Yeast of Eden

by Sarah Fox

  Bentley trotted up to the porch and I held on to him as Brett returned to the truck. I ruffled Bentley’s fur as he whined at the sight of Brett and Chloe driving off without him.

  “It’ll be okay, buddy,” I said, trying to comfort him.

  He settled down once the truck disappeared from sight and I carried his dishes and bucket of kibble inside while he tore down the hall to the back of the house, going in search of Flapjack. He found the tabby on the couch, but didn’t do anything more than wag his tail in greeting, not getting too close. He’d learned his lesson many months ago when Flapjack had put him in his place with a swat to the nose.

  Now that I was home and had calmed down, my hunger returned full force. I wasn’t interested in cooking at that hour, so I ate a peanut butter and banana sandwich to tide me over until morning. Bentley had a dog bed at my place and I carried it upstairs to my room, where he settled down with only a brief whine when he saw Flapjack join me on my bed.

  The emotions of the evening had left me wiped out, but sleep kept dancing out of my reach no matter how much I chased it. Concern for Frank and Brett and the rest of the Collins family filled my thoughts, and even though I’d seen Brett off only an hour or so earlier, I already missed him.

  Eventually, I drifted off into an uneasy sleep, but instead of granting me some respite, my worries stayed with me, haunting me and invading my dreams.

  Chapter 9

  By midmorning the following day, the news of Frank’s heart attack had spread to most of the customers at the pancake house. Those who knew Frank personally were upset and concerned, and I provided them with what little information I could. Wally’s murder was also a hot topic of conversation.

  Although I was tired and distracted, I picked up tidbits of conversation here and there around the restaurant. From what I heard, it didn’t seem as though there had been any new developments in the sheriff’s investigation. Not any that the general public was aware of, at least. I heard one or two whispers about Ivan’s potential status as a suspect, but whenever I drew near, the conversations broke off.

  It irked me that people were gossiping about Ivan, speculating that he could be involved in Wally’s murder. I knew it wasn’t easy to see past Ivan’s gruff exterior, but I wished people would understand what a good man he was, and how ridiculous it was for anyone to believe he could be the killer. I tried not to let the gossip get to me, but I wasn’t having much success.

  At least once every hour, I ducked into the office to check my phone. Brett’s dad had arrived at the hospital in Seattle and was awaiting surgery. Brett had been in touch with my mom and had picked up a key to her house, but he wasn’t yet ready to spend enough time away from the hospital to attempt to get some sleep. The same was true of his mom and Chloe.

  Around midmorning I received a text saying Frank’s surgery was scheduled for later in the day. Once I knew that, I had more trouble than ever focusing on work. After accidentally delivering plates of gingerbread crêpes to the wrong table, I decided to leave Leigh to deal with the orders and restricted myself to clearing tables.

  When I carried a load of dirty dishes into the kitchen, I could feel Ivan’s eyes on me. I glanced his way, but he didn’t say anything until the dishes were in the dishwasher.

  “Sit down,” he said, pointing at one of the stools that stood against the far wall.

  “I’m all right,” I assured him, heading for the door. I halted when he glared at me. “Then again, maybe I could use a bit of a rest.”

  He nodded with approval as I pulled the stool over to the counter and sat down.

  “Any news about Brett’s dad?” Tommy asked as he plated a serving of pumpkin pie crêpes. The dish had been added to the menu as a special item for October, but it had proven so popular that I’d decided to keep it on offer up until Christmas.

  I told Tommy and Ivan about the scheduled surgery. “I won’t be able to stop worrying until it’s done. About Frank and Brett.”

  “Did you eat breakfast?” Ivan asked, eyeing me closely.

  “I had a banana.” I’d skipped my usual smoothie. My most restful spell of sleep occurred in the last couple of hours before my alarm went off, so I’d been sluggish about getting out of bed and ended up running late.

