Ripping Abigail, a Quilted Mystery novel

by Sullivan, Barbara

  “When were you going to share that juicy tidbit with me?”

  “What tidbit?” Of course I knew perfectly well that he meant Amanda, so I switched gears and told him what Latisha said about Luis.

  Chapter 49

  Buddy was the reason she’d found the courage to escape the homeschool life and foray into on-campus school life. Buddy, as it was turning out, might be the only good reason to stay.

  Listening carefully for Buddy’s return from the bathroom, Abigail took two steps inside to glance into Judi’s closet. And then a third, and a fourth.

  The now-dead Judi, she reminded herself, and reflexively clasped her hands in front of her in a pose of respect.

  Wow. All her clothes were colorful. No drab grays and tans for her. She had been about the colors of life! Not the drabness of modesty that her mother the Former Communist insisted she wear.

  The posters of current pop stars, of course--Miley was there, Hannah, Taylor, Adam, Justin…and some of them had been signed!

  She must have attended live concerts. How did she get back stage to get autographs?

  She even had a Lady GaGa poster.

  Then she spied Judi’s makeup table. It was just like a movie star’s with light bulbs all around the edges and a little padded stool in front. She had almost every color in the rainbow for eye shadow. Probably every color of lipstick available. Wow. Wow. Wow. She picked up one of the golden tubes and held it in her fingers as if it were really made of gold.

  “What’s up?”

  “Oh! Buddy. I was just…I mean, I was seeing…”

  “It’s okay. My mom is kind of stuck on leaving things the way they are for now. You know, like a memorial, like…she said she can still smell Judi in here. My dad is real worried about my mom. She’s like, losing it.”

  He turned away, rubbing at his eyes, and Abigail followed him into the living room.

  “I’m sorry Buddy. The door was open so I just found myself drifting in. Please. I didn’t mean any harm.” Damn! Their moment might never happen now.

  “I said it was fine. Give me a minute.”

  He stood by the front window staring out at the gloomy afternoon. It was so chilly Abigail was thinking….

  “Maybe it will snow. Do you think?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Buddy, if you want me to leave…?”

  “No! I want you here. I hate being alone in this house now, and my folks won’t be home until after five. Please, Abigail, stay with me.”

  “Of course, hon.”

  He smiled. She’d called him ‘hon’, an endearment her mother called her by…and used to use on her father, if she remembered correctly. She felt her face flame up.

  He put his hand on her chin and raised her face to his.

  “I like it,” was all he said.

  They stood in his living room, she was pressed up against his chest breathing like a gazelle after a sprint to safety, their lips inches apart. Would this be the moment? Would he finally kiss her?

  She placed her hands lightly on his chest and she could feel his heart beating as hard as hers--unison beats telegraphing their desires across the jungles. He smelled so sweet, so wonderful, a mixture of sweat and chewing gum.

  Suddenly she realized why she had her hands tucked between them. She felt funny about her breasts touching him. They were so small. And…and she could feel them tingling, she knew they were pointing at him.

  Their time together would run out if he didn’t hurry up and make his move. She leaned closer to him. He leaned toward her a little more.

  And finally they kissed.

  It was soft and warm, a little moist. She wondered if that’s the way her lips felt to him. They held their lips together for a full minute, just like Judi had told them to do.

  Judi.

  Judi had talked to them about kissing two months ago. She’d caught them clinging to each other in the side yard, after returning from one of the art classes, the ones Abigail and Buddy had taken over the summer. That was back when all they could do was stare into each others’ eyes.

  Abigail pushed herself back and looked at him through a thin layer of tears.

  His eyes shined, too, and the magic moment retreated. But it had happened. She wasn’t a dumb kissing-virgin any more.

  Chapter 50

  Friday, mid-morning

  “I thought you said you couldn’t get involved, that this was Pinto Springs’ jurisdiction.”

  I was addressing Cleveland County Sheriff’s Department Detective Tom Beardsley. We were standing outside Principal Forsyth’s office.

  “Some of the kids live out in the county,” Tom muttered.

  I was uncomfortable because I’d just added a third cup of coffee to the two I’d had this morning and I was wired enough to scrub down a couple of elephants.

  At the moment the Prince was entertaining a contingent of two sent by Homeland Security to investigate the possibility of terrorist involvement in the local kid gang and to evaluate the school’s perimeter. I knew this because the secretary had told me. Some how this made her feel important.

  This prompted a series of questions in my mind, uppermost of which once again was whether the school was thinking Muslim terrorists would work with home-grown gangs--or was the government thinking this?

  Of course, there are known links between the world’s drug habit and Al-Qaeda, the Taliban. But... was the American government now thinking that Al-Qaeda et al were infiltrating the South and Central American drug trade, and their extensions into our own country?

  A chilling thought indeed.

  Waiting in the wings out here with us was a task force of one sent by the FBI to assure the interrogations of the gang kids were done according to international law because some of the kids might be Mexican nationals. And there were a couple of lawyerly types--dark suits, big bellies—maybe the ACLU here to defend the rights of the two missing Native American girls, or to assure the Pintos boys were read their Miranda rights the moment it became apparent charges would be made. As soon as those thoughts passed through my head, I began wondering how the gang kids’ parents could afford lawyers. Maybe they’d been appointed in advance.

