Scraps of Paper

by Kathryn Meyer Griffith

  ***

  When the front page, full color story came out the following Wednesday Abigail bought extra copies. Samantha had done an amazing job. Under the pictures of Emily, Christopher and Jenny the headline said:

  What happened to these people? A mother and her two children mysteriously vanished from Spookie thirty years ago this August…help us solve the mystery.

  Samantha had gotten the facts straight and had woven the threads into an intriguing tapestry. The story made the Summers’ family as real as if they’d been alive yesterday. She’d located photos of them, though they were only black and white. Emily had been a pretty woman with light colored hair and large eyes and her children had looked like her. Abigail cut their photos out of one of the copies and taped them on her refrigerator. Their haunted eyes watched her whenever she opened the fridge.

  From the moment the newspaper story came out the reaction was phenomenal. Everyone wanted to help solve the old mystery. Everyone had stories from that summer and wanted to be heard.

  “The phone’s been ringing nonstop,” Samantha breathed, sitting in her cubicle, hands flying over her keyboard. “I’ve never had this kind of feedback to a story. It’s amazing!”

  She stopped and rustled through a stack of papers. “Look at these letters from townspeople of what they were doing that summer. Get a load of these photos of Main Street and the police department. Here’s some of the July Fourth Celebration picnic that summer. Those clothes! Leisure suits and mini-skirts. Puka beads. All the guys had such long hair and sideburns. The women with those teased up hairstyles or the younger ones with those tiny braids in their straight hair.

  “And as coincidence would have it, there, in the crowd–see in the far right–is Emily and her two kids. It’s fantastic. Stella sent us a picture of her diner dated 1970. Look at that decor. All chrome and Formica. Look at the way the customers looked…dresses for the women and pastel colored shirts for the men.

  “We have information too. Memories of Emily and her kids and what people overheard and saw of the trouble they were having that summer. Some of the accidents that befell them.”

  She handed a couple of letters to Abigail. “Here. Start reading the first batch. Take them home. There’s some really interesting things in them. Emily had quite a few people who didn’t like her. Some woman–who said she’d heard it from another woman who’d heard it from a guard at the jail–wrote to tell us Sheriff Cal Brewster, Mearl’s father, was obsessed with Emily and once had her falsely arrested and put in jail for a night because Emily wouldn’t go out with him. Imagine that? Emily claimed he tried to rape her that night and suddenly all charges were dropped, on both sides. That Cal Brewster was no credit to the police department, I’d say. Later, from what I’ve learned, he was involved in other scandals and was practically forced to resign early. He’s dead now or I’d go have a little talk with him. He might have had something to do with Emily’s disappearance.

  “You know,” Samantha stopped and looked directly at her, her voice going soft, “Emily had some enemies in this town. I hope none of them resent you bringing her up again. Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that before.” Samantha shook her head and then seemed to let her concerns go. “But wow, this is going to be some series of stories.”

  Abigail read a few letters before she left. Some were cranks and a few were advice to let the past lie undisturbed. Some wanted their houses drawn, yet many wanted to contribute a snippet of the past and see their name in print.

  Outside the skies were cloudy, the smell of rain heavy, but the heat was relentless. She stopped in at Stella’s for something cold and creamy. When she walked in half the people waved and acknowledged her. They gave her big smiles and okay signs. They’d read the story.

  Frank was glaring at her from a booth. “So you went and did it, didn’t you…painted a target on your forehead. You shouldn’t have run that story. You’ve put yourself in danger.”

  “How can running a story about something which happened so long ago hurt me?” She slid in across from him. She was bluffing. For the first time, after hearing what Samantha had said and now Frank, she was a little worried. What if Emily and the kids had disappeared because something awful had happened to them? What if murder was involved and the killer was still living in town? Frank seemed to read her mind.

  “Worse scenario? Those three met foul play. Murder. What about that break-in at your house? A killer could be out there and if he or she is…you dredging it up again might piss him or her off.”

  “It was thirty years ago, Frank.”

  “Time doesn’t matter when it comes to murder. There’s no time limit. Guilty thirty years ago is the same as guilty last week. When I was a rookie homicide detective I was partnered with an officer, Henry McRaney, who was retiring in six months. He had this old case he’d been unable to crack, and unable to let go of, from early in his career. It was the killing of a young girl twenty-seven years before committed with a jewel-handled knife found on the scene. McRaney was obsessed with finding the girl’s murderer. So before he retired, we gave it one last shot. We revisited the earlier suspects. The ones still alive anyway. We retraced all the leads. Everything we could think of. After all that time.

  “I was a weapon collector even back then and from the photos I’d noticed the murder knife was a rare variety usually sold in sets of two. McRaney and I stumbled upon the other knife in a knife collection which belonged to the dead girl’s cousin during our follow up. Turns out, as a teenager, he’d killed her with one of the two knives and kept the other knife as a sort of trophy. After so many years, sure he was safe from the law, he put it on display in a glass case in his house. Big mistake.

