Scraps of Paper (5 page)

“Okay. Abigail, I swear he’s safe. I’d trust him with my life. So I don’t hesitate to leave you alone with him. Being an ex-cop you can be sure he won’t steal anything or make improper advances towards you.” It was a joke, but no one laughed. Abigail’s wedding ring glittered in the kitchen’s light.

At the door Martha reminded Abigail about the painting of her home. “The house is over one hundred and twenty years old. It’s been in my family since it was built.” She dug into her purse and handed over a couple of colored photographs. “Here it is. You think you can do it from these or does the house have to sit for you?”

Abigail examined the photos. “These aren’t bad…but since it’s summer, I’d prefer to draw, or at least start, from the real thing. I’ll call you next week and set up a day to start. I’m about done with the cleaning and painting for now and wouldn’t mind working on a smaller canvas for a bit.” And she wanted to see if she still had it in her, see if she could draw anything that wasn’t in Photoshop or on a computer screen.

“Okay, you call and I’ll show you where I live. Out in the woods and all, it’s hard to find.” Then Martha was gone.

“I realize you don’t know me well and I’ve barged in on you,” Frank told Abigail. “I wanted to talk to you. And I had to see this house again. Be inside. It’s brought back so many memories of when I was a young cop just starting out. The past. Those were good days.”

“I understand. There are times in my youth, my past, that I reflect back on with great fondness too.” She was thinking of Joel. “I understand.”

“Can I look around? I won’t disturb anything. I won’t stay long.”

“Go ahead, be my guest. I’ll wait here for you. Resting. Making coffee.”

Frank moseyed around the house, snooped upstairs and returned to the kitchen. She was tired, but she didn’t mind. As Martha had said, she was safe with him. But he seemed reluctant to leave. It was a spur of a moment decision to offer him coffee. He accepted.

Over cups of black liquid they began to discuss their lives, began to form a bond. He was easy to talk to, an attentive listener and was intrigued with the same thing she was: what had happened to Emily and her kids. In the end, she confided why she’d come to Spookie, about her last job, the old apartment, Joel’s disappearance, and his death.

Frank listened and said gently, “Unexpected and unexplained disappearances. You wouldn’t believe how often that happens. For what it’s worth, you can be at peace now, knowing your husband didn’t just leave you. He was taken. Mugging gone wrong. At least you have closure.” His eyes fell on her wedding ring. “People disappear every second of every day–someone’s fault or not anyone’s fault. Merely moving on. Or foul play. I was a detective in a big city, I know. It can be heartbreaking.”

Abigail was touched when he told her about his wife, Jolene, who’d died the year before in a car crash. “That’s why I retired from the force early and returned home to Spookie. My son, Kyle, is away at college and I couldn’t keep living that lonely life once Jolene was gone. There didn’t seem any point to it. She was the one that loved living in the big city. Loved the concrete, the stores, and the hustle and bustle. Over the years I’d accepted that I was and always would be a small town boy. I love the country, the trees and everyone knowing everyone else’s business.

“So we’re both starting over, hey?” he finished with a soft smile. “What a coincidence.”

His eyes were scanning the solid black view outside the kitchen window. No moon had risen yet. It was all darkness. “I sat here one night so many, many years ago just like this having coffee with Emily Summers, her two kids playing with firecrackers and sparklers out in the yard, giggling and yelling. Seems like another life. I’d only been a cop for a short time and had brought her boy, Christopher, home after a close call with a car. He was lucky. It nearly hit him. But Christopher had sworn the driver was trying to run him over. The kid was really upset.”

Abigail opened her purse and retrieved the two scraps of paper. “Strange you should mention those children. While I was working on the house, I discovered these messages tucked under some baseboards. I think you might find them interesting.”

She handed over the notes and he read them. His face was expressionless but his hands shook slightly as he refolded them. He didn’t say anything at first and then, “These are from the children all right. They were always writing things in crayon and drawing pictures. Jenny was an artist, even at her age. I can’t believe you found these…after all these years.”