  I also noticed someone acting as an interpreter for the gang kids’ parents, speaking in rapid Spanish.

  Oh, and Pestilence. Pestilence was here.

  I should explain here the two feared Pinto Springs police detectives Pestilence and Famine. They were all that was left of an original Four Horsemen who had ruled the roost at PSPD DETDIV for nearly two decades until budget cuts had reduced them to two.

  Even though Matt insisted they were good cops, their physicalities repulsed me.

  Learner—dubbed the White Horseman of Pestilence--had a grease burn that draped over his nose and spilled onto one cheek. Rumor has it this was the result of a childhood kitchen accident. (More than once I’ve tried to picture this “accident”.)

  His pale skin also contained some internal poison physicians dubbed pustular psoriasis. Again, I’d looked it up. Ugly sores was my label.

  Mosby on the other hand was one missed meal away from starvation. Basketball-player-tall and weighing less than your average anorexic teeny-bopper, he gave gaunt a new image. And of course, this was the reason for his nom de guerre, the Black Horseman of Famine.

  I’d last seen the black walking stick in an autopsy theater and wondered at the time when they would put him up on one of the gurneys.

  But my distaste for these two detectives went deeper than their physical characteristics. I’m not that shallow. There was a dance the two did—seemed always to have done—that left me disliking them both. They constantly butted heads as if their individual survivals relied on their mutual antagonism. There was clearly some history I was missing between this black and white pas de deux.

  Maybe they were just staying in character—good cop, bad cop. A nonstop rehearsal.

  I winced as Learner turned a dead eye on me. His face was literally exploding. I wanted to reco
mmend stage makeup.

  In answer to my original question about why he was here, Tom said loud enough for Learner to hear, “I’m heading up a taskforce to work with Pinto Springs because the Indian girls are actually county residents.”

  Learner slid our way.

  I said, “Luis Lewis reports there’s increased chatter on the web talking of revenge.”

  Tom shook his head. “What do you think? We’re finally looking at the demise of our bastardized legal system here?”

  He was talking to Learner, who didn’t answer because it was clearly rhetorical. I wasn’t sure if Tom was referring to the people in the room with us or the influence of the internet on our thinking and general character.

  “So what brings you here?” Learner asked me from inches away. I almost shrank back.

  “We’re hoping for a moment with Dr. Forsyth to ask permission for Luis Lewis to remain on campus. He needs to keep an eye on Abigail.”

  “I’ll get him a volunteer tag from Captain Spangler. He knows Matt.”

  Strange. He was being nice. And then I realized this probably had more to do with my husband’s reach than my winning personality. I mused that the excessive official presence in the school’s administration offices this morning were no doubt in large part due to Matt’s efforts to get an Amber Alert going for the two missing Indian girls.

  Which hadn’t yet happened. I didn’t know why. My blood began to boil just thinking about this.

  The two men continued their conversation as if I wasn’t there. I hated that. Knowing Learner thought he’d effectively dismissed me, I stayed.

  “They’re checking IAFIS on some prints taken from these lovely boys, see if there’s any way we can hold them for questioning.” Learner.

  “Okay. You might want to include some of their fathers.” Tom.

  “Wish we could. Can’t prove they’re involved yet.” Learner.

  Three local reporters stepped in behind us, and Learner snapped his fingers at a patrolman holding up the doorsill.

  “Tell ‘em the presser will be held at ten. Get ‘em outside.” Learner.

  “He’s doing a press conference?” I asked.

  “No.” Learner, with full on dead-eye.

  I listened as the two men chatted each other up as if I weren’t there. My boiling brain pondered what I assumed was the stalling at the top.

  An Amber Alert is put out by the US Department of Justice. There were five basic requirements for an Amber Alert to be enacted.

  One, law enforcement has to confirm an abduction has taken place. More specifically, the abduction has to be a “stranger abduction.”

  Two, the child must be at risk for serious bodily harm or death.

  Three and four, sufficient descriptive information on the child must be available, and the child must be seventeen or younger.

  And five, then and only then would an NCIC (National Crime Information Center) data entry be made listing the Amber Alert, and would then be flashed throughout the United States. In special instances, other countries could be included in the official advisement to be on the lookout for the missing child.

  I’d been wondering who was holding up this process, so of course I asked.

  “My boss. You wanna’ talk to him? I’ll give you his number.”

  Was he serious? I couldn’t tell.

  “What’s the hang up?” Tom, deflecting.

  Learner sighed, and said, ticking points off on his fingers, “One, one of the parents claims the two girls have been threatening to run away for weeks, two there’s no threat of bodily harm--yet, and three, these girls apparently have never had their pictures taken.”

  “Even at school?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer, but he made eye contact with Secretary Chrissie Prichard, who’d been listening. She turned and retrieved a couple of year books from the shelf behind her. Prissy, as I called her, was smarter than I thought. She began rifling through the pages.

  “Good suggestion. We think it’s a dad who’s thrown a wrench in the works. He’s angry over his daughter’s dress. Neighbors indicate he’s been having loud arguments with Betty Wolftooth, the first to go missing.

