Scrapbook of Secrets

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  “Of c-course, you d-didn’t,” she responded.

  He placed his hand on his forehead, avoiding eye contact. He suddenly reminded Vera of an eagle or some other large bird. His movements were jolted. His eyes shifted around, as if hunting or searching for something.

  “I know that detectives have been nosing around here,” he finally said. “But I gotta tell you, I still think she killed herself. I’ve been over this in my mind, again and again. I don’t know what I could have done to stop her. I don’t know why they think I killed her. I was at work.”

  “Well, now,” Vera said, trying to soothe this obviously tortured, probably dangerous person. “My mama always said that if you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “The thing is,” he went on, “I wasn’t the best husband. I know I could’ve been a better husband. I’ve lost my temper a few times with her. But I loved her. I was crazy about her.”

  She reached out and patted his hand, still unsure of his innocence or guilt, but she could see he was in turmoil and needed help. She couldn’t get over how young he looked at that moment, just like a boy sitting across from her, except for the razor stubble.

  “Now, you say you have a counselor?” she managed to say.

  “Yes.” He sat up and pulled his hand away. “And I’m looking for a sitter. Maggie Rae’s sister can help a little, but I need a full-time sitter. If you can put the word out, or if you know anybody ...”

  No, indeed, thought Vera. I won’t be sending any young girl to your house.

  Later that night, over a supper of beef stew and crusty bread, she mentioned it to Bill.

  “Robert Dasher came by the studio today.”

  “What for?”

  “He wanted to chat,” she said, breaking off a piece of bread. “He’s creepy, but at the same time, I feel sorry for him. Odd.”

  Bill pounded his fist on the table.

  “He’s playing your sympathies, and I won’t have it. He needs to stay away from you!”

  “Now, Bill, he is the father of one of my students. It’s unrealistic to think I’d never be talking to him. And he’s right, Grace needs to continue with her dance lessons.”

  “Yes, but he should not be talking to you about the case at all. Or sitting across the desk from you, crying. Son of a bitch!” His face turned bright red.

  Vera laughed. “Calm down, Bill. It’s nothing for you to have a heart attack over. You’re sounding like a jealous man, and we’ve been married too long for that.”

  He slid his chair over next to her, wrapped his arms around her. “God, woman, I love you. You’re going to be the mother of my child. I don’t want that man near you.”

  Vera sank into a warm bliss that carried her through the rest of her night—alone with her husband in the bedroom.

  Chapter 23

  Murder comes to Cumberland Creek?—Yolonda

  How did you hear about that?

  Don’t you ever read your paper? There are letters to the editor accusing Maggie Rae’s husband.

  REALLY?

  So what do you think?

  They said it was a suicide. Now, there seems to be an investigation going on. And we think that he beat her from time to time.

  Really? That’s terrible. I didn’t think women put up with that stuff anymore.

  Don’t be so naïve.

  Nobody’s ever called me that before. (SMIRK)

  The blue of the computer screen suddenly made Annie very tired. Yolonda’s ignorance swept through her, too. If someone as smart as Yolonda didn’t think abuse still went on, how would the court ever prove its case against Robert?

  I need to go. Sorry. So tired.

  Annie! It’s only 9:30.

  That late! ;-) Good night.

  Good night.

  Before she switched off the computer, Annie decided to Google Robert Dasher, again—jeez, there were a million of them. How about Robert and Maggie Rae Dasher?

  There they were at some kind of a business function. Interesting.

  There were pictures from their wedding.

  There were some Facebook and LinkedIn accounts.

  Hmm. This guy looked as ordinary as could be. Yet, she knew from Maggie Rae’s cards and papers that he was a tyrant.

  She decided to look up Juicy X—Maggie Rae’s pseudonym.

