Scrapped (16 page)
“And?”
“For the life of me, it looked like a fairy was flying off the page and threw dust in my eyes.”
“Probably a weird illusion with some kind of special ink,” Sheila said. “We are trying to figure out what kind of ink this is—without getting fairy dust or glitter or whatever in our eyes.”
“Damn thing is probably booby-trapped,” DeeAnn said.
“Why would you say that?” Annie said.
DeeAnn shrugged. “I wasn’t here when it happened. Sounded kind of freaky to me. Like maybe Cookie didn’t want anybody to look in her book. So she set a trap.”
“I don’t see that at all,” Sheila said.
“Yes. That seems kind of mean-spirited of you, DeeAnn,” Annie said. “Cookie is our friend.”
“Me?” DeeAnn said, drawing back. “It wasn’t me who was seeing things and lost her eyesight momentarily.” She nodded her head toward Vera.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Vera responded. “I’m the woo-woo nut in the crowd.” She slipped the goggles from her face, looking defeated, tired. “I just can’t make any sense of it.”
“I’m telling you that there’s something in that book Cookie doesn’t want people to see,” DeeAnn insisted. “First off, she didn’t want us knowing how accomplished she is at this—”
“Wait a minute!” Annie interrupted. “Give me the book. I’ll take it home and look at it in the morning. Maybe I can find something.”
Sheila looked at her, her goggles askew on her face. “I’m not done yet. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. This ink is fascinating. Also, she has an interesting blend of different paper—
washi,
I think, mulberry, and even silk— on her pages. I’m not even sure I could work with silk. It’s very complicated, not easy to work with at all.”
washi,
I think, mulberry, and even silk— on her pages. I’m not even sure I could work with silk. It’s very complicated, not easy to work with at all.”
Annie suddenly saw the clock on the wall and excused herself. She had no idea it was so late. She needed to stop by Beatrice’s place before she went home. Mike’s recriminations about her being away from home so much were at the front of her mind. One hell of a day.
Chapter 39
Beatrice needed to think about something other than the murders, Cookie, and that strange but beautiful scrapbook of hers. It was giving her indigestion. She finally had some peace and quiet, so she sat at her computer and checked her e-mail.
Aha.
There was an e-mail from her friend in Paris.
Aha.
There was an e-mail from her friend in Paris.
My dearest Beatrice,
How are you? I hope that my e-mail finds you well. I have not heard back from you. Are you okay?
My ankle is healing nicely, and I will be as good as new very soon. The nights in my apartment have been gloomy and cold since you left. Will you come back soon? Next year? There is a place here for you.
Did I tell you about my grandson? He wants to study physics in America. Your field, yes?
Beatrice’s heart leapt. Of course he knew that.
I am hopeful to visit him (and you) when he settles in. We are not sure which university yet. Well, my dear, I am off to get a bite to eat with my grandson. Good boy. Very smart. I wish you could have met him.
No time for that,
Beatrice thought and grinned, then clicked off the e-mail. It was good to make him wait a little. She didn’t want him to think she had nothing better to do than sit around waiting on his e-mail. She’d get back to him later. Even though he was in Paris, she still felt a little restricted by him. She didn’t want him to know that, nor did she want to feel anything for him at all. It was best for both of them to take their time about things.
Beatrice thought and grinned, then clicked off the e-mail. It was good to make him wait a little. She didn’t want him to think she had nothing better to do than sit around waiting on his e-mail. She’d get back to him later. Even though he was in Paris, she still felt a little restricted by him. She didn’t want him to know that, nor did she want to feel anything for him at all. It was best for both of them to take their time about things.
Beatrice heard a car pull up to the front of her house. Its headlights shone briefly in her window. Who could that be at nine thirty on a Sunday night? She stood and looked out the window.
Annie?
Annie?
“What are you doing here?” Beatrice said, opening the door.
“I just need to talk to somebody. Run a few things by you,” Annie said.
“Come in. Sit down. Do you want a drink? Tea? Water?”
“No,” Annie said as she took off her coat and laid it on the back of the couch. “I won’t be long.”
“Okay,” Beatrice said, sitting in her rocking chair. Annie still looked pale—along with looking harried and tired. Circles under her eyes. Hair falling half out of her ponytail. Annie had never been like Vera, who used to be perfectly made up all the time, but tonight she looked particularly unkempt. That old University of Maryland sweatshirt should be put out to pasture.
“I’m trying to put this all together. I can’t stand the thought of Cookie in jail, you know?”
Beatrice nodded.
“So I visited with Mary Schultz today and confirmed that there was a shunning. The Carpenter girl.”
“Makes sense,” Beatrice said after a moment.
“She was pregnant. That baby is hers, of course.”
“Hmm. Well, now. Who is the father?”
