heaven to her.”
Ella stared at her cowgirl boots. Like she knew the chances of that happening were getting slimmer by the day.
“Your husband was a smart buyer,” Steadman said. “Beulah is so close to the Headlands. And with the outbuilding as a rental? A great revenue stream.”
“Which is why I chanced the renovation after Gabriel passed. I so wanted Ella to get an education like I never did. I let myself get talked into taking a loan to renovate the building.
“The loan manager actually came out to see the place. That banker was so complimentary. Talked about the fine job Gabriel had done with the property. He was very convincing . . . affirming my plan that the rental home would pay for itself and Ella’s education in time. I think even then the man was scheming to plug his Crockpot in our kitchen someday—but I saw it too late.”
Mercy lowered her head like she was ashamed of how things had turned out. She told of taking a bad fall. Having hip surgery. And lots of medical bills. How she took in extra work where she could.
“By May we were in trouble,” she said. “Went to the loan manager. Tried to lower our payments. Spread them out. I told him we were booked all summer and that we were good for the money.”
“So he let you refinance?” Mom sounded like a reporter now.
Grams looked at her a few long moments. “It doesn’t work that way for some folk. He advised me to sell the property—even said he knew a potential buyer.”
“Which was him,” Mom said. “Am I right?”
Grams tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. “I suspect. Or some crony of his.”
Parker’s dad had been quiet pretty much the whole time. But by the look on his face it wasn’t hard to figure out what he was thinking.
“My man worked hard,” Grams said. “And if I lose Beulah now, I’d feel like I lost a part of him, that’s for certain. And worse, I’d be letting my Ella Mae down, too. This is her home.”
Parker couldn’t stand the thought, either. He did not want to lose the only friend he had in town. God . . . are you seeing this? It all seems so wrong. Please, help them . . . and show me how to help them save their place.
“The loan manager started the foreclosure process. I keep thinking that if I start getting bookings again, he’ll call it off,” Grams said, “but at times I do wonder. The man seems a little too eager.”
Parker’s dad pulled an envelope from his back pocket and slipped it to Grams. “I wish we could do more,” Dad said. “But I’m hoping this helps.”
Grams teared up. Kissed the envelope. Clutched it in her hands.
When Parker looked El’s way, it was like she’d been waiting to catch his eye. Her face said it all, but she mouthed “Thank you” anyway.
“Do you mind,” Mr. Steadman looked almost apologetic, “if I take a look at your bills? The ones you’re behind on.”
Grams set a short stack of them on the kitchen table. Steadman leafed through them, stopping now and then to read more carefully. By the time he’d gone through the pile, he’d set three bills aside.
“Okay.” He held up the targeted bills. “Consider these paid. I’ll send checks to each of these tonight. Get them off your back.”
Grams shook her head. “You’re good neighbors. Both of you. I’m not sure why you’re doing this.”
“We’re doing more than trying to be good neighbors,” Mom said. “We’re followers of Jesus . . . and we can’t imagine He’d do less.”
Steadman raised both hands. “Well, I’m not a believer myself, but I do believe we need to stick together on this. We’ve got to fight. We’ve just heard how important the rentals are for your survival. And the truth is, this is how I make my living, too. I don’t want to go back to scraping by with dive charters.”
“Thank you,” Grams said. “I’m grateful for the help.”
“You said the bank started the foreclosure process,” Steadman said. “Do you have a timeline?”
Grams looked at El—like she wasn’t sure she wanted to say more with her granddaughter in the room.
“Hey,” Ella said, “don’t hold back because I’m here. Actually, that’s a question I’ve been wanting to know, too.”
Grams squeezed her eyes shut and gave a deep sigh—like she’d been dreading this moment. “If I don’t pay off the entire loan by June 18, they’ll take it from us. We’ll be evicted June 19.”
“What?!” Ella’s question came out more like a shriek. “That’s in ten days. Only nine days to pay off the loan? Can they do that?”
“Never underestimate the power of a schnook.”
Parker looked to his dad, hoping he’d add something that would change how bleak it all looked at this moment. Dad just shook his head. “Looks like we have something to pray about.”
