record book with the figures in it. There had to be a connection there somewhere to Edna’s death if she could find it. She had to find Jenny’s diary, if there was one. She bet that would answer some questions. Kids put secrets in diaries.
So…where else could Jenny have hidden her diary? That question filled her mind the rest of the way home.
Chapter 8
When Abigail got up the next morning she finished Martha’s watercolor, called her, and informed her she could pick it up. It was as good as she was going to get it. Propping it against the front room wall, she sat on the couch and studied it. Her smile came slowly. It looks pretty good for the artist being so out of practice. I hope Martha likes it.
As she waited for her friend, she roamed the house poking into the nooks and crannies of cabinets, closets and drawers, looking for notes or that elusive diary. The children’s room had been upstairs, according to Frank, and shared with their mother. Edna had slept downstairs on a sofa couch. With a flashlight, on hands and knees, Abigail explored the loft bedroom along the baseboards and in the walk-in closet. Sixty watts wasn’t enough light and hundred-watt bulbs were on her grocery list.
About to give up, she noticed the heater vents on the floor, found a screwdriver and pried them open. Being summer she hadn’t cleaned them out yet so they were thick with webs and years accumulation of vent dust. Using a cloth to wipe away the covering of matted grime, in the second vent she hit treasure: a piece of twine attached to the side of the vent. She tugged it up through her fingers and at the end was a small brown paper lunch sack. Inside were drawings and another crayon message from Jenny. All in caps again.
SOMEONE TRIED TO RUN CHRISTOPHER OVER WITH A CAR. SOMEONE BROKE OUT MOM’S CAR WINDOWS. I KNOW ITS HIM. MOM SAYS IT WAS BECAUSE HE WAS SO MAD. CAIN’T HELP HIMSELF. I SAY BALONEY. HE IS BAD. EVIL AS CHRIS SAYS. I HATE HIM. I KNOW GOD SAYS YOU SHOULN’T HATE NOBODY SO I’M SORRY GOD BUT I DO. I SENT A LETTER TO DAD TO COME GET US. HE NEVER WROTE BACK.
The drawings were of the house and a kitten. Christopher’s house picture wasn’t half bad. Abigail’s house circa 1970 looked about the same as it did today except the trees were smaller, there were two bicycles against the porch, two hula hoops laying in the front yard and a swing hanging from one of the elms. The other picture, signed by Jenny, was of a white cat sitting on the house’s front porch, eyes wide and blue, one paw stretched out. Snowball grownup.
A shiver began in Abigail’s fingers and rippled through her body. Strange how the past and the present kept merging. Abigail believed she’d been destined to find this town, this house and these clues. Her fate to solve the mystery of what happened to the Summers. And as much as she disliked newspapers, it was time to visit Samantha Westerly at the Journal . Scooping up the children’s messages and drawings into a large envelope, she drove into town. A breezeless July day, it was too hot to walk. Someone out there knew what had happened thirty years ago and if there was a newspaper story that someone might read it and step forward.
“Decided to let me do that story on you after all?” exclaimed Samantha when Abigail walked in.
“Sort of.” Being there with people bent over computers slaving away on stories and ads or on the phone selling classifieds revived unpleasant memories. She had to remind herself she was only a visitor. She could leave whenever she wanted to. “I have an intriguing feature concept for you, Samantha.”
“Come into my private cubicle and tell me about it, Abigail. I’m a sucker for a good story idea. Some weeks I can’t think of a darn thing to write about.”
And Abigail did. She explained about Emily and the children’s disappearances; showed Samantha the scribbled messages, the drawings, and exposed what she and Frank had uncovered. Even about the ledger.
So…where else could Jenny have hidden her diary? That question filled her mind the rest of the way home.
Chapter 8
When Abigail got up the next morning she finished Martha’s watercolor, called her, and informed her she could pick it up. It was as good as she was going to get it. Propping it against the front room wall, she sat on the couch and studied it. Her smile came slowly. It looks pretty good for the artist being so out of practice. I hope Martha likes it.
As she waited for her friend, she roamed the house poking into the nooks and crannies of cabinets, closets and drawers, looking for notes or that elusive diary. The children’s room had been upstairs, according to Frank, and shared with their mother. Edna had slept downstairs on a sofa couch. With a flashlight, on hands and knees, Abigail explored the loft bedroom along the baseboards and in the walk-in closet. Sixty watts wasn’t enough light and hundred-watt bulbs were on her grocery list.
About to give up, she noticed the heater vents on the floor, found a screwdriver and pried them open. Being summer she hadn’t cleaned them out yet so they were thick with webs and years accumulation of vent dust. Using a cloth to wipe away the covering of matted grime, in the second vent she hit treasure: a piece of twine attached to the side of the vent. She tugged it up through her fingers and at the end was a small brown paper lunch sack. Inside were drawings and another crayon message from Jenny. All in caps again.
SOMEONE TRIED TO RUN CHRISTOPHER OVER WITH A CAR. SOMEONE BROKE OUT MOM’S CAR WINDOWS. I KNOW ITS HIM. MOM SAYS IT WAS BECAUSE HE WAS SO MAD. CAIN’T HELP HIMSELF. I SAY BALONEY. HE IS BAD. EVIL AS CHRIS SAYS. I HATE HIM. I KNOW GOD SAYS YOU SHOULN’T HATE NOBODY SO I’M SORRY GOD BUT I DO. I SENT A LETTER TO DAD TO COME GET US. HE NEVER WROTE BACK.
The drawings were of the house and a kitten. Christopher’s house picture wasn’t half bad. Abigail’s house circa 1970 looked about the same as it did today except the trees were smaller, there were two bicycles against the porch, two hula hoops laying in the front yard and a swing hanging from one of the elms. The other picture, signed by Jenny, was of a white cat sitting on the house’s front porch, eyes wide and blue, one paw stretched out. Snowball grownup.
A shiver began in Abigail’s fingers and rippled through her body. Strange how the past and the present kept merging. Abigail believed she’d been destined to find this town, this house and these clues. Her fate to solve the mystery of what happened to the Summers. And as much as she disliked newspapers, it was time to visit Samantha Westerly at the Journal . Scooping up the children’s messages and drawings into a large envelope, she drove into town. A breezeless July day, it was too hot to walk. Someone out there knew what had happened thirty years ago and if there was a newspaper story that someone might read it and step forward.
“Decided to let me do that story on you after all?” exclaimed Samantha when Abigail walked in.
“Sort of.” Being there with people bent over computers slaving away on stories and ads or on the phone selling classifieds revived unpleasant memories. She had to remind herself she was only a visitor. She could leave whenever she wanted to. “I have an intriguing feature concept for you, Samantha.”
“Come into my private cubicle and tell me about it, Abigail. I’m a sucker for a good story idea. Some weeks I can’t think of a darn thing to write about.”
And Abigail did. She explained about Emily and the children’s disappearances; showed Samantha the scribbled messages, the drawings, and exposed what she and Frank had uncovered. Even about the ledger.
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