***
Three days later Abigail awoke and got ready to go after a copy of the newspaper. She didn’t have to go far. Someone had sent her the edition special delivery wrapped around a rock. It had smashed through her front window and landed in her living room.
Outside on the porch, she stepped in splatters of blood and looked up. There were tiny bleeding birds stuffed in the openings of her birdhouses. Real dead birds. Their beady eyes glazed and motionless, their feathers smeared with red, limp beaks hanging downward and blood dripping on the wood.
Groaning, covering her mouth, she slid onto the swing. The message was clear. Someone was warning her to stop what she was doing. Stop chasing the Summers’ mystery. Was the person responsible watching her from a distance at that very moment? She’d been in a trance but the thought snapped her out of it. She’d be safer inside. Where was Snowball?
Abigail launched herself from the swing, ran inside, and was relieved when she found the fur ball sleeping behind the sofa. She scooped the kitten up and hugged her until she meowed in protest. Picking up the phone, she dialed Frank’s number.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes and I’ll call the sheriff before I go,” he said and hung up.
Over coffee Abigail read the article which had sailed in with the rock. Samantha, as always, had written a fine piece, including everything, every new clue, every new development and all the contents of the found letter and diary.
The problem, Abigail realized, was the reporter had made hypothetical cases for Edna either being the murderer or a mystery man who’d been dating Emily behind the scenes, or had once dated or wanted to date her. The ex-husband had been mentioned and the dead sheriff, the sheriff’s wife or someone perhaps married or engaged to someone else. That was hitting close to home. If a person had known Emily and the people involved in town at the time, it’s possible to imagine who the murderer might have been. And the real murderer, if he or she were still alive and in the area, would be livid, Abigail thought, rubbing her eyes. People would start to point fingers. It was in their nature.
“Samantha, what have you done?” Abigail asked. Not that Samantha had meant to point fingers. No one knew for sure who Emily’s or the children’s killer had been. Not for sure anyway. But someone had tossed the rock and killed the birds. Who had they angered that much with the stories? Someone who knew or was trying to hide something and was afraid of being discovered, perhaps the killer themselves. Frank was right about one thing, she’d better be careful. She was obviously a target these days.
She collected a trash bag, paper towels and a pair of metal tongs, unable to bear the thought of those dead birds in her birdhouses one second longer. She was about done plucking broken feathery bodies from birdhouse holes when Frank roared up the driveway in his truck. Sheriff Mearl pulled in behind him.
“Original way of getting a message across.” Frank stood in the sunlight and watched Abigail put the last two bird bodies into the trash bag. “If you sing like a bird you’ll end up a dead bird?”
“Something like that,” Abigail retorted sarcastically. Finished, she shoved the trash bag off the side of the porch to be dealt with later.
“You know, if I didn’t know better I’d say you have your very own stalker. Hate letters, broken windows and dead critters on your porch.” Frank leaned against the post.
“Maybe the same stalker Emily had?”
“Not if it was Norma. She’s dead.”
“If Norma had really been Emily’s stalker…or only stalker. Emily seemed to have had a lot of enemies.”
“That she did.”
Frank exchanged a silent nod with the sheriff who’d come up onto the porch.
“Lady,” Sheriff Mearl grunted, “trouble follows you like a trained dog. As often as I come out here you should provide me with my own monogrammed coffee mug.”
“Funny, Sheriff. I guess that’s a hint you’d like a cup of coffee, huh?”
“Wouldn’t mind having one, now that you offer. I haven’t had my quota yet this morning.”
“The pot’s in the kitchen. You know where that is, Sheriff. Help yourself. Cups in the top right cabinet. Cream and sugar on the table. We’ll be right behind you.”
The sheriff sauntered into the house towards the kitchen, his gun belt and holster squeaking and his boot steps echoing loudly across the floors.
“I don’t know why you called him,” Abigail said to Frank. “He’s not going to be any help. He never caught anyone the other times. There was never any evidence left behind. And I’m sure whoever did this was as clever in covering their trail.”