  “We surprised him with our visit and he didn’t have time to hide it. McRaney made a mistake in judgment, asked to see the knife and that was the end of it. The killer knew he was caught. He was married with three kids and he wanted to protect the new life he’d created. He found out McRaney was going to accuse him of the old murder and he came after him and killed him.

  “The guy was later caught and executed for his crimes, but McRaney was still dead. So don’t tell me the passage of time makes a difference. Twenty or thirty years after their crimes, murderers are still as dangerous as poisonous snakes. You kick at them and they’ll bite you.” There was genuine concern in his voice.

  “Sorry about McRaney.” Abigail touched his arm. “And it didn’t occur to me I would be endangering myself when I started this. But the story can’t be taken back. I’ll be careful from now on, that’s all. Though I don’t believe–if they were murdered–that the killer stayed in town. If he were smart, it makes sense he’d be long gone.”

  “He might be gone. He might not. He could be anybody, even a woman. I’ve known women murderers who’d make your eyes change color. Women can have motives, too, you know, same as men. Jealousy is a prime one. A lot of women were jealous of Emily. And who ever said murderers were smart? That’s not always the case. They sometimes make mistakes, small ones, and that is how they’re caught. As I said before, you better be careful.”

  Abigail nodded. “Always.”

  The police had never found Joel’s murderer and she wondered if they ever would. Only if he made a mistake? That dismayed her.

  Stella bustled over and asked her, “What can I get you, sweetie?”

  “Tuna fish sandwich and a chocolate malt, thank you.”

  Stella nodded and wrote the order down. “I saw that story in the newspaper. You looked real good in front of your house.” She grinned and plunked down beside her. “I sent some old stuff in on the diner myself.”

  “I know, I saw them. Great photos. So it was called the Main Street Diner in those days, huh?”

  “Yep. My husband, Ernest, owned it then. I was a waitress. He was a great cook and could gab with the best of them, but he was a lousy husband. We were married for twenty-five years before he kicked the bucket. By the way, about Emily Summers? I knew her, she even worked here for a while t
o make money after her divorce so she could go to art school in the fall.”

  “That’s right, someone else mentioned she wanted to go to art school.” Abigail shot a look at Frank as he played with the sugar container.

  “Anyway,” Stella continued, “I remember a strange incident which might be of interest but thought I’d give it straight to you instead of the newspaper. It was that awful summer of 1970. It was August. Steamy and humid.

  “Her parents had left Emily the house so she’d come back to town. I was surprised because she was the younger child. Both her parents, Mary and Robert, had died within a few weeks of each other the year before. Edna had been living with the parents for a while before that to take care of them. Ha, it seemed to me to be the other way around. Edna had trouble holding a job. She was always getting sick. Sick in the head, is what I said. That Edna was a misfit, a parasite, from the word go.

  “Well, Emily and her kids had been in town all summer and one day they were in here having ice cream and this man comes busting in. Big burly brut with a foul mouth. He and Emily have this horrendous fight in front of all of us, him screaming and yelling, and he yanks her from her chair as if he’s going to drag her off. The kids are wailing and crying. A couple of the locals, being good guys and eager to get on Emily’s good side, hauled the guy out the door and tossed him in the street. Most excitement we’d had around here all year. Next day Emily tells me he was her ex-husband.”

  “Wait a minute,” Frank interrupted. “My friend Sam said that when he talked to Emily’s ex-husband, the guy stated that he hadn’t seen his wife or kids at all that summer. Stella, are you sure it was that particular summer? 1970?”

  “Pretty sure. It was a long time ago. But it was one of those things you don’t forget. Sticks in my mind because Emily and her kids vamoosed–or disappeared–two weeks later. I thought it was partly because of what happened that day. Emily was scared of her ex. He’d regularly beaten her up when they’d been married and put her in the hospital a few times with broken bones, she’d confessed to me once. She came home to escape from him.”

  “Then her ex-husband, Todd Brown, lied,” Frank said. “Why is the question.”

  “He was afraid of being a suspect if Emily turned up a victim of a crime.” Abigail gave him the answer.

  “Yep, Todd Brown was Emily’s ex-husband’s name. I remember now.” Stella got up. “I’ll go put your order in, Abigail.”

  Hanging his head mockingly, Frank muttered, “The fun’s only beginning. You’ll have every crackpot and lonely old person banging on your door with an Emily Summers’ story. Wait and see. You’re going to be a very busy lady. Your anonymity is gone forever.”

  An elderly man in a straw hat and with hearing aids in his ears, hobbled over and gave them another story about the two Summers’ children. He also provided a recollection about how the children used to roller skate down the sidewalks of Main Street singing Beatle songs like two wild banshees.

