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This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.
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Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com
Copyright 2018 – Naida Kirkpatrick
Echoes
Naida Kirkpatrick
I would like to dedicate Echoes to John who grew up in a small town just as I did.
Prologue
The summer I was seven, I went with Grandfather to visit Miss Harriet Washburn. I was very excited because a trip anywhere with Grandfather was special. I hurried to keep up with Grandfather’s long steps. All the kids at school said the Washburn house was haunted, and ghosts drifted through the woods. I wouldn’t admit it, but I was afraid and the closer we got to the Washburn house, the tighter I clutched his hand. The long, gravel drive ended at a tall, shiny, black iron gate that made a terrible screech when Grandfather pushed it open. We slipped through and followed the red, brick walkway to the steps and up onto the long porch. Here, we stopped. Grandfather handed me his handkerchief.
“Wipe the dust off your shoes,” he said. I was wearing my Sunday best, black, patent leather shoes. I had walked very carefully so I wouldn’t scuff them, but they were very dusty.
The heavy, wooden door in front of me was carved with swirls of vines and leaves. It squeaked open on heavy, brass hinges and I followed Grandfather inside. We stepped into a long hallway as dark as a movie theater. I couldn’t see anything, so I clung to Grandfather’s hand and stumbled after him.
Miss Washburn was old, not as old as Grandfather, but old. While she and Grandfather talked, I wandered around the immense room full of amazing things. I held my hands behind my back the way Mother always told me. There were shelves of books clear to the ceiling on two of the walls. I saw a rack of swords and knives, and a cupboard with glass doors full of pretty plates and cups.
In one corner stood a glass topped table holding a collection of glass paperweights, so beautiful my hand itched from wanting to pick them up. They had flowers inside, and butterflies and swirls of bright colors. They were like the jewels in Mr. Cosmos’ jewelry window every Christmas. Just above the table of paperweights hung a painting of a woman in a yellow dress. She wore a necklace of silver with a yellow stone hanging from it. She was so beautiful, but sad looking, too.
“Miss Randall.” I looked up. No one ever called me ‘Miss Randall.’ Miss Washburn motioned to me. “What is your given name, Miss Randall?”
“Maggie. I mean, Margaret, ma’am. But everyone calls me Maggie.” Miss Washburn’s smile made me feel warm and comfortable inside.
“Well, Maggie, I see you noticed the glass weights on that table. What do you think of them?”
“They’re beautiful,” I said. “Who’s the lady in the picture?” I pointed to the woman in the yellow dress. “She’s very pretty, but she looks so sad.”
“That’s my aunt, Emily Washburn.” She studied me a bit. “You’re quite observant. Aunt Emily was very sad. A good observer always remembers to look behind the picture. Don’t forget that.”
Grandfather and I left shortly after, and I didn’t see Miss Washburn again for many years. But I never forgot her advice to look behind the picture even though I didn’t understand what she meant. I thought about it all the way home. At the front door, Grandfather stooped until his eyes were even with mine.
“You’re very quiet, little magpie.”
“What did Miss Washburn mean about looking behind the picture, Grandfather?”
“I think you must figure that out for yourself, little magpie.”
I turned the pictures Mother had on the wall and looked at the other side. There was only cardboard. Miss Washburn’s words teased at my imagination. I still hear them echoing over the stretch of time. Eventually, I understood what she meant. The obvious is seldom the answer.
Chapter One
I waved to Mac as I pulled out of the drive. It was a short drive through the early morning traffic of Midford, Michigan to the bypass onto Highway 15. I had a long drive ahead of me and, although the Interstate is faster, it also lacks character.
I was tired. Worn down, pulled through a keyhole tired. Tired of managing a nursing unit, tired of the squabbles of staff, and fed up with excuses. Tired of extended shifts that too many times stretched into doubles. To top it off, Stuart Eldridge, my editor had just sent a nagging letter reminding me of my deadline, as if I was likely to forget it. I’m working on a mystery novel that takes place in a small town. The main character, Mylo Trowbridge, has disappeared and his niece is convinced something terrible has happened. I’ve hit a snag that has intensified my sense of frustration with all things in general, and Stuart in particular. And, as dearly as I love Mac, I need some time to myself.
So when Gerry called last week and asked me to come look after the house.
“I know you just retired and probably have other things”
“You bet! I’d love to.” This was the first chance he and Mavis have had to do something this special in all the years they’d been married. And who could tell? Maybe I’d find out what happened to Mylo Trowbridge.
“I know Mavis will just adore you for taking her on a cruise. When are you leaving?”
We made the arrangements and I started packing that afternoon. It’s about a seven hour drive from my home in Midford to Tuxford, Indiana, but I liked the old route that meanders through the small towns and past all the farms. I started early enough to watch the sun chase the long shadows from dew-silvered fields. I rolled down the window of my trusty Jeep, turned up the radio and the years rolled away like the morning mist.
