As I’ve said, I have very mixed feelings about being related to these nut-cases.
Just how weird the Stowalls were was vividly illustrated to me last month during an investigation into who killed Ada Stowall, the woman whose place I took at the first bee I attended. That investigation not only led to the discovery of who killed Ada, but also to the fact that Ada and her equally mentally disturbed and disturbing husband Luke had imprisoned their son Eddie in their basement in a small chamber of horrors for years.
Most of the events of the Ada investigation had spun out atop Cleveland County plateau, between San Diego and Imperial counties. A mile-high county, its size and isolation from the rest of Southern California made it a force to be reckoned with in California politics--but more about that later.
Back to my thought to call Hannah: with all Hannah had on her plate now--three children she homeschooled and a farm to run--Hannah was now also taking care of her comatose mom at home. In fact, it had been only two days since Hannah had brought her mother Ruth McMichaels home from Cleveland County General hospital. So I didn’t feel I could enlist her help to any great degree about Abigail, but hoped a chat wouldn’t hurt.
To clarify, I’d first met Ruth at the Quilted Secrets bee and I’d really connected with the cantankerous old woman. She was happily irreverent—which I thought of as a state of rude wisdom I might achieve one day if I lived long enough.
So I was doing my own grieving over Ruth’s suspended state, and wouldn’t have bothered Hannah and her family at all except that Hannah had once worked in a child psychiatrist’s office and I was hoping she’d gained some on-the-job insight into teens and their concerns. I wasn’t disappointed.
“How’s your mom, Hannah?”
“Better.”
I pressed my luck, and probably her comfort zone.
“Is she responding?”
Hannah sighed deeply and said in her darkest chocolate voice, “Not that you’d notice.”
So, what? She was responding clairvoyantly? Telepathically? Psychically?
Okay, I understand this is my problem. There was really zero proof that Ruth McMichaels was anything magical. I just needed to believe she was. It some how rounded out my world.
And she sent me a dream once…. Not to mention answering my unspoken questions time and time again.
“I really feel responsible…”
“Stop it, Rachel, okay? How could you be responsible? Because we asked you to research Ada’s death and my mom called to give you information? And while trying to do that she had a stroke? Or because you were attacked by another car on the way home and ended up in the hospital and under heavy medication for a week?”
“No, no Hannah, but if I hadn’t been so focused on the research your mom and I might have connected better, I could have….”
“What? Flown fifty miles east on your broom and rescued my mom in person?”
“What? No. I just mean….”
“Rachel, this is all the past. It’s done. Now we are here.” Zen.
And it does no good to review our mistakes when the here and now is so needy, unless that review might help in the present.
Were those my own mother’s words? Or Hannah’s mother’s words? Clairvoyant Ruth.
I was still waiting for Hannah to respond to my reference to what everyone thought of as Ruth’s psychic abilities. I wasn’t alone in this thought about Ruth.
Hannah did avoidance. Changed the topic.
“Did I tell you we know where Eddie is?”
“What!”
“Calm down. He’s far away.”
My eyes must have bugged out of my head because she saw them all the way from Vista. Eddie and I had history.
I should explain Eddie Stowall here. In fact I should explain the whole Stowall family.
Victoria Stowall is the head of the Quilted Secrets sewing group that I first met at the beginning of the month. This group meets the first Saturday night of every month from September to June to assist each other with their quilts. She and her late husband Jake (who died last month) had seven children; three boys and four girls. The boys are named Mark, Luke and John, and the girls are Martha, Anne, Mary and Sarah.
It’s not clear which of the first two Stowall boys actually sired Eddie, Mark or Luke, but Luke was the man who raised him along with Eddie’s mother Ada.
Mark died in a drunken brawl with his younger brother Luke--over Ada. Apparently both Mark and Luke were having sex with Ada during the time Eddie was conceived. Luke did time in prison over Mark’s death. Immediately upon his release from prison, Luke married Ada, thus he ended up raising the boy.
It had taken me two weeks to discover these normally public facts, but the influence of the Stowall family had kept them hidden from all but those who were alive back when the events happened.
Again, Ada was the woman whose death I was investigating at the beginning of October. During that perilous investigation I uncovered much of the mystery of the Jake Stowall family.
Eddie Stowall is the only grandchild of Victoria for reasons I won’t get into here. More importantly he’s the guy I had a serious run in with last month that resulted in our both being shot. Latisha Harper made earlier reference to the bad business between us and the resultant shootout.
Last time I saw him Eddie was bathed in shadows so I really couldn’t tell you just what color he was. But the issue of his color was important enough for his mother to have sewn a representation of him onto the final square of her final quilt as a multi-ethnic character of questionable gender.
Mary and her two older sisters have been actively assisting their nephew Eddie, both financially and logistically. They spirited the wounded Eddie out of the Cleveland County hospital and sent him off to relatives in New York State, effectively evading possible consequences for the shooting business. I should be angry at them. But I’m not. I’m frankly relieved. I felt very conflicted about my part in the shooting.
Because I know Eddie Stowall is deeply damaged by a lifetime of abuse, and may not be able to tell who is friend or foe in his world. Perhaps that’s why he shot at me. Perhaps.