“Maybe,” she interjected, “there’s more notes hidden in the house. I’ll keep looking. Maybe these are clues to what happened to the three of them.”

Frank only replied, “The trail would be so cold you’d need snow boots. Now you sound like the mystery writer.”

“You could help me.” She ignored his lack of enthusiasm. “You knew this town, these people, who their friends were and how they lived. You can fill in the gaps no one else could. Were the children often sent to bed hungry? By their mother? And who do you think the
HE
in the one note referred to?” she grilled, though Frank seemed uneasy with the subject.

He moaned and responded, “The
HE
might have been Emily Summers secret boyfriend. We never figured out who it was. No one knew, except the kids and they weren’t talking, if you know what I mean. Emily Summers was divorced and had gone back to her maiden name. Being divorced in 1970 was scandal enough, but to be dating someone who was somehow unavailable was worse. She was already the town pariah. All the married women in town disliked her anyway; afraid she was going to steal their husbands. You know how insecure women can be.

“But I believed then and now that the boyfriend was part of the reason for their…leaving. Him and our illustrious Sheriff, who wouldn’t leave Emily alone, either. I never discovered who the boyfriend was and Edna, who’d been living here with her sister that whole summer, swore she’d no idea who he was either. Edna worked days in a factory in another town, slept like the dead at night from exhaustion, and didn’t seem to know anything.”

Abigail was disappointed.

“And no, Emily would never have mistreated those kids or sent them to bed hungry. I don’t understand that at all. She was a good mother.”

Frank gave her a thoughtful look. “Tell me. Are you so intrigued by this because of your husband’s vanishing act two years ago?”

“This has nothing to do with that,” Abigail snapped back too quickly.

“Doesn’t it?” Frank’s voice was sympathetic. “Listen, it’s late and I’ve stayed too long. My advice is let the past be the past. There’s no one left anymore that remembers the Summers family, except a few old town people and me. We don’t know if there even was a crime. Edna said her sister ran off in the middle of the night with the children because she was a flighty woman. The Sheriff claimed Emily left because she was hiding or running from someone. And she didn’t want to be found. We should leave things be. To complicate matters, Emily had an abusive ex-husband she was afraid of. I looked for him, but that was when the world was larger, before a central based criminal computer system like Regis or NCIC. Computers and emails. People got lost easily in those days. And they did.”

“But from what Martha told me Edna, her own sister, never heard from them again. Never in all those years. That’s not normal, is it?”

“If you knew those two back then you’d understand. Edna and Emily weren’t close. They were continuously feuding. Everyone knew that, including me, though I didn’t know them well. Edna hated her younger sister, for some reason or other. Maybe because their parents loved Emily and her children best. No one knew why for sure, only that it was so.”

The more Abigail learned about the four people who once lived in her house the more fascinated with them she became. They were becoming real to her.

“Well, I’m going home now, Miss Marple,” Frank concluded sarcastically, as he stood up to leave. The carefree smile returned. “It’s been nice meeting you, Abigail. Having coffee and talking. Welcome to our town. And as small as this burg is, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon.

“And don’t drive yourself crazy over this old mystery. They were just four people who used to live here; one’s dead and probably three of them are all a lot older living somewhere else right now. They didn’t just evaporate into thin air, they probably moved away. Started a new life somewhere else. Happens all the time. Not all suspicious circumstances point to a crime.”

“Okay, I hear you, Mr. Ex-cop. I won’t make this into something it isn’t.”

Frank left and Abigail, as tired as she was, still went to sit on the porch swing. It and the night had called to her one last time. A cat’s weak meows haunted the night air. Abigail
thought she heard children’s voices out in the woods somewhere and contemplated that thirty years past two children had sat on her porch and romped in the yard before her. The same two children who’d written those notes. She imagined they were dancing in the moonlight, their bodies skinny and coltish, and their laughter hauntingly sad as they pranced across the grass and faded into the night. If they weren’t dead…what had happened to those two children? Where did all the missing people go anyway?