“I had to call him in. He’s the sheriff and a report has to be made. Just be careful what you say to him,” Frank muttered. “We have to remember it was Mearl’s father who investigated the original disappearances in the first place. Mearl’s father who had a thing for Emily and might have been involved in her death. Let’s not forget that. Could be why Mearl’s been so attentive to you and this situation from the beginning. Could be Mearl knows more than he’s letting on.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way. It took her off guard. “Nah.” She dismissed the warning. “Sheriff’s here for the free coffee and any gossip he can glean. That’s all.”
“You have gossip?” Frank grinned and was rewarded with the tiniest of smiles. “See, I knew I could make you smile if I tried. I’m sorry about your bird massacre. But when you opted to run those stories I did caution you it could cause repercussions. Well, it did.”
“I know, my fault. What kind of person butchers little animals to make a point?”
“Someone who’s frightened he or she’s going to be exposed. Someone who took a lot of trouble to get all these birds dead and here. All their necks are broken. A pretty personal touch, that.”
“I’d say. Wonder where the person got them from?” Then she shook her head. It didn’t matter. “I’d like to get a hold of whoever did this and wring their neck.”
“I bet you would.” Frank opened the door for her. “Let’s get some coffee and get the sheriff out of here. Afterwards I’ll fix that broken window for you.” She tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted. “What are friends for?” He followed her into the kitchen.
The sheriff reclined in his chair and focused his eyes on Abigail after she’d said her say. He asked if anyone had seemed unhappy with her over the articles. She told him of her run in with Mason three days before. “Humph, well, all I can tell you, Mrs. Sutton, is to keep your doors locked and I’ll let you know if I find out anything.” He had a toothpick between his lips he kept moving around. He said he was trying to quit smoking for about the hundredth time. “Do you want me to stake out your place for a day or two and see who shows up?”
“You could do that, Sheriff,” Frank interrupted gently. “But I have it covered.” There was a firmness in his eyes the sheriff couldn’t argue with.
“Have it your way, Frank. Just keep me posted on anything further else which develops. I’ll go and take care of the paperwork for this incident.” He looked at Abigail with cool eyes. Today his manner had been strictly business. He wasn’t acting like his usual charming fawning self. What a relief. “You’re gathering quite a file, young lady. Somebody doesn’t like you much.”
Abigail wondered if the sheriff was one of them. He couldn’t be happy about what had been written in the newspaper about his father-the-womanizer and how he’d taken advantage of Emily all those years ago. It had to be embarrassing at the least.
After the sheriff left, she and Frank cleaned up the broken glass and he made a trip to the hardware store for supplies and put in a new pane of glass for her.
“When I was in town,” Frank said, as he was finishing the job, “I tried to see John. To have a word with him about the way he treated you last time. But his store was closed up. In the middle of a weekday. Very unusual. He’s always there. I went by his house, rang the front door bell, and peeked in the windows. There was no one around. His car’s gone. And
no one’s seen him today. I asked.”
“Now that is strange.” It bothered her that Mason wasn’t at his store the day the newspaper came out and someone left slaughtered birds on her porch. What was that about? Ever since their run in she’d had an odd feeling about Mason. Claudia had said he’d been in love with Emily all those years ago. Suddenly everything he’d ever said to her, the way he’d look at her, was interested in her, had a different meaning. If she looked so much like Emily it made sense now. Perhaps Mason thought she was Emily come back? To haunt him? For revenge? Now that was too spooky for thought.
“He could be away on a trip or a vacation. People do leave town for one reason or another, you know,” Frank offered.
“I know. But I’d feel better if you’d been able to see him and gauge his reaction to what happened this morning. See if he acted guilty. I don’t like his vanishing act. He’s been lying. You know as well as me he knew Emily back then. Real well. Maybe he knows something more.” Perhaps he knows Edna killed them, but why would he hide that knowledge?
“Then I’ll keep checking his business and home until I can speak with him.
“And I’ve been thinking, Abby, about Brown. Since our visit with him I’ve come to the conclusion something about his reaction to the deaths rang phony. We need to speak to him again. He’s hiding something. I know it. He could be your thief and vandal… except…he lives so far away. Quite a distance to come just to scare you. And the person who threw the rock and killed the birds only meant to frighten you. Make you stop prying into Emily and the children’s murders. They could have hurt you just as easily, but they didn’t.”
