Authors: Mollie Cox Bryan

Tags: #Cumberland Creek Mystery

Scrapped (20 page)

BOOK: Scrapped

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Chapter 50

Annie pulled a few of her own pages, as well as Cookie’s scrapbook, out of her bag. “Here it is.”

“Well,” Vera said, “I’ve already seen it.”

She continued to sit in her chair while the other women gathered around as Annie sat the book on the table at Cookie’s spot, placing her own pages-in-progress in front of her.

“By the way,” Paige said, “I looked up Mary Jenkins to see if there were any traceable progeny. It doesn’t seem like it. I still need to check census records. So I have no idea who that woman in the picture is.”

“It’s odd that you couldn’t find anything. I mean, you know so much local history,” DeeAnn said. “Now, this book is amazing,” she said, turning back to Annie.

“It’s remarkable,” Annie said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s a beautiful pop-up. A story. A blue velvet pocket. Silk pages. Books within books. A bunch of stuff.”

DeeAnn folded her arms. “It’s hard to believe that Cookie could work any of that stuff. She could barely cut a photo out when she first started.”

“I know,” Annie said. “It’s odd. There must be an explanation. But I can’t get in to see her.”

“Neither can Bill half the time,” Vera said.

“What?” Sheila squealed. “He’s her lawyer.”

“She doesn’t want to see him,” Vera said and shrugged.

“Oh, look at this, this recipe tag, with these moon embellishments,” DeeAnn said.

Paige reached her hand to the page and felt the tag. “So smooth and rich,” she said. “Recipe for mugwort tea . . . hmm. Look at the beautiful ink and lettering.”

Annie ’s attention shifted to her own page. Ben’s soccer page. His sweet face looking at her from the page. She was considering where to place the soccer ball sticker.

But Sheila’s innocent words stuck in her gut.

I’m surprised you’re not with them.... To get the story, of course.

What had she turned into? When she lived and worked in Maryland and D.C., she covered several dangerous stories—everything from a cocaine ring to a dogfighting ring. Those were some dangerous men. Sure, she was a little afraid, but she was smart and figured they were not. She outsmarted them every time with her careful research and methods. Why was this case any different?

“Isn’t that beautiful?” Paige said, pointing to a page.

“Beautiful and strange,” DeeAnn said. “How did she do that? Get that color?”

“She painted the paper and the photo,” Sheila said. “Interesting.”

“There’s a strand of red hair in the blue velvet pocket. I’m assuming it belongs to the woman in the picture,” Annie said. “Whoever she is.”

“Hmm,” Sheila said, barely paying attention. The three of them were immersed in the scrapbook, with all its beauty, its weird images, and information.

“What did you think, Annie?” Vera said from across the table.

“When I first saw the strand of red hair, it startled me. I immediately thought of the dead girls,” Annie said, then took a long drink of her beer.

The women mulled over the clipped red hair and sat silently for a few moments.

“Have you tried the hummus?” Vera said to Annie.

“It’s good, “Annie said and went back to her page.

Yes. She had always been a good journalist. Careful with her facts and research. Willing to take calculated risks. But maybe this risk was too much. There was a murderer out there—a troubled person, carving runic symbols into young redheads, perhaps painting them on houses, someone who perhaps had it in for her and her family simply because they were Jewish. There was that mysterious call. Then Beatrice’s house being painted. But it had started before then—the day she’d driven Beatrice out to Jenkins Hollow and she’d seen the swastika on a barn. Since then, Detective Bryant had told her it was more than kids playing pranks. Hadn’t he?

She thought about her grandparents and the people they knew who were in the Holocaust, and an overwhelming sense of awe came over her. How did they survive? What kind of strength and fortitude did they have? What was her problem? Why couldn’t she face this ignorant group of locals?

“My God,” DeeAnn said. “Is that Elizabeth?”

“What?” Vera stood up. “Where?”

“Here, in this picture.”

Vera walked around the table. “Yes. It’s a picture of Cookie with Elizabeth.”

