Scrapped (18 page)
Chapter 44
Annie’s cell phone abruptly interrupted her placing her key in the car’s ignition.
“Hello, Annie,” the voice said. “This is Zeb McClain. I hear you want to talk with me.”
After days of trying to track him down, she’d finally heard from him. A surge of fear ran through her. What was he up to?
“Yes,” she said, shocked that he had actually returned her call. She was unprepared for this.
“I’m in town today. Do you want to meet somewhere?”
“Sure, let’s meet at the bakery downtown,” she suggested. DeeAnn’s Bakery, right on Main Street and one of the morning busy spots. She was not going to meet him in some far-off location. The man freaked her out.
After stopping by her house to pick up her recorder, Annie found her way to the bakery, where Zeb was already sitting at a table. An obviously curious DeeAnn was behind the counter.
“Hello,” Annie said. “Can I just get a cup of coffee?”
DeeAnn nodded.
Annie took a deep breath. Talk about facing your fears. This man was blatantly anti-Semitic and walked around with a gun tucked in his jeans. He was the nightmare she never knew existed. She turned around to place the cup of steaming coffee on their table, and a man sitting at the corner table lowered his newspaper. It was Bryant. What was he doing here?
“He’s watching us,” Zeb said and smiled. “Please sit down.”
Zeb exuded charm in this moment. Hard to believe that he was the man spouting anti-Jewish statements in the backseat of her car last year.
“Sorry,” Annie muttered. “It’s probably me he’s watching.”
“Why?” His brow knit.
Annie smiled. “Let’s not get into that, Mr. McClain.”
“Zeb, please,” he said.
She looked over at DeeAnn, who was wiping the same counter over and over again, trying not to be obvious. She made a mental note not to take her on any undercover operations.
“Thanks for seeing me,” she said, clicking on her tape recorder. “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions about Sarah Carpenter.”
“I barely knew her,” he said after a few moments.
“And her friend Rebecca?”
“I know her family. That’s why I went to her funeral,” he said, then took a bite of a cinnamon scone.
“How did you know them?” She stirred her coffee and could feel DeeAnn trying not to stare.
“Rebecca’s father is a vet. He came to our farm a lot when we still had beef. We used to farm beef.”
Farm beef? Odd turn of phrase,
Annie thought. As if it weren’t a cow—just the end product, beef.
Annie thought. As if it weren’t a cow—just the end product, beef.
“So you just went to the funeral to pay your respects to the family.”
He nodded.
“So what can you tell me about Luther Vandergrift?”
He shrugged. “Nice guy. Very smart. A little lost. But I think he’s found a home on the mountain. That’s pretty much it.”
“I read that his mother was an ancient language scholar of some kind.”
He blinked. “I don’t know anything about that. Sorry.”
“I just thought it was odd—since there were rune patterns carved into the young women who have shown up dead,” Annie said and slurped more of her coffee.
“Is that so?” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “Sounds fascinating.”
He looked out the window.
“I’m not from around here, Zeb,” Annie said, leaning her elbows on the table. “So forgive me if I seem ignorant to local ways. But why do you dress like a Mennonite now when you are not a Mennonite?”
He sat back in his chair, placed his scone down on the napkin. “Some of my people were Mennonite. I admire their fortitude.”
“So you are dressing out of respect for them?”
He nodded.
Detective Bryant coughed. Annie looked up at him and saw him looking like he was going to strangle someone.
“But that doesn’t answer my question. There seems to be a group of people surrounding you, dressed the same way. What’s that all about? Some kind of local tradition?”
He didn’t squirm, twist a napkin, or start to sweat. He was cool, confident, and met her eyes. “Not really. We are a group of people that get together and hike and meditate, pay homage to our ancestors.”
“Is that group open to anyone?” Annie asked after a moment, then took a big gulp of her coffee. Damn, it was good. And damn, so was Zeb. He was composed, which made her wonder about how much he really knew. Perhaps he knew nothing. Perhaps it was true that this group of his just got together to hike and such.
“No,” he said. “There are certain requirements.”
“How about someone like me?” Annie asked, one eyebrow cocked. She just couldn’t help herself.
He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Now, Ms. Chamovitz, you know you ain’t qualified. We are a non-Jewish group. If you wanted to convert, that’s another matter.”
“But I was born a Jew,” she said, meeting his composure with her own. “Why would I want to do that?”
He flinched, just a half second. He wasn’t used to being challenged.
“Why would that stop me from joining you to meditate and hike?” She gave him her best smile. “I don’t understand.”
“My, my, my,” he said. “You are certainly no shrinking violet.”
