DESTINATION, MYSTERY
A JOHN BIEBE STORY
BY MARIELLEN
One late morning in early November Meg Stendahl opened her front door and the arctic wind charged in, rattling the other doors in the corridor, bringing in blasts of snow. The man on her porch was big and
hairy; the short walk from his car to her door had him covered in snow. She noticed the sheriff’s badge on
his coat. Her experience with the NYPD had left her not caring much for policemen, but this wasn’t New
York, so she managed something between a smirk and a smile and opened the door wider to let him in,
closing it quickly behind him. He stamped his feet and opened his coat, shaking the bad weather off.
Except for Jack Bender, the local shopkeeper, he was the first caller since she moved into this lodge three months ago.
The sheriff removed his fur hat, and ran a big hand through his long hair. “Good morning.”
Meg stifled a yawn and tried to focus on his face. “Is it?”
He grinned. “What; morning or good?”
“Both,” she growled. “Come to the kitchen.”
It was cold in the log cabin’s corridor and Meg embraced herself, rubbing her arms in a feeble attempt to
stop her body from shivering. She preceded him into the kitchen, where she flipped the switch on the
coffee machine, and watched him as he slowly followed her in. He was irritatingly chipper and awake.
Meg felt like anyone would after sleeping face down on a keyboard with half a bottle of brandy inside them. Having small square imprints of the keyboard on her cheek and the stale smell of brandy hanging around
her, didn’t do much for either her complexion or her humor. She filled a glass with water from the tap
and drank it to kill the taste of something dead and hairy in her mouth.
“You want some coffee too?”
“Well, if I’m not disturbing you,” he said, mocking her.
Too fucking late now. She didn’t say it out loud, just poured two mugs and brought them over to the table.
He’d expected her to be much older. When Jack Bender told him a writer had rented Bailey’s old lodge,
the image of an elderly, slightly eccentric woman had settled in his brain. Without the sickly pale
complexion, tangled hair, and blood shot eyes, she would probably be quite beautiful.
She drained her second coffee before she spoke to him again.
“What brings you up here?” The smile that softened the ‘why are you bothering me’ tone, didn’t reach her eyes.
He stifled a grin. “I just came to check if you are prepared for the storm that’s expected to hit this area sometime tomorrow. We’ll be closing the roads to and from town this afternoon.”
“I’m fine. Jack brought my supplies over yesterday, I should have enough to last me two weeks.”
“You’re planning to stay up here then?” He asked.
“Is that a problem?”
He looked at her willful face. “No, not as long as you stay indoors.”
“I will.”
Her voice still had a hoarse well-drowned quality and he raised his eyebrow in question. “Rough night?”
“No, the night was okay, it’s the morning after that’s the problem.”
He giggled. Its high, almost girlish sound surprised her. She took a better look at him. Under all that hair,
he had a nice face, strong and masculine, a serious face when not smiling, with sad lines around his
mouth and green eyes, but the dimples in his cheeks and little crow’s-feet betrayed a tendency to smile.
She wondered what had happened to him, what caused the sadness.
He waited patiently until she stopped observing him. “So, have you settled in a bit?”
“Yes,” she said, “I like it here; nice and quiet.”
“We don’t see much of you in town.”
She shrugged. “Well, I didn’t come here to socialize.”
“The book is coming along fine then?”
“It’s coming along.”
She didn’t make it easy to talk to her, but he persisted. “What’s it about?”
Meg rested her grey eyes on his face again, as if measuring him, deciding how much to tell him, if
anything. “Basically, it’s about injustice.”
“You’re not going tell me, are you?” He asked smilingly.
How his smile lights up his whole face, she thought. It went beyond attractiveness. It was real and warm, showing her a natural kindness and she decided she liked him, so she smiled back and slightly shook her head. “Not much to tell really, it’s early stages yet.”
“What made you choose this isolated lodge? It must be quite a culture shock after New York.”
Her eyes moved away to the window overlooking the Pine trees and frozen lake, not seeing. She was back
in New York. Flashlights and microphones were propped in her face. Questions shouted at her. Familiar
and strange eyes looked at her accusingly. Newspaper headlines flashed in front of her eyes. Nasty
headlines. The sorts that made your husband turn his back on you. The sort that made longtime friends
and colleagues doubt you.
The sheriff looked at her profile, the short straight nose, and the full curve of her mouth. She looked lost
and vulnerable. When her consciousness focused on him again, there was no trace of a smile left. Her
eyes seemed darker and her body tense. “Maybe I just needed to loose myself for a while.”
The mood had changed and he got up. “Time to get on. Thanks for the coffee.” He turned at the door. “If
you need anything, you know where to find me.”
She nodded. “Yes. Thank you, sheriff.”
“It’s John. John Biebe.”
She stood up and reached out her hand. “Meg Stendahl.”
His hand was big and warm. She liked how her hand disappeared in it.
***
The blizzard roared around the house, covering it with snow like icing sugar on a cake. Meg tried the
phone again; it was still dead, been dead since yesterday. It aggravated her. Without her lifeline, the
isolation was complete, the loneliness hardly bearable.
Meg had made a habit of calling her best friends Paul and Helen Brentano every night. She’d met Paul in medical school; he was of Italian descent and had an air of cocky arrogance about him, his intelligence
and wicked sense of humor got him into trouble constantly and Meg had taken to him from their first
meeting. When Meg introduced him to her life-long friend Helen, it was clear they were meant for each
other, even though it took them a while to realize what Meg had perceived all along. Helen was an editor
for one of New York’s most prestigious publishing houses; she was the one who persuaded Meg to put her story into writing. Paul had been a surgeon in Mount Sinai, the same hospital where Meg worked as a pediatrician, he had stood behind her all through her ordeal and when the Sinai had fired her, he had
quit his job there and was now working at Cornell Medical Center.
