by Rita Kano
BRRRINGG.
The ring of the phone shot through Shirley like she had grabbed a hot wire.
“Hello?” She swallowed half chewed toast.
“Have you seen it?” asked Nash, without the formality of a salutation.
“You mean… you mean it’s there?” Shirley asked. “I haven’t opened mine yet. I was… you know.”
“I know. Scared senseless, like squatting face to face with a rattlesnake. I went through that, too. Darn near felt the hairs falling off my head. But, the story’s there. Front page, just as you predicted. Only… well…”
“Only what?” Shirley’s eyes darted from side to side.
“I ain’t for sure… but… well, something tells me it ain’t exactly what you wrote or expected.”
“That’s okay, Nash. Don’t worry. Whatever’s there has got to be better than nothing. I’ll read it and call you back.”
Shirley rolled the rubber band toward one end. The pages of newsprint burst open like a jack-in-the box.
TOWN ACCUSED OF MURDER read the headline.
Shirley gasped. It wasn’t the headline she had written. This was better.
The byline read: A Missing Child - Kidnappers - A Crumpled Ransom Letter - A Sheriff’s Apathy
And then she read the line that caused her heart to leap.
Does The Town Of Purity Hide A Legacy Of Shame?
Shirley’s hands trembled as she read on.
“On Thursday night, December 18, Nash Britt made a call to Sheriff Pate’s home requesting help in finding his missing granddaughter, Lizzie Lovett. Sheriff Pate denied Mr. Britt’s request stating the child would most likely turn up soon. According to Arlene and Joe Lovett, parents of the missing child, the Sheriff then returned to the merriment and entertainment of his wife’s birthday guests.
Friday morning, December 19, Robeson County Social Worker, Shirley Foster, received a telephone call from an unknown party of the male gender claiming to have abducted Lizzie Lovett for the purpose of ransom. The kidnappers, (there were two calls and two distinct voices) in a letter dictated to Miss Foster, do not demand money or any sort of possession. They demand atonement for a heinous crime allegedly committed in the year of 1898 by the townspeople of Purity, whose descendants bear the guilt for the atrocity inflicted upon an innocent man. The first step named in the atonement process was to see their story published on the front page of this day’s post.
Miss Shirley Foster immediately contacted Sheriff Pate at his office and turned the ransom letter containing instructions to save little Lizzie Lovett’s life over to him. The Sheriff’s response to Miss Foster’s claim of contact with the kidnappers and concern over the well-being of a missing child was to toss the letter into a wastebasket. Whereupon, not to be undone in her effort to save an innocent child, Miss Foster contacted me, Dish Townsend.
Are the accusations against our town true?
There is a voice from the grave saying yes. Many of you knew the recently deceased Bessie Redding and may have read excerpts from the diary she recovered from an old trunk; a diary written by the hand of her great grandmother, Sadie Redding. It is a page from this same diary that recounts the secret and appalling actions that may have placed a curse upon our town. A curse that is still active to this very day upon the generations continuing the stained bloodline of the perpetrators.
The Purity Post offers this story to you with the hope it will be pondered deeply in each and every heart as this year’s Christmas day approaches. It is also my hope as families gather around dinner tables and fill the pews of churches to count their blessings, that each of you will remember those who are no longer with us and diligently seek the higher love that beckons and guides our steps and our thoughts.”
The last page in Sadie Redding’s diary, describing how a town turned their back on murder, followed. Shirley skimmed down to the last paragraph.
The story continued:
To my poor heart’s regret, Glory saw it all. It took two men to hold her back from him … until the kicking stopped and she collapsed.
The men who hung the Indian said he had been caught stealing a horse from the livery stable. They told it that way to save Glory’s honor, they said. A lie though it be, the story stuck. Nobody questioned it. After all, the heathen, as most called the young man, got what he deserved.
According to custom, the Indian had been given the chance to speak last words. The men who placed the noose around his neck didn’t get what they were expecting. He didn’t beg for his life. He only said: From moon to moon, find me or find death.
Nobody knew what it meant.