I grew up in Tuxford, a tiny dot of a town in the middle of farm country, about halfway between Indianapolis and Chicago. The major farm crop around Tuxford was and still is, tomatoes and when we were growing up, had the only canning factory for miles around. Working at the canning factory was a popular first job for most of the young people in the area at one time. A new factory was built several years ago and the tomatoes are still processed and shipped all over the country. Their catsup even makes it onto the shelves of my favorite grocery in Midford.
I stopped occasionally for a short rest and cup of coffee. I don’t eat much when I drive because it makes me sleepy. I like driving through small towns, although I don’t like living in one. They remind me of fat cats snoozing in the sunshine. All innocent looking and calm, but, underneath, they bubble like a witches’ cauldron with gossip and insinuation.
Gerry still lived in the family home. He and Mavis moved in when Dad died and Mother needed help. After Mother died, he and Mavis stayed on and we visited when we could. But, between my crazy schedule and Mac’s forensic work, our visits were few and far between. Gerry and Mavis don’t have children of their own, so one summer when our daughters, Marissa and Charlotte were visiting them, my girls got the royal treatment.
The Tuxford Times has been in the Randall family for three generations. Grandfather Randall started it, then Dad took over and ran it. When Dad died, Gerry became the publisher. Gerry’s a good reporter, always a stickler for facts.
Gerry wrote, and published, an article about our girls visit to Tuxford, including their pictures for the paper and showed them the huge printing press in action. He let them write a story each, which he published. In other words he made them feel so special that they still tal
k about their ‘newspaper adventure.’
Mavis taught math in the local high school and, like me, had just retired. Math gives me a headache. I learned what I needed for my work, but no more.
I pulled into the drive with two hours to spare before it was time for them to leave. Mavis dashed around like a three year old at her first birthday party.
“Just think, Maggie, Gerry’s taking us on a tour around the Mediterranean. I have always wanted to go there.” She was so excited she almost jumped up and down.
She handed me a list of emergency numbers and asked me to return her library books, all the time chattering away like one of those old, film reels that keep flapping when the tape ends. Finally, I clamped my hand across her mouth.
“Mavis, I’ll figure it out. I used to live here, remember?” I shoved her purse and overnight bag at her. “You don’t want to miss your plane. Go, and have a marvelous time.”
I tossed my stuff into the guest bedroom that, was at one time my old room and prowled around the house getting reacquainted. I found all the important equipment like the refrigerator, coffee maker, washer and dryer, and went outside. The old maple tree still arched over the porch the way I remembered. Gerry and I used to climb out his bedroom window and slide down its rough trunk. One summer, we made parachutes from our bedspreads and jumped. But instead of floating down behind enemy lines as planned, we miscalculated and wound up in the emergency room, each with a broken arm. That gut wrenching feeling of nothingness just before my feet hit the ground still gives me nightmares. I always jerk awake just before I hit the ground. I think Mother wanted to tie us both to our beds. We weren’t always the best-behaved kids on the block.
I circled the house, coming back around to the front, just in time to see a florist truck pull into the driveway. A logo on its side read Williams Flowers.
“Where do you want these?” A tiny slip of a girl jumped out holding a box of plants. “I have the rest in the back.”
“Are you sure you have the right house?”
“This is the Randall place, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Then these are your plants.”
I guess I stopped Mavis before she could tell me about the flowers. In silence, I watched the girl stack flats of purple flowers on the porch. She gave me a wave and drove away leaving me feeling as though I had just inherited a family of orphans.
Gardening has never been very high on my list of fun things to do, but I couldn’t let Mavis down. There were four large pots besides the steps, two on each side. I figured that’s where Mavis wanted the flowers. I found an old pair of cotton gloves and a trowel in the garage and proceeded to wrestle the purple flowers into the planters. I told myself it didn’t have to look like an entry for the Garden Club.
I leaned back in the lounge chair, propped my feet up and sipped icy lemonade as a reward to myself for my labors. I placed my phone on the table beside me and gazed out over the stretch of lawn to the street. The burgundy leaves of the king maple whispered in the warm breeze that hinted at a hot summer. As I relaxed and sipped my lemonade, I almost forgot my aching back. I had to admit that the purple flowers added a certain touch of elegance.
Quiet settled over the afternoon like a soft curtain, rippled only by the buzzing of insects. I didn’t realize I was almost asleep until the sound of a stuttering engine jarred me out of a doze. A blue truck had just pulled into the drive of the house across the street. This one was from the Williams Flower Shop, too. The older Williams were dead now but I supposed their son Max still lived there.
The driver, a young man this time, got out, stood a moment and, straightening his shoulders, walked to the back of the truck. He took out a huge, blue, pottery bowl filled with what appeared to be a small tree and carried it to the door. He set it carefully on the mat and rang the bell.
I like to watch people, and thirty years nursing has made me a good observer. I’ve seen all kinds, from the addicts who flinch at the sight of a needle, to drunks barfing all over. I’ve helped deliver the occasional baby who wouldn’t wait for the delivery room as well as handle many a code blue. Once I even pinned down a skinny kid and took away his knife. I finally decided enough was enough, but I still enjoy watching people.