When Meg brought up the idea of leaving New York for a while, Paul and Helen agreed with her, convinced it would do Meg good to get away from the city. Now that she’d lost her old life, she needed to take some time
off to reconsider her future. One night, after three bottles of wine, the three of them had written down a number of isolated locations in the world on pieces of papers and put them in a hat. When Meg pulled out ‘Alaska’ they had double over with laughter and made all sorts of ‘Eskimo’ jokes.
In the days following, the idea had taken root in Meg’s mind and the more she thought about it, the more perfect Alaska seemed. She needed peace and quiet and the cold would mean spending more time indoors, convenient if you wanted to avoid people. When Meg told her friends that she was going to Alaska, they
were dumbstruck and tried to change her mind, but Meg was already set on going and that was it.
Meg had searched the Internet for a small town in the Interior and picked Mystery, simply because she
liked the name. She’d opted for the Interior because the climate appealed to her, six months of snow and
ice and the other six, spring and summer. Bailey’s lodge seemed to fit all her requirements so she’d
contacted its owner, Phillip Pruitt and rented the place for a year.Before leaving New York, she sold the
house her father had left her and stored her furniture and effects, only taking a few books, clothes and personal items with her to Mystery.
The town had been smaller than she’d imagined with a population scarcely reaching 800 souls, its center located in a small valley protected by mountain rigs. Mystery had some community services like the town
hall, police station, post-office, church and surgery, a few stores, a pub and a few hotels.
Meg had romanticized the idea of living in a rough and unspoiled natural environment, without taking
the loneliness into account. What had seemed like a haven of rest from her chaotic life in New York,
turned out to be so desolately lonesome that it almost drove her insane. But being stubborn and
headstrong, Meg would not give in and go back home. She had rented the lodge for a year and planned to
see it through till the end.
***
Snow on the windows left her with no view on the world and the growing sense of claustrophobia made working impossible. The desk Meg used was covered in piles of newspapers, their headlines shouting at
her: ‘Pediatrician accused of murder’, ‘Vermont lashes out at victim’s mother.’ With a frustrated gesture,
she swept the top clean, sending the papers flying through the room like birds with broken wings.
She took a seat next to the large bookcase, but it was filled with the typical selection of popular books
found in most holiday homes and as she trailed the backs of the books with her fingers, there was nothing
she felt like reading right now.
Meg looked at the mess she’d caused and with a sigh crouched on her knees and picked the papers from
the floor, organizing them, putting them neatly back in their folders.
***
The storm’s tumult kept her awake at night. The wind howled inside the house, whistled in the chimney, making the windows sing in their frames. Outside with creaking sounds, branches tore loose from the
tall, erect Pines that surrounded the lodge. As sleep wouldn’t come, Meg got up and went into the kitchen
to make tea. It was what her father had used to do. By the time Meg worked as a co-assistant in Mount
Sinai Hospital, she understood her father’s insomnia better. The incredible hours the job required, the
stress and responsibility, and the total lack of sleep for days screwed up her biorhythm. Her father had
been a doctor, like her. In fact, she became a doctor because of him; he’d been her example in life, all
she’d wanted was to be like him.
She took her tea into the living room and sat down on the rug, her back against the couch. It was almost a year since her father had died. He’d suffered a heart attack shortly after Christmas last year. She’d rushed him to the hospital, where he never regained consciousness and died after three days. Meg missed him
terribly and wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming holidays. It would be the first Christmas without
him, the first Christmas without any of her friends or family.
***
The sun shone in her eyes mercilessly, waking her up. She was lying on the couch and it took her a few minutes to realize that it was silent outside, the storm had died down. It was cold in the room, cold but
stuffy, and she opened a window, letting the fresh, freezing air stream in. It seemed like a lovely day for a
walk so she took a quick shower and dressed for the cold, grabbing her parka and sunglasses on the way
out.
Walking through the fresh snow was like working her way through porridge. Meg made it as far as the
lake. She stood there for a moment taking in the view. The frozen lake had disappeared under a thick
blanket of snow, excruciatingly white in the bright sunlight. It was a clear day; she could see all the way across the lake to the mountain rigs on the other side. No low hanging clouds today. Meg took a couple of
steps onto the lake, almost feeling guilty for disturbing the virginal white. On an impulse, she let herself
fall backwards into it. The softness caught her, embraced her almost. She remembered a scene from a
movie and moved her arms up and down in the snow, creating angel’s wings. Had it been in the snow or
on the beach? She couldn’t remember what movie. She looked up at the cloudless sky, so devastatingly
light and blue, and closed her eyes.
Someone called. She heard the creaking sound of footsteps in the snow and opened her eyes. A man
walked up to her, his silhouette dark against the bright sky.
“Are you alright?”
Meg got up, the imprint of her foolish behavior clear under her feet.
“Yeah, I was just… you know, making angel wings.”
John Biebe smiled down at her with eyebrows raised. “Angel wings… is that a writer thing?”
“It’s from a movie…” She made a helpless gesture. “Oh, never mind.” He was laughing openly at her now,
his laughter so catching, she found herself giggling. “What are doing up here, anyway?”
“Just thought I’d check on you, see if you made it through the storm all right.”
“I’m fine, thanks. Relieved it’s over though.”
They walked back to the cabin together. “Do you have time for coffee?” Meg asked.
“Yeah. I’m off duty now, been at it since five, making sure the roads are clear, checking the damage.”
“Is there a lot of damage?”
“Ah... just the usual uprooted trees falling on roofs, some stranded travelers, lots of debris blocking the
roads. The phones are down, don’t know if you noticed. A landslide took some lines down; we hope to
have that fixed in a couple of days.”
“I noticed.”
John came inside after her, leaving his coat and boots in the hallway. He entered the living room and
stood with his back to the fire. Meg handed him his coffee mug and he cupped it with both hands. He
looked exhausted. The heavy eyelids almost covered his eyes and there were dark patches underneath
them. He walked over to the couch and slumped down on it.
