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  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.”

  “Hmm, 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 much, if any, crime in their little town.

  “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 be bad. The sound of fireworks exploded in the sky above them and a pungent smoke scent hung in the air. The celebration had begun early.

  “We 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 hoped she looked pretty. The physical activity of moving and refurbishing the house had helped her shed a couple of pounds; and she was happier than she’d been in a long time which also made a difference. For the first time in a long time, she felt pretty.

  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. So 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 out here…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. We were looking for something to eat like 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 a brother 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 and he made her feel safe and comfortable at the same time. From observing him she’d learned he could read people and he 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? Oh, all right. They were 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 but I 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 and 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 a share of the profit.”

  “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 barbequed chicken 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. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation from the other day…about Emily Summers?” And the old woman 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. She 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 alcohol, but I’ll take a soda.”

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

  Myrtle’s grin was crimson with barbequed chicken. One moment she was alert and the next she was 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. She 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 surprised 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, I 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.”

  It didn’t make any sense. But Abigail had to admit the old woman wasn’t completely in her right mind, so how could she believe anything the woman said. “Paid off by whom?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something else. My memory’s kind of fuzzy but Jenny might have had a diary. I think her mother mentioned it one day. I bet it’s somewhere in that house, if Edna didn’t find and burn it.” The old lady cocked her head and winked. “That Jenny was always doodling words on paper or drawing pictures.”

  Around them twilight was creeping in and a short while later the booths began to close as the townspeople got ready for the fireworks.

  Myrtle got up and grabbed the handle of her wagon. “I got to go now. The ghosts come out after dark and I need to be home. I can’t let them get me. Then I’ll disappear as well…into the ghost dimension. Thanks for the supper, dearie. I do so love barbeque.” She hurried off singing Perry Como’s “Goodbye Sue” at the top of her lungs, the wagon’s wheels bumping along the street in rhythm to the song.

  A teenage boy with a Walkman on his hip and earphones on his head threw a lit firecracker at Myrtle’s wagon and when it exploded Myrtle jumped, grabbed something from her wagon, and threw it at the kid, narrowly missing him. Then, muttering to herself, she and her wagon trundled off.

  Frank and Martha laughed, shaking their heads.

  “Both her and her sister are as goofy as they come,” Frank said. “But Myrtle is around eighty years old and Evelyn not far behind. I hope I’m as spry as them when I’m that old.”

  “I hope I’m alive when I’m that old,” Martha joked.

  “Where is Evelyn today anyway?”

  “She never leaves that house of hers.” Frank shrugged. “She won’t leave her animals.”

  “What a pair, one sister won’t stay in one spot and the other won’t leave one spot,” Martha quipped. “Anyone for ice cream?” She was up and heading for the ice cream booth with everyone’s order a minute later.

  They’d lost John Mason to another huddle of people and Stella’s grandson stopped by to say hi. “The fireworks are supposed to the biggest and best we’ve ever had,” he told them. “We closed early at Stella’s because we can’t compete with the picnic food. And I’m glad. Now I can enjoy the festivities with everyone else.” Then a pretty girl came along and trotted him away as a county band began playing on the other side of the park. Abigail stood up and saw him and the girl in a line dance with a group of others.

  Frank rose and held out his hand. “Abigail, you want to dance?”

  She said no twice, but on the third time gave in. The dancers seemed to be having fun and most of them were learning as they went. “Okay. But I’m rusty and I’ll probably stomp all over your feet.”

  “Just don’t stomp too hard.”

  And she danced with Frank. The faces around her were becoming familiar; the town was becoming familiar. She tried to keep up with the steps. People smiled or nodded, she smiled back, and she had the feeling everyone knew everything about her.

  When it grew dark and cool, Abigail sat on the blanket with her friends and watched fireworks, thinking how different her life had been a year ago when she’d spent the day alone in her apartment listening to faraway celebrations, sipping wine until she fell asleep.

  After the last rocket faded into the smoky night sky Frank walked her home.

  “Your front door’s wide open,” he whispered as they came up on the porch. “Stay here. I’ll go in first.” And he stalked into the house.

  “It’s an old door. I probably didn’t slam it shut all the way when I left and it popped open. That’s all,” she called out. “Frank?” Frank didn’t answer and Abigail experienced u
nease. The murkiness around her was silent and eerie. She’d thought she’d left a light on in the house. But inside there was nothing but blackness.

  Lights came on inside her home.

  She was ready to barge in when Frank reemerged. “Unless you’re a very sloppy housekeeper, and I know you’re not, it’s been ransacked. I called the sheriff. He’s on his way.”

  “Oh, no,” she moaned and went into the house. Inside it was a disaster.

  “Where’s Snowball?” she cried but then the kitten loped into the room and scrambled up her leg. “Thank goodness you’re okay. If only you could talk. You could tell me who did this.” She put the cat down and it jumped onto a chair and promptly fell asleep.

  Abigail went from one room to another, straightening up. It wasn’t as bad as she’d first thought. There’d been no real vandalism, mainly objects moved around and thrown on the floor. Cabinet doors and drawers had been opened and clothes were in piles on the floor in her bedroom. “Nothing seems to be missing. Nothing big, that is. The televisions and the microwave are still here. I wonder what they wanted?”

