Scrapped (4 page)
Chapter 7
Beatrice couldn’t believe her ears. Monday mornings came and went, but to hear a chain saw at 7:00 a.m.? That just beat all. She tried to get up out of her bed quickly. Well, as quickly as she could. Her body was stiff each morning—and it was getting worse. When she finally untangled herself from the blankets and swung her legs to the floor, it sounded like the sawing had stopped. What on earth? Who would be cutting anything at this time of day?
She sat in her bed and listened. Nothing.
Should she get up and get the day started or lie back down?
Humph.
Maybe she was dreaming. Her stomach growled, and she reached for her shawl, remembering the muffins in her bread box. She’d pop them in the microwave and smear them with butter. That would make a fine breakfast. Pumpkin cranberry muffins. And if they weren’t enough to fill her, she was sure about the blueberry muffins in the freezer.
Humph.
Maybe she was dreaming. Her stomach growled, and she reached for her shawl, remembering the muffins in her bread box. She’d pop them in the microwave and smear them with butter. That would make a fine breakfast. Pumpkin cranberry muffins. And if they weren’t enough to fill her, she was sure about the blueberry muffins in the freezer.
She padded down the stairs and noticed the soft sunlight shining directly on the portrait of her husband, dead now twenty-some years. Until she had gone to Paris, he had been with her—as a ghost—off and on all those years. Oh, some folks thought she was a crazy old coot, and maybe she was, but he was a great comfort to her. Knowing he was still around, even if as a ghost, took the edge off her sometime loneliness, though for the most part she didn’t mind being alone.
Life sure was funny. She had thought she had it all figured out.
Keep busy. Keep your mind occupied. But the next thing you know, you’re boffing some Frenchman you barely even know.
God, what was she thinking?
Keep busy. Keep your mind occupied. But the next thing you know, you’re boffing some Frenchman you barely even know.
God, what was she thinking?
And of course she hadn’t heard from Jon since she came back to Cumberland Creek last month—and her late husband’s ghost also appeared to be giving her the cold shoulder. Men would never change. Neither would women.
A handsome Frenchman tells you you’re pretty, and even at the age of eighty-one, you buy it. He whispers lovely words into your old ears, and you melt. How ridiculous.
A handsome Frenchman tells you you’re pretty, and even at the age of eighty-one, you buy it. He whispers lovely words into your old ears, and you melt. How ridiculous.
Up until then, she had never so much as looked at any man but her husband—and had never even wanted to. She didn’t know what came over her in Paris. She’d felt too young and free there, and Jon was ten years younger than her, which didn’t seem to bother him at all.
After they met at the museum and went for their first coffee together, they were inseparable. A month of silliness. But still, she thought, grinning, the experience was sweet. She shoveled a muffin into her mouth.
Mmm. Good.
Mmm. Good.
She had never acted so foolishly in her life. A giggle erupted. Even if he didn’t call her, who would have imagined that at her age, she could still manage to attract such a young, handsome man?
Of course, Ed, her dead husband, was upset with her. She knew it. Felt him leaving her, finally, as she kissed Jon, opened her heart to him. That broke her heart, and she missed him—but maybe it was time she moved on.
Cookie had said he’d be back. She was the only person Beatrice confided in. Her daughter had never believed in the existence of ghosts and thought Ed was a figment of Beatrice’s imagination. Annie was open to the idea, but she was so analytical sometimes, it even scared Beatrice, herself a trained scientist. And she had a feeling that Annie would rush to tell Vera about the affair. She certainly didn’t want Vera to know. She’d never let it rest.
That was exactly what Beatrice was trying to do. Make peace with it. She didn’t need Vera poking her nose into everything.
“Maybe Ed is just giving you some time,” Cookie had suggested.
“Or maybe he’s moved on.”
“He should have moved on years ago, yes?”
Beatrice’s stomach had tightened. She knew she was part of what held him here. She’d nodded, trying to fight back the tears.