It was good that he thought so, but her heart was racing, and even though she didn’t like to admit it, the fact that Detective Bryant was in the corner gave her a bit more courage. Still, her body was betraying her. Heart. Stomach. Sweat.
“Do you know that preventing me from joining on the basis of my religion is illegal?”
“It’s not. We are a spiritual group, and you can only join if you believe the way we do. That’s all.”
“What is the basis for this group?”
“I didn’t come here to talk religion with you,” he said. “But if you want a primer on what I’m doing on the mountain, you’re welcome to visit.” He lowered his voice. “I’d love to
have
you,” he said.
have
you,” he said.
She was as surprised as he was at the loud smack of her hand across his face. He stood up, the detective standing behind him, and made for the door. Annie looked at her red hand as the stinging brought her attention back to the table. Had she just smacked Zeb McClain? A tickle stirred in her stomach, erupted as a nervous laugh.
“Annie?” DeeAnn said, coming from around the counter, opening her arms.
Chapter 45
So many bad memories at this hospital—starting with the loss of Vera’s father over twenty years ago. It was just after they had upgraded and built a new wing, and her father was brought in for heart surgery, which was successful, but an infection set in quickly afterward. Then he was gone. Too soon.
Her mother’s grief had scared her. Her own grief had shaped her life in ways she was only beginning to understand now, as a mother, and staring at midlife without a partner. Fear. Death. It had all shaped who she was. But even though she was alone now, Vera was finding it not so bad. What was she afraid of? Actually, she liked being alone. Of course it would be easier if Bill were sharing her life with her. But it wasn’t worth the sacrificing of herself.
She held on to the baby she was carrying, felt its heat, smelled its newness. Nameless child. Motherless child. Fatherless. What kind of life would she have?
Vera looked at the doctor, who came toward her with a smile. A nice guy. But he wasn’t the father of this baby. Nor was she the mother.
Yes, she hated this hospital. And she hated giving the baby back to the doctor and the staff there. She had no blood tie to this child. Still, her heart broke as the doctor took her from her arms. Suddenly they felt cold and empty.
“Is it okay if I visit from time to time?” she asked the doctor, holding back tears.
It wasn’t her baby, she told herself. Her own child was with Beatrice today. But still, once she became a mother, her heart seemed to open even more to children and babies. She knew the love that each child brought into the world.
We are born with such a capacity to love. What happens to us?
We are born with such a capacity to love. What happens to us?
“I don’t see why not,” the doctor said, smiling, revealing deep dimples on either side of his mouth.
“What will happen to her, Dr. Green?”
“Call me Eric, please,” he said. “And I don’t know. Once we figure out who the father is, things might start to fall into place. The mother’s family appears to not want the baby. The police are still looking over the security tapes, and the DNA tests are still pending.”
“I hate the thought of her going into the system,” Vera said. She handed him a business card. “Can you call me if you get a chance, if there’s a break in the case? Or . . .”
He read the card. “So you’re a dancer.”
“Sort of. Now I teach. Have my own studio,” she said. “Speaking of which, I better get going. Nice chatting with you.”
“Likewise,” he said, flashing a smile.
Wow.
Was
he
a handsome man. Why hadn’t she noticed that earlier this morning—or before? What a beautiful, strong jawline he had and the warmest brown eyes. She was certain he was the same doctor who operated on her mother last year.
Was
he
a handsome man. Why hadn’t she noticed that earlier this morning—or before? What a beautiful, strong jawline he had and the warmest brown eyes. She was certain he was the same doctor who operated on her mother last year.
She worked her way through the long, shiny-floored corridor and hit the elevator button. She should probably take the steps, but she was in a hurry. And she was teaching two dancing classes this morning. That would be plenty of exercise.
The elevator doors opened, and a couple of Mennonites exited. The woman didn’t look her way at all. The young man looked at her and smiled. His blue eyes met hers right before he exited. Now, where had she seen him before?
She finally made it to her car through the maze of cars in the parking lot and glanced in the back at the infant car seat. It was a good thing she’d kept that. She sat behind the wheel and thought about her lesson plans as she drove to the studio.
The man in the elevator had left her with an uneasy feeling—but where would she have run into him before, and why? She switched on the radio and kept driving.
As she drove, she thought over the course of events this morning and wondered if Bill was still sleeping it off on her couch. She hoped he’d be gone by the time she returned. She briefly thought of Tony and wondered how he was doing, feeling a twinge of longing. It would be another few weeks before she could get up to the city to see him. He had promised a special evening, which aroused her curiosity.
She walked into her studio, thinking of Tony, the baby, and the Mennonite man she saw on the elevator, and remembered.
