by Lynn Moon
Now restricted to my yard, I was stuck. On total lockdown. Earlier, Sheriff Jim walked the perimeter with me, which didn’t include my grandparents’ house or the field out back. He made it very clear that if I crossed the invisible line without adult supervision, he’d lock me up. And I believed him. I didn’t see why I was in trouble. That stupid deputy was the one who left me alone. Although the other deputy swore up and down that he never called for him, I was sure I heard a voice. He apologized a million times. But, I was the one in trouble.
Not wanting lunch, I circled my house instead. Studying the living room doors from outside, I stared at the carvings of those two little boys. Now obvious, I laughed. They represented my father and my uncle. Hopping down the outside stairs, I glanced under the archway. The basement door, now locked with a padlock, looked like a dungeon, just as Charlie had said. Tears stung my eyes as I walked to the gate. When Quinton glanced up, I waved. He patted his father on the back before running to me.
“Hey,” he said. “How yah doing?”
“I’m grounded.”
“I know,” he said, reaching through the fence to rub my arm. “So what’s our next move?”
“Nothing. I’m grounded.”
“Since when has that ever stopped you? We still need to visit Lavender’s parents.”
“Too far away.”
“Not if my dad drives us,” he replied.
“My mom won’t let me go.”
“She would if my dad invited you to dinner and he didn’t tell her where.” He winked, and my anticipation grew as if my heart suddenly filled with new hope. “I’ll have my dad talk to your mom.”
***
The next day, I was sitting in the backseat of his dad’s car, staring out the window. I had no idea what I would say to Lavender’s parents. Hi there. I’m the niece of that kid that killed your daughter a long time ago. Now that would go over real good, wouldn’t it? In reality, there was nothing I could say that would come close to sounding proper.
“I thought we’d hit the restaurant before we visit Lavender’s parents,” Quinton’s dad said from the driver’s seat. “Hungry, Musetta?”
“A little.” I’d known Quinton’s father my whole life. He was an engineer for the city and worked long hours, but when he made time for us kids, we always had so much fun. “Thanks for your help.”
“Ah, this is nothing,” he replied. “Quinton, have you given any thought as to what you’re going to say to these people? I mean, you two are treading deep here, messing with wounds that healed a long time ago.”
“I know, Dad,” Quinton answered. “I guess we’ll wing it once we get there.”
“This should be entertaining,” his father said. We both glared as he smiled.
We stopped in Provo for lunch at a Mexican restaurant. El Gallo Giro wasn’t crowded, and I was pleasantly surprised when we were seated at a patio table. The warm air reminded me of the hugs my father gave me when I was little. Or was it my uncle?
“I love this restaurant,” Quinton’s dad said. “So, what do I want to eat?”
“Brigham Young University is just down the street. I want to go there,” Quinton said. “That way I can live at home. You should consider the same college. We could go together.”
“I haven’t thought much about college,” I replied. “I’ll probably stay home too.”
After eating a burrito, I was stuffed. Since we were not in a hurry, Quinton’s dad drove us past the university before hopping back onto Lincoln Highway. The outside world zooming by reminded me of a dry desert. No trees, just mountains far off in the distance. We were riding along the Great Salt Lake, but I couldn’t see a thing. Just dirt.
“Okay,” his father said as we exited the highway. “We need to find the corner of U Street and 2nd Avenue. Shouldn’t be far from the University of Utah. Another great school you might want to consider.”
Through the window, I watched as we passed by the houses. I couldn’t stop thinking about Charlie and Hunter. Where are they? How is my uncle treating them? As I thought about my missing friends, Quinton’s father maneuvered us through the narrow streets.
“Are we lost?” I asked as we came to a stop.
“No,” he replied. “We’re here.”