“Good question,” Annie said, rubbing her hands together. Beatrice noted her fingernails were bitten down to their nubs.
“And what does Rebecca have to do with any of that?”
Annie shrugged. “They were good friends. I spoke with Rebecca’s mom, who didn’t know that Sarah was pregnant. She said she’d wished that she knew, but Rebecca never said anything to her.”
“That’s typical,” Beatrice said and rolled her eyes.
“Then there’s this odd business with this group of people at the Nest—”
“Whoaaa!” Beatrice said. “Who said anything about the Nest?”
“Well, I talked about it with Mrs. Collins today. She said that it’s a weird mix of people up there. They are not really Mennonite.”
“I’d say.” Beatrice had always felt a strange mix of fear and embarrassment when she thought of the Nest, especially when she was around the bright and cosmopolitan Annie, She didn’t want her to think badly about the Appalachian people. Annie had already seen some of the worst, and yet she was still here. So she must see the best in them, as well.
“I wouldn’t say this to just anybody, Beatrice, but I think there is something big happening. Something more than Cumberland Creek, more than Jenkins Hollow or the Nest. So far, the CDC has been involved, the FBI, and Detective Bryant is not letting Mary Schultz talk to me. And the murdered girls were onto something. Someone needed to shut them up. Those rune symbols? They mean those girls were a problem to someone, you know?”
“So,” Beatrice said, “you have two girls labeled as a problem . . . by someone. They know something. They both show up dead with the markings on them. One has had a baby. And that baby was almost killed on the mountain, left for dead.”
“On the same spot where they found Cookie’s earring.”
The women sat in silence.
“I looked Cookie up online,” Annie finally said.
“And?”
“The detective was right. There’s not a trace of her anywhere.”
“Pshaw. What does that mean?” Beatrice said.
“I mean, I can’t find birth records, work records, previous addresses, passports. Nothing.”
Beatrice’s stomach sank. Maybe she shouldn’t have eaten that last slice of chocolate cake. All of the evidence seemed to point to their friend Cookie. Or at least to her knowing more than what she let on.
“But what would Cookie have to do with that mess up in the mountains?” Beatrice said.
“The only time I knew her to even be up there is when she went up for her retreat that day.”
“You mean the day we had the flat tire?”
Annie nodded. “And she had that character, Luther, in her car.”
Beatrice didn’t know what to say or to think. She decided not to tell Annie about the scrapbook—about the suspicions it had created. She’d tell her tomorrow, after she had a good night’s sleep. She could see this weighing heavily on Annie—and she didn’t want to add to her trouble. Not tonight. It seemed as if Cookie wasn’t who they thought she was. But Beatrice knew that very few people were what others thought they were. Look at Maggie Rae, who had quite the secret life. Look at her, Beatrice Matthews, soon to be eighty-two, with a beau in Paris. Who would’ve thought?
Annie went on. “There’s another thing Mrs. Collins mentioned. Remember Zeb? Tina Sue’s husband?”
“Of course.”
“He’s got something to do with that strange group of people in the Nest,” Annie said and yawned.
“Tina Sue didn’t mention that, eh? I told you she wasn’t to be trusted. Hell, I’d have trusted her sister over her any day of the week,” Beatrice said.
Annie looked deflated.
“Annie, I think you need to go home and get some sleep,” Beatrice finally said to her. “You look tired. Your body has been through hell. Your son was in trouble at school. Your friend Cookie is in jail. Things don’t seem to add up. I agree. But we are missing a huge part of this story. We’ll come up with a plan, just not tonight. The police will figure it out. It will be okay.”
Annie smiled at Beatrice and sighed. “I hope you’re right, but this whole thing gives me really bad feelings. I can’t even explain the way it makes me feel. The other thing is, Bryant is withholding information.”
“No surprise there.”
“Seems that both girls had worked at Harmony Bakery.”
“There’s not many places they can work up there. That may not mean anything at all.”
“Except that Rebecca’s body was covered in flour,” Annie said.
Chapter 40
A great fluttering wind knocked Vera down. What was flapping? A huge bird? As she struggled to stand, she realized the stage was shaky, slippery, odd. One spotlight was beaming on her as she pointed her toe. A screaming violin. A pulsing harp.
She looked up beyond the light and into the blackness of the audience. Was there one?
She prepared for her pirouette, then lifted herself to her toe and spun around into dizziness. How did she forget to find her spot? She preached constantly to her young dancers, “Spot, spot, spot. Pick your spot, glue your eyes there as long as possible, now turn, and whip your head. Find your spot. You won’t get dizzy.”
