“Ruby, you have no idea how much some of the things you give me are worth,” Theresa said. “You have to take a percentage.”
Ruby dropped the box on the desk. The impact rocked a small, empty crystal vase off the edge. Theresa caught it with a snap of the wrist. The averted calamity didn’t register with Ruby.
“Don’t need no percentage,” she said. “My percentage is seeing that cute boy of yours well fed and away from his loser of a father.” Ruby had more than one ax to grind with men from her past. “You got after him about those support payments yet?”
Theresa was ashamed to admit she hadn’t. She avoided confrontation in general, but with Bobby in specific. Part of the reason was his capacity for violence, especially with a few under his belt. Also, his presence was a reminder of the mistake she’d made marrying him, the only positive outcome of which had been her son Dustin.
“I called my lawyer about the support payments,” Theresa said.
“You need to call the cops,” Ruby said. “Get his ass tossed in jail for a while.”
Theresa wished it were that easy. She hated that the son of a bitch still intimidated her.
“Gotta run, doll,” Ruby said, already mid-turn for the door. “Kids’ll be home soon and I gotta be out of this dress before that storm hits. Tell me, girl, what do you call a man who’s lost ninety percent of his mental skills?”
Theresa smiled as she delivered Ruby’s punch line for the thousandth time. “Divorced.”
“Amen, sister.” The door shut behind Ruby.
Theresa glanced at the clock. It was almost four thirty. She had to pick up her son Dustin as well. She gripped the box on the desk and the feeling hit her. Black, cold debilitating dread. She pulled her hands away as if she had touched a hot stove.
“Damn it,” she whispered. This had been such a good day, such a good string of days, now about to be ruined by the Gift That Keeps On Giving. The box had some pictures in it, a few small boxes that probably held cheap jewelry, and some books. Theresa reached inside to find the source of the premonition, and then yanked her hand back.
“No way,” she said. Not now. It was too late in the day to start solving that nasty little enigma. The search could go on forever, looking for the other puzzle pieces, and once she started, she lived in fear every minute, wondering if she would crack the secret code in time to derail disaster. She wasn’t starting that at this hour. She tossed the box onto a low shelf on the wall. She turned the shop lights out. Whatever it was, it could wait.
Chapter Twenty-Five
One woman stick figure. One boy stick figure. One cat. Those were the three decals in the back window of Theresa Grissom’s Ford Explorer. There was a space on the left where Bastard Bobby’s little stick figure had been last year. The residual adhesive had attracted a coating of dirt Theresa refused to clean off. She thought it was fitting.
The Explorer rolled to a stop in front of Moultrie Elementary. A customer had kept her late and kids were already streaming out from extended after care. The program was the county’s recognition that the majority of the families were dual income or single parents struggling to get by on one. Theresa kept a sharp eye out for Dustin’s bright blue jacket.
The last year had been tough on the boy. To say the divorce was messy would be like calling 9-11 an aviation mishap. Throughout it, Bobby got drunker, louder and more abusive than usual. Nothing Theresa said could get him to shield his son from his rages. Dustin, like any boy, had idolized his father. But the hero worship ended the night Dustin watched his drunken dad rant outside their house and crap on the hood of his mother’s SUV before the cops dragged him off. In the downward spiral over the eight months between filing and finalizing the divorce, Dustin became silent, withdrawn. Theresa did all she could, but she had to admit the divorce drained her. There were days she knew she was no help to her son.
She expected to see the crowd of kids dissolve and Dustin complete his usual head-down shuffle to the car. Her jaw nearly hit the steering wheel when her son burst from the school, smiling from ear to ear. He had short blond hair and ears that protruded just enough to qualify as cute. He raced to the car, little backpack slamming back and forth with each stride. He gripped a large rolled up paper in one hand. He threw himself in the backseat without closing the door.