In two weeks’ time, everybody knew. The Indian had placed a curse on the town. Glory disappeared and then Isabelle. Never to be found again. Both my red haired angels with buttermilk skin were gone forever.
A month or so later, I heard the rhyme for the first time. Children in the street were skipping rope and saying: A redhead goes missing and nobody cries. Look in the closet, you’ll find their lies. Tell what you saw and everybody dies.
Hard as I tried, I couldn’t get anybody to help me look for my girls. They were forgotten.
The newspaper article continued:
“Miss Shirley Foster says the disappearances will end when the town places a memorial near the tree where the young warrior who fell in love with Glory was hung. The town’s acceptance of guilt, along with the memorial will restore his spirit and release his soul to the great light of eternal life, which prejudice, judgment and hatred have denied him. Herein, my fellow townsmen, lies the mystery. Where is the hanging tree?
Exactly how much time is left to make atonement and save Lizzie Lovett’s life is unknown. It may be days. It may be hours. If anyone knows the whereabouts of this hanging tree, or even think they have an inkling, by whatever means, please come forward. Contact Shirley Foster or me, Dish Townsend.
Is this a hoax? I don’t know. Do we, a town of god-fearing Christians want to risk the consequences of disbelief? I don’t.
Ponder it, dear friends. Ponder it deep in your hearts as the day of love and salvation approaches.”
Shirley leaned back in her recliner with the Purity Post resting on her lap. The newspaper made crinkling sounds as Grandma jumped up and lay down on top of it.
“What do you think, Grandma? Where is this going to take us? Any idea?”
Grandma stretched out, licked her paws and settled into a quiet purr.
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Shirley. “The day’s barely begun and I’m exhausted.”
When the phone rang out, Shirley glanced at the clock. She had slept for two hours. Nash. She forgot to return his call after reading Purity’s front page news.
“Hello.”
“Miss Foster, this is Amanda Cummings. I think you know my husband, Ethan… from the courthouse… the clerk’s office.”
“Oh… yes, Mrs. Cummings, I do. He’s always so helpful on my trips there.”
“Yes. He’s a fine man and a good Christian. But that doesn’t mean we always see eye to eye on what’s the right thing to do. That’s why I’m calling. I read the story in the newspaper today and… and, Miss Foster, I just want you do know I admire what you’ve done. I don’t think you’re going to find anybody to help you, though. Our preacher tried to help out at services this morning. He changed his planned sermon to urge everyone to put aside their superstitions and fears. He spent the whole hour talking about Jesus and the lost lamb. There were tears in a lot of eyes, but their breaths were trembling. That’s what I saw and I don’t take it to be a good sign. If I could help that poor child’s family, I would, but I don’t know anything. The most I can do is tell you how I feel. Please don’t mention this phone call to Ethan.”
Shirley started to thank Mrs. Cummings and the phone went silent.
Three other rings followed. None of the other callers identified themselves and their voices were only whispers. Their messages were the same. They all wanted to help find Lizzie, but there wer
e personal risk issues they were not willing to ignore. Each conversation ended with the same concerns, plus or minus a few descriptive words. “I called Sheriff Pate and told him in no uncertain terms how I feel about his refusal to help that poor child. Horrible. Just horrible and shameful.”
Shirley, disappointed on the one hand that no one had any information to help find the hanging tree, was puzzled on the other hand. She had expected to receive calls… lots of them… angry calls. Callers telling her what she had always heard when she swam upstream or went against people’s grain. Callers using phrases she didn’t even repeat in her head for the most part… the mildest being, ‘butt out’ or ‘mind your own business’.
Distracted by her thoughts, Shirley answered the knock at the door without looking out; being absolutely certain Nash had driven over to check up on her.
Sheriff Pate stood bullishly on her porch, his arms folded across his chest.
“My phone’s been ringing off the hook, Miss Foster. To my surprise, a lot of folk are taking your claims seriously.” His raised eyebrows pushed wrinkles up to his hairline. “So here I am. Doing my duty.”
“What do you want, Sheriff?” asked Shirley.
