Scraps of Paper (8 page)

It didn’t make any sense. But Abigail had to admit the old woman wasn’t completely in her right mind, so how could she believe anything she said. “Paid off by whom?”

“Don’t know. There’s something else. My memory’s kind of fuzzy but Jenny might have had a diary. I think her mother mentioned it one day. I bet it’s somewhere in that house, if Edna didn’t find and burn it.” The old lady cocked her head and winked. “That Jenny was always doodling words on paper or drawing pictures.”

Around them twilight was creeping in and a short while later the booths started to close as the townspeople got ready for the fireworks.

Myrtle got up and grabbed the handle of her wagon. “Got to go now. The ghosts come out after dark and I need to be home. Can’t let them get me. Then I’ll disappear as well…into the ghost dimension. Thanks for the supper, dearie. I do so love barbeque.” She hurried off singing Perry Como’s “Goodbye Sue” at the top of her lungs, the wagon’s wheels bumping along the street in rhythm to the song.

A teenage boy with a Walkman on his hip and earphones on his head threw a lit firecracker at Myrtle’s wagon and when it exploded Myrtle jumped, grabbed something from her wagon, and threw it at the kid, narrowly missing him. Then, muttering to herself, she and her wagon trundled off.

Frank and Martha laughed, shaking their heads.

“Both her and her sister are as goofy as they come,” Frank said. “But Myrtle is eighty-five and Evelyn not far behind. I hope I’m as spry as them when I’m that old.”

“I hope I’m alive when I’m that old,” Martha joked.

 “Where is Evelyn today anyway?”

“She never leaves that house of hers.” Frank shrugged. “She won’t leave her animals.”

“What a pair, one sister won’t stay in one spot and the other won’t leave one spot,” Martha quipped. “Anyone for ice cream?” She was up and heading for the ice cream booth with everyone’s order a minute later.

They’d lost John Mason to another huddle of people and Stella’s grandson stopped by to say hi and tell them the fireworks were supposed to the biggest and best they’d ever had. Stella’s had closed early because they couldn’t compete with the picnic food. A pretty girl came along and trotted him away as a county band began playing on the other side of the park. Abigail stood up and saw him and the girl in a line dance with a group of others.

Frank rose and held out his hand. “Abigail, you want to dance?”

She said no twice, but on the third time gave in. The dancers seemed to be having fun and most of them were learning as they went. “Okay. But I’m rusty and I’ll probably stomp all over your feet.”

“Just don’t stomp too hard.”

And she danced with Frank. The faces around her were becoming familiar; the town was becoming familiar. She tried to keep up with the steps. People smiled or nodded, she smiled back, and she had the feeling everyone knew everything about her.

When it grew dark and cool, Abigail sat on the blanket with her friends and watched fireworks, thinking how different her life had been a year ago when she’d spent the day alone in her apartment listening to faraway celebrations, sipping wine until she fell asleep.

After the last rocket faded into the smoky night sky Frank walked her home.

“Your front door’s wide open,” he whispered as they came up on the porch. “Stay here. I’ll go in first.” And he stalked into the house.

“It’s an old door, probably didn’t slam it shut all the way when I left and it popped open. That’s all,” she called out. “Frank?” Frank didn’t answer and Abigail experienced unease. The murkiness around her was silent and eerie. She’d thought she’d left a light on in the house. But inside there was nothing but blackness.

Lights came on inside her home.

She was ready to barge in when Frank reemerged. “Unless you’re a very sloppy housekeeper, and I know you’re not, it’s been ransacked. I called the Sheriff. He’s on his way.”

“Oh, no,” she moaned and went into the house. Inside it was a disaster.

“Where’s Snowball?” she cried but then the kitten loped into the room and scrambled up her leg. “Thank goodness you’re okay. If only you could talk. You could tell me who did this.” She put the cat down and it jumped onto a chair and promptly fell asleep.

