[The History Mystery 01.0] Time and Again

by Deborah Heal

Then, when they finished the dishes, Pat dried her hands and said, “I’m going to my office to make some phone calls. I want to follow up on it before some other realtor swoops in. Why don’t you girls play a game or something?”

  Abby didn’t see Merrideth in the living room. And the door to her room stood open so it was easy to see she wasn’t there either. She should probably try harder to find her. But the thought of enduring Merrideth’s surly attitude through whatever games adolescents played—assuming she could even talk her into playing one—was more than she could face at the moment. And so she settled into her room with the books Pat had provided. After all, a good teacher must make lesson plans.

  She picked up the math book and thumbed through the musty pages. It wasn’t her best subject. English was, and considering how well that had gone—well, she’d better postpone math until Merrideth was in a better mood. History might be easier to handle.

  She got caught up in the history books. They were a lot more interesting than their boring, moldy covers had indicated. She jotted down some notes to herself and felt pretty good about how she would handle the lesson for the next day.

  She flipped open her phone. Still no bars. The clock said 11:23. More time had passed than she realized, which often happened when she was reading. And something was nagging at her and had been for the past hour. The house was too quiet. She had not heard Pat come out of her room or Merrideth come up to bed.

  When she stepped out into the hall, she saw that Merrideth’s door was still open, the room dark. A light came from under Pat’s door, and she was talking softly on the phone.

  Across the hall, the computer was on again. The Beautiful Houses program was back up, the houses scrolling by across the screen. She must have been so zoned out that she hadn’t heard Merrideth come up.

  She went in and sat down at the computer. If Merrideth liked architecture and beautiful houses that would be at least one thing they had in common. Maybe they could take a look at it sometime after their lessons. She closed the program. Besides Beautiful Houses, the computer was, as Pat had said, loaded with lots of games and educational programs. Merrideth’s dad had obviously spared no expense.

  But right now, all she was interested in was reconnecting with the outside world. She logged onto Yahoo and checked her e-mail. After only one day away, there was a ridiculous number of messages waiting for her, including one from a college friend bewailing his troubles fixing the muffler on his car and asking how her tutoring was going.

  And Kate had sent one of her typical rambling messages. As usual, it was mostly about her boyfriend Ryan, who was “so sweet.” The rest was about her upcoming trip to Europe, which was going to be “awesome,” ending with a plaintive, “Why don’t you answer your phone?”

  Abby sent off quick replies to everyone, explaining that she would have poor phone service for the summer and they should e-mail her instead.

  She shut down the computer and went into the hall. As she passed Pat’s door, she heard her still talking on the phone. She didn’t linger to eavesdrop, but it didn’t sound much like a business conversation.

  She could hear the television and started down the stairs, determined to make Merrideth turn it off and go to bed. The stairs creaked and the only light came from somewhere far away. She should never have let Kate talk her into watching that marathon of horror movies, especially the one about the babysitter dismembered by chainsaw-wielding crazies.

  But when she reached the living room, she saw it was inhabited by neither psychopath nor even angry pre-teen girl, just Chippy and Kit Kat, who were playing a rousing game of hide and seek under the sofa.

  When she silenced the TV, she heard a noise coming from outside the front door that sounded a lot like shoes scuffling across the wooden porch. Knowing she was lit up like an actor on a stage for anyone looking in from the darkness, she scrabbled to find the light switch and flipped it off. Then, flattening herself against the front door, she turned the deadbolt. After she had resumed breathing, and a minute had gone by with no further sounds, she leaned over and cautiously peeked out the door’s side window.

  There was Merrideth, her phone in hand, calmly sitting on the porch step.

  Abby tore open the door. “What are you doing out here alone this time of night?”

  “Relax. This isn’t the city.”

  “Maybe not, but you never know what might happen.”

  “Don’t worry. Nothing ever happens here. This place is completely dead, which is why my stupid phone still doesn’t have any bars.”