Parker wasn’t so sure the idea of prayer did anything to relieve Grams—or El.
“Juneteenth?” Ella looked at her Grams as if in disbelief. “It’s supposed to be a celebration . . .”
“I’m so sorry, Ella Mae.”
“Of all days.” Ella’s voice shook.
“Hush now, sugar,” Grams said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
Okay, Parker was clearly missing something, but this didn’t seem like the time to ask.
“The banker sounds totally unreasonable,” Mom said. She was looking a little steamed, like the investigative reporter was dying to get out. “You’d have to put it on the market right away if you hoped to have paperwork in place—with a deposit big enough to pay off the loan by the nineteenth. This just isn’t right.”
“We are not going to sell this place,” Ella said. “I’ll chain myself to the porch railing if I have to.”
Parker could see her doing exactly that. But Grams didn’t say a thing.
“Grams?” Ella’s voice had an edge of fear to it. “We’re not selling, right?”
“I don’t want to, Ella Mae. I surely don’t. But I’m not finding any underground railroad on this one. I don’t see a path to freedom. For now I’m not selling. I’m hoping that somehow that loan department manager grows a heart between now and then.”
Ella scanned the room. “We can’t let this happen. We can’t.”
Dad looked like he was ready to drop on his knees right there to bring it before the throne.
“I have a friend who runs the loan department at Boston Federal—and they have a branch in town,” Steadman said. “Lucius Scorza. I’ll talk to him. Maybe his bank can do something.”
“Scorza,” Parker said. “Does he have a son at Rockport High?”
Steadman nodded.
“Ugh,” Parker groaned. “Total rich-kid syndrome. The guy’s a jerk.”
“Well, I’ve always thought his dad was a decent guy,” Steadman said. “I’ll see if he can help us.”
Grams shook her head. “Don’t get your hopes up too high. Mr. Scorza is the loan manager I’ve been dealing with.”
Steadman looked surprised—then smiled. “Well, I’ll have a little chat with him. He owes me a favor anyway.”
For the first time, Ella looked hopeful. “You hear that, Grams?”
Grams smiled back. “We’ll see, sweetie.”
“Let me ask you a question,” Mr. Steadman said. “And you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to. But has anyone offered to buy this place—since this all started, I mean. Besides Scorza hinting at buying it himself.”
Grams fidgeted with her sweater. “Yes, sir. I got a call from some big city lawyer—on two occasions.”
Ella wailed and threw her hands in the air. “I hope you told them no, Grams. Tell me you did.”
“I haven’t agreed to nothing, Ella Mae. He pitched me a price that was snake-belly low. But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I’m in a corner here.”
Steadman leaned forward. “That lawyer . . . did he represent an outfit out of Boston?”
Grams nodded. “Boston Investors Group.”
“This is a conspiracy!” Steadman was on his feet. “Right after my cancellations started, I got calls from them too. Don’t you see what’s happening here? Somebody is making a power play.”
Mom picked up on it. “This organization is using the burglaries—and loss of rental business—to their advantage.”
“Or one step worse,” Dad said, “this isn’t about kids breaking into rentals for the thrill of it—or ghosts,” he glanced at El, “but what if all this was a group of investors wanting to get prime properties at bargain prices—and they’ve set up the burglaries—this Shadow-man—to help along their cause?”
Steadman eyed him. “That’s a whole lot darker picture than what anybody has suggested before. Including the police.”
Scary dark.
“But I think you’re on to something.” Steadman swore—then saw Grams’s face. “Sorry about the language. But this fits. It makes sense.”
Could Shadow-man really be somebody hired to put a scare into locals? Is that what happened the night Devin followed the green light?
“There’s good money in rentals,” Steadman said. “Especially in a town that attracts tourists like Rockport. This is making so much sense now. This Boston Investors Group is trying to muscle in. Take over our business. And if they do? Prices for homes will skyrocket. A normal guy—or grandma and granddaughter—won’t be able to afford living here. This investor group will gobble up the prime property. Our town will change—and not for the better.”