“Instead they hurt defenseless innocent little creatures. It’s despicable.”
“I agree. Terrible.”
Frank stayed for sandwiches and later, tired of discussing her troubles, Abigail asked if he’d heard anything more on his novel.
“No, nothing yet. I called my agent the other day and she reminded me it takes time, especially for a first novel. An editor’s looking at it and you can’t push an editor. They’ll read my book as soon as they can get to it. My agent was polite about it, but I sensed she was a little peeved at me for bothering her. So I wait.
“By the way, when I was in the hardware store, the owner wanted to know why I needed the glass so I told him. He’s been following the stories in the newspaper and admires you for searching for the truth. He didn’t charge me a penny for the glass. Says you’re a town heroine. He has kids and can’t stomach anyone who’d kill children. He said he never cared for Edna and called her a cold fish. Oh, and he wants you to paint a picture of his family, when you have the time. One of his customers has been raving about the picture you did for her. Wow, your reputation is growing. Maybe someday I’ll know a famous artist,” he teased.
The news, along with the fixed window, helped pull her out of the dumps. “Another picture. If my freelancing keeps going this well I’ll never have to work a real job again.”
“I’m happy for you,” Frank said. “I have a proposal. Let’s go for a motorcycle ride. The fresh air will do you good. I’ll throw in a hot fudge sundae later in town. My treat. I’ll go home and get the Gold Wing and pick you up in about twenty minutes?”
“You fixed my window, how can I refuse? A ride will do me good. Twenty minutes will give me time to grab a shower and get ready. Thanks, Frank. For everything.”
He left and Abigail took a quick shower. Quick not only because Frank was coming back soon, but because she was so sure the sound of the water spray was masking the noises of someone breaking in. She kept turning off the water and listening, her heart hammering. It was the fastest shower she’d ever taken. Then, when she was dressed and ready to go, she sat on the porch swing breathing in the fresh air, her eyes staying away from the birdhouses. She was glad Frank would return any moment.
The day was a hot one, the sun blazing. It’d started out balmy, now it was humid. Sweat trickled down her collar and along the sides of her face. She was tired of the heat and wanted fall and cooler weather to come. It was the end of summer. Labor Day was the following weekend and so too another holiday picnic which Frank kept bragging about.
Time. How quickly it went. She’d been in town over two months, but felt as if she’d always lived and belonged here. She thought, her present problems and petty vandalisms aside, Spookie had become her home. If someone was tormenting her, he or she would grow weary of it eventually, or the sheriff or Frank would catch them. Abigail had confidence in Frank, if not in the sheriff. If anyone could solve this thing, Frank could. This too shall pass. Abigail gazed out past the trees and the road. Maybe there shouldn’t be any more Emily Summers newspaper stories. Frank was right, it’d become too dangerous. Let the past stay dead and buried. What ever happened to those three would probably never be known. The mystery never solved.
The sound of the engine preceded the motorcycle, its throaty growl rushing through the woods to prompt her to her feet. A soothing ride, breezes in her hair and on her face was what she needed. To be free. Hopefully she’d outrun the dead bird images stuck in her mind.
Frank rode up, a big smile behind his clear facemask. “I see you’re ready. Jump on.” He didn’t ask if she’d locked the house up and that gave him points with her.
“Where are we going?” She climbed behind him and placed her feet on the foot pegs. In a yellow T-shirt, blue jeans, tennis shoes and her hair in a ponytail, she’d dressed for comfort.
“Remember the scenic route I told you about which curves around the lake behind my property?”
“Uh, huh.” She put the helmet on he’d handed her.
“That’s where we’re going. A wonderful ride. I’ve ridden it twice. It takes about three hours, but it’s worth it. The panorama is lush and the lake is lovely. Afterwards we can get ice cream or a meal if you want. Is that all right with you?”
