The Legend of Peg Powler
(A Sewing Box Mystery)
Chapter 1: Friday, November 1, 1991, 1:51 am
Chapter 2: Saturday October 29, 2011, 11:37 am
Chapter 3: Sunday October 30, 2011, 10:30 am
Chapter 4, Monday, October 31, 2012, 8:01 am, Halloween
Chapter 13: Monday, October 31, 2011, 11:02 am
Time seemed to slow as they went about their work. Perhaps it was because they were turning back the clock, delving into the past - St. Petersburg’s past.
All three were busy dotting down notes on the pads of paper provided, while diligently returning each microfiche before removing another. This type of work was nothing new for Missy; administrative assistants are frequently handed this type of grunt work. It reminded her of her time at college, researching papers, recording and storing arcane facts, bits of information which have cause to float into a scholastic life in order to fulfill some temporary, present need before being discarded.
Missy found herself mesmerized. It wasn’t simply the topic at hand, though she found it compelling enough. She kept losing her way, caught up in the social items which filled the newspaper’s columns, keeping track of who had tea with whom, who poured. Quaint customs, engagements, and marriages. Obituaries. And advertisements; so many ads spouting the health benefits of such and such ointment, salve, potion, or elixir; clearly the town had been preyed upon by a number of oil salesmen.
But she also remained on task, for Jeanette chimed out the time every five minutes like a tightly wound grandfather clock. It made sense. She was the one with a time limit, having to get back to Minneapolis for a Halloween Party. It certainly brought a sense of urgency to their fact-finding.
Missy found the photo of the three shoes; front page, November 4, 1931. The microfiche copy wasn’t as crisp and clear as the one she’d spied in the museum, but haunting all the same. The headline blared, ‘Children Lost On The Darkest Of Nights’. The children were identified as Hiram Washington, Melbina Hartburn, and Zacharia Washington. Apparently they had all been taking part in a community celebration near the river Tye, had gone down to play near the river’s edge, removed their shoes to go wading and, presumably, been swept away by the current. Their bodies had not been found.
Their obituaries appeared in the paper’s weekend edition -the paper was only published on Wednesdays and Saturdays. It occurred to her that the last names of the children were similar to those belonging to the portraits in the public library. A sudden rush of memory swelled in Missy’s mind. She remembered pausing, ever so slightly, on one of the steps, in front of one of the narrower portraits on their way to the third floor. A woman, in a stylish black gown, she seemed so sad. Her hands, crossed at the wrist, were resting in her lap. In her right hand she was holding something; a group of three small photographs tethered together on a purple satin ribbon, cascading down the left side of the skirt of her gown. They must have been her children; these children, the ones drowned. Missy’s eyes welled with tears at the thought. That poor woman, the artist had captured her sorrow, her loss. It lived on in Missy’s mind like a stain.
Missy tried to find out the details regarding the community celebration mentioned by checking the edition prior to the incident at the river, which just happened to be October 31st, the day of the incident. She had assumed it would have something to do with Halloween, and while the issue’s graphics were rife with jack-o'-lanterns and hissing black cats, there were no children’s parties mentioned. The only gathering of note, other than the usual teas, was a religious one referred to as ‘The Ablution’, under the ‘guidance’ of Pastor Johannes Turnbull, ‘annointed’ leader of Opus Dei, which was to begin immediately after sunset. Curiously, no address or location was listed, so Missy had to assume it took place at one of the churches - though the only one she’d ever seen in town, well, near town, was the Catholic church run by the brotherhood she’d dealt with during her first visit to St. Petersburg.
She returned to November 4th edition. The children’s obituaries were brief, lots of references to lambs and angels. There were no photos. They were quite young, age four, five and six; too young to have accomplished anything other than making their parents, Melva and Gerald Washington happy. Perusing the papers published in the weeks following the funerals, it appeared that the bodies of the children were never found, despite the best efforts of the town’s citizens and the authorities. After a month of reporting on their lack of progress, the story died off.
However, a story which seemed to gain steam at the same time, was the disappearance of a local woman, Margaret Powers, the daughter of the local pharmacist. Only sixteen, she’d gone missing on the same night the three children drowned. Subsequent articles about her disappearance mentioned that the locals believed that ‘the devil’ was involved.