Meg said, “I was planning to fry some eggs, you want some?”
John looked up in surprise. “Yes, I would, thanks.”
He looked around the room. The lodge was rented fully furnished; it looked much the same as when it
still belonged to his old friend Bailey Pruitt. He had spent many evenings here when Bailey was still alive
and had always liked the cabin. It was a large room with wooden paneling on the walls, large bookcases
and a huge fireplace that bathed the room in a warm orange glow. She had moved the desk; put it in front
of the window, laptop and files on top. The two couches were now flanking the fireplace, creating a cozy sitting area. She hadn’t brought many personal things, maybe some books. There were piles of them all around the room. The picture of an elderly man stood on the mantelpiece. John picked up a book that
was half buried between the couch cushions, poems by Rudyard Kipling. He wasn’t into poems, but the
crack in its back opened the book to the one well-read page. Some of the words were underlined.
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
He was curious if the underlining was hers, wondered if the sentences had special meaning to her. He
read on.
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken. It kicked him in the stomach. He closed the book,
placed it on a pile of others on the floor, and forced his thoughts back into their dark, lonely hole. He
didn’t want to go there. The warmth of the fire made him drowsy. He pulled up his legs and rested his
head on his arm.
When Meg came back with the eggs and bacon on rye, he was fast asleep. She put his plate on a side-table
and sat down on the other couch and watched him while she ate her eggs. He was lying on his side. In the
soft light of the fire, his long, auburn hair almost seemed red. Relaxed in sleep his mouth was slightly open and his full upper lip curved sensually. Under the short trimmed beard, she noticed the strong lines of his
jaw with the cleft in his chin. Feeling a bit uneasy observing at him like that, Meg took the plates back into
the kitchen and returned to her desk to work.
***
He rides the black ice. It stretches endless before him, beyond the sharp line where the land ends and the
sky begins. Empty, smooth, and polished, it disappears under his skates but not before his eyes. He hits
the invisible barrier, like he knows he will and can’t escape. The clear wall of ice stops him and he turns
and skates the other way. Time after time, he hits the walls until they catch up with him and closes in on
him, almost crushing him before the black ice opens under his feet and he falls and falls....
***
John’s scream chilled Meg to the bone. She jumped up, knocking over her chair and ran to the couch. He
was half-sitting, not completely awake yet and moaned. Meg sat down and shook him by the shoulders.
“John, wake up.”
His eyes shot open, wild and disturbing, not seeing her. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her hands off his shoulders and held them in a painful grip. Meg watched his face calm down, his eyes focused on her and
as his ragged breathing slowed, he seemed to become aware of his surroundings.
“You were dreaming,” she said. He looked down at his hands clenched around her wrists and let go. Absentmindedly she massaged the painful spots and she kept watching him. His face was pale and covered with sweat, strands of soaked hair hung in disarray before his eyes. He raised his hand and stroked it back, confusion clear in his expression.
“You must have been really tired, for you fell asleep on the couch. Maybe I should have woken you up, but
you seemed to need it and as you weren’t in my way, I just let you sleep.” Her worried eyes locked into his. “Are you okay now? Want to tell me about the dream?”
He scanned her face and seemed to take heart from its calmness. “It’s always the same. I’m skating, alone
in the dark. Its pitch dark, I can hardly see, just the black ice under me. Invisible walls of ice close in on
me until I have nowhere to go. I feel they are crushing me and I can’t breath. Then the ice under my feet
is gone and I fall and go deeper and deeper into the black water.” His voice cracked. “And then I see
Mikey. His face and hands are a brilliant light green and I know he’s dead, but his eyes are open and his mouth is moving…and I know I should stop falling and listen to him…but I can’t. And then I wake up.”
He shivered.
“Who is Mikey?”
“My son; two years ago he went through the ice and drowned.”
“Oh, Jesus, John. I’m so sorry…”
John couldn’t look at her. He’d seen enough pity in people’s eyes to last him a lifetime. Uncomfortable
with unwillingly having made her a witness to his misery, he rose to his feet and gruffly said, “I have to
go.”
Meg didn’t follow him, she heard him put his boots and coat on and quietly close the door behind him.
***
Two weeks passed before he came round again. Meg was behind the desk, forcing herself to get into a
working rhythm again. When she saw the old bronco pull up, conflicting emotions clashed inside her.
She was happy to see him again, but at the same time needed him to stay away, for his haunted eyes
seemed engraved in her mind and she feared caring for him. She opened the door and one look at the
dark shadows under his eyes; told her it was too late already.
John roughly said: “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have left like that, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, you don’t owe me anything.”
His smile was so sad that something jumped inside her. He looked like he could use a good hug, but she
didn’t move. She shivered in the cold air and said, “Come in.”
John shook his head, looking away. “I wouldn’t be good company. Anyway, I’ve bothered you enough…”
“You don’t bother me, but make up your mind, for it’s too cold to keep the door open.”
He came in and Meg walked into the living room leaving him little choice but to follow her. He took his
coat off and sat down on the couch, clearly ill at ease.
Meg sat down opposite him and said, “Listen, if you want to talk…you know, the comfort of stranger and such…I’m a good listener. But if you don’t want to…that’s okay too.”
He started talking without positively wanting to, but impelled by her apparent indifference. “When Mike
died, my wife, Donna…she blamed me…for loving hockey, for making the boys love hockey, for wanting to
live here.” He looked at Meg with infinite sadness. “That’s how it happened, you know. Mike wanted to
play the pond so much; he went on the ice too early. I’d warned him over and over again never to do that,
but he was with a couple of friends and they just did it anyway.”
Her quiet face willed him to go.
“Donna and I just didn’t seem able to console each other. She wouldn’t talk to me and in the end she left, taking the kids. I always thought we were doing all right. I mean…I knew that she missed the city, missed going out, the theatre and things like that. But I thought that what we had, our family, was enough for
her.”