The two-story, brick-and-stucco house was beautiful. Two large trees, framed with a tall hedge and a rod-iron fence, made the place look inviting. Walking the sidewalk with Quinton and enjoying the shade, I smiled. The one-way sign on the corner, covered in ivy, gave off a quaint but old feeling. As he pushed on the front gate, Quinton frowned. A loud squeak shot through the trees, making us cringe.
“Well, they must know we’re here now,” he said as we climbed the stairs.
Before we could ring the bell, a woman with red hair opened the door and greeted us.
“Are you Mrs. Caldwell?” Quinton asked.
“Yes,” she replied, smiling.
Quinton stared down at his feet, then over at the trees. Is he chickening out on me? “Well, we’re looking for . . . um, looking . . . uh, for the parents of Lavender Caldwell,” he said, coughing and stuttering.
“I see,” she said. “And you need her because . . . ?”
Quinton now glared at me. Not wanting to lose this opportunity, I had to do something. So I took over.
“Mrs. Caldwell, I’m Musetta Weavers.”
“You must be Judge Weavers’ daughter,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss, sweetheart.”
“Thank you. May we speak with you, in private?”
“About what?” she asked.
“Your daughter, Lavender,” I replied.
“Well, she’s not here right now.”
“Not here?” Quinton asked. “I thought she was . . . dead?”
“Dead? Whatever in the world? Heavens no, my son,” Mrs. Caldwell replied. “She teaches at the university. She doesn’t live far from here. Would you like her address?”
“Wait a minute,” Quinton said. “We’re looking for the parents of Lavender. A little girl that was raped and killed when she was about five or six. Maybe we have the wrong house.”
“That’s my Lavender,” she replied. “But she didn’t die.”
Quinton slapped his hands on the side of his head and sighed. “Does anyone in your family know anything for a fact, Musetta?”
“Would you like to come in and talk?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” I replied, following her into the living room. I wasn’t sure what to think about everything. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Please, have a seat.”
We sat down on her white couch and stared at each other. When she handed us a framed photo of a little girl with long dark braids and a couple of missing teeth, I had to smile.
“This is my Lavender just before the attack,” she said. “Afterwards, she was in bad shape for a while. But she survived. My Lavender is a real fighter.”
“Who did this to her?” Quinton asked. “Was it another kid?”
“Heavens no. No child could have done what happened to my Lavender,” she replied. “No, no . . . it was a terrible, evil man. He’d just been released from prison. Only out a week or so. Must have seen my little one playing out front. We don’t have much of a back yard here. So Lavender always played out in the front yard. Most of her friends came here to play. In fact, I believe I have a picture you might like to have.”
Mrs. Caldwell pulled out an old photo album from the top drawer of a small dresser. Opening it, she flipped through the pages until she found what she wanted. Soon, I was holding a small, colored photo of an adorable little girl standing next to two young boys, who looked identical.
“Lavender’s in the middle. I think your dad is on the right and his brother’s on her left. I could have them confused. Those two looked so much alike. We were sad when they moved away.”
“Wait,” Quinton said. “We were told that Berty killed Lavender, and that’s why they moved away.”
“
What?” she said. Her eyes widened and a frown creased her face. “Absolutely not! Such lies. No, no, no. Both boys were just the sweetest little things. Lavender loved them to death. When your father became the judge here in Salt Lake, well . . . she was so excited for him. I know they went to lunch at least a couple of times a month. In fact, she had lunch with your father the day he was stabbed.”
“This isn’t making any sense,” I said. “Did my grandparents know that Lavender didn’t die?”
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “We didn’t want what happened to our daughter to be exploited through the media. We kept it as quiet as possible. Your grandparents left in such a hurry. With all the excitement going on, I really didn’t have time to pay attention to what the Weavers were or were not doing. By the time Lavender was released from the hospital, their house was empty. I had no way of reaching them. I always wondered why they left in such a hurry.”
“They believed that Berty was guilty and that the police would arrest him,” Quinton explained.