At the 40 minute mark, once all microfiche had been placed in the wooden tray by the door, Jeanette rallied the troops and the three woman sat at the table in the center of the room to share what they had found. Missy went first. It felt a little like doing an oral book report for school. The others listened patiently until she was through.
“I want to go to the river,” said Jeanette. “I want to see it for myself. And their graves. Just a hunch.”
Missy looked at her doubtfully. “Time crunch. You have to get back to Minneapolis, remember?”
Jeanette shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “My turn.”As she turned over a page of her note pad, Missy couldn’t help but notice how large her aunt wrote; big block letters, all in caps, very rough. It didn’t look childish, but it did strike Missy as the handwriting of someone who struggles. She didn’t mean to judge, it simply surprised her.
“Hedda’s boy? Disappeared on October 31st, 1971.” Her eyes scanned from niece to sister as if to challenge them. “Let that sink in.” The local Sheriff’s Department had no clues, nothing to go on. The boy was last seen riding his bike near the graveyard out by the Catholic Monastery.” Again, Jeanette checked in with her companions, though her reference only meant something to Missy. “His bicycle was discovered in an open field near the River Tye. The FBI was brought in, but they didn’t discover anything new. The case was closed a month later, the boy presumed drowned.”
“That poor woman.” The words fell from Dorie’s lips, softly, but weighted.
And while they don’t come right out and say it, the reporter seemed to believe it all happened because Hedda was a single mother,” sneered Jeanette. “Oh, and get this! The boy’s name?” She paused for dramatic effect. “Samuel. Junior.”
Missy’s face opened wide with amazement. “You’re kidding me. You think he was Sam’s kid?”
Without commenting, Jeanette continued. “Seems Hedda didn’t take the death of her boy well. She was arrested twice, that I found, for drunk and disorderly and was once found wandering Main Street wearing nothing but a nightgown.”
“But she seems so religious, almost militantly so.”
Jeanette laughed. “Religion; the last life preserver grasped by the wretched and lost. Wrap yourself up with the Lord and all you deal with is absolutes.”
Dorie pivoted back to the juicier part of the story. “Do you really think that old man was getting it on with his cashier?” She made a face. “That woman. That man. He’s so old. I can’t picture it.”
Missy’s face scrunched up dismissively, “Well, he was much younger then. And so was she.”
“When Ma’s away, Pa will play?” insinuated Jeanette.
“Maybe she wasn’t working for him then.” Quite frankly, Missy couldn’t picture it either. Sam had seemed so nice. Not that nice people don’t occasionally do wrong things, but still... assuming anything felt disloyal. Missy shoved it aside, “Let’s move on.”
“Peggy Powler!” crowed Dorie. “This town is obsessed with Peggy Powler. Or at least it was. Back in 1950, the local dramatic society even staged a play about her and what happened in 1931. Seems a religious sect in town deemed this woman a witch and stoned her to death. Her spirit rose up and began to seek revenge on the town by dragging children into the River Tye. However…” Dorie paused to check her notes. “A local pastor put an end to it, calling it blasphemy. He ordered all the scripts to be seized and burned. There was a really cool picture of them burning the scripts on the front page. After that though, there’s barely a mention at all… until 1991. When the Sheriff’s Department hauled a man in. He was arrested on the banks of the River Tye. Seems he’d convinced a group of kids to follow him. Well, one of the parents reported their child had been snatched and the Sheriff found them all at the river bank, with their shoes removed. The man arrested claimed that in order to save the town he had to sacrifice those children to Peggy Powler. He was going to throw them into the river! Said he heard a voice telling him to do it. Two weeks later, he was diagnosed a schizophrenic and declared incompetent to stand trial. Ended up being shut away in St. Peters State Hospital.”
Once finished, Dorie sat beaming at Missy and Jeanette. It was Jeanette who broke the silence.
“Well done.”
“Thank you.”
“That is some messed up…. stuff.”
“It is. It truly is.”
During this exchange, Missy sat with her tongue stuck in her cheek, thinking. “Alright. Now what do we do?”