“How many kids do you have?”
“We have two more sons, Joey and Jamie. They’re only seven and five. That’s he hardest thing, not having them around.”
“Do you get to see them at all?”
“Yeah, during holidays. Two weeks at Christmas and six weeks in summer.”
“So, soon again then.” It was only three weeks until the Christmas holidays.
“Yes,” a faint smile appeared, “soon again.”
“Tell me about Mike. What was he like?”
His smile deepened. “Mikey was such a happy little boy. He loved it here. Loved everything that had to do
with ice and skating. I used to take him with me to the locker room. He just loved to sit there and listen to
all the stories. Loved to help. Little things, you know? Passing round the hot potatoes…”
“Hot potatoes?”
John grinned. “Yeah, we use hot potatoes to warm our skates before the game.”
“Oh, okay. Kind of basic, isn’t it?”
“Hmm, but effective. Mike loved chores like that. He used to hand out the shirts that divide the teams, the sticks we play with. Of course the result was that he picked up a lot of bad language, Donna wasn’t too
pleased about that.” He shook his head. “He was so proud of me, playing the Saturday game. Always
talking about when he would be old enough to play it too.”
“I have heard about your Saturday game, seems to be a big deal in this town.”
“Yes, it is. We are a hockey town and proud of it.”
Meg smiled at his serious face. “I did notice all the ice rinks in town. Maybe I should come and watch that famous game of yours one day.”
“Yes, you should, it’s a lot of fun.”
“Hmm, freezing my butt off watching a bunch of overgrown boys chase a wooden puck around the ice isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”
John was about to say something in defense but caught the mischievous sparkle in her eyes just in time.
He just grinned back.
Meg watched him; he seemed more relaxed.
“I have some left-over pot roast in the oven. I don’t know if you have any plans, but you’re welcome to
stay if you want.”
John looked at her friendly face, at the cool grey eyes and her smiling mouth. He realized that with her
calm demeanor and quiet questions, she had brought him back from a very dark place and he felt better
then he had in a long time. He thought of his empty house, where nothing was waiting for him but
memories and a microwave dinner.
“I would love to.”
Meg went into the kitchen and John followed her. “Pour us some wine, will ya. It’s behind you on the
shelf,” she said. John opened the bottle and poured two glasses, handed her one and took a seat at the
kitchen table, watching her prepare dinner. Meg set the table with plates, salad and bread. She checked
the roast, tasting it and filled two bowls with the casserole.
“Enjoy.”
He ate like a wolf, helping himself to seconds and after he was glowing with contentment, a rosy color on
his cheeks and the lines in his face softened. Meg just smiled at him. She loved a man with a healthy
appetite. She cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink. The coffee machine was already running to finish and she poured two mugs. “Let’s go sit by the fire.”
Back in the living room, John noticed the chess-set on a little table; it wasn’t Bailey’s set. He picked up a
piece. The set was beautifully carved out of boxwood and ebony. “Yours?”
“Yes. They used to be my father’s.”
“Do you play?”
“Yes, I do.”
She didn’t miss the mockingly raised brow. “Why? Don’t you think women can play?”
“No, it’s just I never met a woman before who liked the game.” Or was any good at it. He didn’t say that aloud.
She challenged him. “I like to play.”
His smile deepened. “Like now?”
“Sure.”
Meg picked up the table and set it between the couches, pulling one of them closer by.
She smiled sweetly. “So this is the first time you will be beaten by a woman?”
He laughed aloud. “Oh, you’re in trouble now. I’ll make you eat those words.”
“I’m mortified…”
John looked into her teasing eyes; he was so going to enjoy beating her.
She played fast and aggressive. Before he knew it, she had him cornered. This was going to be tougher
than he thought. He looked at her; she smiled like a Cheshire cat before the kill. He realized that he should concentrate more on the game and less on her. He had a hard time. She dared him with her eyes, making
fun of him. He lost the first game.
Despite his competitive nature, he was a gracious loser. He lifted his coffee mug in a toast. “I admit it, you
can play chess.”
Meg laughed happily. “First game is always the easiest. You underestimated me; you won’t make that
mistake again.”
She got up and went to kitchen to get some wine while John was setting the board again. When she
handed him his glass, he noticed the dark bruises on her wrist. He took the glass from her with one hand
and gently held her wrist with the other.
“Did I do that?”
Meg felt goose pimples creep up her skin under his touch. His thumb slowly stroked her soft skin. “I’m
sorry I hurt you.”
She grinned to disguise her uneasiness and wriggled her arm free. “It’s nothing, I always bruise easily.
Let’s play.”
They played the second game more careful. She was right; John didn’t underestimate her anymore and
forced himself to concentrate. After a few hours, Meg had to admit she found her match. He won the
second game. She leaned back and smiled at him warmly.
“I thoroughly enjoyed that. You are a worthy adversary.”
“Right back at you. Where did you learn to play like that?”
“My father taught me. He loved the game.”
“Is he still around?”
“No, he died.” Her sadness was tangible.
“I’m sorry…tell me about him.”
Meg searched for the right words. “He was my hero. All my life I wanted to be like him.” She grinned sardonically. “We drove my mother crazy, being hand in glove, she never quite understood. He raised me
to believe I could do anything I wanted. He always believed in me.”
“What did he do?”
“He was a doctor, a pediatrician. His work meant everything to him. My mother always resented that. She divorced him; I think she expected more glamour from being a doctor’s wife.”
“Do you still see her?”
“Sometimes. We never really got along. I guess you could say we are on polite terms.”
“When did your father die?”
“Last year, after Christmas, he had a heart attack.”
“And…did you follow in his footsteps?”
“Yes, I did, actually. I’m a pediatrician too.”
He was clearly surprised. “Really? Why all this then? I thought you were a writer.”