  Ivan slid two slices of eggnog French toast onto a plate. The dish was one of The Flip Side’s holiday menu items, along with candy cane pancakes and gingerbread crêpes. I’d had the enviable job of taste-testing and approving the holiday dishes back in November, and I’d taken several opportunities since then to indulge in the scrumptious breakfast foods.

  Ivan pushed the plate across the counter to me. “Eat this. You need to remember to take care of yourself.”

  “I know, and thank you. Between Brett’s dad and Wally’s murder, it’s hard to focus on ordinary things. And hard to sleep.”

  I bit into a piece of bread that had been soaked in a mixture of eggs, eggnog, vanilla, and cinnamon before it was cooked. It was only as I swallowed my first bite that I realized how hungry I was, my stomach growling and clamoring for more. I tried to eat slowly so I could savor the delicious flavors so reminiscent of the holidays, but I was too hungry to hold back and had cleaned the plate in no time.

  As I was chewing my last bite, Leigh stopped by the kitchen and saw me sitting at the counter. “Why don’t you go home, Marley? I can handle things out there.”

  “Thanks, Leigh, but I’ll be okay.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Although, I should go and let Bentley out of the house for a few minutes.”

  “Go on then,” Leigh encouraged me. “And you don’t have to come back if you don’t feel up to it.”

  “Call me if you need me in the meantime,” I said.

  She assured me that she would and practically ushered me out the door. When I arrived home, Bentley was ecstatic. He was even happier when I let him out in the yard and threw a tennis ball for him to chase. I considered trying to take a nap, but I knew there was no way I could settle my mind enough to rest, so I returned to The Flip Side until closing time.

  I texted back and forth with Brett whenever I could, trying to keep him company from afar while he waited for his dad to get out of surgery. Later, when I took Bentley down to the beach so he could run and play, I kept my phone in my pocket, checking it every so often even though I knew it would vibrate if any new messages came in.

  As darkness crept over Wildwood Cove, I returned home with Bentley and picked up where I’d left off with the lentil curry the day before. It was a perfect meal for a chilly winter evening, and I was glad for the company of Flapjack and Bentley, though I missed Brett terribly. The frequency of his text messages had slowed as the day wore on, and I hoped that was because he was dozing while he waited for news of his dad.

  I found it hard to sit still, even while eating. I wanted to be in Seattle, looking after Brett, but aside from keeping him company, I knew there wasn’t much I could have done. It would be best to stay busy so I wouldn’t worry so much, I knew, but after eating dinner I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I considered watching TV, but in the end I decided to head up to the attic. I wanted to start decorating the house for the holidays, and I knew I’d seen some boxes labeled as Christmas decorations on the few occasions I’d ventured up among the rafters.

  In the second-floor hallway, I pulled down the attic stairs and climbed my way up the creaking steps, a flashlight in hand. Bentley sat at the bottom of the steep stairs, whining as I disappeared from sight.

  “It’s all right, buddy,” I called down to reassure him. “I won’t be long.”

  With the aid of the flashlight, I found the string dangling from the attic’s single lightbulb. Between the two light sources I could see well enough to get around. First, I took down the box of my own decorations I’d stashed in the attic when I moved in. Then I returned to look at the other boxes I’d seen. One held an assortment of tre
e ornaments while the other was filled with lights, snow globes, figurines, and other holiday knickknacks.

  I gathered several strings of lights in my arms, deciding to start by testing them. I accidentally bumped another box and caught sight of an antique trunk behind it. Setting the lights back in the box, I cleared a path to the trunk and aimed the beam of my flashlight at it. A thick layer of dust covered the dome top and cobwebs clung to the sides, but I could still see the wrought-iron hardware and copper-toned tin.

  In those first few seconds I’d already fallen in love with the trunk. All it needed was a bit of cleaning and then it would look great in the family room or maybe at the foot of my bed. I lifted the lid and took a look inside. Beneath a beautiful but dusty quilt was a photo album. I opened it and scanned some of the pictures. I spotted my cousin Jimmy and his wife, Grace, no older than age forty, along with some unfamiliar faces.

