“It’s nice,” Annie said, not quite as enthusiastically. She was still distracted by the symbols. She loved the ancient Egyptian symbols. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to the page. “These symbols are so beautiful.”
“Oh yes, the scarab,” Cookie said, leaning over the table, her long black hair falling over her shoulders. “I have a necklace that has that symbol on it.”
“You do?”
“It means ‘spontaneous creation,’ or some such thing. Good luck and all that,” Cookie said and laughed. Annie loved the way she laughed, with no holds barred. “But what are you doing?”
Just then dark, curly-haired Ben came running into the kitchen. “Can I get some water?”
“Help yourself, baby,” Annie said. “You know where the cups are.”
He stood on the stool and rattled around in the cupboard until he found the perfect cup.
“I’m sorry. Where were we?” Annie said.
“What are you doing with this book?” Cookie said, leaning over it, her black hair falling on its white pages.
“I am trying to find a match for the symbols that were”—Annie lowered her voice—“carved into the drowned body.”
“Oh, can I see?” Cookie asked, her eyebrows lifting as she straightened herself.
“Sure,” Annie said, and slid the paper with her sketchings over to Cookie, whose green eyes lifted further.
“Runes,” she said.
“What?”
“It looks to me like what you have here are rune symbols. You won’t find anything about them in this book of Eastern religious symbols. Runes are Germanic. I should say, originally Germanic. Then they traveled up through Britain and into Scandinavia, and each of those cultures gave them their own little twist.”
“How do you know this stuff?” Annie said and smiled.
“Some pagans are still using them for divination. I don’t know that much about them. Just what they are. I’ve seen them in shops and so on, but they never called out to me.”
“Oh,” Annie said, with one eye watching Ben get water from the refrigerator spout. “Where can I find out more?”
“Now, see, that’s going to be tricky,” Cookie said, sitting down at the table. “There’s a lot of stuff out there—even on the Internet. But what’s good information . . . I don’t know what to tell you. It pains me to say this, but a lot of pagans are just making stuff up—even the stuff that’s not supposed to be made up. Like claiming they know the true meaning of the runes . . . I mean, I think there are people who do. I can check around for you.”
“That would be great. I’ll look around, too,” Annie said.
Annie found Cookie intriguing. She never talked much about her past. When she was asked about it, she would say it wasn’t important. “I live in the present moment.” But she always knew the most obscure facts—like what a blue moon really was, or what herb to plant during what phase of the moon. And then there was the time she talked about quantum physics, which captured Beatrice’s heart—a woman who had studied physics, then quantum physics, her whole life.
But there was this other, commonsense, earth mama, good cook, and great friend part of Cookie, which was most endearing. In the year she’d lived in Cumberland Creek, she had immersed herself in several networks of people and had plenty of friends—especially the scrapbook club, the group of women who cropped every Saturday night come hell or high water. It had taken Annie a whole year of living in Cumberland Creek to find any kind of friendship. Cookie was just different, attracting people wherever she went. She oozed warmth.
“When will supper be ready?” Mike yelled over the football game.
“In a few minutes,” Annie yelled back. She looked at Cookie and frowned.
“What can I do to help?” Cookie said.
Chapter 6
Bill would be here any minute, Lizzie was fussing, and Vera was still in her nightgown, though it was nearly supper time.
“Land sakes, let me take her. She probably needs a change. Now, go get dressed,” Beatrice said as she walked in the door.
The three of them had vowed to get together for Sunday dinner when they were all in town. They thought it would be a good thing for Lizzie, a consistent tradition for her, this child who was often schlepped between households and people. Coming together every Sunday was a touchstone for all of them—the primary caregivers and this miracle of a growing, healthy child.
Vera could hear her mother changing Lizzie as she rifled through what clean clothes she had. Good God. What had become of her? She was such a mess, couldn’t keep track of anything. She finally found a shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled and a pair of jeans that had been washed—what?—a few weeks ago?
