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 on them, 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. She 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 which 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 them. I’ve lived in this house all my life. When I’m lonely or sad, all I have to do is sit in the garden, 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 the house has an interesting history. My great grandfather had it built for my great grandmother when they were first married as a wedding present. She brought a lot of the woodwork and sculptures with her from England as part of her dowry. They had quite a love story. They were 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 across the globe. My great grandfather really loved my great grandmother. They were never apart, not even one night, their whole lives. My grandmother said 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 amiably. “My 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 sure 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, though 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 drove into town. She’d work further on the drawing 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 the fog 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 exchange 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, but somewhat dirtier and more wrinkled, as the previous time Abigail had seen her. 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’d have. 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. It was 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. Nob
ody 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 and shook their leaves like 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. It was massive and 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 it, along with 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 Edna, being the oldest daughter, had owned the house.
On the back of the title there were some words written, but 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 when 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.
So she jumped when the knocking came at the front entrance. She put her artwork away, it was too soon for anyone to see it, and answered the door.
“Frank! What are you doing out in this storm?” was what came out of her mouth, though she was happy to see a real human face hovering in front of her and not some ghost.
“Visiting you. I know I should have called first, but the storm messed up the phones. Is it a bad time?”
“No, other than there’s a hurricane out there. I was ready for a break. I’ve been working on Martha’s watercolor of her mansion, er, house.”
Standing in the doorway, rain was dripping down Frank’s face, his hair was soaked, and in his hands was a tiny bit of white fur which moved. He held it out to her and she took it. “What’s this?” she asked when the ball of fur peered up at her with huge frightened eyes. It meowed and attempted to hide in her hands.
“A kitten I found on your porch. It came right to me. I thought it was yours so I caught it. I think it’s hungry.”
“No doubt.” Abigail could feel its tiny heart beating. Wet and dirty, the creature was quivering. “But it isn’t mine. I don’t have a cat.” Not anymore, she thought. Joel and she had had a cat, Shadow, who’d disappeared after Joel had. She’d loved that cat and had hunted everywhere for it. Losing Shadow, too, had made the pain of losing her husband even worse. But Shadow had been eighteen years old and Abigail had concluded that, pining for Joel, she’d gone off to die somewhere. Something, at the time, Abigail had wished she could have done as well.
“Oh, my mistake. I felt sorry for the poor thing. It’s all bones and fur.”
Abigail tried to give it back to him. “Oh, no.” He pushed it away. “I have two monster German Shepherds at home. They’d eat this kitten as an appetizer.”
The kitten was purring, probably from the warmth of her hands and Abigail wasn’t sure what to do with it. It was licking her fingers, its tiny tongue rough and eager.
“The kitten most likely came from the cat lady’s house.” Frank let her off the hook. “She lives behind you about a half mile through the trees. Evelyn Vogt. Remember we told you about her–the village’s animal hoarder? Every town has one. Evelyn’s ours. Nice enough old biddy, but a little off in the attic. She has a full zoo living in that house with her.”
“Then someone,” Abigail exclaimed. “Ought to do something about her. Hoarding animals is a criminal offense. I saw a special on it on television last week. Animals crammed and locked in cages, neglected and starved. Terribly mistreated. Sometimes not on purpose, but suffering all the same. Ugh!”
Frank’s shock was genuine. “Not in Evelyn’s case. Her animals are not abused, but treated like little kings and queens. She’s well-off and adores them. She merely has a lot of them.”
“Through the woods a half a mile behind me?”
“Yep. Straight back. Head for the barnyard sounds and you can’t miss it.”
“How did it get a half mile from home in this weather?” She lifted the creature high and looked at it. It swatted a paw at her and began to purr. “It’s no bigger than a fly.”
“It sensed a potentially soft touch; a home where it didn’t have so many siblings hogging up all the food.
“Abigail, you going to invite me in or what? It’s pouring out here.”
“Oh, sorry, come on in. Make yourself at home, Frank. Can I get you some coffee or soda to drink?” She led him into the kitchen.
“Coffee would be nice. Black. Please. After battling the squall out there a hot cup of anything would be wel
come.”
Abigail poured the coffee and handed the cup to Frank, and against her better judgment warmed up a saucer of milk for the cat. “There must have been a reason you came by and I’m guessing it wasn’t the cat.”
“And you’d be right. I wanted–needed–to tell you something.” He hesitated, unsure.
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Then do.”
“The other night, when you and I were discussing the history of this house and Emily and her kids, I’m sorry I wasn’t as forthcoming as I should have been. The truth is Emily was more than an acquaintance, she was a good friend and I cared for her…a lot.”
“You mean you dated her?”
“Not exactly. I wanted to. I asked her out enough. Maybe I even thought I loved her. Puppy love, you know. She was vibrant, pretty, smart and artistic, like you, but she was much older than me. She didn’t take me seriously. I was only a small town sheriff’s deputy. I was a child in her eyes, I’m sure.