  Even a Rhapsody II? Abby knew she was being snarky, if only inside her head. She tamped down her impatience and said, “Well, come inside. You should be in bed.”

  “I can go to bed any time I want, especially in summer. Mom doesn’t care.”

  “Well, I care. Kids your age need at least nine hours of sleep. Sleep deprivation causes—”

  “How do know so much about it?”

  “My mom’s a pediatrician. She was always harping on it when I was growing up. When I was your age, I had to be in bed by nine o’clock. Even in the summer.”

  “Well, my mom lets me do whatever I want. My mom loves me.”

  “I’m sure she does, but please come in now.”

  “Whatever. I can’t call my dad anyway.”

  Pat’s room was dark and quiet when they went past it. But the blue light was on again in the computer room. Pat must have decided, for some strange reason, to play on the computer before she went to sleep.

  “Go on to bed. I’ll shut it down.”

  Merrideth just frowned and said, “Whatever,” before closing herself in her bedroom.

  Chapter 3

  “No.” Merrideth yawned. “It’s too boring.”

  “Well, we could try math or—” Abby began.

  “I hate math.”

  “—we could go back to English.”

  “No way.” Merrideth, dressed in pink shorts and an oversized T-shirt with a photo of a cat on the front, lay on the sofa with Chippy under her arm.

  “In that case, we’re back to my first choice—history,” Abby said firmly. Merrideth sighed but didn’t answer. “So let’s get started. We don’t even have to go up to the school room—”

  “It’s a computer room, not a school room.”

  “Okay, fine. Let’s just work in the kitchen.”

  Merrideth didn’t move.

  Abby’s first inclination was to say, “I’ll tell your mom,” but she restrained herself because she was pretty sure it wasn’t something a professional teacher would say. But she had no problem resorting to bribery again so she said, “You won’t get your treat tonight.”

  Merrideth looked up and smiled smugly at her. “I still have some Kit Kats left over from yesterday.” She turned back to watching Sponge Bob.

  It might be helpful if Pat could hear the lecture that Abby was starting to form in her head: “The Supply and Demand Theory as Applied to Kit Kat Bars.” But lecturing one’s client wasn’t exactly the kind of behavior that would result in good relations and a glowing report to her college supervisor. And she was counting on a strong recommendation for her resume from her supervisor.

  Apparently, she would have to rely on her persuasive abilities alone. Abandoning any hope of getting Merrideth to the kitchen table, Abby nudged Kit Kat from her customary spot on the windowsill and settled comfortably there with one of the history books Pat had given her. Grumbling in complaint, Kit Kat padded away in a huff.

  Merrideth lethargically played with her hair as she stared, seemingly entranced, at the TV.

  Having a voracious appetite for learning herself, it was hard to understand how a person could be as resistant to learning as Merrideth was. Abby remembered her professor’s opinion on the subject, that a desire to learn is one of the things that distinguishes man from other animals. And when that desire is completely gone, that person has become something less than human. Based on his theory, Merrideth had already passed the couch potato stage a
nd was well on the way to becoming a real slug.

  “This should be interesting,” Abby said, thumbing through the book. She saw Merrideth grimace and quickly added, “It’s a little different, The History of Illinois.” She paused to examine a page of black and white illustrations and thought of all the unfortunate students who might have perked up had they been in color.

  “Okay, for fifty points, what’s the state bird of Illinois?”

  Watching Sponge Bob with exaggerated interest, Merrideth didn’t answer.

  “It’s the cardinal,” Abby said patiently. “How about the state tree?”

  Merrideth rolled her eyes wearily and said, “White oak. The state flower is the violet. The state animal is the white-tailed deer. The state mineral is fluorite. The state prairie grass is big bluestem. The state slogan is ‘Land of Lincoln’ and the state nickname is the ‘Prairie State.’ Oh, and I forgot—the state fossil is the tully monster.”

