Pearl of Great Price

by Myra Johnson

  “Yes, ma’am!” Rennie’s yellow flip-flops slapped the polished floor as she marched down the back hall to the maid’s closet. The only good thing about cleaning cabins was getting far enough away that Mama couldn’t pick on her for a while.

  But why did it have to be the MacDonohoes’ cabin? They came for two weeks every summer, and Rennie hated them. Hated how they acted all sweet and lovey-dovey, hated the way they hung on each other like honeymooners. Their poor little boy was as grossed out by all the mushy stuff as Rennie, so she’d taken pity on him that first year and invited him to tag along with her. And if their smooching all the time wasn’t bad enough, Mrs. MacDonohoe was fussy as an old granny. One tiny hair in the bathtub, or a chipped coffee mug in the kitchenette, and she’d be pounding on the front desk five minutes after they unpacked.

  Rennie generally hated the resort, period. She was sick to death of cleaning up other people’s messes, fed up with cleaning slime out of the ice dispenser, bone tired from hauling cases of soft drinks and snacks to fill the vending machines.

  And lately she had to work harder than ever, thanks to her mother’s getting pregnant so late in life and then having to stay in bed nearly the whole nine months. Good grief, did people as old as her parents really do it anymore? And Mama was crazy as an upside-down cuckoo clock anyway. How Daddy put up with her mood swings was anybody’s guess. Not to mention if Mama ever forgot to take her little pink pills. When that happened, things could get twenty times worse.

  But then Jenny came along, and oh, how Rennie loved that little baby, thought she was the cutest, most precious creature ever born. Jenny’s sweet smile could charm Rennie out of her darkest moods. And that was saying a lot.

  But everything else . . . sometimes it got to be just too much.

  “Hey, sweetkins.” Her daddy, toting a toolbox and some torn shingles, met her on the way down the path to cabin three. “What’s that ugly ol’ frown about?”

  She tapped the wheel of the housekeeping cart with the toe of her flip-flop. “Mama’s mad at me again.”

  “Aw, it can’t be that bad.” He chucked her under the chin. “She’s had a hard time this year. Things’ll get better soon.”

  “I know, Daddy. I just . . .” But Daddy couldn’t understand, never would. Rennie sighed and sniffed back a tear. Stiffening her back, she gave the cart a shove and continued on her way.

  In cabin three, she made quick work of cleaning the small rooms before stripping and remaking the beds and hanging fresh white towels in the bathroom. She replaced the used dishes and utensils with clean ones, then refilled the oblong wicker basket next to the percolator with complimentary packets of ground coffee, sugar, and powdered creamer.

  Halfway out the door, she stopped. An idea slithered into her brain. The very thought made her insides all tingly, and it wouldn’t let her go until she acted on it. She reached up and pulled a single brown hair from her bangs, now damp with sweat and smelling like the dust she’d been stirring up all morning cleaning cabins. With demented Mommie Dearest laughter, she carried the strand to the larger of the two bedrooms, lifted a pillow, and tucked the hair between the blanket and the top sheet.

  “A special gift, just for you, Mrs. MacDonohoe.” She pursed her lips in a satisfied sneer. “Enjoy your stay at Pearls Along the Lake.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Present Day

  “Yes, ma’am, the story on page one yesterday, about the drowning.” Back at the Swap & Shop last evening, I’d slipped downstairs and dug out the copy of the Recorder Grandpa seemed determined not to let me read. The article was little more than a two-paragraph blurb recapping only the sketchiest details, so this morning I’d parked my VW under an elm tree at the end of Clifton’s street to call the newspaper office and see what more I could learn about Pearls Along the Lake.

  “Yes, yes, here we go, sugar.” The receptionist hemmed and hawed a few times until I thought she was having an asthma attack. “Yes indeedy. That’s Abe Friedman’s story.”

  Honest Abe Friedman. Guaranteed to print what he knew and make up the rest. I pushed my hair up so the breeze could cool my neck. “I’m curious about that family, the Pearls. Do you know their story?”

  “Sorry, honey, I didn’t live around these parts back then. See, I moved over this way from Turrell . . . oh, long about 1998, I think it was. My Bennie, he got a job over at the Weyerhaeuser plant and—”

  “Then maybe I could talk to Abe?”

