Scraps of Paper (20 page)

“Then come inside and I’ll get it for you.” He took her hand and pulled her into his store. It was empty. The last thing she’d wanted was to be alone with Mason. But she didn’t have much choice. And what was she afraid of anyway, he wasn’t about to make a pass at her in broad daylight in his own store, right? Right.

He gave her the money and a receipt. “I listed what amount you received for each picture. We have a good thing going here, hey? Both making money. Everyone who sees your artwork, Abigail, loves it. They rave about your use of color and how exquisitely you recreate inanimate objects. Bring in more pictures. Push up the price at least a third more. They’re worth it. Gretchen Stickley promised she’d come by on payday to buy that large picture of the farmhouse and sunflowers.” Mason made a hand flourish towards the farmhouse picture propped against the wall. It was an old picture she’d had forever. It had a price tag of one hundred dollars. That plus what Abigail had in her hand would pay her utilities for a month.

“I’ll let you know. I talked to other storeowners in nearby towns and some of them are ready to take your artwork on consignment, as well. Same commission split. Isn’t that marvelous?”

The praise, the money and the promise of more sales flustered Abigail, but she didn’t feel at ease around Mason and it was hard to pretend she did.

“It is and that’s kind of you.”

“Abigail?” She was aimed for the door when Mason demanded, “After all this time, why are you digging up that stuff about Emily Summers and her kids? Can’t you let the dead rest in peace?” And there was more than irritation in his tone, there was suppressed anger. Gone was the amiable man from a minute ago. This was what he’d really wanted to talk to her about.

Abigail’s feet froze and she pivoted around. Mason was so close behind her she could see the desperation in his face, desperation that hadn’t been there before. He must have really loved Emily, she thought. All her stories were bringing back sad memories. And her heart softened towards him.

“It just happened, Mr. Mason. If you’ve read the newspaper stories you know that. The notes and stumbling on the graves the way I did. They were all accidents. I never set out to disturb the dead at all. They disturbed me.”

Mason lowered his voice, “You need to let it drop. Now. Spreading her life, her death, and her dirty laundry all over the newspapers serves no purpose. Stop the digging, the articles. They’re just sensationalistic claptrap anyway. There are things in the past best left there. Secrets that don’t need to see the light of day. Believe me, I know.”

She couldn’t tell if the words were a threat or friendly advice.

“I don’t think I have anything to say about it anymore. An official investigation into the murders has already begun. Once the bodies were found, it was inevitable.”

The word
murders
made him recoil. There was suddenly a controlled fury in his eyes. “You started it and you’re the one keeping it going. Don’t think I don’t know that.”

Then he seemed to catch himself, changed tactics, and gave a resigned sigh. “Just remember I advised you to stop. For your own good…your own safety,” he whispered.

She was about to ask him what he meant by that, when unexpectedly Frank was standing at the door. “Abigail, there you are! I got worried about you. You were supposed to meet me at Stella’s at twelve, remember? So when I saw you dash in here, I thought I’d mosey on over and see what was taking you so long.”

“Frank.” Mason greeted the other man, his face reverting to a blank expression.

“John.” Curt. No other banter, but a coolness in his manner Mason must have sensed because he didn’t add to the conversation.

She spoke to Frank, “I was just leaving.” Plucked Mason’s hand off her arm and walked out the door, Frank behind her. She didn’t look back.

“What was that all about?” Frank questioned the moment they were outside.

“I think he tried to bribe me. Or threatened me. I think. I’m not sure.”

Frank took her arm and swung her around to look at him. “Do you want me to go back in there and break his neck?” said with a hint of humor.

“No. I’m fine. He freaked me out, that’s all. He’s disgruntled over this whole Summers thing. If I didn’t know better I’d say he had something to hide.”

“You need to stay away from him, Abby. He was involved with Emily, we know that. Maybe he does have something to hide and a cornered animal is a dangerous animal, don’t forget that.”

“Don’t I know it.” She let out the breath she’d been holding. “I hadn’t planned on making nice chitchat with him but he ambushed me as I came out of the bookstore and dragged me inside on the pretense of giving me money…he’d sold three of my pictures. One to himself. He talked about putting my watercolors in other stores. Then, out of nowhere, he asked me to drop the Summers investigation. When I didn’t give him the response he wanted, he turned a little weird. Thanks for rescuing me.”

They went into Stella’s. The usual lunch crowd was there, including an elderly woman and an elderly man, dressed in frayed bib overalls, with stringy white hair. The old man’s glasses had a band of adhesive tape holding the bridge of the frame together and he was missing a front tooth. The two were bickering over who was going to pay for the food they’d eaten.

