Authors: Mollie Cox Bryan

Scrapbook of Secrets (15 page)

BOOK: Scrapbook of Secrets

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Chapter 28

Annie dumped the contents of the huge envelope onto the table.

“Let’s see what we come up with here,” she said.

Papers, postcards, certificates, cards, notes of all shapes and sizes, were splayed across the table. There were ticket stubs to movies, plays, and ballets. “I’ll take those,” Vera said. “Oh, look, she wrote something on the back of this ballet ticket stub. It was the Richmond Ballet. She wrote ‘first anniversary’ on the back of one.”

“Sweet,” DeeAnn said. “Look at this. A recipe card with her mom’s recipe for red velvet cake. She wrote, ‘I can’t make it as good as mama, but I try.’ Oh, red velvet!”

The women quieted as they searched through her papers. Inspiration sparked from these fibers and pieces of Maggie Rae’s life.

“Oh, my. Look at this. It’s from Zeb, Tina Sue’s husband. A postcard with a quote from the Bible, handwritten on the front of the card. ‘You shall not bring the wages of a harlot, or the price of a dog, to the house of the Lord your God for any vowed offering, for both of these are an abomination to the Lord your God.’ And then on the back of the card ... um ... let’s just say X-rated material,” Sheila said, and blushed.

“Let me see.” DeeAnn grabbed it from her and howled in laughter. “Yep. X-rated, indeed.”

“That’s just creepy—a Bible quote on one side and that on the back,” Vera said.

“Perhaps that’s why he’s a person of interest,” Annie said. “Her brother-in-law. And it would seem he didn’t like her writing erotica, either. Maybe they were having an affair. Seems like an intimate and strange thing to keep.”

“Lord, truth is stranger than fiction,” Sheila said. “Can you imagine if it was her brother-in-law who killed her? What if they’d been having an affair and she cut him off? Or his wife found out and he needed to choose? I don’t know. He was so strange at the funeral, dressed in Mennonite garb like that. But I don’t think they were even Mennonite.”

Annie held a thick letter envelope, with a handwritten address in black ink on it. The return address was Leo Shirley’s and she recognized his name as a “person of interest” also listed in the paper, next to Zeb McClain’s name.

She opened the envelope to a stack of letters folded neatly into one another. One glance told her they were love letters. No wonder he was a person of interest. This man loved Maggie Rae, or may have been obsessed with her.

“What do you-all know about Leo Shirley?” Annie said.

They all stopped and looked at her.

“Did you say Leo Shirley?” Sheila asked.

Annie nodded.

“Bad news,” Sheila said, and grimaced.

“Why? How do you know him?” Vera asked, setting down her glass of wine.

“I just remembered that he was listed in the paper as a person of interest, and here’s some letters from him. He and Maggie Rae were having an affair.”

“What? Are you sure? He’s a married man!” Vera said.

Annie held up the letters. “He was deeply in love with her.”

“
In lust
is more like it, and it doesn’t surprise me. He’s always been trouble—him and his brother, Harv, the postman,” Sheila said. “They went to school with us and were just bad news.”

“What do you mean?”Annie asked.

“I mean, they were always in trouble. You name it; they did it. Drugs. Vandalism. DUIs. In and out of juvenile detention homes. Rape. Assault and battery. Just as mean as they could be.”

“Add adultery to the list,” Vera said. “What a slimeball.”

“He seems very sweet in his letters. Here, read them,” she said, and handed them out to the women.

Annie read over the next letter. “Oh, so much for sweetness. Listen to this. ‘I love you, Maggie Rae, I always have. If I can’t have you, nobody else will, either.’ Seems like she was breaking it off. Here’s one that’s warning her, again.”

“Did you say the detective copied all of this?” DeeAnn asked after a few minutes.

“Yes, so he’s seen this, and they already have him on their list. But as far as I know, they’ve not made any arrests.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind he’s capable of murder,” Sheila said. “I’ll never forget the time when we were kids and he took Mrs. Laskowski’s cat and set it on fire. Oh, that gave me nightmares for years.”