“Such nonsense!” The woman shook her head. “How terrible. All those years. How terrible. Lavender said that when she met your father on the street one day, he acted as if he’d just seen a ghost. Makes more sense now.”
“I’m glad it’s making sense to you,” I whispered.
“How is Berty doing?” she added. “The last time I saw him he was so upset.”
“You know Berty?” I asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “We see him every so often. Why, he lives just down the street. Would be hard not to see him.”
“Down the street?” Quinton asked.
The woman stared at us as if we were from another planet. “Yes, down the street. In the old Weavers house. They never sold the place. Berty moved in about twenty years ago. We were happy to see him finally come home.”
“And where’s that house again?” Quinton asked.
“Musetta?” she asked. “You don’t know where your uncle’s house is?”
“I was told that my uncle was dead,” I replied. “That he died as a little boy.”
“Oh, no. Here, let me show you. Sounds like someone’s enjoying telling stories.”
We followed the woman outside. “Go to the corner, here, and turn right.” She pointed toward the ivy-covered sign. “House will be on your right on the next corner. A brown two-story. You can’t miss it. Only house with a rock chimney.”
“And Lavender is still alive?” I asked.
“Yes. Here, let me write down her phone number for you.” As the woman walked back into her house, I pulled on Quinton’s arm.
“This is crazy,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. “Seems as if no one knows a darn thing that’s real.”
***
Standing in front of my grandparents’ old home, where my father and uncle lived when little, it was hard to grasp everything that had happened to me. On such a beautiful day as this, a house with the windows covered just didn’t seem right. The window frames needed a coat of paint, and the roof had a couple of bare spots. Otherwise, things were in pretty good shape. The immaculate yard, neatly trimmed, looked out of place next to the covered windows. From the street, tall trees and shrubs hid most of the house. Absolutely no backyard, and on the right side, the place sat directly on the property line. With no cars along the street or in the driveway, I sighed. Maybe it’d be safe snooping around this time. Several trashcans near the curb grabbed my attention. Did my uncle put them out, or some neighbor?
“Must be trash day,” I said, following Quinton up the front steps.
As he pushed on the doorbell, I wondered if I’d be kidnapped again by my uncle. All remained quiet. Quinton rang the bell again. Nothing. We couldn’t peek into a window because of the heavy drapes. A narrow walkway trailed around the left side of house and into the garage. Following it, we stood in the driveway. I felt odd and confused.
The trashcans perked my interest. I wondered. Lifting the brown lid, I peered inside. Junk—mostly rotting kitchen leftovers. Lifting the lid of the blue can, I held back an urge to squeal.
“Quinton,” I whispered. “There’s mail in here. Help me get it out.”
“Can you reach it?” Quinton tilted the can to one side.
Straining, my fingers barely clasped onto a single sheet of paper. An electric bill.
“Just addressed to my dead uncle . . . Engelbert Weavers.”
“Doesn’t sound like he’s dead to me if he needs electricity.” Quinton took the bill. “This is for last month.” After folding it into a tiny square, he shoved it into his back pocket. “Might come in handy.” He winked.
“Should we get your dad now?”
“Not yet,” Quinton said, trying the garage door. “Locked.”
“We need to get in.” I tried the back door. “Locked.”
“Now I’ll get my dad,” Quinton finally said when we couldn’t open a window.
As I waited, I couldn’t stop staring at the dark house. I prayed that the curtains would move or something. Prove to me that my friends were in there somewhere and still alive. Give me a good reason to break in.
“Trespassing may not be a good idea,” Quinton’s father said, after pulling his car into the driveway.
“In reality, the place is legally mine. I inherited everything from my father’s estate. And since this belongs to me, technically I’m not trespassing. If the police show up, I’m simply breaking into my own house. Forgot my keys,” I replied.
“You have a point,” he said. “Is it still in your uncle’s name? We don’t have the inheritance papers with us.”