“No, this is my first attempt.” Meg looked at him carefully, tempted to tell him her story, but deciding
against it. He was a cop after all and practically a stranger. “Things happened to me and I needed to get
away for a while. My best friend is a publisher, she sort of pushed me to write and when the book is good enough, she will publish it for me. It’s a new challenge and it keeps me busy.”
John just nodded and realizing she was holding back, he did not persist.
Meg seemed lost in thought and as it was late, he got up to go home. She walked him to the door. John
turned to her, a warm smile on his face.
“Thanks for dinner… and everything.”
Meg looked at his smiling face, thinking how much she liked him.
“Sure,” she said, “anytime.”
***
Every two weeks or so, Meg went down to town to empty her mailbox and do some shopping.
Sometimes she would go into the pub for a coffee. It was a nice pub, warm and homely with a cozy fire burning; open all hours, serving breakfast, lunch and daily specials. Like most buildings in Mystery, it
was made completely of wood and had the same rustic feel to it as the cabin. The owner was a large,
bosomy, blonde woman somewhere in her fifties, named Claire who always greeted Meg with a broad
smile.
On her trips to town Meg had run into John a couple of times. He’d never visited her at the lodge again,
and even though she hadn’t really expected him to, it strangely hurt her. One time she almost invited him
to come play chess again, but bailed out, afraid he would think her forward.
Normally her mailbox didn’t hold much more than some magazines she had sent after her. This time there was a letter and it surprised Meg, as only Paul and Helen knew her address and they communicated with
her through email and phone. She tore the envelope open and read it. It was anonymous and nasty.
I know who you are. Fucking child-murderer. Did you think you could fool me, posing as a writer? You
are not welcome here. So pack your things and go back to the stinking hole you came from. Don’t make
me force you.
Meg looked at the envelope again. It held the name she had used in the past, the name the press had used.
Margaret Vermont
Baileys Lodge
Mystery
It should have warned her.
Back in New York she’d received letters like this before. Right after her story hit the papers she’d become
the target of many poisonous letters and disgusting phone calls. The thought that people unknown to her would go to the trouble of writing hurtful letters and making vicious calls, had shocked her, but after the storm had quieted down, so had the attacks.
For a moment she contemplated showing the letter to John, but that would imply explanations and she
wasn’t ready to tell him her story yet. She put the letter in her pocket and decided to ignore it.
***
The Christmas Holidays had started and Meg was in town to get a tree and some decorations. When she
drove past the skating rink in the center of town, she saw John skating with two little boys. Meg parked
the car and walked over to the rink where she took a seat on one of the benches and watched them. They
were all great skaters even the smallest boy; he could probably skate before he could walk. Meg enjoyed watching them having so much fun, delighted that John looked happy and relaxed. When he noticed her,
he skated her way, smiling broadly.
“Back in town again, you better take care, it grows on you.”
“I know. I’ll consider myself warned.”
The boys came skating up, looking at Meg with curiosity. They resembled John; it was strange to see his
eyes in their faces.
“So, these are your boys.”
“Yes. This is Joey,” he pointed at the eldest boy, “and this is Jamie.”
“Hi, I’m Meg.”
Joey looked at her coolly. “Are you my father’s friend?”
Taken a little aback by his question, Meg slowly answered, “Yes. I guess I am.”
“Do you skate?”
“Hmm. I did when I was young, but it’s been at least fifteen years.”
Joey smirked and turned to his father. “She can’t skate.”
Meg suppressed a smile. “Are you challenging me?”
John laughed. “Do you feel like trying?”
“Well, can I get skates here?”
“Sure,” he pointed at a stand at the other side of the rink; “You can get them there.”
Meg smiled at Joey. “I will probably make a fool of myself, but that would please you, wouldn’t it?”
His return smile was as devastatingly gorgeous as his father's was. “Maybe you’ll be alright.”
As she put the figure skates on and took her first wobbly strikes, she wondered why in the hell she had let
a seven-year old challenge her on the ice; she was likely to break a leg and it would serve her right. The
Biebe men were smiling benevolently. When she went flat on her bum, Joey and Jamie laughed so hard
they went down too. John slid over and pulled her back on her feet.
“You’re a bit rusty.”
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not,” he said with a twisting mouth. “We’ll help you, won’t we, guys?”
So they skated around holding hands, John on her right side, holding Jamie with his other hand and
Joey on her left side. Meg wasn’t too sure this was such a good idea, for they were gaining speed rapidly,
but soon she forgot her fear of falling and found her balance. They let go of her and after a few rounds she successfully skated backwards and even managed a little spin, gaining applause from the boys.
John watched her interact with his sons. It was clear they liked her. With Joey, he could always tell by
the amount of teasing. Meg’s bright red cheeks and radiant eyes betrayed she was enjoying herself too.
They stayed on the ice for another hour, until John suggested going to Claire’s for hot chocolate.
If Claire was surprised to see them enter as a foursome, she didn’t let on.
“Hey, my favorite men in the whole world!” And to Meg, “Hi.”
When they finished their chocolate, the boys went outside again to play. John warned them to stay on the sidewalk. Meg turned to him. “It must be wonderful to have the boys, I’m happy for you.”
“Yes, I have them until New Years Day, and then Donna’s parents will pick them up.” He sighed. “It is wonderful to have them home, but when I look at them at night, when they are sleeping, and I think of
them leaving again…”
“They are lovely boys, they look like you.”
“Are you saying that I’m lovely?” he asked, teasing her.
“Hmm…hard to tell with all that hair, maybe if you like bears…”
John grinned back at her mischievous eyes and involuntarily ran a hand through his thick hair. Meg
thought he indeed was lovely but wasn’t about to tell him.
The town’s judge, Walter Burns, walked in and took a seat next to John and soon the two men were
talking about an upcoming court case. Meg still had to get her Christmas tree so she said her good-byes
and left.