She’d been lured into playing with her daughter all day, and the time had just slipped right by. Elizabeth often pulled Vera into her play world, and there she would stay forever, if she could. She knew what Beatrice said was true—she doted too much on Elizabeth. But she was going to have only one go-around at this parenting thing and didn’t want to miss a thing. And today she felt the passage of time sharply, the appreciation of life. Today’s paper reported that the drowning was not an accident. The murder of the unknown young woman reminded her of Maggie Rae’s death and the loss of her young life—a loss Vera still mourned—even as she held her own baby girl. New life.
She heard Bill enter the house and greetings being exchanged. Elizabeth was thrilled with seeing her father, which made Vera’s heart sink. Lord, she wished she could have forgiven that man and they could be the happy family all children wanted and deserved.
“Heard about the murder?” Bill said later, while seated at the table. “Pass me the potatoes, please.”
“Yes, I did. I was a bit shaken up. You can imagine,” Vera told him.
“She was a redhead,” Beatrice said, spreading butter on a roll.
“You are the only redhead I know in Cumberland Creek. You and Lizzie, that is. Must be from out of town,” Bill said.
“Thanks. I’m glad you remember my red hair, Bill, but there’s some redheads in Jenkins Hollow,” Beatrice said.
“Da-da-da,” Lizzie said and giggled.
“Yes, that’s your dad,” Vera said, exchanging a look of pride with Bill, who was spooning mashed potatoes into Lizzie’s mouth.
“Mmm, good,” he said, exchanging silly grins with his daughter.
I could love him again, Vera thought. She felt her heart open from time to time, and then he’d anger her and she would go back to thinking, Never again. The last time she was almost ready to forgive him, she had heard about him dating a young lawyer from Charlottesville. Of course young, she thought and grimaced.
“Are you okay?” Beatrice said.
“Huh? Oh yeah, I’m fine,” Vera replied.
“You’re awfully quiet, and you had that faraway look in your eyes.”
“Mama, I’m thinking about there being a murder in Cumberland Creek. For some reason, I keep thinking of the body and the poor young woman who nobody has even claimed.”
“And then people keep bringing it up,” Beatrice shot at Bill.
“For God’s sake, I just asked,” he said, turning back to Vera. “I wonder if she was from up there. The river flows from there. If she drowned on the mountain, it would make sense if she ended up at the park.”
Vera shrugged.
“This is tasty ham. Did you use my recipe?” Beatrice asked.
Vera nodded. “Except I baked it just a wee bit longer.” She watched Bill lift Lizzie from the chair and sit her on his lap. But she was ready to go and wouldn’t sit still. She took off across the kitchen like a lightning bug.
“Such energy,” he said, grinning. “Hey, what do you know about this Cookie person?”
Beatrice groaned.
“Why? She seems like a nice person. She’s great with Lizzie,” Vera answered.
“We don’t really know much about her, do we? She’s new to town, and suddenly a dead body shows up.”
Beat
rice sat up a little straighter.
“She’s been here almost a year, Bill. She waited all that time to kill someone? Really?”
“I don’t know her. She just seems kind of weird.”
“I agree,” said Beatrice. “She is weird. But she’s likable, I tell you. A good heart. Always helping where she can. But the rest of that stuff . . . I dunno.”
“What stuff?” he asked, moving across the floor to catch Lizzie.
“She calls herself a witch,” Vera said, then bit into a thick slice of ham.
He snorted. “Really? What does she do? Twitch her nose? Wave a magic wand? Does she know Harry Potter?”
“It’s not like that,” Vera said, moving dishes around, piling them on top of one another as she sat at the table.
“They say it’s an actual religion,” Beatrice said. “I’ve looked into it, and it is. Quite interesting, really.”
“I bet,” he said. “New Age mumbo jumbo.”
“Well, yes . . . and no,” Beatrice said. “I’m still thinking it over.”
