The Secrets on Chicory Lane Page 6

  It was a Sunday, and again I went searching for Eddie. Forgetting that I was alone, I went over to Mr. Alpine’s house and rang the doorbell to see if Eddie might be there. The library was closed for the holiday weekend and Mr. Alpine was home. He was surprised to see me.

  “Well, if it isn’t my darling Shelby!” he announced with a flourish. It made me laugh. “What brings such a fascinating creature such as you to my doorstep?”

  My face felt hot and I became shy. “Is … is Eddie here?”

  “No, ma’am, young Master Newcott isn’t here at the moment. But would you like to come inside for a glass of ice-cold lemonade and a cookie?”

  You know, it was hot. West Texas is murder in the summer months. A glass of cold lemonade sounded real good. To heck with my parents, I thought. “Sure,” I said. He held the screen door open for me and I entered a real devil’s lair—I just didn’t know it at the time. We went through the parlor hallway and into his den, where his television, comics, and some pieces of his toy collection were kept. Strangely, I noticed a number of unframed portraits of babies scattered on a table—then I quickly remembered that he photographed infants as well as the kids at school. There were also a few framed photos of babies on the wall. Among them, I found the portrait he’d taken of my brother Michael. He noticed that I was staring at them.

  “Ah, some of my lovely subjects,” he said. “I like to display my favorites. Aren’t they beautiful? Not too fond of dirty diapers, but I love the babies!” He laughed.

  “That’s my brother,” I said, pointing.

  “So it is! Yeah, I think that’s one of my best ones, don’t you?”

  “Sure, I guess so.” At the time, something felt instinctively weird about his displaying of baby pictures in his own home. But I shook it off. There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with that, since he was a part-time photographer. Looking back, I realize how naive I was. Photos of other people’s children, hanging in his living room?

  A portable movie screen was set up on one end of the room, and the projector sat on a small table in the middle. I went over to the box of small film canisters to see what he had—several reels of 8 mm celluloid, labeled with numbers. Mr. Alpine came over and quickly picked them up.

  “I was watching some home movies of my family. My cartoons and comedies are over there.” He moved to a shelf containing other boxes of reels and put that box back. I may be mistakenly recollecting his actions, but I distinctly remember thinking that he wanted to hide the numbered reels from me.

  “How are your mom and dad?” he asked.

  “They’re fine.” I kept thinking about the child that died, but I didn’t dare mention it. Instead, I asked, “Do your … where do your parents live?”

  “Oh, they live in El Paso.”

  “Is that where you grew up?”

  “Sure did. Me and my brother Carl. Lemonade’s in here.”

  I followed him through the den and into the adjoining kitchen. He opened the fridge, retrieved a bottle, and poured two glasses. He clinked my glass and said, “Cheers. May all your dreams become reality, my princess.”

  It tasted fresh, cold, and wonderful.

  “Would you like to watch a movie?” he asked. “I’ll make some popcorn.”

  Suddenly, I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, telling me not to go to Mr. Alpine’s house alone. “No, thank you,” I said, and made some excuse to leave.

  He performed a little bow. “Well, you crush me, fair maiden, but I will allow you to fulfill your obligations.”

  I laughed again; I liked this guy.

  “Oh! You should see the antique dolls I got from Germany. I bet you’d like those.”

  “I’m too old to play with dolls.”

  “Of course you are, my dear, but you’re also old enough to appreciate their beauty and the artistic talent that went into creating them. They’re hand-painted.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In my bedroom. Come and see.”

  Alarm bells went off in my head. At the time, I’d simply felt uncomfortable about going into his bedroom; it was only later, when I was older, that I realized my defense instincts had kicked in.

  “No thanks, I need to go. Thank you for the lemonade, Mr. Alpine!” And I was out the door.

  I never returned to his house again.

  I didn’t find Eddie the rest of the day and chalked it up to the possibility that he was avoiding me. It made me feel bad, but perhaps this was what he had to do to cope with the breakup.

