Scrapped (8 page)
Chapter 19
Walking to the grocery store, Beatrice always thought about the time she was stabbed there and didn’t know it until she got home and Vera pointed out that she had a knife sticking out the back of her neck. It was so odd to not feel that. According to the doctors, no nerve endings existed where the blade was plunged into her—right through her coat and scarf. It was a cold morning, like this morning, except then it was spring, and now it was fall. Beatrice preferred the cool spring to the cool fall. Perhaps it was because of what came after—summer and winter. God, she loved her seasons. She reached up and touched her scar, as had become her habit. Also, she paid more attention to who the people were around her. Today maybe more so than other days.
She walked in the store and turned the corner to head for the produce. She loved looking at the tables and tables of fruit from all over the world. Loved the smell that came off of it. When she was a child, she had never heard of a pomegranate. Now she could buy one at the local grocer.
“Good morning, Ms. Matthews,” the produce manager said to her as he fussed over the bananas.
“Morning,” she said. What was he so friendly about? She’d known the Stickles family for years, and
friendly
wasn’t the term she’d use to describe any of them. Especially Fred, this young man’s father, who once hit a neighbor’s dog with his car and never turned around to see if it was okay. This boy appeared to be on the cusp of having serious mental problems.
friendly
wasn’t the term she’d use to describe any of them. Especially Fred, this young man’s father, who once hit a neighbor’s dog with his car and never turned around to see if it was okay. This boy appeared to be on the cusp of having serious mental problems.
“What’s going on over at your house? I saw some graffiti,” he said.
Beatrice shrugged. So that was it. He wanted the scoop.
“Yeah, when I drove by, cops and stuff were everywhere,” he said.
“Yep,” she said and kept walking. She reached for the roll of plastic bags and unrolled it. The damned plastic always gave her fits. She tore off a bag, opened it, and shoved her bananas inside. She was thinking about getting a pomegranate.
“So, what happened?” he persisted.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Some young fools probably.”
She dumped her bananas in her cart and decided to make a run for it. She didn’t want to talk with this kid about the symbol on her house. She didn’t like the way he had inserted himself into her life. Why, he hardly knew her. But then again, it was probably the talk of the town by now, with the way the grapevine worked so eloquently in Cumberland Creek. The problem was half the time it was full of half-truths and innuendos.
“So, are you a Nazi or a witch or what?” he asked as she walked away.
“Excuse me?” she said, turning around.
“I asked if you were a Nazi . . . ,” he mumbled.
“Absurd. Why don’t you . . . I don’t know . . . go and read a book, young man?” Beatrice said, turning away from him.
“That symbol—”
“Phillip,” said Eric, the general store manager, coming to the rescue. “Finish up there. They need you in the deli.”
Eric looked at Beatrice and shrugged. “Sorry,” he said.
She waved him off, as if to say, “Whatever.” She moved through the aisles, checking out the specials and new products.
As she was leaving, she noted that the Stickles boy was in the office, which was in the corner and raised, so she couldn’t see much of it. But the top part had a window in it, so she could see he was in the office with his hat on his head. Was he getting ready to leave?
Hmm.
She hoped she didn’t run into him again. The stupidity and crassness of some people were hard to take. The older she got, the worse it was. She found it hard to keep her thoughts to herself. But if people were going to offer their uneducated opinions, it was her philosophy that they got what was coming to them. Yes, indeed.
Hmm.
She hoped she didn’t run into him again. The stupidity and crassness of some people were hard to take. The older she got, the worse it was. She found it hard to keep her thoughts to herself. But if people were going to offer their uneducated opinions, it was her philosophy that they got what was coming to them. Yes, indeed.
As she walked down the few blocks to her house, she waved to the schoolchildren getting ready to cross the street. Too soon, Elizabeth would be in school. Her heart sank.
Two bags of groceries in her arms, one in each now, she made her way to her house and stood at the gate. When she set the bags down to dig out her house key, she heard someone on the pavement behind her. She turned and saw the Stickles boy walking by her house. She placed her hands on her hips. Had he been following her the whole time?
He turned and looked at her, his eyes glaring. His middle finger lifting with attitude.
Beatrice laughed. Maybe she should be offended? But she found it hysterical that he actually thought that she cared what he thought about her.
Humph.
Humph.
Chapter 20
Finally, Annie found an expert in symbols, which was more difficult than she had thought since she lived so close to the University of Virginia. The language department transferred her to the classics department; the classics department transferred her to the anthropology department. She wanted to scream.
