Chapter 19

LYNN

The following day, I swing by Zoey’s apartment to pick her up.

“Morning,” Zoey greets me. “Are we grabbing donuts today?”

“Sure, but only if you’ll watch the store for me.”

“Again?” she groans.

“I’ll give you a hundred dollars for the time it takes me to run an errand.”

“I’d rather come with you,” she protests.

“I need you at the bookstore. My parents would kill me if they found out I closed it for the day.”

“Alright. But I want the money, a dozen Boston crème donuts, and a large coffee,” she negotiates.

“Deal.”

I park in front of the bookstore and unlock the door. Zoey steps in, flicks on the lights, and sets her donuts on the counter.

She picks up the book she was reading yesterday and settles onto the couch.

“Don’t take all day, sweetheart. I’ll be here waiting,” she teases, laughing.

“I won’t, darling,” I reply, winking at her. I close the door behind me, get back in my car, and head to the courthouse.

Once I arrive at the courthouse, I pass through the metal detector and security. I approach a woman at the information desk.

“Could you point me to the county deed records?” I ask.

“Second floor, third door on the right,” she directs, pointing upwards.

“Thank you.”

Reaching the top, I find the third door on the right, marked with a sign that reads County Records. I open the door to find a large counter, but no one’s there.

“Just a moment, dear,” a voice calls from the back.

The sound of heels clicking against the hardwood floor grows louder. An older woman appears, removes her glasses, and lets them hang around her neck.

“How can I assist you?” she inquires.

“I’m looking for information on a property.”

“Do you have the deed number?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Hold on,” I say, pulling out the piece of paper I got from the eccentric old man. “Will this do?” I ask, unfolding the paper.

She puts on her glasses and examines it. “Perfect, this will do. I’ll be right back.”

A few minutes later, she returns to the counter.

“How far back do you want to go?” she asks.

“Since it was built, I suppose,” I respond, hoping that’s the right answer.

“I’m afraid I can only go back as far as 1971,” she informs me.

“Why only 1971? This house is over a hundred years old. There should be more records, right?”

“There were, but the courthouse burned down in late 1970, and all the records were lost.”

“Really? Do you know what caused the fire?” I ask.

“As far as I can recall, it was an electrical fire in the records room,” she explains, removing her glasses. I stand there quietly, processing the information. “Do you still want to see the deed?”

“Yes, please,” I respond as she hands me the file.

I open it to find Chelsea Payton’s name on the current deed. Flipping a few pages, I see that her great-aunt, Dorothy Strange, signed it over in July 2021.

“How can I find out more about this house?” I ask, looking up at her.

She taps her chin with one hand, holding her glasses in the other. “The library. I completely forgot about the library. Where is this house located?” she asks.

“Off State Road 22,” I reply.

“That’s the historical district,” she exclaims, pointing at me. “You’ll definitely find something about this house at the library. I’m certain of it.”

I return the file to her. “Thank you so much for your help,” I say, smiling at her.

“You’re welcome, dear,” she responds with a small wave.

I leave the courthouse and head to the library, which is just a block away.

Entering the library, I see a young girl standing under an Information sign. She grins at me as I approach.

“Could you tell me where the historical documents are kept?” I ask, returning her smile.

“Wow, you’re the second person to ask that this morning,” she says, looking at me. I wait for her to continue, then shake my head. “Oh, sorry. Upstairs to the right.”

I find the stairs and start climbing. Reaching the top, I turn right and see a man already there, rifling through a filing cabinet.

“Damn,” I mutter under my breath.

He looks up and grins at me. ~Wow, he’s handsome~. He’s wearing tight jeans, a tucked-in T-shirt, and an unbuttoned flannel shirt. His cap reads REDS.

“Hello,” I greet him.

“Hi,” he responds.

“Cincinnati fan?” I ask.

“Born and raised,” he replies, tipping his cap.

“I’m Lynn,” I introduce myself, extending my hand. He takes it and holds it for a moment longer than necessary.

“Lynn Ryan?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m Detective Dan Adams,” he reveals, pulling his shirt aside to show me his badge on his belt. “I spoke with you a few days ago to get Chelsea Payton’s address.”

Suddenly, it clicks. I pull out his card from Chelsea’s place and show him. “So, this is you?” I ask.

“That’s me. You own the new and used bookstore on Main?”

“My folks own the place. But honestly, I can’t stand working there. My real passion is research and investigation,” I confess, trying to sneak a peek at the folder he’s holding. “Are you here to look into Brian’s car crash?”