As I’ve said, Ruth McMichaels is Victoria Stowall’s sister and Hannah Lilly’s mother.
It is a decidedly inbred quilting group, so to speak. Way past nepotistic.
“Where is he?” I said.
“I realize this is upsetting, but you need to know. Eddie is in upstate New York, Fort Alden to be exact. Mary told me. That in itself is astounding. The sisters and I have rarely communicated, like almost never. She also wanted to ask after my mom, of course.
“But then she told me Eddie is living with a Stowall cousin in New York and that he’s become quite the cause célèbre. Apparently, and this is the strange part, the cousin thinks Eddie is white.”
“He is white. Part.” And black, and yellow, and possibly red.
“Which cousin?”
“A guy named Samuel Stowall. He sounds like he’s quite rich, socializes with the aristocracy of New York State politics. They hang out together at a local English Pub with half of the political and business royalty of that part of the state. It’s called the Tut Pub, or maybe the Pun Tavern, I can’t remember which. One of them is a descendant of Benedict Arnold. Mary mentioned someone named Walter Butler.”
“Why do they think he’s a cause célèbre?”
“Because to those Easterners he was in a Wild Western style shootout. Anyway, the good citizens of Fort Alden are all riled up over the casino the Seneca Indians want to build in Cherry Valley.
“Some of the Cherry Valley folks are investors in the planned Seneca Casino but quite a few of the local organizations and surrounding communities are doing their best to block it, especially Fort Alden proper.
“Mary says they’re described as an uptight bunch of evangelicals who don’t believe in gambling and drinking, or even dancing. But when I checked the situation out online it seems there’s more of an intergovernmental feud going on—at least behin
d the scenes.”
“Anyway, Eddie seems to have jumped into the deep end with this bunch in New York. Mary says he sent her a cell phone picture of his new duds. He was all dressed up in a tux.”
“To go to a pub?”
“No, of course not. The Samuel Stowalls entertain on a grand scale. They wanted him to feel comfortable at their estate events, thus the tux. I find this all fascinating. Did I mention I’ve enrolled for PI classes at the school you went to down in San Diego?”
She snuck this last comment in on a stealth Predator drone. So stealth I almost missed it. She heard me inhale sharply.
“I’ll still have time to work with you guys. Okay?”
“Hannah! You’ve got tons on your plate.”
Home school three children and run a small farm, take care of your sick mom twenty-four seven, clean house, and now attend classes. Yeah, that sounds like a typical American woman.
I had a feeling she was working her way up to asking if she could formally apprentice with us. The State of California requires private investigators to do a lot of time apprenticing with a licensed investigations firm, and usually this activity is encouraged to begin after only a few classes.
“When do your classes begin?”
“First one is Tuesday. I’m really excited. Pete…well, he’s supportive.”
“Uh-huh. So he’s worried.”
“Yeah. But I promised him I’d avoid violent situations.”
“Uh-ha.” So did I. Remembering I had a purpose for the phone call, I moved us on.
Chapter 19
“And the kids? How are they?”
“Great. They’re great. Deborah and I just finished reading Pride and Prejudice together. Samuel is working on an improved chicken coop with his dad. Value is mastering crocheting. We now have fifty percent coverage of all head and arm rests on our farm. Be sure to compliment them when you come to visit.”
I smiled. I thought I remembered their ages were ten, eight and four, respectively. I could just imagine what a four-year-old’s crocheting looked like. But I still didn’t know the gender of Value. Val could as easily be a female name as a male. But maybe crocheting was a clue, this usually being a female activity.
“I’m glad they’re doing well, Abigail isn’t.” Okay, that was way too abrupt. Speaking of Predator Drones.
Another pause.
“Abigail…? What’s wrong?”
I sighed, unsure of what I should tell her. Or even if I should bother her with all she had on her mind.
“Rachel, you called me, remember. So cut to the chase, I’m prepared.”
“I know you’ve heard about the terrible car accident up on Cleveland County, the one that claimed…”
“Yes, yes. Half the world has. A terrible thing. And?”
“And Abigail snuck off and enrolled herself in classes at Pinto Springs High this past Wednesday.”
Another pause as Hannah digested the news about the youngest, perhaps brightest member of the quilting circle. For Hannah, as a homeschooling parent, the prospect of homeschooled Abigail enrolling herself into high school must have carried even more freight.
“Uh, oh. Not good. Gloria must be having a conniption. But…now the school’s involved. And…Gloria called you.”
See what I mean? Hannah is very sensitive and intuitive.
“Gloria has asked us to help her. She sent us in to retrieve Abigail from school yesterday. I don’t have to tell you that did not go well. Anyway, Abigail just called and we ended up making plans to do a little shopping together, go to lunch. So I’m looking for guidance Hannah, maybe some approaches I might take so I don’t make matters worse.”
“What specifically do you see happening at this meeting-slash-shopping trip?” Hannah said.
“Great question. Abigail is very angry, and she sounded just now like that anger is morphing into depression. My knowledge of the world says teens get depressed fairly easily. This conflict with her mom over her schooling, coming in the midst of this horrific auto accident, I’m thinking this is a dangerous combination. I was at the school yesterday and they’re experiencing an emotional tsunami on campus.”