“The newspaper?” Dorie suggested.
“No. No need. We just learned everything we would learn there, right here.”
“What about the graves?” proposed Jeanette.
“Absolutely not.”
“But…”
Missy was firm, a bit too much so. “Jeanette, it would be a waste of time. Besides…” and with this Missy kept her eyes glued to the pad of notes sitting in front of her on the table, “Those graves are right next to the Catholic Church. And there’s a certain groundskeeper I have no desire to run into at the moment. Gather your stuff. We’re going to talk to Arthur, at City Hall. There’s still too much we don’t know. And I have a feeling a lot of what’s missing can be found there.”
Jeanette and Dorie did as ordered, though Jeanette wouldn’t allow sleeping dogs to rest, “I want to see those gravestones.”
But Missy was not having it. “Nope. It’s City Hall time. Let’s go.”
“But Darlene said that Art guy was really difficult.”
Missy gave her aunt a thin-lipped smile. “Then I guess were just going to have to deal with whatever roadblocks he puts up.”
As the three women made their way down the steps, Missy paused before the portrait she believed to be the mother of the three children who drowned in 1931. A small brass plate had been attached to the base of the frame identifying the subject as ‘Melva Hartburn.’ There they were, the children, their likenesses captured on the photographs attached to the cascading ribbon. In the painted photos, the children where all chubby-cheeked and smiling, a joy absent in the rest of the portrait. It was the eyes; the eyes of Melva which hit home with Missy. They conveyed such loss. Missy was brought back to reality with a harsh, whispered hiss.
“Missy!”
It was Jeanette. Missy gave her a nod of her head and joined the others at the bottom of the stairs. Once again, as they walked across the entryway’s floor to the front doors, their heels echoed, creating a cacophony loud enough to grab the attention of a certain librarian.
“Leaving so soon?”
The trio stopped in their tracks and waited as Madeline made her way down from her perch. It struck Missy as odd that such a tall, ornate piece of furniture, one which required steps, would be used as a public libraries main desk. I seemed to her that particular piece of furniture would have been much more at home in a church.
“Yes. Thank you for everything.”
“Then you’ve found what you were looking for?”
“Yes.”
Madeline cocked her beehive-topped head to the right and peered quizzically at Missy. “You do realize that the library offers other sources of information?” She batted her eye.
“Of course,” blushed Missy. Though why she reacted this way, she had no idea. There was simply something so intense about this woman. “And we appreciate your help.”
“Any time. Library is open Monday through Saturday, 8:00 am to 8:30 pm. Closed on Sundays and all major holidays.” Madeline turned as if to return to her desk, only to do a one-eighty on her pointy heels. She fixed Missy with a knowing look, “Something tells me I’ll be seeing more of you.” She looked Missy up and down, as if to take a final inventory, before adding, “Until then…”
“Wait,” ordered Missy, railroaded by a sudden impulse. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You may.”
“It’s October 31st, Halloween. Yet, I haven’t seen a jack-o-lantern or and sort of decorations… anywhere.
The librarian placed a manicured index finger in front of her own lips. “Shhhh.” She then curled her finger and let it rest beneath her perfectly made-up mouth. “We don’t celebrate that particular holiday.”
This struck Missy as more than odd. “But why?”
Madeline lips curled into a knowing smile. “Oh. Something tells me you’ll find out soon enough.” And with that she turned and strode back to her desk.
In her wake, Missy felt a bit dazed. What was that about? She might have asked more questions, but, pressed for time, she turned away and made her way to the front door, where Jeanette and Dorie were waiting with equally puzzled looks.
“What was that all about?” queried Jeanette, who was holding open the door.
Missy shook her head as she passed, “I have no idea.”
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Once outside, the day’s sun was not the only thing which hit them. There was a small group of protesters, mostly women, holding signs which read things like, ‘Unclean Thoughts’ and ‘Burn Them All’. They were all singing what sounded like a hymn as they moved back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the library.
