Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
The Deed in the Attic
Copyright © 2011 DRG.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. For information address DRG, 306 East Parr Road, Berne, Indiana 46711-1138.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
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Library of Congress-in-Publication Data
The Deed in the Attic / by K.D. McCrite
p. cm.
I. Title
2011903182
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AnniesMysteries.com
800-282-6643
Annie’s Attic Mysteries
Series Creator: Stenhouse & Associates, Ridgefield, Connecticut
Series Editors: Ken and Janice Tate
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my sister, Betty McCrite Cleland, who gave me the nurturing attention of a mother, the devoted love of a sister, and the laughter and camaraderie of a friend. Bless you, Sister-dear.
Prologue
He rearranged their cargo in the car’s deep trunk to make room for the last bits and pieces she brought from the house.
“Did you get your fishing gear, honey?” she whispered, handing over a soft, paper-wrapped bundle. “You don’t want to leave that behind.”
“I have it, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”
Even if they ate nothing but fish three times a day, he wanted to be able to feed his wife and himself.
He wedged the package she had given him between a soft-sided suitcase and small box.
“Careful with that,” she said, reaching in and moving the parcel a fraction of an inch to the left.
“What about your cross-stitch?” He kept his voice low. They did not want to be seen or overheard. “I know you don’t want to forget to take that with us.”
She pointed to the bundle they’d just packed in the trunk.
“That’s it right there. And I already have my workbasket in the backseat, just in case I want to work on something after the sun comes up. You know how it relaxes me.”
He looked at her beloved, familiar face in the darkness of that night. Starlight and silver illumination from a thin slice of moon were all that shone down. The world around the two of them lay heavy and silent with sleep. He had loved this woman for more than forty years. How could it be that, at this time in their lives, things had come to this deplorable state? This was not what he had planned for, not in his worst nightmares.
He bowed his head so she would not see any of his tears reflect a spark of that scant moonlight. He wanted to be strong for her.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I’m so sorry.”
She took his hands in hers and gripped them tightly.
“‘Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.’ I meant those promises when I spoke them to you before God and witnesses forty-three years ago, and I mean them at this moment.”
He gathered his dear wife into his arms and held her tight against him. They clung to each other as fear and commitment sparred for control. This should not be happening to them. He knew it, and yet he could not stop it.
He looked over her head at the sprawling home with its magnificent pillars and lush, manicured gardens. He had built this estate for their family many years ago, with a promise to lay the world at her feet if she would only believe in him. She had given herself to him, her full heart and all her trust, and he had fulfilled that vow with great joy.
That beautiful house, the envy of so many friends and colleagues, had seen them through triumph and celebration, sadness and weeping. And now …
“Get in the car, dearest, before someone wakes up and sees us,” he said hoarsely, turning away.
Quietly they got into the car and silently closed the doors. He started the engine, praying no one heard it, and drove out to the highway. Sneaking away like two thieves in the night, they left their much-loved home. Neither spoke again until the rising sun glowed on their faces and beckoned them toward the new horizon.
1
Annie Dawson gazed out the big front room window and slipped her arms into an old comfy blue sweater she had crocheted years ago when her daughter LeeAnn was little. These days that sweater had lost its beauty and much of its shape, but it was soft and warm, and it held memories of happy days.
Her view of the Atlantic Ocean, with its restless, white-capped waves could be depressing if Annie allowed herself to give way to such feeling. The water looked gray today, as gray and gloomy as the heavy sky above it. This was one of those rainy spring mornings when she would like to curl up in her favorite chair in front of cheerfully crackling logs in the fireplace with a cup of tea or hot chocolate and her yarn. She would contentedly crochet while the radio played soft jazz or maybe some old classic rock music that made her feel good, like she was a girl again, full of hope and promise.
There were times when chilly, drizzly days like this made her ache for the company of her family and friends back home in Texas—and sometimes, she did still think of Texas as “home.” If she were in Brookfield right then, she would not be looking out on a cold drizzle. Instead her vista would probably include a sunny front lawn where grass was beginning to green and new buds were shoving their faces into the daylight. But the longer she lived in Stony Point, Maine, the less lonely she was. Friendships she had developed while here had opened new doors to new experiences. It had taken a little while for Stony Point citizens to warm up to her, but little by little, she had gained their trust and respect. And if she still lived in Brookfield, she would not be in Gram’s lovely old home, nor would she be able to see the ocean from almost every window in the house.
No matter where she lived though, in Texas or in Maine, or even in some exotic locale, she always would miss Wayne, the way he smiled, the way his eyes lit up when he played with the grandkids, the sound of his voice when he whispered endearments to her in the night. She yearned to have him beside her again, to feel the strength of his hand as it clasped hers, the warmth of his kiss against her lips. They had looked forward to growing old together. But Wayne was gone, a victim of heart disease, and she had been alone for almost two years now.