  “In fact, your guys over at Seminole Patch confirm that they’ve gone in twice in the past month to calm the guy down.”

  Tom nodded, a look of chagrin on his face.

  Great. So poor Betty and even Rosalia were out there in the unknown with no help. Just great.

  The patrolman returned from his corralling of the media.

  “Did you put some tape up?” Learner barked.

  “You want the whole campus surrounded, boss?”

  Whoa. Was that insubordination?

  I chimed in. “Especially the back opening in the fence. That’s how they got the girls off campus.”

  “There’s an op…?” Learner’s face went redder, if that was possible, and he sped down the hall toward the back door after snapping more orders at his lazy helper.

  I figured he wanted to beat the FBI guys to the discovery. I’d thrown him a life ring without realizing it. Maybe Learner and I would be friends, now.

  Tom was smiling at me as we parted.

  By the time I got home the school day was almost finished and Luis had received his volunteer name tag.

  The overwhelming presence of officials high and low had kept a lid on the problems at the school, and thankfully we were now into the weekend. I only prayed things would remain as quiet during the Halloween celebrations this evening.

  Happily, today’s parents were very careful with their children when they went trick or treating.

  Chapter 51

  After leaving the Pinto Springs high school campus, I headed for my monthly DAR luncheon at a San Marcos country club.

  I’d only recently learned that membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution had been in our family at least since my great-grandmother Ivy MacIver. In fact, it is from Ivy’s first marriage that my lineage flows back to the American Revolution. After discovering this fact buried in my mother’s memorabilia late last spring, I’d joined this distinguished organization.

  I loved that my great-grandmother’s name was Ivy MacIver—loved the alliteration--but I wasn’t so much in love with the fact that Ivy had married twice. This I had learned from another source.

  It turned out that Ivy’s first marriage—one I’d been completely unaware of--connected me to the Stowall Clan. I’d first learned about this at the beginning of the month at the first quilting bee I’d attended with the Quilted Secrets women.

  At any rate, I went to my third DAR luncheon and then hopped back in my deliciously new hybrid and started for home. As I came to a road with a familiar name I suddenly remembered why it was familiar, and made an impromptu detour to visit Hannah and Ruth.

  Then I worried all the way to Hannah’s house that she would think me rude for just popping in.

  I’d never been to the Lilly’s Vista home, but I thought I remembered it was around thirteen acres.

  And sure enough it was, filled with lemon, orange and avocado groves--and occasional meandering grass cutters called goats and llamas. The Lilly farm also had one chestnut and one piebald horse, and a quartet of chickens that serenaded me as I drove closer to the house on a tired asphalt driveway.

  I was willing to bet there were more chickens off somewhere else on the property, as one of the visible four was a fancy rooster.

  Parking near the two large barns situated on the right, I concentrated on slowing my brain down. Too much tea on top of too much coffee.

  Ohmm. Ohmm.

  Two really deep breaths.

  Okay, I was ready. My tummy butterflies were settling.

  I walked by a one-acre organic vegetable garden that dwarfed our backyard Victory patch. Maybe she had relatives coming in to help her?

  Hannah’s house was quite large, the central part of which went up two stories. A wooden clapboard exterior painted in slate gray was fronted by a broad veranda that ran around t
he far side out of sight.

  Too late I saw that I could have driven all the way up to the front, where the decaying asphalt driveway curved around from right to left and ended in a wider parking area.

  Abandoned toys hid in a patch of weeds to the left. Nearby them a wooden sand box was being reclaimed by nature. My mind strayed, or was led down winding reveries.

  Was everything on its way to the beach? Would the universe end its days in a puff of sand? Was from kaboom to poof the real natural order of things?

  Was the caffeine overdose turning into a major crash? Or was I slipping into a nap? Oz-like, walking through a field of poppies.

  Ahead, a broad stairway invited me up to a veranda and I stepped onto a slate walkway leading there. The sense of fatigue increased.

  Or maybe I’d merely entered another realm. Farm-speed.

  In sharp contrast, a profusion of orange, yellow and white mums pretended they weren’t a garden along the right side of the walk. A fat rosebush with the last of the summer’s white glories still clinging to it huddled next to a late season blue sage on the left.

  Winter was coming, but it would be mostly mild with occasional nippy nights down here on earth’s floor. I was renewing my love for Southern California with every step.

  On the steps up, three pumpkins pretended to be the three bears to a straw-man Goldilocks. Spilling down from this grouping were a variety of gourds, some carved and some painted. An artist’s skills had arranged them to look as if they weren’t arranged.

  A hanging swing-couch and three wicker chairs told of lazy evening gatherings on the left side of the porch. None of the furniture was new. The blue-gray paint on the veranda needed a touch up. It was all charming and comfy. I almost veered left onto the swing, but then I spotted another point of interest.

  This family was very into Halloween. Someone had even painted a large front window, like the store windows we’d strolled by yesterday. Only this mural was professionally done.

  Taking a closer look at the intricate painting on glass I finally realized I was looking in upon Sleeping Ruth.