“It’s all right with me. Lead on.” Touching him on the shoulder, she grinned behind her mask. Picturesque beauty, open roads, an azure sky, and no storm clouds in sight, she thought, here we come. She’d planned on painting her future art studio, but it could wait. Frank was trying to cheer her up and she was going to let him. After the newspaper story and her shaky morning, perhaps it was best if she were gone for the day. If she was gone, no one could get to her.
Riding the country roads around the lake, they enjoyed the cooler air and made small talk over their helmets’ CBs, cherishing the scents and resonance of the summer day.
They stopped to stretch their legs, sitting by the edge of the lake on a broken length of tree trunk. “I love it out here.” Weaving and playing with a blade of grass between her fingers, Abigail’s eyes scanned the horizon. “It’s so peaceful and makes you feel close to God. It makes it hard to believe anything bad can happen in a world so beautiful, or that humans could harm other humans.”
“You’re brooding about Emily and her kids again, aren’t you?” he chided.
“I can’t stop. We all love a good murder mystery, don’t we? But if you think about it all it really boils down to one human being killing another. It’s gruesome.”
“I feel the same way, Abby, and it’s one of the reasons I don’t miss being a homicide detective. I don’t miss the crime, the brutality and the murders. Oh, I miss helping people; finding a killer and bringing him to justice gives a closure, a sort of peace, to the victims, but I don’t miss the rest of it.”
“You don’t?” Abigail tilted her head in the sunlight, eyes on Frank’s suntanned face.
“Well, I might miss the challenge of piecing the clues together and solving cases. Like an intricate puzzle, it takes patience and attention to details. It’s exciting at times. But I’m older now and I sure as heck don’t miss the kind of scum, idiot or brilliant, I had to deal with. Evil does have a face and unfortunately sometimes it’s human. You talk about the innocence of nature, yet it’s the absence of man which makes nature so beautiful and pure. That’s why I love being out here among t
he trees, water and sky, just like you.”
“You’re too deep for me, my friend.” Abigail cradled her helmet in her arms, staring at the pearl whiteness of it and mulling on human evil and Emily Summers. The killing of children.
Frank picked his helmet up off the ground where he’d laid it. “Now you’re thinking about the Summers again, those kids, aren’t you?”
She made a face at him and shrugged. “Are you a mind reader or what?”
He smiled. “Nah, I’m only perceptive. You had that unhappy look again on your face. You had to be thinking about the Summers.”
“I have this feeling,” she hesitated for a moment as if looking for a way to put her thoughts into words, “call it a premonition, that there is something important we’re overlooking.”
“We could be. Nothing is ever as simple as it appears. I’m still going to talk to John when we get back tonight if I can find him. I want to talk to Brown again, see where he was this morning…and have another conversation with the sheriff. I’m going make a couple other calls.”
“Thanks, Frank, for all your help. And thanks for this ride today. It’s given me time to clear my mind and remember I’m alive and the Summers are dead and I don’t want to end up that way. Their lives and deaths are in the past. My life is now. I have to remember that.”
“No one’s going to hurt you. I’ll protect you.”
She didn’t need to answer because she knew he meant it. It was just the sort of man Frank was. She felt safe with him. They climbed back on the motorcycle, continuing their ride, and afterwards stopped at Stella’s for cheeseburgers. Stella was off for the night and her grandson waited on them. He had extra copies of the article and had to sit down and give them his theories on who might have done it.
“I think old lady Edna killed those kids,” the boy voiced his opinion. “Most people can’t imagine her doing such a thing, but I can. In the summers I worked part time at the grocery store when old lady Edna was still alive. I used to run groceries out to her, about once a month, for Mr. Mason. She was the only customer he did that for. I had to make sure she received the food in person and gave me a hand-written receipt back that she had. I got paid five bucks each time so I didn’t complain. I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Anyways,” Stella’s grandson went on, “old lady Edna never once asked me to come in or gave me a drink or even thanked me, no matter how terrible the weather was. She was one unfriendly old bat. She had these squinty eyes and always acted so grouchy, complaining and crabbing about everything. As if I cared. I was only delivering her groceries. Oh yeah, I can believe she killed those kids. What a witch.”
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