“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.
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?
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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:
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.
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:
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?
Chapter 47
Even though it wasn’t Saturday when the croppers received Annie’s call, they all decided to meet in Sheila’s basement. Even though it was last minute, Sheila laid out a bit of a spread of snacks.
“I’ve been looking at Cookie’s scrapbook of shadows,” Annie began as the others gathered around, glasses of wine in their hands. Plates of cheese and crackers were sitting on the table.
“And did you get something in your eyes?” Vera asked.
“No,” Annie said. “It made me wonder if any of you know anything about Cookie’s scrapbook of shadows. I mean, what has she told you about it?”
DeeAnn shrugged. “The only thing she said about it to me is that it was like a witch’s journal. They keep notes and such in them.”
“I think that’s all I know, too,” Sheila said.
Paige nodded in agreement.
“That’s pretty much what she told me, too,” Annie said. “And that all makes sense . . . except for this. I found this tucked in it.”
“What is it?” Paige asked,
“It’s an envelope full of clippings.”
“About what?” Sheila asked.
“About this town. About Jenkins Mountain and the hollow,” Annie revealed.
“And look at this,” Paige said, reaching into the envelope. “A brochure about the caves.”
“Oh, that’s just the public ones,” DeeAnn said. “Not the good ones. They’re too distant.”
“And here are some clippings about Luther,” Annie said. “She either knew him before she came here or researched him after. It’s all pulled from the Internet. Turns out he was a brilliant medical student in Pittsburgh, then lost his family in a car accident and never went back to school. Get this. His mom was a linguist, and his father was a physicist.”
“Well, well, well,” DeeAnn said. “Isn’t that something?”
“Here’s a census report,” Sheila said. “About the town, what the median income is, what the agricultural crops are. There’s a lot of information here.”
“Cookie researched this area before moving here,” Annie said.
“That’s not unusual,” Paige said, then bit into a hunk of yellow cheese.
“No,” Annie said. “But with all the stuff in her scrapbook and now this, I’m beginning to think that Cookie c
ame here for a reason.”
“What do you mean?” Paige said.
“I have no idea what I mean,” Annie said and smiled.
“Like a spy?” Sheila said, her eyebrows lifted.
“What would she possibly be spying on us for?” Vera asked and waved them off.
“Not us,” Annie said. “Someone else. But who? Luther?”
“Oh!” Sheila said as DeeAnn tipped over a glass of wine onto Cookie’s scrapbook.
They scrambled around to save the open page with the painted photo of the beautiful auburn-haired Victorian woman.
“Shoot,” DeeAnn said when the page came off in her hand.
“Let’s put it up on the window. Maybe if the sun gets to it . . . ,” Sheila said, but as she placed the page on the windowsill, she noticed something odd about it. “Well, I’ll be. There’s something hidden beneath the picture.”
Sheila carefully pulled out two folded slips of paper and unfolded one.
“A map,” Annie said.
“A gorgeous hand-drawn map,” DeeAnn said.
“It’s Jenkins Hollow,” Paige said. “There it is.... I don’t know what all this is.”
“That’s beyond the hollow. I’ve never visited that way. Who knows what’s beyond the ridge?” Sheila said.
Annie reached for the other slip of paper and unfolded it. “Lady Jenkins, four generations.”
“What?” Paige said. “Could she be a Jenkins, as in—”
“This looks very Victorian,” Sheila interjected. “I guess if she were four generations from the original Mary Jenkins, it might make sense.”
“But why would Cookie have her picture?” Annie said.
Scrapped Page 17