“Well,” he said, grabbing Lizzie from the floor, swooping her over his shoulder to giggles and squirms, “while you’re thinking about that, think about what a witch would be doing someplace like Cumberland Creek. I mean, we’re about thirty years behind the rest of the country. Why would she want to be here?”
“I can tell you one thing,” Vera said. “I don’t know what I would have done without her this past year. And she can call herself a witch or an ogre. I really don’t care. I like her, and believe me, Bill, she didn’t kill anybody. Hell, she doesn’t even eat meat, because she loves animals. She’s so tenderhearted. So give it a rest.”
Chapter 7
Beatrice couldn’t believe her ears. Monday mornings came and went, but to hear a chain saw at 7:00 a.m.? That just beat all. She tried to get up out of her bed quickly. Well, as quickly as she could. Her body was stiff each morning—and it was getting worse. When she finally untangled herself from the blankets and swung her legs to the floor, it sounded like the sawing had stopped. What on earth? Who would be cutting anything at this time of day?
She sat in her bed and listened. Nothing.
Should she get up and get the day started or lie back down? Humph. Maybe she was dreaming. Her stomach growled, and she reached for her shawl, remembering the muffins in her bread box. She’d pop them in the microwave and smear them with butter. That would make a fine breakfast. Pumpkin cranberry muffins. And if they weren’t enough to fill her, she was sure about the blueberry muffins in the freezer.
She padded down the stairs and noticed the soft sunlight shining directly on the portrait of her husband, dead now twenty-some years. Until she had gone to Paris, he had been with her—as a ghost—off and on all those years. Oh, some folks thought she was a crazy old coot, and maybe she was, but he was a great comfort to her. Knowing he was still around, even if as a ghost, took the edge off her sometime loneliness, though for the most part she didn’t mind being alone.
Life sure was funny. She had thought she had it all figured out. Keep busy. Keep your mind occupied. But the next thing you know, you’re boffing some Frenchman you barely even know. God, what was she thinking?
And of course she hadn’t heard from Jon since she came back to Cumberland Creek last month—and her late husband’s ghost also appeared to be giving her the cold shoulder. Men would never change. Neither would women. A handsome Frenchman tells you you’re pretty, and even at the age of eighty-one, you buy it. He whispers lovely words into your old ears, and you melt. How ridiculous.
Up until then, she had never so much as looked at any man but her husband—and had never even wanted to. She didn’t know what came over her in Paris. She’d felt too young and free there, and Jon was ten years younger than her, which didn’t seem to bother him at all.
After they met at the museum and went for their first coffee together, they were inseparable. A month of silliness. But still, she thought, grinning, the experience was sweet. She shoveled a muffin into her mouth. Mmm. Good.
She had never acted so foolishly in her life. A giggle erupted. Even if he didn’t call her, who would have imagined that at her age, she could still manage to attract such a young, handsome man?
Of course, Ed, her dead husband, was upset with her. She knew it. Felt him leaving her, finally, as she kissed Jon, opened her heart to him. That broke her heart, and she missed him—but maybe it was time she moved on.
Cookie had said he’d be back. She was the only person Beatrice confided in. Her daughter had never believed in the existence of ghosts and thought Ed was a figment of Beatrice’s imagination. Annie was open to the idea, but she was so analytical sometimes, it even scared Beatrice, herself a trained scientist. And she had a feeling that Annie would rush to tell Vera about the affair. She certainly didn’t want Vera to know. She’d never let it rest.
That was exactly what Beatrice was trying to do. Make peace with it. She didn’t need Vera poking her nose into everything.
“Maybe Ed is just giving you some time,” Cookie had suggested.
“Or maybe he’s moved on.”
“He should have moved on years ago, yes?”
Beatrice’s stomach had tightened. She knew she was part of what held him here. She’d nodded, trying to fight back the tears.
