Scraps of Paper (17 page)

“Does it say anything about Emily’s kids?” Lorna asked.

“Only that, as Norma remembered it–and I’d wager she was watching Emily’s house plenty–Emily and the children weren’t seen for weeks at the end of that summer and then Edna announced one day they’d driven away for a fresh start. No one questioned it.”

“You think Mason was the one who broke in here? He knew about the letter and was afraid of what might be in it? Could be he remembered what he said to Norma during their marriage, that night he was drunk in particular, or what she might lie about to get him in trouble.”

“Could be.” Abigail couldn’t imagine charming Mason breaking in anyone’s house. But then, she couldn’t imagine him doing any of the other things Norma’s letter said he might have done. The paper felt funny in Abigail’s hands. The woman who’d written it only days ago was dead. Suddenly she was uneasy standing in the middle of a vandalized and vacant house. “Where are the steps Norma was supposed to have fallen down?”

“This way.” Lorna forged ahead and Abigail tailed behind through the rubble.

The basement was as untidy as the upper floors. Someone had been frantic to find something. What? Yet the basement stairs looked sturdy, the banister heavy and the steps were carpeted. It’d have been difficult, but not impossible, to tumble down them. People fell all the time. She wished, not for the first time, that Frank had been with her. She could have used his expertise. The best Abigail could do was examine the scene. Nothing looked suspicious. To her anyway. The banister was intact and there weren’t any scuffs on the steps. Lorna said Norma had died of head trauma of some kind and the casket had been closed.

Lorna held back from the stairs and made the sign of the cross. “I can’t bear to look at where poor Norma died. Makes me sad. She’d turned her life around the last few years. Went to church each Sunday and had friends. The funeral was magnificent. So many flowers.” The woman was weeping, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. “She didn’t deserve to die like that, alone at the bottom of the steps. Poor Norma.”

 “Let’s get out of here.” Abigail had seen enough. “It’s time to call the police.” She was thinking about the letter, about Norma and Mason. Norma’s accusations made no sense. Had she lied to try to hurt her ex-husband? Mason was such a pillar of the community. A boring pillar. And hadn’t Frank offered Mason a beer the day of the picnic and he’d turned it down saying he didn’t drink? Yet Norma claimed he’d been a violent drunk. Interesting.

Well, well. Norma thought Mason had killed Emily. But there’d been a fistful of other possible candidates.

Norma, not to speak ill of the dead, had had more than enough motive to want to hurt the woman and years later put the blame on her hated ex-husband.

Todd Brown had had his own reasons to harm his ex-wife.

Then there was Sheriff Cal.

And Edna, of course.

Who else had hated Emily enough to kill her? And what about the twins…who’d killed them? Abigail’s head hurt. Sherlock Holmes she wasn’t.

The two women left Norma’s house and returned to Lorna’s kitchen. Lorna made the call to the police and said she’d noticed lights on in the house and had discovered the mess. Thought they should check it out. Soon after, thanking Lorna for her help and the refreshments, Abigail headed home. With the letter safe in her purse and her mind full of questions she couldn’t answer she drove straight to Frank’s house.

Chapter 14

Abigail banged on the front door until Frank answered. He was in exercise shorts, bare chested, dripping in sweat, with a towel around his shoulders as if he’d been drying himself off. “Why, hi, Abigail,” he welcomed her, short of breath, his face flushed.

“You’ll never guess what I’ve found out,” she said, sweeping by him into the living room.

“Nice to see you, too, Abby. You lucked out, I just got back from my daily run. You caught me as I was heading to the shower. Can it wait until I get out? I won’t be long.”

“It can. Don’t let me stop you, Frank.” She went back outside and sat down on the top porch step. “I’ll wait out here.”

“Soda and beer in the fridge. Help yourself. Or I’ll make coffee when I get out.” He left the front door open.

Abigail fished the letter out and read it again as she waited. The day was cool for August and some artist had feathered the sky with wispy clouds. The smell of burning leaves made her nostalgic for fall. She sat there and thought about Norma, Emily, Mason and the past. Trying to put the new pieces together.

Frank emerged, clean and dry from the shower, in blue jeans and shirt, and made them a pot of coffee. He brought her a cup along with his and settled in one of the rockers. “It’s supposed to rain by tonight. And we need it,” he casually commented, studying the sky. He’d blow-dried his hair and shaved. Looked good. “What’s up?”

Abigail presented him with the letter and after he read it she filled in the rest, telling him about Norma’s death, her neighbor, Lorna’s suspicions, and the vandalized house.

