Scraps of Paper (4 page)

Such a simple act, yanking at that slip of paper, but it would change everything. Pulling it carefully from its hiding place, she saw it was a tightly folded and yellowed scrap of white paper laced in spider webs and dust. The sort of white drawing paper she used to sketch on as a child. She unfolded it slowly. There was printing on it, bright red crayon scribbling as a child might do. At first Abigail wasn’t sure what it was. Then she looked closer and read:

ME AND CHRIS ARE SO SCARED. HE WAS MEAN TO MOMMY AGAIN, MADE HER CRY. HURT HER. WE HATE HIM!!!
in a childish scrawl. There was a
J
at the bottom.

She stared at the scrap of paper and reread it. It was obviously old. No telling how long it’d been behind the baseboard. She refolded it and tucked it into a compartment of her purse. The two children’s names who’d once lived there, if she recalled correctly, had been Christopher and…Jenny. Amazing, the note could have been from them. How strange, after all these years, for her to find it. But who was
HE
?

Abigail couldn’t stop dwelling on the note as she resumed her work. She made it a point to search for other scraps of paper sticking out from hidden places. A treasure hunt. By the early evening, when she had to quit painting for the day because her body refused to move, she’d uncovered yet another scrawled note in red crayon, all caps, similar to the first one from under the baseboards.

It said:
WE WENT TO BED AGAIN WITHOUT SUPPER. SHE WAS MAD. I AM SO HUNGRY. C

Was it from Christopher? She put the note in her purse with the other one. She was trying not to feel sorry for the mistreated children. After all it had been so long ago. But she couldn’t stop thinking about them and what those notes meant. Had they been abused and in danger? From whom? And why should it bother her so?

She’d been working for days and needed a change, she needed people, wanted to hear human conversation and eat someone else’s cooking. Cleaning up, she walked into town to Stella’s Diner. It was a warm June afternoon, the sun low in the sky and the crickets in melodious voice as she strolled down the road admiring the wildflowers and the loveliness of the woods. Walking helped ease the soreness in her body and fresh air cleared the dust and paint fumes from her lungs.

A tiny woman with silver permed hair and a wrinkled body in a tattered dress was shuffling down the town’s sidewalk pulling a rickety wagon of junk. As she passed Abigail she mumbled something, not looking up, and yanked her wagon along behind her on down the street. The woman had to be at least eighty years old and she probably wasn’t in her right mind. But she made Abigail grin. Every town had their bag lady, or in this case, wagon lady. The woman moved down the road and around a corner, singing an old Perry Como song, something about catching a falling star, loud enough to make an alley cat jealous.

Fifteen minutes from her front door, Abigail arrived at Stella’s. Apparently the diner was the social gathering water hole for the town. It was packed, she could tell from outside the windows. People inside were laughing, talking and eating.

She took a deep breath and strode in.

Chapter 3

Some of the people inside Stella’s Diner gave her a fleeting look when she entered, and one or two of them, the man from the hardware store and Stella herself, who was busy waiting on tables, smiled and waved. Martha in a back booth, gestured furiously for Abigail to join her. She was wearing a black lace top and white slacks. Her short hair a halo of brunette curls.

Abigail headed for her new friend, a safe harbor in a squall, and plopped down in the seat beside her. Martha wasn’t alone. Sitting across from her was a large man, not heavy, but strong looking. Hard to tell what his age was, middle or late forties, perhaps, or younger or older. He had a black button down shirt on and blue jeans, his hair was dark, longish and streaked with gray, his face sharp angled and clean-shaven, except for a neatly trimmed mustache.

“Abigail, this is Frank Lester, our resident Jack-of-all-trades retired lay about and a friend of mine. We grew up together here in town. He’s the brother I never had. These days he’s writing a mystery novel. Imagine, our town not only has an artist in its midst, it has a writer as well. Frank’s been living in the big city of Chicago for years and only recently returned to the town of his birth. And we’re thrilled to have him back.”

Martha winked at Frank, then looked sideways at Abigail. “Single good-looking intelligent men are rare in these parts, let me tell you.”

“Shucks, ma’am, you’ve made my ears turn red with embarrassment.” Frank reached over and held out his hand and Abigail had no choice but to give him hers. His grip was strong and sure, his big hand warm.

“Nice to meet you,” Abigail remarked. “So you’ve just come back to town?”