“Oh, Beatrice, we are never too old for a broken heart, are we? But don’t ever be sorry about, um, er, Jon. You are human. There’s enough room in that heart of yours to love again. My goodness, you’ve been a widow for twenty-five years.”
Cookie knew all the right things to say—strange brew of a person that she was. Wouldn’t eat meat of any kind, sometimes wore way too much eye make-up, and other times she ran around town without an ounce of make-up on her pale face. Beatrice had caught her dancing around the nursery with Elizabeth, humming and grinning at the child.
She can’t be that bad. Witch and all.
She can’t be that bad. Witch and all.
Chapter 8
At first Annie thought the phone ringing was her alarm. She hit the clock, and the irritating sound wouldn’t stop. Finally, in her haze she reached for the phone.
“Hello,” she said. Her husband sat up reluctantly in bed, startled.
“I know you have two boys sound asleep,” the voice said.
Pulses of fear shot through her. “Who is this?”
“Detective Bryant. You need to get down to the landfill, if you have someone to stay with those boys.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Why was Bryant always bringing up her sons?
“What the hell?” her husband said.
“There’s been another murder. Thought you’d appreciate knowing. That’s all,” the detective said.
She sighed, mentally going through child-care options. “Um, er, I’ll be right there. Thanks.”
She had just filed her story about the first murder. The identity of the young woman had been revealed as Sarah Carpenter. The scrapbookers were right. She was from Jenkins Hollow. Annie had yet to piece together the story of who she was, and was hoping she could do it via the phone and the Internet. Jenkins Hollow was her least favorite place on the planet.
“I have to go. Another murder.”
“It’s three in the morning. I don’t want you out,” Mike said.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mike, I am not a child. I’ve been in worse situations—”
“Who was it on the phone? Bryant?”
“Yes,” she said and yawned.
“This time of day? Who the hell does he think he is?” he grumbled.
“He’s a cop. I’m a reporter,” she said, getting a little miffed at his tone. “I used to get calls like this before we moved here. You know.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, sinking back into his pillow. “But I don’t like it.”
Annie decided to ignore that remark—for now.
“Call Beatrice in the morning. She’ll be happy to stay with the boys,” Annie said, lifting herself from the sea of warm blankets. It was early autumn—and a warm one at that—but it was chilly at three in the morning.
She threw on a black pair of jeans, noted that they were a little tight, and went searching for a sweater to throw on over her T-shirt. She found the bathroom and tended to her teeth, brushed her unruly black hair, pulled it back, and smeared lipstick on. That would have to do. Where were her sneakers? Ah yes, she’d left them in the living room. She used to know where all of her shoes were, used to have plenty of designer flats to choose from, all lined up in neat rows in her closet. Now she could barely keep track of her old, worn-out sneakers.
She grabbed her bag and tiptoed out of the house.
Annie had never trusted the safety of landfills. All that trash had to be releasing toxins into the air. She didn’t allow her boys up there to play for that very reason. Even though a lot of parents brought their children there to play because of the huge open spaces, she couldn’t see it.
As she pulled up to the parking lot, a group of red lights flashed on the far edge of the lot, near a huge recycling bin, where most of the flurry was erupting. She parked and grabbed her camera, press credentials, and recorder out of her bag. First, she saw Jesse, wiping his face with a bandanna. Then Detective Bryant’s contorted face, looking at Jesse, placing his arm around him. A gesture of unbelievable gentility from such a brute of a man. Then he saw Annie and placed his hand up, as if to say, “Stop.”
“What’s wrong?” she called.
“Don’t go any closer, ma’am,” she heard a female voice say.
“Bryant called me and got me out of bed. I was invited here.”
The officer looked confused. “Called you? We’ve been here for several hours. I don’t know anybody who gets cell phone service here. The tower over there interferes too much, along with the mountains.”
“I didn’t call her,” the detective yelled, shaking his head. “You need to get her out of here.”
“What?” Annie attempted to move forward.
“Ma’am, there’s a potentially hazardous chemical here. You need to go home.”
