The next day, Scott caught a bus out of Gettysburg and rode it up through the verdant farmland of New York and across the border into Vermont. The closer he got to Waitsfield, the more he felt like he was coming home.
By the time he arrived there, it was the third week of May. Hitchhiking is the most economical form of travel, but it’s good to not be on a tight schedule. For the uninitiated, hitchers live by what is widely known as The Rules of Thumb. Those rules weren’t written down anywhere, but if you stepped outside of one of them, any experienced hitcher will let you know.
Rule number one was, if you arrive at a spot and there’s another hitcher already there, you sit and wait.
That means you don’t go back up the road half a mile and try to steal their ride before it gets to them. It means you don’t stand with them while they hitch. It means that you take a seat on the grass or dirt a sufficient distance away and read a book or soak up the sun until the person or persons ahead of you get their rides.
If there were two or three people all trying to catch a ride out of town at the same time, that meant Scott often sat under a shade tree reading for the better part of a day.
His ride from Montpelier dropped him off right in downtown Waitsfield. He didn’t want to spend too long there. He knew he had to get to Maine and still have time to scout out the area there. Still, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to visit what he had come to think of as his hometown.
His first stop was Twice Told Tales. Greta sat in her normal spot behind the counter, thumbing through a book about train travel through Europe.
Greta, you look a bit younger than that first day I met you. Still formidable, but younger.
“Hello,” Scott said.
“Hello, is there anything in particular you are looking for, or do you just want to look?”
“I think today is a just looking sort of day.”
“That’s what old used bookstores are good for. You never know what treasure might be lurking around the next stack. Feel free to look around. Fiction is mostly here on the main floor. Nonfiction and reference books are up in the little loft.”
It’s so strange to see you like this, Greta. I know you so well, but I am a complete stranger to you.
Scott browsed the true crime section out of old habit. Nothing there was new to him. He picked up a Sydney Sheldon paperback and a few True Detective magazines to read in case he got stranded on the roadside somewhere.
He paid for his books, said goodbye to Greta again and strolled outside. Vermont did have a hot season. The temps in July and August often reached above 80 degrees. But here, in late May, the afternoon temperature was only fifty-eight degrees. The clean air and towering trees of the forest beckoned him to go for a walk.
Without a conscious thought, he walked the road that he had traversed for decades in his last life. The sun filtered through the trees, the birds chattered and he felt both at home and at peace. Before he knew it, he saw his old cabin dead ahead. A white haired man sat in the rocking chair on the front porch, watching him come up the road.
Scott intended to pass by with a wave, but the old man said, “Just out for a walk?”
Greta’s brother, Kurt. Of course he would be here.
Scott stopped and said, “Out to see what I might see.”
The man waved his arm in an all-encompassing gesture and said, “What you’re seeing is about all you’re going to get down that road. It dead ends into the old quarry in another half mile or so. This old place of mine isn’t much, but it’s the last sign of civilization.”
“Good to know. Guess I’ll turn back toward town, then.”
I envy your place, Kurt. It was a simple life, but so good.
“Whatever you please. Just wanted to let you know.” Kurt Gnagy stood up with an ease that belied his advanced years, spit a long ribbon of saliva off the porch and went inside.
For a few long moments, Scott stood looking at what had been his hideaway home. With a sigh, he turned back toward town.
Enough of a trip down memory lane. Time to get to the task at hand.
Chapter Eighteen
Scott arrived in Waterville, Maine, on June 2nd. He clambered down from the delivery truck that had given him a ride for the last fifty miles and yelled “Thanks!” to the driver. He stepped onto the sidewalk and tried to get his bearings.
He had expected Waterville to be a little smaller, a little more rural, but it was a bustling, busy town of eighteen thousand people. The downtown corridor, which would be hit hard in a few decades, when the suburbs and big box stores drew people away, was still the center of commerce in 1974.
Scott stopped at a drug store and inquired where the library was—that was his planned first stop at each new town. He knew you could learn a lot about a town from the library and the local newspaper. It was easy to combine both at once. The clerk behind the counter gave him directions to a location a quarter mile away.
After a short walk, he saw the library. It sat off by itself and was an impressive brick building with a turret and three arched doorways that led to a small covered area. He liked it immediately.
If a town’s personality shows in its library, then I like Waterville already.
Scott jogged across the street but saw that the library was dark inside. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was a bit after six o’clock, but he had no idea what day of the week it was. Keeping track of days and dates hadn’t mattered to him for a very long time. He knew that now, and for the foreseeable future, he would be on some sort of schedule and made a mental note to grab a tiny calendar for his pack.
He turned back toward a small motel he had seen on his walk and rented a room. He planned to spend a month in Waterville, but he wouldn’t want to spend it all in a hotel. He had some cash saved up, but didn’t want to drain it staying in a motel that long. He vowed to find a longer-term place to stay in the next few days. For tonight, the King’s Arms Motel would do.
Checked into his modest room, Scott sat on his bed and went over the notes he had on both Waterville and the murders themselves. His notes on the city reminded him that there was a small liberal arts college in town.
That’s the answer. There will be houses around the college that rent to students. Semester probably ended a week or two ago. There’s gotta be room vacancies.
He took a long hot shower and thought of the task that lay ahead of him.
Everything has been theoretical so far, but it’s going to be real very soon. Am I ready? Have I done everything I can to prepare for this?
By noon the next day, he had managed to rent a room with kitchen and bathroom privileges. Almost all of the other rooms in the house had been vacated for the summer. He had a cover story ready to tell the landlady, but she didn’t care. She was just glad to see a warm body with cash in hand.
The next morning, he was waiting at the library when the librarian unlocked the door. After reviewing his notes, he realized that he had a fair amount of information about the murder, but none on the family before the crime, and not much on Waterville itself.
He didn’t want to make a lot of inquiries about the Jenkins family around town. It wouldn’t be good if Brock Jenkins suddenly disappeared and it came to light that a stranger had been nosing around, asking questions about him.
The first thing Scott did was wander around the library and familiarize himself with the layout. Next, he found a local phone book. He looked through the Js until he came to Jenkins, Brock and Sylvia. He jotted their name and address in his notebook.