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  The little girls spent very little time in St. James Church and even less time devoted to Catholicism once their parents divorced. In those years good Catholics did not divorce and annulment was reserved for those with large checkbooks and connections in Vatican City.

  Grace steered the Toyota away from the curb and drove slowly down the hill past the old Phillips house, now derelict. The current owner’s ’71 Buick LeSabre graced the front yard, parked in the middle of Gerta Phillips’s once lush-green elephant ears. The garage leaned like a tired old man, worn whitewash paint peeling, ramshackle and adrift in a sea of mint that had grown wild there since she was a child. She remembered sneaking down to strip the mint from the stem and chew it like gum. “Just like Wrigley’s!” Aunt Lila declared as they hid, giggling, behind the garage. Aunt Lila had only been fourteen when Grace was born and was more child-like at times than the four little girls who idolized her.

  Looping back around the block, Grace drove up the bluff overlooking the River. These houses spoke of an era of affluence. With the exception of one lone three-story neglected to the point of crumbling, the homes were things of architectural wonder. Victorian spires anchored the large screened porches and round-arched temple-like entrances. The street was lined with pediment-topped porticoes, elaborate roofs with gables and dormers, now painted whimsical pastels of green and pink to copy San Francisco’s Painted Ladies.

  Grace and her sisters had not visited here often. The established Franklin Hill families that had lived on Harper Street for generations did not socialize with ragamuffin children from the wrong side of the tracks. But she had loved those houses then and dreamed of sitting on those porches looking down at the slow moving river. Dreamed for a while of being one of those that “had” and living on the right side of the tracks.

  Chapter Four

  Grace circled back through the neighborhood and then down Main, to the small IGA grocery. Walking through the candy aisle she picked over sour worms and fizzy pastel pellets, looking for chocolate. The store was empty this time of day, echoing a little under the low Muzak. Moving past the butcher’s case, she heard quiet sobbing behind the swinging doors.

  “Do your parents know what you’ve been up to? You know, I can call the police and have you arrested right now.” Grace paused, appearing to consider the sirloin and pork steaks, listening unashamedly to the drama playing out behind the glass.

  “I’ve seen you coming in here with that Willard girl and I have to tell you, you’d better think about this. You don’t want to end up spending the night in jail, do you?” The manager’s voice was harsh. More sniffing and a hiccup.

  “I’m going to call your mother and tell her that I caught you red-handed. I’m going to tell her about the girl that got away. I’m going to tell her what kind of criminal you are. And young lady, you’d just better hope I don’t tell anyone else or there’ll be trouble at home and at school. Everybody around here finds out when someone is a thief.” Muffled whispering and a sound like a whimper.

  “Now you skedaddle on home. And if I see you in here again without money in your hand, I will call the police. And your mama won’t get the chance to tan your backside before they take you away.”

  A dark haired waif, no more than eight years old, hurtled through the doors and crashed into Grace. Her breath whooshed out as Grace tried to catch the child before she fell. Brilliant blue eyes looked up at her, tears overflowing down a dirt-streaked face. The girl pulled away and ran for the front door.

  The manager walked out shaking his head, hands on hips. “I knew they were up to no good, coming in here and never buying a thing. White trash from the other side of town is what that is.”

  “What did she take?” Grace’s heart pounded, remembering her own experience coming from across those tracks.

  “Deli sandwich, some chips, but still—they’ll rob you blind if you don’t watch them.”

  Grace grabbed her groceries and walked toward the check-out, pondering the little girl.

  As she headed back toward Main, the car glided toward what passed for a park: a lone swing set and one slide, surrounded by weedy grass and intersected by beaten-down dirt paths wandering randomly until they lost interest and petered out at no particular destination. A dark head and small shoulders sat slumped in a swing, with her back to the street. Grace pulled the car over.

  “Pretty bad, huh?” Grace sat down in the swing, gliding quietly beside the child, answered only by a sniff.

  “Worried about what will happen when you get home?” A violent nodding of the dark head. The girl’s clothing was ill fitting. Blue jeans that were too short exposed dirty feet stuck in tattered tennis shoes, and a faded yellow sweatshirt with a yellow Pokemon laughing on the front. Grace doubted the child’s hair or face had been washed in the last week.

