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  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. He 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 can 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. I 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 and I 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. I have a guest room. We’ll do some fishing and fry what we catch.”

  “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. There was a large amount of prescription drugs in the house and opened empty pill 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 which 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. I 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 Abigail and Frank didn’t learn anything more than what Oscar had already told them. The time they spent with Oscar was pleasant and Abigail got to hear stories about Frank’s past which helped her understand him better.

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

  “No, I 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 motorcycle. 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. Weatherman,” 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 storm 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. It’s lucky we found this place for shelter, though it looks like this is a fast moving storm. It will let up here soon and we’ll make a dash for it. We’re only fifteen, twenty minutes away from home.

  “I wonder if Norma really committed suicide?” Frank mused aloud as if he’d had it on his mind for a while. “What do you think?”

  “Lorna doesn’t think she did. Norma had been happy, her life good, except for her fears someone was watching her. She wasn’t suicidal. And she was only taking arthritis medicine. Lorna was positive about that.”

  “More loose ends. It seems like someone wanted the police to believe Norma tossed herself down those stairs.” Frank fell into silence as they watched the rain which was slackening off. “You know, rain’s let up and we’re still not that far from Norma’s house. We could take a short side trip back there and I could look over the accident scene. See what I can find.”

  “And I could ask the neighbor to let us take a peek? She has a key and permission, of a sort, to enter Norma’s house.”

  “That’ll work. We won’t be breaking any laws, then.” Frank dug his cell phone out of his jacket’s pocket and handed it to Abigail. “Give her a call and see if she’ll let us borrow the key. Tell her we’ll just sneak in quietly, look at what we need to look at, and be out in a wink. No harm done to anyone. We won’t touch a thing.”

  Abigail didn’t have to think about it. Frank would be able to ferret out clues she wouldn’t have seen, if there were any there to see. “Okay, I’m game. Let’s do it.” It took a minute on the phone with Lorna and they had their permission. They only had to wait for the rain to let up.

  There were cows nearby and Abigail heard them calling to each other. The scent of wet hay was heavy on the night air and she felt like she was in an episode of Murder, She Wrote without a script.

  They waited another ten or so minutes until the rain was a light drizzle and got on the motorcycle. Abigail directed him to the street, they parked in Lorna’s driveway and then got the key from her.

  “I was just heading to bed,” Lorna told them after Abigail introduced Frank and they’d said a few words to each other. She was standing in the doorway with her robe on. “So when you’re done, drop the key in my mailbox. I’ll get it tomorrow. Call me if anything comes up.”

  “We will,” Abigail promised and they said goodnight. Quietly, in the dark, Abigail and Frank made their way to the back of Norma’s house.

  “We’re in luck,” Frank whispered. “Someone’s left the lights on inside. Probably to make it look occupied.”

  “I still feel like a burglar, sneaking into an empty house in the middle of the night,” she whispered back as he gently shut the door.

  “It’s not the middle of the night and we have a key. Show me the stairs.”

  She led him to the basement door. The house appeared the same as when she’d been in it earlier that day. It was still a mess. If the police had already been there, there weren’t any signs of it.

  The basement light was on and Frank inspected the steps and the banister, saying nothing. “Before we leave, Abby, I’m going to take a quick look around the house.” He left her standing in the kitchen by the door and reappeared a few minutes later. “One of the bedroom windows has fresh scratches on the sill. Someone recently climbed in through it from the outside.”

  “Someone who might have helped her fall down those steps?” Abigail kept her voice low.

  “Maybe. From what I’ve seen I don’t think it was suicide at all. There are scratches on the underside of the banisters and scuffmarks a step or two down. Oscar told me they’d found splinters under Norma’s fingernails, attributed to accidental scraping as the body went down, but I think, doped up as she was, she fought her attacker and dug her fingernails into the wood trying to stop her fall.

  “I also noticed the list on the kitchen bulletin board
of things Norma wanted and needed to do this week topped by the words: My Maine Cruise…leaving Aug. 18! That’s next Thursday. Hand drawn balloons and hearts all around it. Her closet, I checked, was filled with new dresses and handbags. Some still had the sales tags on them. There’s brand new luggage on the floor. All bought for her trip. She was excited to be going.”

  Abigail got it. “Ah, so if she was excited about going on vacation, had bought new clothes and all, why would she kill herself? Though that doesn’t rule out it being an accident.”

  “No it doesn’t. Time to go.” Frank grabbed her hand. They left the house, dropped the key into the neighbor’s mailbox, and trudged back to the motorcycle, climbed on and headed for home. The rain had stopped but off in the distance there was a sky crowded with sheet lightning and booming thunder. “We’re in a lull between storms, but another front’s moving in so we should hurry.”

  As she clung behind Frank, her arms tight around him, she spoke over the CB. “Are you going to tell Oscar you don’t think Norma’s death was a suicide and possibly not even an accident?”

  “Now I will. I’ll call him tomorrow and tell him what I think. I didn’t want to drag him into it until I was sure. But he should know. He should talk to the neighbor.”