  The Fourth of July holiday began with a great breakfast my mother made. My dad was off work for a few days, and we had planned to take a trip to New Mexico to see Carlsbad Caverns. Fireworks began around ten in the morning, and the crying started early. Michael didn’t like the noise. I remember going out to a vacant lot with my father in the afternoon to shoot some Black Cats—actually Dad did most of the work while I watched and held my ears.

  That night, a bunch of people shot fancy fireworks in the park. They weren’t organized in any way, and it was probably dangerous as hell, but in those days no one thought anything about it. Michael was finally asleep, so Mom, Dad, and I went outside to our backyard to watch the display. We could see the airspace over the park from there—we had the best view. I remember Mom being antsy; she didn’t want to spend too much time outside since Michael was asleep inside. Dad assured her, saying that there were plenty of quiet moments between the explosions in the sky to hear the baby cry if necessary.

  However, Mom was still worried. Early on, she asked me to go inside and check on my brother. I really didn’t want to miss any of the fireworks, but I dutifully obeyed. Michael was safely in his crib, fully awake. He wasn’t crying, but he was wiggling and being fussy, as if he was about to go into his screaming fit. I placed the rattle in his hand and he shook it furiously. Then I heard shouting outside in the front, on the street. I went to the front door and opened it. Some of the neighborhood boys were running toward the park, yelling at each other. I squinted to see if I could spot Eddie across the street in front of his house, but it was dark out and I wasn’t sure. I did, however, see the figure of Mr. Alpine. He was on the sidewalk, strolling toward the park.

  He turned his head and saw me in the doorway. He waved. I waved back at him. I distinctly remember that image to this day.

  The fireworks were still going on, so I closed the door—and, God help me, I know I didn’t lock it—and returned to the backyard.

  We continued to watch the spectacular show in the sky, but Mom was still restless. Five to ten minutes later, she couldn’t take it anymore and went back inside to check on my brother. A blood-curdling scream shook the house. Dad and I looked at each other and ran in. My mother’s back was against the wall of the nursery, her hands over her mouth, and her eyes wide with terror. She pointed to the crib.

  It was empty.

  7

  My memories of the days that followed that fateful July fourth are hazy at best. It was a horrible time for my family. Mostly, I remember the pain. My mother was inconsolable. She had to be drugged to keep from becoming hysterical. My father hated that he was powerless to help her. I felt completely lost, caught in a whirlwind of grieving grownups and suspicious police officers. My own guilt of leaving the front door unlocked is something that has never left me. I spent most of the 1980s in therapy for it.

  Someone had entered the house and snatched my baby brother from his crib while we were in the backyard watching fireworks. Whoever it was had not only taken the baby, but also the blue blanket in which he’d been swaddled and the plastic blue-and-white barbell rattle. Nothing else was missing.

  The fact that I was responsible for the unlocked front door caused a great deal of consternation on everyone’s parts. My mother blamed me, not the perpetrator. In her agony, she needed a scapegoat, and I’m afraid I was it. From then on, I’m sorry to say, something broke in the already rocky relationship between my mother and me. Maybe I’m the only one who felt it, but I doubt
it. Mom was destroyed by the event. It started her downward spiral into the depression that eventually killed her.

  The police interviewed everyone on our block. Nobody had seen anything, but of course anyone who was outside had been focused on the fireworks. It was either Greg or Dean who told the cops that he’d seen Mr. Alpine on the sidewalk near our house at some point after the fireworks had begun. I also reported that I’d seen him and that he’d waved to me. The officers talked to Mr. Alpine himself, but he, like everyone else, claimed to be walking toward the park to watch the fireworks. His own testimony, the cops informed my parents, was that he saw nothing unusual on the street. Alpine named several neighborhood kids he’d seen either on the street or in the park, including Greg, Dean, Joey, and Eddie. None of this was helpful, especially because it was dark at the time and the folks outside weren’t paying attention to other people. As far as the physical evidence went, there was none. The police didn’t have the types of sophisticated forensic procedures back then as they do now, and Limite was a small town. I believe all they looked for were fingerprints, but there was nothing conclusive. Looking back, there may have been some scrutiny placed on my mother for a day or two. When my father figured out that the cops suspected her, he yelled at them; the absurdity of that notion was almost too much for him to bear. Eventually, the cops dropped that idea when it was established that my mother never left the house except to watch the fireworks in the backyard with my father and me.

