Chapter 17
Abigail covered her eyes and squinted against the general store’s window. She was careful not to let her plaster cast touch the glass. It’d been four days since she’d broken her arm and it was the first time she’d gotten out. Her arm was sensitive, and any pressure at all, even jostling the cast made her wince. She’d driven one handed into Chalmers for groceries, grateful, as she’d been since the accident that she’d broken her left arm instead of her right because she was right handed.
On the return trip she’d swung into town to see if Mason had reopened his store. He hadn’t. It was locked, empty, dark and silent. Her watercolors were inside and she wanted them back. He’d picked a heck of a time to go on a long vacation, which, according to the hardware storeowner next door, was exactly what he’d done. He’d be back next week. Maybe. The least he could have done was left someone in charge of the store and kept it open. The town needed it. Wasn’t there a law against closing a store which was the only one in town, without any advance notice, like that…like there was a law against a hospital or a police force going on strike, or something? Nah, maybe not. It was his store and she guessed he could do what he wanted with it.
She’d decided she didn’t want her artwork in his store any longer. The way he looked at her, the lies she’d caught him in and the way he was behaving since the last newspaper article had finally convinced her to cut her losses and run. He wanted something from her she wasn’t able to give. But he’d slipped away and she hadn’t been able to retrieve her artwork. She wanted them back. There were two other businesses offering to showcase and sell them for her and she needed the money.
Walking away from the closed store, her arm hurt more than it had when she’d gotten up that morning. It was probably time to go home and rest. Pop a few more of those pain pills. She couldn’t use them when she was driving or walking or…awake. They knocked her out. From now on she’d have more sympathy for anyone who had a broken anything. Every chore took twice as long to do and people thought you were an invalid, as if you couldn’t take care of yourself.
Frank had been a pest since the accident. He blamed himself and no matter what she said he bent over backward being sweet to her to assuage his guilt. He’d brought her homemade soup, stew and had baked a cake. He had baked a cake. Washed her dishes. Watched her house at night when he didn’t think she knew. He had driven her crazy with helpfulness and protectiveness until she shoved him out yesterday and told him she appreciated his attention but she needed her privacy back. She was going to be fine. He’d finally gone, with his puppy dog face and his head lowered.
As she was trudging to her car she saw Myrtle with her wagon in front of Stella’s. Her curiosity was too much for her, she had to talk to the old woman, hurting arm or not. She hadn’t seen Myrtle since that bizarre night in the woods.
“Abigail Sutton!” Myrtle yelped, looking over at her. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?” Her print housedress, yellow with white flowers, looked about five sizes too large and hung, practically touching the ground, on the old woman’s frail frame. A thick belt kept it from falling off. Her hair had been dyed raven black, re-permed into tight ringlets, and it looked so odd with the tiny wrinkled face, yet Abigail would never tell Myrtle that.
“Myrtle, yes it has. How was your gambling excursion?”
“Lousy. I lost fifty bucks. That’s my limit and I come home. Except I didn’t come home straight away, as you know. Us women went on a joy ride across the state visiting relatives. We even stayed at a bed and breakfast with the best homemade vittles I’ve ever had and we watched the eagles fly in Alton. We stayed away much longer than planned. I had a good time, though, and at my age, that’s a feat. I take it where I can get it these days.
“Unlike that rock of a sister of mine who refuses to leave that mausoleum of hers for any reason. I get so angry with her. She never wants to go anywhere. The whole world’s out there. If you’re alive and can still walk, ya need to go out and enjoy it.” She spread her stick-skinny arms out wide and did a little jig right there in the street.
Abigail laughed.
“Sorry about your broken arm there.” Myrtle gently patted Abigail’s cast. “I heard about your accident. Better be careful. Those motorbikes are death traps. I hear you’ve been busy. The rock saved the newspaper articles on the Summers’ family for me. You found graves and missing diary pages, you’re unraveling the mystery, ha, and you being a stranger. It was so long ago, but I can’t fathom they’ve been dead all this time. You want to know what I think?”