“It’s so odd-looking,” DeeAnn said. “Look how old it looks.” She held up the picture.

“Oh,” Sheila said, “you can age any picture with the right techniques.”

“Sure,” Vera said and sighed. “But I wonder what this picture is doing in this scrapbook of shadows.”

Sheila shrugged. “Oh, you know Cookie isn’t the most organized person. It could’ve come from anywhere.”

“Wow,” Paige said. “Look at this pop-up. Amazing.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” Sheila said.

“You know, from this angle it looks like our mountains,” Vera said.

“What are you talking about?” Annie said.

“You know . . . I think you’re right. Look,” Paige said. “The center mountain is the shape of Jenkins Mountain. This looks like the hollow. And here is the cave. . . .”

Annie’s stomach churned, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up, something it had done only a few times in her life.

“Okay,” Vera said after several minutes of utter silence, each woman deep in thought and looking at the scrapbook. “It’s a model of a section of the local mountains. So?”

Just then Annie’s cell phone went off.
Damn.
When she saw the call was from her editor, she momentarily thought of not picking up. “Excuse me, ladies. I have to take this.”

“Annie Chamovitz.”

“Annie, this is Steve,” her boss from the paper said. “How are you doing? They find him yet?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. The last I heard, they were looking for him in the mountains.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Is that where you are?”

“No. I’m at a friend’s house. It is Saturday night and—”

“Listen, Annie, should I send someone else?”

“No, of course not,” she said. “It’s just I’m not sure I have to be on the ground for this. If they find him, Bryant will let me know.”

All the women were now looking at Annie.

“Are you kidding me, Annie? I want you on that guy’s case. Maybe I should send a staff reporter. I want us to be the first one on this story.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Murder in a small Virginia town? That doesn’t make headlines in a Washington paper, even online. You need to tell me what you know, or you can find someone else to cover this. And you can bet your sweet ass they’ll get lost for days up there.”

Her friends’ eyes widened.

“Okay,” he said after a minute. “We’ve gotten an anonymous tip that there may be some major drug trafficking moving in and out of that area. You in?”

“Now you’re talking, and I’m on my way,” she said, hanging up the phone and gathering up her things. Should she call Mike, wake him up, or just wait to fill him in tomorrow?

“I’ll put on a pot of coffee,” Sheila said.

“I’m going to call Mike and tell him I’ll be late,” Annie announced.

“What are you doing?” Vera said. “You’re not—”

“I’m going to Jenkins Hollow. I need to be covering this story,” Annie said.

“Tonight?” Vera said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? The cops are up there tonight, still looking for Luther,” Sheila said, switching on the coffeepot. “Let’s all go. We’ll be safe. Now, go call your mom, Vera. Tell her you’ll be late.”

“She has Lizzie for the night. I don’t need to call her. They are probably both sound asleep.”

“You don’t have to come, Vera. None of you need to come. I’ll be all right. This is my story,” Annie said, thinking that it was time she followed her gut instincts. From the minute she met Luther, she’d felt ill at ease. She’d allowed her fear to get in the way. What was she turning into? She’d been seriously sidetracked by trying to prove that Cookie was innocent.

“Are you kidding?” Paige said. “I know those mountains like the back of my hand. You don’t. You’re going up there to get lost. I won’t have it. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do. Besides, this is exciting. I wouldn’t miss it. I’m always up for an adventure.” She closed her scrapbook and then reached for her purse.

Chapter 51

Beatrice couldn’t believe her ears. “Come again,” she said.

“Beatrice,” Bill’s voice said on the other end of the phone. “It’s Cookie. She’s asking for you. Look, I didn’t want to mention this to Annie or Vera or anybody. But Cookie is not doing good. She’s not eating, and she’s lost weight. I’ve tried talking with her. All she will tell me is that she didn’t kill those girls. She won’t open up to me at all.”

“But why me?” Beatrice said.

“I don’t know. But can you do it? I’ve talked to the police, and they will let you see her tonight.”

“I have Elizabeth tonight, and she’s here asleep. I can’t wake her. How about tomorrow?”

