Ada Unraveled (3 page)

Finally, there it was. I gratefully pulled
to a stop just inside the long driveway. I needed a moment to
compose my slightly panicky brain. I gazed at the house before me,
now feeling completely time-warped back to the thirties and
teleported to the Appalachians—sans the green woods.

Ahead of me lay a sprawling one-story wood
frame structure, fully lit from one end to the other (obviously no
fear of electric bills here) with spotlighting on a few crippled
looking shrubs that hugged the oddly shaped perimeter. A strange
landscaping choice that was immediately compounded by a large pile
of boulders on the right, also lighted and planted in a bed of
dried weeds and grasses.

The junkyard-slash-geological grouping was
either a miserable attempt at outdoor statuary or perhaps someone’s
idea of what to do with the heavy trash. Decorate the yard.

A flash of light and clap of thunder warned
me to speed it up or prepare to muck-swim my way to the front
door.

The crooked home seemed to have been built
over a period of years, some sections with wood facing, some with
stucco, huge and disjointed. I concluded the Stowalls must be a
large family, the rooms having been added as the family added
children.

Grapes of Wrath
, came to mind.
To
Kill a Mockingbird
. A librarian’s habit, to relate in book
titles. But this scene was more than strange. I would have turned
tail and run except there were already several cars parked in a
helter-skelter gathering in front of the house—no doubt the other
quilters. The cars gave me courage. Most of them were new, much
newer than my own. Beyond the cars the dirt road faded away, taking
my fears with it around the back of the odd house.

I opened my door and placed a tentative
foot—wearing a comfortable burnt orange Moc--down on the half
gravel, half dirt road. I was dressed in yellows and oranges
tonight, something cheerful I hoped would help keep me awake. A
rousing breeze played with my hair. The storm was arriving. I
hurried.

Someone within the house was watching me. I
could feel their eyes although I saw no one at the dirty windows as
I scurried toward the door. I raised my hand to knock feeling
slightly winded. Altitude, I lied to my brain.
We’re up a
mile
. Yeah, sure, brain answered.

The door swung open.

“Victoria wanted to welcome everyone with
lots of lights. Thus the garish display of electric wealth.”

I looked back at the smiling middle-aged
woman, about my height. Hannah. I’d know that voice anywhere. She
was unpretentious, with long brown hair hanging straight around her
face. Soft blue, even transparent, eyes. High color in her cheeks.
She wore no makeup and her skin was smooth and clear. Plain beauty.
I returned her smile. Hers was as natural as wild birdsong.

“Welcome Rachel. I hope you found us easily
enough.”

“Yes, just fine, although the storm had me
worried.” I was excusing my silly hesitations on the way in. Hers
must have been the eyes that I’d felt on me as I’d approached. I
stepped inside.

“Yes it is forecast to be a wild night, but
should clear by morning,” Hannah Lilly tossed over her shoulder,
her words like a string of soft sounds leading me deeper into the
house.

Hannah was wearing a nondescript
plum-colored polo shirt and faded baggy cotton pants I could have
sworn were the same brand as my own.
Dressed for comfort
.
She padded ahead in thick white cotton socks. I noticed she was
limping.

“The limp is due to a sprained ankle. I was
toddler chasing,” Hannah said, as if reading my mind. Occupational
hazard, I thought. Been there done that.

To the right of the undefined entrance was a
huge high-ceilinged room with four large couches, and several
chairs and tables scattered around like pick-up-sticks. There was
at least enough seating for twenty. I gaped. At the back of this
open space was the dining area forming an L-shape around what I
assumed were the walls of the kitchen. The dining room table was
enormous, too. Yep. The Stowalls had many children.

But something was missing in this picture.
Where were those children now? Why weren’t they helping mom and dad
maintain their abode? There were legitimate answers, of course,
like, busy with their own lives, the parents were stubbornly
independent, all living at distant locations. But the condition of
things here spoke of need and not-so-benign neglect. And lack of
use.