Aha.
He was the young man who had helped change their tire the day they were up in Jenkins Hollow. What was his name again? She suddenly felt sick. Luther. His name was Luther.
Aha.
He was the young man who had helped change their tire the day they were up in Jenkins Hollow. What was his name again? She suddenly felt sick. Luther. His name was Luther.
Chapter 46
When Annie reached into the cloth bag and pulled out the scrapbook, she felt a sudden stinging pain. She pulled back her hand. “Damn,” she said as she looked at her bloody finger. Paper cut. Very deep.
After running cold water over it, she found the antibiotic cream and Band-Aids—a chore in itself in her disorganized house. Finally, she sat down at her table with a cup of coffee and the scrapbook that she’d heard so much about. She quickly flipped through it, the book opening to the center-page layout. The left-handed page was a key to the meaning of runes, which were drawn in black on the gold paper. Annie ran her fingers over it. It almost felt like cloth, it was so smooth, and the paper weave was so fine. What kind of paper was this?
Looking over the drawings and handwriting, Annie had to agree the scrapbook looked artistic—not something a newbie had done. She flipped the book around. It did say “Cookie Crandall’s Scrapbook of Shadows.” So it
was
Cookie’s book.
Hmm.
was
Cookie’s book.
Hmm.
She went back to the centerfold and untied a ribbon that was on the opposite page. It was wrapped around a shimmery button that had a moon face on it. She unwrapped it and lifted the paper. It was a pop-up— intricately cut, painted colorfully. A mountain range. Flowers. People. Trees. Cows. Horses. And caves cut into one of the mountains. There was a small bubbling in the paper, and Annie ran her fingers across it, found a slip of paper tucked between the page and the pop-up.
She pulled it out carefully—the paper seemed brittle and yellowed. She unfolded it to reveal beautiful script written in cobalt-blue ink.
The Legend of Starlight Mountain
In the deep ravines of the three mountains, which look like sleeping sisters, is a cavern where energy shifts and warps. This place is a gathering spot and has been from the beginning of time. People have sat together in the hollows, in the warm pools of water, on top of the mountains, and have journeyed together.
The Lady of Starlight walks here. She is the guardian, caught in a web of time. Caught in dreams. She is a woman of heart, spun with beams of moon, stars, and sun.
Lovely.
Annie folded the paper back up and slid it into its socket. Evidently, Cookie was a writer, too.
Annie folded the paper back up and slid it into its socket. Evidently, Cookie was a writer, too.
She was mesmerized by the pop-up. It was so precise. She thought of the charming legend and looked at the mountains. What would this story have to do with Cookie? Anything? Or was it a flight of fancy from a creative mind? And why would it be in her scrapbook of shadows, which Annie thought was a sort of spiritual journal for witches. She gazed at the pop-up and thought she saw a sparkle of light coming from the biggest mountain.
So charming.
She reached inside and felt a tiny, hard object and pulled it out. A clear, shiny rock. Calcite? Annie held it up to the light and reveled in the beauty of the light shining and reflecting from the little stone. She placed it back inside the paper mountain and closed the page, wrapped the ribbon around the button, and turned the page to find more cobalt blue.
So charming.
She reached inside and felt a tiny, hard object and pulled it out. A clear, shiny rock. Calcite? Annie held it up to the light and reveled in the beauty of the light shining and reflecting from the little stone. She placed it back inside the paper mountain and closed the page, wrapped the ribbon around the button, and turned the page to find more cobalt blue.
What was this? She ran her hands over it—a plush velvet pocket stitched perfectly onto the page. She could almost see why her friends were suspicious, given the perfect stitches, the gold-embroidered pentacle, all placed on a scrapbook page. It took skill she didn’t know Cookie had. But still, that didn’t mean she killed those young women—or that she tried to kill the baby. Annie slid her fingers inside the pocket and pulled out several objects. A delicate yellow feather. A bit of lace. A cameo pendant. The pendant looked old, Annie thought, but she wouldn’t know. And another envelope—milky-yellow vellum. Inside the envelope was a strand of bright red hair, some rattlesnake skin, and a tiny claw.
An owl’s?
An owl’s?
Annie’s hands opened, and the envelope drifted to the table.
She turned the page to find two new pages made of old, slightly frayed silk. In the center of the left-hand page was another document made of some kind of parchment. She opened it, and it splayed out like an accordion with pockets. Inside each pocket was a card. Annie had seen tarot cards before, but these were exquisitely hand-drawn and painted cards, and she was unsure that they were indeed tarot cards. But still, there was something similar about them and the tarot cards she had seen.