  I believe it was July 6 when two detectives came over once again to question my mother, as my father and I sat alongside her in the living room. One of them was tall and friendly. He gave me a piece of gum. His partner was an older and heavier man who seemed to be in charge. He called all the shots rather gruffly and unpleasantly and didn’t seem very empathetic to what our family was going through.

  During the questioning, I distinctly remember the moment when my mother abruptly bolted upright and said to one of the men, “Eddie. Did you talk to that boy across the street? Eddie Newcott?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Truman, we did. He was in the park like everyone else,” answered the tall officer with the gum.

  “Did anyone else see him? Did you get—what do you call it—collaboration?”

  “You mean corroboration, but …”

  “It wasn’t him!” I started to protest, but she cut me off and told the detective how we had caught Eddie in the nursery a few days ago, holding the baby and shaking him.

  “He wasn’t shaking Michael,” I said. “He was trying to do the bounce to stop him from crying.”

  “No!” Mom spat. She was growing more agitated and irrational by the second. “He was deliberately trying to harm Michael! He was molesting my baby! That boy is strange. There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong with that whole family over there. You need to arrest him!”

  “Honey,” Dad said, putting his arm around her. “Please, you’re upset. I don’t think Eddie Newcott would ever do anything like that.”

  I didn’t believe it for a second. He would never do anything to hurt my little brother. My mother was simply not right in her head. She was still in shock, distraught, and drugged. When the detectives left, I started crying and told my mother between sobs that she was wrong. I pleaded with my father not to let the police arrest Eddie; that’s what I thought they were going to do next.

  “They’re just going to talk to him again, honey,” Dad said. “Don’t worry. Maybe he saw something. He could be an important witness.”

  As it turned out, there was plenty to worry about. The next day, the police showed up across the street and took Eddie to the station, accompanied by his father and mother. He was there nearly fourteen hours, and I learned much later how traumatic the interrogation was for him. I remember sitting in our front room, watching Eddie’s house for the entire day. The police had taken Eddie in a cruiser, followed by the Newcotts in their car, first thing that morning. They only returned to the house after dark. I saw their car pull into the driveway. Eddie bolted out of the back seat and ran into the house. I heard Mr. Newcott shout at him, “Eddie!” Mrs. Newcott, hunched over, appeared resigned and beaten. Mr. Newcott put his arm around her. They walked inside and shut the door.

  The very next morning, police sirens screamed on our street. Dad, who was taking days off from work, was home. The three of us stepped into the front yard—I was still in my pajamas—and saw three police cruisers parked in front of Mr. Alpine’s house down the street. It looked as if the entire Limite police force had descended on the Alpine home. “I’m going to find out what’s going on,” Dad said and walked toward the mayhem. The cops sent him away. He returned to the house and called one of the detectives that had questioned us the other night. No luck.

  We didn’t hear anything until the day after that. The two officers returned and sat down with my parents in the kitchen. That was when I learned their names: Detective Jim Baxter was the tall man who had been nice to me; Detective Blake Donner, the heavier man, had ignored me. Detective Baxter told me that they needed to talk to my parents privately for a few minutes, and asked if I would mind waiting in my room. He gave me another stick of gum, which I stuck in the pocket of the skirt I was wearing. “Sure,” I answered, but instead of going to my bedroom, I stood in the hallway and eavesdropped on some of the things that were said. Apparently, the police had received a tip that Gordon Alpine had abducted Michael. They obtained a warrant to search his house and found Michael’s barbell rattle hidden in a dresser drawer in Mr. Alpine’s bedroom. I heard the rustling of a paper sack as the detective took out the rattle from a bag for my mother to identify it. She cried out in horror, answering the man’s question. Though I strained hard, I didn’t catch everything, and I’m sure I didn’t understand a lot of what was being said at the time. Words I’d never heard before. Something about photographic equipment. I heard the words, “he was suspected before,” no doubt referring to the death of his child a decade earlier. And, of course, the word “mayor” came up a few times. After a while, Detective Baxter called for me to come into the kitchen. Detective Donner barked at me, asking what I knew about kids visiting Mr. Alpine. I answered the best I could—that he often invited the neighborhood children into his house to watch cartoons, play with vintage toys, and drink lemonade.