Guarded, the three women instinctively closed ranks and made their way through the protesters in order to get to their car. Suddenly, a man, all dressed in black, flew up into Missy’s face. “This is a house of blasphemy,” he raged. Missy blinked. The man’s emaciated, bearded face reminded her of a billy goat. She was about to respond, when she felt Jeanette’s arm interceding, pushing her back until Missy was standing behind her. “Back off, asshole!” barked Jeanette. Her aunt then grabbed Missy’s hand and swiftly pulled her towards the car. Standing on the driver’s side, Missy fumbled to find the right key. As she did this, the protesters moved and stood still in a line facing them, softly buzzing the same word over and over, “blasphemers, blasphemers, blasphemers.” Missy froze and stared, until she felt yet another push from behind, this time on the part of her mother.
“Oh, for god’s sake, Missy. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Dorie grabbed the keys out of her daughter’s hands, found the right key, opened the driver’s side door and impelled Missy inside. She then unlocked the rear door on the driver’s side and sunk inside before slamming the door and locking it from the inside.
The line of protesters then, en masse, began taking small, slow steps towards the front of the car.
Jeanette pounded on the car’s roof. “Hey! What about me?”
Dorie, scrambling, reached over and unlocked the passenger door and Jeanette slipped safely inside the vehicle before locking her door.
The protesters were now standing only a foot or so in front of the vehicle. Some of them had also begun to circle in, around the sides of the car, as if to close in on them.
Missy remained frozen.
“Oh, my god, what are you waiting for?” screamed Dorie.
The protesters were drawing closer, growing louder.
“Missy. Start the damn car.”
Missy jolted back to life, stuck the key in the ignition, turned it, put the car into reverse and peeled back without looking. A car behind her honked. Without acknowledging the other driver, she put her car in drive and peeled out of there, leaving the protesters choking on their dust.
She continued driving way too fast for about a mile. After swerving to avoid a collision, Missy turned the car sharply to the right side of the road and slammed on the breaks. Jostled and frazzled the women paused to regain their composure.
A moment of silence ensued, broken by an eruption from the back seat.
“What the hell?” yelled Dorie. “What the utter hell was that?”
Jeanette sat stone-faced glaring out the front window, while Missy began shaking her head back and forth and murmuring, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”
But Dorie was far from through. “I hate this place. I hate this town. I want to leave. I want to go home. Now!” She lurched her car door open, tumbling out onto the gravelled shoulder as a car passed by, its occupants heads all turning in unison to watch.
“Dorie!” barked Jeanette.
“No. I want out. Out of this town. What is wrong with these people? That! That was not right.” She staggered to the car’s trunk, smacking the metal with the palms of her hands. “Open this trunk. I want my things. I want to go home. I want to go home.”
Jerking the front passenger door open, Jeanette bolted out of the car and screamed at her sister, “And where would that be, Dorie? Huh? Where is home? You don’t know. You don’t know because you don’t have one. You don’t have a home.”
Something in Missy’s gut told her to intervene. As the screaming continued, Missy got out of the car. “Guys. Guys!” She put her arms out, offering both women the flat of her palms as if to order them to stop. “Stop. Just… stop. This isn’t… “ she struggled to find the right word, and failing simply settled for, “helpful.”
In silence which followed, the three women stood defensively erect, eyeing one another and breathing heavily. For some odd reason, they all seemed a bit out of breath. Another car drove by, not that any one of them paid it a bit of attention.
“Sorry.”
It was Jeanette.
“No, no, you… you’re right,” sighed Dorie. “You’re absolutely right. I… I don’t have anyplace to go.” Small and defeated, she got back in the car.
Missy looked over the hood at her aunt, who repeated, “Sorry.”
Tearing up, Missy once again began shaking her head before ducking back into the driver’s seat. She wanted to deny what had just happened. It felt threatening. It felt violent. For a few moments, she and her mother sat inside the car in silence, Missy staring straight ahead while Dorie rested her forehead on her car door’s window. After a few beats, Jeanette rejoined them.
Without another word, after buckling up, Missy put the car, which was still running, into drive, put on her blinker, and checked her mirrors carefully before pulling back onto the blacktop.
Something was wrong.
In this town…
This all felt very, very wrong.
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1 comment:
Perfect.
Religious fundies and devil worshippers are indistinguishable. The portrait of the mother? I could almost see it....
XOXO
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