“Was there another murder? I need to know for the paper,” she said as the officer nearly pushed her back toward her car.
“Yes, ma’am, but you don’t want to see what’s over there. It’s gruesome.”
Annie noted the officer’s tone. She was serious. Annie wasn’t certain that she wanted to push on this.
“Any details you can give me?”
“Details?”
“Anything about the body? Who is it?”
“I can’t tell you anything right now. They are not letting me get close enough to it. They’ve called in the CDC.”
“The CDC?”
“Centers for Disease Control.”
“I know what it stands for,” Annie said. “But why?”
“Evidently, there’s a potentially dangerous substance surrounding the body. Like I said.”
Annie looked at the group of people standing around the body. No wonder they were still. It was dark, the only illumination coming from flashing red lights and a few flashlights cutting light into the dark. But Annie could still see the worry in Detective Bryant’s face.
Wait.
Did he say he hadn’t called her?
Wait.
Did he say he hadn’t called her?
She tried to remember the voice on the phone. It had sounded enough like him. But at 3:00 a.m., who knew what anybody sounded like? One thing was clear: someone wanted to make sure she was here. And she was going to stay put. She leaned on her car and folded her arms, shivered slightly in the brisk air, watching the clouds of breath in the soft peach light.
Did she want to see what the officers were getting sick over? No. Did she want to breathe in a potentially hazardous chemical? No. She’d stay right where she was and wait.
It wasn’t long until a white van came along the slanted road to the parking lot and people dressed in white suits and masks came tumbling out. That gave her heart a start.
Nothing like the CDC to make your heart race.
Why would they be so interested in this particular case? It didn’t make sense—unless this situation was already on their radar. She watched as the group approached the crime scene and one person fell back, pulling off his mask just as vomit spewed from him, which made Annie’s stomach wrench.
Nothing like the CDC to make your heart race.
Why would they be so interested in this particular case? It didn’t make sense—unless this situation was already on their radar. She watched as the group approached the crime scene and one person fell back, pulling off his mask just as vomit spewed from him, which made Annie’s stomach wrench.
A few minutes later Detective Bryant and several police left the area and walked toward their car.
“All clear,” he said. “It’s not anthrax.”
“Anthrax? God, is that what you thought it was?” Annie said.
He nodded. “You look like hell,” he said and smiled.
“You’re no Prince Charming, either,” Annie said and smiled back. “I guess I need to check out the crime scene.”
“I don’t think you should,” he said, his blue eyes heavy but still sparkling as the sun began to rise over the mountains. “It’s . . . ghastly.”
“Ghastly?”
“A dismemberment.”
“What?”
“The worst thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, looking away from her, his voice cracking.
Good God, he was human, after all.
She swallowed. “Any similarities with Sarah?”
He nodded. “Red hair. Young woman,” he said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his sweaty forehead. “Those same symbols carved . . .”
“Serial killer?”
He nodded. “Hard to say, but it could be. But let’s not set off a panic in the community. Okay?”
Annie nodded and turned toward her car door.
“Annie?” he said, getting between her and the door. “I, ah, want you to be careful.”
“Of course,” she said, not knowing whether to be touched or pissed because of his patronizing tone. “I can take care of myself, Bryant.”
“If you’re getting phone calls from someone in the middle of the night who claims to be me, and you believe them, I have to wonder if you can.”
Chapter 9
“Sarah Carpenter,” Vera said over her omelet. “What do you know about that family?”
“Not much,” Beatrice said. “What’s the paper say?”
Vera shook the paper out, folded it over, and placed it beside her cheese-coated plate.
“Eighteen-year-old Sarah Carpenter—”
“Eighteen? Lawd, have mercy.”
“Eighteen-year-old Sarah Carpenter,” Vera said, starting again, “was found in Cumberland Creek, in the middle of Cumberland Creek Park. The daughter of Rachel and Paul Carpenter, Sarah was a homeschool graduate and a member of the local Divinity Homeschooling Cooperative, where she played piano and taught preschool. According to local officials, the cause of death is inconclusive, though an accidental drowning has been ruled out. ‘The investigation is under way, and we’ll endeavor to keep the public informed as it progresses, ’ said Detective Bryant, Cumberland Creek Police Department. ‘We have nothing else to report right now.’”
