Pearl of Great Price (6 page)

Hobart took a step towards us. “Listen, I’m—”

I raised my hands, palms outward. “Okay, we get the message. We’re leaving.”

Half a minute later, Clifton and I were in the car. I revved the engine a few times before screeching through a U-turn and zooming down the winding road.

Clifton braced himself against the dashboard. “Easy there, ‘Mario,’ this ain’t a NASCAR race.”

By the time we reached the highway, I’d managed to calm down. A little. But it bugged me something fierce when people purposely chose rudeness over good manners. What was the deal with Hobart anyway? He must have the biggest chip on his shoulder ever.

I dropped Clifton at his house, deciding not to let him in on my plan to return for the dog and her pups. Clifton was not a dog person. He would not understand the horrible ache I felt under my ribcage just thinking of that poor hungry dog, lost and alone and living among the ruins.

At Friendly’s Neighborhood Supermarket, I splurged on several cans of premium dog food and a box of bacon-flavored dog treats. While I was at it, I remembered to browse the aisles for something for supper. I settled on tuna, cream of mushroom soup, a package of egg noodles, and a wedge of Wisconsin cheddar. Tuna casserole—always quick and easy.

“Hey, Grandpa, I’m home.” I kicked the kitchen door closed with one foot and plopped my grocery sacks on the counter.

Grandpa shuffled to the table and pulled out a chair. It happened to be the one Sneezy was sleeping on. Yawning, Sneezy slunk to the floor with an insulted green-eyed glare. Grandpa brushed cat fur off the chair and sat down with a tired sigh. I hoped he hadn’t been working too hard cleaning up the shop. I should have been here helping him instead of gallivanting around Lake Hamilton with Clifton and getting yelled at by grumpy Mr. Hobart.

“What did y’all do in Hot Springs?” Grandpa bent to scratch Sneezy’s hindquarters.

“Nothing much.” Grandpa would only worry if I told him Clifton and I had been poking around in abandoned buildings. I reached into a grocery bag and pulled out the dog food.

Grandpa let loose with a loud
a-HEMMM
. “Something you’re forgetting to tell me? Last time I checked, Sneezy preferred cat food.”

Cradling the box of dog biscuits as if it were one of those precious little puppies, I sat down next to Grandpa. Might as well be honest. Grandpa would have to know sooner or later, especially when I came home with four new additions to our family. “She’s a stray, with three pups. They’re at the resort where Sandy just got hired, and I’m worried the owner will call the pound if I don’t rescue them.”

“Aw, Julie Pearl.” Grandpa gave a moan and pressed a palm against his forehead. “You know I could never turn away a stray.”

I hugged his neck. “Thanks, Grandpa, I knew I could count on you!”

“Let’s go look around, then. Seem to recall some pet supplies in Maddie Barton’s booth.” Rising stiffly, he gave me one of those understanding smiles that always tugged at my heartstrings. It was a relief to see he didn’t seem quite as moody and preoccupied as he’d been yesterday. “You say you found the dogs at a resort?”

“Well, it’s going to be a resort. It’s . . . under construction.” Sort of. Dare I mention it was the same location as the place mentioned in the
Recorder
article? Not if I didn’t want Grandpa clamming up on me again—or worse, outright forbidding me to return for the dogs.

“Not sure I like the idea of you fooling around a construction site,” Grandpa said as I followed him down the inner stairs to the main floor. He stopped at Maddie Barton’s booth and unearthed a leash and a couple of dog dishes from her hodgepodge of garage-sale-quality merchandise.

“It’s fine, I promise. I’ve just got to get the dog and her pups out of there before the demolition crew starts tearing stuff down.”

Grandpa shot me a curious look over his shoulder. “Tearing stuff down? I thought you said it was a construction site.”

I should have known better than to try to keep anything from Grandpa. I chose my words carefully. “It’s a rundown resort on Lake Hamilton, a big house and some cottages that have to be torn down before they start building.”

“I see.” Grandpa’s voice sounded like his vocal chords had stuck together. His gaze darted sideways with that nervous look he’d had lately. “This place got a name?”

My throat felt like I’d swallowed a bottle of Elmer’s, myself. “I think Sandy said Hamilton Haven.”

He shut his eyes, then took a deep breath and let it out in one long sigh. When he opened his eyes again, they seemed brighter somehow, less anxious. “Well, then, best get a move on. We’ll need some lunch before you head over. The round trip alone will take you nearly an hour, and you want to be home in time for supper and your Bible study tonight.”