In a strange mood, she pushed the swing. She couldn’t stop thinking about those kids. Above her the stars sparkled in a velvet sky and it felt sweet to be alive. Meeting Frank made her want to wear more make-up and buy new clothes. But her sad heart wouldn’t let her dwell on anything further with him than friendship for now. After all, she was a recent widow. Or, at least, that’s the way it felt to her. To her, Joel had died a month ago. Before that he’d only been missing.

Chapter 4

Outside the air smelled of coming rain. Didn’t mean it would rain soon, maybe it’d hold off long enough for Abigail to begin her drawing. Art supplies in a duffel bag, a sketch pad under her arm, she was dressed in shorts, her hair gathered up on top of her head. Ready to go. She’d sketch the house first and then do a watercolor, take her time and do it right. A perfectionist, she had an eye for details. Now if she could just remember how to draw.

The rugs had come the day before. Frank’s sister had given her a good deal. And now the house felt like a home. Tomorrow she was going to paint the front porch and hang the birdhouses she’d had packed away for years, waiting for her house. Hadn’t found any more messages from the kids, but she was still searching.

“Martha, your home is gorgeous.” And it was. A huge stately dwelling covered in ivy vines with a beautifully landscaped yard, statuary, shrubs and rock gardens that glittered in the sun and an elaborate marble water fountain in the back with unicorns sprouting water streams. “I’m impressed. If I didn’t need money, I’d draw it for free.”

“Thanks. I spent the last five years restoring and redecorating. The house and lands are worth a fortune. But I’ll never sell it. I’ve lived in it all my life. When I’m lonely or sad, all I have to do is sit in the garden and sip a cup of tea and I’m happy again. It restores my soul.” Martha gave Abigail the grand tour. The house was as lovely inside as out.

“And it has an interesting history. My great grandfather had it built for my great grandmother as a wedding present when they were first married. She brought a lot of the woodwork and sculptures with her from England as part of her dowry. They had quite a love story. Married for sixty years and had eight children, three died in infancy and the other five gave them twenty grandchildren. I have about a thousand cousins spread out over the globe. My great grandfather really loved my great grandmother. They were never apart, not even one night, their whole lives. My grandmother said that when her mother died, her father buried her in the garden so they’d always be close.”

“So sweet. I’m a sucker for a good love story.” Abigail was looking out the window at the garden.

Martha smiled playfully. “Great grandfather is rumored to be buried out there as well.”

They were at the front door, tour finished. “Oh, great, graves under the flowers. Don’t expect me to ever stay overnight here with a graveyard right outside the door.”

Martha laughed and offered, “Anything you need, bathroom or snack, help yourself. I have to get back to work but I’ll leave the door open. Just lock it up from the inside when you go.” Martha was exiting out the door. “You can find your way back to town?”

“Sure. I drew a map in my head coming here. I can get back. Go, let me get to work before I lose the daylight or the rain comes.” Abigail was already sketching the house when Martha drove away. And she sketched for hours, out of practice, it was slow going. She redrew the house over and over and almost gave up. She didn’t. If she couldn’t complete this first commission, she couldn’t make money freelancing. Then it’d be back to a tedious nine to five job. She didn’t want that.

When the picture didn’t make her grimace, she packed up and returned to town to work on it at home. The rain had held off, but angry clouds blanketed the sky and lightning streaked along their fringes. A storm was coming. The infamous fog rolled in, snuck up behind her car and closed off the world. She could barely see five feet ahead of her it was so thick. Coming out of it when she hit Main Street, she pulled up before the bank, parked the car and went in to get some cash.

Then she made a quick stop at Mason’s General Store for candy and milk. She could live without milk but not chocolate.

