Scraps of Paper

by Kathryn Meyer Griffith

  Chapter 11

  It was a hot day and Abigail craved ice cream. She’d come into town for her weekly shopping, but the prospect of facing Mason with that puppy dog smile of his had sent her into Ice Cream & Sweets first. She was a coward.

  “Banana split,” Abigail ordered at the counter. “With lots of whipped cream and nuts.”

  The girl waiting on her was a typical teenager working a summer job. Her heart wasn’t in it but she was courteous. Pretty, with bored blue eyes, she’d opted to go for the porcupine look, her head a ball of spiky blond tips. Abigail couldn’t keep her eyes off the girl’s head. Call her crazy, but by the time she got her ice cream she’d begun to like the look.

  Going over to a round table before the front window, Abigail watched the people pass by outside, musing over where they were going, doing, and what they were thinking. Another episode of the Summers’ murder mystery had hit the streets that morning. She was hiding. A copy was on the table next to her beside an empty sundae dish, photos of the graves and the tree house center front page in glorious color stared back at her. Who killed the Summers Family? She didn’t need to read the story again. She’d devoured her copy three times. Readers were probably crying over their coffee or lunch even now.

  Abigail looked up and spied Martha outside the window waving at her and heading her way. She came in and flopped down in the chair across from her. “That banana split looks scrumptious.” Then she cocked her head and hollered at the porcupine girl, “Another banana split over here, please. With everything and don’t scrimp on the chocolate syrup. Thank you.”

  There was a grunt from behind them to acknowledge the order.

  “It’s hot enough to melt a penny out there.” Martha was in a suit, nylons and low heels. She set her brief case on the floor at her feet and, using a handkerchief, dabbed at her face.

  “How are things, Martha?” Abigail kept eating. Her ice cream was overflowing the dish and she had to spoon quickly.

  “Fine and dandy. Showing the old Fern house to a prospective buyer in fifteen minutes. When I saw you, thought I’d stop in and chat for a sec. Get something cold and creamy. I was dissolving out there. And I wanted to talk about the story. Samantha says the newspapers are flying off the shelves. Everyone’s talking about the murder mystery. That’s all they’re talking about. Such a tragedy, but so…absorbing.”

  Great, Abigail thought, I won’t be able to go anywhere without people pestering me about it.

  “Read in the newspaper you found Jenny’s diary in the tree house that day. You didn’t tell me, hey? And I thought we were friends. Was there anything juicy in it?” Martha already had her banana split and was digging into it.

  “The usual stuff a little girl would put in a diary.” Abigail hadn’t told anyone but Frank much about what she’d discovered in those pages, not even to Samantha for the story. “As the story reported I don’t have the diary anymore. Someone waltzed into my house–again–and snatched it, along with the crayon messages from the kids.” She hadn’t divulged the ledger’s existence to the newspaper, either. Frank’s idea. And she positively wasn’t going to mention the ledger to blabbermouth Martha.

  “At least you got to read the diary before that happened,” her friend quipped.

  “Yes, I did.” Abigail fell silent. Frank thought it best if she kept the diary’s contents low key, too, for a while. It might be safer for her.

  “What would anyone want with a kid’s old diary, anyway?” Martha couldn’t help but pry.

  “Beats me. A souvenir? Some people are strange.” Abigail acted innocent.

  “Creepy, if you ask me. Breaking in a person’s home and taking worthless mementos like that.

  “You know,” Martha remarked, off handedly, “when the old sheriff was brought up in this last installment it got me thinking. Cal Brewster was batty over Emily. Some say he shadowed her in his squad car for awhile because she wouldn’t give him the time of day. He stopped her every chance he got and flirted with her. And Cal Brewster was married with three kids. I vaguely remember him from when I was a kid. I always thought he was fat and sloppy. But he had a reputation as a woman chaser and as having a really bad temper. Some cops do. It goes hand in hand sometimes with the ego it takes to be a cop.