“Right. So you’re looking for guidance on how to talk to a potentially suicidal teenager.” She wasn’t asking.
“Yes. I don’t want to add to her inner turmoil, if that isn’t to cliché a description.”
“Probably the definition of adolescence, inner turmoil. But avoiding adding to any feelings she may have is easy. Say as little as possible. Just listen. Don’t take her side. Don’t play mom. Don’t play any kind of authority. Stay neutral. Listen. How is Gloria?”
Listen. Don’t talk.
“Pressing her back to the wall.”
“Right.” She inhaled deeply. “She’ll lose this one, even if only temporarily. And the reason she’ll lose is because it sounds like no one knows why Abigail went to school in the first place yet. But the thing to keep in mind is the authorities will probably be on her doorstep Monday. And not just the school.”
Find out what drove her to enter public school in the first place.
“I already met a real nice gal from Social Services.”
“So have you recommended the HSLDA to Gloria? They can offer her legal advice if she decides to go there.”
“Right. HSLDA, is that Home School Law…?”
“Home School Legal Defense Association, and there’s a branch in California. I haven’t heard any religious statements from Abigail at our bees, so I don’t think the CHEA is appropriate for them. But if you have, that’s the Christian Home Educators Association. They might help out too.”
Legal assistance? Does Gloria want to go there?
“Anyway, one analogy which might help you is that you are holding up a mirror between them, but the mirror is two-way in both directions. So they can see their reflection superimposed on the image of the other’s reaction. It’s a difficult concept.”
Zen again.
“Abigail sees herself on one side of the issue and Gloria sees herself on the other--some how you have to get them to stand on the same side of the mirror and look at their dual image as they communicate with one another. Not easy.
“But I can’t stress this too much, Rachel, the school is going to come out swinging on Monday. Your job is first to help Gloria duck. Get her to step back, disengage. Then to seek help through other avenues. And maybe remind her that most kids do just fine in high school.
“And then maybe, if you can communicate with Abigail straight on, remind her that she is brilliant—which she is, Rachel. Trust me on this, Abby will get real bored in no time. And then you and Gloria will need to be on her side to help her get back out of public school when the time comes. She could easily skip high school and go straight to college even now, except for the age differences.”
Ah-ha. Legal assistance to get Abigail back out of the system.
But then Hannah added, “Unless…there’s a boy.”
Chapter 20
The mystery grandma at the top of the stairs came out of the shadows and let me fully see her. I’d arrived to pick up Abigail around noon for our shopping adventure. This time Nana escorted her granddaughter to the door.
She was careful. She was also a short, round oldster standing in a dark floral dress, and could have been any of a thousand Eastern Block women I remembered seeing in photographs after the fall of the Wall. I wondered where her babushka was.
She didn’t speak. English was beyond her ken according to what I’d heard. But Nana waved goodbye as we drove off, with a smile on her face.
Abigail looked a little better than yesterday. I couldn’t say her mood had brightened, but she seemed more focused, less frightened. She was wearing a tee with a Go-Chargers logo on the back, and jeans. I was wearing my L.L.Bean car coat with the removable lining. It was chilly up on the mountain again.
By now you’ve probably figured out that my accident of fifteen-days-ago and-counting had destroyed my previous vehicle. My belov
ed ten-year-old Ford Taurus station wagon had been totally demolished in that freeway bullet-ride. It took me ten days to make up my mind what car to replace it with because I really wanted another station wagon. But with the cost of gas skyrocketing, I’d decided on a Prius.
“So how does Mountain Springs sound? There are dozens of stores there to roam.”
“Whatever.”
“Are you shopping for anything in particular?”
“I can’t afford anything. My mom isn’t rich. Nurses never are. And my dad’s living off his disability check.” She stopped and looked at me.
“Can I share something with you that you won’t tell my mom?”
Important question of the day.
“Yes. If you tell me not to share something with her, I won’t.”
“Okay. Nana gave me a little money just now, so I could find some more…fashionable clothes.”
I smiled. “I like your Nana better and better.”
We parked close to the west entrance to the mall and began walking. She wasn’t warming up yet but I had hopes.
“So tell me the truth Abigail, you and your grandma really can communicate, right?”
She grinned. “Yeah. I learned enough Ukrainian and she learned enough English, so we sort of meet in the middle. But Nana and I pretend we can’t, just to spark Gloria’s firecracker.”
“Nana like’s to tease your mom?”
“We both do. I told you, Gloria’s a communist dictator. Except she isn’t, because she’s really anti-communist, but she can’t let go of the style of thinking, you know what I mean? Dictatorial. Frankly I think Nana is more comfortable with capitalism than my mother. She actually grew up in a free country, back in the thirties.
“She talks about how different things were in the Ukraine all the time. I think that’s why she gave me a little money.”
“Great. Let’s find something to spend it on.”
We approached and entered the magical world of all things new and pretty.
“Oh, no!” Abigail whispered.
Ripping Abigail, a Quilted Mystery novel Page 7
