to remind him of the reason why he started locking Amos in, but he didn’t want to discuss it. He went to bed angry and I’m trying to not fall asleep here on the sofa. If that young man was responsible for his parents’ death—even if he simply blames himself for it, as one psychologist suggested—our lives could be in danger. Why can’t Frank see that?
Iris took a sip of her drink. “Sure glad I came into the family too late to have to deal with Amos.”
“You paid your dues.”
“What do you mean, Maggie?”
“ Your challenge was your oldest son.”
“You got that right,” Iris said. “What a nightmare Damon was during his druggie days.” She smiled. “And what a blessing he is now.”
“Amen,” Colbi said, choking up a little.
Iris reached over and squeezed Colbi’s hand, then said, “But, as messed up as he was, he wasn’t scary and dangerous.”
Margaret grinned in Iris’s direction. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Back in those days, he was something only a mother could love.” She smiled and asked, “How are your other two boys doing?”
Iris beamed. “Wonderful. Brett’s taking some college courses in hopes of accelerating his path toward becoming a physical therapist, and Chris plans to enroll in a trade school—probably for electronics. Their father has actually decided to pay for part of their schooling, so that will help a lot.”
“Hey,” Colbi said. “I’m hungry.”
“Yeah, it is about supper time,” Savannah noted.
“I’ll start heating it up,” Iris said.
“What is it?” Margaret asked.
“Lima beans and ham.”
Colbi cocked her head. “When did you have time to make that, Iris?”
“Last week; I froze it.”
“Well, it sounds good to me,” she said.
Yeah,” Margaret agreed. “Hey, want biscuits to go with it? I saw biscuit mix in there.”
“Cool. I’ll start the coffee,” Savannah offered.
Once the beans were in the oven and the biscuits were baking, Iris suggested, “Shall we read another chapter while dinner’s cooking?” She picked up the journal and handed it to Colbi. “It’s your turn.”
Colbi opened it to the next entry, dated February 3, 1976. We’ve been here for three days. I’m on muscle relaxants for back pain. The doctor seems to think my problem is stress-related. It didn’t help to learn of a killing across the lake. Some poor fisherman was found dead, his fishing buddies are missing. Young Skip told us about it this morning when we walked down to the boat dock to take a skiff to the other side. When he noticed Amos becoming agitated, Skip shuttered the topic, but I could tell he was awfully upset about it. I felt as though he needed to talk, so I told Frank to take Amos across the lake and I’d follow in another skiff. I was right about Skip wanting to—or maybe needing to—talk. He admitted he’s scared out of his wits to know there’s a killer running around loose.
Skip told me it happened early this morning. He said someone had taken one of the boats from this side of the lake and he and his dad found it caught up in a stand of trees near the mouth of the river with what appeared to be smears of blood on one oar and on the floor.
It’s certainly unnerving to think there’s a killer lurking around up here. Frank says it was probably another fisherman or maybe a wild animal. A sheriff came to see us later this morning to take our fingerprints. They said they found good fingerprints on boat number twelve. But I don’t know what good it’ll do them; we admitted to using boat number twelve yesterday afternoon when we motored over for lunch.
I was surprised that Frank didn’t mention Amos to the sheriff when he was here. If he’d known about Amos, I’m sure he’d want his fingerprints, too. Amos was in his room as usual and Frank saw no reason to subject him to being questioned. Things like that tend to put the boy over the edge.
Actually, Amos has been surprisingly calm this trip. Maybe I’m just
Iris took a sip of her drink. “Sure glad I came into the family too late to have to deal with Amos.”
“You paid your dues.”
“What do you mean, Maggie?”
“ Your challenge was your oldest son.”
“You got that right,” Iris said. “What a nightmare Damon was during his druggie days.” She smiled. “And what a blessing he is now.”
“Amen,” Colbi said, choking up a little.
Iris reached over and squeezed Colbi’s hand, then said, “But, as messed up as he was, he wasn’t scary and dangerous.”
Margaret grinned in Iris’s direction. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Back in those days, he was something only a mother could love.” She smiled and asked, “How are your other two boys doing?”
Iris beamed. “Wonderful. Brett’s taking some college courses in hopes of accelerating his path toward becoming a physical therapist, and Chris plans to enroll in a trade school—probably for electronics. Their father has actually decided to pay for part of their schooling, so that will help a lot.”
“Hey,” Colbi said. “I’m hungry.”
“Yeah, it is about supper time,” Savannah noted.
“I’ll start heating it up,” Iris said.
“What is it?” Margaret asked.
“Lima beans and ham.”
Colbi cocked her head. “When did you have time to make that, Iris?”
“Last week; I froze it.”
“Well, it sounds good to me,” she said.
Yeah,” Margaret agreed. “Hey, want biscuits to go with it? I saw biscuit mix in there.”
“Cool. I’ll start the coffee,” Savannah offered.
Once the beans were in the oven and the biscuits were baking, Iris suggested, “Shall we read another chapter while dinner’s cooking?” She picked up the journal and handed it to Colbi. “It’s your turn.”
Colbi opened it to the next entry, dated February 3, 1976. We’ve been here for three days. I’m on muscle relaxants for back pain. The doctor seems to think my problem is stress-related. It didn’t help to learn of a killing across the lake. Some poor fisherman was found dead, his fishing buddies are missing. Young Skip told us about it this morning when we walked down to the boat dock to take a skiff to the other side. When he noticed Amos becoming agitated, Skip shuttered the topic, but I could tell he was awfully upset about it. I felt as though he needed to talk, so I told Frank to take Amos across the lake and I’d follow in another skiff. I was right about Skip wanting to—or maybe needing to—talk. He admitted he’s scared out of his wits to know there’s a killer running around loose.
Skip told me it happened early this morning. He said someone had taken one of the boats from this side of the lake and he and his dad found it caught up in a stand of trees near the mouth of the river with what appeared to be smears of blood on one oar and on the floor.
It’s certainly unnerving to think there’s a killer lurking around up here. Frank says it was probably another fisherman or maybe a wild animal. A sheriff came to see us later this morning to take our fingerprints. They said they found good fingerprints on boat number twelve. But I don’t know what good it’ll do them; we admitted to using boat number twelve yesterday afternoon when we motored over for lunch.
I was surprised that Frank didn’t mention Amos to the sheriff when he was here. If he’d known about Amos, I’m sure he’d want his fingerprints, too. Amos was in his room as usual and Frank saw no reason to subject him to being questioned. Things like that tend to put the boy over the edge.
Actually, Amos has been surprisingly calm this trip. Maybe I’m just
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