“Not exactly, I’ve been home for over a year. I grew up here until I went off to the big city to seek my fortune.” There was humor in his words and amusement in his expression. His eyes had this way of taking in a person, as if he were aware of more than most people were: that little could be hidden from him. For some reason she couldn’t put her finger on, he ruffled her. He had the same inquisitive gaze as that detective she’d hired two years ago to find Joel when she’d become exhausted with putting fliers all over town and calling everyone in the world Joel had ever known. But the detective, who’d charged her a bundle and had never uncovered any answers, hadn’t found Joel. Some other cop had later.

“So did you find your fortune?” Abigail shifted in her seat. Memories of Joel did nothing but unnerve her, and Frank was watching her too closely.

He shrugged. “I did. But it wasn’t what I thought it’d be. That’s why I’m back.”

“It never is,” she sighed. “Life is never like you think it’s going to be. We ought to be allowed to stop our lives at any point and relive over what we didn’t like. Change it if we want. Maybe then we’d have a fighting chance to do it right.”

“Ah, an introspective woman. So…how do you like our little village so far?”

“So far I like it,” she managed to get out, lowering her eyes. Too many people gawking at her and she was too tired to be going through this tonight. She should have stayed at the house and opened a can of ravioli. But that would have been the old Abigail and she’d pledged to be different. She needed to get out. To make friends. To have a real life. Now.

“And soon,” Frank murmured, “you’ll feel as if you’ve lived here all your life. This town grows on you. You’ll see. Characters and all.” There was a sureness and compassion in his voice that put Abigail at ease. Here was a man who said exactly what he thought. A man who was exactly what he appeared to be. She was sure of it.

Martha patted her hand and Abigail finally smiled. “What’s the special? I’m starving. Been cleaning, painting and wallpapering all week and I’ve worked up an appetite.”

“They have the best cheeseburgers in the state,” Frank suggested.

Stella was hovering over her by then with her order tablet and Abigail asked for a cheeseburger, onion rings and chocolate malt. An older man, Stella’s brother, Abigail guessed, was cooking in the back kitchen.

“Martha informs me you’ve been redoing the old Summers’ house,” Frank stated when Stella left. He was on his second cup of coffee since Abigail had sat down. There was a small notebook on the table beside him and every couple of minutes he’d scribble something in it.

“I have.” She turned to Martha. “You wouldn’t know the place. I’ve been cleaning and painting and I think it looks beautiful. You’ll have to come over and see it.”

“I’ll do that.” Martha popped another French fry into her mouth.

Frank had fallen quiet, listening, as Abigail raved about her house. Someone had turned on a radio and country music floated in the air along with the hamburger aromas.

“I met this elderly lady out on the street coming here,” Abigail casually remarked. “Pulling a wagon behind her and singing old songs. Looks poor and a little bizarre.”

“Oh, that’s Myrtle Schmitt,” Frank cut in. “Our resident crazy rambling woman. Don’t let her appearance fool you, she may dress and act peculiar, she wanders all over town salvaging junk out of peoples’ trash cans and she lives out in a ratty RV along Highway 21, but she’s filthy rich. Has a broker, a financial portfolio and probably millions of dollars in assets.”

“Think old Myrtle is weird, you haven’t met the cat and dog lady yet,” tittered Martha.

Frank laughed and satisfied Abigail’s curiosity, “Evelyn Vogt. She lives behind you actually. A patch of woods is all that separates your two properties. Be grateful for that. She hoards animals, that’s what they call it these days. Mostly cats and dogs, but she collects all kinds of creatures. She must have thirty or forty in and around her house. I imagine on calm nights you’ll be able to hear the meowing and dog yapping even at your place.”

“I can’t wait.” Abigail was studying the folks around her. The couple to her left had paid their tab in quarters, dimes and pennies, tip as well. Another couple hobbled out on walkers. Canes were propped against booths and hung from chairs. Lots of elderly in town.

Her food arrived and she sat eating and listening to Martha and Frank magpie about town stuff and gossip about the other townies. She learned a lot about Spookie and its people during the meal. She learned a lot about Frank too. He seemed like a sweet guy. A little nosy.

“By the way,” she directed to Martha between munching onion rings. “I’m looking for rugs for my living room and bedroom. Nice, but not too expensive. I’m on a tight house decorating budget. Know where I can find any?”

But it was Frank who spoke up, “My sister, Louisa, sells carpets and flooring in a store in Chalmers, fifteen miles down the highway and two towns over.” He tugged out his wallet and removed a white business card, which he gave to Abigail. “Tell her I sent you and she’ll give you a discount on top of a fair price.”

“Thanks. I couldn’t ask for more, I guess.” She accepted the card and put it in her purse. She’d finished her meal and exhaustion was claiming her. The day outside was shifting into twilight. Soon it’d be dark. She stood up. “It’s been nice meeting you Frank. And seeing you Martha. But right now, with my stomach full and my body one big ache, my bed is calling. I’m heading home. I think I have just enough energy to limp back there.”