  “And that’s all that happened?” Donner asked in that serious tone grown-ups have when they want you to tell the truth … or else.

  “That’s all that happened,” I answered, because it was the truth.

  “Did Mr. Alpine ever touch you inappropriately, or did you ever see him touch any of the other kids?”

  The idea was absurd to me. I shook my head and said Mr. Alpine wouldn’t do that. Detective Baxter wrote something down in a notebook and asked me to go back to my room.

  “Wait, there is something else,” I said.

  “What’s that?” Baxter asked.

  “Mr. Alpine has a picture of Michael on his wall.”

  The two detectives looked at each other. Donner gave a slight nod, as if he was confirming something.

  My father said, “What? His picture?”

  “Yes, sir,” Donner answered. “Mr. Alpine took your son’s portrait, is that correct?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “There are several photos of babies displayed on his living room wall. There was one conspicuous empty space; a photo frame had been removed. The hook was still there.”

  “And?”

  “The photo of your son was in the dresser drawer with the rattle.”

  “Oh my God!” my mother shrieked.

  Mr. Alpine had been arrested and taken to the police station the previous day. Everyone in the neighborhood was shocked and surprised. The mayor was conspicuously silent. My mother wanted to kill the man. But the big question above everything else was—where was Michael? Other than the presence of the rattle and the portrait, there was no baby. The police dug up Mr. Alpine’s backyard and tore his house apart, but they found no tiny corps
e. The detectives were confident that the prisoner would eventually talk. Surely a soft man like Mr. Alpine who worked in a library would rather confess to where he’d hid Michael than be moved from the city jail to a bigger prison to await trial. There was speculation that Alpine had most likely wrapped the baby in a garbage bag and had thrown him into a dumpster, or perhaps buried him in a vacant lot or in the oil fields.

  Over the next few days, my parents wouldn’t let me go out into the street to see any of the other kids. I heard later that the gossip was rampant. The story that Mr. Alpine had killed a child once before was circulating like wildfire. Now he’d abducted and murdered another one. Why? He was a madman, a monster, an animal. Greg—or was it Dean?—changed his story and said he had seen Mr. Alpine go into our house. After Mr. Alpine was arrested, he called the police and told them of his new realization. He said that hearing about the man being arrested was a jar to his memory.

  The mayor finally spoke out on the six p.m. local news. At first my parents didn’t want me watching it, but I insisted. I can’t recall much of what Carl Alpine said about his brother, only that he would make sure our ex-neighbor received the best legal representation. No protestations of innocence.

  Though I wanted to know more about the investigation, I wasn’t allowed to read the newspaper. Years later, when I was an adult, I went to the Limite Public Library and looked up the papers on file for that week. In the edition that came out the day after Mr. Alpine was arrested, there was an “I told you so” interview with Mr. Alpine’s ex-wife, to whom he had been married from April 1958 to March 1959. She was still convinced that he had also killed their baby, also two months old at the time. The incident occurred in October 1958. “He wasn’t much of a husband,” she said. “We had marital problems. He didn’t love me. I didn’t love him. He resented the baby. That’s why he killed my darling little boy. The police and medical examiner were wrong. It wasn’t one of those unexplained infant crib deaths. I know. And Gordon was never charged. I left him right after that.” Something odd struck me about the dates, so I did the math. If the baby was two months old in October, then he had been born in August. Gordon Alpine married his wife in April, which meant she was already pregnant at the time. A forced marriage?