“But, Grandpa, I—” How was I supposed to tell him I’d intended to wait until the end of the day, when Hobart wasn’t likely to be loitering about?

Grandpa stopped halfway up the stairs and looked me in the eye. “All right now, Julie Pearl Stiles, first it was a resort, then a construction site, then a bunch of deserted cabins. What else aren’t you telling me?”

I twisted the hem of my tie-dyed T-shirt. “The owner ran us off earlier. If he catches me out there again, he’ll have me arrested for trespassing.”

“Well, now, I sure don’t want that to happen.” Grandpa reached the landing and stepped through the door. “Maybe I better go along in case some feathers need unruffling.”

Much as I dreaded letting Grandpa see the wreckage Clifton and I had been snooping through all morning, his suggestion made sense. And truth be told, I was not looking forward to stumbling around a trashed out old resort in the dark. No telling what kind of varmints—four-legged, six-legged, eight-legged, or no-legged—I might run into.

“Oh, Grandpa, thank you!” I threw my arms around his warm, wrinkled neck. With Grandpa and me working together, Mama Dog and her pups would be safe, warm, and well-fed by suppertime.

C
HAPTER 5

Driving Grandpa’s delivery van was always an adventure. If you didn’t foot the clutch just right, the gears tended to grab and make a horrific grinding noise. Plus, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about an afternoon jaunt in mid-June with a broken A/C. We cranked down the windows and let the warm, pine-scented air flow over us. The wetness trickling down my backbone reminded me I’d need another shower before tonight.

I parked the van near the end of the driveway, where a brand new pile of chain-link construction fencing had been dropped off. No telling when they’d be back to install it. At least I didn’t see any sign of the shiny maroon Dodge pickup that had been parked out front when Clifton and I took off earlier. I scrambled out the driver’s-side door. “Come on, Grandpa. We’d better hurry.”

Grandpa slid open the side door and grabbed the dog food. I went around back to retrieve the cardboard box for the puppies, made all comfy-cozy with a soft, worn bath towel. We’d even had the foresight to fill an empty milk jug with fresh water, as I doubted we’d find any working taps on the property. The dog had probably been finding stagnant puddles somewhere or else hanging off the dock to drink from the lake.

As we started up the driveway, Grandpa paused and set one thumb alongside his jaw, rubbing thoughtfully. “Something’s awful familiar about this place.” He stared a moment longer. “You said it’s called Hamilton Haven?”

A warning twinge speared my gut. “That’ll be the name for the new place Sandy’s boss is building. It used to be something else,” I said quickly, then started on around back. Glancing over my shoulder, I realized Grandpa wasn’t following me. I turned to see him grimace and haul in a shaky breath, and my own heart threw in an extra beat. “Grandpa? You okay?”

“Fine, fine. Let’s just get those dogs.”

A low stone retaining wall bordered a weed-infested garden and brick patio behind the house. We stopped there to open a can of dog food and fill the water bowl. I told Grandpa to wait on the patio until I made sure I could coax the little black dog to come with us. Carrying a bowl in each hand, my pockets stuffed with dog treats, I made my way across the cracked stepping stones.

“Hey, Mama Dog. You must be so hungry. Look what I’ve brought you.” From the cabin doorway I could hear the soft, snuffling sounds of the nursing puppies.

As soon as I peeked inside, Mama Dog let loose with a growl. I lowered my gaze and eased down to kneel on the grimy linoleum. “It’s all right, it’s just me.” I set down the bowls and pushed them toward the open bedroom door. “Come on, Mama Dog, this is real good stuff.”

Now it was a matter of waiting—waiting for her hunger to overcome the fear, waiting for her to trust me enough to come closer. I made myself as comfortable as I could leaning against the rotting door frame and prepared for a long afternoon.

From where I rested, I could see Grandpa meandering around the rear of the big house, peering in windows, trying doorknobs. I only thought Clifton was dangerously curious. I forgot what Grandpa turned into anytime there was even the slightest chance of discovering some unique flea market find.

I watched the minutes tick by on my vintage Snow White watch, a favorite because of how Snow White charmed first the forest animals and then the dwarves, transforming their dusty, males-only cottage into a real home. Now, if I could sing as sweetly as the fair Snow White, maybe Mama Dog would already be licking out of my hand.