“Give it to me.”
“Emily’s mysterious boyfriend killed her and Edna killed those kids or they did it in cahoots. I’ve always thought Edna had done something terrible, but conjecturing and knowing are two different kettles of fish. Most people can’t tell who the bad ones are. I can. I can see behind their masks.” She winked. “Now, dearie, tell me about those dead birds the other day.”
Abigail did, positioning Myrtle and her in the shade of Stella’s Diner and off the hot sunny street.
“Whoa, someone’s pissed at you.” Myrtle tittered. “You hit someone’s raw nerve.” The old woman peered into Stella’s window, a yearning look on her face.
“Were you going into Stella’s for some lunch?” Abigail asked.
“I was thinking of it. I got a terrible craving for a piece of Stella’s banana cream pie. It’s the best in the county. I love banana cream pie, but I forgot my money, so I have to pass.” Her mouth fell into a mock frown and her face was pathetic. She sent a sly glance towards Abigail.
“I have money, Myrtle. How about we go in and, my treat, have pie and coffee? You’re the reason I found those graves and Jenny’s diary and I’ve never had a chance to thank you. We can catch up on everything. It’s hot out here and my arm is giving me a fit.”
Myrtle agreed without protest and the two went into Stella’s, which was already decorated in stars and stripes bunting for the coming weekend festivities. Frank was right, holidays were a town obsession. But Abigail had decided she liked it. She reminded herself to put the flag Frank had bought her on her front porch when she got home.
When they’d settled in a booth, the wagon parked besides them because she refused to leave it unprotected outside, Myrtle broadcasted, “I can’t wait until the Labor Day picnic this weekend. I eat a bowl of chili and sample every pie in every booth.” Her expression clouded. “Last year I got pretty sick and threw up all over one of them pie booths.”
“Perhaps this year,” Abigail suggested kindly. “You ought to limit the pie, to be safe.”
“I can’t. I love pie. I got to eat everyone I see. I steal pie. Sometimes I…steal things.”
Her manner reminded Abigail of a simple child. The old lady was worse than she’d ever seen her. She flinched every time there was a noise, her eyes darting here and there. One minute she’d be conversing as if she knew where she was and who she was with and the next minute her mind and attention would be wandering or completely gone and nonsense would tumble out of her lips.
Abigail tried not to chuckle when she suddenly sang out Perry Como at the top of her lungs. Hot diggity, dog diggity, look what you do to me! The older people in the back joined in, laughing and acting as if the sing-a-long was a normal occurrence. Maybe it was.
Stella came over to take their order. “Myrtle, a little off key today aren’t we?”
“Mind your own business, you music Nazi!” Myrtle pouted, turning her head away.
Stella ignored the old woman and spoke to Abigail, “I read that latest story, Abigail. Whew, it’s been better than my soaps. I heard about you and Frank’s accident the other evening, too. Sorry to hear about it. Good thing the only injury was your arm. It could have been worse. Motorcycles are unsafe. You couldn’t get me on one if I was dying. What can I get you guys?”
Myrtle sang until their pie came. Then she was too busy stuffing her mouth to do anything else. She wanted a second piece and Abigail indulged her, but sto
pped it at two pieces using the that’s-all-the-money-I-have-on-me excuse. It worked.
“I’ve been trying to get my artwork out of Mason’s store,” Abigail told Myrtle. “But it’s closed and has been for a week. No one’s seen John Mason at all.”
“I have,” Myrtle announced. “I seen him slinking around town. He don’t want nobody to know but he’s here. He hides behind the trees.” The woman turned wide eyes on her companion. “Not fat trees, the skinny ones, because he can make his body into a stick. He can fly sometimes, too.”
“You’ve seen him?” Abigail played along. Myrtle was agitated and she didn’t want to upset her more. The second piece of banana cream pie must have gone straight to her brain and shorted it out. Too much sugar. Myrtle met her gaze and the old lady’s forehead creased as if she were trying to recall something important.
“I saw him yesterday down behind those trees around the pond by the courthouse.”
