She opened a door to a small room crammed with archives. Ring binders lined the shelves. A filing cabinet with rows of narrow drawers occupied the corner.
‘That’s the card catalogue by the back wall,’ she said, flipping on the light. ‘You look in there for the year you want, and then cross-reference to the binders on the shelf.’ She crouched down to switch on the microfiche reader. ‘This old clunker needs a good five minutes to warm up. For the more recent issues, you can access our online archive with the computer over there. The log-in code and web address are taped to the desk.’ She swiped at the dust on a shelf. ‘My name’s Gail. Give me a shout if you get stuck or need anything else.’
Erin waited until she was alone before flipping through the card catalogue for copies of the Gazette for the years 1976 and ’77. The microfiche records weren’t searchable, so she’d have to scroll through every issue for any mention of the Sterns. She settled into the straight-back chair and began with the August issues for 1977. But the murders were given scant coverage, just a three-line item buried on a back page. In the early morning hours of August 27th, local police responded to a disturbance at 44 Easton Road. No further details are available at this time.
She scanned through the issues until the end of the year, but there was nothing more on the Stern murders. Surely, a brutal killing in a small town was major news. Why keep it quiet?
She leaned closer to the screen as she scrolled back through 1977, pausing to study the pictures under the School News section. June, May, April, nothing. In the March 19th issue, a headline jumped out: Science Fair Team Triumphs. A group of boys with the shaggy hair and wide shirt lapels of the 1970s held awards certificates against their chests as they smiled for the camera. Congratulations to the Team! Raymond Hopkins, Gary Nelson, and Timothy Stern, members of the Junior class at Belle River High, win first place in the Chemistry Division at the regional Science Fair in Fremont.
The photo was blurry and Tim, looking sheepish in a knitted V-neck vest, was focused on something to the right of the camera. But it was the two boys next to him, Raymond and Gary, who were of interest. She wrote down their names, before scrolling back through the issues to the beginning of the year. But there was nothing more about Tim.
Her eyes burned from squinting at the tiny newsprint, and she was desperate for a glass of water. But she pressed on, loading the microfiche for 1976 and skimming through the months. Girl Scout cookie sales, a Junior League charity drive, new parking meters on Main Street. On the inside pages of the special bicentennial issue for July 4th, 1976, she paused at the double spread of photos. A collage of the town picnic and parade, fireworks and boat races. A man in a white baseball cap looked vaguely familiar, and the caption confirmed it – Master of Ceremonies, Timothy W. Stern, Snr, poised to start the relay race. He held aloft an American flag before a row of runners toeing the starting line.
In another photo, without a caption, Stern appeared again in the same baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, his arm around a dark-haired boy with his face in shadow, wearing a matching cap and tie-dyed T-shirt. She made copies of the photos and stuck them in her bag. It wasn’t much, but at least she had a lead. If she were lucky, at least one of the two boys pictured with Tim in the science fair photo still lived in the area.
21
Sunday morning, and the only place open was the newsagent on the square. A bell tinkled as Erin pushed open the door. An elderly man with a weathered face and comb marks in his thinning hair popped up from behind the counter.
‘Morning.’ He slapped his hands together as if brushing off dust. ‘Cold out there, isn’t it? Mother Nature sure is making us wait for spring this year.’
She froze, a deer in headlights. It was the same man who ran the newsagents all those years ago, the one who sold her packets of Wrigley’s spearmint gum and cherry Lifesavers.
Too late to back out, she plucked a copy of the local paper from a pile by the door and placed it on the counter.
She lowered her eyes and pretended to examine the goods below the cash register. ‘Do you have maps of the area?’
‘Ay-uh. Right over there.’ He jerked his chin at the metal rack to Erin’s left. ‘I’ve got the whole state if you’re feeling ambitious, but if you just want the local area,’ he leaned over and grabbed a glossy folder, ‘this one’s for Belle River and Fremont. Does that work for you?’
She nodded and pulled out her wallet.
‘Up here for the weekend?’ He squinted at her over his bifocals. ‘It’s a mite early for tourist season.’
‘Just passing through.’ Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second before cutting away. She could sense him flipping through the photos in his head, a sharply honed Rolodex of everyone who’d ever come through his door. ‘I’ll take the map and a bottle of water.’ From the candy display, she selected a roll of cherry Lifesavers. ‘And this too, thanks.’
He dropped her purchases in a plastic bag. ‘Ever pass through here before? Back in the fall, maybe?’
Was it her eyes that gave her away? The man must have a memory like a steel trap. Nothing she could do now except stick to her story.
She cleared her throat. ‘I just moved here from London. Not here, New York City. This is my first time in Maine.’
He waited a moment before handing her the bag. ‘Huh,
I could’ve sworn I’d seen you before. Never forget a face.’ She escaped into the street and