“If you walked, let me drive you.” Martha stood up, grabbing her purse. “I’ve been here for hours. Time I go home too. Besides if you don’t mind I’d love to take a quick peek at what you’ve done to your house. I’m dying to see it.” There was a plea in her eyes that Abigail couldn’t deny. Martha wanted to be her friend in the worst way.

“Okay, I’ll take you up on that ride. It seems my legs have stiffened into two rock pillars anyway since I sat down. They don’t want to work.”

She wasn’t sure how it came about, but Frank piped up about seeing them both home safely and before she knew it, all three of them were heading to her house. The old Abigail would have squashed that quick enough, but the new Abigail let it happen. After paying their bills and saying goodnight to everyone the three of them left the diner.

She and Frank rode with Martha because Frank had also walked to Stella’s. “I’m obsessed with walking lately, since one of my friends had a stroke. Exercise, says my doc, is the key to living a long healthy life. I own a truck, but I walk whenever I can. Saves gas too.”

Leading her visitors in the front door, Abigail announced, “I’m not through with this yet. It’s a work in progress. I’ve still got to paint the porch and hang my collection of birdhouses from the ceiling. My porch motif.”

Martha made a beeline for the kitchen. “Love what you’ve done in here. Love the wallpaper,” she hollered. “Ooh, I love sunflowers too.”

Abigail left Frank, who was standing in the middle of the living room lost in thought, and hobbled into the kitchen. Now she could barely walk. Old age setting in early, she fretted, relieved that the hardest work was behind her and a soft bed awaited her. Soon as she could get rid of her visitors.

Martha had settled at the kitchen table and was admiring Abigail’s handiwork. “You’ve been busy. Astounding what you’ve done to the place in such a short time. I adore it. Looks like something you’d see in one of those house beautiful magazines. You sure have a flair for colors and such. Must be the artist in you.”

“You want coffee, Martha? Only take a minute. I always leave the pot ready to plug in.”

“Nah, I won’t keep you. I know you’re pooped. I only wanted a quick peek at the house. I’ll visit again soon and stay longer. I’ll bring you lunch one day next week and we’ll have real girlfriend time together. Where’s Frank?”

Frank walked into the kitchen.

“Lordy, Frank, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” exclaimed Martha. Her face turned grim. “Oh, how stupid of me, you have been in this house before. I remember now.”

“You have?” Abigail echoed, looking at Frank, who stood in the kitchen doorway, his face shadowed. He was eyeing the room as if it stirred up some sad memory.

Martha explained for him. “Never told you, Abigail, Frank’s a retired cop. Early retirement. Spent most of his time being a Chicago homicide detective, but he began his career here in Spookie as a deputy sheriff in the early seventies, during the time when that woman and her two kids lived in this house. Frank was on the Sheriff’s Department when the alleged disappearances took place, weren’t you Frank?”

“I was,” Frank admitted. “One of my first cases, I was twenty-one and had only been on the department for a few months. I…knew Emily and her children,” he spoke softly. “Sweet, sweet woman. She was a friend. Her children were good kids. Bright. So hungry for love.”

“The three were never located, never seen again, were they?” Abigail’s interest was captured entirely. There was something Frank wasn’t revealing, she could sense it.

“No, they weren’t. We didn’t have the technology we have today. People got lost and stayed lost. I was about the only one that thought something fishy had happened.” He sat down on the chair next to Abigail. “When they disappeared I worked here in town, but I’d applied earlier for the Chicago P.D. I’d been notified a week before that I had the job. I stayed here as long as I could trying to find them, but there weren’t any clues, any leads, so when the time came to move to Chicago and start my new job, my new life, I had to. Either that, or I would have lost the position and the opportunity. I made senior detective over the years, had a good run, a good life and my retirement benefits can’t be beat. I don’t regret leaving Spookie back then. I regret not finding them. If I had been here I wouldn’t have stopped looking as everyone else did. The Sheriff at the time thought they just didn’t want to be found.”

Abigail was watching Frank. Ah, ha…a retired police detective experienced in digging up hidden clues who’d known the woman and her children and here he was in this house again after all these years. Right after she’d found notes from those missing children. The coincidence of it all didn’t escape her.

“Well, it’s late and I’m going home,” Martha declared. “Frank, want a ride home?”

Martha had probably seen the way Frank had looked at her so she wasn’t surprised when he excused himself with, “No, thanks, it’s a lovely night and, with shortcuts, I don’t live that far. Walking helps me get my thoughts straight for my late night writing sessions.”