“I don’t want anything, Miss Foster. I’m just letting you know, that I’m here and I’ll be keeping my eyes and ears wide open. You understand.”
“I think I do. I’m sure I do. Thank you. Is that all?” Shirley understood perfectly the threat disguised within Sheriff Pate’s recitation.
Sheriff Pate tipped his hat as Shirley reached out to close the door. The door, instead of closing, thudded against the Sheriff’s boot.
“What’s that?” he said.
Shirley looked in the direction the Sheriff’s eyes led hers. Every dab of strength drained out her toes as she tried not to gasp. Grandma had bounced into the room carrying Lizzie’s ragdoll.
“It’s a doll,” she answered. Fortunately, for Shirley, the weakness of her terror resembled calmness. “A doll, obviously.”
She pushed on the door. Her second attempt to close it met with firm handed resistance.
“I see that it’s a doll, Miss Foster. Whose doll is it?”
“Mine. I pulled it out of storage for my cat to play with. Is that all Sheriff? I think we’ve both made our intentions and lack of admiration for each other perfectly clear.”
“So…” the sheriff increased his force against the door, “the doll… it’s one you played with as a child?”
“That’s right,” snapped Shirley, annoyed that her insult hadn’t distracted and dissuaded the sheriff’s interest in the ragdoll.
“No sentimental value… I take it?”
“Not really.” Shirley glanced down at the sheriff’s foot keeping the door ajar. “If you don’t mind…”
“I do mind, Miss Foster. Seems everything I’ve heard about you is true. You are a mule of a different color… so to speak. Ah… no offense, Ma’am.”
“None taken, Sheriff. Don’t worry about it. We all misspeak at some time or other. So then, you’ll be so kind as to remove your foot and leave.”
“I think there is something to worry about, Miss Foster. You need to come with me.” Sheriff Pate reached through the opening and took hold of Shirley’s arm.
“What are you doing? Let go of me. Let me go!”
“No, Miss Foster, you’re coming with me. That doll over there belongs to Lizzie Lovett. Me and you are going to take a ride out to the Lovett place.” The Sheriff held onto Shirley as he grabbed the doll. “Let’s go.”
“That doll is mine, Sheriff.” Shirley attempted a laugh. “You’re just going to embarrass yourself making such a ridiculous claim.”
“Ridiculous claim?” He shook his head and smiled. “I don’t think so. That’s Lizzie Lovett’s doll. You know it. I know it. Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be. I’m going to let go of you now and I expect your cooperation. You don’t want things to get worse than they already are.” He let go of Shirley’s arm. “After you…” he said motioning one hand toward the door.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Miss Foster, either you come with me willingly without handcuffs or I place you under arrest. You want to see that as a headline in tomorrow’s Purity Post?”
Feeling trapped wasn’t new to Shirley. Most times she saw a way out… sooner or later. This time she had to wage a bet on later.
So, with Grandma peering through the sheers of the front window, Shirley slid into the back seat of Sheriff Pate’s patrol car.
Chapter 20
Sue Bell’s Secret
The patrol car pulled up in front of the Lovett house.
Sue Bell was playing outside on the top step of the porch. She stood up when she saw the Sheriff’s car. Rufus got up too, barking twice before he returned to gnawing a bone.
Shirley walked up the sidewalk, smiling at Sue Bell. Sue Bell hugged the blue Mason jar she seldom let out of her sight.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Lizzie’s little sister didn’t respond to Shirley’s greeting.
Shirley tapped on the jar with one finger. “Did you find something new today? What do you have in there?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes stared past Shirley, following the approach of Sheriff Pate.
“Hello, little lady,” said the Sheriff.
The child’s eyes widened, but she remained silent.
“Sue Bell?” Arlene called from inside the house. The screen door squeaked open.
Sheriff Pate tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lovett.”
“What’s going on? What are you doing here?” Arlene’s questions were aimed at Shirley.
Sheriff Pate held out the ragdoll. “Mrs. Lovett, do you recognize this doll?” asked the Sheriff.