  “Someone was looking for something, I’d say, or it was a powerful poltergeist.”

  Abigail didn’t laugh. “Yeah, looks like that. But why? I don’t have much money or diamond rings lying around.”

  “Do an inventory tomorrow and maybe you’ll find something missing.” Frank’s tone was sympathetic. He looked as if he would put his arm around her any moment.

  Abigail moved away from his sympathy and sat on the couch. “It could have been worse, but I feel awful. I thought I was so safe here.”

  “I think basically you are. Someone was scavenging for something specific. Whether they found it or not is another matter. My guess is, whoever did this won’t be coming back tonight.” His optimistic expression was meant to comfort her, but it didn’t. “If you want, if you’re scared, I could stay or I could leave you a gun for protection?”

  She was tempted, but shook her head. “No. You’re probably right. I’m safe now. Besides, I don’t like guns. Thanks for the offer though.” She went to the closet and pulled out a two by four piece of wood she’d had for years. “I have this.” She waved the wood at him.

  “My husband used to say that a good whack on the head with this would stop anybody. I dare anyone to try to break into my home when I’m here. I’d knock the stuffing out of him.”

  “I bet you would.”

  Sheriff Mearl Brewster arrived and filled out the report. He was polite, too attentive to her apparently for Frank’s liking, because she could tell Frank wasn’t happy with the cop asking her so many personal questions. The sheriff was a heavyset man with thinning hair and a wrinkled uniform; he talked too much and smelled of beer. Abigail had met him earlier that day at the picnic. She imagined he was a lot like his father, a womanizer, which meant it’d be best to stay away from him.

  “It’s not bad, Mrs. Sutton. And if you can’t account for anything big missing, then you’re lucky. It might simply have been a teenager or a drifter looking for cash or jewelry. Someone who knew everyone would be at the picnic. I wouldn’t be too worried,” Sheriff Brewster told her. “These things happen. Just be sure to lock your doors when you leave next time. Spookie’s a quiet town generally, we don’t have much crime, but even a small town has its share of break-ins and petty vandalisms. Most places do.”

  Abigail hadn’t locked the front door, so perhaps it was partly her fault. She thanked the sheriff for coming and offered him a cup of coffee. He accepted with a smile too friendly for just business and complemented her endlessly on how lovely her house looked.

  Frank was sticking his finger in his mouth behind the sheriff’s back when Abigail glanced at him. She almost laughed, but yawned to cover it up.

  “I hear you’ve been asking questions about old lady Edna’s sister, the one who left town and never came back?” the sheriff stated over his coffee. “As I told Frank here when he came by the office last week, there isn’t even a case file on it. Everything before 1980 got burned up in the warehouse fire last summer. My pa, Cal Brewster, was sheriff in those days. I was a kid. The only thing I recollect about the incident was overhearing that Edna’s sister, a wild thing, probably met a man and ran off with him. Edna swore she saw her sister and the children drive away that night. No crime committed. That was that.”

  Abigail was irked at his lack of interest. No wonder the police hadn’t solved the case. They’d never investigated. And the sheriff left office soon after.

  “I think he’s got a crush on you,” Frank said after the officer drove off.

  Abigail snickered. “Not my type. I like my men leaner…and smarter.”

  Frank insisted on helping her clean up and was as puzzled as she when later she confirmed nothing important was missing.

  “I was a cop for a long time, Abby.” He’d sometimes begun to call her that and she hadn’t stopped him. Joel had called her that.

  “And I don’t think it was an innocent break-in. I’d bet it has something to do with these questions you’ve been asking around town about Emily Summers and her children. Call it a hunch. Someone was looking for something they suspect is hidden here somewhere; something they don’t want you to find. Or they’re trying to scare you off.”

  “This was a warning? Well, it could have been a little clearer, don’t you think? Like a letter or something?”

  “Maybe. Give me a piece of paper and a pen.” And she did. It was after twelve, she was tired and wanted to go to bed and try to forget the break-in had happened.

  He wrote something on the paper and handed it back to her. “That’s my home and cell phone numbers. Call me anytime if you need anything.”

  When Frank was gone and she’d cleaned up most of the mess she couldn’t stop fretting and ended up sitting on the porch swing, her eyes peering into the hushed darkness, the large wooden post, her club, in her lap. The remnants of firework smoke, a steamy haze, hung in the air and raced across the crescent moon. The day had been so happy, everything had been going so well…until this.

  Myrtle had said something about Jenny having had a diary. Perhaps the diary was what the intruder had been hunting for? Tomorrow she’d explore the basement, spiders and bugs be darned, what the heck. Maybe she might find more notes, even that mysterious diary, or anything that might clarify why her home had been broken into.

  Again she thought she heard children romping out in the woods somewhere and the full-throated call of a cat. At the edge of the trees she thought she saw two misty figures running, their pale hair floating about their heads. Abigail blinked and the mirage was gone. The woods were silent and empty once more. She went to bed, the wooden club and phone nearby, and the kitten on the pillow snuggled up beside her.