  “Well, you know what? I did the same thing in that very store when I was . . . hmmmm,” she paused, remembering, “ . . . older than you.” The sobs were checked and a startled face turned toward Grace.

  “You did?” It was a squeak. An adult who admitted to a criminal past. It was an absolute revelation.

  “Yes. I did. And then, I lied about it.” Grace gently kicked the swing back again and gazed across the grass of the park. “It was bad. A lot worse than bad. I have three sisters. I thought they’d never let me forget it. Granny made me pick the switch for my own whippin’.” Grace hadn’t used that vernacular in years. “Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she made me go back to the store and apologize. I never, ever wanted to go back in the IGA again.” She had the girl’s full attention now, blue eyes riveted and nose running, but the girl was listening.

  “You know what? I think if I’d told my Granny first, it would have taken some of the sting out. Sort of, well, nipped it in the bud. Before it got too bad, you know? If you do something wrong,” She took a chance on lecturing, “better to admit it, and go on.” The small dark head tilted down, studying the scuffed shoes. “The friend who ditched you in the store won’t take your punishment for you. And another thing,” She stopped swinging and looked at the small girl, “promise to never do it again. Then, even better, keep that promise to yourself. I’m guessing you know right from wrong.”

  Grace reached into her pocket for a candy she had grabbed from Darla Jinks’ ever-stocked bowl. Wordlessly, she offered it, palm up. After a moment, the child took it and looked away toward the far railroad tracks, blinking back the last of her tears.

  Grace stood, pulled a tissue from her pocket, and gently wiped the dirty, tear-smudge face and smoothed the dark hair. The child turned toward the railroad tracks and, throwing a look over her shoulder, without another word she broke into a run, down the hill into the dusk.

  Chapter Five

  The first meeting of FHRP (Franklin Hill Responsible Parents) began after Homer Emerson’s introduction of Grace Phillips to the group of chattering and generally cordial adults. Grace saw more than a few faces she might have recognized from her own middle school years. The children were still educated in the same school she had attended, a bland beige brick building with faded gold lettering above the doorway and the cornerstone commemorating 1967 laid near the newly poured wheelchair ramp. The middle school annex was attached by a covered breezeway to the elementary school on one side and the high school on the other. It was a large complex for a town the size of Franklin Hill, but the elementary school remained unchanged from years past.

  As Grace entered the building, the smell of chalk, old oak and freshly waxed floors assailed her. She was a child again, following Ellie down this same corridor, Katy alongside, holding Babe’s hand, all of them ready for the wonder of a new school in their new life with Granny Stillwell.

  Lemuel Prosser and his wife Rita were handing out fundraising packets with business cards advertising their real estate agency carefully included. A little free marketing for the cost of printing the packets and the time spent making sure every harried grade-school mother received one. Lem bumped into Grace an
d apologized, welcoming her effusively, his short round wife adding “Oh, Grace, Homer really needs you! We really need you!” flashing Grace a brilliant smile. She was immediately interrupted by another Franklin Hill Responsible Parent, who rudely brushed the woman aside to speak to Grace.

  “We trust you aren’t involved in any illicit computer activity. We would prefer not to put the children through another scandal, as occurred with Miss Pyle, our former assistant, and her amour.” Nola Brayton’s look was hard metal as she pretended to smile, shook Grace’s hand, and began the true purpose of the meeting: her pointed remarks. “We have higher standards to maintain here in Franklin Hill, for the children’s sake. Upbringing and daily exposure to the right class of people, particularly administrators, is paramount.” She gave Grace a slight once-over, pausing for effect. “Family background, I find, is so very important.”

  Nola had been, since her own days at Franklin Hill R-I, someone who “stirred the pot.” She was a woman so thin you could see the bones move under her skin when she spoke. The exaggerated tan of a tanning booth had aged her artificially to a suede-brown color, contrasted by the careful streaks of peroxide in her unnaturally blonde hair.