He took the contents of the letter with skepticism. “Nah, I can’t imagine Mason had anything to do with Emily’s death. By what he says, he didn’t know her very well back then. Besides, everyone in town knows Norma loathed Mason by the end of their marriage and she was off her rocker. She used to max up the credit cards, call women out of the blue and accuse them of having an affair with her husband, used to throw things at him; even put him in the hospital once. Martha told me about it when I lived in Chicago. Their divorce was so hostile. One scandal after another. John was the one who wanted it, not Norma. So I wouldn’t put it past her to write a pack of lies and throw herself down the steps. But if you have any doubts about her death, I know Orchard’s chief of police so we’ll go visit him and ask some questions. I’m sure he’ll help us out.”

“You know Orchard’s chief of police? Do all cops know each other?”

“Most do,” he drawled. “Oscar Tannebaum is the chief. I went to the police Academy with him when we were young. Good hearted guy. Smart cop. We’re both widowers, both own Gold Wings; both enjoy fishing. We’ve kept in touch over the years. I’ll give Oscar a call.” Frank put the letter in her hand, went into the house and returned a few minutes later.

“Did you reach him?”

“Sure did. He was thrilled to hear from me and invited us down for supper. Said he’d tell us all he knows about the Norma Mason death when we get there. Bribe, if I ever heard one.

“By the way, I bought a new motorcycle yesterday, another Gold Wing, and brought it home. I was going for a ride today anyway, so how about us taking one to the Orchard Police Station? I have an extra helmet and rain’s not supposed to come in until later tonight. The bike is ready to go. I spent this morning tuning and cleaning it. It’d make a nice jaunt.”

She didn’t know what to say. “A motorcycle, huh?”

“Yeah, a form of transportation with two wheels, windshield and saddlebags.”

“I know what they are. Just didn’t know you had one. I haven’t been on a motorcycle in years.” She folded the letter and put it in her purse, a pensive look on her face. “Joel and I had this old Eleven Hundred Yamaha. He fixed it up and we used to ride everywhere…years ago. But I’ll tell you: I don’t like going fast. Hate riding in high winds or storms. Sure it isn’t supposed to rain until later?”

 “I guarantee it. I don’t speed and if it storms I’ll pull the bike over until it stops. Promise.”

“Okay. I’ll go,” she surrendered. Frank found an extra jacket for her because sometimes, he said, it got chilly out on the country roads.

The Gold Wing, a full dresser, in all its pearl white iridescent glory, was waiting at the end of the curved driveway. It was clean and shiny and gorgeous. “She’s a 1994 with low miles on her,” Frank bragged, handing Abigail a matching pearl white helmet with a built in CB. “Oscar’s going to be so jealous when he sees her.”

“I bet.” She put the helmet on her head, slid the half facemask down over her eyes and after Frank did the same, she swung her leg over the seat and climbed on. He gave her brief instructions on how to operate the CB and they were on their way. It felt strange being on a motorcycle again and strange being behind a man who wasn’t Joel. But it felt good to be out riding the country roads nothing between her, the trees and sky, but air.

The ride was smooth, calming and the breeze cool. They commented on the scenery over the CB and when they ran out of words, Frank switched on the radio. Soon they were pulling into the Orchard’s Police Station. It’d been relaxing, sitting behind Frank skimming down the road, arms around him. She could have ridden for hours and never stopped. She’d forgotten how exhilarating it could be.

Slipping their helmets over the handlebars, they entered the building. Abigail had been in a couple of police stations exactly like it, modest sized, full of desks, chairs and people in uniforms whispering to each other. A few glanced up when they came in and one rose from his desk and strolled over.

“Frank Lester, as I live and die!” A short, compact man in a blue uniform with gray hair and a square face stepped up and slapped Frank on the back as if he were a long lost brother. “You haven’t changed one bit, except for that straggly salt and pepper mop and the extra pounds around the middle. You need a haircut.”

“Yeah, and you need more hair. Looks like you’re in the army. I’m retired now and can grow it to my butt if I want.” Frank had an easy way with the other man. He did with most people but Abigail could tell these two were old friends.

Frank introduced Oscar to Abigail and the officer greeted her with, “Any friend of Frank’s is a friend of mine.” And gave her a big grin. Standing beside Frank, she returned it and noted, though Oscar’s mouth was smiling, his eyes were the probing sharp eyes of a cop. His gaze x-rayed her and he nodded.

“Before we get to the reason we’re really here, Oscar,” Frank said. “Come outside and see my newest Gold Wing. It’s a beauty.”

Oscar and Frank went to drool over the motorcycle while Abigail went in search of a restroom to comb out her helmet hair. She met up with them as they were reentering the building.

“That is a beautiful bike,” Oscar was saying. “You got a heck of a buy. Almost as good as the one I got on mine. I’ll bring my cycle up one weekend and we’ll do some riding.”

“You got a deal. Anytime.”

