Scraps of Paper (22 page)

“I’ll try not to hit any bumps.”

“Thanks, but they gave me pain pills. I don’t feel anything. Speed. Get me home. All I want to do is sleep. Forget this happened. I never had a broken bone my whole life,” she muttered. It was dark outside. She could hear crickets chirping. No one had fed Snowball her supper.

“Then you’ve been fortunate. I’ve had plenty of broken bones and they hurt like hell. Again…I’m so sorry.”

She waved her hand at him. “Not your fault. Just get me home.”

He pushed the gas pedal down as she leaned her head against the seat and shut her eyes.

“Do you think the same person who threw the rock and killed the birds this morning also slammed into us in that car?” she asked in a drowsy voice. The pain pills were really kicking in. Everything had a dream quality about it.

“I don’t know. Possibly. It could have been someone else mad at you over the articles or mad at me for heaven knows what. I was a cop for a long time, you know.

“Or it could have been a totally random road rage incident that went too far. Some people don’t like motorcycles.”

***

She hadn’t heard him, she was asleep, drooling against the window. Frank got her home, into the house, and tucked into bed, clothes and all. He fed the cat, locked up the house on his way out and left a note for her saying he’d check in on her in the morning. He got as comfortable as he could on the porch swing in the dark and let a restless sleep claim him.

He didn’t believe their being hit on the motorcycle had been an accident for one Chicago second. Someone had been trying to give them a warning–or kill them.

With the first rays of dawn he awoke, careful not to make too much noise and wake the woman sleeping in the house. He inspected the premises and the yard, and then drove home, returning a couple of hours later with something to eat for both of them.

He hung around most of the day and evening under one pretense or another until Abigail kicked him out. Or believed she’d kicked him out. Instead, he haunted the area, guarding her house, from the front seat of his truck on and off for a couple of days. Until he was fairly sure she was safe.

One night sitting there, it brought to mind what Abigail had said about Sheriff Cal Brewster doing the same thing all those years ago, but for Emily. The squad car parked outside Emily’s house all those nights…had the sheriff been harassing her or had he been trying to help her? Now that was a good question but Frank didn’t have an answer to it.

Chapter 17

Abigail covered her eyes and squinted against the general store’s window. Careful not to let her plaster cast touch the glass. It’d been four days since she’d broken her arm and it was the first time she’d gotten out. Her arm was sensitive, and any pressure at all, even jostling the cast made her wince. She’d driven one handed into Chalmers for groceries, grateful, as she’d been since the accident that she’d broken her left arm instead of her right because she was right handed.

On the return trip she’d swung into town to see if Mason had reopened his store. He hadn’t. It was locked, empty, dark and silent. Her watercolors were inside and she wanted them back. He’d picked a heck of a time to go on a long vacation, which, according to the hardware storeowner next door was exactly what he’d done. He’d be back next week. Maybe. The least he could have done was left someone in charge of the store and kept it open. The town needed it. Wasn’t there a law against closing a store like that…like there was a law against a hospital going on strike, or something? Or a whole police force? Nah, maybe not. It was his store and she guessed he could do what he wanted with it.

She’d decided she didn’t want her artwork in his store any longer. The way he looked at her, the lies she’d caught him in and the way he was behaving since the last newspaper article had finally convinced her to cut her losses and run. He wanted something from her she wasn’t able to give. But he’d slipped away and she hadn’t been able to retrieve her artwork. She wanted them back. There were two other businesses offering to showcase and sell them for her. She needed the money.

Walking away from the closed store, her arm hurt more than it had when she’d gotten up that morning. It was probably time to go home and rest. Pop a few more of those pain pills. She couldn’t use them when she was driving or walking or…awake. They knocked her out. From now on she’d have more sympathy for anyone who had a broken anything. Every chore took twice as long to do and people thought you were an invalid. As if you couldn’t take care of yourself.

Frank had been a pest since the accident. He blamed himself and no matter what she said he bent over backward being sweet to her to assuage his guilt. He’d brought her homemade soup, stew and had baked a cake.
Baked a cake.
Washed her dishes. Watched her house at night when he didn’t think she knew. He had driven her crazy with helpfulness and protectiveness until she shoved him out yesterday and told him she appreciated his attention but she needed her privacy back. She was going to be fine. He’d finally gone, with puppy dog face, head lowered.