  Setting the album aside to study more closely another time, I checked out the rest of the trunk’s contents. Half a dozen leather journals were stacked in one corner and another album sat beneath them. I opened the top journal and read the rounded handwriting on the first page:

  Diary of Camelia Winslow.

  Grace had an older sister named Camelia. And Winslow was Grace’s maiden name, so the journals must have belonged to her sister. That intrigued me, not because I’d ever met Camelia—I hadn’t—but because I’d heard her mysterious story on more than one occasion while I was growing up.

  When she was seventeen, Camelia had disappeared, never to be seen or heard from ever again. The incident had haunted Grace throughout her life, so I’d been told by my mom and Cousin Jimmy. I’d never heard Grace speak of her sister, and I’d never dared to raise the subject with her.

  I checked the first page of each journal, noting that Camelia had started a new one for each year. I wasn’t entirely sure of the year of her birth, but I guessed the first journal dated back to when she was somewhere between ten and twelve years old, and the last to when she was in her mid to late teens.

  A tingle of excitement and fascination scurried up my spine. Mysteries always captivated me, and this one had to do with my own family. I didn’t expect the diaries to reveal what had happened to Camelia, but I hoped they’d give me a chance to get to know her. She’d always seemed unreal to me, a mythical figure on a branch of the family tree. I wasn’t going to pass up a chance to learn more about her, and maybe the reading material would keep me occupied and distracted while Brett was away.

  I tried shifting the trunk toward the rickety stairs, but I knew right away that it would be too cumbersome for me to get it down on my own. It would have to wait in the attic until Brett returned and could help me. For the time being, I’d take the journals and leave the rest.

  Before heading back downstairs, I took a moment to examine the album at the very bottom of the trunk. I expected to find more photographs, but instead the pages held newspaper clippings, glued down and yellowed with age. As I flipped through the album I noticed that all of the articles related to Camelia’s disappearance as well as the disappearance of another local girl. More intrigued than ever, I was tempted to sit down on the dusty attic floor and read my way through the clippings and the diaries. My eyes were already protesting, though, the light not bright enough to allow me to read comfortably.

  I added the album to the stack of journals and carried them down to the second-floor hallway. I returned to the attic to haul down the lights and other decorations, sneezing as I set the last box on the floor. After shoving the decorations up against the wall so they wouldn’t block the hallway, I left them there and headed downstairs with only the journals and albums.

  With a cup of hot chocolate to keep me warm, I snuggled up on the couch with the last album I’d found, Flapjack and Bentley close by. Although the pages held numerous clippings, most were fairly short so I skimmed through them. Each one filled in one or two of the many gaps in the vague story I’d heard about Grace’s sister while growing up.

  In the weeks before Camelia went missing, nineteen-year-old Tassy James—also a resident of Wildwood Cove—had disappeared. I gathered from reading between the lines that Tassy had come from a poor family. She’d worked as a maid for the mayor and his wife. One night she never arrived home, and no one ever heard from her again. Compared to the coverage of Camelia’s disappearance, relatively little had been said about Tassy. Only one short article covered the maid’s case until Camelia had gone missing. Then speculation had run rampant, with many of the locals quoted in the articles expressing certainty that the two cases were linked.

  Although never described as Camelia’s boyfriend, the mayor’s eldest son, Harry, had been seen in her company on several occasions before she vanished. None of the writers of the articles came right out and accused Harry of being involved in the two incidents, but it wasn’t hard to tell that the journalists and townsfolk believed he was tangled up in both cases.

  The last article in the album stated that the mayor had denied his son’s involvement and was standing by him, but whether or not the police had investigated Harry wasn’t clear. I shut the album with a prickle of frustration. I wanted to know what had happened to Camelia and Tassy, but if no one had solved the mysteries back then, the likelihood of me ever finding out the truth was slim at best.

  I was reaching for Camelia’s first diary when my phone chimed on the coffee table. I grabbed it and saw a text message from Brett bearing the news I’d hoped for all afternoon: The surgery went well.