“So you’ve been sketching Martha’s house?” John Mason had been helpful to Abigail from the moment she stepped in the store. Every time she turned around, there he was. At Abigail’s quizzical glance, he explained, “Small town, remember? And Martha was in here earlier boasting about it and how great an artist you are.

“Abigail, I can call you Abigail, can’t I?” His eyes were on her as she put the milk and the chocolate bars on the counter. He’d nudged closer to her.

“Sure, that’s my name.” She scooted away from him.

“As you can see I let the area artists and crafts people sell their creations in my store. I like giving local talent a chance. So if you want to place any of your work here, Abigail, feel free to do so. I charge a fifteen-percent commission, the rest is yours. We’ll sell a lot to townspeople and visitors passing through during our Fourth of July celebration this weekend.”

Abigail studied the art on display, thinking her watercolors, old and new, could compete with what was on the walls. It was a good idea, another venue to sell her artwork from, and she was excited over it.

 “All right, I’ll bring in some stuff in the next week or so. Thank you.”

They spent a little conversation on what she’d been doing to her house, though their conversation was short because she told him she was tired and had to be getting home.

As she left the store, bag in her arms, she was hopeful for the future. Spookie was fast becoming her home in so many ways. Everything was falling into place. So in the spirit of belonging, when she spied Myrtle and her wagon bouncing up Main Street and the old woman stopped to glare at her, Abigail waved. Then Myrtle gestured her to come over.

Abigail put the bag in her car and walked across the street. The old woman had on the same print dress as the previous time Abigail had seen her, but somewhat dirtier and more wrinkled. Her hair, a silver crown wired out from her skull, looked as if a comb had never touched it. She barely came up to Abigail’s shoulder, as she clasped Abigail’s hand and shook it with a grip stronger than Abigail would have thought she had. Up close Myrtle seemed older than her years, her scrutiny of Abigail a fever in her eyes. But a smile spread across the old lady’s face and Abigail knew she was making a new friend.

“Why, I thought it was you, dearie. So good to see you again. Where have you been? You’ve been gone so long, haven’t you?”

Abigail was confused. Myrtle acted as if she knew her. “No, I’ve just moved here. Thought I’d introduce myself.”

“Ah, you don’t need to do that, I know who you are…Emily. You changed your hair color again, it’s brown now, and you’ve aged some, but you don’t look half bad for all the years that have passed. What’s your secret? My memory may be bad, but not that bad. Oh, Emily, you’re a sight for sore eyes. We all wondered where you went. Some of us looked so long for you.” She patted Abigail’s hand affectionately. “How’s little Jenny and Christopher doing?”

Myrtle mistakenly thought she was Emily Summers. How odd. “Oh, no, I’m not Emily. My name’s Abigail Sutton. I bought Emily’s old house, I live there now, but I’m not Emily.”

“Not Emily?” The old woman inhaled and her frail body shivered. Abigail felt uncomfortable. Bad enough to grow old but it must be awful to have your mind go as well.

Abigail smiled at her. “I stopped to say hi, just being neighborly, you know?”

Myrtle’s eyes refocused and her expression changed to one of embarrassment. “Oh, yes, now I see you’re right; you’re not Emily after all, are you? You’re–”

“Abigail Sutton?” she supplied again. “Recently moved into town?”

“Ah, yes, what was I thinking? You’re Abigail, yes. New resident to our fine village. People have been talking about you. Welcome. Emily and me were friends, you know? It’s just that you do look so like her. Anyone tell you that yet? But older, of course.”

That she resembled Emily came as a shock. Oh, boy. This was getting creepy.

“Speaking about Emily Summers,” Abigail forged on. “Perhaps one day you and I can talk about her. Living in her house, I’m curious to what she was like. And the twins.”