Abigail went from one room to another, straightening up. It wasn’t as bad as she’d first thought. No real vandalism. Mainly objects moved around and thrown on the floor. Cabinet doors and drawers opened and clothes in piles in her bedroom. “Nothing seems to be missing. Nothing big, that is. The televisions and the microwave are still here. What did they want?”

“Someone was looking for something, I’d say, or it was a powerful poltergeist.”

Abigail didn’t laugh. “Yeah, looks like that. But why? I don’t have much money or diamond rings lying around.”

“Do an inventory tomorrow and maybe you’ll find something missing.” Frank’s tone was sympathetic. He looked as if he would put his arm around her any moment.

Abigail moved away from his sympathy and sat on the couch. “It could have been worse, but I feel awful. I thought I was so safe here.”

“I think basically you are. Someone was scavenging for something specific. Whether they found it or not is another matter. My guess is, whoever did this won’t be coming back tonight.” His optimistic expression was meant to comfort her, but it didn’t. “If you want, if you’re scared, I could stay or I could leave you a gun for protection?”

She was tempted, but shook her head. “No. You’re probably right. I’m safe now and I don’t like guns. Thanks for the offer though.” She went to the closet and pulled out a two by four piece of wood she’d had for years. “I have this.” She waved the wood at him.

“My husband used to say that a good whack on the head with this would stop anybody. I dare anyone to try to break into my home when I’m here. I’d knock the stuffing out of him.”

“I bet you would.”

Sheriff Mearl Brewster arrived and filled out the report. He was polite, too attentive to her apparently for Frank’s liking, because she could tell Frank wasn’t happy with the cop asking her so many personal questions. The sheriff was a heavyset man with thinning hair and a wrinkled uniform; he talked too much and smelled of beer. Abigail had met him earlier that day at the picnic. She imagined he was a lot like his father, a womanizer, which meant it’d be best to stay away from him.

“It’s not bad, Mrs. Sutton. And if you can’t account for anything big missing, then you’re lucky. It might simply have been a teenager or a drifter looking for cash or jewelry. Someone who knew everyone would be at the picnic. I wouldn’t be too worried,” Sheriff Brewster told her. “These things happen. Just be sure to lock your doors when you leave next time. Spookie’s a quiet town generally, we don’t have much crime, but even a small town has its share of break-ins and petty vandalisms. Most places do.”

Abigail hadn’t locked the front door, so perhaps it was partly her fault. She thanked the Sheriff for coming and offered him a cup of coffee. He accepted with a smile too friendly for just business and complemented her endlessly on how lovely her house looked.

Frank was sticking his finger in his mouth behind the Sheriff’s back when Abigail glanced at him. She almost laughed, but yawned to cover it up.

 “Hear you’ve been asking questions about old lady Edna’s sister, the one who left town and never came back?” the Sheriff stated over his coffee. “As I told Frank here when he came by the office last week, there isn’t even a case file on it. Everything before 1980 got burned up in the warehouse fire last summer. My pa, Cal Brewster, was sheriff in those days. I was a kid. The only thing I recollect about the incident was overhearing that Edna’s sister, a wild thing, probably met a man and ran off with him. Edna swore she saw her sister and the children drive away that night. No crime committed. That was that.”

Abigail was irked at his lack of interest. No wonder the police hadn’t solved the case. They’d never investigated. And the Sheriff left office soon after.

 “I think he’s got a crush on you,” Frank said after the officer drove off.

Abigail snickered. “Not my type. I like my men leaner…and smarter.”

Frank insisted on helping her clean up and was as puzzled as she when later she confirmed nothing important was missing.

“I was a cop for a long time, Abby.” He’d sometimes begun to call her that and she hadn’t stopped him. Joel had called her that.

“And I don’t think it was an innocent break-in. I’d bet it has something to do with these questions you’ve been asking around town about Emily Summers and her children. Call it a hunch. Someone was looking for something they suspect is hidden here somewhere; something they don’t want you to find. Or they’re trying to scare you off.”