  “You could, exceptin’ he don’t usually show his face around here till noonish. I could have him give you a buzz.”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks for your help.” Knowing how well Abe researched his stories, I doubted he could tell me much more than what he’d written in the article. Maybe later I could swing by the Garland County Library and pop on their Internet to do some research on my own. With the A/C vent aimed right at my face, I chugged up the street to pick up Clifton.

  After over an hour of searching the winding back roads along Lake Hamilton, we finally deciphered Sandy’s directions and found our way to the abandoned resort. I found a bit of shade for the car beneath a straggly oak along the roadside. If we ventured up the circle drive, I was afraid I’d blow a tire. All kinds of junk cluttered the way—broken tree limbs, rotting boards, crushed aluminum cans, shattered beer bottles, debris from just about every fast-food joint in a five-mile radius.

  My stomach did a swirly thing, like brackish water circling the drain. I gnawed on my lower lip. “Wow, it looks even worse than Sandy described it.”

  Clifton stared through the open passenger window. “Sure don’t look like it’ll be open for business anytime this century.”

  We got out and picked our way up the cracked driveway toward the gabled two-story frame house at the top of the circle. Peeling white paint exposed bare wood weathered to a soft gray. Prickly weeds poked through the splintered boards of the broad porch steps. The smells of age and decay blended with a fishy odor carried on the morning breeze.

  Clifton kicked at a broken limb. “Must have been quite a showplace in its time. Ideal location—off the beaten path, great view of the lake.” He pointed beyond the big white house toward the chain of lakefront cabins laid out under sprawling pines and oaks.

  “Makes you wonder how anyone in their right mind could have let it go like this.” An eerie sensation raised goose bumps on my arms. I couldn’t seem to stop dwelling on that child who drowned. If there was a connection between the child and the family who’d owned this resort, maybe it was why they up and walked away.

  Clifton braved the porch steps, each one creaking under his weight. I held my breath, expecting him to crash through at any second. “Clifton, be careful.”

  He bounced up and down on the warped boards in front of the door. “See? Solid as a—yikes!”

  One of the boards gave way with a crack. Clifton’s left leg sank up to his knee, and if he hadn’t lunged sideways and grabbed the door handle, the rest of him would have followed.

  “Clifton, hold on!” Hugging the railing, I dashed up the steps as lightly as I could—no easy task in my clunky Dr. Scholl’s wooden sandals from Katy Harcourt’s booth. I still hadn’t gotten used to the weird toe grips and unforgiving soles. I grabbed Clifton’s arm and draped it around my shoulder, supporting him until he could free his leg from the jagged jaws of the termite-ridden plank. Easing down beside him on the top step, I surveyed the damage to his leg. “How’s it feel?”

  He rubbed his shin and kneecap. “Nothing’s broken. Prob’ly be black and blue for a few days is all.” If he hadn’t been wearing his usual cowboy boots and Levis, it could have been a lot worse.

  I stood carefully. “We should get out of here. This place is just begging for an accident.” I grimaced and glanced down at Clifton. “I mean, an even worse accident.”

  “No way, man. I ain’t done exploring yet.” Before I could catch up, he bounded around the side of the big house along a path of broken stepping stones.

  “Slo
w down, Clifton!” As I chased after him, the toe of my wooden sandal caught on an exposed tree root that had cracked one of the stepping stones. I nearly did the splits trying to keep from crashing face first. If I didn’t watch my step, it would be me with the broken neck.

  “Hey, most of these cabins are standing wide open,” Clifton yelled. His words trailed off, and I turned the corner in time to see the grime-covered backside of his jeans disappear through a cabin door.

  “Clifton, will you be careful, please?” Catching up, I leaned on the doorframe and gasped for breath.

  And got a stinging noseful of something best described as rotting compost mixed with a heaping dose of wet dog. The sill felt spongy beneath my feet. A huge hole gaped where the bathroom wall should have been, and the cracked commode lay on its side. Clifton stood dead still in middle of the kitchenette, his boots planted in a sticky yellow ooze.

  The snarl from the bedroom beyond revealed the source of the wet dog smells. The poor thing lay curled up in the center of what used to be a mattress.

  “Don’t move,” Clifton whispered. “Just back out slowly.”