“Wow! Look at this,” Annie said, peeling a stuck photo from in between the notes. An almost naked Maggie Rae was cuffed to a chair, a man behind her licking her neck. “Is this him?”

“Yep,” Sheila said. “Why don’t we just throw that away?”

“I wonder if his wife knew about him and Maggie Rae,” Vera said, taking the picture from her. “Some men just can’t control themselves. Cheating on their wives!” She flung the picture to the table.

“I never understood why his wife married him, anyway,” DeeAnn said. “He’s never even held a job, has he?”

“Love is blind. But it ain’t deaf and dumb, too,” Sheila said.

“Regardless,” Annie said. “Cheating on your wife is one thing. Murder is another.”

“I bet he killed Maggie Rae,” Sheila said.

“Now, hold on, you were convinced that Robert killed her, weren’t you?” Annie laughed.

Sheila chuckled, too. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not a cop. I’d go around arresting men whom I already know way too much about just to get them off the streets.”

“So, do we tell his wife?” Vera wondered out loud as she sorted papers.

“I say we stay out of that,” DeeAnn said, taking a sip of wine, then setting her glass down. “Besides, if he’s been called in for questioning, I’m sure she knows by now, if she didn’t before. Can I see that purple pen? I just want to write a little something on this page.”

“So,” Annie said, “we have three possible suspects. Robert. Leo. And Maggie Rae’s brother-in-law, Zeb. Any of them could have killed her. Plus the newspaper claimed there were more. I wonder who else is on their list.”

Chapter 29

“Annie, why all these questions about S and M?” Joshua said to her over the phone.

“I told you. I’m reading the stories written by this woman who was really into it. I read that it could be an escape.”

“Yes, that’s one of the theories, and I have to tell you it’s widely practiced and it’s considered within the norm of accepted sexual practices within the psychiatric community.”

“What’s not accepted?”

“Rape. Bestiality. Sex with kids. That’s about it,” he said.

Annie could hear him blowing smoke into the phone. Her brother, the psychiatrist, had smoked since he was seventeen. One of his many habits that she despised. She hated the way he bit his fingernails down to the nubs and the way he could never sit still. But most of all, she hated the way he analyzed everything. She smiled. He could probably say the same about her.

“I guess I was trying to figure out what kind of person would want to be hurt.”

“Why? Where is that going to lead you?”

“I don’t know, really. It’s just that it’s all so mysterious. Her death. The circumstances. I’m just trying to piece it all together.”

“Why don’t you talk to her husband about her?”

“Oh, God, Josh, I couldn’t do that. He’s the lead suspect in the case. And he creeps me out.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’ve questioned worse. What’s happening to you in Cumberland Creek? Are you losing your edge?”

She thought for a moment. “Maybe I am. But this is close to home. I’m a mother now. She lived two doors down. He lives there. I don’t want him showing up here when Mike’s not home—which is a lot these days, you know. What premise would I have in talking to him?”

“I don’t know. Think of something. I have to go. Be careful, Annie. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Josh,” she said into the phone, and went back to folding clothes, which is what she was doing before Joshua had called to check on her.

Mike had been gone for two days. He wasn’t scheduled to be home for another two. Her brother often called to check on her, as did her mom and dad. Now, of course, the scrapbook club members also called. It was hard being a single mom—she couldn’t imagine doing it all by herself, every day. Everything, from taking the trash out, to tucking the boys in at night—it was exhausting. God bless the women and men who were single parents.

One more load of laundry today and she would be finished—at least for the day. Tomorrow there would be another pile. The piles never stopped.

The phone rang. “Hello,” Annie said.

“Ms. Chamovitz?”

“Yes.”

“This is Jim Carlson from the
Washington Tribune.
”

“Oh, yes, Jim. I know your work. How are you?”

The boys started running through the house. In a panic, she took the phone into the bathroom and shut the door.

“What can I help you with, Jim?”