  “And he liked pretty women, but he liked younger girls as well. I know, I used to stay out of his way because he made me uncomfortable. I knew someone once who was a friend with Cal Brewster’s children, lived next door to them, and overheard Cal’s boy talking about his father’s women and how Cal’s infatuation with Emily drove his mom insane with jealousy. Maybe Cal was Emily’s secret boyfriend? Have you ever thought of that?”

  Hmm, and could be Cal Brewster or his wife had been Emily’s stalker, Abigail speculated. Samantha had also written about Emily’s stalker in the last story and was hoping to get feedback. Maybe someone who knew something would come forward.

  “Emily was beautiful,” Martha went on, “but it gave her more grief sometimes than not. An abusive ex-husband, a crazy jealous boyfriend, a sister who envied her, a town which didn’t accept her…and a stalker. It sounds like a movie of the week. I don’t blame her for wanting to leave. It’s a shame she didn’t make it.”

  “Anyone else who hated Emily–who you can recall?” Abigail had mulled over who else could have been Emily’s tormentor and for some reason she then asked, “Was Mason married back then? You said he was eventually married to someone called Norma, right?” She’d remembered Mason might have been one of Emily’s admirers. If the sheriff’s wife was a possible suspect, then Mason’s wife could be too.

  “Why would you ask about Mason’s ex-wife? Anyway, I don’t think they were married yet in 1970. They were only engaged, I believe. They weren’t married until later.”

  “Just curious. How long have they been divorced?”

  “A couple of years, I guess. She was a loner, aloft and knew how to spend money all right; nearly bankrupted him. She kept ordering things over the phone from catalogs. But, heck, it was her money. I can’t believe they stayed married as long as they did. He was no prize, mind you, but Norma was wacko. The last decade of their marriage she wouldn’t leave the house, was petrified of everything. She used to send people hate mail out of the blue. He finally had enough of it. The divorce was his idea. There’d been rumors he beat her and that’s why she never went out. Rumors he only married her to get the store and daddy’s money. Once he had her he couldn’t stomach it. Who knows? Marriage. Glad I’m not handcuffed to anyone any more. Life is too short to be miserable, I say.”

  Martha’s eyes had a sly shine. “Hey, you’re not interested in Mason romantically, are you?” There was open disbelief in her voice. “He’s way too old for you.”

  Abigail nearly choked. “God no, I’m not interested. Just curious. I’ve heard people talking. And he is way too old.”

  “Good. Besides I happen to know Frank–who is an excellent catch–is nuts about you. Who’d want old moldy hamburger when they could have filet mignon?”

  Abigail glared at her. She knew Frank liked her. She wasn’t naïve. Yet having him nuts about her was something she hadn’t seen coming. “Frank and I are just friends, I keep telling you. Friends. I don’t want any man right now. All right?”

  “Whatever you say. But you can’t grieve a dead husband forever, Abigail.”

  Martha, having finished her ice cream, got up and collected her briefcase. “I have to run and show a house. I hope the boys I hired to clean it out did their job. The last owner left a mess. I couldn’t wade through the trash and empty beer cans. The mice were having a party. Yeck.”

  Abigail remembered Frank’s party. “Are you coming Saturday night to Frank’s barbeque?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. It’s the social highlight of my month. Music, food, good company. A card game. I love cards. And I might be bringing someone.”

  “Oh,” Abigail gave back the same as she’d gotten. “Someone you’re interested in?”

&
nbsp; “Oh, he’s interested. Don’t know if I am yet. You’ll meet him Saturday. Name’s Ryan.”

  “What are you bringing? I’m baking fudge brownies.”

  “Potato salad deluxe. Brownies sound fattening, but bring ‘em on, I say. The more desserts the better. My hips won’t thank you, but, hey, who’s asking them? See you there.”

  Abigail watched as Martha walked out of the ice cream shop and down the sidewalk, heat shimmering around her, and knew she couldn’t put off getting groceries any longer. Her cupboards and refrigerator were bare. A girl had to eat. She could go to the supermarket the next town over, but she needed to go to Mason’s. Between her commissions, she’d been painting watercolors of the town, sections of Main Street, and wanted to display them in his store to sell. She had to face the store owner to do it.