  “What’s a tully monster?” Abby asked in surprise.

  “A soft-bodied marine animal. Any more questions?”

  “Of course, you know the state capital is—”

  “The first capital was Kaskaskia, but it kept getting flooded so they moved it to Vandalia, but people up North complained so they moved it to Springfield because it was near the center of the state. Illinois became a state in 1818. Now can I get back to my show?”

  She might claim not to have a favorite subject, but Merrideth was sure good at state history. “Let me find something more challenging,” Abby said, flipping through the book. Then she got caught up in what she was reading, and for a while the only sound came from a commercial about the latest Barbie. Astronaut Barbie came with her own space suit, complete with air tank and helmet, other accessories sold separately.

  At last Abby looked up from the book and said, “I bet you don’t know where the first battle of the Civil War was fought.”

  “Well, it wasn’t in Illinois,” Merrideth said with a snort. “I think it was South Carolina.”

  “You’re right, Fort Sumter. But in a way, the first battle happened nearly twenty-five years before that in Illinois, not far from here. As a matter of fact, the battle occurred in Alton, where your mom’s real estate office is. That’s only about fifteen miles from here.”

  Merrideth didn’t answer.

  “Listen to what it says here.”

  Elijah Parish Lovejoy published an anti-slavery paper in Alton. Although Illinois was a free state, it bordered the slave states of Missouri, Kentucky, and Ohio. Many Alton citizens were pro-slavery and didn’t like what Lovejoy published.

  Three different times, Lovejoy’s presses were ripped apart and thrown into the Mississippi River. But it didn’t stop him. Each time, he purchased a new press and kept on writing against slavery.

  In 1837, the fourth press arrived by steamboat in the night and was secretly stored in a warehouse until it could be installed at the newspaper office. But word got out and a mob gathered, demanding Lovejoy turn over the press. When Lovejoy and his friends refused, the mob shot and killed him, torched the warehouse, and destroyed the press.

  The story of Lovejoy and the abolitionists is the story of the enduring vigil for freedom of thought, speech, and the press. The mob action at Alton was the first, but unrecorded, battle of the Civil War.

  “Well, did you know that?”

  Merrideth looked up innocently. “Were you talking to me?”

  Abby slapped the book shut and, leaving the window seat, marched over to stand in front of the TV.

  “Hey, I can’t see!”

  Abby closed her eyes, cleared her throat, and counted to ten. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. At last she said, “Okay, you win. I give up … for today. But how about this? Instead of lessons, let’s go exploring. We could look in the barn. Or we could go for a walk around the neighborhood.”

  Merrideth snorted rudely. “Have you seen this neighborhood—all six houses?”

  “No, I only saw your house when I drove up. Why don’t you show me?”

  “Because it’s stupid and hick and boring. That’s why.”

  Abby sat down on the arm of the sofa. Merrideth pulled away and sat at the opposite end. Abby didn’t delude herself that it was to make room for her to sit beside her. No doubt she wanted to avoid touching her.

  “I bet it’s not so bad. Or we could drive into town and visit the library.”

  “That’s a little too much excitement for me,” Merrideth said, still staring at the TV.

  “You might be surprised how interesting a library can be.”

  “Go ahead. My favorite cooking show is just coming on.”

  “Or you could show me around the house. That would be a history lesson in itself.”

  “Why do you care about this stupid old house?”

  “I love old houses. I got that from my dad—he’s a history teacher. How old is this house, do you know?”

  “How should I know? Who cares anyway?”

  “It’s got to be really old. It would be fun to explore the attic. There’s probably some really cool stuff up there.”

  “Mom already looked, and there isn’t nothing up there.”

  “Anything,” Abby corrected automatically.

  She gave it one more attempt. “Just imagine all the living that has gone on in a house this old.”

  Merrideth merely stretched and said nothing, seemingly entranced by Paula Deen’s instructions on how to make a hash brown casserole.

