Three Lives of Jury - Chapter 35
Jealousy, murder and a town called Jury. A 40-year saga of life and the afterlife
New release every Thursday at 5:05 PST, Substack permitting.
This release marks the final chapter of Part Two of Three Lives of Jury.
Part Three begins 20 years after the final scene of Chapter 35
Three Lives of Jury - table of contents
Note: Chapters 34, 35 and 36 have been scheduled for release while I am away. I’m not sure if I’ll be able, or inclined, to update the table of contents until I get back. Sorry for the inconvenience.
There’s a book coming out following the completed weekly releases. But if you can’t wait for 20 more chapters you can buy the whole Ebook, digital cover to digital cover, for C$10. Send it as a one-time donation through Substack payments or DM me.
Check out related bonus material at The Underworld Vents.
The Underworld Vents - table of contents.
Annie Spratt | Unsplash image
Chapter 35
The official death toll from the Spirit Waters Lodge fire was fixed at one, but the Frank Kappens watch was on and people stood ready to click another the moment he shook off the world.
Doctors at the Gold Rush hospital sedated Frank for his comfort, while his blackened husk cracked and flaked away. Medical science reached its limit.
The Nor Loch fire marshal led the investigation and kicked off his news conference calling for the fortunate survivors and the public at large to join in prayer for an end to Frank’s pain.
He then highlighted a list of failings and pointed to the lodge builders, shoddy sprinkler system manufacturers and combustible construction material suppliers. The outcome was a miracle, they said. A fire this big, this fast, could easily have killed everybody.
Many victims complained of respiratory problems and would carry those health complications for the rest of their lives. The brave spa staff, along with volunteers from the church and others who turned up in the night to assist, were honoured with dinners, certificates and medals.
Investors from the View of Eden Church, five of the 10 cabin owners along Lake Fell Road and Gwyneth Rowe, announced they intended to rebuild, and publicly wooed the fire marshal to join them as a consultant to ensure the safety of the rebuild. Publicly, he turned the offer down, as long as the investigation remained active.
Two hotspots were pinpointed as likely starting points of the blaze. It was arson, no doubt. The kitchen of the restaurant had burned hottest, as did room number five, down the hall from the restaurant, the room registered to Frank Kappens.
The little prick can die alone.
Police questioned Lucy and Whit, who explained Frank’s erratic behaviour and cast their eyes down when they admitted they left him in his room alone, even after they concluded he was raging out of control and careening toward suicidal thoughts. A horrible mistake, Whit conceded, but no one wanted to deal with Frank when he was being Little Prince Shitty.
Later, when they saw the fire glowing at the top of the hill, they instantly thought of Frank.
The police advised Lucy to stay in the area until the investigation was complete, and she booked in at a guest house in the centre of Gold Rush and stayed indoors and out of sight. She didn’t visit Frank in hospital.
The little prick can die alone, she thought. If he was healthy, no chance she’d want to see him and she saw no reason his state should change the situation. If anything, the fire gave her more reason to hate.
Police permitted Whit to live at his parents’ place in Jury and he slipped into the old routines he loved. Peach harvest was over and early apples were due. There was plenty of work for everybody. Samay seemed at ease with Whit’s return and Whit worked when he wanted, while setting aside time on Wednesdays for regular hospital visits.
The View of Eden Church laid full blame for the fire and ensuing damages at Lucy’s doorstep. More lawsuits followed, from Black Wire Digital and Gwyneth Rowe’s personal lawyers. Other investors piled on until Lucy faced 16 separate legal filings. Whit’s name was included in most suits because he was with Lucy on the night the lodge burned, but most of their fury and vitriol targeted Lucy.
Messengers arrived one day, carrying letters, one for Lucy, one for Whit, suggesting they settle their legal squabbles with a compromise package. View of Eden, Gwyneth Rowe and several other investors offered to buy Lucy’s parcel of land for $1 million, an offer so low it was almost criminal. But the proposal contained a stipulation preventing investors from seeking additional cash from Lucy or Whit in the future. As well, the new owners agreed to accept all future legal responsibilities on matters relating to the property, fire damages and any future victim liability claims.