“Oh, then I’ll be sure to watch out for him.”
“Be careful,” Myrtle admonished. “He’s really mad at you. You found the graves. He was Emily’s boyfriend. When Emily was still alive, that is.”
“You’re right, he was one of them anyway. How did you know that?”
“I saw them kissing once, many years ago. I liked Emily. It was all such a pity. She had all that money and your house. Now she’s dead.” Myrtle must have seen many people come and go in her life. She carried a lot of ghosts with her. That must be what it was like to be old.
Martha came into Stella’s and spotting them, hurried over. “Hi, Abigail. Myrtle.”
Myrtle sprung from her seat. “Gotta go! The white wolf will gobble me up if I stay one more second. He’ll find me for sure.” Aside to Abigail, “Thanks for the pie, dearie. Remember what I said.” And she was gone out the door and into the sunshine, her wagon bumping along behind her.
“Myrtle doesn’t believe in long goodbyes does she?” remarked Abigail.
“No, she doesn’t much care for me, is what it is. Since she caught me making fun of her one day behind her back, she’s avoided me ever since. Nutty old woman.”
Martha sat down and, seeing the empty pie plates, sniggered. “She played that I-don’t-have-any-money-on-me-can-you-spare-me-a-piece-of-pie con on you, didn’t she?”
“She did.”
“That old broad is a tilt-a-whirl trip.” Martha examined Abigail’s wounded arm with her eyes. “Okay, enough about crazy women, how are you doing?”
“My arm hurts.”
“I can see that by your pained mien. Can I sign your cast?”
“No. I prefer my plaster uncluttered and creamy white, thank you.”
“Alrighty. You’re no fun. When I was a kid I broke my leg by falling out of a tree. All I recall was how god-awful it hurt and how the cast itched me to death the whole time it was on. Believe me after that I never climbed another tree. I heard you did that on a motorcycle?”
“Does the whole town know about everything that happens to me all the time?”
“Yep. That’s a small town for you. Now tell me the entire story of what happened from the beginning. And don’t leave out any of the juicy details.”
Abigail gave her a condensed account of the accident and of the rock and dead bird incident.
Martha flagged Stella down and ordered a hamburger and coffee. Someone in the rear of the diner yelled hello to her and she yelled hello back and returned her attention to Abigail. “I’m worried about you. I don’t think that accident was an accident. You should come and stay with me for a while, or at least until they catch whoever it is playing those dirty tricks on you. Next time you might not be so lucky to get away with only dead birds on your porch or a broken arm.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need to hide. I have Frank. He doesn’t know I know, but he’s been staking out my place playing secret sentry. Even after I told him to stop.” She peered out the window, a slow smile forming. “It wouldn’t surprise me to see him sneaking around outside somewhere. Talking of men…how’s Ryan?”
“Ryan wants us to get married,” Martha mouthed between bites.
“Really?” Abigail tried to focus, but her arm was aching and she wanted to go home.
“I’ve been having so much fun dating him, he treats me so well, I’m afraid to say yes. A man will give you anything, do anything, until he gets a ring on your finger and then–boom–you’re his slave and he starts treating you like a wife. Do this. Do that. They stop treating you like, well, a lover. I’ve been there, done that.”
“All marriages aren’t like that, Martha. Mine wasn’t. Joel and I were lovers and friends first. There wasn’t a day that passed when he didn’t leave me a love note, a flower, or a gift with an I love you attached. It got better each day. If it’s real love, marriage won’t spoil it.” The lump in Abigail’s throat threatened to surge into tears, feeling sorry for herself. It was a combination of missing Joel, pain from her broken arm, and a growing dread of something unknown rushing at her.
“You truly loved your husband, didn’t you? The story book kind of love?”
“Yes,” she said with a soft sigh. “I loved Joel more than anything in the world. One of life’s cruel jokes: it uncovers what you love and need the most and then takes it away from you.”
“You were lucky to have had him as long as you did, Abby.” There was envy mingling with compassion in Martha’s smile. She, too, had begun to call her Abby. “True love. Most people never have that. I know I never have.”