A pause in the music. She looked down at her feet. Sometimes a dance was all in the eyes—and a glance downward could be a powerful symbol. But the stage? Was it really a stage? It looked covered in paper. Suddenly, the light shone on a mounded spot on the floor. Vera climbed it—gracefully, of course, for they were all looking at her—her flowing pink chiffon costume brushing against her legs. She peered over the rounded edge onto the other side, which looked like the center of a huge book, where all the pages came together. Where was she? Was she onstage? Was she in a book?
She spun around, feeling her clothing fall to the floor. She was completely naked now. She tried to cover herself with her arms. She heard the audience gasp. So there was an audience—hushed until this moment.
“Dance!” a male voice rang out. It sounded familiar.
“C’mon!” It was a voice with a Brooklyn accent.
Tony?
Tony?
Instead, Vera froze, not knowing in which direction to turn, her heart beating so hard that she thought she could hear her pulse throbbing in her ears. She needed to get off the stage. She heard beautiful little bell-like sounds coming from the direction of the crevice. She looked over to it. It pulled her closer.
God, if I could just disappear,
she thought.
she thought.
“You can, my friend,” Cookie said to her.
Cookie!
She was standing there in her blue robes, holding out a glistening silver robe for Vera, who quickly slipped into it. The audience cheered.
She was standing there in her blue robes, holding out a glistening silver robe for Vera, who quickly slipped into it. The audience cheered.
“Don’t mind them,” Cookie said, holding out her hand. “Take my hand. Let’s disappear together.”
“Ah,” Vera said. “This is a dream, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Cookie said and smiled, taking Vera’s hand. “Look, we are inside of a book.”
It became clear to Vera then that she was dancing on a book, which she had thought was a stage.
“Well,” Vera said.
“Turn the page,” Cookie said and held on tightly to Vera. “Jump!”
Vera and Cookie jumped together as the page flipped, but they stayed in the air, hovering above the book, its pages flipping quickly, dusty sparks flying from it, little creatures escaping from it and running off. Fairies? Well, they weren’t birds, were they? Vera became mesmerized by one of them and tried to see it more clearly, wanted to run after it.
“You can never catch a fairy. Mischievous creatures. Difficult to harness and manage,” Cookie informed her.
“Fairies?” Vera managed to say.
“There’s so much about the world that humans never see. So much magic. So many creatures,” Cookie said wistfully.
Vera pulled her robe closer to her, loving the soft cloth surrounding her body.
“Do you see?” Cookie said.
Photos were scattered on the pages. Elizabeth. Beatrice. Women that Vera didn’t know—but that looked vaguely familiar. They were suddenly in a cave full of a shiny rock.
Quartz?
Quartz?
“Calcite,” Cookie whispered, wrapping her arms around Vera, who was suddenly pulled into a thick gelatinous substance.
“Cookie?”
She was gone.
Where was Vera now? She felt the warm, slimy substance surround her, and a hand covered her breast. A hard male body coming up behind her, his arms enveloping her, his legs wrapping around her. A shot of excitement rose through the center of her body.
“Tony?” she said, trying to reach through the gel, kicking and reaching, their bodies coming together then, sliding apart—until she could no longer reach him.
She awoke in her own bed, tangled in a sweaty mess, blankets askew. She glanced at the clock. Three a.m.
What a dream. Damn.
What a dream. Damn.
Annie was skinny-dipping in a cove. The water was luminous. The moon was full, reflecting on the warm water that circled her thin body. She lay back and floated, letting the moon shine on her as she closed her eyes. The water, the moon, the sky.
In the distance she saw two redheaded young women swimming. Who were they with? Was that Zeb?
Suddenly Annie popped out of the water, the air harsh in her throat and lungs. She was in a cave. She rubbed her eyes—there was some light and shadow playing with them. Was that a candle on a ledge? Was that a book? She struggled to lift herself out of the water, then plodded over to the ledge, where the book appeared to lift itself off of the rock it was on and opened itself.
The pictures appeared to be etchings—a woman running toward a mountain, which morphed into her jumping into a pool of water, with a waterfall in the background. Then the black ink turned purple as a group of masked dancers danced across the page. The page turned, and there were pictures of her boys in their soccer uniforms.
What was this? A scrapbook?
The page turned again—on its own—and there was a beautifully illuminated page. Handwritten. Rich gold. Crimson. Purple. Gorgeous words that shimmered and lifted off the pages and wound themselves around her fingers, spinning, spinning, then traveled up her arms. Oh, these words! What were they? They seemed to seep into the pores of her skin, delivering energy and light to her.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep,” a voice said to her from the corner.
She recognized the voice.
“Cookie?”
Cookie stepped out of the shadows. Her hand against the calcite of the cave wall. She looked radiant in her blue robes, a gold chain around her neck and an amethyst hanging from it. Her eyes were made up with thick black eyeliner, slanting upward, giving Cookie an almost Asian appearance. Funny, Annie had never noticed that before. Was she Asian?