“Oh, Beatrice, we are never too old for a broken heart, are we? But don’t ever be sorry about, um, er, Jon. You are human. There’s enough room in that heart of yours to love again. My goodness, you’ve been a widow for twenty-five years.”
Cookie knew all the right things to say—strange brew of a person that she was. Wouldn’t eat meat of any kind, sometimes wore way too much eye make-up, and other times she ran around town without an ounce of make-up on her pale face. Beatrice had caught her dancing around the nursery with Elizabeth, humming and grinning at the child. She can’t be that bad. Witch and all.
Chapter 8
At first Annie thought the phone ringing was her alarm. She hit the clock, and the irritating sound wouldn’t stop. Finally, in her haze she reached for the phone.
“Hello,” she said. Her husband sat up reluctantly in bed, startled.
“I know you have two boys sound asleep,” the voice said.
Pulses of fear shot through her. “Who is this?”
“Detective Bryant. You need to get down to the landfill, if you have someone to stay with those boys.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Why was Bryant always bringing up her sons?
“What the hell?” her husband said.
“There’s been another murder. Thought you’d appreciate knowing. That’s all,” the detective said.
She sighed, mentally going through child-care options. “Um, er, I’ll be right there. Thanks.”
She had just filed her story about the first murder. The identity of the young woman had been revealed as Sarah Carpenter. The scrapbookers were right. She was from Jenkins Hollow. Annie had yet to piece together the story of who she was, and was hoping she could do it via the phone and the Internet. Jenkins Hollow was her least favorite place on the planet.
“I have to go. Another murder.”
“It’s three in the morning. I don’t want you out,” Mike said.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mike, I am not a child. I’ve been in worse situations—”
“Who was it on the phone? Bryant?”
“Yes,” she said and yawned.
“This time of day? Who the hell does he think he is?” he grumbled.
“He’s a cop. I’m a reporter,” she said, getting a little miffed at his tone. “I used to get calls like this before we moved here. You know.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, sinking back into his pillow. “But I don’t like it.”
Annie decided to ignore that remark—for now.
“Call Beatrice in the morning. She’ll be happy to stay with the boys,” Annie said, lifting herself from the sea of warm blankets. It was early autumn—and a warm one at that—but i
t was chilly at three in the morning.
She threw on a black pair of jeans, noted that they were a little tight, and went searching for a sweater to throw on over her T-shirt. She found the bathroom and tended to her teeth, brushed her unruly black hair, pulled it back, and smeared lipstick on. That would have to do. Where were her sneakers? Ah yes, she’d left them in the living room. She used to know where all of her shoes were, used to have plenty of designer flats to choose from, all lined up in neat rows in her closet. Now she could barely keep track of her old, worn-out sneakers.
She grabbed her bag and tiptoed out of the house.
Annie had never trusted the safety of landfills. All that trash had to be releasing toxins into the air. She didn’t allow her boys up there to play for that very reason. Even though a lot of parents brought their children there to play because of the huge open spaces, she couldn’t see it.
As she pulled up to the parking lot, a group of red lights flashed on the far edge of the lot, near a huge recycling bin, where most of the flurry was erupting. She parked and grabbed her camera, press credentials, and recorder out of her bag. First, she saw Jesse, wiping his face with a bandanna. Then Detective Bryant’s contorted face, looking at Jesse, placing his arm around him. A gesture of unbelievable gentility from such a brute of a man. Then he saw Annie and placed his hand up, as if to say, “Stop.”
“What’s wrong?” she called.
“Don’t go any closer, ma’am,” she heard a female voice say.
“Bryant called me and got me out of bed. I was invited here.”
The officer looked confused. “Called you? We’ve been here for several hours. I don’t know anybody who gets cell phone service here. The tower over there interferes too much, along with the mountains.”
“I didn’t call her,” the detective yelled, shaking his head. “You need to get her out of here.”
“What?” Annie attempted to move forward.
“Ma’am, there’s a potentially hazardous chemical here. You need to go home.”
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