As she was trudging to her car she saw Myrtle with her wagon in front of Stella’s. And her curiosity was too much for her, she had to talk to the old woman. Hurting arm or not. She hadn’t seen Myrtle since that bizarre night in the woods.

“Abigail Sutton!” Myrtle yelped, looking over at her. “It’s been a bit, hasn’t it?” Her print housedress, yellow with white flowers, looked about five sizes too large and hung, practically touching the ground, on the old woman’s frail frame. A thick belt kept it from falling off. Her hair had been dyed raven black, re-permed into tight ringlets, and it looked so odd with the tiny wrinkled face. But Abigail would never tell Myrtle that.

“Myrtle, yes it has. How was your gambling excursion?”

“Lousy. I lost fifty bucks. That’s my limit and I come home. Except I didn’t come home straight away, as you know. Us women went on a joy ride across the state visiting relatives. We even stayed at a bed and breakfast with the best homemade vittles and we watched the eagles fly in Alton. We stayed away much longer than planned. I had a good time, though, and at my age, that’s a feat. I take it where I can get it these days.

“Unlike that rock of a sister of mine who refuses to leave that mausoleum for any reason. I get so angry with her. She never wants to go anywhere. The whole world’s out there. If you’re alive and can still walk, ya need to go out and enjoy it.” She spread her stick-skinny arms out wide and did a little jig right there in the street.

Abigail laughed.

“Sorry about your broken arm there.” Myrtle gently patted Abigail’s cast. “Heard about your accident. Better be careful. Those motorbikes are death traps. Hear you’ve been busy. The rock saved the stories for me. You found graves and missing diary pages, you’re unraveling the mystery and you a stranger. It was so long ago, but I can’t fathom they’ve been dead all this time. You want to know what I think?”

“Give it to me.”

“Emily’s mysterious boyfriend killed her and Edna killed those kids. Or they did it in cahoots. I’ve always thought Edna had done something terrible, but conjecturing and knowing are two different kettles of fish. Most people can’t tell who the bad ones are. I can. I can see behind their masks.” She winked. “Now, dearie, tell me about those dead birds the other day.”

Abigail did, positioning Myrtle and her in the shade of Stella’s Diner and off the hot sunny street.

“Whoa, someone’s pissed at you.” Myrtle tittered. “You hit someone’s raw nerve.” Myrtle peered into Stella’s window, a yearning look on her face.

“Were you going into Stella’s for some lunch?” Abigail asked.

“I was thinking of it. I got a terrible craving for a piece of Stella’s banana cream pie. Best in the county. I love banana cream pie. But I forgot my money, so I have to pass.” Her mouth fell into a mock frown and her face was pathetic. She sent a sly glance towards Abigail.

“I have money, Myrtle. How about we go in and, my treat, have pie and coffee? You’re the reason I found those graves and Jenny’s diary and I’ve never had a chance to thank you. We can catch up on everything. It’s hot out here and my arm is giving me a fit.”

Myrtle agreed without protest and the two went into Stella’s, which was already decorated in stars and stripes bunting for the coming weekend festivities. Frank was right, holidays were a town obsession. But Abigail had decided she liked it. She reminded herself to put the flag Frank had bought her on her front porch when she got home.

When they’d settled in a booth, the wagon parked besides them because she refused to leave it unprotected outside, Myrtle broadcast, “I can’t wait until the Labor Day picnic this weekend. I eat a bowl of chili and sample every pie in every booth.” Her expression clouded. “Last year I got pretty sick and threw up all over one of them pie booths.”

“Perhaps this year,” Abigail suggested kindly. “You ought to limit the pie, to be safe.”

“I can’t. I love pie. Got to eat everyone I see. I steal pie. Sometimes I…steal things.”

Her manner reminded Abigail of a simple child. The old lady was worse than she’d ever seen her. She flinched every time there was a noise, her eyes darting here and there. One minute she’d be conversing as if she knew where she was and who she was with and the next minute her mind and attention would be wandering or completely gone and nonsense would tumble out of her lips.

Abigail tried not to chuckle when she suddenly sang out Perry Como at the top of her lungs.
Hot diggity, dog diggity, look what you do to me!
The older people in the back joined in, laughing and acting as if the sing-a-long was a normal occurrence. Maybe it was.

Stella came over to take their order. “Myrtle, a little off key today aren’t we?”

“Mind your own business, you music Nazi!” Myrtle pouted, turning her head away.