  Most dogs and I get along great, but this bundle of matted black fur didn’t look any too happy to be disturbed. Then I heard soft whimpers—puppies! Craning my neck, I counted three fuzzy, dark heads pressed against their mama’s tummy in search of breakfast. Mama looked too thin to be making much milk, though. No wonder she was cross—a batch of hungry little ones and no way to satisfy them, much less her own empty belly. “Aw, poor thing.”

  “Yeah, this ‘poor thing’ has teeth like a ’gator. Now move so I can get outta here.”

  I eased out the door, and Clifton scooted backward to follow me. As soon as he cleared the doorframe, he sprinted several yards away.

  “We’ve got to get her some food.” I peered inside. A menacing growl, louder this time, warned me to keep my distance.

  “Uh, Julie?” Clifton’s voice cracked like he’d hit puberty again. “We’ve got company.”

  I pivoted on the rickety landing. Clifton faced me with a nervous grin, while behind him loomed a tall, lanky man wearing a scowl beneath a neatly trimmed black beard. One tanned hand clutched Clifton’s shoulder. With the other he pointed an accusing finger directly at me.

  “This is private property,” the man snarled, doing a good imitation of that angry mama dog. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  “Sir, we didn’t mean any harm.” I edged forward. “We were just—”

  “Looking around. Yeah, I guessed that.” Glancing down, he tugged on a fancy cell phone in the holster clipped to his belt. “This is about to be a busy construction site, and I don’t need a couple of kids playing Lewis and Clark on my property. Now get on out of here before somebody gets hurt.”

  “Yes, sir, we hear you.” Clifton ducked from under the man’s grip and did a mock salute. “No problemo. We are history, sir. Come on, Julie, let’s go.”

  So much for Clifton’s bravado. I wasn’t feeling too brave myself, staring into those piercing gray eyes—eyes a good six inches higher than my own. Last time I felt caught in the act like this was after my high-school prom, when Grandpa caught me kissing Everett Buckles good night (more like good morning since it was nearly 4:00 a.m.) beneath our apartment stairs.

  More whimpering from inside the cottage and I grabbed what little nerve I had left. The man said he owned the place, right? Then he must be Sandy’s new employer. I scanned my brain for a name. “Mr. Hobart, right? Hi, I’m Julie Stiles, a friend of Sandy Monroe’s.”

  “My new assistant.” His glare softened somewhere just short of apologetic. “But that doesn’t give you and your punk-haired boyfriend an open invitation to go poking around.”

  Somebody must have gotten up on the wrong side of his bed of nails. “Clifton is not my boyfriend, he’s—” Best I let Sandy explain that one. I set my hands on my hips. “Excuse me, sir, but did you know there’s a dog with puppies in there?”

  “Aw, man, I was afraid of that.” Hobart brushed past me and peeked into the cottage.

  I waited for Mama Dog’s growl and Hobart’s quick retreat, but instead I heard a soft, anxious whining, as if the dog recognized him. He dropped to one knee just inside the door. “It’s all right, girl. Sorry if these nosy kids scared you.” He clicked his tongue. “Wow, you’ve got quite a brood there. You should have come home with me when you had the chance. A pile of blankets on my kitchen floor would be a lot nicer than a dirty old mattress.”

  I came closer. “Poor thing looks like she’s starving. Has she been hanging around here long?”

  Hobart eased out of the cabin and stood on the top step. “First noticed her a few days ago. I’ve been tempting her with dog chow, but she’s never let me get too close.” He gave his head a sad shake. “I thought she looked pregnant. Now she needs to eat more than ever.”

  I couldn’t stay riled at the guy for long when he showed such concern for animals. “What are you going to do with her?”

  “She won’t let anyone near, and I can’t just watch her starve to death. Even if I caught her, I couldn’t keep her long—there’s a ‘no pets’ clause in my apartment lease.” He shrugged and glanced sideways, his jaw clenched. “I should call the humane society, but in the shape she’s in, and with the puppies and all, I’m afraid they’d just . . .”

  He didn’t have to finish his sentence. I reached out, my fingers tightening around his forearm. “Please, you can’t!”

  His arm muscles tensed. He stared at my hand like it was a giant cockroach, and a second later Dr. Jekyll reverted to Mr. Hyde again. He lifted his steely gaze to meet mine. “Like I said before, you need to get off my property. I’ll handle this.”