Martha paused. “I hear John Mason has up and gone without leaving a forwarding address or saying any goodbyes and he did it about the time of the last Summers’ newspaper article. What do you think that’s all about?”
When speaking to Martha, friend or not, Abigail had learned whatever she told her today everyone in town would know tomorrow. There were things with the Summers’ story she didn’t want to get out. Not yet. “I don’t really know why Mason left town or why. Someone told me he went on vacation.”
“That’s a good one. This weekend is the big Labor Day celebration. The town merchants make a pot of money. John Mason has never missed making money. I think something in the stories scared him off for some reason. I’d sure like to know what it was.”
Martha had gobbled her lunch. “I hate leaving good company, but I have paperwork to do. I’ll see you at the picnic Saturday. I’ll drag you to the best chili and pie booths. I know them well.” She glanced at her thighs with a frown. “Now take care of that arm and stay out of traffic. Ciao.”
“I will to both,” Abigail promised. “Bye.” She watched her friend leave money and exit the restaurant.
Her pain had become a silent shadow, constantly there, so Abigail paid her pie bill, bid farewells to Stella and to her grandson, cooking in the back, and drove home. After making sure the house was locked up around her, she downed pain pills and fell asleep on the sofa. Snowball was snoring on her chest and the wooden club was tucked in the crease of the sofa on her left side.
She slept through the afternoon, evening and night and dreamed Joel came to her back door. She was so happy to see him she ran into his arms and into nothingness. Standing in the open door she glimpsed Joel at the end of the yard. It was night and there was barely a faint sliver of moon, yet Joel was encircled in a globe of glimmering light, so he was easy to see. Oh, how she’d missed him! He was gesturing her to follow and she did. She followed him through the woods and the sleeping trees to Jenny’s and Christopher’s tree house. The tree was still intact, untouched by lightning, towering and hulking dark above them. Joel halted at the graves, which were aglow in a soft blanket of radiance.
But there were nine graves with wooden headstones when she remembered there being only three. Joel was hovering behind the first one and she walked towards it. It was Emily’s grave.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked Joel. “Why have you brought me here?”
The dream Joel had only smiled grimly and moved on to the next grave.
She followed him. It was Jenny’s grave. The third grave was Christopher’s. Abigail, sick sensation clawing in her chest, went to the fourth grave. Edna Summers was scratched on it. The fifth grave Norma’s. The sixth and seventh graves were Emily’s parents.
Abigail was terrified of going any further. She didn’t want to look at the remaining two graves, but Joel insisted. In life she’d never been able to deny Joel and in the dream it was the same. The eighth grave was Joel’s. As she watched, tears welling in her eyes and her throat closing with uncried sobs, her husband threw her a kiss and sunk through the dirt into his grave. He was gone. And then she wept. Joel was truly dead. She’d known it for months, but for some reason it hurt more each day and it finally and forever came home at that moment.
The ninth grave was open, waiting, and as she stared into the hole, footsteps in the leaves behind her alerted her someone was there. When she swung around it was a man or a woman. She couldn’t make out the face because the person was in the shadows. She couldn’t tell if the person was short or tall, because the image flickered like a flame.
“I’ve dug nine graves and the ninth has been waiting for you,” the husky voice rasped. Without warning, the shadow person shoved her into it. She screamed and struggled but no one heard. She tried to climb out yet she couldn’t. Her body was a frozen lump stuck in the fresh earth. The shadow cackled above her and shoveled in the dirt until her world went black.
Abigail woke up screaming until she realized she was on her couch in her house. Safe. She’d been dreaming again. The pain pills gave her the most awful nightmares. It was morning and someone was knocking. Putting on her robe, she answered the door.
It was Frank, a box of donuts in his hands. “I knew you were awake. I heard the screaming. Nightmares again, huh?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she groused, pushing her uncombed hair off her face. She let him in. “I’ll go make coffee.” She padded off to the kitchen.
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