“We’re doing a story on domestic violence that leads to murder. I’ve got reporters all over the country looking into local situations. We sent a reporter to Cumberland Creek a few days ago. He’s not getting anywhere. You know, nobody will really talk to him. We’ve gotten some basic facts from the cops, but that’s all. I’d like to get a story about the possible murder of Maggie Rae Dasher. I’m looking for a series, perhaps. You know, profiles of the people involved. Her husband, maybe. Someone else in the family as well. Maybe even one of the kids. I don’t know. I just need someone to get in there and poke around. Someone the locals trust. Are you up for it?”

Annie’s heart was pounding—and then leaped. Could she manage to do this story? “I’m not sure how much they trust me, either. But I can give it a go. When is the deadline?”

“Work like this takes time. The deadline is flexible. But I do want the scoop on it, if you can manage.”

“Well,” she said. “I already kind of have a head start on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have Maggie Rae’s papers, photos, and scrapbooks,” she told him.

“How did you get those?”

“They were left on the curb for the trash, and my friends and I took them. Nobody from the family has even asked after them. The cops know I have them. They already copied them and then gave it back to me.”

“Well, what do you know? Life in a small town. It looks like I called the right person, after all,” he said.

She could hear the boys squealing in the background as they raced through the house. Could he hear them? She began to sweat.

“I’ll e-mail the details on pay and how to reach me, and so on,” he told her. “I have your e-mail.”

“Great, I’ll look for it, and I’ll get busy on this right away,” she said.

After they hung up the phone, she opened the door to all of the clothes she had just folded—they were strewn about the house as if a party was going down. And there seemed to be. Sam wandered through the room with a pair of her underwear on his head.

How would she ever think clearly enough to write these stories? Why didn’t she tell him no, that she had retired several years ago at the ripe old age of thirty-two? Why couldn’t she?

Chapter 30

“Thank God, it’s Saturday night and I have only one more week to the recital,” Vera said after taking a drink of wine. She was finishing up a scrapbook for her star dancer, Nancy Mayhew. She’d just gotten the letter in the mail—Nancy would be attending Juilliard in the fall. One more picture to place, and it was a lovely one—when Nancy was dancing the part of Clara in their annual production of
The Nutcracker.

There was Nancy—such beautiful lines—in a full arabesque, brown hair undone, adding to the youthful costume. She was gazing at the camera with confidence; yet she maintained character. The best dancers were always excellent actors. Their eyes were as much a part of dance as their perfectly pointed, turned-out toes.

She stuck the photo onto shimmery silver paper, which framed it beautifully, and watched as it brought out the delicate blushes—the pinks and the sages—from the photo. She placed glue dots on the back of the paper and stuck it in the center of the deep purple page.

“I hear you,” DeeAnn said. “It’s been a hell of a week at the bakery. ’Tis the wedding season, and I’m exhausted.”

“I bet you are,” Sheila said, placing paper onto her cutting plastic board. Then she placed her circular template over a picture and began to cut it with her X-ACTO blade. Vera loved watching Sheila wield an X-ACTO blade.

“Some of the cakes are gorgeous, though. There was one we decorated for today that was red, gold, and white. It was stunning!”

Vera flipped her scrapbook back to the beginning to check through the pages to make sure everything was still where it should be. The glue dots and other adhesives now were so good that she rarely found anything—but she wanted to be careful, especially since this album would be a gift. She loved the little-girl photos of Nancy. She was always so sweet, but she was such a serious dancer. Just the way she pointed her toe suggested maturity beyond her years—even as her face still held sweet, chubby, soft baby cheeks.

Suddenly her stomach lit with tingles. Maybe she would have a daughter. Maybe someday she would be working on her own daughter’s dancing scrapbooks. A tear stung at her eyes. Could it be? Would that she could choose, it would be, of course, just to have a healthy child. But to have a girl? A girl to dance? Could she be one of those mothers who sees her dreams come true through her daughter? Did she really want that?

When Vera thought about her own mother—well, no two women could be more different. Beatrice had tried to ignore Vera’s commitment to dance for years. She just wrote it off as “good exercise.” She supported her and made sure she had what she needed—the shoes, the tights, the leotards, the countless hairnets, the bobby pins, and so on. But when Vera hit high school, Beatrice talked with her about college and her future.