Oscar ushered them to his desk and offered them seats. “I’m six months from early retirement,” he said once they’d settled. “But I’m pretty sure I’ll pass on it and keep working as long as they’ll let me.”

“Early retirement isn’t bad. It’s great to do what you want, Oscar. Believe me.”

 “Ha, and you were the most gung-ho cop I’ve ever known. How’s the fishing up by you?” Oscar was shuffling papers as he talked, putting things in order so he could leave for the day.

“There’s this lake behind my property full of catfish. When you come for that ride you’ll have to stay overnight. We’ll do some fishing; fry what we catch. I have a guest room.”

“You got a deal. Now, you wanted to know about Norma Mason’s death?”

 “Whatever you can tell us. Norma was from our town before she moved here and we wanted a little more information on how it happened. We heard she fell down some stairs?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, Frank. But since you’re an ex-cop and a friend, keep where you got the information to yourself. I investigated the scene after Mrs. Mason’s fall. The paramedics called me in when they noticed the irregularities. A large amount of prescription drugs in the house and opened empty bottles on the premises. The neighbor lady, a friend of the deceased, had said, other than an arthritis prescription, Mrs. Mason took no other drugs. Yet, there were way too many pill bottles for my liking. The M.E.’s workup showed there was a large amount of drugs in her bloodstream at the time of death. Much more than normal.

“I didn’t find the stairs particularly unsafe. Relatives and others thought Mrs. Mason had become increasingly paranoid lately. People were watching her, she said. She’d been calling here at the station and reporting intruders inside and outside of her home for weeks. We’d go out there and there was never anyone. So there were problems. Consensus is Mrs. Mason might have thrown herself down those stairs. Suicide. Out of her fears or by accidentally taking an overdose. It’s the only thing that made sense. Since we can’t prove it and it doesn’t make a difference to me I let the coroner put down accident. For her family’s sake.”

“Accident, but it could have been suicide?” Abigail gently shook her head.

Frank listened but kept his thoughts to himself.

“That’s the official verdict,” Oscar finished, coming to his feet. “Case closed. Wish I could have had better news for you. I’ve told you what I know.”

Abigail was about to blurt out about the house break-in when Frank, sensing what she was going to do, shushed her silently, a finger to his lips, shaking his head. It wouldn’t do any good, his look warned. He’s told us all he knows. So she kept silent.

  “We appreciate it, Oscar. Now, how about we go to that steakhouse you crowed about and get us some supper. I’m about to die of starvation.” Frank stood up.

“That sounds good to me. Let me finish with my people here, sign out and I’m with you.” Oscar attended to last minute business and the three of them went to eat. Once or twice they touched on the subject of Norma Mason but didn’t learn anything more. The time they spent with Oscar was pleasant and Abigail got to hear stories about Frank’s past. Stories that helped her understand him better.

“Abigail, did you know that Frank used to shoot in competitions? He actually won trophies. He can also hunt with a bow like an Indian, and he can play the best game of chess I’ve ever seen.”

“No, didn’t know that. But nothing he does surprises me anymore.” Abigail caught Frank’s wink. “He has more sides to him than a Rubik’s cube.”

The sun was setting by the time they said their farewells to Frank’s old friend and got on the bike. While they’d been inside a storm had begun to move in. Frank thought they could ride ahead of it. Wrong. On the road barely minutes, the downpour overtook them, along with thunder, lightning and wind, and they pulled under a concrete viaduct to find a dry cubbyhole.

“So, Mr. Wizard,” Abigail confronted him as they hunkered down on the concrete, eyeing the downpour. “It wasn’t supposed to storm until after twelve tonight, huh?” They were soaked.

“Not supposed to. Oops, guess those silly weathermen were wrong again. I’m sorry.”

“Weathermen are wrong half the time, if you ask me. Heck, Frank, I could be a weather person for all the smarts it takes. Hey, everybody out there on the other side of the screen, it’s either going to rain today or it isn’t. Hey, the sun’s out, which means it’s sunny. All you have to do is look out the window, toss a coin, or take a guess. I’m right more than the weather people.”

“You got a point there. But I
did
think we’d be back before this hit. Oscar and I got carried away with old police stories, I guess. But it was good to see him again. I haven’t since Jolene’s funeral. For a while, when we were first cops, his wife and mine, the four of us, were inseparable. We used to go on vacations and ride bikes or motorcycles together. The good old days,” he muttered, peering at the rain. Lightning lit up his face and the earth around them and then the absence of it plunged everything into darkness. “Ooh, it’s bad out there. Lucky we found this place for shelter, though it looks like this is a fast moving storm. It’ll let up here soon and we’ll make a dash for it. We’re only fifteen, twenty minutes away from home.”