“This was a warning? Could have been a little clearer, don’t you think? Like a letter or something?”

“Maybe. Give me a piece of paper and a pen.” And she did. It was after twelve, she was tired and wanted to go to bed and forget the break-in had happened.

He wrote something on the paper and handed it back to her. “That’s my home and cell phone numbers. Call me anytime if you need anything.”

When Frank was gone and she’d cleaned up most of the mess she couldn’t stop fretting and ended up sitting on the porch swing, her eyes peering into the hushed darkness, the large wooden post, her club, in her lap. The remnants of firework smoke, a steamy haze, hung in the air and raced across the crescent moon. The day had been so happy, everything had been going so well…until this.

Myrtle had said something about Jenny having had a diary. Perhaps the diary was what the intruder had been hunting for? Tomorrow she’d explore the basement, spiders and bugs be darned, what the heck. Maybe she might find more notes or even that mysterious dairy. Anything that might clarify why her home had been broken into.

Again she thought she heard children romping out in the woods somewhere and the full-throated call of a cat. At the edge of the trees she thought she saw two misty figures running, their pale hair floating about their heads. Abigail blinked and the mirage was gone. The woods were silent and empty once more. She went to bed, the wooden club and phone nearby and the kitten on the pillow snuggled up beside her.

Chapter 7

 The following morning Abigail awoke and finished straightening the house, then she covered herself in old clothes and gloves, for protection, grabbed a broom and trash bags and descended into the basement. The dungeon had to be cleaned. Aside from looking for more messages or the diary, it was time.

Her lowest floor was a partial basement, low in height and stacked to the ceiling with unwanted furniture and dusty boxes. The smoky glass block windows didn’t let in much sun so the whole area was bathed in shadows. One thick metal pole stood in the middle of the room for support and rusted beams in a grill design laced the upper ceiling. One bare hanging light bulb was the only source of illumination. Its gray concrete floors were as smooth as eggshells and its walls were a dirty lumpy white.

The kitten had descended a few steps and was watching her as it cleaned its paws. “Don’t come down here, Snowball,” she chided. “Or I’ve have to change your name to dirtball.” She chuckled softly.

With the first object she picked up to move, an army of tiny eight legged critters scampered away into the dark. Must have disturbed their spider home. “Yeck!” It was nearly enough to make her run back upstairs, but she didn’t. She began cleaning in one corner and kept going; throwing away everything, after she’d poked through it, which Edna Summers had left behind. Mostly boxes of old crinkled papers and bills. The woman had been a hoarder. Martha had apologized for leaving all the junk, but Abigail hadn’t grasped how much there really was until she began filling trash bags. It took twenty of them. The extra big ones.

At the end of the day she was rewarded with a clean basement and the discovery of a grimy locked box she’d found by accident stuffed deep underneath a wad of old newspapers in a tall metal cabinet. Someone had hidden it so well even the burglar hadn’t found it. Abigail hadn’t been able to open it, though. It’d resisted everything she’d tried. She’d used a hammer, but even that wouldn’t break the strong lock.

But she hadn’t found any more scribbled notes from the kids; hadn’t found a diary either.

Upstairs, she took a shower, put on clothes and a little make-up and made a call to Frank asking for his help to open the metal box. He said he’d do it if she’d come and stay for supper. He had some things he wanted to discuss with her anyway and would take an extra steak out of the fridge and put it on the grill. Said it’d give her a chance to see the log cabin he’d built with his own hands and was proud of, and that he showed to everybody every time he got the chance. “No strings, Abby. We’d just two friends having dinner together.” She couldn’t resist and said yes. She’d found it a strange coincidence Joel and she had planned to also build a log cabin, so she’d been curious about Frank’s since Martha had mentioned he lived in one.

Frank gave her directions to his house and she grabbed her purse and the box and headed to the door, Snowball bouncing along behind her. She scooped the kitten up, nuzzled her furry face, and gently placed her back inside. “Sorry, you can’t come with me. There be dogs there. Big dogs with big teeth.”