  Grace had a hard time justifying that gentle phrase “stir the pot” instead of stating fact. Nola was a trouble maker, plain and clear. There would always be a few, and Nola apparently had assumed the post in Franklin Hill. Nadine Pyle, Homer’s former secretary, and newly-minted Las Vegas bride, had been one of Nola’s best friends in high school. Apparently that friendship was over.

  Grace plastered a smile on her face and knew that it did not reach her eyes. “Franklin Hill is a wonderful school district. The children seem to be getting along quite well academically, for the most part.” She didn’t add the thought that statistically, the students from the affluent side of town fared much better than those from poorer homes. While this wasn’t unusual in any district, urban or rural, offers of tutoring had failed to engage the not-so-well-to-do children. She and Homer Emerson had agreed to discuss outreach to the needier students once Grace got settled in her position. Better to keep that information under her hat until the school board meeting.

  “Well, the parents will certainly be watching over the office more closely now.” Nola attempted to lighten her comment, possibly thinking better of her tone, “You’ll have plenty of help every single day in the office, to counsel the children and weed out troublemakers.”

  “I see. Something to look forward to,” Grace responded coolly as she turned away, resisting the urge to hum along with the song in her head, Jeannie C. Riley singing Tom T. Hall’s ode to the joys and hypocrisy of public education amongst the small minded.

  Chapter Six

  Halloween was a chilly, perfect fall night. The threat of rain had brought a damp, musty smell to the drifted leaves on Harper Street as the children scuffed through them. Small feet lumbered up the hill, laughter and giggles filling the air. Although the sun had not yet set, the traditional porch lights were lit all along the row of old Victorian homes. Front porches held seasonal displays of hay bales, corn shocks and jack-o’-lanterns, some with traditional candles sputtering in the wind, others lined the grand circular drives with battery-powered pumpkins, carved with arching cats and floating ghosts.

  A friendly competition among some of the younger homeowners had broken into all-out yard-decorating warfare, the likes of which would not be seen again on Harper Street. Until Christmas time. Ghosts made of plastic floated in the trees, newly-created polyester cobwebs stretched between Styrofoam headstones. In an apparent sibling afterlife squabble,

  HERE LIES THE BODY

  OF JAMIE NICHOLS’ MATH TEACHER

  stood alongside

  AMY NICHOLS’ LAST PROM DATE

  MAY HE REST IN PEACE

  Homemade coffins creaked open on the leaf-strewn lawns and teenagers answered the door rings and knocks dressed as hunchbacks, vampires, and an astonishing variety of roadkill.

  On Bernadine Turner’s side street, lined with snug, brick two-bedroom bungalows, an emerald-green sign greeted trick-or-treaters at the front door:

  NOBODY GETS IN TO SEE THE WIZARD.

  NOT NOBODY, NOT NO HOW.

  Bernadine’s traditional decorations of carved pumpkins and comically stuffed scarecrow would not alarm the tiny princesses and goblins who began their rounds at 6:00 accompanied by parents, who gently urged those with stage fright along the narrow walkway.

  Granny Stillwell’s trick-or-treaters were dutifully tallied in her spiral notepad. Grace had stocked the witch’s kettle by the front door with Hershey bars and treat bags. To the horror of many parents, the shiny orange favor bags included the infamous giant sticky wax lips that would be found later in pieces, adhered to small hands and faces and ground into carpeting. Granny’s house rapidly became a favorite as word passed among the children, “Old Miz Stillwell has sticky wax lips!”

  Emma Stillwell’s grandchildren descended upon her little stone house. Most of them too mature for trick-or-treating, they gathered instead to “help” hand out candy, calling out the count to Granny and laughing at the costumes. A bowl of popcorn balls was passed around and the large pot of chili Grace had made the night before simmered on the stove, ready for the hungry teenagers. Granny Stillwell’s strings of orange lights lined the hand rail and framed the doorway, twinkling in invitation to the revelers.

  Back on Harper Street, more children moved along the sidewalks and the porch lantern came on dimly at the old Turner house. Even given its decrepit state, a few brave children watched from the sidewalk, in ongoing debate about whether to approach the looming, dark Victorian.

  “Mama said never to go up there.” A primly dressed cheerleader, no more than nine, shivered in her short skirt and wished she had worn the beige tights her mother had been insisting upon.