“Look, Mom, look,” he panted. He shoved the thick artist’s paper at her. “Look what I made.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Theresa said. “Let me see.” She unrolled the paper. It was a watercolor scene of a forest by the lake. She recognized it as the state park they went to two summers ago. She was stunned because most of Dustin’s works were strictly crayon-based primary school efforts with stick figures and yellow circle suns. This painting had a hint of style.
“You did this by yourself?” Theresa said.
“Yeah. Ms. Locke brought us in paints and showed us how to hold the brushes.” It had been three weeks since the long-term substitute teacher for Mrs. Matthews had taken Dustin’s class. “They’re called ‘watercolors’. And look at the top of the picture.”
A gold star glittered in the afternoon sun. Next to it in perfect penmanship it said Wonderful job, Dustin!
“Wow,” Theresa said. “Your new teacher really liked it.” She passed it back to Dustin who unrolled it again.
“And I really like it,” he said.
That substitute Ms. Locke found something new Dustin enjoyed, Theresa thought. The withdrawn boy had a way to express himself, and it had nothing to do with his father. This activity was going to be one hundred percent Dustin. Just what he needed.
“Can we get some watercolors?” Dustin said.
“We’ll get some at Walmart on the way home if you’re good.”
“Yesss!” Dustin slammed the Explorer’s back door and put on his seat belt. It was the first time in months he hadn’t needed a reminder.
Parent/Teacher Night was tomorrow. Theresa couldn’t wait to meet Ms. Locke. With a great deal of guilt, she gave thanks that Mrs. Matthews had broken her leg.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Three doors down on the left, Ms. Grissom.”
Theresa nodded a thank-you to the PTA volunteer at the main entrance to Moultrie Elementary. She already knew where the third grade classroom was. She sat in it as a student for a whole year. Nothing like Parent/Teacher night to remind you how fast life could pass you by.
She entered the classroom and slipped into one of the pint-sized desks. Being petite paid yet another dividend as she found she could still breathe. Most of the dozen other parents couldn’t say the same. Wide butts and potbellies were shoehorned into the desks around her. She recognized all the parents—Cassie Lutz’s mom, Nicky Clark’s dad, Barry Levin’s chronically overprotective parents. This was the group’s fourth year together shepherding their children through the public education maze. But it was their first experience with an outsider teacher none of them knew. Theresa wasn’t as xenophobic as the Moultrie locals. She couldn’t wait to meet the woman who had brought her son back into the world through art.
The classroom décor should have melted the other parents’ concerns. Ms. Locke had made it her own in Ms. Matthew’s absence. Bright, engaging cartoon decorations covered the bulletin boards. Posters encouraging the kids to do their best hung on the walls. It was a far cry from the oppressive grays and blacks Theresa’s third grade teacher had favored.
When Laura Locke entered, Theresa instantly liked her. Laura looked sharp and professional in a calf-length navy dress and short red jacket. But the treat was her smile; dazzling, engaging, honest. This was a woman who loved to teach.
Laura introduced herself and started with handshakes all around. With each, she delivered a positive comment about the parent’s child. She extended her hand to Theresa in turn.
“Theresa Grissom,” Theresa said. “Dustin’s mom.”
As their hands touched, Theresa’s world went dark. The Gift delivered like a pile driver. Pain. Suffering. Fear. Loss. It was as if
four speakers surrounding her head blasted four separate dirges simultaneously and the sound waves crashed together inside her brain. The classroom returned in a disorienting flash.
“Danger,” Theresa muttered.
“Excuse me?” Laura said.
Theresa realized she had spoken out loud and her face turned red.
“Nice to meet you,” Theresa said. She snapped her hand back to avoid a second dose of psychic downloading.
“Dustin has done so well this year,” Laura said. “Especially in Math. He may have a gift we can cultivate if I get him away from painting”
Theresa gave the compliment a wan smile. All the wonderful things she planned to say washed away as the black emotions she channeled cut a path through her consciousness.