All her windows and doors were shut and locked and before she stepped out of the house she’d scanned the yard. No one lurking about that she could see. Jumpy since the break in, she was afraid the intruder would return for whatever he or she hadn’t found the first time. If he or she hadn’t found it. For all she knew the intruder had taken something she wasn’t aware of from her house.

It was beautiful, Frank’s home. Much larger than Abigail had imagined. A true log cabin with a wraparound porch and a multitude of windows. Wooden rocking chairs with plush cushions waited for people to sit in and he’d hung plants from the roofline of the porch. She lugged the metal box to the front door, a door framed in oak with an oval of stained glass in the center. Frank opened it before she had a chance to ring the bell. He must have been listening for her car.

Somewhere she could hear dogs barking.

“Come on in.” His eyes went to her face first, he seemed glad to see her, and then to the box in her arms. “Looks heavy.” Dressed in faded jeans, a blue shirt and barefooted, he took it from her. “Can I get you something to drink…coffee, soda or wine?”

“Maybe later. I’m okay for now.” She trailed behind him, gawking at the inside of his home. It was done in southwestern themes with Indian blankets and feathered mandalas, Indian rugs on the floors and a huge stuffed brown couch with a coffee table in front of it. An impressive collection of weapons displayed in a glass case along one wall adjacent to a massive fireplace. “I love your front door, Frank. I love your house.”

“Thank you. My friends and I did most of it ourselves. Learned carpentry as I went; learned to do stained glass so I could make the door’s windows myself. It wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it would be, but I cut my hands up something awful on the glass before I got the knack of it.” He set the box down on the rug by the sofa as she ran her hands over the fireplace’s cool stones.

“Collected the stones from the creek in the woods behind us,” he told her. “And built the fireplace piece by piece and carved out the mantle by hand.”

 “Oh my, you are a man of many talents, but your home is lovely. Did your son help build it?”

“Kyle helped as often as he could. Chicago’s four hours away. He spent a month here end of last summer when the walls went up. But he’s pre-med, second year, and on scholarship. He has to keep his grades up. I imagine it’ll come in handy someday for me when I’m old and sick, having my own doctor in the family.”

“You must be proud. Do you get to see him often?”

“I am proud. And I see him about once a month when he drives down for the weekend or I drive up. I miss him, but he’s doing what he wants and that’s why we have kids…to send them off into the world to live their own lives. He loves this place. Like me, at heart, he’s a country boy. One day all this will be his. My secret hope is that someday after he becomes a doctor, he’ll be a small town country doctor. Here. Old Doc Andy isn’t getting any younger.”

“Does Kyle know you have designs for his future?”

“We’ve never talked about it, no. I wouldn’t put that on him. But I can dream, can’t I?”

Getting up, she went to the gun case. “How many guns
do
you have?”

“A lot. I collect them. Some of the weapons in that case are antiques, very valuable. When I get old and need money I can sell them off. I figure they’re better than stocks and municipal bonds. Their value only keeps going up, never down.”

“If you say so.”

 “For now. I’ll get the tools and we’ll open this box, my curiosity is killing me, then have supper.” He left the room and returned with a hammer. In a few whacks he had the box open.

They looked at what was inside. It was stuffed with papers. Frank lifted the contents out and laid them on the coffee table. At the bottom was a smaller cardboard container marked personal.

Frank, sitting down beside her, skimmed through the loose papers. “Mainly receipts for everything from china to blankets. Edna loved to spend money. But from what I’d heard she was only on Social Security, so I wonder where she got it all?”

“And she wasn’t always. Social Security doesn’t kick in to you’re sixty-two. How was she living before that?”

“Don’t know. I wasn’t living here in town during most of that time, remember?”