  “Oh, c’mon, Chloe!” The small, grey-faced grim reaper at her side moved toward the house impatiently, scythe held in front of him like a shield. But his courage began to fail him as he climbed the wide steps to the porch. Chloe’s tiny brother approached the door warily, barely tall enough to reach the brass knocker. He lifted it silently, then swiftly clapped it down and prepared to flee. He had heard numerous tales about the disagreeable old recluse with the silver-tipped cane chasing children away from the door on past Halloweens.

  Napoleon Harker had waited until he was certain his employer dozed before he slipped down to the main floor of the old house and into the butler’s pantry that had stood, virtually unused, for over forty years. Harker blew dust from a large, antique crystal bowl which had once graced the long formal table in the high-ceilinged dining room, now covered with dust sheets. The old valet painstakingly washed and then polished the heavy, now-sparkling relic. He then placed it on the old, scarred walnut countertop and filled the bowl with bag after bag of dime-store candy. Bearing the offering before him, he proceeded quietly through the dark hall and into the foyer. Reaching out, he raised the lever of the wall switch, and the large lantern on the front porch came to life as it swung in the wind.

  Harker sat down in the high-backed, heavily-carved hall chair, the bowl sitting beside him, watching the flashlights bob down the street and listening to the children’s laughter and chatter. Slipping off his suit jacket, he sat in his vest and dark silk tie and waited. When the light footsteps approached and the knocker finally sounded, he breathed a sigh of relief. Napoleon Harker rose carefully, straightened his shoulders, adjusted his tie, then lifted the bowl and moved down the hallway to the door. If one child would brave the walk to the Turner place, word would spread and more would come. It would be good to hear the laughter of children in the house again.

  Chapter Seven

  Homer Emerson, superintendent of schools and principal of Franklin Hill R-I Elementary, met with Grace one early morning in the small office she would soon occupy. Homer spent some time reviewing the five or six small mountains of paperwork before him and then gave a weary sigh. Studying Grac
e, Homer suggested she take some files home to review before her regular work days began. The superintendent was gracious and welcoming, but his eyes were fatigued and his complexion pasty, which Grace found disturbing. Clearly, the man was overworked. In his own tired way, he seemed relieved and excited that Grace was there to shoulder some of his burden. With a good computer and some patience, Grace knew she could bring Homer back up to speed. Her official titles would be Assistant Administrator and School Counselor, but in fact, her role was to bring order to chaos. Homer Emerson had bigger fish to fry.

  Grace read the disciplinary reports at home in the growing chill of dusk, curled in front of a fire built by Norm. He had materialized at her back door, laden with wood and to “have a quick look up the chimbly” as he called it, “just in case of a bird or two nestin’ in there.” Once he had given the all-clear on the flue, he cleaned the hearth was while Grace re-heated Ellie’s beef stew. A mouthwatering concoction with chunks of rib eye, potatoes, broad-sliced mushrooms, carrots, Chinese pea pods and a touch of cayenne pepper, it was perfect for a fall evening. Ellie could take basic cooking and create a gourmet meal, good enough to put the Cooking Channel to shame.

  When Grace returned to the living room to offer Norm a casserole to take home to Ed and the wives, her neighbor had already disappeared. There was wood stacked in the brick niche alongside a roaring fire, the nip of frost now gone from the small living room. These neighbors were a gift, of that Grace was certain.

  Dinner over, Grace curled up in front of the fire and reached for a stack of folders. She reviewed Nadine’s files speculatively, unsurprised by the standard schoolyard pranks. Vandalism at the school ran the gamut from parking a privy “borrowed” from the local hunt club on the opposing team’s end zone (a time-honored Franklin Hill High School senior class homecoming tradition) to removing the pins from the door hinges in the boys’ bathroom. The culprits had been caught in both cases and brief in-school suspensions followed. Marijuana had been found in lockers, but so far the popular drugs methamphetamine and ecstasy had yet to be reported at the middle or high school level. Grace was sure they were there, in the outlying area around Franklin Hill. Missouri claimed the number three spot in the U.S. for meth labs and Grave’s Knot, a local community that had not even warranted a post office, was the most likely source.