While Laura addressed the group on how third grade would unwind that year, how she would there until the end of the semester. She explained the TCAP exams and their importance. Her mention of tutoring got a low rumble of a response from the room until she added that it would be free after school in the classroom. Smiles blossomed everywhere.
Theresa could barely focus. Her first maternal reaction to the overwhelming sense of danger was that Laura was a threat to her son. She dismissed that idea as soon as it appeared. The feeling was all wrong for that. It wasn’t her son who was in danger, it was this new teacher.
The emotional encounter brought back the memory of her last psychic blast when Ruby Green brought her the box from the estate sale. The two feelings were different but related, as if they resonated at the same frequency but with different amplitudes. Theresa gritted her teeth. The quest had begun.
At the end of the session, Laura handed out cards with her address and phone number on them. On the back of each was a bright yellow smiley face. On the way out of the classroom, Theresa fiddled with her purse to avoid a parting handshake with Laura and another round of physical contact.
Theresa had been in this cursed position so many times. She knew something bad was on the way, but not enough to prevent it. She didn’t even know enough to convince potential victims trouble was brewing. Much as she wanted to warn Laura, she knew that first she had to complete the quest, turn over those last few Scrabble letters and solve the puzzle. She had to go back to Treasured Things.
Theresa called the sitter and extended her for an hour. She pulled her car into a spot in front of Treasured Things. The deserted block around the courthouse testified to the small town’s missing night life. She looked at her store, her second son, with unaccustomed dread. The sight of the shop in the morning sun each day always made her smile. But tonight in the shadows and fuzzy vapor lights, the dark store engendered fear. The black block letter sign said Closed and the dark interior reinforced it. But Theresa had to know what was in the box. The clock had started. The riddle had to be solved before it solved itself.
She punched the pass code into the burglar alarm’s keypad, then went straight to the box. Bottom shelf next to the old armoire. Funny how in the crowded store she knew exactly where each of her treasures rested.
She pulled the box out with one quick, clean jerk, like a chef trying to pull a hot pan from an oven without a pot holder. She dropped it to the floor. She sat cross-legged in front of it and passed her left hand over its contents. She got to a wood picture frame and her fingertips tingled.
Bingo.
She took a deep breath closed her eyes and grabbed the frame. Fear lit her fingertips and spread across her body like an army of biting fleas. She pulled the picture from the box and dropped it on the floor. The fear evaporated and she looked at the black-and-white picture.
A sleek ebony thoroughbred stood at a racetrack’s inside rail. He stared at the camera with haughty pride, a garland of first-place flowers around his glistening neck. A diminutive Hispanic jockey with a narrow moustache sat straight in the saddle wearing what looked like red-and-white-checked silks. The attire of the gawkers behind the steed placed the picture in the 1940s.
Theresa wrapped her hand in the tail of her blouse. She used it as an insulator and flipped the picture on its back. She pried the back off the frame with a butter knife from a nearby set of silver.
A notation on the back of the photo, handwritten in the perfect penmanship the world no longer practiced, read Challenger’s Fancy—March 28—Nashville Raceway
Piece of cake, Theresa thought.
She went to her office and clicked her computer to life. In minutes she found the Nashville Raceway Historical Society website and knew more than she had ever wanted to know about the long-defunct track. She clicked on the loving cup icon and the winners of each race were listed by year. She wondered who had the time to get all this data together.
She flipped from March to March each year looking for Challenger’s Fancy. There he was in 1946, in first place at the annual Vanderbilt Cup, Jorge Hermosa riding. Nice information, but none of it clicked until she read who owned the horse.
Mabron Hutchington, Galaxy Farm.
That was the connection. Theresa remembered something, a fragment she hadn’t thought important at the time. She pulled Laura Locke’s card from her pocket. The big yellow smile face greeted her. She flipped it over and read the address. 2143 Hwy 41 N. The address made her shudder. Laura hadn’t printed the name on there, but the whole town knew the address of Galaxy Farm.