The driver lifted the knocker and rapped several times, finally turning to go. Just then, the door opened. It was Max Williams. It had been many years since I last saw him, and he was much older now, but I’d know that arrogant posture anywhere.
The driver handed Max what looked like a card and pointed to the plant. He went back to his truck took out another pot of flowers and started to cross the street. Mr. Williams stood in the doorway watching the man. The driver was in the center of the street when the whole world exploded.
I froze in my chair. The deafening blast hurled the man against the curb as debris rained down like a summer hailstorm. The bright, orange flare faded into a plume of thick, black smoke that settled slowly in the soft breeze. The man managed to scramble up onto my front walk only to collapse onto the steps. Bits of metal, leaves, and pieces of black, flaky insulation stuck to him. His face was the color of my lemonade and I knew that if I didn’t do something immediately, he would collapse and maybe even die, right there on my porch.
“Come here!” I yelled at him. He didn’t seem to hear me, which wasn’t surprising, since I could barely hear myself. “Come here,” I yelled again, grabbing his arm and steering him up onto the porch. I pushed him onto the lounge chair and propped his feet up.
Grabbing the phone, I called the emergency number just as another blast took out the entire front of the house and most of the truck. Everything vanished in another blinding flash of orange and black.
“I need the police and ambulance, NOW!” I screamed into the phone along with my address. “The house across the street just exploded, the truck from the flower shop is blown to bits and the driver is about to go into shock. It’s raining geraniums everywhere.” Bits of flowers and leaves and pottery were slowly settling all over the street and the lawn.
The man groaned and his eyes slid back like the eyes of my old baby doll. I saw what little color he had drain from his face, leaving it a waxy yellow tint. He groaned again and moved his head slightly.
“Don’t you dare pass out on me, buddy.” I picked up my glass and flung the lemonade in his face. The cold snapped his eyes open.
By the time the ambulance arrived, the driver had roused enough to tell me his name was Mike. He grabbed my arm and pulled me close to him.
“Is my truck gone?” he coughed out.
“I’m afraid so. Just take it easy.”
He sighed and closed his eyes.
I started to ask more, but the medics and the police arrived. The medics rushed up to the porch, then stood transfixed.
I’d seen that same look on the faces of nurses new to their emergency rotation. I jumped up and pushed my five foot four inches up against the first medic’s chin.
“Snap out of it, Mister,” I snapped at him. “This man is diaphoretic, has a thready pulse and a gash on his head. If you don’t get some oxygen and fluids into him right now, he’s going to go into shock.”
That brought them around. They rushed up onto the porch, grabbed Mike and buckled him onto their stretcher, slapping a mask over his nose at the same time. I followed them to the truck.
“He said his name is Mike,” I volunteered.
Medic No. 1 wrapped a sphygmomanometer around the driver’s left arm to check blood pressure. Medic No. 2 scrubbed a spot on the right arm and inserted an IV needle for fluids. The oxygen pressure was adjusted. The gash on Mike’s face was swabbed with betadine and a dressing applied.
“The sticky stuff on his face is lemonade,” I told them. “He was going into shock and I needed something cold.”
After the ambulance screamed its way down the street, I swept up the broken glass from the porch. The police swarmed all over the yard and in and out of the remains of the house across the street. I we
nt over, going up to the officer stringing up that yellow DO NOT CROSS tape they put around everything.
“Did they find anything left of the man who lived here?”
He barely glanced at me.
“I couldn’t say, ma’am.” He went on with his work.
“Do you suppose I could go around to the back and check on the dog?”
I had no idea whether Mr. Williams had a dog, but it seemed reasonable. A man alone like he was usually has a dog.
“I couldn’t say, ma’am.”
“Well, who could say?” My patience had trickled almost to the point of non-existence.
He pointed to an officer standing where the porch used to be.
“Talk to Sergeant O’Connor.”
Sergeant O’Connor was no help. I told him I was from across the street, I saw the whole thing, and came to check on the dog.
He gave me the kind of stare reserved for sinners at a church picnic. I wasn’t surprised. My jeans were streaked with black where Mike had fallen against me as I pulled him into the chair, and my shirt was smudged with mud and sticky with lemonade. He pulled a phone from his pocket.
“What’s your name, Ma’am?” His bored tone suggested he had heard this a million times before.
“Maggie MacKenzie. I’m staying across the street and I saw what happened.”
“That’s nice. Go back across the street and if we need to talk to you, we’ll let you know, Ms. MacKenzie.”
He turned his back as he spoke into the phone.
I stared at his back for a moment, then turned the other way, thinking hard; an inevitable process for me when encountering something odd. I’ve been writing mystery novels for some years now and, have even developed a certain loyal following. The natural curiosity I’ve carried since childhood has developed, to Mac’s occasional annoyance, into an amateur sleuth’s tendency to snoop.
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