Claire noticed that John followed her with his eyes. She winked at him and said; “You’re right, Johnny,
she is quite nice.”
“You do realize who she is, of course,” Judge Burns said. Two pairs of eyes looked at him in question.
“Well, she’s that pediatrician that got arrested on suspicion of killing a patient about a year ago. It never
got to court because there wasn’t any evidence, but the media tore her to pieces over it. As I remember correctly she actually accused the boy’s mother. What was her name again…Vermont, that’s it…Margaret Vermont.”
Both Claire and John looked at the judge dumbstruck.
“Jesus!” Claire said, “I remember that. Never believed she had anything to with it though, the story
seemed too far fetched, and now that I’ve met her, I believe it even less.”
John didn’t respond. He just stared out the window, to where Meg had disappeared.
***
After Meg had finished her shopping she decided to return to the pub. The loneliness of the cabin was
getting to her sometimes and she didn’t feel like going back to it yet. It wasn’t very busy inside and when
she took a seat at the bar, Claire walked up to her and held out her hand. “We’ve never been properly introduced, I’m Claire,”
Meg shook it. “I’m Meg.”
Claire’s intelligent blue eyes looked upon her with undisguised curiosity. “I know. Mystery woman and writer.”
Meg had to laugh. “Is that the general consensus?”
“Well…lately I’ve heard some other things about you too, but I like to make up my own mind.”
Meg sighed. “Yeah, I can imagine what that’s about. Guess staying incognito was too much to hope for.”
Claire still watched her steadily. “You can tell me your side of the story one day. You look like you could
need a friend.”
Suddenly Meg felt the tears burn behind her eyes. Claire put one big hand over Meg’s and said, “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Meg forced herself to smile. “No, it’s just that…you’re right, I could use a friend. I don’t know what I’ve
been thinking. I’ve never been alone for such a long time in my life. It seemed like a good idea back in
New York, but now…reality isn’t what I thought it would be.”
Claire laughed. “It never is, honey, it never is. So, what can I get you?”
“Coffee please.”
Claire made her a coffee and when she served it, she put a large brandy next to it. “You could use
something a little stronger than that,” she said with a wink. “I’ll be right back.”
Claire went about to help other customers and Meg sat quietly sipping her coffee and brandy. The alcohol spread warm comfort through her stomach, calming her down.
Claire returned and said, “If you like, I could come over to your place Monday night. That’s my night off.
We could just talk; get to know each other a bit.”
Meg observed the other woman’s face, from the clear, intelligent eyes to the friendly smile. She nodded.
“Yes, I would like that. Will you stay for dinner? I’m not a great cook, but I do make a mean pot roast.”
“Hmm. Yes, I’ve heard about your pot roast.”
Meg raised her eyebrows in question.
“Johnny told me.”
Meg felt her cheeks burn red hot. Claire winked at her. “Don’t worry, John and I are old friends, he said nothing but nice things about you. Speaking of the devil…” She turned her attention to someone who just entered the pub. “Hi, Johnny.”
Meg turned on her seat to greet him, but the moment their eyes met, she knew things had changed. There
was no trace of the gorgeous smile he had given her before; he looked at her with cops’ eyes.
He nodded. “Mrs. Vermont.”
Meg felt the blood drain from her face. He had said it slow and clear, leaving no room for
misunderstanding. It was deliberately cruel and it hurt.
She took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eyes.
“It’s Stendahl. Vermont was my husband’s name and as we are no longer married, I don’t use his name anymore.”
She turned back to Claire and placed some money on the counter. “I’m looking forward to Monday.”
She stood up and left the pub.
Claire looked at John. “That was nasty and uncalled for. What’s the matter with you? I thought you liked
her.”
“Well, she isn’t exactly who she claimed to be, is she?”
“How would you know, have you spoken to her? Have you asked her? Have you given her the chance to
tell her side of the story?” Claire angrily spat the words at him. “I’ll tell you something, John Biebe; you
are not the only person in the world who’s been given a raw deal. For one she was never officially accused
but nevertheless torn to pieces by the press without a chance to defend herself and that makes me sick.”
She leaned over the counter so that her face was close up to his. “And what makes me even more sick is
seeing someone like you treat that girl the way you just did, after she was nothing but nice to you.”
She turned and went to help her other customers, leaving John standing there feeling guilty and
miserable.
***
That Monday night by the time Claire called, the pot roast was already simmering in the oven, spreading
a scent of thyme and garlic around the cabin. Claire produced a bottle of vodka from her bag. It was a big
bag, bulky and heavy and Meg couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises Claire kept in there. Claire
was blatantly curious, walking through to the living room, taking a good look round. She dropped down
on the couch and kicked off her boots. Claire laughed at Meg’s look of amazement: “Don’t worry, I’m harmless.”
Meg smiled back. “Now I’m really worried. You want some orange with that vodka?”
“Naa,” said Claire, “let’s live dangerously.”
“Your life motto?”
“Close enough.”
Meg got the glasses and poured, handed one over to Claire.
“Cheers, here’s to living dangerously…”
Claire smiled wryly at her: “Seems to me you’ve had your share.”
Meg half-shrugged: “Guess it’s all relative, but…yes…it’s been hard, but you know…somehow I have the feeling that it will all turn out for the best. I mean…take my marriage…I really wouldn’t want to be
married to my ex anymore.”
“What happened?”
“Basically, it wasn’t a smart career move for him to stay married to me, so when the shit hit the fan, he dumped me.”
“Oh, fuck! That must have been hard.”
“At the time I thought it was, but in hindsight… no, not really. I don’t think I ever loved him. We were colleagues and I used to think we had a lot in common. Both of us were making our careers the most important thing in our lives. As it turned out the status his job entailed was everything for Stephen. He wanted to be the next Director General, and with me as his wife, he would never have gotten the job. I
don’t think I even liked him.” She gave Claire a mischievous grin. “The sex was great though, that counts
for something, doesn’t it?”