“What a lying bastard,” Beatrice said. “What about those markings? Maybe somebody knows something about them. What an ass. What’s the point in keeping that a secret?”
“I think everybody knows by this point, but maybe he wanted to keep it out of the paper for some reason. I’m surprised that Annie didn’t report it. She never lets him stop her.”
“Speaking of Annie, her husband called and wants me to sit with the kids this morning. You mind if I take Lizzie over there?”
“Not at all. Where’s Annie?”
“She was called out on a story in the middle of the night. Mike didn’t seem to know much. Believe me, I grilled him.”
“Humph,” Vera said. “I bet you did.”
Vera scooped up their plates and placed them in the sink, turned around, and looked at Lizzie. “Done?”
“Done,” she said, nodding emphatically, and raised her arms for her mother to lift her out of the high chair.
Beatrice reached for the paper and glanced over the article. “Hmm. It says where the funeral is on Wednesday.”
“Where?” Vera asked, smoothing back Lizzie’s hair. The child gave a little squeal. “Lizzie doesn’t like people messing with her hair.”
“Neither do I,” Beatrice said and chortled. “Just like her gram.”
“Don’t wish that on her, Mama.”
“Now, would it be so bad to have another bright, beautiful woman in this family?”
Vera couldn’t help herself and laughed. Her mother was one of the most intelligent women in Cumberland Creek. Of course, that didn’t say much. But at one time, she was also one of the smartest women in the world—some breakthrough with her physics research. Vera didn’t understand a thing about it. Nor did she understand the other part—the quantum physics. Beatrice fell in love with it later in her career and received international recognition for her work. Vera sighed. She, the daughter of a physicist and a physician, had struggled all the way through school with math, then science, especially chemistry. Which reminded her. Her mother had stopped talking so much about him.
“You haven’t mentioned Daddy in a long time,” Vera said.
Beatrice’s back was to her. She was at the sink, rinsing off the dishes. But it looked like she stiffened. Well, Vera might not be a physicist, but she was a dancer, had studied movement her whole life, and could read anybody’s body—even a person like Beatrice, who was astute at keeping the personal to herself.
“What is it, Mama?”
Beatrice loaded up the dishwasher, grabbed a black-and-white checked towel from the drawer. “Vera, your father is gone. When I was in Paris, well, he finally left me,” she said, her voice cracking ever so slightly. Jaw firm.
Vera searched her mother’s lined face, bright blue eyes, slightly pursed lips for an answer. She had never believed that her father was haunting her mother. There were no such things as ghosts. But she knew Beatrice believed it with all of her heart. Nobody had questioned Beatrice Matthews too thoroughly about it. After all, she was a brilliant, formidable woman. Still walking to get her groceries, still reading good books, helping to take care of a small child. And her mind was as good as—if not better than—it was when she was thirty. So, Vera had always conceded, if her mother wanted to believe her father was hanging around, what was the harm? But now this, this had her concerned. It was not like her mother.
“Just like that?” Vera said. “He left?”
“Yes, Vera. Just like that. Now, give me the baby, and don’t get your panties in a cinch over it. I need to get over to Annie’s place. “
Vera put Elizabeth in the stroller, which she kept in the foyer, with a diaper bag ready to go. “Okay, Mama,” she said. “Whatever you say.”
“Well, now,” Beatrice said. “Forty-one years old and you’re finally learning to listen to me. Ain’t that remarkable!”
Vera kissed Lizzie, then Beatrice, and watched her mother walk down the sidewalk with Lizzie in the stroller. She glanced around. The sidewalks were empty; she was pleased to note there were no suspicious characters hanging around. She suddenly wondered what the hell happened to her mom in Paris—and she planned to get to the bottom of it.
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