  I took a step back, stumbling against Clifton. When I accidentally hit his bruised shin with the heel of my Dr. Scholl’s, he let out a groan. “Come on, Jules, let’s get on outta here.”

  “Your boyfriend’s right,” Hobart said. “Go home before somebody gets hurt, or before I change my mind and call the cops.”

  That nailed it. I marched up to Mr. Hobart and aimed my finger at his bearded chin. “You have got to be the rudest man I have ever met in my entire life. Why, if I weren’t an upstanding, church-going, decent-as-the-day-is-long Christian, I—I’d tell you right where to get off!”

  He gave me an odd look, like I’d hit a nerve. Lifting his chin, which I could have sworn trembled just the tiniest bit beneath his beard, he said, “Don’t let that stop you. It wouldn’t be the first time a hysterical female gave me a piece of her mind.”

  “Julie.” Clifton’s tone became insistent. “I really, really think we should leave.”

  I wanted to, I really, really did. But this Hobart character was doing weird things to my insides, and common sense seemed to have deserted me. Not to mention the image of that hungry mama dog and her three precious pups kept me planted firmly—or pretty shakily, actually—on the broken stepping stone beneath my Dr. Scholl’s.

  A plan. I needed a plan. It didn’t sound like Hobart would be calling the humane society quite yet. Clifton and I could leave peacefully now, and then tonight I could sneak back here and find a way to get Mama Dog and those pups into my Beetle and take them home with me.

  Hobart took a step towards us. “Listen, I’m—”

  I raised my hands, palms outward. “Okay, we get the message. We’re leaving.”

  Half a minute later, Clifton and I were in the car. I revved the engine a few times before screeching through a U-turn and zooming down the winding road.

  Clifton braced himself against the dashboard. “Easy there, ‘Mario,’ this ain’t a NASCAR race.”

  By the time we reached the highway, I’d managed to calm down. A little. But it bugged me something fierce when people purposely chose rudeness over good manners. What was the deal with Hobart anyway? He must have the biggest chip on his shoulder ever.

  I dropped Clifton at his house, deciding not to let him in on my plan to return for the dog and
her pups. Clifton was not a dog person. He would not understand the horrible ache I felt under my ribcage just thinking of that poor hungry dog, lost and alone and living among the ruins.

  At Friendly’s Neighborhood Supermarket, I splurged on several cans of premium dog food and a box of bacon-flavored dog treats. While I was at it, I remembered to browse the aisles for something for supper. I settled on tuna, cream of mushroom soup, a package of egg noodles, and a wedge of Wisconsin cheddar. Tuna casserole—always quick and easy.

  “Hey, Grandpa, I’m home.” I kicked the kitchen door closed with one foot and plopped my grocery sacks on the counter.

  Grandpa shuffled to the table and pulled out a chair. It happened to be the one Sneezy was sleeping on. Yawning, Sneezy slunk to the floor with an insulted green-eyed glare. Grandpa brushed cat fur off the chair and sat down with a tired sigh. I hoped he hadn’t been working too hard cleaning up the shop. I should have been here helping him instead of gallivanting around Lake Hamilton with Clifton and getting yelled at by grumpy Mr. Hobart.

  “What did y’all do in Hot Springs?” Grandpa bent to scratch Sneezy’s hindquarters.

  “Nothing much.” Grandpa would only worry if I told him Clifton and I had been poking around in abandoned buildings. I reached into a grocery bag and pulled out the dog food.

  Grandpa let loose with a loud a-HEMMM. “Something you’re forgetting to tell me? Last time I checked, Sneezy preferred cat food.”

  Cradling the box of dog biscuits as if it were one of those precious little puppies, I sat down next to Grandpa. Might as well be honest. Grandpa would have to know sooner or later, especially when I came home with four new additions to our family. “She’s a stray, with three pups. They’re at the resort where Sandy just got hired, and I’m worried the owner will call the pound if I don’t rescue them.”

  “Aw, Julie Pearl.” Grandpa gave a moan and pressed a palm against his forehead. “You know I could never turn away a stray.”

  I hugged his neck. “Thanks, Grandpa, I knew I could count on you!”