Annie loved Grey Gables, the old Victorian-era home that once belonged to Betsy Holden, her grandmother. Wonderful memories of spending her childhood summers here in this house and Stony Point seemed to cling to every archway, every window, even the old wicker furniture on the broad front porch. Though Grey Gables had been rather run down when Annie first arrived, she and Wally Carson, a local handyman, had been able to spruce up its facade with a new paint
job and had repaired or replaced the torn, rusty screens. Together they had trimmed back the overgrown landscaping. There was more to do, of course. The shrubs and trees would need to be trimmed in a few weeks. In a house as old and big as Grey Gables, something always needed to be repainted, repaired or replaced. But Annie felt comfortable in Gram’s old home, and gratitude filled her as she thought of her blessings. One of those blessings stood at her feet at that moment.
A soft rub against her ankle and a questioning meow signaled that Boots wanted food, or attention, or both. Annie reached down and picked up the furry gray cat. Boots was one more legacy from Gram.
Annie rubbed the sensitive, velvety ears and smiled as Boots closed her eyes and purred. Annie nuzzled the cat’s tiny nose with her own.
“You feeling a little blue too, kitty? It’s all this rainy weather, I think.”
Boots meowed an agreement. The pair stood a little longer, cuddling and purring, enjoying each other’s company. After a bit, Annie gently set the cat on the floor.
“You have food in the kitchen, where it belongs,” she said. “Run along now.”
Boots blinked up at her, mouthed a soundless “mew” as if waiting for Annie to go with her, but after a bit, with tail erect, and on silent white paws, she trotted off sedately down the hallway for the promised snack.
Outside, the chilly early-spring rain fell in a misty, silvery curtain rather than the thick sheets as it had done the day before. Light rain pleased Annie less than bright sunlight would have and for more than one reason. The Hook and Needle Club would get together for its weekly meeting in just a couple of hours. Never, in all the time since Annie had lived in Stony Point, had a Tuesday passed without a meeting. A cold rain certainly was no cause to call it off today. But the thought of driving in heavy rain to the needlecraft store where the club met left Annie less than thrilled. A Stitch in Time was not that far from Grey Gables, so the commute was short and sweet, but still … .
She glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist, then down at her clothes. She had never worn tired old slacks and house slippers to a meeting, and she certainly did not intend to start that day. The damp chill of early April in that part of coastal Maine called for warm jeans, a snuggly long-sleeved sweater and sturdy shoes.
By this time of year, in her part of Texas, tender spring flowers would be out of the ground, and the sunny days would be warm enough for shirtsleeves. For just another moment, Annie allowed herself to indulge in the remnants of homesickness, but she knew she would accomplish nothing worthwhile that day if she did not stop this brooding. She squared her shoulders and shooed the melancholy away.
She took a step back to turn from the window, but paused when she spotted a delivery truck lumbering up her driveway. Why would she be receiving a delivery of anything? She cast about in her mind, searching her memory, but she knew full well that she had placed no orders for anything since a few weeks before Christmas.
Curious, Annie stepped outside, away from the warmth of her living room and into the clammy dampness on the front porch. With a creak of brakes and change of gears, the truck came to a noisy stop. While the diesel engine idled, a young, dark-haired driver leaped out onto the wet ground. She watched him as he raised the cargo door, unloaded a huge packing box onto a dolly and then shoved it toward the porch steps. He looked quite grim for such a young man.
“Hello,” Annie said cheerfully as he approached.
“Mornin’,” he said grudgingly. Muscles in his arms flexed visibly as he backed up the steps, guiding the dolly as if tugging the lead of a stubborn mastiff.
“My, what an enormous box!” she said, quickly dodging to the left so he would not back right into her, which is exactly what it looked like he planned to do. “What in the world is this?”
“Don’t know.”
She frowned at the huge carton. There was no logo or any printing on it to identify its origins.
“I think you’ve come to the wrong place,” she said. “I haven’t ordered anything for several months.”
He lowered the front of the dolly and fussed with his computerized ledger without bothering to glance at her once.
“This is Grey Gables?” he asked, punching in numbers.
“Yes, but—”
“You Annie Dawson?”
“Yes, but—”
He handed her the little electronic gadget.
“Sign.” He tapped the screen with his fingertip. “Right there.” He pulled loose the attached pen and waggled it. “With this.”