  Why was she finding it so difficult? Was it because he’d been one of Emily’s boyfriends all those years ago and he’d lied to Abigail point blank about it? He’d lied about even knowing them. Why would he have done that? Or was it because Mason so obviously liked her? So what if he was twice as old as her. Lots of older man liked younger women. He still made her uncomfortable and she still needed to deal with him. Her physical and financial survival won out and she returned to her car, unloaded the framed watercolors, and lugged them into Mason’s store.

  He met her at the door. “Here, let me help you.” His hand brushed her shoulder as he took the pictures and she inwardly cringed.

  “Well, if it isn’t our town’s celebrity sleuth. I’ve read every word of those stories on the Summers’ murders and I’m as intrigued as the rest of the town. I can’t wait until the next episode. See what else you’ve unearthed. Any idea, yourself, who killed them? Any hot suspects?” he pried in a nonchalant voice.

  She hadn’t caught any sarcasm or underlying meanings and then chided herself for the way she was behaving. She was getting paranoid. He was just a lonely old man who was trying to be friendly with his customers.

  “No, none so far.” Frank’s advice whispering in her head, she played it dumb. “It was so long ago. The whole newspaper thing has gotten out of hand. You know reporters? Samantha simply wants to sell papers. Everything’s fodder for her stories.” She shrugged. “We’ll probably never know what really happened to them.”

  Mason laid the stack of watercolors on a counter, but avoided her eyes. “Probably not.”

  She asked before she realized what she was doing, “Did you know Emily?” Then it was too late to take back the words. Stupid, stupid.

  An awkward pause. “No. Like I told you.” He seemed to rethink something and added, “Oh, I saw her and her kids around town. I knew who she was. That was about it.”

  Abigail guarded her expression so he wouldn’t know she knew he’d lied again. Last time, she was sure of it, he’d said Emily and the kids were before his time. Why was he lying at all unless he was hiding something?

  He’d spread the pictures on the counter and studied each one at arm’s length. “These are lovely. Excellent.” His mocking gaze met hers. “You have an eye for details most people don’t see. I love your use of colors. You are truly an artist, my girl.”

  “Thanks. Do you have room for me to display them?”

  “I’ll make room.” He was observing her in that peculiar manner of his–or it could have been her imagination.

  She tried envisioning what he’d looked like thirty years ago. He might have been a heart breaker, might have been handsome, but his looks had matured into an old man’s. Behind his constant charming smile, Abigail saw hints of discontent and disappointment. She couldn’t see now what any woman might have seen in him then. But time changed everything and everyone, no one stayed young and good-looking forever. People got old and their bodies and minds aged.

  “I might buy one myself,” Mason was saying, bringing her out of her reverie. “This one which has my store in the corner of it.” He tapped one of the pictures. “I love the way you used the lights of the sunset to bathe the store fronts. Delightful. And the price is more than fair. All the prices are and I’ll put the pictures out today. They’ll sell. And you said you weren’t that good.” His words were flattering and he was staring at her again. “You underestimate your own talent, Abigail. You underestimate yourself.” He smiled and he was almost nice looking…for a moment or two.

  Why was she being so ungracious? Mason was merely trying to be nice to her. He was trying to help her and she needed help. She could at least be nice back. She returned his smile.

  “I need to pick up some groceries. I’ll be back.” She edged towards the shelves, aware his eyes followed her every move. She gathered what she needed, paid for it and got out of the store as quickly as she could, feeling guilty for not being more grateful to him. But he still made her nervous. Relieved to be away from him, she drove home.

  That night she pushed all thoughts of dead people and murderers out of her mind and worked on her paintings. It was hard, but she did it. Snowball kept trying to prance across her illustration board and she had to shoo her off more than once. The kitten had to be in the middle of everything. When Snowball stuck her nose into the swirl of red paint on the palette, Abigail ended up locking her in her bedroom. Then there were pitiful meows from above.

  Abigail was still working when the noises began outside. It sounded as if something or someone was roaming around her yard, but each time she looked, there was no one there. Just the warm darkness and the silent trees.

  Yeah, she was getting way too paranoid. Time to go to bed. Maybe sleep would help.