by Patricia Fry
Florence stared wide-eyed at her husband. “His journal?”
“Well, yeah. Don’t you remember he kept a journal like a lot of people did back then?” He laughed. “In those days they might as well write down their thoughts and impressions; they couldn’t get a game on TV.”
“His journal,” Florence repeated. “It never occurred to me to…” She patted Iris on the arm. “Wait here. I think I know where it is.” When Florence returned, she clutched a worn leather-bound book to her chest. “I had completely forgotten about this.”
“Have you ever read it?” Iris asked eagerly.
“I thumbed through it once. I remember Robert and his sister reading it years ago when our children were small. I guess I was too busy with them to delve into someone else’s life. Robert and Lydia were sure getting a kick out of it, but I never thought to ask any details.” She looked at Iris. “I’ve learned over the years that sometimes when you have access to meaningful information like that, it means nothing to you at the time it’s presented. Thank heavens Robert held onto this because I’m sure interested now.”
Iris watched Florence open the journal and flip through some of the pages. When she saw her stop and stare into the book, she asked, “What does it say? Are there any entries around the time we believe the Silvers were here?”
“Yes!” Florence said, dumbfounded. She studied the entry for a moment, then said, “Iris, Oh my God. You’re not going to believe this!”
****
Later that evening at Peter’s and Rochelle’s, the adults relaxed in the living room after having put the children to bed.
“Ahhh, that was a good meal,” Michael said, stretching.
“Your favorite, huh, Michael?” Gladys teased.
Savannah laughed.
“What does that mean?” Peter asked. “Doesn’t Michael like roast beef?” When no one spoke right away, he asked, “What’s the joke?”
“It’s just that whenever you tell Michael what’s for dinner, he always says, ‘That’s my favorite,’” Gladys explained.
“Yeah, no matter what it is,” Savannah agreed.
Rochelle smiled. “Easy to please, right, Michael? That’s my kind of dinner guest.”
“Well, your pot roast was delicious,” Savannah said, swooning.
“That’s one meal I can almost always nail,” Rochelle admitted.
“All of your meals are good, babe,” Peter said.
“Good job, Peter,” Michael congratulated. “You do not want to complain about their cooking or you might find yourself on the stirring end of a spoon or learning how to use the microwave.”
“Uh-oh,” Gladys said.
“What?” Savannah asked, turning quickly in the direction her mother pointed.
“Your cat has something there.”
“Yes,” Rochelle said. “What is that?”
As Rags drew closer, Peter suddenly leaped from the sofa and reached for the cat, but Rags outmaneuvered him and darted underneath a corner table.
“What is it?” Michael asked, concerned.
Savannah also became alert. “It’s not one of your sketches, is it?” She moved quickly toward the table, got down on her hands and knees, and attempted to entice Rags out into the open. When he didn’t comply, she took some kitty treats from her pocket and sprinkled a few on the floor in front of her. It didn’t take Rags long to respond to that. He eased out from under the table and scarfed up the treats. When Savannah noticed that he’d left the item behind, she reached in to retrieve it.
“No worries,” Peter said. “Just leave it; I’ll get it later. Come on, let’s finish our conversation and the brandy.”
“I got it,” Savannah said, backing out from under the table with the paper in her hand. She looked at it briefly, then stared at it.
Peter pulled it from her grasp. She tried to make eye contact with him when she asked, “Peter, what does that mean?”
“What is it?” Rochelle asked.
Savannah challenged Peter. “It’s a threat, isn’t it?” She turned toward Michael and said, her voice accelerated, “It looks like that note Rags found in our orchard a while back.”
Peter looked at Savannah, then Michael. “You’ve been getting threats?”
“It’s a threat?” Rochelle asked. “Peter, you told me they’d stopped.”
Peter looked sheepishly at his wife, took a deep breath, and stammered, “Yeah, this must be one that…um…you know…came a few weeks ago.”