“As well you should be. Terrible thing happened. Nobody else hereabouts believes me, but I know what I know. Something evil befell them, that’s what I say. Cause I know things–”

The skies opened and the rain began to fall, not a light drizzle but a deluge. Myrtle obviously didn’t like rain for she shrieked and flailed her arms about as if she were melting, didn’t bother saying goodbye, and scurried away through the downpour, yanking her wagon behind her.

“My treasures don’t like getting wet,” she yelped back at Abigail.

The items in her wagon looked more like junk, but who could say. “Bye, it was nice meeting you!”

“Come by and visit me sometime!” Abigail yelled through the raindrops. “Anytime! You know where I live.”

Darn it,
Abigail thought,
and I’d wanted to hear what else she had to say about the Summers
.

Myrtle reminded Abigail, in temperament and looks, of her grandmother, Ethel, and the similarities brought out a fondness for Myrtle she wouldn’t otherwise have had.

Making a dash for the dryness of her car, Abigail drove home in a fierce summer storm where the sky was vivid shades of purplish blue, the trees wailed, shaking their leaves, angry clenched fists, to the sky. And with the low-lying fog in the woods she couldn’t see anything but a bit of the road and a sea of mist between the drops of rain. In time, no doubt, she’d get used to driving in it, but for now she was eager to get home and out of it.

Entering her front door, her home warm and dry around her, brought her the truest joy she’d felt in years. Not since being with Joel had she felt so safe and welcomed. And with any luck, she thought, the roof wouldn’t leak.

As the storm raged beyond her walls, Abigail ate a sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup and examined the drawing at the kitchen table of Martha’s house. Until she had time to furnish her hallway art studio the table was where she worked. Her morning’s creation wasn’t as feeble as she’d feared and she worked a little longer on the drawing from memory and photos. The coffeepot was perking cheerily and the 13” television on the counter was saying the electrical thunderstorm would get worse as the night wore on.

Needing another pencil, she went to the mahogany chifforobe up in her bedroom, which was one of the vintage pieces of furniture Edna had left behind. Massive with so many drawers and hidey-holes, a whole open top section once used for hanging clothes, it was perfect for her art tablets, canvases and supplies. Rummaging around in the top drawer, a pencil slipped from her fingers and fell behind the drawers towards the bottom. She had to get down on her knees and dig for it. Pulling out the bottom drawer, she stuck her hand into the abyss and came out with a sheaf of yellowed web-encrusted papers bound by a dirty rubber band. They were legal papers of some sort. She fished out the pencil and took the papers to the kitchen table.

Leafing through the document, she was puzzled. It was a 1969 house title…to her house…in
Emily
Summers name,
not
Edna
’s. So the house had belonged to Emily? According to some of the other papers in the bundle, the parents had willed the house to Emily when they’d passed away, apparently within a couple weeks of each other…sometime in 1969. Now that was strange. Martha had specifically said that Edna, being the oldest daughter, had owned the house.

On the back of the title there were some words written, so faint Abigail had to tilt them in the light to read them.
The house is mine, I told you so Emily, and it will always be mine. You got what you deserved and so did I.
Had
Edna written them? If so, she’d had the queerest handwriting, the E in Emily was pointy and the edges like antlers; her y’s had shelves on the bottom and her c’s were almost script, they were so fancy.

Her house was a house of secrets, Abigail pondered, putting the papers away in a safe place. She hadn’t stopped hunting for more messages from the kids and every time she moved something in the house, she looked. What kind of woman had Edna been? She must have loved this house as much as Abigail was beginning to. Abigail was becoming as obsessed with Edna as she was with Emily and the children. These people had lived here once, paced these floors and gazed out these windows, cried, laughed and dreamed in this same space. Now it was like all of them were ghosts living with her, trying to tell her something. But what?

It was later that night outside in the storm that Abigail again heard the phantom meows. She opened the door and her eyes searched the yard through the flashing lights and rain. Nothing was there. She checked the front porch. Nothing.
She returned to her sketching.