  Wow, what a website. Gorgeous graphics. And was that Maggie Rae in a platinum blond wig? Good Lord, the woman was built. A visitor would never know she had birthed four children. Of course, there could be touch-ups. Thank God, she wasn’t naked, but just almost naked. Annie didn’t want to see the rest of her. She read the site’s text:

  About Juicy

  Juicy is a woman with a passion for words and sex. She has won every award, including the highly regarded ALLEROTICA, the HOT LUNCH award, and the ZIPPY awards. She is an acclaimed author who says there is nothing she’d rather write about than love and sex—the kinkier the better.

  Annie clicked on the Amazon link. All twelve of her books were at the top of the romance charts. Jesus. Annie knew the woman was making a lot of money—yet they lived in what was probably the smallest house in Cumberland Creek. It was odd.

  She clicked off the monitor—she’d have to explore more tomorrow, if she could. Right now, her eyes were burning with strain.

  So rumors were already spreading about Robert Dasher. She wondered if that would affect his trial at all. She wondered if he would ever make it to trial.... If a community like this thinks he killed his wife, who knew what would become of him?

  Mike was already in bed—she could hear him snoring from where she sat at her desk. She climbed into bed and felt the weariness of the day rest in her body. Soft blankets, sheets, on her warm skin. She lay in her bed, looking at the ceiling, thinking about Maggie Rae’s papers that she gave to the detective. When she ran into him at the gas station, he said he’d give them back to her.

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” Annie stated. “I picked them up by mistake. We just wanted to make scrapbooks for her kids. They were among her things. I’m not sure any of it can be used in her scrapbooks.”

  “Oh, still, I’ll need to give them to somebody. Might as well be you,” he said. “Obviously, her husband doesn’t want them.”

  He looked at her with an uncomfortable acknowledgment and shrugged his large shoulders before walking away. She almost invited him over for coffee. The reporter in her would not allow it—neither would the wife in her. She never really trusted cops. She’d seen too many shady ones and had been involved in a number of stories with good cops gone bad. Maybe Bryant was one of the good ones, but maybe not. And she knew her husband would not appreciate her inviting a man in for coffee, even if he was a detective.

  Now that Annie had finished the scrapbook, she was really unsure of whom to give it to. Maggie Rae’s husband left it out for the trashman; her children were still quite young; maybe her sister? What did she say her name was again? Tina Sue, in the purple ski jacket, sitting at the park bench. Did she give her last name? If she did, Annie couldn’t remember.

  She rolled over on her side and closed her eyes. What a day. What a weekend. All of a sudden, she was in the thick of this small town. She had acquaintances, if not friends, and she’d been to a scrapbooking party, as well as a hospital room and a memorial service. Life was surely getting a bit more interesting. Two weeks ago, it was just Annie and her boys, and she didn’t know that she lived down the street from a murderer. She was saddened and shocked by Maggie Rae’s death when she thought it was a suicide. But a murder frightened her. Is any place safe? God, if a family wasn’t safe in their own home—where could they be safe? And with her own husband? She couldn’t imagine the thoughts going through Maggie Rae’s mind as her husband pointed a gun at her. Did she beg and plead for her life? Did she have time? Or was it over so quick that she had no time to make sense of anything? No chance to think of her children? Her husband killing her?

  A cold chill ran through her and she pulled
the blankets closer around her shoulders. Cumberland Creek was a strange place. It was quaint and beautiful on the outside—but underneath the surface was something dark, foreboding, and sinister.

  One of the sights she was afraid she’d never get used to was the parade of Mennonite horses and buggies that came through the town, especially on Wednesdays, when they held a farmers’ market in the town square, which was tomorrow. She would just never get used to the plain way the women and men dressed, and the way in which the women seemed to be subservient to their men. Then she smiled—her aunt Ida could have written the book on subservience, and she was an Orthodox Jew, which irritated Annie’s mother to no end. “How could two women be raised in the same house and be so different?”