Rochelle scowled at her husband and spat, “Why is it that I don’t believe you?”
Savannah sat down next to Michael and shrank back into the loveseat. “Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start…”
“It’s okay,” Peter said. “Anyway, it wasn’t you; it was your darn cat.”
“No, it’s you, Peter. You’re the one keeping things from me,” Rochelle insisted. “Let me see that.”
Reluctantly, he handed the paper to her. He grimaced. “Darn cat,” he said under his breath.
“I’ll put him in his pen,” Savannah offered, standing. “I’m sorry, Peter.”
“No!” Rochelle insisted. “Don’t punish Rags. He didn’t do anything wrong. Leave him alone. You can close him in the pen when you go to bed if you want to.”
“He won’t cry all night will he?” Peter asked.
“No,” Michael assured him. “He’s kind of dog-like in that way. He usually—well, most of the time, anyway—settles down when he’s in the pen.” He looked at Rochelle. “What is it, one of those threats Peter was telling me about?”
“I guess it is,” she said, handing it across to Michael. “Who could be leaving these?” She shivered. “It just makes me feel so…so vulnerable.” She looked at Michael, then Savannah. “You say you’ve been getting these too? How can that be?”
Michael shifted in his seat. “Oh, that one Rags found in our orchard looked ancient. It probably blew into our yard from the trash truck. It looked like a child’s art project.” He pointed at the note. “See, it has all those cut-out letters glued on like that—child’s play.”
“The message isn’t child’s play,” Rochelle said, unsmiling. She shuddered. “It’s chilling.”
Gladys looked at Peter, then Rochelle. “Do you have any idea where it came from? Who’s doing this?”
“I was hoping my wife could tell me,” Peter said, grinning at Rochelle. “She’s the intuitive.”
Rochelle smirked playfully at him,
“As I told Michael,” Peter explained, “I think it’s someone who’s jealous of my perceived success and is trying to maybe run me out of town.”
“Makes sense,” Savannah said. “Is that common in the art field?”
Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard of anyone else being up against something like this.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Rochelle said quietly. “I know the danger of trying to use my abilities in my own life.” She glanced around at the others. “It’s hard for me to be objective, as you can imagine.” She looked down at her hands in her lap. “Because of that, I try not to look at my life from a seeing perspective, but I have had some visions.” When the others seemed to be waiting to hear more, Rochelle said, “For some reason I see the four of us as victims. I think we could be in danger.”
No one said anything for a few moments, then Peter put his arm around his wife. He held her to him, then pulled back and said gently, “I don’t think so, honey. The notes all seem to be directed at me. At least I sure would like to believe that it’s my cross to bear alone.”
Michael laughed nervously. “You’re pretty dramatic there, guy. But I can’t say I don’t hope you’re right.”
“Huh?” Peter said.
“What I mean is, I hope it’s something as simple as a jealous reaction by some insecure artist who’s only interested in attacking you with words.”
“Thanks,” Peter said, “I think.”
****
The following morning Savann
ah watched Rochelle remove cinnamon rolls from the oven. “Are you sure you want to go with me and Rags this afternoon?” she asked.
Rochelle placed the pan on the counter and faced Savannah. “Yes. I wouldn’t miss it. Sounds like an interesting event.” She grinned. “Besides, you helped me out with one of my first jewelry shows, I’d like to reciprocate.”
“Cool. Thank you.” Savannah sat down with Teddy and began feeding him spoonfuls of baby cereal and fruit. “I hope it goes well. You know, this is my first time signing my own book. I’m a little nervous.”
“Why?” Rochelle asked. She glanced at Peter as he joined them. “We really enjoyed reading Rags’s memoirs.”
“Meowmoirs,” Peter corrected, chuckling.
Rochelle nodded. “Yes, I found your book to be quite entertaining. You did a good job of portraying Rags in a way that…um…well, it’s captivating.”