The snarling finally eased off, but those beady eyes held me locked in their gaze. A trickle of drool slipped down Mama Dog’s shaggy black muzzle. She licked her lips. The meaty aroma of fresh, moist dog food was working its charm in a way Hobart’s dry old dog chow never could.

Maybe if I gave her a little space. Moving as slowly as my stiffening muscles could manage, I stood and stepped outside. I brushed off the seat of my bellbottoms and crossed the yard to join Grandpa on the back porch. “Find anything interesting?”

“Looks like it’s pretty well cleaned out.” He backed away from a dirt-streaked window.

I licked my thumb and rubbed a smudge off the tip of his nose. “Anything of value the owners left behind, looters probably ripped off.”

Grandpa moseyed to the far end of the porch, where a torn screen door hung from one hinge. He propped it open and jiggled the knob on the inner door. We both gasped in surprise when the knob fell off in his hand and the door creaked open. Grandpa dropped the knob into his pocket and gave a nervous chuckle. “Looks like we’re invited in.”

I tugged at his elbow. “Wait, Grandpa. This whole place looks like it’s ready to cave in on itself.”

Grandpa ignored me and started down the hallway, sliding one hand along the wall and hunched forward like it helped him to see better. I followed, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I made out vague floral patterns in the faded wallpaper. We passed several doors opening onto rooms of various sizes, mostly empty except for the telltale clutter left by vagrants—musty blankets, empty bean cans, a broken thermos, a shredded feather pillow.

Turning a corner, we came upon a room overlooking the back patio. It must have been a child’s room once, judging from the cartoonish ducks and rabbits scampering across the peeling wallpaper. Gauze curtains—I guessed they used to be pale green or yellow—hung in tatters from the window frame. In one corner sat a wooden toy chest. Once upon a time, someone had lovingly clipped duck and rabbit shapes from the same paper that covered the walls and used them to decorate the sides and top of the chest. Now the lid lay ripped from its hinges, as if some scavenger, finding nothing of value inside, had torn it off and cast it to the floor in a fit of rage.

My eyes misted. To think some little boy or girl—maybe even the child who’d drowned—had once resided here, maybe snuggled under fuzzy yellow blankets with a huge stuffed bunny. I imagined a bespectacled daddy reading
The Velveteen Rabbit
while a smiling mother looked on. A happy family, now lost to time, gone forever, leaving only these empty, echoing rooms.

I sighed, a hurricane in the sweltering silence. “This place is so sad, a whole family simply packing up and walking away.”

Grandpa shoved past me, as if he couldn’t escape the room soon enough. Had he felt it, too—the sadness, the sense of loss?
What was he not telling me?

I caught up with him in the lobby, where the remains of a reception desk fronted a wall of small, numbered cubbyholes. A few tarnished keys still hung from their hooks. I edged behind the counter, careful not to scrape my arm on the bent and broken nails poking out. “Looks like somebody came in here and tore the top right off.”

“A shame, yes indeed.” The walls seemed to soak the sound right out of Grandpa’s voice. He stood there staring, as if he couldn’t quite take it all in.

“I told you we wouldn’t find anything worthwhile. Too many people—with a lot fewer scruples—got here before we did.”

Something on the floor caught my eye. It looked like a large book, but when I reached for it, I found only the front cover and a few water-damaged pages clinging to what was left of the spine. “I think I found part of the old guest register.”

Grandpa shuffled closer. “Julie Pearl, don’t—”

I brushed debris off a flat space under the cubbyholes and laid the book open to the first brittle page. In heavy black ink it read:

WELCOME TO PEARLS ALONG THE LAKE

Please sign in with your name and auto license.

The following pages contained fading ballpoint entries in myriad handwriting styles, some faintly readable, others blurred beyond deciphering.

Grandpa edged up beside me and peered around my shoulder. “Pearls Along the Lake.” His breath rasped against the side of my neck, and his next words were so faint, I almost didn’t catch them. “I should have known.”

“Then you
have
heard of it.” I squinted to make out some of the guest entries. The ten or twelve surviving pages spanned close to three years. Summers appeared to be the busiest times, with long gaps between dates the rest of the year. A few names appeared regularly. It looked like someone named MacDonohoe spent the same two weeks of June here every year. “Grandpa, why didn’t you want me to read that story in the
Recorder
yesterday?”