  Annie rolled over again and saw the sky—just as blue as a perfect sky could be. The sun warmed her skin and she realized she had forgotten her sunblock. She reached for a drink—it was pink, with a fancy little umbrella plopped in it. She sipped on it—whew, a strong cool drink was just what she needed. A masculine hand reached for hers, sending ripples through her body. It was as if a shard of electricity zipped through her. She looked into his eyes. Wes.

  The next thing she knew, they were making love on the sand. They started out on a blanket, but as was usually the case when the two of them had sex, it got a little, well, active. As he pushed into her, she could feel the gritty sand and waves kissing her toes. They were alone on the beach, just them and the expanse of white sand, turquoise water, and their bodies—young, firm, lithe. She felt as if the sand had begun to sink, but she and Wes somehow became a part of the sky. She woke up, shivering in orgasm.

  She rolled over and closed her eyes, hoping she hadn’t disturbed Mike. There was a smile on her face, though, as she remembered reading Maggie Rae’s story about a hot young couple on the beach.

  The next day, Annie dressed Ben for an outing at the farmers’ market. Ben loved walking through the town—that in itself was cause for exploring and keeping him quite happy. They were a bit rushed because Sam would be home soon from the new preschool program he was trying out.

  Annie loved the produce at the Mennonite Farmers Market—tables of spring greens, spinach, and rhubarb lined the town square. And, oh, the strawberries! She never saw such beautiful, big berries. So perfectly shaped.

  “These are so beautiful!” she exclaimed aloud, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, for the Mennonite woman behind the tables sort of sat back and looked suspiciously at her. She forced a smile.

  The woman’s alabaster skin almost matched her white cotton blouse. Her piercing blue eyes scanned Annie. She looked around—they were all fair. Had she never seen an olive complexion?

  Suddenly Annie felt awkward. “I—I’ll take this basket,” she stammered.

  “Thank you,” the woman said, handing Annie her change and her basket of strawberries.

  Annie bent over to give Ben a taste of a ripe strawberry and he reached for her necklace—the Star of David in her child’s tiny hand.

  Chapter 24

  Beatrice was awakened by a glow on the edge of her bed. It was her husband again.

  “Beatrice?”

  “Yes,” she strained to say, for she was so tired. She opened her eyes and saw her dead husband as clear as she could.

  “It’s Maggie Rae,” he said.

  “What?” Her heart skipped a beat as she struggled to sit up.

  “Maggie Rae is lost,” he told her, looking very perplexed. “Something holds her here, but it’s not like with us.”

  “What do you mean, Doc?”

  “It’s bad. She’s in pain and is hovering in a darkness.”

  “What do you mean?” Beatrice said, frightened, feeling a tingling travel up her spine.

  “I’m not sure I can explain this—but there seems to be a vacuum created by some of us when we are alive, where all this darkness goes. Dark thoughts, dark dreams. She is filled with them,” he said. “It’s frightening, even to us.”

  “Can you help?”

  He shook his head.

  “You will have to take care of this, Beatrice, and I wish I could tell you how. But I’m confused by it. Oh, there she is,” he said, and disappeared.

  Just then, Beatrice heard a loud, crashing sound.

  “What was that?” she said aloud, and reached into her drawer for her gun. This time, she’d be prepared. She turned off the safety, feeling the cold, hard metal in her hand. It was a window breaking downstairs. She was sure of it. Go downstairs? Or call the police?

  She locked the bedroom door quietly, her hands shaking suddenly, breath shallow. She imagined her bedroom as being filled with light, just as her cousin had taught her to do in times of stress. She picked up the phone and dialed 911.

  “This is Beatrice Matthews, at 610 Ivy Street,” she said softly into the phone. “I believe there’s an intruder in my house.”

  “We’ll dispatch someone immediately, Beatrice. Where are you physically located?”

  “Upstairs in my bedroom. Door is locked.”

  “Stay where you are.”

  “I plan to,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  Soon she heard the sirens and looked out the front window. She heard the police shuffling around outside for what seemed like hours, then someone yelling about glass.