Eureka, she found a professor in German linguistics.
“Thanks for the fax,” the professor said.
“Certainly. I’m looking for information about those runes,” she told him. “If that is, indeed, what they are. I have a friend who says they are, but she doesn’t seem certain.”
“Oh yes. They definitely look like runes. These neo-pagans have attached themselves and their beliefs onto them. In some cases, they are making things up. In very rare cases, they know what they are doing . . . well, as much as they can know.”
Cookie had made a similar statement.
“What would you think if you saw one of these rune symbols painted on a house?”
The professor was silent for a moment. “I’d think it was some crazy teenagers being ridiculous, which is sort of dangerous enough. Or I’d think that someone who kind of knows the rune system was warning the person who owns the house.” He paused. “With this one particular symbol, maybe . . . troublemaker? Or trouble ahead? Depending on the interpretation.”
“Anything there about red hair?” Annie asked.
He laughed. “No, I don’t think so. I can have a friend look at them. A friend who is an expert in runes. I know enough about them, but they are really not my specialty. Why do you ask?”
“Two young women have been murdered in our community. They both had red hair. I wonder if that’s of some significance. You know, there’s all these strange sorts of beliefs about redheads.”
“If you’re dealing with these New Agers, I wouldn’t think red hair would mean a thing. But other groups . . .”
“What other groups?”
“I think I remember reading that the Nazis wanted to stop redheads from breeding. Then there are several biblical characters often portrayed with red hair. Though, who knows what they really looked like.”
“Which characters?”
“Judas for one. Mary Magdalene for another . . . maybe even Adam.”
“Whoa,” Annie said.
“Whoa, indeed,” the professor said. “I really need to get going. But I’ll have my friend contact you.”
“Thanks,” Annie said before hanging up the phone.
Mary Magdalene. Judas. Adam. An interesting group of characters. But how did they relate to her story and the murders, if at all?
She wasn’t sure Adam related at all. But Mary Magdalene and Judas? Lust. Betrayal. She sat back in her chair. Interesting. But both of these young women were innocents. Or at least that was what everybody thought.
Chapter 21
Vera hung up the phone and tapped her nails on her desk as she watched her students getting ready for their ballet class. Slipping off their jeans or sweatpants, putting on their shoes, and stretching out. This was a small class of twelve-year-olds hoping to get into pointe shoes soon.
It was hard to get off the phone with Sheila, especially when she was so excited. One of her scrapbook designs was selected as a semifinalist in a national competition. The woman was so thrilled, she could barely put her sentences together.
Vera was happy Sheila was finally getting some recognition for her design work. After all, she was an art major in college, on a scholarship; then she married and had babies. Now maybe Sheila was finally coming into her own. What Sheila didn’t know was that Cookie had taken some of her designed pages and had sent them off to other competitions, as well.
“I’m so impressed with her work,” Cookie had said. “Don’t tell her I’m doing this. Remember what she went through just to get one design sent off on her own.”
“What we went through, too,” Vera said, laughing. “If I had to answer one more time which design I like best, I’m not sure, but I think I may have screamed.”
“I hear you,” Cookie said. “But it’s so important to her.”
“Ms. Matthews?” A voice that snapped Vera back to the present.
“Yes?” She turned to see Chelsea, one of her students.
“I’m supposed to tell you Valerie is sick today.”
“Oh, thanks,” Vera said, getting up from behind her desk. One of her ankles clicked. More parents were in the waiting room today. It was like that when Maggie Rae was killed, too. Parents who would ordinarily just drop their children off at their activities became more vigilant for a while.
“Okay, girls, to the bar,” she said. She picked up the remote control and turned on the music. “Let’s start with pliés, of course, two demi, one grande, eight times, and turn and do the other side.”
All of them were lined up in a neat little row, all with black leotards, pink tights and shoes, hair pulled back into a bun. Six of them. They were at a point in their development as dancers where it could go either way. Usually out of six twelve-year-old girls, three might come back next year, and the following year perhaps two. One might try to pursue a career.
“Knees over the toes, ladies,” she said, watching Melissa’s coltish legs give a little wobble. Melissa’s bright red hair made her stand out among the other dancers. She was the only redhead in the middle school and in the dancing school. She had forgotten about her earlier. Vera wondered if Melissa could be in danger. Was the killer after all redheads? Just teenaged redheads? Or was there some other connection between the two victims and the red hair didn’t matter at all?
