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She took the cat into the house. “First thing for you if you’re going to stay with me is a bath. You stink and if you’re going to live here, you have to be clean. Only clean kittens allowed in my house.” The cat didn’t protest and seemed to enjoy playing in the water.

Abigail had to go into town for cat stuff. The tuna had run out. And if the kitten was going to stay, she had to have a litter box and, of course, cat toys. When in town buying cat necessities at the General Store, John Mason inquired on how her artwork was progressing. She told him about her second commission and promised to bring in some pieces to display in his store before Saturday. That seemed to make him happy.

On her way home, she came up with a name for the kitten. Snowball. Well, so much for getting rid of that cat.

Chapter 6

“I see you collect birdhouses.” Frank was on the porch examining one with a miniature fake-feathered tenant in the opening. “Nice. Wait until you see the craft booths today at the picnic. Some will have really unique birdhouses. Me, I collect ancient weapons and guns.”

“An ex-cop who collects guns and such. Imagine that?” Abigail closed the door, not bothering to lock it. No need to in Spookie, because according to Frank there wasn’t any crime.

“Everyone meets at Stella’s for breakfast first. It’s a tradition,” Frank said as they walked to town. It was a perfect summer day, hot with clear skies and enough of a breeze that the heat wouldn’t kill. The sound of fireworks exploded in the skies above them and a pungent smoke scent hung in the air. The celebration had begun early.

“Can’t buck tradition, can we?” Abigail felt like a young girl again in her pink short-sleeved blouse and her white shorts, her hair tied back with a red, white and blue ribbon; she knew she looked pretty. The physical activity of moving and refurbishing the house had shed her a couple pounds, she was happier than she’d been in a long time and it made a difference.

She’d shown Frank the Mason jar the minute he’d arrived at her house that morning.

“Have you told anyone else about these messages?” he’d asked.

“Just Martha and you. She called this morning and it slipped out.”

“Martha? Then the whole town knows. That woman can’t keep her mouth shut even on pain of death. I know. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It was all so long ago, if there’d been a crime involved, the culprit is probably dead or long gone. But then again…maybe not. Be careful.”

“You think like a cop.”

He tilted his head to the side and breathed in the summer air. “Do you see that baby rabbit there in that bush?” He pointed. “It thinks we can’t see it. It thinks it’s safe. Like you. That’ll be its downfall. Better if it lays low and stays quiet. Safer that way.”

“You trying to tell me something? That I’m putting myself in danger by publicizing my interest in these peoples’ disappearance, and I should keep my mouth shut?”

“Something like that.”

She ignored his warning. “Smells like summer…wild strawberries and clover. When I was a child, my brother and I used to run around barefoot in the dirt on a road like this. The sun so hot, the air so thick with these same smells. Looking for something to eat. Wild strawberries or grapes. We were always hungry. My dad was a salesman and not a real good one. We didn’t have much money or food most times. We did without. But I had brothers and sisters, parents, and a home I loved; woods to play in, trees to climb, and dusty paths to follow. I have many fond memories of my childhood and this place reminds me of where I grew up.”

“You had a hard time of it, didn’t you? Like the Summers kids?”

Never wanting any pity, she downplayed things. “A lot of kids did. I’m not complaining.” She met his gaze. “But I was loved, protected, that’s all the difference. No one neglected, browbeat or demoralized me. My father would have punched out anyone who hurt any of us kids in any way. In that respect we were better off than most.”

“Then you were one of the lucky ones,” Frank remarked, looking handsome in jeans and a green shirt, his hair freshly washed and his eyes movie star blue. The man had this confident way about him, made her feel safe and comfortable at the same time. From observing him she’d learned he could read people; had an eye for anything out of the ordinary. He must have been a heck of a detective.

Childishly giddy with the anticipation of a picnic and fireworks, Abigail couldn’t wait to get to town. It’d be nice to be among other artists and to spend the day looking at what they’d created. And she’d meet more of the townsfolk. Perhaps some of the older residents would recall Emily and her children. Which reminded her.

“Frank, do you remember what the Summers kids looked like? The artist in me wants faces with the names.”

“You really want to torture yourself, don’t you? Tow-headed with hazel eyes. Shy smiles. You could tell they were twins, alike in appearance, a little too thin to be healthy, with Jenny having more delicate features and longer blond hair. They were constantly hungry, their hand me down clothes shabby. Jenny had this scar in the middle of her forehead from walking into a brick wall, she said, when she was five. Artistic. Dreamers. Too smart. Different from the other kids. Didn’t have many other friends, so they usually played together. But I thought they were good kids. I used to bring them hamburgers from the town diner. I remember one time Christopher got beat up and I gave him advice on how to defend himself.

“They had a swing set in the back yard they played on, singing songs in the dark as they’d swing. Let’s see, what else? They loved to play in the woods. Come to think of it…they had a tree house out there somewhere, don’t know where precisely. They spoke of it, but I never saw it. Oh, yes, Jenny had a white cat. Can’t remember its name.”

“I have a white kitten now.”

He sent her a humorous look. “So the storm kitty returned, huh? Couldn’t get rid of it?”

“No, the funny little thing. She hides and then pounces out at me like a great tiger. She doesn’t know she’s as tiny as a gnat.” They both chuckled.

They were at Stella’s by then and as usual the diner was packed. “Does this place ever empty out?” she wanted to know as they squeezed in and claimed a booth.

“Sure, but I told you breakfast here on a holiday was a tradition. Everyone shows up.”

As they ate bacon and eggs Frank introduced her to more of her neighbors. Children ran in and out, setting off firecrackers and cherry bombs in the street. Abigail had never seen a place go so crazy over a holiday. The town was decorated with flags; red, white and blue streamers and balloons were everywhere. Everyone was celebrating. Everyone seemed happy.