A beautiful young woman kneeled over a creek in the first drawing. The water and rocks shimmered from a special ink. The word
Star
was scrolled across the card. Annie counted seven tiny crystals glued onto the card, which definitely looked like little stars. Two urns had been drawn on either side of the woman, who was dressed in a three-tiered hippie skirt. Annie turned the card around. On the back of the card, it read:
Star
was scrolled across the card. Annie counted seven tiny crystals glued onto the card, which definitely looked like little stars. Two urns had been drawn on either side of the woman, who was dressed in a three-tiered hippie skirt. Annie turned the card around. On the back of the card, it read:
I am refilling this pool so that those who are thirsty may drink, and I am also watering the earth so that, come spring, the seeds will grow. Come. Drink. The water tastes wonderful, like liquid starlight. Follow your star and have hope.
Evocative.
Annie had never paid much attention to things like tarot cards. Were they all like this? Or was this a special deck? These cards must be special to Cookie. There were only five here. Weren’t there supposed to be whole decks?
Hmm.
Annie had never paid much attention to things like tarot cards. Were they all like this? Or was this a special deck? These cards must be special to Cookie. There were only five here. Weren’t there supposed to be whole decks?
Hmm.
The next card represented the moon. The drawing showed a huge full moon against mountains and sky. Two wolves were in the foreground and appeared to be howling, heads turned up, mouths open. They were standing next to a stream. Annie turned the card over and read it:
Here are the dark mysteries you seek—the most primal and ancient powers. Poetry, art, and music stem from this terrifying, alluring place. Don’t lose yourself in this desolate, primal land of madness and illusion. Trust the river. Trust the moon. Harness the power. Don’t get pulled under
.
.
Interesting and kind of scary, though why should Annie feel fearful of a card?
The next card was blue, white, and black and read “High Priestess” across the top. Were those pomegranates. . . or apples?
Hmm.
A woman had been drawn there with a crown on her head, which was a beautiful trinket embellishment—a crown with a crescent moon etched into it, attached to a veil. Only her eyes were visible on her face. Lotus flowers. Pillars. Scroll. She turned the card over:
Hmm.
A woman had been drawn there with a crown on her head, which was a beautiful trinket embellishment—a crown with a crescent moon etched into it, attached to a veil. Only her eyes were visible on her face. Lotus flowers. Pillars. Scroll. She turned the card over:
Knowledge; instinctual, supernatural, secret knowledge. Behind the curtain a path leads to the deepest, most esoteric and secret knowledge. Possible illumination.
The next card was the hermit, which Annie had always assumed to be a male, but the drawing clearly depicted a robed woman carrying a lantern. It was sort of a plain card. She turned the card over and read:
Introspection, analysis, and virginity. A desire for peace and solitude. Always out wandering and searching.
Which reminded Annie of the story she’d read earlier about the wandering woman. What was that line again?
She is a woman of heart, spun with beams of moon, stars, and sun.
These cards did say something about Cookie. She felt alone. But it was her choice. And she had a purpose. But what was it?
There was only one card left, and it was the chariot. It was so full of images that Annie’s eyes didn’t know where to look. Chariot. Armored warrior. Sun. Moon.
MapsSphinxes. Lions. Horse. A canopy of stars. Annie flipped the card over.
Struggle. Obstacles. Movement from one plane to the next (water to land and back again)—conscious and unconscious, earthly and spiritual.
It succeeds by attacking from the side, rather than straight on. On the one hand, loyalty and faith and motivation, a conviction that will lead to victory no matter the odds. But the chariot can also signal a ruthless, die-hard desire to win at any cost.
Since this book was a spiritual book of a sort, Annie wondered if what Cookie thought she had was a purpose. It was clear that she meant to achieve it.
Annie placed the cards back in the paper pockets.
It all rolled over in her mind. If it was true that Cookie picked the cards to place in her book because they had some meaning to her, it made sense. But exactly what was Cookie’s mission?
On the opposite page was a deep berry-brown booklet, similar to the document made of parchment in that it folded out like an accordion. On the front page of the booklet, written in silver, was the word
charms.
She lifted the booklet slightly—the sleeve of her sweater had gotten caught beneath it. A manila envelope slid onto the floor. She reached down to pick it up, and the sound of the school bus’s squeaky brakes at the end of the block snapped her to attention. Had she been sitting here all day? Where had the time gone?
charms.
She lifted the booklet slightly—the sleeve of her sweater had gotten caught beneath it. A manila envelope slid onto the floor. She reached down to pick it up, and the sound of the school bus’s squeaky brakes at the end of the block snapped her to attention. Had she been sitting here all day? Where had the time gone?
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