  With a surge of relief I hugged Bentley, then Flapjack, momentarily forgetting about the mysteries from the past. I knew Frank still had a long road ahead of him, but I hoped he was through the worst, and the news that he’d made it through his surgery allowed me to sleep better than I had the night before.

  Chapter 10

  Before leaving for The Flip Side the next morning, I tucked the last of Camelia’s diaries into my tote bag. I’d skimmed through the earlier ones the night before, getting glimpses into the teenager’s mind as I read. On the pages, Camelia had written about classmates and crushes, adventures and spats with her sister, and other ups and downs of daily life. I was eager to know what she’d written in the final pages of her last diary.

  I knew her disappearance wouldn’t have remained a mystery for so many years if she’d explained it in her diary before she’d vanished. Grace had clearly kept the journals, and I figured it was far more likely than not that she’d read through them, searching for any clues that might lead her to her sister or to the truth of what had happened to her. Still, I’d become invested in Camelia’s story, and Tassy’s too, though I still knew very little about the maid. The diary seemed to call to me from my tote bag, and between that and my occasional texting back and forth with Brett, I was no better at focusing on work than I had been the previous day.

  As soon as the breakfast rush was over, I shut myself in the office and grabbed my phone. I knew from our exchange of texts that Brett was still at the hospital and hadn’t left since he’d picked up a key from my mom. He’d dozed in a chair for a few minutes here and there, but he hadn’t had any real sleep since the night before his dad’s heart attack. I wanted to hear his voice so I could better gauge how he was holding up. All I could get him to say via text was that he missed me but he was doing fine. I needed to know if the latter was really true.

  Can we talk today? I asked in a text message. I miss hearing your voice.

  While I waited for a response, I opened Camelia’s diary. I read each entry this time, instead of flipping through the pages. Camelia had written less as the years passed, the entries in this last diary often shorter than a page long. At first, they covered only mundane topics, but several pages in I spotted a name that grabbed my attention.

  Harry Sayers.

  He was the mayor’s son, the one many suspected of killing Tassy James, or at least so I’d gathered from reading the old newsp
aper clippings.

  Eagerly, I read the entry.

  Harry Sayers is so sweet and handsome. I wish he’d ask me to the spring formal, but he’s already graduated and Mom and Dad don’t want me to date until I’m eighteen. That’s nine whole months away! Other girls in my class have been dating for ages.

  I skimmed through three more entries until I came across Harry’s name again.

  Harry likes me! We met up by chance at the soda shop and he walked me home. He’s even sweeter than I thought and such a gentleman. He wants to date me. I had to tell him about Mom and Dad’s rule, but he said he’d wait for me to turn eighteen! In the meantime he’s going to walk me home every chance he gets. I’m so happy I could float away!

  I found myself smiling at Camelia’s exhilaration, but the smile faded when I remembered that Harry might have been responsible for her disappearance and Tassy’s too. I continued reading, following Camelia’s life through her first kiss to falling in love with Harry. Despite Harry’s willingness to wait until Camelia turned eighteen before taking her on a date, she’d soon started spending time with him in secret.

  The tone of the diary entries changed slightly as the weeks progressed, Camelia sounding more mature by the time I reached the pages written in the early summer of that year.

  By then I was fully engrossed in her life and when I turned the page to find a blank one, I stared at it for a moment before I came to terms with the fact that there were no more entries. I flipped through the remaining pages, just to be sure I wasn’t missing anything, but there was nothing to find. I checked the date of the last entry and thought back to the newspaper clippings in the album I’d left at home.

  If I was remembering the date of Camelia’s disappearance correctly, she’d stopped writing in her diary several days before she vanished.

  Why?

  For years she’d penned entries on an almost daily basis. Maybe it didn’t mean anything that she’d stopped writing in her diary shortly before going missing, but I had a hard time believing that. A long-standing habit of hers had changed during that timeframe. What else might have changed?