Theresa had heard that a writer and his wife had bought the old place awhile back but didn’t know she was her son’s teacher. Outsiders would have to buy the house. Just knowing Vernon Pugh lived there would keep the average person away from it.
Theresa gave the computer’s mouse a frustrated spin on its mouse pad. She had a handful of threads, but no idea what tapestry they were supposed to form. Dustin’s nice teacher was in danger. It would happen at home. A fire? An accident? A heart attack? Theresa didn’t have enough to warn her. But she’d keep up the search and pray she would know the answer before it was too late.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A week after Parent/Teacher Night, Laura awoke before the alarm. The rich smell of perking coffee filled the dark bedroom. Visions of Doug serving fresh fruit, hot coffee and a steaming croissant came to mind and she cracked a sleepy smile. She rolled over and into Doug’s back. He was still asleep. The coffee was on a timer. Her smile faded.
There had been a subtle shift over the first month at Galaxy Farm. The first week or so, Doug had been up early with Laura’s alarm clock. They shared a hot breakfast on the front porch in the morning sun and dinner awaited when Laura got home. By the second week, Doug wasn’t up until after she showered and breakfast had devolved to cereal and yogurt. This week he wasn’t awake at all before she left. He’d also begun rolling into bed later, working into the night on his novel. At first he’d knock off when Laura was done with her school prep, but last week she was asleep before he crawled into bed. Their sex life had died on the vine.
Laura slid out of bed. Doug didn’t stir. She wondered what time he’d turned in. When she had awakened briefly at one a.m., she was sure he wasn’t there. She pulled on her robe and padded out to the kitchen. The sun just crested the horizon and the low golden rays set the kitchen aglow. She poured herself a cup of coffee and headed into the bathroom.
While she drank her coffee and let the shower water heat up (another sacrifice for living in an antique house), she mulled over Doug’s recent behavior. He did nice things for her like setting up the coffee, doing the shopping while she was at work, taking care of the house. These were things he never did back in New York. Even cutting their postage stamp lawn had been a burden he hated to shoulder. She should be happy as hell.
As to his sleep schedule, he’d always been a night owl. God knows, his work at the Dispatch tended to be all late nights. Was she unreasonable to expect him to revert to punching a rooster’s time clock?
She was coming home later from school with TCAP tutoring every afternoon. School had been consuming more of her waking hours. Did he feel neglected and this was a subconscious rea
ction?
She shook off her unwarranted guilt trip. No, the situation didn’t feel right. There was a distance in Doug, even when he was right next to her. The outside was Doug, but the inside was something else. Not way off inside, just a bit out of phase. She had no proof of it, no actions she could point to that were bizarre. There was something going on. Her old Student Sixth Sense didn’t work well on adults, but it wasn’t completely shut down. Like the bruise under the skin of a ripe banana, there might be a wisp of something amiss in Doug.
She banished the thought. Living in this isolated house in the country, with most of her colleagues giving her the cold shoulder, Doug was all she had. She had to be able to count on him.
An hour later, when she headed out the door, Doug was still asleep. She grabbed her purse and did the usual pre-departure check. Keys, cell phone, wallet. She rooted around for one more thing. Matches, check.
She had carried that book of matches from Randolph’s every day since she had picked them up. She couldn’t explain the fixation. At first she thought that having them in her purse was just because she forgot to take them out. But when she had taken them out, she felt incomplete, vulnerable. The feelings went away when she put the matches back in.
Good luck charm? Talisman? She didn’t know. Whatever the reason, the habit was harmless. On her list of things to worry about, the inclination ranked way below TCAP practice tests and Doug’s shifting schedule. Besides, in a few months the chill air would make that big fireplace in the living room look pretty inviting. She could always use the matches there.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Doug woke later to the heat of the sun cooking his bedspread. He rolled over and pried open an eyelid. The clock read 10:25.
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