Worth Living For 4/16
by Swanseajill
Part Four
"You know, we'd have had Norma eating out of the palm of our hands if you hadn't insulted her meatloaf," Sam commented an hour later, as they stood outside the diner deciding what to do next.
"I didn't insult her meatloaf," Dean said indignantly.
"You didn't eat it, either!"
"Yeah, well, I wasn't hungry." It was the truth. The meatloaf had smelled good, but he'd found that he had no appetite, despite having eaten next to nothing all day. He was dog-tired, his head still throbbed and the pain in his back had intensified. But Sammy didn't need to know any of that. "Anyway, Norma isn't my responsibility. I do the nubile blondes, remember? You're the one who's supposed to sucker the little old grannies."
"You think that battleaxe qualifies as a little old granny?" Sam asked, his tone incredulous.
"Well, I bet she's someone's grandma. Move your ass, Sam. I could do with a drink. Let's go visit Charlie boy and get acquainted with Mr. Weasel."
Charlie's Bar, a block further along Main Street, sported an innocuous entrance with a battered sign in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. It was full of what looked like locals – it was obviously not upscale enough for the tourists, and Dean had a suspicion that Charlie kept it that way deliberately to put them off. His patrons didn't look the types who'd enjoy the company of a bunch of overly enthusiastic hikers. His eyes lit up when he spotted a pool table towards the back of the room, and then he frowned in disappointment as his back twinged a warning. There was no way he was up to hustling pool tonight.
Sam nudged him, and then nodded toward the bar, where a man held forth to a small group of customers. Dean grinned as he remembered Norma's description. The man was probably in his mid-fifties, with a wiry build and small, sharp features. He certainly had the look of a weasel. And sure enough, Sam's inquiry of the bartender earned a nod in the man's direction.
They ordered a couple of beers and waited patiently until the group had dispersed before heading casually in Weadle's direction and introducing themselves. A promise of an acknowledgement when the story was published soon had Weadle happily divulging everything he knew about the Rose Cottage Killings, as he termed them.
"It stands to reason, doesn't it," he said. "Five people, all dying in one house?"
"What makes you think it might be a serial killer?" Dean asked.
"What else could it be? It isn't plausible that four or five people would off themselves in the same place, or kill themselves accidentally. I can't find any connection between them, other than Brad and Jamie being brothers, of course."
"So, the 'victims' had nothing in common, then?" Sam prompted.
Weadle shrugged. "Not that I can figure. First one was Brad Warrington, three years ago. Brad's father owns the house – Brad and Jamie were raised there. Kid was a high-flyer, college student, heading for the big time – at least, if you talk to his father. They said his death was a freak accident. He was home from college for the weekend, went down to the basement to fix the fuses – power'd blown out in a storm. When he didn't come back, Martin – that's his father – went down to find him. He was stone dead, with a live wire in his hand. Police wrote it off as an accident."
At the mention of electrocution, Dean carefully avoided catching Sam's eyes. He knew his own brush with death after killing the Rawhead still bothered Sam. "What about Jamie?" he asked quickly.
Weadle took a large swig of his whiskey. "Jamie was Brad's younger brother. Bit of a dreamer. Interested in poetry, and the like. Different from Brad as chalk from cheese, but the two of them were thick as thieves despite that. Jamie went a bit strange when his brother died — wouldn't go out, sat in the house all day long writing poetry. He died a year to the day after Brad. Official line is he killed himself – hung himself in the family room."
"But you don't believe it was suicide?" Dean asked.
"Someone could have come in and murdered him, just as easy."
"What did the police say?"
Buck snorted. "Police! Our sheriff's department couldn't investigate their way out of a paper bag. They said they couldn't find any evidence that anyone else was in the house – no finger or shoe prints. But that doesn't mean anything. If it hadn't been for the journal …"
"There was a journal?" Sam prompted.
"Yeah. Seems the kid kept a kind of diary. Don't know what was in it, but it seemed to convince the sheriff."
Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, who simply shrugged.
Weadle plowed on. "And Martin – Martin just accepted it. Almost killed him, losing two sons within a year of each other. He still lives in town, though, works as a lecturer at the college." He swallowed the last mouthful of his whiskey and expectantly held out his glass.
Dean nodded to the bartender before exchanging a glance with Sam. They needed to get the rest of the information before Weadle was too tanked to make any sense.
"And the others?" Sam prompted.
"Rhonda, she was a local girl, left to make her way in the big city. Artist. I didn't really know her. But she was planning to come back. That's why she was at the cottage. She was thinking about renting it, wanted to check it out. They found her covered with glass, cuts all over her body and a large piece of glass sticking out of her throat. They said she must have tripped and fallen through the window in the family room."
"But you think it was murder?" Dean asked.
"That's my theory. Don't know why a girl like that would want to kill herself, so murder makes more sense. I tried talking to her best friend, Amber – she works down at a coffee shop on Walnut – but she wouldn't talk to me. Still too upset about her friend, I guess."
"When did she die?" Sam asked.
"About six months ago."
"Ok, so what about the others?" Dean wanted to move things along. Weadle's theories might be flawed, but they were getting good information. Sam was furiously scribbling notes, making sure they had all the facts recorded.
Weadle downed half his glass and licked his lips in appreciation before continuing. "Wendy Metzler was a Realtor at Parker Wilkinson. She was over at the cottage writing down the things that needed fixing – they were aimin' to fix it up a bit. It'd been on the market for a year but they couldn't sell it. Hardly surprising, with that history. Anyway, she drowned in the fish pond in the garden, a month after Rhonda. Again, they say she must have tripped, stunned herself when she went in.
"Bill Turner's the most recent – he died two weeks ago. He was over there doing some odd jobs for Parker Wilkinson – they still thought they could sell it, even after Wendy's death. They said Bill's death was an accident."
"Because?" Dean prompted.
"Because he'd been up on the roof, fixing some damaged tiles. He fell, broke his neck. But someone could easily have pushed him off, set it up as a suicide, right?"
"Right," Dean said dryly. The whole serial-killer theory was getting more and more unlikely by the minute. Weadle had not one shred of evidence to support it. Dean was beginning to wonder how many drinks the Weasel had had when he worked out his theory and wrote his editorial.
Weadle stared gloomily into his drink while Dean caught Sam's eye. Sam rolled his eyes and Dean nodded. They had all they needed for now.
"Coincidences," Weadle mumbled into his drink. "I never did believe in coincidences."
Dean nodded. "Neither do we."