“Girls, we are looking a bit tired this afternoon. Let’s do it all again. This time, pretend we are not tired, eh? Can we see that energy?”
While the girls were getting ready for floor work, stretching and working on their splits, Vera always joined them on the floor. She liked to stay in shape and tried to do stretches and splits with each class. She also used the time to chitchat with the students. Sometimes it was about junk food or football games or boys.
“So what’s on everybody’s minds today?”
“We are worried about that killer on the loose. My mom won’t let me go anywhere with my friends,” Chelsea said.
The others chimed in. It seemed that it was a general rule with the parents around town.
“And then there was that symbol painted on the pink house,” Melissa said. “Kind of freaky.”
“I agree,” Vera said, wondering how many of the girls knew that her mom lived in the house.
“My mama says it’s witchcraft. She says that there’s a real witch in Cumberland Creek,” Melissa said.
Stunned, Vera stood up, brushed off her sweatpants. “Well, now, Kelly and Melissa, you’ve got a lot to learn. Both in ballet class and in life, sorry to say. So let’s get busy.”
When Beatrice finally arrived at her house, a paint crew was scrambling around, and she hadn’t even had a chance to call a contractor.
“Detective Bryant called us,” one of the painters told her.
“Good,” she said and smiled. Then she saw the god-awful pink they were putting on her house. “Wait! That’s not the right color.”
“He said pink.”
“Everybody says pink, but it’s really dusty pink. Look at the difference.” She pointed to a patch of paint.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t see a difference.”
“Baloney! Look at the difference,” she said. “Take those sunglasses off.”
“Oh,” he said, taking the glasses off and squinting from the sun. “Yeah, but it’s a slight difference.”
“Stop painting right now, and go get the right shade, please,” she told him. She looked at one of the young men who was painting. He looked like he was about twelve, but she wouldn’t swear to it. She couldn’t judge ages anymore. “Stop right there, young man!”
After she sent the painters on their way, Beatrice checked her e-mail. And there it was, an e-mail from Jon. She was so angry that she’d not heard from him that she thought about deleting it—but curiosity got the best of her. She clicked and it opened:
My dearest Beatrice,
I hope this e-mail finds you well, love. I have finally figured out how to use e-mail. I had to ask my grandson. My son, he would ask too many questions.
Humph,
she thought.
About time.
she thought.
About time.
After we parted, I had a slight accident. It is nothing, really, but a twisted ankle, which made it a bit hard to get around. Can you imagine me sitting most of the day? It was terribly depressing. Darling, I am terrible at expressing myself on this machine.Would it not be best for us to be together? You must move to Paris and grow old with me.
Beatrice smiled. That would be the day.
It is terrible to feel like such a young man in an old man’s body. But at least I can still please you.
Lawd.
Red-faced old woman.
Red-faced old woman.
As I hope to again.
With all my love,
Jon
With all my love,
Jon
Beatrice sat back and mulled the e-mail over. She would wait a few days before she got back to him. After all, he had waited more than a month to e-mail her.
She leaned back and checked the local newspaper—such as it was. She read over an article about the second woman who was murdered, Rebecca Collins. She remembered Rebecca as a child, at Bible school camp one year. They used to live in town and then moved out to the country. Where was that? It had to be Jenkins Hollow.
So it must be a serial killer who has it in for redheads.
She twirled her one remaining strand of red hair around her finger. But often, as in her study of quantum physics, these things went beyond the purely physical. What did the two women have in common, other than the red hair? Maybe, just maybe, the red hair was a pure coincidence. Well, they lived in Jenkins Hollow. The Collinses were not Mennonite; they were Baptist. She knew that from her church days—and from attending Rebecca’s funeral. They were both eighteen. They both had ended up dead—one drowned, as the paper had reported, and the other dismembered. They both had those runes markings on them.
She twirled her one remaining strand of red hair around her finger. But often, as in her study of quantum physics, these things went beyond the purely physical. What did the two women have in common, other than the red hair? Maybe, just maybe, the red hair was a pure coincidence. Well, they lived in Jenkins Hollow. The Collinses were not Mennonite; they were Baptist. She knew that from her church days—and from attending Rebecca’s funeral. They were both eighteen. They both had ended up dead—one drowned, as the paper had reported, and the other dismembered. They both had those runes markings on them.
Did they know one another? If so, how well? That was the question. Of course, she couldn’t go butting her nose in up in Jenkins Hollow, but she had a cousin, Rose, who lived up on the mountain that looked out over it. Perhaps it was time for a visit.
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