  At the cabin, Frank rolled the Gold Wing into the garage, as the second rainstorm roared in. They’d just made it. “Do you want to come in for coffee?” he asked as they were standing on the porch, protected from the rain.

  “No, thanks. Snowball is probably wondering where I am. I need to feed her. So I’ll scoot on home before this rainstorm gets any worse. I can see the fog moving in. It’s going to be thick tonight.”

  “I had so much fun today, Abby…how about one day next week we go on another ride? There’s this amazing scenic route I know. It winds around a lake and up through the hills.”

  Abigail met Frank’s hopeful eyes. “Okay. I’d like that. I’ll bring a picnic lunch.”

  As she drove away, backlighted with a distant halo of lightning, she could see Frank waving. She didn’t make it home before the full storm hit. The last stretch of rain and heavy wind shook her vehicle so fiercely she could hardly keep it on the road. When she pulled into her driveway and tucked the car up close beside the house she was relieved, but had to fight the wind to get inside.

  On her front porch she found a cardboard box and lugged it inside. The note on top said: More correspondence from the Summers’ story.

  So the box was from Samantha and it was full of letters. Oh boy.

  After a shower, and making hot chocolate, with the kitten asleep in her lap, she spent the rest of the evening reading the letters as the storm raged outside.

  Dear Abigail Sutton,

  I knew Jenny Summers and her brother, Chris. My mother worked at the bakery (it was called The Chocolate Donut back then) and I helped her that summer. I remember those kids. I was older but Jenny and Chris came in most mornings and bought day old donuts with pennies they’d found on the side of the road, in parking lots, or from empty soda bottles. Jenny bought glazed donuts and Chris, jelly. Sometimes I’d give them the donuts free. They never had much money and we felt sorry for them. Jenny asked me if I liked horses and I said I did. The next time she came in she gave me this picture she’d drawn of a horse as a present. It was really good. They were sweet kids. Often I’d see bruises on them. When I’d ask what had happened, they would say they’d fallen climbing trees or skating. I knew that wasn’t true.

  Another letter said:

  Dear Mrs. Sutton,

  Jenny and Chris Summers were friends of mine. I used to see them out at Cooper’s Pond on hot days and we’d swim together. Their mom was usually gone working. Their Aunt Edna was mean to them. I saw her hit Jenny once. Jenny didn’t cry. Nighttime, they’d sneak out of their upstairs window and climb down the elm tree to get away from her and a bunch of us kids would play hide and seek in the dark in the field next to the house. Jenny had horse statues on a shelf. All kinds, colors and sizes. She loved horses. Chris loved those colored plastic dinosaurs and they were all over his bed. He carried the smaller ones in his pockets. He also liked spiders. Real ones. Jenny was scared to death of spiders. They were close and were together a lot.

  And one read:

  Dear Abigail Sutton,

  I was a nurse at Chalmers Hospital and I recall those two Summers kids. I remember them because they were brought in with bruises, cuts and, once, a broken bone. Even though the woman, their aunt, I believe, maintained the injuries were caused by accidents of one kind or another, I never swallowed that. And those kids were sick all the time. Stomachaches, headaches; not being able to hold food down. They were malnourished. It wasn’t normal. Before they left, or disappeared, or died (as the graves now show) I wanted their mother to come in so I could talk to her about the children’s worsening conditions. I called twice in a week. The aunt said her sister couldn’t come in and gave me some ridiculous story as to why. She said Emily was out of town for a time. I never saw any of them again after that. I’ve thought about those kids a lot over the years. It was so sad. I was a young, inexperienced nurse back then and didn’t realize what was going on. I’ve seen enough now to know those kids were probably being mistreated. I’ve often felt guilty as if I should have done more, but didn’t. I regret it more than ever, knowing they died that summer.

  And there was a strange angry one, hand written in thick red letters:

  A. Sutton,

  You’d better keep your nose out of things which don’t concern you, lady! Leave what happened to the Summers in the past and stop dragging up what you have no business in. You don’t know what you’re doing. I’m warning you this time. Next time you won’t be so lucky. Pets can die. Houses can burn. Cars can have no brakes. Get the message? They’re dead. Let it go.

  When Abigail examined the envelope, there was no stamp, post date or return address. Just a plain white envelope with her name on the front. Someone had hand delivered it or dumped it in with the others.

  Great. Now she was getting threats. She called Frank.

  “So you made it home all right?” The storm as loud on his end of the phone as on hers.

  “Yep. I got wet getting in the door, but now I’m snug and dry. Just me and my cat lounging on the couch, sipping hot cocoa.”

  “You give your cat hot cocoa?”

  “Sure, she loves it,” her voice mocking and she chuckled. “I called because Samantha left me letters on the porch. Fan mail from the newspaper stories. I just got done reading one that wasn’t so nice.” She gave him a quick rundown on what the letter had said.

  “I was afraid of this. It was only a matter of time before the weirdos came out of the shadows, or perhaps one certain dangerous weirdo. Do you need company? Do you want one of my guns?”

  “No, no. Anyway, no one’s going to be out in this tempest.”