“Really?” Savannah asked, smiling.
“Yes, really,” Rochelle said, patting Savannah’s arm. “So why are you nervous? You’ve done a great job.”
“I guess because I don’t know exactly what to expect.”
“That’s nothing new,” Michael said, entering the room with Lily riding on his shoulders. When he saw Savannah’s puzzled look, he pointed at Rags, who was eating breakfast. “Any time you have him along, you never know what to expect.” He lowered Lily to the floor and became animated. “You hope he remains calm and stays where you put him, but he’ll probably go that way, then this way, then hide himself in a closet or behind books on a bookshelf, dig things out of a customer’s purse, attack the janitor…”
Rochelle exclaimed, “What?”
Michael’s tone was more serious when he said, “You just don’t know with him what’s going to happen.”
Savannah let out a sigh. “Don’t remind me.” She grinned impishly. “Hey, Michael, want to trade places today? Rochelle and I’ll hang out with the kids and you can go with Rags to talk about my book.”
“No, thank you,” Michael said firmly. “I’ll take on our children any day of the week and twice on Sunday before I’ll try to manage your cat.”
“Well, sit down, Michael…Peter. It’s time to eat,” Rochelle said. She leaned over to address Lily. “Are you hungry? Come on, I made you a cinnamon bun.”
With Rochelle’s help, Lily climbed up into the chair where Michael had placed her booster seat.
“Who’s that?” Peter asked, suddenly stepping away from the table.
“Sounds like someone’s at the door. Maybe the paperboy,” Rochelle said, walking toward the living room. “Sit down, Peter. I’ll get it.”
When she returned, Peter quickly approached her. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Who was it?”
She shoved a sheet of paper at him and covered her face with her hands. “Who is doing this to us? Peter, they know where we live. We’ve been here for just a week and he knows where we live.”
He held her as she wept, scrutinizing the note.
“What does it say?” Michael asked, reaching for the paper. When Peter relinquished it, Michael studied it, then handed it to Savannah.
At the same time, Rochelle broke away from the embrace, excused herself, and walked into the hallway.
Peter let out a deep sigh and sat down at the table. “Revenge,” he muttered. “He says he’s after some sort of revenge.” He sat back in the chair and raised his hands. “For what? I keep going over the possibilities in my head and I can’t come up with a damn thing.”
“It’s probably some crazy,” Michael said. “As I understand it, this city’s full of them—all big cities are.” When no one said anything, Michael added, “Peter, if he wanted to hurt you, it appears that he’s had the chance. I think he’s just getting his jollies from leaving these notes.”
“Yeah,” Savannah said. “How long have you been getting them?”
Peter thought about it for a moment, then said, sounding surprised, “Months. At first they were about two weeks apart. I wasn’t even taking them seriously. Then they became more frequent.”
“I agree with Michael,” Savannah said. “If all he’s done is leave notes, that’s probably all he’s going to do. He’s just playing some idiotic game to amuse himself.”
Peter looked at Savannah, then Michael. “Do you think so?”
“He would have acted by now if he was going to,” Michael assured him. He cocked his head. “Has he requested anything from you? Money, or that you stop doing your art, leave town, anything?”
Peter shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.”
When Rochelle returned, she sat down at her place, looked around at the others and said, “I’m sorry.”
Savannah patted Rochelle’s hand. “No worries. Let’s eat. We have a big day ahead.”
Rochelle served herself some scrambled eggs, then passed the bowl to Gladys. She looked up at Michael and Savannah. “I heard what you said. So you really believe this won’t go any further…that this guy is just having a little fun at our expense?”
Michael’s eyes flashed with mischief. “Heck, he might be having these photocopied and he’s passing them out to all of your neighbors or every artist in town.”
Rochelle smiled weakly and shook her head. “Now that would certainly bring my stress level down.” She raised her voice. “But if I find out who’s playing this ugly joke on us and maybe others, I’ll…”
“What would you do, my delicate angel?” Peter asked. “Throw fairy dust at him and politely ask him to play nice?”