“What else did Mason say?” Frank interrupted her people watching. “Your face is still flushed.”

Abigail told him as Stella came over and took their order. Frank ordered the day’s lunch special. She only wanted coffee.

 “We’re going to have to be more careful from now on with Mason. As well as I thought I knew him, I don’t know him at all these days. We used to be friendly. But lately he sidesteps me on the street and is barely civil when I’m in his store. He’s not himself. Something’s going on, I just don’t know what. Those articles have affected him and I’m wondering why.”

 “I think he hates us dredging Emily’s life up. The woman that broke his heart and got away. He really loved her, according to Claudia at the bookstore. Anyway, I’ll stay away from him for a while. Let him cool down.”

“Good idea. Now let me see those diary pages you found out by the tree house.” Frank held his hand out. “So strange you had that dream and then you go out there and find the missing pages for real. As if the ghosts of those kids were speaking to you. Spooky, if you ask me.” He wiggled his eyebrows until Abigail laughed.

Abigail rummaged through her book bag and handed the pages over. He read them, a frown on his lips. “Whoa, this isn’t absolute proof that Edna poisoned those two kids, but it’s pretty close. I’ve been thinking about that old lady so much the last few weeks and I still can’t see a cold-blooded sister and child murderess. She was eccentric, selfish and antisocial and had few friends, if any. But, on the other hand, I’ve known people to kill for less than jealousy, a house and an inheritance. You just can’t tell.”

“Murderers and people who do bad things are born with black souls.” Abigail gave her opinion. “No conscience. They’re evil and can’t help themselves.”

“So you think some people are born evil?” He folded the pages and returned them to Abigail. “Intriguing theory.” He opened his notebook and began scribbling. “What else did you find out from Claudia?” His pen was poised, as if he knew Claudia revealed something else of interest.

She updated him.

“Never knew this town was such a Peyton Place of smoldering passions,” he huffed. “I remember Claudia from those days. She was shy, her nose in a book most of the time. Cute, but not flamboyantly pretty like Emily was. Really smart. She went to college, I know that, and ended up marrying a man who worked with his hands. Go figure. Never had a clue that she was in love with Mason, too–which, if you think about it, could make her a suspect as well. She had a motive. Ha, but as I remember both of them, John wasn’t her type at all.”

“Or so you thought.”

“I guess I was young and didn’t see things or people the way they really were,” Frank conceded. “So, Abby, you have more information; what are you going to do with it? Take some people’s advice and drop it or print it and keep digging?”

“I’m going to give it to Samantha for the next story.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would and I will. Though I won’t let her use any names of living people. Jenny and Christopher would want me to continue; want me to find their killer.” Abigail was solemn. “I’m not going to let anyone scare me off. I’ll just have to be more careful–and have stronger locks installed on my house. I’ll go see Samantha after I leave here. The sooner I do this the better, before I chicken out. She’s going to flip when she sees these missing diary pages.”

“Back flip probably. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on you. Be your bodyguard if I have to. I’ll protect you.”

“I feel safer already. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I always take care of my friends.” After Frank finished his lunch he accompanied Abigail to the
Journal
’s office where they had a nice long chat with Samantha.

Chapter 16

Samantha was thrilled with the diary pages. Abigail spilled everything about their trip to Orchard, seeing Brown, Norma’s death, the hate letter and finding the missing pages, and some of what Claudia had confided about the old sheriff and Edna.

“Our readers have been begging for more of this hometown whodunit,” Samantha confessed. “I have photos that came in last week of Emily and the kids I can use to fill another page.

“And I’ll be careful how I write it. Without proof using names of living people as possible suspects is unethical.”

 
And unsafe
, Abigail thought.

“It’s great we have this hand written stuff, these diary pages, from Jenny herself; the letter from Norma, though I can’t use any of it because it’s unsubstantiated. And, that along with what Brown recollected about a stalker. Wonderful! This mystery has been better than a Sherlock Holmes serial. That Emily’s mysterious lover, whoever he was, out of jealous rage,
may have
strangled her to death in a fit of passion because she was leaving him. Classic. That someone or Edna
may have
poisoned the children to have free and clear title to the house and the inheritance, and Edna
may have
been blackmailing someone…for thirty years…is so juicy. What a story.”

“Yeah, what a story. A sweet woman is maybe murdered by her abusive boyfriend and two innocent children are maybe killed for greed.” Abigail couldn’t deny the uneasiness that had settled over her. She could still see the pain and anger in Mason’s eyes when he’d confronted her over Emily’s life being smeared throughout the newspapers. Was she doing the right thing?