“Where did you get that?” Arlene stammered. “Where’s Lizzie? Please tell me you found Lizzie.”
“No, Ma’am. I’m sorry. No, Ma’am. I haven’t found your daughter.” He held the doll out closer to Arlene. “Are you certain this is Lizzie’s doll, Mrs. Lovett?”
“Didn’t I already say that? Of course it’s Lizzie’s doll. Why else would you be here with it? What’s going on? Don’t lie to me. JOE!” Arlene screamed. “Joe. Get out here.”
“I promise you, Mrs. Lovett, I’m not hiding anything from you. Miss Foster here is the one practicing deception and I surely want to know why.”
Joe ran out of the house, followed by Nash. Shirley and Nash exchanged a quick glance. Rufus left his bone and stood at the edge of the porch watching the commotion.
“Arlene. Arlene. Calm down. What’s going on?” Joe acknowledged Sheriff Pate with a nod of his head.
“Joe,” Arlene grabbed her husband’s arm, “he’s got Lizzie’s ragdoll and he won’t tell me where he found it.”
“Sheriff?” Joe said.
Rufus crouched and growled when Joe addressed Sheriff Pate.
Nash and Shirley stood at a distance in the momentary distraction protecting them.
“Mr. Lovett, I was just going to explain to your wife that I found the ragdoll at Miss Foster’s house. Her cat dragged it into the room while we were discussing certain other matters. When I questioned Miss Foster about the doll she claimed it was hers. Told me she pulled it out of storage as a toy for her cat.”
“Let me take a closer look,” said Joe.
“No. Give it to me,” demanded Arlene. “That’s Lizzie’s doll. I know my baby’s doll when I see it.”
Arlene held the doll and looked up at Joe with tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She pointed to one of the doll’s hands. “See that,” her lips quivered. “You remember that… that time Lizzie painted a picture of a purple pansy and a spot of paint got on Abigail’s hand. You remember that don’t you, Joe?”
“Sure. I remember.” He wrapped his arm around Arlene’s shoulders. “Arlene, sweetheart, you and Sue Bell go inside. Me and Nash will take care of this.”
Sue Bell stared up at her daddy with wonderment. Shirley
knew why. Judging from everything Shirley had seen and heard of Arlene and Joe prior to that moment; the child had never heard her daddy call her mother, sweetheart.
Joe’s arm gently turned Arlene toward the front door of the house. “Everything’s going to be fine. You don’t need to be here. I can handle it for the both of us. Take Rufus inside with you and latch the screen door.”
Shirley expected Arlene to balk and kick like a mule, instead she stared into Joe’s eyes like she was hypnotized. Arlene opened the screen door and scooted Rufus inside. Joe told Sue Bell to go on in the house with her mama.
When Sue Bell shook her head, no, Nash scooped her up into his arms and tickled her in the side. But Grandpa’s little Tadpole didn’t laugh.
“Okay,” Joe said to Sheriff Pate. “What does all this mean? Why was Lizzie’s doll at Miss Foster’s house?”
“I’ll have those answers for you, Mr. Lovett, and a whole lot more as soon as I arrest Miss Foster for the kidnapping of your daughter.”
Sheriff Pate pulled handcuffs from his belt and headed toward Shirley. “Miss Foster… it’s my duty as…”
“No. Wait. Sheriff, wait. You’ve got it all wrong. Miss Foster…” Nash stepped over next to Shirley, “Miss Foster didn’t kidnap Lizzie.”
Sheriff Pate came close to tripping over his own feet. “She didn’t? How do you know? What do you know about this, Mr. Britt?”
Shirley had no idea how Nash planned to turn the situation around in her favor or if he could. She could only enjoy the moment of Sheriff Pate’s utter disappointment.
“Nash…” said Joe, “what do you know about this?”
“It ah…” Nash shook his head around tight stretched lips. “It was something that started out simple and…” he scratched his head, “simple enough… and then, well I don’t know what to tell you. It just all went wrong.”
“Okay. Just tell me how Lizzie’s doll got to Miss Foster’s house,” said Joe.