Claire laughed out loud. “Mmm…it does help. Did you fight him?”
“No. I didn’t see the point and frankly I wasn’t up for a fight at that time. No, we got a clean break. There
was nothing I wanted from him, no alimony, nothing. So we were in agreement quit fast. I moved out of
the apartment, it had been his in the first place and already completely furnished, so I never brought
anything in. I just packed my bags and left. Never looked back.”
“It didn’t hurt?”
“Well, it hurt that he shoved me aside so easily.” Meg smiled. “My father was very happy we got the
divorce, he never understood why I married ‘the asshole’ in the first place. He’d never liked Stephen.”
She stood up. “Let’s go to the kitchen, I need to check on the roast.”
Claire took a seat at the kitchen table and after she checked the casserole Meg joined her.
“I remember reading about your father, didn’t he die shortly after?” Claire asked.
“Yes. That was the hardest thing. He had a heart attack after Christmas last year. I’m sure he died of a
broken heart. It wasn’t the shock of the initial accusation, I mean…that was so ridiculous that even the
police had to admit there was nothing to substantiate the charges and the DA threw it out the moment
she heard of it. We thought that would be the end of it, just a bad nightmare, something to forget and get
on with life.”
“I remember the article in TIME. That was what started it, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Meg got up and checked the roast again. “It’s ready. Let’s eat first.”
She set the plates and got a bottle of Burgundy.
Claire tasted the roast. “Mm, this is really good; you must give me the recipe. I’m always looking for new
dishes for the pub.”
Meg smiled. “Sure, no problem.”
“Tell me how it all started.”
“It started over two years ago, when Gladys Anderson brought in her son Peter for the first time. I wasn’t
on duty that night, but my colleagues called me in, because they couldn’t find what was wrong with the
boy. I couldn’t find it either. It worried us, because he was really sick and he shouldn’t be. But the next morning he was okay again and the mother took him home. I forgot about him, until the next time she brought him in. It was the same story all over again. It was clear that his heart rhythm was badly
disturbed, but again we couldn’t find any ground”
Meg face was troubled remembering. “I had a bad feeling about the mother. I don’t know why. Everyone
else seemed to like her, but there was something about her, it just made the hairs in the back of my neck
stand out. Do you know the feeling?”
Claire nodded, “Yes, I do.”
“It’s like a sixth sense. She was always very nice, talking to the nurses and doctors all the time. She seemed
to have a more than average knowledge of medical matters and she was always there, all the time, very distraught and worried, like you would expect a mother of a sick child to be, but still…I couldn’t get my
finger on it. The next day the child was better and she took him home again. But this time, I didn’t forget about him, I kept searching for answers. I read everything possible about mysterious diseases and
children and during my search I came across the Munchausen’s by Proxy Syndrome. You know what
that is?”
“Isn’t it some sort of disease that causes parents to hurt their children to get attention?”
“Yes. Mostly mothers causing a disease in their children. According to psychiatrists who have examined
these cases, these mothers have a need to feel "special" or heroic to stimulate attention from family,
friends, and the medical professions. I’ve read stories about children who had been admitted to hospital
over 200 times before doctors became suspicious.”
Claire shook her head. “That’s just terrible.”
Meg agreed. “Yes, it is. In Peter’s case, I suspected his mother to suffer from this syndrome. I set out to
find evidence, like other hospital records on Peter, but I found nothing. Peter got better again and we had
to release him, but when Mrs. Anderson brought him back a couple of months later, all my warning lights were on red alert and I called in the father. He hadn’t been around on any of the prior occasions.”
Meg face was pale and drawn. “The talk wasn’t a success. I had expected him to be worried or maybe defensive because he hadn’t been there before when his son was so ill, but I met a wall of suspicion and hostility. I admit I lost my temper and I actually accused Mrs. Anderson of child molestation.”
She gave Claire a wry smile. “That wasn’t very smart. Mr. Anderson didn’t take kindly to me accusing his
wife. He raised hell. They tried to take the child from us, but Peter was too sick to be moved. He died that night. His mother had been with him all night, I hadn’t been able to prevent that and I’m sure she caused
his death. The next day, we did a postmortem on Peter and found high levels of cisapride in his system. Cisapride is a drug used for severe nighttime heartburn in patients with gastro esophageal reflux disease.”
Claire broke in. “You lost me, in English please.”
“It’s when stomach acids come back into the muscular tube that connects the throat to the stomach.
Cisapride is a medicine we didn’t use anymore because of growing reports of heart rhythm disorders and
even deaths associated with the drug. There was no reason and no explanation for that drug to be in
Peter’s system.”
Meg had to stop. Claire poured more wine in both their glasses and Meg took a big swig before continuing.
“You know what happened next. The Andersons accused me. I was completely blown away by their
audacity, but as it turned out, they had connections inside the NYPD and I was arrested. It was all too
crazy to be true. I was only kept in custody for a couple of hours and of course I told the investigating
officers about my suspicions concerning the mother, but they didn’t believe me. Somehow people are very reluctant to believe these kinds of things of mothers. But anyway, the DA told them they had no case and ordered my release.” She smiled wryly. “I thought that was the end of it, how stupid can you get, huh?”
They had finished their dinner and moved to the living room, taking coffee and brandy with them.
Claire urged Meg to go on.
“That was when the article in TIME appeared. Because it was TIME magazine, it did a lot of damage. They
had interviews with people I’d forgotten I knew, all sorts of people commenting on me, on my mental state
of mind, my character… old classmates, teachers, even old neighbors…it was devastating. I had my
lawyers look at it, but it was very cleverly done. They didn’t state any of it as the truth, just as other
people’s opinions.”
“I remember it. It looked very damaging, but in fact they had nothing substantiated in it. I never believed
the story, it always felt far-fetched and without any basis.”