“It’s horrible enough to think of how Emily died, but it’s worse to think someone killed the children. And it took place in the house you live in now. It must be eerie, I imagine.” Samantha had sensed Abigail’s disquiet. “To think Edna might have done that and no one’s ever suspected. You never know another person as well as you think, is beginning to be my new motto.”

When Samantha had everything she needed for the next story Frank walked Abigail home.

***

Three days later Abigail awoke and got ready to go after a copy of the newspaper. She didn’t have to go far. Someone had sent her the edition special delivery wrapped around a rock. It’d smashed through her front window and landed in her living room.

Outside on the porch, she stepped in splatters of blood and looked up. There were tiny bleeding birds stuffed in the openings of her birdhouses. Real dead birds. Their beady eyes glazed and motionless, their feathers smeared with red, limp beaks hanging downward and blood dripping on the wood.

Groaning, covering her mouth, she slid onto the swing. The message was clear. Someone was warning her to stop what she was doing. Stop chasing the Summers’ mystery. Was the person responsible watching her from a distance at that very moment? She’d been in a trance but the thought snapped her out of it. She’d be safer inside.
Where was Snowball?

Abigail launched herself from the swing, ran inside, and was relieved when she found the fur ball sleeping behind the sofa. She scooped the kitten up and hugged her until she meowed in protest. Picking up the phone, she dialed Frank’s number.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes and I’ll call the sheriff before I go,” he said and hung up.

Over coffee Abigail read the article that’d sailed in with the rock. Samantha, as always, had written a fine piece, including everything, every new clue, every new development and all the contents of the found letter and diary. The problem, Abigail realized, was the editor had made hypothetical cases for Edna either being the murderer or a mystery man who’d been dating Emily behind the scenes, or had once dated or wanted to date her. The ex-husband had been mentioned and the dead sheriff. The sheriff’s wife. Or someone perhaps married or engaged to someone else. That was hitting close to home. If a person had known Emily and the people involved in town at the time, it’s possible to imagine who the murderer might have been. And the real murderer, if he or she were still alive and in the area, would be livid, Abigail thought, rubbing her eyes. People would start to point fingers. It was in their nature.

“Samantha, what have you done?” Abigail asked. Not that Samantha had meant to point fingers. No one knew for sure who Emily’s or the children’s killer had been. Not for sure anyway. But someone had tossed the rock and killed the birds. Who had they angered that much with the stories? Someone who knew or was trying to hide something and was afraid of being discovered, perhaps the killer themselves. Frank was right about one thing, she’d better be careful. She was obviously a target these days.

She collected a trash bag, paper towels and a pair of metal tongs, unable to bear the thought of those dead birds in her birdhouses one second longer. She was about done plucking broken feathery bodies from birdhouse holes when Frank roared up the driveway in his truck. Sheriff Mearl pulled in behind him.

“Original way of getting a message across.” Frank stood in the sunlight and watched Abigail put the last two bird bodies into the trash bag. “If you sing like a bird you’ll end up a dead bird?”

“Something like that,” Abigail retorted sarcastically. Finished, she shoved the trash bag off the side of the porch to be dealt with later.

“You know, if I didn’t know better I’d say you have your very own stalker. Hate letters, broken windows and dead critters on your porch.” Frank leaned against the post.

“Maybe the same stalker that Emily had?”

“Not if it was Norma. She’s dead.”

“If Norma had really been Emily’s stalker…or only stalker. Emily seemed to have had a lot of enemies.”

“That she did.”

Frank exchanged a silent nod with the sheriff who’d come up onto the porch.

“Lady,” Sheriff Mearl grunted. “Trouble follows you like a trained dog. As often as I come out here you should provide me with my own monogrammed coffee mug.”

“Funny, Sheriff. I guess that’s a hint you’d like a cup of coffee, huh?”

“Wouldn’t mind having one, now that you offer. Haven’t had my quota yet this morning.”

“The pot’s in the kitchen. You know where that is, Sheriff. Help yourself. Cups in the top right cabinet. Cream and sugar on the table. We’ll be right behind you.”

 The sheriff sauntered into the house towards the kitchen, his gun belt and holster squeaking and his boot steps echoing loudly across the floors.

“I don’t know why you called him,” Abigail said to Frank. “He’s not going to be any help. He never caught anyone the other times. There was never any evidence left behind. And I’m sure whoever did this was as clever in covering his trail.”

“I had to call him in. He’s the sheriff and a report has to be made. Just be careful what you say to him,” Frank muttered. “We have to remember it was Mearl’s father who investigated the original disappearances in the first place. Mearl’s father who had a thing for Emily and might have been involved in her death. Let’s not forget that. Could be that’s why Mearl’s been so attentive to you and this situation from the beginning. Could be Mearl knows more than he’s letting on.”