“It’s a million dollars, plus you get out from under the legal shit, Lucy.” Whit was having a hard time hiding his frustration. He didn’t understand why she wasn’t leaping at the chance. “And remember, this is for land you don’t even technically own. If you don’t take this, they’ll take it from you for nothing. It seems like a no-brainer.” Whit picked at a coffee cake on the kitchen table between them at his parents’ house.
Whit made sense, but Lucy didn’t care.
“That fucking traitorous bitch Gwyneth,” she said. “She’s been putting this whole fucking evil enterprise together so she can get her fucking spa back.”
“But she is doing you a favour,” Whit said. “Lawsuits aside, you’ll have to defend yourself for the next 10 years against people who have a lot more money than you. Your own lawyers say you’ll never regain that land. You might get to keep the cabin at most, but the hot springs, the mobile home park and the camping spots were never yours in the first place.”
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked.
“You take the money and have a good long think about what’s next,” Whit said. “I have some money saved. Maybe we should take a trip.”
She snorted. “Ha. You wouldn’t even commit to being a couple a few days ago and now you want to take a trip with me?”
Whit pushed his chair back from the table. “Excuse me. Samay wanted some help.” He pulled his boots on and slammed the door.
“Oops,” Lucy said to Matt and Wanda, who glanced around uncomfortably. “We have some things to figure out.”
Petra Kappens moved Frank to Jury from Gold Rush hospital a few days later, saying Frank should be home and surrounded by loved ones. Everyone in town knew she was bringing him home to die. Doctors ordered he be kept in a medically induced coma because of the extent of his burns. One nurse was overheard describing Frank as an oozing, puss-filled sac.
His mother placed him in a private, sterile room on the main floor and she stayed with him day and night; slept in the same room on a small chaise lounge.
Another Wednesday dawned and Whit was due for his visit, but now that Frank was no longer in hospital, he had to sort out new arrangements. He tried to phone Petra and Jorge, anybody at the Kappens house, but nobody picked up. He should have called yesterday, but too late to worry about that now. He wondered if Petra would let him in, or if she even allowed Frank to have visitors.
He drove to the house and sat outside in his truck and texted Petra again. No reply. He waited a few minutes, then thought, fuck it. I’m going in.
Jorge answered the door.
“Hey Whit,” he said. “Wow, it’s been a day and some since I’ve seen you.”
“Hi Jorge. I didn’t know you were home. Are you still living around town?”
“I live a few blocks away. Got a decent place at Oliver Bay.”
“Nice. That’s great, Jorge. Hey, I’m sorry for popping in so suddenly. I tried to call your mother and I think I tried your phone too, but I couldn’t reach anyone.”
“Mom went to town, a lot to do. And my phone is, I don’t know where. I think I left it at home when I left this morning.”
“Damn, I should have called yesterday, sorry. But I was hoping to peek in on Frank. Would that be OK? Or should I come back when your mom is home?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late.” Jorge opened one arm, signaling for Whit to enter. “Frank passed last night. I’m sorry.”
Whit’s chin fell to his chest. “Then it’s finally over.”
Jorge nodded. “Yes.”
He signaled again for Whit to enter. “You’re welcome to pay your respects if you’d like.”
“Thanks.”
Whit moved past Jorge, turned to face him and pointed off in two directions at once. “Which way?”
“Straight ahead, then take a left down the hall. It’s the door at the end,” Jorge said.
The house was just as Whit remembered, down to the same pictures on the wall.
He passed through the living room and turned down a short hall. He passed a washroom and approached a closed door. This must be it. He cracked the door a slit and peered in.
From this angle, he saw a green chaise lounge partly covered by a sheet. The smell of urine and sanitizer made his nose twitch. He pushed the door open wide and walked in.
Frank lie on a bed close to the opposite wall. A breathing machine slept on a small table beside him, unplugged.
I shouldn’t have come, Whit thought. He felt stupid, disrespectful, hypocritical. They were never friends and never could have been.
He drew close and saw the bandaged head on the bed. The face was uncovered and practically unmarked. The rest of the body was hidden in bedding.
Someone had recently smoothened the wrinkles out from the sheets and tucked the sides in nice and tidy around Frank. He had more colour in death than he ever had in life. Whit reached into the bouquet on the table next to the bed and took the card from the flowers he’d sent, stuffed it into his pocket and left.
He had more colour in death than he ever had in life. Whit reached into the bouquet on the table next to the bed and took the card from the flowers he’d sent, stuffed it into his pocket and left.