Hannah stepped halfway into the kitchen to
mutter a few words to whoever was there, while I continued my
examination. The couches were covered with a variety of faded
floral fabrics. Lamps listed with shades akimbo perched on odd end
tables, all covered with dust. The whole house had an air of having
served its purpose. Now it was searching for an appropriate ending.
Hannah returned and rescued me from a growing melancholy.

“Most everyone is in the back where we’ll
quilt. My mom, Ruth, is puttering in the kitchen. Victoria’s too
old to take care of the refreshments, so we all chip in when it’s
her turn to host.”

“I better lead the way, as there are nine
bedrooms built off the halls every which way. You probably noticed
that as you drove up. You might get lost, or stumble on one of the
many dark secrets hidden in them.”

I stared at her.

“That was a joke. This way,” she said and
turned, never cracking a smile. Dry. Very dry humor.

And paranoid. Very paranoid, I chided
myself. I silently followed her lead down a hall running south off
the living room. We passed two opposing closed doors. We turned
left down another hall. This one ended at the front of the house
with a French door that opened to the outside but had clearly been
overgrown by some of those dead bushes the Stowalls used for
landscaping. A bit of my own humor.

Before reaching that dead-end door however,
we made a quick right onto a longer hall with more closed doors. I
was suddenly certain I would never find my way back.

“Breadcrumbs,” I muttered.

“No. Too many wild birds,” Hannah
quipped.

Also very quick.

With all the land, why didn’t they just
build the house in a straight line?

The only lighting for these bending halls
was coming from little wall lamps fashioned like imitation candles
with miniature parchment shades, and a glow emanating from the
floor. Light was seeping from under the closed doors.

I’d noticed that when I drove up, come to
think of it. All the windows were lit. Were they all occupied?

“Victoria lives alone now and I think she’s
afraid of the dark, so all of the rooms are lit all of the time.
The doors are usually open, but my mom and I closed them when we
got here. I think maybe Jake thought the bending halls would help
keep down the noise when their children lived with them.” Hannah
said.

Victoria was the only one living in this
huge structure? No wonder it was dusty. And Jake was Victoria’s
husband, now gone.

“The rooms were for the children, of course,
but now there’s stuff stored in them.”

“Stuff?”

I caught a grin on her face as she rounded
what seemed like the fifteenth corner.

“I almost forgot you’re an investigator.
Someone, I think Jake, was a collector of old newspapers and other
stuff. A packrat.”

I understood packrat. I lived with one. So
was Jake Victoria’s ex-husband, or was he deceased?

I was making mental notes of things I needed
to learn. It was a habit.

We came to a hall with an open door and I
prayed we had arrived. I’d greatly underestimated the size of this
one story maze-like structure. I would have worried about finding
my way back, except we hadn’t passed any forks in the road. It was
a straight shot, a crooked straight shot.

“Okay, we’re here,” Hannah announced, then
ushered me in. “Everyone this is Rachel Lyons. I’ll let you guys
take it from here, mom needs help in the kitchen with the tea.” She
turned to me and added, “Tea is our mainstay for these events,
keeps us going all night long.” It made me wonder which of the
closed doors led to a bathroom. Then she abandoned me, disappearing
back down the broken hallway.

I stepped into the quilting room and raised
a feeble hand in greeting to the others, my heart doing a steady
tom-tom in my chest.

It was the altitude.

Three young women sat on a low-slung couch
just inside the door to my left. The couch—another floral job--was
so broken down the three were almost sitting on the floor. The
closest one was a redhead, the middle one was a very young-looking
blond, and the farthest was a tall, olive-skinned, black-haired
woman I guessed was in her twenties like the redhead. The redhead
had an impish look, probably because of her short stature.

Across from the three were two empty chairs.
I waited in vain for some response to my wave from the three
females. Uncomfortable, I looked away to take in the room. With all
the lights burning in the rest of the house, this room was
strangely under-lit. Only the two lamps on either side of the low
couch offered light to the surrounding darkness.

I stood awkwardly wondering if I should just
take a seat, feeling as if I’d just entered a doctor’s waiting
room. No one ever talked to anyone else in a doctor’s waiting room.
Privacy was expected there, even secrecy.