Meg smiled wearily at Claire. “Thank you, that means a lot to me. Luckily a lot of other people believed me
too, but the sheer amount of ludicrous innuendo and gossip that followed that article was incredible. I
felt like I was declared an outlaw and the shooting season were opened. Every two-bit tabloid had
something on me. Eventually the hospital felt I couldn’t function under such stress and they fired me.
What they meant of course was that it was bad for business to keep me there, and I did understand their
point of view. It’s just that the way they conducted throughout this whole mess was a big disappointment
to me.”
Meg smirked. “That’s an understatement; I was completely crushed after that. And then when Stephen announced he wanted a divorce, I went back to live with my father. It wasn’t until after my father died
that I became really angry.”
“What did you do?”
“My father left me a very substantial amount of money and I used part of it to hire a private investigator.
I have the Andersons followed night and day.”
“The Andersons? What do you hope to gain from that?”
“They have two other children and if I’m right about Gladys Anderson, she won’t stop. Now that most of
the attention over Peter’s death has died down, I’m sure she will start hurting one of the other children.
And when she does, we will be ready for her.”
“Jesus! Are you sure?”
“No, not really. But it’s the only thing I can hope for. Isn’t that terrible? The only way I can prove my innocence is if she starts harming another child.”
“That’s horrible.”
“And it’s a long shot. Munchausen’s by Proxy Syndrome is very controversial. Within the medical
community there is no consensus about it, so I could be wrong all the way.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“No. I don’t. I know it in my gut. She will start harming her next child and all I can do is hope we will get
to her on time.”
Meg emptied her brandy and poured another. “We did find out that Andrew Barker, the journalist who
wrote the article for TIME is connected to Anderson.”
Claire looked at her with big eyes. “Never!”
“It’s true. He’s Mark Anderson’s half brother.”
“I don’t believe it. Why didn’t you use that knowledge?”
“Because I’m waiting for them to make a mistake and when they do, we'll come down on them with
everything we got.”
“What will you do when you get proof?”
“I will have them prosecuted. I will go to trail and get my life back. I will finish the book, rehabilitate
myself.”
“Revenge has a way to backfire at you, you know,” Claire said.
“I don’t want revenge, I want justice.”
Claire lifted her glass. “Okay, to justice.”
***
After half a bottle of vodka, several glasses of Burgundy and brandy, both Meg and Claire started feeling
the impact. Meg looked at Claire through squinted eyes. “You’re not driving home tonight. You can stay
here, use the spare room.”
Claire giggled. “Yeah, I’d better; although the thought of being pulled over by our gorgeous sheriff is
quite appealing.”
“I thought you were old friends.”
“Oh, we are. And I’m too old for him anyway, but that doesn’t stop him from being gorgeous.”
Meg answered with a sad look in her eyes. “No, it doesn’t.”
“You’ve noticed then?”
“I’d have to be fucking blind not to notice.”
“You know, I thought he treated you terribly and I told him so.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ve only met a couple of times, it’s not like we were old friends.”
Claire pushed herself upright. “It does matter, you were hurt, I could tell.”
“Yes…it’s true…I really liked him…and I thought he liked me.” Meg sighed. “But he’s a cop, and I haven’t
had too much luck with cops lately. I guess it comes natural to them to be suspicious.”
“I’ve never seen him react in this way; it’s so not like him…” Claire’s voice was getting a bit slurred. “He
told you what happened to him, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did. Guess that’s what I meant with things being relative. I lost my career and my father, but compared to what John has lost, it almost seems trivial. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to loose a
child. I mean…I have seen it around me of course. I’ve had to be the one to tell the parents on many
occasions, too many…but until it happens to you, you can never know.”
“It almost killed him. And after Donna left… I really feared for him. He was hitting the bottle hard in
those days. If it hadn’t been for the loyalty of his deputy and the patience of our mayor, he wouldn’t still
be sheriff. He’s doing much better now, but still…he has trouble sleeping…nightmares. But you know
about those.”
“He told you? Yes, I witnessed that when he was here. He fell asleep on the couch and when he woke up…
it was horrible.”
Claire gave her a sly smile. “Ah, you see? You do care, I knew the moment I saw you two together…you
could be the best thing that could happen to Johnny…”
“Don’t let your imagination run away with you, I’m not staying here. I’m here for one-year max. And if
things move faster than that in New York, I’m gone even sooner.”
“We’ll see, sometimes life has a way to surprise you, you know.”
Meg laughed. “What I do know is that we should hit the sack, look at you, you can hardly keep your eyes
open. So come on, you drunken slob, I’ll get you to bed.”
***
A few days before Christmas Meg got a call from Claire. The background noises made clear that Claire was calling from the pub.
“Honey? I need to ask you for a big favor.”
“What is it?”
“John was called away on an emergency and he dropped the kids with me expecting his babysitter to pick them up, but she just called and said she couldn’t make it, seems she has the flu. It’s a madhouse here, I
can’t possibly keep an eye on them and this really isn’t a place for them to hang out. Could you pick them
up and take them home?”
“You mean take them to John’s house?”
“Yes. But that’s not all. I need you to stay with them, feed them, put them to bed and wait for Johnny to return.”
“Jesus, Claire!”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency. I've tried every possible friend of John, but as it’s almost
Christmas they are all busy. You are my last hope.”
“I don’t mind watching the kids, but I’m not sure how John feels about that. You know what he thinks
of me. I just hate the idea of me being in his house with his kids without him knowing. Can’t you call him
and explain; if he’s okay with it, I will do it.”
“Okay, hon. I'll call him, but I’m sure he won’t mind. He likes you more than he wants to admit. Just
come over as soon as possible, and I'll call him in the meantime.”
“OK. I will leave immediately.”
“You’re an angel.”
“Yeah, yeah, see you later.”
ON TO PART TWO
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