  Frank grinned widely at her behind the guy’s back the whole time. “You’re a celebrity. Don’t let it go to your head,” he teased her afterwards and she promised it wouldn’t.

  Frank followed her to her house to take a look at Evelyn Vogt’s cat picture and go through the newspaper’s letters. Not finding anything he thought was important, he was disappointed, but he liked the drawing she was working on. “Cute cat. Looks real. And those lilacs. Very pretty. The old lady’s going to go daffy over it.

  “How about you do a portrait of my dogs on my porch, with the cabin behind them?”

  “Sure, as soon as I finish Evelyn’s picture.”

  After Frank drove away, Abigail read through the remainder of the letters and then spent time on Evelyn’s cat picture. In the evening she sat on her porch swing and played with Snowball, reflecting over what she’d read. The letters had made her cry. Those poor kids had had such a measly existence. Earlier she’d had a string of phone calls about the article. Some of the information was helpful, but none of it, like the letters, had been pertinent to solving the riddle of where the three had gone. No one seemed to know that.

  The pounding at her door came after two in the morning. She climbed out of bed, slipped on a robe and grabbed the wooden club on the way. Her visitor could be an enemy as well as a friend.

  It was Myrtle.

  “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night, Myrtle?” She pulled her inside.

  The old woman was in a tizzy, her hair going every which way and her face dirt smeared, her clothes disheveled. She was dressed more for winter than summer. She had a raggedy heavy coat on, a black sock cap and mittens. It had to be at least eighty degrees outside. “I remembered something really important about Emily for you. I saw the story in the paper,” she exhaled breathlessly.

  “I thought you never went out after dark because of the ghosts?” Abigail reminded her, sleepily.

  “Ghosts can’t travel when there’s a full moon. Moonlight scares them. Too bright.”

  “And there’s a full moon tonight?”

  Myrtle rolled her eyes, moaning. “Behind the clouds, yes. I ran the whole way. I’m pooped.”

  “Then come in and sit down. How about taking that coat off? It’s warm inside.” With Abigail’s help Myrtle shed her winter clothes and flopped onto the sofa. Abigail waited for her to talk.

  “I know where that diary of Jenny’s could be hidden. I was checking my financial portfolio on the Internet tonight and–whoa.” She lightly slapped her forehead. “It came to me. And I had to tell you. Show you. When you get my age, dearie, you can’t count on tomorrow coming, if you know what I mean.”

  “Where’s the diary?”

  “The tree house. I should have remembered that before. And I think I know where it is.” She stood up. “Give me something to eat then grab a flashlight and I’ll take you there.”

  Something to eat? “You’ll take me to the tree house…now? In the middle of the night?”

  “Sure. I can’t come back tomorrow. I got a bus trip to the casinos in Las Vegas with my ladies’ group and won’t be back for a week. Two weeks if I’m on a winning streak.” She grinned. Her teeth were as dirty as her face.

  The woman’s habits were odd. But if she knew where that tree house was, it was worth the night journey. “What do you want to eat?”

  “Cheese sandwich and chocolate milk.”

  After the snack they took off into the night woods with two flashlights. Abigail felt as if she were in some weird dream. Was she actually doing this? She was as nuts as Myrtle, running around with flashlights and chasing ghosts in the dark looking for some lost children’s tree house. They tramped through the trees and brush, Myrtle chattering the entire trip, and Abigail, behind her, tripping over her own feet. Myrtle was a tiny thing with short legs and a short stride or Abigail would never have been able to keep up. The old lady was a rocket with legs.

  “I got this theory, dearie,” Myrtle yapped back at her. “I can’t prove it, but I’d stake my mutual funds on it. Edna murdered her parents.”

  Abigail nearly walked into a tree. “She did what?”

  “I was around I should know. She poisoned Mary and Robert like she used to poison my sister’s animals. That’s what happened, I’d bet. She wanted them out of the way, wanted their money, and she wanted the house. Plain and simple. They were sick of her free loading and were ready to kick her butt out. She frightened them. Mary called me one night and asked my advice. She’d been sick all week, throwing up, and her husband was sick, too. She’d seen Edna putting something in her tea. I told her to call the police, she didn’t. She died two days later. I tried to tell people what was going on, but no one wanted to believe me. That stupid Sheriff Cal again. Mary had been sick a long time with one ailment or another so her dying didn’t raise eyebrows. No one cares when an old person dies. Robert lived a little longer. Edna was clever not to kill him off too quickly after Mary’s death. Edna was a lot of things, but she wasn’t as stupid as most people bel
ieved.

  “Edna thought she was home free. Then the will was read and Emily and her kids came back to claim what was theirs. Mary and Robert left the house and the money to their younger daughter. After all she’d done to get her inheritance, what a laugh on old Edna. Then, to put salt on the wound, Emily decided to sell the house, take the money and start a new life somewhere far away. Edna would have gotten zip. Boy, was she upset.