She hadn’t thought of it that way. It took her off guard. “Nah,” she dismissed the warning. “Sheriff’s here for the free coffee and any gossip he can glean. That’s all.”

“You have gossip?” Frank grinned and was rewarded with the tiniest of smiles. “See, I knew I could make you smile if I tried. I’m sorry about your bird massacre. But when you opted to run those stories I did caution you that it could cause repercussions. Well, it did.”

“I know, my fault. What kind of person butchers little animals to make a point?”

“Someone who’s frightened he or she’s going to be exposed. Someone who took a lot of trouble to get all these birds dead, and here. All their necks are broken. A pretty personal touch, that.”

“I’d say. Wonder where the person got them from?” Then she shook her head. It didn’t matter. “I’d like to get a hold of whoever did this and wring
their
neck.”

“I bet you would.” Frank opened the door for her. “Let’s get some coffee and get the sheriff out of here. Afterwards I’ll fix that broken window for you.” She tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted. “What are friends for?” He followed her into the kitchen.

 The sheriff reclined in his chair and focused his eyes on Abigail after she’d said her say. He asked if anyone had seemed unhappy with her over the articles. She told him of her run in with Mason three days before. “Humph, well, all I can tell you, Mrs. Sutton, is to keep your doors locked and I’ll let you know if I find out anything.” He had a toothpick between his lips that he kept moving around. He said he was trying to quit smoking for about the hundredth time. “Do you want me to stake out your place for a day or two and see who shows up?”

“You could do that, Sheriff,” Frank interrupted gently. “But I have it covered.” There was a firmness in his eyes the sheriff couldn’t argue with.

“Have it your way. Just keep me posted on anything further else that develops. I’ll go and take care of the paperwork for this incident.” He looked at Abigail with cool eyes. Today his manner had been strictly business. He wasn’t acting like his usual charming self. What a relief. “You’re gathering quite a file, young lady. Somebody doesn’t like you much.”

Abigail wondered if the sheriff was one of them. He couldn’t be happy about what had been written in the newspaper about his father-the-womanizer and how he’d taken advantage of Emily all those years ago. It had to be embarrassing at the least.

After the Sheriff left, she and Frank cleaned up the broken glass and he made a trip to the hardware store for supplies and put in a new pane of glass for her.

“When I was in town,” Frank said, as he was finishing the job, “I tried to see John. To have a word with him about the way he treated you last time. But his store was closed up. In the middle of a weekday. Very unusual. He’s always there. I went by his house, rang the front door bell, and peeked in the windows. There was no one around. His car’s gone. And no one’s seen him today. I asked.”

“Now that is strange.” It bothered her that Mason wasn’t at his store. The day the newspaper came out and someone left slaughtered birds on her porch. What was that about? Ever since their run in she’d had an odd feeling about Mason. Claudia had said he’d been in love with Emily all those years ago. Suddenly everything he’d ever said to her, the way he’d look at her, was interested in her, had a different meaning. If she looked so much like Emily it made sense now. Perhaps Mason thought she was Emily come back? To haunt him? For revenge? Now that was too spooky for thought.

“He could be away on a trip or a vacation. People do leave town for one reason or another, you know,” Frank offered.

“I know. But I’d feel better if you’d been able to see him and gauge his reaction to what happened this morning. See if he acted guilty. I don’t like his vanishing act. He’s been lying. You know as well as me he knew Emily back then. Real well. Maybe he knows something more.” Maybe he knows Edna killed them, but why would he hide that?

“Then I’ll keep checking his business and home until I can speak with him.

“And I’ve been thinking, Abby, about Brown. Since our visit with him I’ve come to the conclusion that something about his reaction to the deaths rang phony. We need to speak to him again. He’s hiding something. I know it. He could be your thief and vandal… except…he lives so far away. Quite a distance to come just to scare you. And the person who threw the rock and killed the birds only meant to frighten you. Make you stop prying into Emily and the children’s murders. They could have hurt you just as easily, but they didn’t.”

“Instead they hurt defenseless innocent little creatures. It’s despicable.”

 “I agree. Terrible.”

Frank stayed for sandwiches and later, tired of discussing her troubles, Abigail asked if he’d heard anything more on his novel.

“No, nothing yet. I called my agent the other day and she reminded me that it takes time, especially for a first novel. An editor’s looking at it and you can’t push an editor. They’ll read my book as soon as they can get to it. My agent was polite about it, but I sensed she was a little peeved at me for bothering her. So I wait.