“What the fuck is that?” Caleb’s voice bounced off the closet walls as Hunter scanned the walls with the digital eyeball.
“I have no idea. Some psycho named Benny used to live in this room? Maybe he killed a girl? Then some other psycho decided to write shitty poetry about it. I’ve been searching all over the web to figure out who the fuck ‘Bad Benny’ is, but I can’t find a thing.” Hunter slapped the webcam back on his desk and fell back into his chair. Just talking to another person seemed to calm his nerves.
“You do a property search?”
“Yeah. It didn’t turn up much. Here.” Hunter opened a window to the Cuyahoga County Auditor’s website. He navigated to a page labeled “14895 Lee Road Transfer History” at the top. It was a listing of all previous sales of Rawlingswood along with the property owners’ names and the sales prices dating back to the early 1970s.
Transfer Date: 05/18/2018: Grantee(s) Spielman, Myron and Margaret;
Grantor(s): National City Bank
Transfer Date: 05/01/2016: Grantee(s): National City Bank;
Grantor(s): Foreclosure
Transfer Date: 02/01/1994: Grantee(s): Martin, Clyde;
Grantor(s): Society for Savings Inc.
Transfer Date: 01/01/1993: Grantee(s): Society for Savings Inc.;
Grantor(s): Foreclosure
Transfer Date: 09/01/1972: Grantee(s): Klussman, Henry and Frances;
Grantor(s): Helen Bell
“So past owners are Clyde and Maureen Martin and then Frances and Henry Klussman and then a Helen Bell. That goes back to 1972. The county records don’t go back further than that online.” Hunter read through the list again. “Two foreclosures. Man, this place is bad luck.”
Caleb was busy typing something on his keyboard in Boston. “I just googled Clyde Martin. What a dull fucking life. On the board of the Shaker Country Club. Ran a company called Shaker Family Construction. Not much else. Here.”
Hunter’s screen dinged as a few links came through. He clicked through several pages of dead ends, thinking. Frodo and Samwise were halfway across the windowsill over his desk. He studied them a moment, then had an idea.
Typing quickly, he navigated to the website of the Cuyahoga County Public Library and scrolled through their pages until he found what he was looking for—Plain Dealer e-edition. It was a digital archive of the newspaper. With a few clicks, he opened a search engine and tried typing the name “Clyde Martin” again. This time fifteen articles came up. Hunter scrolled through them one by one until a series of obituaries flashed onto his screen.
Muttering under his breath, he read, “Martin, Clyde—Shaker Heights. Clyde Martin died yesterday in his home. He is survived by his wife, Maureen. The family asks that all donations be made to the Shaker Historical Society, where Mr. Martin sat on the board of trustees. No services or calling hours.”
The date of the newspaper was December 6, 2014. Hunter tracked back to the previous screen. The bank had foreclosed on the house eighteen months later. He did the math, then returned to the obituary, reading the names of the survivors again. No children. No Benny.
“Died yesterday in his home?” Caleb repeated through the speakers. “Jeez. Where do you think he croaked?”
Hunter pushed his chair away from the computer. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughin’, asshole. What about the wife?”
They repeated his searches but this time for Maureen Martin. A newspaper clipping flashed onto Hunter’s screen. “Shaker Heights Widow Arrested, Forced to Vacate Foreclosure.”
Caleb read out loud, “‘After months of notices and warnings, Shaker Heights widow and Case Western Reserve University professor Dr. Maureen Martin was arrested yesterday morning by the Cuyahoga County Sheriff’s Office for trespassing on a foreclosed property. Martin was reportedly admitted to a local psychiatric hospital for observation later that day.’ Blah, blah, blah. ‘Sheriff will not seek to press formal charges. The university would not comment on the case.’” Caleb paused a moment to let the words sink in.
“She went crazy,” Hunter said. It didn’t bode well. A poor woman barricaded there in the house, by herself, haunted by . . . what? Benny? His DeAD GiRL?
Next, Hunter typed “Frances Klussman Shaker Heights” into the search engine. The results were a bizarre smattering of court records and restaurant advertisements, none of which matched the full name. He tried the Plain Dealer search next and came up empty except for the public foreclosure notice that matched the county auditor’s records. He read through it, searching for anything that might help, but the legal notice listed nothing but the barest information—the address, the owner’s name.
“So Clyde drops dead in 2014, and no children are mentioned in the obituary. I can’t find shit on the Klussmans except a foreclosure in 1993. Before that, who knows?” Hunter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He needed to use the bathroom, and he was losing patience. “So who the fuck is Benny and this dead girl?”
“Hmm . . . Benny. That’d be short for Benjamin, right?”
“I guess.”
“Let me grab a search from a newspaper aggregator. Maybe something in the criminal database.” Caleb began typing furiously. “You do a search for dead girls in Shaker Heights?”
Hunter leaned into his screen, wheels turning. “No. Not yet.”
“Well, it’s like a rich suburb, right? Hoity-toity?”
“Yeah.”
“Can’t be too many then, right? I’ll cover the online search, but you might need to hit the library. Call me back?”
“Yeah. I should get the hell out of here for a while anyway.”
Hunter disconnected and cleared his browser history, then took an inventory of all the embarrassing details of his life strewn about, looking for items an intruder or ghost might steal. He grabbed his wallet, his phone, his backpack. Shoving the bookcase out of the way, Hunter stepped out into the hall.
It was empty.
Down the corridor, loud music thumped through tiny speakers, creating a wall of sound in the yoga room. A hot breath hissed through Margot’s laptop. “Baby. Baby. Baby. That was amazing.”
Margot lay naked on her side, flushed pink and sweaty, smiling dreamily at Camera 2. Eyes shut, she looked more relaxed than she ever did patrolling the house in her designer shoes. Even sleeping—her eyebrows furrowed together, teeth grinding with the fitful dreams and anxieties simmering under her lids—she wasn’t this peaceful. She stretched like a cat in the warm sun of the three cameras. The eyes behind them watched her every move, caressing her, cradling her. Revering her like art.
“When can I see you again? In person this time?” His voice came through as heavy pants, his lips too close to the microphone.
She chuckled and opened her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“No. I’m serious. We should meet. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
This brought another laugh and a feral gleam to her eye. “I’m sure you would, but Kevin . . .” She rolled toward Camera 2. “I told you. I’m married.”
“So what? What’s he gonna do about it?”
She shook her head at the thought, probably imagining Myron whipped into a rage. Myron—a man who hardly had the nerve to raise his voice to her. “I’m sorry, hon. It just wouldn’t work. I’m sure you understand.”