  Then her phone rang. “Mrs. Matthews, it’s safe for you to come downstairs. Please come down and open the door for us. Just like the doll, this incident seems like a simple vandalism. Be careful of the glass.”

  A simple vandalism? She took a deep breath and tried to quiet her pounding heart. A simple vandalism. She’d never had so many acts of weirdness and violence directed at her.

  Bea decided to take her gun with her, just to be on the safe side. As she opened her bedroom door, she felt the cold rush to her. It was a cool spring morning—but heavens, this was a down-deep cold, getting into her bones.Goodness, she wished the changing spring weather patterns would settle. One day warm, the next cool. She went back in her room and grabbed her shawl from the chair.

  As she descended the stairs, the breeze in her home disturbed her sensibilities. She wrapped the shawl closer to her. Even though she heard the officers in the distance, she felt alone, and the house felt utterly empty and cavernous. A fine layer of dust—or was it glass—covered everything. The sun was just rising, with streams of pinkish gold flecks of light coming through the windows. Bits of leaves and branches were scattered in her living room, along with shards of glass, shining, sparkling, reflecting. One piece was reflecting so strongly that she found herself shielding her eyes with her hands. As she did so, a cold wind shook her curtains, and something black flew across the room. What the hell was that? A bird? A bat? No, it was too big for that. Too big and too fast. She swore she could feel every little hair on the back of her neck stand at attention, and a putrid scent filled her nose and mouth.

  “Mrs. Matthews? Please open the door,” came the voice from outside.

  She slipped her gun into a closeby drawer and opened the door and saw a young officer, looking like he was about twelve. Could they have sent a more inexperienced young dweeb?

  “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “What’s so damn good about it?”

  He ignored her. “We need to look around in here. We figure someone threw a rock or something. Might be in the house. It would help if we found the instrument. Maybe we could find who did it.”

  “I doubt it,” she retorted in a clipped tone. “You still haven’t found who stabbed me. Or who left the doll on my porch.”

  “You’re the same lady?”

  “Indeed I am,” she said, pointing at her neck, still bandaged, exasperated.

  “I need to make a phone call. Excuse me.”

  In the meantime, two other officers came in and took pictures and looked through the glass shards for a rock or a brick—anything. They found nothing. It was almost as if the window had shattered on its own.

  “Good Lord, where is my mother?” Beatric
e heard Vera ask as she ran up the porch stairs.

  Then an officer’s voice, telling her where Bea could be found, responded.

  Vera opened the door and looked at her mom.

  “I believe I’d like a cup of coffee. Could you, dear?” Beatrice said, grabbing Vera’s hand and leading her into the kitchen.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied. “Just need that cup of coffee.” She sat at her kitchen table and watched Vera make coffee and listened to the officers traipse around in her living room.

  The scent of brewing coffee filled the kitchen and soothed her. It was one of those smells that Beatrice never grew tired of—here she was, eighty years old, and the smell of coffee still held immense comfort for her. It took her right back to her childhood on the mountain, sitting at her mother’s table, with not a worry in the world. In her mind’s eye, she could see her mother’s blue curtains waving in the Virginia breeze, her weary mom pouring the coffee into her dad’s cup, then into her own. She could almost feel her mother’s touch right here this moment. She closed her eyes, swimming in this feeling.

  “Mama,” Vera said, disrupting her thoughts. “Between the stabbing in your neck and now this, I’m beginning to think someone has it in for you. Why don’t you come and stay with us?”

  Beatrice did not reply. If she only knew about the doll. Sometimes her daughter’s love felt like a noose. Today, here, in the kitchen where Vera was raised, Beatrice wondered if her daughter would ever really know who she was. How many times did Bea have to assert her independence?

  Beatrice smiled, then rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so, Vera. This is my home.”

  “I’d feel more comfortable until they find out who stabbed you,” Vera said. “I just want you to be careful. Maggie Rae’s husband ... well, he could be dangerous.”