“Nah, I’ve gotten special permission for tonight. They won’t extend it for tomorrow. How about I come and stay with Elizabeth?”

“Well, okay,” Beatrice said. “I’m glad to help.”

But now, as she sat across the table from Cookie, Beatrice sort of wished she hadn’t come.
Thin
wasn’t the word. She was emaciated. Had she eaten or slept at all? She almost didn’t even look like herself, even as she managed to give Beatrice a little smile.

“Cookie, dear, you must eat something,” Beatrice said. “You look awful.”

“Bea,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “we don’t have much time, and they are watching us, you know? Let’s not waste it with you lecturing me. I simply have no appetite. You have to believe me. I will be fine. But you need to listen to me with an open heart and mind.”

Beatrice was slightly taken aback by Cookie’s candor. She didn’t look like she could sit up, let alone put a sentence together. Still, Cookie’s delicate beauty shined through, with her scrubbed-clean face and those intriguing green eyes of hers. In fact, she was much prettier this way. But how could she look so tired and hungry and still be beautiful? Beatrice wondered. Even the young woman’s bony fingers held a certain beauty in them.

“Okay,” Beatrice managed to say, still feeling confused as to why she was there. Why hadn’t Cookie called one of the other women? She tapped her fingers on the table. “What’s up?”

“Bea, I’ve wanted to tell you things from the start. There’s never been a right time.... But your research into quantum physics and time . . .”

Beatrice focused. Cookie was speaking her language. But it was surprising.

“In a way, it’s what brought me to Cumberland Creek, along with the huge calcite deposits in the mountains.”

Calcite? How odd.
Vera had dreamed about the stuff, and now Cookie had mentioned it again.

Beatrice knit her brows. “What do you mean? My research has been out there for years. And still has yet to be proven. Also, most physicists think I’m a twit.”

“They are wrong.”

“How do you know? What are you? Are you a scientist?”

Cookie laughed. “Of a sort. But I want you to look at me, Beatrice.” She lowered her voice even further. “We come from the same bloodlines. It’s all I can say right now.”

A fire lit in Beatrice’s brain.
Quantum physics. Same bloodlines.

“Are you a time traveler?” Beatrice blurted out.

“Oh dear, I thought I could explain this to you, but you’re getting the wrong idea,” she said and smiled. “I suppose you could think about translocation and invisibility like time travel. But it’s not time travel—more of a shifting from one plane to the next. Yes, it has happened that I’ve gained or lost a year or two . . . but it’s not time travel as you imagine it. Part of my ability has to do with the calcite. My robe is made from it, which helps to make it look like I’m invisible. You can read about that. Just a few articles out about it. But there’s so much more to it.”

Beatrice sat back in her chair. Had she just heard that? Was she having another crazy dream? Some sort of episode?

“Invisibility? Time travel?” Beatrice managed to say, while feeling the blood drain from her face. Was this young woman mad? One of the reasons time travel had yet to be accomplished was that even though they were somewhat successful with quarks and other subatomic particles, there was always a change at the molecular level. Too dangerous for people. Beatrice knew that.

“It’s not exactly safe . . . or easy. We are still working on that. And let me reiterate. It’s not really spiritual time travel. It’s more of a shift between—”

“Jesus,” Beatrice said. “It can’t be correct. It can’t be that you are one hundred percent okay and are traveling through time. It has disturbing relevant—”

“It’s going to take you some time to sort through everything I’ve just said to you and decide whether or not to believe me. I know it sounds crazy. Maybe it would be better for you to think of it as magic. In any case, we need to act quickly.”

“Act?” Beatrice said, sitting forward on the end of her chair.

“I’m in trouble here. I need to get out of here, and you can help me.”

“First, I’m expected to believe you are from the future or are time traveling or something. Then I’m told my theory is correct, just a little off, and now you want me to help you escape?” Beatrice pushed her glasses back on her nose. Damn, she would have to get them fixed again.

Cookie nodded and met her eyes.