“Besides, she had a past, this other life…this secret boyfriend. The whole town knew she was seeing someone she was crazy about and who was ferociously jealous of her. No one knew who he was. As sweet as Emily Summers was, being divorced with kids in 1970 was still frowned upon. A town scandal. I was more forgiving than others because I was young and she was nice to me. She had kids, was alone and yet she wanted more out of life; wanted to be someone. She had dreams. I admired her for that and never giving up. Truth is, until I moved back to town, I hadn’t thought of Emily and her kids in years. They were a faded distant memory from my past.
“Then around the time of Edna’s death I discovered, by accident, they hadn’t returned to town for any reason in all those years. Living in Chicago, I’d never known that. No one here had seen them again, not even at Edna’s funeral or to claim the house. But what really made me think was when I was here the other night–which revived so many memories anyway–and you showed me those notes you’d found. I thought, something’s not right. My cop nose was itching. I haven’t been able to get Emily or the children off my mind since.
“So now I have unanswered questions I never had before. Back then most people saw nothing suspicious about their sudden absence. Emily packed up, people thought, and left, looking for a fresh start. A better, new life. That’s what Edna told everyone. I was only one of a handful of people who believed something didn’t fit. Emily wouldn’t have left town without saying goodbye to me or her friends, or leaving a note. So I spent time asking questions and looking for a crime which no one else saw as being there. It made me look foolish, but I was leaving town anyway and didn’t care. But I never found out anything.
“So I’ve been thinking of looking into it again. Oh, I know,” he put up his hand, “it was a very long time ago, but I owe Emily and those kids that. At least that.”
Abigail sighed. “Well, I think you should. I want to know about the people who used to live in my house. Even if the three are safe somewhere in Florida eating potato chips and watching television, I’d like to know. Yet…those notes are suspicious.
“And, speaking of Emily and the children, I found some interesting papers upstairs this morning in Edna’s old chifforobe. I’ll go get them.”
As Abigail was coming back into the kitchen, the kitten, with a belly full of milk, launched herself into Frank’s lap. He awkwardly petted the cat until the creature jumped to the carpet and climbed up Abigail’s leg.
“She thinks you’re her mistress already,” he said.
Picking the cat off her thigh, Abigail hugged her and handed over the papers to Frank. “They’re Edna’s, I think. Did you know this house legally belonged to Emily and her children? Not Edna? Obviously, by what someone wrote on the back there, there was bitterness over it.”
Frank began rifling through the papers. “No, I had no idea. Edna always acted as if it were hers, called it hers, even when Emily was living here with her.” He returned the documents.
“Who do you think got what they deserved?” Abigail referred to the words on the papers.
“Not a clue. You haven’t found any more cryptic messages from the children, have you?”
“No. I’m still looking. The next sunny day, when I can see the spiders and bugs coming, I’ll tackle the basement. When I was a child I used to play and hide things in ours. Maybe the kids hid some messages down there.”
“Yell if you need help. I’ve had experience searching for hidden evidence and I’m good at killing spiders.”
“I may do that.”
Frank stood up as the rain slammed against the house walls and the thunder rocked the foundation. “I ought to go. My dogs are probably throwing themselves at the doors by now in fits of fear. They’re terrified of storms.”
Half way out the door he said, “Saturday is the Fourth of July and here in Spookie we have a yearly tradition. There’s a picnic at the town park and a sort of outdoor festival along Main Street with game and craft booths. There are fireworks in the evening. Everyone goes. All the businesses close early. The food, barbequed chicken, hamburgers and hot dogs, on the picnic grounds, is the best in the county and there are honest-to-goodness grown up carnival rides I can guarantee are safe. Want to go with me?”
His request took her off guard. She didn’t know what to say.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to, I’ll understand. I meant, as a friend? No pressure. I could show you everything and let you know who is who. It’s hard being the new person in town.”
She was relieved. “As friends, sure. It sounds like fun. When does this shindig start?”
“The picnic begins at ten in the morning, the food and craft booths open then as well, and the fireworks commence the moment it’s dark. Is ten too early?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m an early riser.”
“Great. We can walk from here if you don’t mind? Parking in town is tough on a holiday.”
“Good, you know I like to walk. See you then.” Through the open door she watched Frank run out to his truck, dodging raindrops, and drive off into the fog. So she and Frank were to be friends. Friends were nice. She looked at her gold wedding band and experienced the old sadness. How long would she feel married and continue to mourn for Joel? Till death do us part…she’d made that promise so long ago. But now that Joel was dead why did she still feel this way? As if by going out, she was cheating on him? She wished she knew.
She prepared a box lined with a soft towel for the kitten to sleep in; thinking tomorrow she’d return the little feline to its real home. Then she went to bed. Sometime in the middle of the night she woke up to a soft purring and a fluffy body curled up beside her neck, tiny paws patting her skin. It smelled of dirt and urine and she gently shoved it away from her face, but it was back in moments. She didn’t have the heart to push it away again. She realized it was lonely, like her, so she let it stay.
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