“According to my grandparents, my uncle Berty is dead.” Walking toward the back door, I stopped. “Since when do I need papers to enter my house, anyway?”
“Fine,” his father replied. “Let’s break in.”
Quinton’s father pulled an iron tire-jack from the car and calmly walked to the back door. He tapped on one of the smaller glass panes until it broke. Reaching through, he unlocked the door. Creaking, the door swung open. He peered inside.
“Thanks,” I said, also stealing a peek.
“Go on, Miss Homeowner.” His father held out his hand.
The odor was overpowering. The place stunk from years of grime and dirt, oil buildup, and who knew what else. The tiny kitchen wasn’t much bigger than my bedroom closet. A door to the left led to the one-car garage. After a quick glance around, I frowned. Nothing but junk. The furniture in the living room had to be older than me. I pulled a drawstring and the curtains opened. Sunlight filled the room. The scattered clothes and trash gave me an uneasy feeling.
“This place hasn’t been lived in for years,” Quinton’s father said, tossing an old shirt onto the couch. “They left in a real hurry. The boys’ old toys are still scattered throughout the house. Doesn’t look like they took much with them.”
“It’s disgusting,” I added. “Let’s open the front door. Get some fresh air in here.”
Standing by the stairs, Quinton unlocked the front door. The summer air circled around us. I took in a deep breath.
“What’s over here?” his father asked. “Oh, a study.”
This room was just as filthy as the living room. A wooden desk piled with old mail and papers sat forbiddingly in the middle. Again, I pulled on the drawstring to open the curtains. This time, however, the curtain rod broke and fell to the floor. Dust swirled. Coughing, I swiped at the air.
“Oops,” I said, laughing. “Didn’t mean to do that.”
Behind the stairs, we found a small laundry and bathroom.
“I wonder if your uncle knows there’s a washer and dryer in here?” Quinton asked. “Yuck, there’s rotting clothes still in the washer!” Covering his nose, he slammed the lid shut.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I yanked open the lid. “Ew.”
“Let’s try upstairs,” his father said. “No one has been here for a very long time.”
“Then why pay an electric bill and t
ake out the trash?” I asked.
“Good question,” Quinton replied. “Maybe your uncle does it just to make the place look livable.”
With each step, the stairs creaked. At the top, we counted four bedrooms and one bath. All the rooms were fairly neat and tidy. Albeit very dusty.
“I wonder whose room was where?” I said.
“Look at these pictures,” Quinton father said, staring at a wall in the hallway. “What a find for you, Musetta. This one has to be your father.”
Amazed, I studied my family’s photos. I stared at a much younger grandmother and smiled.
“She was pretty,” I said, taking the picture off its hook. Staring at it, my heart pounded. This was my heritage. A part of my life I knew nothing about. It was as if I had just stepped back in time. The house was frozen from forty years ago. A living museum. “I want all of these. Help me, please.”
With our arms full of picture frames, we headed for the car. Outside, two police officers greeted us.
“Hi,” Quinton’s father said, placing my pictures onto on the backseat. “May we help you?”
“We received a call about a break in,” one of the officers said.
“That’s my fault,” I said, handing my frames to Quinton’s father. “I’m Musetta Weavers and this is my house. I forgot to bring the key and it’s a long way back.”
“I’ll change the locks today and fix that window,” Quinton’s father said. “Not illegal to break into one’s own house around here, is it?
“No, it isn’t.” The officer nodded at Quinton’s dad. “I’m sorry about your father,” he said directly to me. “Nice to finally meet you, Miss Weavers. You resemble the judge a little.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“This is an old place,” he added. “Your neighbors have lived here a long time. They know everyone. You’re new. I guess they were concerned.”
“Good neighbors,” I replied. Turning to stare at the house, I said, “This place is filthy. We’ll need to hire a cleaning company. There’s just so much junk. It’ll take my mom and me some time to go through it all.”
“I believe this was your grandparents’ place. Have they passed?” he asked.