But this was a social gathering so why
wasn’t anyone being sociable?

Maybe they were deaf. Certainly they were
mute. But they could see, and they were staring at me expectantly.
I waved less feebly this time. Feeling genuinely silly, I decided
to challenge them. Force them to respond with my affability.

The blond smiled sheepishly and waved back.
Good! Progress.

I spoke. “Hi.” It came out sounding funny,
squeaky. My throat had tightened. This behavior was making me
tense.

Two of the women looked at each other,
passing the buck. But the redhead scowled and shook her head, then
nodded toward the darkness beyond the couch. I peered. Squinted.
But there was nothing to see. They were having fun with me so I
persevered.

“Any of you can answer.”

More silence.

“Okay, let me help you. How about we start
with the first mystery woman on the couch?”

The blond giggled then shrank down in her
seat, making me realize she was very young. Where were those old
quilters when you needed them? They would surely have developed
social graces. I wasn’t in a doctor’s office; I was a substitute
teacher taking on a sixth grade class.

And then the third young woman, the one with
black hair, put her index finger to her lips to shush me, and then
pointed to the darkness beyond her. But it was too late.

A third low lamp clicked on in the darkness
beyond the couch and a navy blue dress hanging over fat legs,
wearing knee high stockings rolled down to the ankles and sensible
black leather walking shoes, came into view. Also visible now was
one gnarled hand gripping a fluffy yellow pillow in the navy blue
lap. Visions of Stephen King’s
Gramma
popped into my head.
The pillow growled.

Two more fluffy pillows sped into the room
around my ankles and took up stations on either side of the
sensible shoes where they proceeded to yip violently.

The headless shadow-form said, “Stop it!
Hush, children. The three of you are being rude.” My eyes slid
involuntarily toward the three on the couch, but then the dogs
quieted.

“I’m sorry. I was resting my eyes for the
bee, which is why the lights are low. You must be Rachel.” It was a
woman’s voice but coarse and slurring, perhaps belonging to the
matriarch I’d found mentioned online—Victoria Stowall.

“Yes, I’m Rachel. I didn’t realize you were
over there.” I tentatively answered.

She introduced herself, and leaned forward
revealing her face fully for the first time in meager
lamplight.

“Welcome to our sewing bee.”

My eyes finally found the whole body from
which the ancient voice emitted and she was indeed old. Way into
her eighties was my guess. The yellow pillow-dog in her lap was
wriggling hysterically. The fluffs at her feet—one black and one
white--were building up steam for another outburst too. Finally the
black one charged forward baring its tiny teeth and screech-barked
loudly at me. I took a step back.

I’m not afraid of dogs. I have a huge one of
my own at home, I reminded myself. The really dangerous kind, a
shepherd. But small dogs were…quicker. Like spiders.

Deciding to take charge, I bent and picked
up the snarling fur ball and cradled it gently in my arms, cooing
and smiling. It struggled for half a second, and settled down to
lick the skin off my chin.

The white miniature raced over to have some
of that. Grateful for something to do beside feel uncomfortable and
disrespected, I leaned down and patted it…her…on the head. The
black one escaped my arms and off they ran to sit guard at Gramma’s
feet once more.

Note of caution to self: stop thinking of
her as Gramma now! You might actually call her that.

At least I’d found something to break the
conversational logjam.

“My granddaughter Jasmine has one of these.
The yellow one is a Maltipoo, isn’t it? A Maltese and poodle
combo?”

“Yup. The white one is named Snowflake, for
obvious reasons. Bet you can’t guess what the other two are named?”
The blond giggled.

“Well, the black one’s a Cockapoo, right?
Cocker spaniel and poodle? Is that a Charger logo on his
sweater?”

The very young blond said, “Right! Charger
is his name, ‘cause V like’s the team.”

She couldn’t be much more than twelve. Her
darkening blond hair was loosely tied at her neck.

The final lapdog version of whateverpoo
leaped into the air from his mistress’s lap and raced up to me, but
veered sideways last minute to join her sister and brother now on
the couch, nestled around the two youngest girls.