Cookie nodded.
“What’s going on here?” Annie asked.
She smiled. “You are dreaming, my friend.”
“That’s right. You’re in jail. I’m at home in bed with my husband. I can hear him snore.”
His snoring became louder momentarily.
Cookie laughed.
Suddenly, she and Cookie were both in the water, Mike’s snoring getting softer and softer as they swam deeper and deeper. Annie was mesmerized by the colorful fish swimming around them, some of them coming up and gently biting her fingers. The colors! Magenta. Gold. Crimson. And the rocks and sand and plants, with beautiful exotic-shaped flowers. Oh, that deep orange strand floating there pulled her in to look closer.
“No!” Cookie said.
But why?
Annie could not resist. She touched the orange strand and pulled it. She felt a heavy awkwardness to it and yanked harder. Out popped the head of Sarah. Eyes wide with fear, mouth gaping open, and still screaming.
Annie could not resist. She touched the orange strand and pulled it. She felt a heavy awkwardness to it and yanked harder. Out popped the head of Sarah. Eyes wide with fear, mouth gaping open, and still screaming.
“Annie!”
She was being shaken by someone.
Cookie?
Sarah’s screams were becoming her own.
Cookie?
Sarah’s screams were becoming her own.
“Annie!”
She opened her eyes to see Mike’s face close to hers.
“What the hell?” he said.
She didn’t know what to say. She grabbed her husband and wept into his shoulder.
Beatrice fell asleep to the sound of rain on the window and roof. Thunder boomed. A blue-silver streak lit the sky. She sighed.
There was a book on a rock, and it was getting soaked in the rain. Beatrice grabbed it and brought it under the shelter of her porch. She was in her bare feet and her favorite nightgown, a poet’s shirt nightdress that Ed bought her when they visited Williamsburg, Virginia.
But wait. She hadn’t seen this nightdress in years. Was she dreaming?
The book felt heavy with rain in her arms as she laid it down on her table. She took a seat, opened it, and was amazed to find that its pages were dry. Pictures of her mother and father set off by a lacy-paper frame stared back at her. She loved to look at these two; she was blessed with wonderful parents, though her father could be heavy-handed at times.
She turned the page and found a page that held a mirror. She tried to look in it and found her reflection to be nonexistent. What was this? She turned the page again to another mirror. This time, she looked in the glassy, shiny page and found herself staring back. She ran her fingers over her firm, unaged cheek.
Damn, I like this mirror. It makes me look young again.
Her reflection smiled back at her.
I could feel better about giving myself to Jon, or anybody, if I looked this good.
I could feel better about giving myself to Jon, or anybody, if I looked this good.
Suddenly her husband appeared in the mirror. A flash. “You are beautiful. Any man is lucky to have you, no matter how old you are.”
She slammed the book shut and stood up to reach for Ed. But he was gone.
Damn him. Coming to me in a whisper of a dream.
Thunder roared. Blankets of rain fell from her porch roof.
She was still in her bare feet, and the wind blew her nightdress against her tight thighs. She had forgotten what firm thighs felt like. She ran her hands over them and then sat back down to investigate this book more closely.
She looked back in the mirror, which was now full of mathematics computations. Mmm. Was this the theory of relativity? It could be—except that piece right there didn’t look quite correct.
“It’s magic, you see,” Cookie said, suddenly standing next to Beatrice.
“Magic? No, dear, it’s math. Beautifully done mathematics.”
“Your math is my magic.”
“I thought you said my prayers are your magic,” Beatrice said.
“Yes. Same thing,” Cookie said and nodded. “Do you see?” She waved her hand across the crumbling pages, and the numbers began to move. They spun and spun themselves into a wind, flipping the pages back and forth. “What do you wish for, Beatrice? What is your deepest desire?”
When Beatrice was younger, more driven, her first answer would have been for her theory of time travel to be proven, but at this point in her life, she knew it was accurate, knew it in her bones—and it didn’t matter what anybody else in the scientific community thought about it. Now she just wanted to be happy, for her family to be happy and healthy, and deep down inside, she knew that somehow her happiness was linked to Jon.
The twirling tornado of numbers sparked into flame. The edges of the pages of the book became singed with the flame, and Beatrice reached for the book to save it from itself and burned her hand.
“Damn!”
Cookie was still there, and as Beatrice looked up into this younger woman’s face, so beautiful, so peaceful, the pain in her hand went away. Cookie smiled. She reached for Beatrice’s chin and held it firmly. “Stay with us, Bea,” she said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Cookie laughed.
That was that. If there was any meaning in her statement, Beatrice would never know. Cookie vanished—but her laughter lingered in the chambers of Beatrice’s ears. Ed had vanished, too. Damn, what was with the people in her life, always leaving her?
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