“That’s right,” he confirms. “And what about you? Are you here to investigate something?”

“Indeed, I am,” I reply, mirroring his response. “Do you think Brian might have tried to off himself?”

“I can’t really say right now. The investigation is still ongoing.”

“Listen, Detective—”

“Please, just call me Dan,” he interrupts.

“Dan. No! That’s the answer. Brian was head over heels for Chelsea. He loved life. Hell, he was even building a house for her. They were supposed to tie the knot in a few months,” I insist, looking him straight in the eye.

“I’m sorry, it’s this house thing.”

“Don’t apologize. I get it,” he reassures me. “So, what information are you after?”

“Ever since Chelsea landed that book deal and inherited a house from her great-aunt, she’s been acting differently.

“Then this old guy shows up at my store, ranting about my friend and death. He even mentioned something about the house being haunted.”

“Yeah, your friend Zoey mentioned the old man,” he informs me.

“How did she tell you?”

“The old man was murdered shortly after he left your bookstore two days ago. A witness claimed she saw him leaving your store, yelling, ‘I didn’t tell them anything.’”

I stand there, hand over my mouth, absorbing the shocking news of the old man’s murder.

“I dropped by your bookstore and spoke to Zoey. She filled me in on everything she saw,” he continues.

“She never mentioned you were there yesterday,” I respond, waving my hands in disbelief. “Anyway, I’m trying to find out who owned the house before Dorothy Strange.”

Dan snaps his fingers. “Strange Estates. That’s where it comes from,” he realizes.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“I’m not sure if I should share this with you.” He hesitates for a moment. “Fuck it. The old man who died was named Willie Stiles, or Crazy Willie.

“He was accused of murder back in 1970, but was released due to insufficient evidence. I believe he worked for Strange Estates.”

“Hold on. I was there yesterday, and it didn’t click until now. The sign at her entrance now reads Payton Estates,” I recall.

“Okay, if you’re trying to find out who owned the house before Dorothy, you should check the courthouse. They’ll have all the records of previous owners,” he suggests.

“I’ve already done that. Did you know the courthouse burned down in 1970? All the records were lost in the fire,” I inform him.

“Something’s not adding up,” he muses.

“What do you mean?” I ask, puzzled.

“Look, Willie was charged with murder in the summer of 1970. When did the courthouse burn down?”

“Fall of 1970,” I answer.

“I think there’s a pattern there, but what it means, I’m not sure yet,” he admits.

“The lady at the courthouse mentioned that the house is part of the historic district. That means any work or documentation should be here,” I explain, gesturing around the room.

Dan heads over to a set of filing cabinets while I approach another set of drawers. The drawers are four feet long and four inches tall. I pull out a drawer, revealing a collection of house pictures, blueprints, and inspection records.

I check the address on the drawer, but it’s not the right house. I close the drawer and scan the other drawers.

Every drawer has an address except one. I slowly pull it open and immediately recognize it as Chelsea’s house.

“Found it!” I exclaim. “Clear some space, there’s a ton of stuff here.”

Dan quickly moves everything aside to make room for the large stack of papers.

“Damn, look at all this!” I pull out a black-and-white photo of three people standing in front of the house. I flip it over, but can’t make out the names on the back.

Dan grabs a magnifying glass as I hand him the photo. He bends down to examine it.

“The guy on the right is the groundskeeper, Willie Stiles. The woman in the middle is Dorothy Strange, and the man next to her is her boyfriend, Christopher Miller from 1965.”

“What did you say the last guy’s name was?” I ask.

He checks again. “Christopher Miller.”

“Holy fuck!” I exclaim, taking the photo to look again.

“What?”

“Wow, Dorothy looks really young in this picture. Chelsea has been seeing a guy who goes by the name of Christopher Miller.

“She keeps insisting it’s nothing serious, that he lives in the back woods,” I share, tapping my finger.

“I ran a background check on this guy and found nothing until I searched for deceased individuals. You know what came up? This Christopher Miller,” I reveal, pointing at the photo, “drowned in 1970.”

“Now it’s starting to make a bit of sense. Willie was accused of killing Chris, then was released due to lack of evidence. I bet he was fired shortly after that,” he theorizes.

“So why go around claiming the house is haunted? Did he see something? Did he know too much about Christopher?”

“Maybe Christopher’s the ghost?” Dan suggests.

“That’s a stretch. So who is Chelsea’s Christopher?” I wonder aloud, staring at the picture.