  “Well, don’t take chances. Get that wooden club of yours out and keep it with you. I’ll talk to the sheriff about having his men put an extra patrol past your place for a while. I’ll let him know about the hate letter. He’ll want to see it.”

  Abigail released a weary sigh. “Tell him to stop by tomorrow. I’m going to bed in about ten minutes. And, Frank, I can take care of myself.”

  “Of course, Abby, tomorrow. Goodnight. Call me if you need anything. Promise?”

  “I promise, Frank. Good night.” She hung up, put the letters away, took the wooden stick from the closet, and went to bed, Snowball at her heels. The house was shaking and the rain was a steady roar coming down. Every few seconds the house lit up from the lightning. It felt so good to be home, warm, dry and safe.

  She dreamed she was walking in the woods behind her house through the storm and her nightgown wasn’t getting wet. Her hair flew wildly about her head and her hands came up to push the strands away from her face so she could see. Limbs tumbled around and past her and the lightning illuminated her way. Her feet were taking her somewhere she didn’t know. She he
ard childish laughter and when she looked over her shoulder there were two children dancing around her in the rain, their flaxen hair a corona around their small heads, their eyes sapphires in the dark. Their feet were bare and their clothes translucent. They were beautiful fairy children. Jenny and Christopher.

  She followed them through the night woods to the tree house as the thunder rocked the ground. The children ran to her, their grasp soft as a cloud; their touch made her smile. They were like her own children she’d come to know them so well. Their eyes were melancholy and happy all at once.

  “Watch and remember,” they spoke together. Lightning spiraled down from the churning ebony sky, through the branches, and hit the ground around the tree house. The girl ran to the base of the tree, dug around in the muddy dirt, snatched up a glass jar and showed it to Abigail as the rain cascaded around her. She smiled a ghostly smile. In the jar there were pieces of paper. The girl’s form wavered in the misty air and evaporated. The glass jar fell and burst into a hundred pieces of glass and the scraps of paper rose into the wet night and fluttered off like rain birds.

  Christopher put something tiny and lumpy into her hand, smiled and vanished into his grave again. When she looked she saw one of his tiny green dinosaur toys lying in her palm. She closed her eyes for a moment, two.

  When Abigail opened them she was in her bed and it was morning. No storm, no rain. The sun was bright above. She got up, made coffee and drank a fast cup, then dressed, pulled boots on and headed into the wet woods. She had no trouble finding the tree house in the daylight. Lightning had struck and it was split down the center. She’d brought a shovel and begun to dig where her dream Jenny had dug. It took a while, but she found a buried jar with the missing diary pages in it. Hurrying home, she washed the jar off and opened it over the kitchen sink.

  Inside there were the missing pages from the diary covering the last two weeks and a tiny green toy dinosaur. She read the pages and reread certain parts of them:

  I caught mom on phone with a new boyfriend. They were fighting. She’s afraid of him.

  Aunt Edna and mom had awful fight about

  money mom said belonged to us that our Aunt stole. She’s gonna call the sheriff. Mom shouted at her and said we were leaving soon as we could. She was gonna sell this house. Aunt Edna would be broke. No place to live. Aunt Edna was so mad.

  Late last night I heard mom and someone, a man, I think, fighting outside. I went to the window, but saw nothing.

  This morning Aunt Edna said mom went out of town. Don’t know when she will be back. Mom out of town? Mom would never do that without telling me and Chris.

  Mom has been gone three days. Aunt Edna says she’s with our dad. That’s strange. They hate each other. Chris has been sick and is worse today. He’s throwing up and everything. Aunt Edna wont take him to the doctor or the hospital. Says she cant afford it. The phone has been turned off. She watches us all the time or I would get some help. Something is not right.

  Mom has been gone over a week. I ask Aunt Edna when mom is coming home but she wont tell me. I cant believe mom would leave us alone so long with her.

  Chris is really sick and cant eat now at all. He is so skinnie. His bones stick out. Last night he was crying because of the pain in his belly, so I snuck out of the house to get help from Mrs. Vogt. Aunt Edna caught me and locked me in the basement all night and wouldn’t let me out until I promised not to do it again. She said us being sick is nobodys business but ours. We are proud. We don’t need help from noone. We will get better soon. I cried and cried. Grandma sang to me and keep me company the whole night in the basement.

  I am sick to my stomach again today. So tired. I think I have what Chris has.

  Aunt Edna was talking to someone on the phone and she was real upset. I couldn’t understand most of what they were saying, sometimes I don’t hear too good.

  Mom still not home…sheriff comes over to see aunt a lot. But he won’t talk to us.

  Today Chris wont wake up. I am going to sneak out of house when Aunt Edna goes to get groceries and try to make it to Mrs. Vogt again. But I am sick, too… so if I do not make it I will put these pages in a jar and bury it on the way in this hole we have under our tree house for mom to find when she comes home. She knows our hiding places.

  And that was the last message. Obviously Jenny had not made it to Mrs. Vogt’s.

  Abigail phoned Frank and agreed to meet him at Stella’s in an hour and hand the pages over to him, someone who could protect them. Frank had a safe and lots of guns. Let that thief try to get into his house.