Stella ignored the old woman and spoke to Abigail, “Read that latest story, Abigail. Whew, it’s been better than my soaps. I heard about you and Frank’s accident the other evening, too. Sorry to hear. Good thing the only injury was your arm. It could have been worse. Motorcycles are unsafe. Couldn’t get me on one if I was dying. What can I get you guys?”

Myrtle sang until their pie came. Then she was too busy stuffing her mouth to do anything else. She wanted a second piece and Abigail indulged her, but stopped it at two using the that’s-all-the-money-I-have-on-me excuse. It worked.

 “I’ve been trying to get my artwork out of Mason’s store,” Abigail told Myrtle. “But it’s closed and has been for a week. No one’s seen John Mason at all.”

“I have,” Myrtle announced. “Seen him slinking around town. He don’t want nobody to know but he’s here. Hides behind the trees.” The woman turned wide eyes on her companion. “Not fat trees, the skinny ones, because he can make his body into a stick. He can fly sometimes, too.”

“You’ve seen him?” Abigail played along. Myrtle was agitated and she didn’t want to upset her more. The second piece of banana cream pie must have gone straight to her brain and shorted it out. Too much sugar. Myrtle met her gaze and her forehead creased as if she were trying to recall something important.

“I saw him yesterday. Down behind those trees around the pond by the courthouse.”

“Oh, then I’ll be sure to watch out for him.”

“Be careful,” Myrtle admonished. “He’s really mad at you. You found the graves. He was Emily’s boyfriend. When Emily was still alive, that is.”

 “You’re right, he was one of them anyway. How did you know that?”

“I saw them kissing once, many years ago. I liked Emily. Such a pity. She had all that money. And your house. Now she’s dead.” Myrtle must have seen many people come and go in her life. She carried a lot of ghosts with her. That’s how it was to be old.

Martha came into Stella’s and spotting them, hurried over. “Hi, Abigail. Myrtle.”

Myrtle sprung from her seat. “Gotta go! The white wolf will gobble me up if I stay one more second. He’ll find me for sure.” Aside to Abigail, “Thanks for the pie, dearie. Remember what I said.” And she was gone out the door and into the sunshine, her wagon bumping along behind her.

“Myrtle doesn’t believe in long goodbyes does she?” remarked Abigail.

“Nah, she doesn’t much care for me, is what it is. Since she caught me making fun of her one day behind her back, she’s avoided me since. Nutty old woman.”

Martha sat down and, seeing the empty pie plates, sniggered. “She played that I-don’t-have-any-money-on-me-can-you-spare-me-a-piece-of-pie con on you, didn’t she?”

“She did.”

“That old broad is a tilt-a-whirl trip.” Martha examined Abigail’s wounded arm with her eyes. “But enough about crazy women, how are
you
doing?”

“Arm hurts.”

“I can see that by your pained mien. Can I sign your cast?”

“No. I prefer my plaster uncluttered and creamy white, thank you.”

“Alrighty. You’re no fun. When I was a kid I broke my leg by falling out of a tree. All I recall was how God-awful it hurt and how the cast itched me to death the whole time it was on. Believe me after that I never climbed another tree. Hear you did that on a motorcycle?”

“Does the whole town know about everything that happens to me all the time?”

“Yep. That’s a small town for you. Now tell me the whole story of what happened. From the beginning. And don’t leave out any of the juicy details.”

Abigail gave a condensed account of the accident, and the rock and dead bird incident.

Martha flagged Stella down and ordered a hamburger and coffee. Someone in the rear of the diner yelled hello to her and she yelled hello back and returned her attention to Abigail. “I’m worried about you. I don’t think that accident was an accident. You should come and stay with me for a while. Until they catch whoever it is playing those dirty tricks on you. Next time you might not be so lucky to get away with only dead birds on your porch or a broken arm.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need to hide. I have Frank. He doesn’t know that I know, but he’s been staking out my place playing secret sentry. Even after I told him to stop.” She peered out the window, a slow smile forming. “Wouldn’t surprise me to see him sneaking around outside somewhere. Talking of men…how’s Ryan?”

“Ryan wants us to get married,” Martha mouthed between bites.

“Really?” Abigail tried to focus, but her arm was aching and she wanted to go home.

“I’ve been having so much fun dating him, he treats me so well, that I’m afraid to say yes. A man will give you anything, do anything, until he gets that ring on your finger and then–boom–you’re his slave. And he starts treating you like a wife. Do this. Do that. They stop treating you like, well, a lover. I’ve been there, done that.”