  “I never pushed it with the police because I had no proof and Sheriff Cal wouldn’t have believed me no way. He was as dumb as a rock and had about as much insight as a carrot.”

  “Did Emily suspect her sister had poisoned their parents?”

  “I don’t know about that. But Emily was wary of her older sister, that’s for sure. One of the reasons she was selling out and moving away. Along with her men problems there were some other bad things going on that summer. Emily had more than enough reasons to skedaddle. But I bet the money was the reason Emily’s ex-husband wanted his wife and kids back so bad.”

  “He did?”

  “Yep, he was sneaking in here all the time trying to get Emily to go back with him.” Myrtle was more talkative than Abigail could stand for that time of night. She attempted to keep track of the direction they were traveling. They’d left the house from the rear door and had gone left. She paused and looked over her shoulder through the trees for the second time. The first time she’d been able to see the lights from her kitchen. This time all was blackness. She was lost.

  “How much farther, Myrtle?”

  “Almost there. I can navigate these woods in the dark because I’ve walked through them my whole life. I know every inch of them. I sleep out here sometimes.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of wild animals?” Was all Abigail could think of to say, and she couldn’t keep from smiling.

  “There are coyotes out here mostly, or sometimes wild dogs. But a fire keeps them away –or a big stick.” Myrtle chuckled. “Here we are.” Myrtle halted and Abigail practically bowled the woman over.

  They were under a monstrous tree with a car-sized trunk. The moon had freed itself from the clouds and the woods were bathed in light. Abigail looked up. “I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s up there all right. Covered in leaves and branches. After thirty years there’s not much left. A platform on the lower branch about seven feet off the ground.” The old woman was huffing and puffing. “I got you here…what you do now is up to you.”

  It’d be useless to search before daylight. But she’d never find her way out here again in the morning. She should have left breadcrumbs. “It’s going to be hard to find the diary in the dark, Myrtle, even with a flashlight. Any idea where we should start? Myrtle?” No answer.

  Abigail moved her flashlight around and saw only trees. She was alone. Now where had that woman gone to now? Martha was right, she was unreliable. Nuts. Just wait until she saw that old so-and-so again. She sighed. It wasn’t as if Myrtle had left her in a blizzard or anything. She was safe enough. If a wild animal attacked her, well, she had the flashlight. She’d clobber it. And morning would come soon; in two or three hours by her guess.

  Sliding down against the trunk of the tree, Abigail switched off the flashlight. No choice but to wait. The clouds were moving and her eyes slowly adjusted to the pale light when the moon peeked through. It was peaceful sitting there, a light breeze stroking her skin. The moon a thoughtful face above her. The twins had skipped across this ground, climbed this tree and dreamed their dreams so long ago beneath a moon like the one above. Decades ago. Just yesterday.

  Closing her eyes, a moment later she was opening them to morning. After stretching to get the kinks out of her stiff body, she climbed up into the tree. It’d been a long time since she’d done that. She was out of practice and her muscles let her know it. The platform, as Myrtle had said, was there, though the planks were worn and splintered with gaps missing. She hunted everywhere. She found no diary, no secret stash of notes or left behind bag of cat’s eye marbles. She found nothing. But the police would have searched all this, she reasoned, squatting in the middle of the tree house ready to give up. Or would they? If they’d even known about it. If they’d even cared.

  Where would a child have hid a diary? One of the boards seemed higher than the others and she got a stick and pried at it until it lifted.

  There, squeezed into the narrow space, wrapped in a plastic bag, bound by rubber bands, was a tiny pink flowered book. She couldn’t believe she’d found the diary. It’d been too easy. Climbing down, she retrieved the flashlight, looked around and headed in the direction she thought home would be, yet a few feet later her face was in the grass.

  A wooden grave marker had tripped her. Sticking straight out of the dirt, it was small, a sliver of wood with a name scratched on it. Emily.

  “Oh, no,” she moaned, staring at the name. The E looked like it had antlers on it and the y had a shelf on the bottom. Besides the first grave marker, covered in weeds and bramble, were others. The name Jenny carved on one and Christopher on the other.

  She’d found Emily and her two children. No more speculating over what had happened to them. No more hoping they were safe living somewhere else. They’d been here all along for over thirty years beneath the dirt. That is, if there were bodies in those graves beneath her feet. She was filled with a dull sorrow. Poor Emily. She’d never gotten to go to college or to be an artist. She’d never seen her children age and have children of their own. Jenny and Christopher had never grown up, fallen in love; had lives of their own. None of them had had lives. They’d been here all the time long dead and gone.

  Abigail found her way home. It wasn’t far. She got lost only once. She called Frank and he notified the sheriff.

  And within a half-hour she had a house full of people.