Abigail checked out the cardboard container. Inside was a red record book of some kind. Nothing written on the front. She opened the first page and the next and the next, her face baffled. “Appears to be a record of payments for something. Look.” She handed the book to Frank and looked over his shoulder as he flipped the pages.

“Numbers,” he said. “Looks like money amounts with dates behind them. Earliest figures a hundred a month in September 1970–around the time Emily and the kids left town–and steadily larger every month. Doesn’t mention who the payments are from or what they’re for. No names, nothing. Just amounts and dates. Add it all up, that’s a great deal of money.” He turned the pages. “Over years and years. Last payment being the month before Edna died.”

 Abigail stared at the entries. “I’m pretty sure that’s Edna’s handwriting. Anyway, it’s got the same distinctive y’s and c’s as the writing I found on the back of the house deed. But was she paying out or receiving it?”

Frank shook his head. “One or the other. My cop instincts say it looks like blackmail. Old Edna was either blackmailing someone or she was being blackmailed. That’s my guess.”

“My money’s on Edna being the blackmailer. It’d explain where she got her money all those years. From what I’ve heard she was spending a lot…and if all she had was Social Security, she had to be getting it from somewhere or someone else.”

 “That makes sense.”

“I wonder if this–” she took the book from Frank and held it up “–was what my intruder was looking for?”

“Could have been. How did you find it anyway?”

“As I said, I was cleaning the basement, looking for more notes from the children or the diary Myrtle claimed Jenny might have had; might have hidden in the house somewhere. But, if it exists, I haven’t found it.”

“It exists. Jenny
did
have a diary. It was a little pink thing with flowers on it. I remember because one night I was there and she and Christopher were fighting over it. He’d been reading it, or so she’d thought.”

“Then I’ll keep looking for it.”

They put the papers and book away and ate supper out on a deck shaded by lush trees. The day had been hot, but there was a breeze as Abigail looked out across the rolling hills and valleys. The sun was setting and the air was golden and filled with the sounds of summer insects. Far in the distance she could see woods and tiny houses. The steaks were delicious, the company was pleasant, and the scenery was captivating.

“That view was the reason I bought this piece of property and built here.” Frank noticed where her attention was. “I’d spent too many years staring at concrete and steel, alleyways and people in their cardboard boxes. Jolene really loved the city. But when she was gone I wanted my final years spent enjoying trees and sky.”

She could understand that, she felt the same way and told him so as they lounged on the deck and watched the sun set and night creep into its place. In the soft glow of Tiki lamps they ate ice cream for dessert, talked and played with Frank’s German shepherds, which he’d finally let out, as they romped around on the deck with them.

“You really miss your wife, don’t you?” She couldn’t help but ask.

“Every second of every day. But it’s better than it was. I don’t bawl as often. Coming back home and building this house was my way of healing. Like the writing.”

She was unable to imagine this man besides her crying. Not many men would admit to such a weakness. “By the way, how’s the book coming and what made you want to write one?”

“It’s nearly finished and, believe it or not, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But being a cop paid better and had retirement benefits. I’d been writing on this book for years, a little at a time, long before I retired. Being a detective I’ve seen so many crimes go unsolved that solving one of them in a book gives me great satisfaction. Even if I don’t get it perfectly right, it makes a good story.”

“And me,” Abigail murmured, “I’ve spent so many years clocking in for a paycheck, now I just want to do my art because it makes me happy.”

“You remind me of Emily when you talk like that. The memories of her are coming back more often now. She had to make a living but she dreamed of taking college art classes or going to art school someday. Of being a real artist. She was good. I saw some of her drawings.”

“You think of Emily often, huh?”

“Only lately. You started it with all your questions.” Frank cleared his throat. “I didn’t say anything earlier because I didn’t want to spoil our dinner, but I’ve been doing a little investigating on my own. I have a police buddy back in Chicago, my old partner, Sam Kako, and I had him do a computer search on Emily and her kids. See if they were ever spotted or heard from again after 1970. Any paper trails.”

“And?”