Page 90 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
“My mother”—Gladys was still chattering—“and my father inherited this farmhouse from her parents. My grandparents were farmers and friends with the Withers family. You know, they used to tell stories about the Withers sisters, poor girls. And their mother? She lost her mind after her daughters were killed.”
Molly tried to calm her frayed nerves. Gladys was a dear. She truly was. And a kinder, more generous soul, Molly was sure she would never meet, but she really didn’t want to discuss the Withers murders of 1910 any more than she wanted to recount the events of the last few days.
But Gladys seemed to be tripping down memory lane with the carefree nature of a little girl. She chewed on a date, swallowed, and continued, her lips wrinkled and thin and almost as pale as her skin. “I find it interesting that your cousin, Gemma, was so adamant that you all look into the Withers murders, seeing as they were over a century ago. But then you’re all so connected to the family line, I suppose it makes sense. Trent being a Wasziak and all. I vaguely remember Dr. Wasziak. George, they called him.”
Molly perked up. “You knew Trent’s great-grandfather?”
“Mm-hmm.” Gladys smiled. “He passed during the war. I was, oh, probably nine when he died? So I recall a little.Occasionally, Dr. Wasziak would stop by our farm here and shoot the breeze with my grandfather. I remember he was intimidating.” Gladys’s smile didn’t seem to coincide with the memory of an intimidating man. She seemed fond of the memory. “He was tall and glowered like a grumpy old man. But I could see right through him. He had a good heart—it was just buried under his crankiness.”
“Do you think Gemma could be right?” Molly ventured.
Gladys’s eyes sparked. “About Dr. Wasziak being a killer? Oh, heavens no. If he was, then he lived with it his entire life, and it wasn’t as if he could get away from it.” Gladys set her cookie down and adjusted her pink cardigan. “My dear, think about the community here, all these neighboring farms. They’ve been around for decades, passed down from family to family. My family farm—we’re the Hannitys. Then there is the Withers farm. Then the Wasziak house beyond on the outskirts of town—that’s where George lived as a boy, and later when he was an adult bachelor. The Withers family sold their farm because they had only one more daughter, and she was already married and moved away by the time they were ready to scale back. There was no one to hand the farm down to. So they sold the farm to the Clapton brothers, whose family business owned it until you bought it.”
Molly tipped her head in bewilderment. “We bought it from a real-estate agent. Maynard.”
“Yes.” Gladys nodded as if Molly would understand. “And Maynard is a Clapton, and his cousins, the Clapton brothers, were the owners.”
Nonplussed, Molly sagged back in her chair. “So, the Withers family sold their farm to the Claptons. Why would the biggest farming business in the county want to sell it off? Wouldn’t they want the land?” Molly was trying to piece together the different connections.
Gladys gave a thin-shouldered shrug. “It’s only a few acres.I mean, they kept most of the land and just sold off the house and the barn and enough acres to make it salable.”
Molly reached for her coffee cup. “But back to George Wasziak. He was accused of attacking another woman?” She gave a little laugh.
“Mm-hmm. Perliett Van Hilton.”
“Yet he wasn’t convicted of it? Did they think he was the Cornfield Ripper or that it was unrelated?”
“No conviction, God bless the man. Like I said, I was a little girl when he passed. I just remember a few things my daddy told me about the doctor and the murders.” Gladys took another nibble of her cookie.
Molly felt lost.
Gladys smiled. “Remember, my dear, this is a small town. You can probably find out more by asking a bunch of old folks like me.”
“Anyone who tries to find out winds up dead.” Molly shuddered. She didn’t have the fortitude to stand in the face of another fire. There was no resolution to whoever had attempted to take her life. The idea that murders from 1910 had anything to do with today was too coincidentally intertwined to be ignored anymore.
“So, we let it rest then.” Gladys nodded.
“No!” Molly stated emphatically.
“I suppose.” Gladys shook her head as if clearing her thoughts. Her eyes clouded a bit, and then she frowned. “We just need to keep you safe.” She reached across the table and patted Molly’s hand, her gaze sincere and encompassing. “And you need to heal.”
Molly lifted her eyes.
Gladys nodded, knowing. “If there is one thing IknowKilbourn is good at, it’s hometown loving and coming together. Sure, there are the bad apples—rotten ones obviously—but there are good ones too. Masquerading in costumes we don’t expect them to wear.”
“What do you mean?” Gladys was touching places in Molly’s soul that were raw and sore.
Gladys took a sip of her coffee and tilted her curl-coiffed graying head. “Oh, my dear. There willalwaysbe agony in the living. But it is in the agony that we discover our roots, and so often what we thought we needed wasn’t really what we need at all. It’swhowe needed.”
For now, they were unsolved riddles, and yet they fanned the small flame of hope again in Molly’s heart.
“I’m confused.” Sid plopped down on a tree stump in the front yard, staring ahead at the remains of the Withers farmhouse—Molly’s burned-out shell of a home.
Molly glanced at her friend. “Gladys doesn’t always make sense, but I think what she remembers is pretty clear. She’s been gracious to Trent and me the last few days.”
“Still...” Sid made a face. “The Withers farm. The Clapton brothers owning it before you?”
Molly nodded. “Well, as Gladys says, ‘Welcome to small-town life.’ It shouldn’t be a surprise that the Clapton brothers owned this place. I guess I just wasn’t paying attention. Trent said he didn’t think it was important enough to mention. How else would Trent have found out they’d put it up for sale? They’re his employers, so it makes sense.”