Martha came in with a young woman and headed for them. The woman looked about twenty-something, wore thick glasses and carried a notepad. Abigail smelled reporter.

“Abigail,” Martha spoke first. “This is Samantha Westerly, Senior Editor of our town newspaper,
The Weekly Journal
.”

Samantha zeroed in on Abigail, “So you’re our new townie? Moved here from the big city, I hear. Martha tells me you’re an artist and doing a watercolor of her house. How about letting me do a story on you? Our readers would enjoy knowing more about their new neighbor and that you do house portraits. The personal touch, you know.”

 Abigail had had enough of newspapers, having worked at one for years, but it would be free publicity and it could get her commissions. “Let me think about it?” And Samantha nodded.

Then Abigail had a thought. If she got Samantha interested in a story about the Summers disappearance as an unsolved old mystery piece like: What happened to the Summers? She might get some answers. Heck, it could even tie in as a personal look back at the times and people of Spookie thirty years ago. Bring the whole town into it. It was worth a pitch, but Abigail didn’t feel comfortable talking about it in the middle of a crowd. She’d visit the newspaper one day next week and talk to Samantha then. With that in mind, she was friendlier to the editor than she would normally have been, which was easy because Samantha turned out to be an interesting, amiable woman and Abigail liked her.

The picnic was fun. Main Street was crowded with craft booths covered from the sun and decked out in American flags. She went from booth to booth chatting with the artists. There were potters, painters, watercolorists, glassblowers and a woman who made tiny button people. Food booths served fried chicken to Baklava and everyone was friendly.

The birdhouses in a few of the booths were exquisite but inexpensive. Abigail bought one with elaborate trim and a shiny tin roof for her collection.

Frank remained nearby most of the day, though he left for a while in the late afternoon to take care of his dogs. He wasn’t gone long.

Frank hadn’t returned yet when Martha asked, “How’s my house portrait coming along?”

“Nearly done. It’s ready for you to see. Come by tomorrow, if you want.”

“I’m dying to. I have three other people, if they like what you do for me, in line to have their houses painted as well. I should demand commissions.”

“You should.” Abigail was encouraged at the prospect of more work. Between the freelancing, owning her house, having no debt and her savings, she would make it fine for about another year. Then if her artwork hadn’t caught on she’d have to find at least a part time job somewhere. But she’d been stashing money away like crazy the two years before she moved to Spookie and if she lived simply she could make it last for a long time.

When Frank reappeared they rode the Ferris Wheel and a roller coaster. Martha got Abigail to throw darts at balloons and hoops at bottles and she won a stuffed bear with an American flag for a shirt. She enjoyed the day, the picnic, the people, and ate barbeque on a blanket in the park with the lake behind her. The blanket had been stashed at Stella’s the day before by Frank along with a cooler of soda and beer.

People strolled by and stopped to visit.

Myrtle came by with her wagon, crooning another Perry Como song, “
Dream along with me, I’m on the way to a star
–”

The old lady stopped in front of Abigail. “Been thinking about our conversation from the other day. About Emily Summers.” And totally seized Abigail’s attention.

“Sit down Myrtle, have barbeque with us,” she smoothed the blanket beside her. The elderly woman was sweaty and tired, dabbing away at her face with a wash cloth. “We have soda.” Abigail held up a can of Pepsi from Frank’s cooler.

“Okay.” Myrtle crumpled down beside them and devoured chicken and potato salad washed down with the Pepsi as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Her dress, still a garish print, was different but as worn and tattered as the last one. She had a flag barrette in her thinning hair. “So you’re trying to find out, my sister says, what happened to Emily and her kids?”

“Yes, I am.” Abigail shielded her eyes from the sun and noticed John Mason had ambled over to see Frank. Mason was smiling but kept staring at her. She gave him a smile and a half-hearted wave. It made her nervous he had such an interest in her, but no one else seemed to notice because the man was charming with everyone. But she could tell the difference.

Frank offered Mason a beer. “No thanks. I don’t drink the hard stuff. But I’ll take a soda.”

Meanwhile, Martha was watching Myrtle, her condescending smirk barely noticeable.

Myrtle’s grin was crimson with barbeque. One moment she was alert and the next confused. She wiped sticky hands on her dress and Abigail handed her a napkin. She’d stopped talking and then suddenly said, “Ah yes, Emily. At my age, the memory comes and goes. Emily
had a spiteful ex-husband and a couple of jealous wives tormenting her. Wouldn’t talk much about it,” she mumbled. “She was too nice a lady to have all those problems. I do recall she was really scared of someone so much that last summer she was going to leave town in the middle of the night with those kids. She told me. Said she’d say goodbye first. She promised she would. That’s why I know she didn’t just leave. Emily never lied. Something bad happened to them.”

“Because they never said goodbye to you, you think something bad happened to them?” Abigail was suprised at the old lady’s reasoning.

 “Possibly. No one ever heard from them again. But hey, on the other hand, they could be lost in the ghost dimension somewhere. Because Emily wouldn’t have just run off the way everyone says she did. And…she had the death shadow in her eyes, seen it clear, I did, many times that summer. She was marked for death. Already a walking talking ghost. Poor kids too. I tried to tell Sheriff Cal, but that old Billy goat never listened.”

Myrtle snorted. “Sheriff Cal had a thing for Emily himself. Maybe she rejected him and he got rid of her. Who knows? The Sheriff sure acted funny when I wanted him to look for the three of them…couldn’t get him to search the woods around their house or nothing. He said they’d run off, plain and simple, and why look? He was paid off, if you ask me.”