Beatrice was finding it all hard to believe, but then again, why not? She’d never believed in ghosts before she lost her husband, and yet she’d been haunted by him for years. She had believed with all her heart that waves of time could be penetrated, manipulated, traveled through—and here sat, perhaps, living proof. But Cookie, of all people? On some level it made sense. She was so different from anybody Beatrice had ever known—the kind of difference that she’d normally pooh-pooh. But there was an underlying quality to her character that Beatrice found compelling and likable. Now it made a strange kind of sense—especially if they were family. Or was Cookie just disturbed?

In either case, Beatrice decided to go along with it. What the heck. It couldn’t hurt. What else did she have to do?

“First, this is the most important thing. You have to promise not to tell anybody,” Cookie said.

“Oh.”

“I’ve kept your secret about your boyfriend. Will you keep this one?”

“Sure,” Beatrice said. “It’s too bad, though. There’s a couple people I’d like to call and rub their noses in it.”

“Be patient.”

“Well, okay,” Beatrice said reluctantly.

“I have the robe made of calcite, so that’s taken care of on my end.”

“What? How?”

“One side of the fabric of my robe is a calcite compound. The other side is a terry-cloth robe. This is technology that is known about now, but there’s more to it than what the general population knows. Anyway, they let me have it here. This isn’t a high-security prison.”

“Oh, right.”

“There’s a book on my closet shelf at home. A scrapbook of shadows. You need to get it,” Cookie said.

“Oh dear,” Beatrice said. “Hmm. I think Annie has it.”

“Damn,” Cookie said. “I hope you all don’t mess with it much. It’s a powerful book that also works with the calcite. But, listen, can you get it?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“I just need for you to get it and take it to a spot on . . . What do you call it now? Um, yes, Jenkins Mountain.”

“What? How can that help?”

“It has a device in it that will open a portal of energy for me. Can you do it?”

“Sure. But don’t you need to be there?”

“No, I have a matching device implanted in me.” She pulled back her hair and pointed to what Beatrice would have thought was a suspicious-looking mole.

“Oh.”

“It doesn’t matter where I am. Its energy will be enough for me to get home,” she sighed. “You’ve got to be very careful, Bea, to see that nobody catches you or takes the book before you have it in place.”

“Why?”

“Because a group of people at Jenkins Mountain are messing with this. The group at the Nest is creating dangerous rifts, but they don’t know how to manage it. If they figure it out, there will be big problems. This book is the key. You must guard it.”

Beatrice’s heart leaped. This was getting more interesting—and more strange—by the minute.

“There’s one more thing. If my calculations are correct—and they usually are—you have three days.”

“Three days?”

“Yes. Everything has to be just so. The moon, the season, the planets. Everything aligned.”

“I think I can manage that. But, Cookie, what about you? Will you be okay? You look dreadful, I’m sorry to say.”

“I’ll be okay. I’ve been here before, believe me, and suffered the consequences. I know what I need to do. I just need to get that book to the cave,” she said. “You know the one I mean.”

Suddenly Beatrice knew exactly what she meant. A crystal-clear picture came to her mind. A cave deep in the hills, one she used to play in as a child sometimes. She and her cousins played house there. Pretended it was a castle, with its calcite crystal walls. Goodness, she hadn’t thought about that place in years.

On the drive home, it occurred to Beatrice that they hadn’t even discussed the murders for which Cookie was being held on suspicion. Lord, she was exhausted. Here she was, out at ten o’clock on a Saturday night. Well, since she was up, she’d stop by the crop at Sheila’s to see if she could get the scrapbook from Annie.

When she pulled up to the basement side of the house, she noticed that Vera’s van wasn’t there.
Snack run? Beer run?
It was too early for Vera to go home. Beatrice slid open the sliding glass door, and all the lights were on—but nobody was there. Had they all gone to get some food?
How odd.

She poked around on the table.
Plenty of food here. Drink, too.

Then she saw the scrapbook of shadows sitting on the table.

Good.
One problem was solved. She placed it under her arm and dashed out to her warm car.

BOOK: Scrapped

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