She took the pen and the ledger from him. Her name looked odd, nothing like her usual smooth penmanship as she wrote it on the small screen. She gave the ledger back to the silent deliveryman, and he trotted down the porch steps, the empty dolly bumping along behind. The scene made her think of a young boy playing with a little red wagon, except that young man obviously was not having fun. Not that Annie could blame him. Unloading and hauling packages in a cold rain certainly held little appeal, especially since it had intensified, losing that dreamy quality from a few minutes earlier. The deliveryman moved faster.
“Wait!” Annie said. “Would you take this into the house for me, please?”
“Sorry,” he called over his shoulder. “Against the rules.”
“But how am I supposed to move this big thing into my house?”
“Don’t know.”
“Wait!”
He jumped into the driver’s seat, revved the engine, and made considerable noise as he shifted gears; then the truck growled its way back to the road. Annie stared after it, her mouth wagging like a North Atlantic cod.
“I would have helped you,” she muttered to the now-absent driver.
She huffed a couple of times, her breath enveloping her face in a white mist. After another moment, she dismissed the curt young man from her thoughts and turned her attention to the box that claimed so much space on the front porch.
She squinted at the rain-spattered address label. It was legible, and there was her name and address, plain as day. She looked at the return label. LeeAnn Sorensen.
“My goodness!” she said aloud. What on earth could her daughter have possibly sent that was so big it needed a box this size? It must cost a fortune to send it across the country.
Surely not the twins, she joked to herself. Though the box was plenty big enough to hold Joanna and John. And maybe LeeAnn too.
“Hmm.” She eyed the box, and then eyed her front door. Maybe she could get it inside.
She pushed the box. It wasn’t as heavy as she expected, so no daughter and grandchildren had mailed themselves to Stony Point, Maine. But when she tried to pick it up, the size was too awkward for her to handle, let alone lift. What had LeeAnn sent to her, anyway? It was not Annie’s birthday. Easter had come and gone two weeks earlier. Mother’s Day was still several weeks away.
A brief gust of sea-tasting breeze swept across the porch, bringing rain right along with it.
Annie told herself she needed to get that box into the house right away before the rain got worse and soaked the carton and all of its mysterious contents. She propped open the front door, then half-pulled and half-walked the package to the doorway. She grunted. She groaned. She huffed and puffed as the damp cardboard became more slippery than wet soap between her hands.
Finally, sweaty in spite of the chill, breathless and worn out and a little disgusted, Annie plopped down on the living room floor to stare at the box. One corner was inside, the rest of it was out on the porch, and the entire thing was stuck, just like that. She glanced at her watch again. She would either have to get help to maneuver the box the rest of the way into the house, or she would have to miss the Hook and Needle Club meeting. And she refused to miss the meeting. That day they would be discussing ideas for their next group project. As Annie saw it, she really had no choice.
She hauled herself off the floor, went to the telephone and dialed.
Finished with her breakfast and post-breakfast grooming, Boots sought out th
e company of Annie, sat on the arm of the sofa and watched, apparently waiting for something exciting to break loose from the box. She broke her steady gaze only long enough periodically to deliver a lick or two to her chest.
“Alice,” Annie said as soon as her friend next door answered the phone. “I need help!” She hung up and returned to struggle with her futile chore.
In less than a minute, Alice MacFarlane’s feisty red Mustang roared up the driveway. Alice bailed out almost before the engine died.
Messy auburn hair wet with rain, blue eyes alight with panic, sneakers on the wrong feet, she leaped up the front steps and screeched, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
Then she saw the box wedged in the doorway like some sort of device to protect against home invasion. She looked across the cardboard barrier at her disheveled, disgruntled friend in the living room. The alarmed expression on her face faded quickly. She burst out laughing.
“Annie Dawson!” she hollered, still laughing. “What in the world? I thought something was wrong.”
“Something is wrong.” Annie pointed at the box in disgust. “I can’t move this crazy carton an inch either way.”
Alice laughed even harder.
Annie waved one hand impatiently. “I am so glad you’re having a good time, but can you pull yourself together now and help me? Please?”
“Well, good morning to you too,” Alice said. It looked to Annie as if her friend tried to stifle her laugh but failed the task miserably.
By the time they maneuvered the huge box into the living room, there were bare minutes to spare before the Hook and Needle Club meeting. The two women silently stared at the carton for a full minute, and then Alice turned to Annie.
“Look at us,” she said. She ran her gaze along the complete length of her messy friend. “And I’m no better than you.”
She thrust out her feet, showcasing the sneakers with toes pointed away from each other. In spite of her momentary annoyance, Annie had to giggle.
“I’m sorry I alarmed you,” she said.
Alice kicked off her sneakers and put them to rights.
The Deed in the Attic Page 1