Rochelle couldn’t help but smile at her husband’s attempt to defuse the tension.
****
At the same time in Hammond, Iris and Craig Sledge sat at their kitchen table eating breakfast. “You’ve been busy lately,” she said. “Working on an interesting case?”
He took a sip of coffee, then cleared his throat. “Yeah, kinda, actually, but…”
“But you can’t talk about it,” Iris lamented.
He grinned across the table at her. “Yup.” He then asked, “How’s the research with Mrs. Windham coming along? Can you talk about that?”
“Are you actually interested?” she challenged.
“Sure I am,” he said. “I’d like to know what that gremlin guy’s up to.”
“Gremlin?” Iris repeated. She sat up straighter. “Well, Florence let me borrow her husband’s grandfather’s journal after she’d studied the part involving the Silvers, and that was pretty interesting.”
“So you’ve actually found stuff at the museum about that family even though, according to Oliver, they squatted here for just a short time? How do squatters get noticed and documented in history books?”
Iris shrugged. “I guess there weren’t many people here then, and most of the documentation was gathered by early settlers and residents—you know, word of mouth, people’s memories, letters, newspaper accounts…things like that.” She sat forward and said excitedly, “Anyway, in this journal the grandpa says he remembers his father talking about the original Silver family—the squatters. He said they were a sad bunch.”
“Sad?” Craig asked. “How’s that?”
“They didn’t smile. Didn’t seem to be very happy. He said they sat around a lot doing nothing and when they were working, they appeared downtrodden, like it was a sin to smile. That’s the way he put it in his journal.”
“So the Windhams knew the Silvers were squatting on their land, did they?”
“I guess they did,” Iris said. “They owned most of this area out here. I’m sure they had land to spare. And it seems they were benevolent people—you know, generous and all.”
“Were the Windhams aware that the squatters left something behind when they moved on?” Craig asked.
“I don’t think,” Iris said. She tightened her lips in contemplation. “The only thing they left with the original Mr. Windham was an unusual message—actually an apology.”
“An apology?” Craig asked, frowning.
“Yes. Accord
ing to the journal, before the Silver family left, Mr. Silver apologized for bringing disharmony. He told Mr. Windham that the family could no longer carry the burden.”
Craig lowered his brow. “What did he mean by that?”
“None of the Windhams ever quite figured that out.” Iris grinned. “I think the Silvers put a curse on the land, but Florence says that if they did, it sure wasn’t a successful curse. She said they’ve had a good life.”
“Why would someone do that?” Craig asked. “I’m not saying I believe in curses, but why would anyone purposely want to cause problems for someone they don’t even know?”
“Good question,” Iris said. “I’ve heard of people going around spreading joy, but why would anyone spend their lifetime spreading ill will and then apologize for it? Doesn’t make sense to me.” Iris cocked her head. “Unless…”
“Unless what?” Craig asked.
“Unless they believed that they had been cursed, and that by handing it over to someone else they would be free of it.”
Craig looked at his wife and pushed away from the table, saying, “That’s ridiculous, don’t you think so?” He picked up his jacket, turned, and asked, “Then why would the Silvers keep coming back here looking for something if what they left here is a curse? Who would want it back?”
Iris raised her eyebrows in contemplation. “Good question, babe, and Florence and I are determined to find the answer.”
Chapter 5
Savannah and Rochelle arrived at the bookstore with Rags just before one o’clock that afternoon.
“He should be a good boy, don’t you think so?” Rochelle asked. “He slept most of the morning, didn’t he?”
Savannah nodded. “Yes, which could mean he’s full of energy and raring to go.” She took hold of the leash and coaxed, “Come on, Rags.” Before allowing him to jump down out of the car, though, she cupped his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. “You will be a good boy today, won’t you? Please, please,” she begged.