  Abby conceded defeat on round one, but surely she could think of something that would get through to an eleven-year-old child. Hopefully, before the summer was over and she had to submit a report to her college supervisor.

  Meanwhile, she wouldn’t mind exploring on her own. Actually, she was relieved Merrideth wouldn’t come along. Keeping her patience was tiring.

  The only thing of interest in the living room was a set of sliding doors, heavy and darkly varnished. It took a bit of muscle, but Abby was able to drag them open. Inside was just another disappointingly empty room.

  “I guess this was the dining room,” she said over her shoulder. Merrideth didn’t comment. “Because, see, it leads right into the kitchen,” she said, opening the door on the opposite wall. “This little room between it and the kitchen was the pantry.” Merrideth didn’t respond, but Abby knew from the sound of channel surfing that she was still there.

  She stepped into the pantry and flipped the wall switch. Nothing. Enough sunlight coming from the kitchen revealed dark varnished shelves and cabinets covering the walls.

  And there was another door. It was warped and difficult to open, but she scraped it across the floorboards far enough to look in. She let out a little grunt of excitement. “Come look, Merrideth. I found another set of stairs.” Still no answer.

  She peered into the gloomy stairwell. “They’re so steep and narrow, it’s a wonder they didn’t fall and break their necks,” she muttered.

  Not wanting to do so herself, she closed the door, promising herself she would explore the staircase and what lay beyond it with a flashlight when she had seen the rest of the downstairs.

  Other than that, everything was straightforward and rather ordinary, no secret doorways or trapdoors. So far, Merrideth was right—it was a rather boring house.

  There was always a chance there were interesting things upstairs she hadn’t noticed yet. But it was time to stop indulging her curiosity and get back to doing her job.

  When she arrived back in the living room, Montel Williams was interviewing four skinhead neo-Nazis. Kit Kat and Chippy were still there, both asleep on the windowsill, unconcerned with the argument raging, but Merrideth was gone. Then Abby saw her through the front window and realized she had walked out to the mailbox.

  She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. The yard was so different from her first impression the evening before. The brooding quality was gone, and now she saw that the oak trees she had found sinister at dusk were in the morning l
ight a positive force, like sentinels casting their protective shade on the old house. The quietness—broken only by that strange birdsong again—was unfamiliar, but nice.

  There were no ornamental plants, unless the prairie grasses and wildflowers that grew in profusion on the road banks counted. Straight ahead a short distance away on the other side of the lane, the railroad tracks lay shining in the sun. She couldn’t see what was on the other side of them, for the embankment on which the tracks ran was several feet higher than the road.

  No other houses were visible from the porch, but she knew there must be more behind the trees that blocked her view to the south. To the north they were hemmed in by a field of tall, green corn.

  She sat down on the top step of the front porch and waited for Merrideth. “Get any mail today?”

  “Why would you, on your second day here?” Frowning, Merrideth started back up the sidewalk, hugging several white envelopes and a small plain package to her chest.

  “No, I mean did you get any mail?”

  “Just this,” Merrideth said, holding up the package.

  “I was wondering if you ever get any letters from your friends back in Chicago.”

  “I got one from Amber last week, but no one else. My dad never writes. He calls me, though— sometimes—and sends me stuff.” She shook the package and sat down next to Abby. “Here,” she said with a sour smile. “You did get something.”

  The something was a postcard from Kate, and Abby smiled at the picture on the front. Corn stood tall and green in a huge field. The banner at the top read Springfield—Corn Capital of the World. On the back Kate had written in her usual tiny but neat handwriting:

  Dear Abby,

  Sure wish I could have talked you into coming with me to Europe! You should have gotten an extension on your service project like I did. Anyway, I promised you postcards, so here’s the first… from my hometown! Hope you’re having fun in your neck of the woods (or cornfield). Gotta go. I’m late leaving for the airport.

  Love, Kate