“Your dance—and your dance performance and teaching at such a young age—is going to help you get into college. But what will you study? Law? Medicine?”

“Law?” Vera said. “Law? No, Mother, I’m a dancer. I’d rather just find a company to audition for. But if you insist I go to school, I’m studying dance.”

“Study dance in college? Well, I’ve heard of everything now! You don’t go to college for dance.”

“You can. And I will,” Vera said.

Her mother waved her off, shook her head, and walked away.

Vera knew she had disappointed Beatrice by not studying something like physics or medicine, but dance was the only thing that interested her. At least, even at that young age, she knew herself. And knew that she could live with her mother’s profound disappointment. Even her father had found it hard not to disapprove.

“We love you very much and will support whatever decision you make. But dance is not a good way to make a living, you know?” he said.

Thinking back to the way that made her feel, Vera decided right then and there that she would never put pressure on her child to dance—or not to dance. Or to do or be anything. Life was tough enough without having to live your life to please someone else.

Yes, she would help her son or daughter discover his or her own passion, and would support him or her in no matter what it was. Soccer. Painting. Baking. Whatever. She’d keep her mouth shut about it and let them choose.

But she was getting ahead of herself. Her first concern was delivering a healthy baby, carrying it to term, and taking care of it, which seemed complicated enough. There were thousands of books about how to take care of babies. She’d never have all of the time she needed to read every book on the subject, of course, but she did go to the library today and checked out a few. She also heard a ridiculous story about her mother finding a baby doll on her front porch.

“Who told you about that?”

The librarian shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

“If it were true, I’d know about it,” Vera said, and took her books out the front door.

But now, she wondered about it. Her mother was surely not herself these days. Darn, she wished they would find the person who stabbed Bea. Was it the same person who had killed Maggie Rae? The police suggested that. It was too coincidental. But why Beatrice? Did she know something about the murder? She had been known not to tell Vera things because she didn’t want her to worry. Suddenly the thought of Beatrice as a grandmother made Vera smile.

“What are you doing over there?” Sheila interrupted Vera’s thoughts.

“Thinking about the baby,” Vera said, and smiled.

“Me too. I’m actually knitting a blanket. I’ve not knitted in years,” Paige said. “It’s going to be great to have a baby around.”

“You’re onto something other than the murder,” DeeAnn said. “But I can’t get over there being a murder in our little town. It makes me so angry and so sad.”

“Really?” Annie spoke up after setting down her plate, which was smeared in hummus. “It frightens me. Who killed her? Where is he? Or she?”

Vera felt a coldness come over her and then travel along her spine. She shivered. Here she was—bringing a baby into this increasingly complicated world. At least she could protect and love him or her. And that is what she and Bill would do. She and Bill were going to be wonderful parents. She was sure of it. She hadn’t felt so good—so happy—in years. It was as if her cells were exploding with life, energy, and happiness. She noticed a difference with Bill as well. This baby was already bringing magic into their lives.

“I know. Once you start to think about it, it could be anybody,” Sheila said. “You know, the way she was, well, I hate to say it, but she could be entertaining absolute strangers. Bring them to our town for a little sex, and who knows what else? Question is, are they gone or still hanging around?”

“Sheila!” Vera said, closing the dancing scrapbook. “You’ve got a hell of an imagination.”

“Thank God for it, too. Or else I’d have lost my mind years ago,” Sheila said; after a moment, she laughed. “Could you please pass me one of those chocolate cupcakes?”

“What do you have there, Annie?” Vera asked.

“It’s a picture of Maggie Rae’s mother. What a pretty calico dress.”

“They all wore those dresses in those days,” DeeAnn said, looking over Annie’s shoulder. “And look at those hands. They look like they belong to a much older woman. These women in the Hollow in those days ... about worked themselves to death.”

“Oh, now, look at that,” Sheila said, taking the photo out of Annie’s hand. “There’s something on the back. ‘I ache for you, Mama.’”

“Bless her heart,” Vera said.

BOOK: Scrapbook of Secrets

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