Chapter 48
Beatrice listened to her daughter ramble on about Annie finding clippings in Cookie’s scrapbook of shadows and then about seeing Luther at the hospital and calling the police on him. By the time they arrived, he was gone. So they were heading to Jenkins Hollow to try to find him tomorrow, just for questioning.
“He may be perfectly innocent, but I swear, that day he gave me the creeps, when I saw him standing there at the hospital. And Bryant did tell us, if we saw anything out of place, to let him know. And yesterday Annie found all these clippings about him. I think he’s certifiable.”
“Good work,” Beatrice said. “Let’s hope it means something. Let’s hope it gets Cookie out of jail and that justice is served.” She smacked her lips.
“Mother, are you eating? You know I hate it when you eat on the phone,” Vera said.
“Land sakes, can’t a woman have a bite while her daughter’s mouth goes a mile a minute?”
“Oh, Mom,” Vera said. “You can be so rude.”
“I’m old, and you’re my daughter. Why do I need to be polite? Besides, these peanut butter cookies are to die for. I love them warm out of the oven,” she said.
“We’ll be right over,” Vera said. “Don’t you dare eat them all.”
Beatrice smiled and sat back in her rocker. Vera was easy. It was so joyous to see her daughter eat after all these years of dieting. A few years back, she just stopped and gained about twenty pounds—and she filled out beautifully. Beatrice would never understand the desire for extreme thinness. Ed used to say that he liked to have something to hold on to.
But when she thought of thinness, she thought immediately of Cookie, who had said she ate as she pleased, but never seemed to gain an ounce. She wondered how she was faring with jail food, given that she didn’t eat meat and liked only local, organically grown food. She and all the other townsfolk had been eating locally for years. Now it was a movement. That always made Beatrice snicker. Still, it was a good movement.
She rocked and looked out on the gray skies. Thank goodness for the fall. The summer was way too hot. Very little enjoyment in that. Before she knew it, it would be Thanksgiving. She couldn’t believe how fast time was moving.
Time. Ah yes, Beatrice had pondered the issue of time her whole life, but the older she became and the less of it she had, the more she thought about Richard Feynman’s theory of time reversibility. Quantum electrodynamics. Oh, let it roll around in your head, Beatrice thought. She loved those words.
Richard’s assistant, Jewel, had called her one night to discuss his “diagram,” which represented the interaction of two particles as the exchange of a third particle.
“Let me run this by you, Bea,” Jewel had said.
She remembered the day perfectly. Vera was sitting on her lap. She had the flu and was burning up with fever. Ed was making a few house calls and would be home shortly.
“Time is on one axis and space on the other, and the interaction is viewed as happening both in forward and in reverse time,” she’d said to Beatrice. “Do you have it pictured?”
“Hold on,” Beatrice said, reaching around Vera for a tablet on the phone stand. She drew the diagram as Jewel spoke.
“An electron on its way from point A to point B can bump into a photon, right? You can see that it can be drawn as sending it backward not just in space, but also in time. Then it bumps into another photon, which sends it forward in time again, but in a different direction in space. In this way, it can be in two places at once.”
She hadn’t understood it right away. Then she’d seen the paper on it, and it clicked.
So theoretically, if photons behaved this way, one had to wonder about bigger objects. Like people. Ah, if she could go back in time, would she? There was no doubt in her mind that if she could figure out a way, she would go back to when she had just married Ed. Just to experience the newness of their love once again. She’d always love the man—even if she was attracted to another man. Love was love.
And would she go forward in time? Hmm. She didn’t think so. If she had to be without Ed for the rest of her life, she’d choose here and now and Vera and Elizabeth.
Chapter 49
Saturday night at Sheila’s crop Vera was thinking about the hummus and the freshly made pita she was eating. Fresh pita made by an expert baker, Vera thought, was so much better than what was in the stores.
“Damn, this is good,” Sheila said after a bite of the pita dipped in the hummus.
DeeAnn leaned across the table and picked up a piece of the flat, round brown bread. “Thanks,” she said.
“I like what you’re doing with your book,” Paige said, leaning over DeeAnn’s shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to do one.”
“What are you doing?” Vera asked.
“I’m making a scrapbook of recipes, stories about the food, and pictures of it. Even have some pictures of people,” DeeAnn said. “Like, look at this. She’s my grandmother, and she’s holding the peach pie that I have the recipe for. And there was this story about the neighbor’s dog getting into the pie one day. She left it on the windowsill, and the screen had a little tear in it. Somehow that dog ripped the screen and got ahold of the whole pie!”
“What kind of dog?” Sheila asked. “Big?”
“I think it was part German shepherd and part wolf, and it was huge. In those days, there were wolves everywhere—or at least it seemed like it,” DeeAnn said.
“I think that the idea of a scrapbook of recipes is a good one,” Vera said. “Your kids will love that. Someday.”
“Someday is right,” DeeAnn grumbled.
The sliding glass door opened, and Annie walked into the room quietly. Everyone muttered hellos, barely looking up from their projects. Paper and pens were scattered all over the table, along with ribbons, lace, and glue. Plates of cake, hummus, bread, pretzels, and cookies sat in between the scrapbooking supplies. There was a cleared spot. Annie’s spot. Next to it was Cookie’s spot, also empty.
“Hey,” Annie said, dumping her bags on her chair and walking to the refrigerator. She pulled out a beer and opened it with a hiss. She set the bottle down on the table after taking a drink.
“Just so you all know, I’m back from talking with Bryant. The police have yet to find Luther,” she told them. “Evidently, they think they saw him in the security tapes. He might be the one who kidnapped the baby. And when Vera called, they were already out looking for him.”
“Those hills go deep out there, and the people are not apt to be helpful to the police,” Paige said.
Sheila piped up. “And there’s caves, too. I remember going in some of them when I was a kid.”
“Mama has always talked about those caves,” Vera said. She shrugged. “I’m sure the police know about them.”
“I’m surprised you’re not with them,” Sheila said and looked at Annie.
Annie looked surprised. “Why would I be with them?”
“To get the story, of course,” Sheila answered, setting down her glass of wine.
“I’d rather not go out to those mountains,” Annie said. “Sorry, but it scares me out there. I’ve got a family. A husband. Two boys.” Her voice caught in her throat. She cleared her throat. “I’ve got too much to lose by walking into a possible trap of weirdos out in the middle of nowhere. “
“Oh, Annie, they’re not all like that,” Vera said, her heart beating faster. Annie looked away, into her box of photos. “Besides, the police are there. I’m sure they’d protect you.”
“I don’t know about that,” Annie said. “I don’t know if they are capable of it.”
“Well, now,” DeeAnn said, “I’m sure they’d try.”
“Two girls dead. Obviously, whoever is doing this has nothing against killing people,” Annie said. “And then there’s Zeb.”
“You let him have it,” DeeAnn said. “I don’t think he’ll be bothering you again.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Annie said.
Ver
a wanted to change the subject. She was increasingly uncomfortable with these murders, and she was uncomfortable with Annie’s dilemma—that she was Jewish in this small community and seemed always to be fighting psychic battles, even some very physical ones. Always having to be ready when the questions came: Why don’t you celebrate Christmas? Why don’t you come to our church? And now her boys had to fight battles that no child should. Religion should not be used as a way to divide people. Vera had stopped going to church years ago, when the gay issue came up.
“How is Ben doing?” Vera finally said.
“He’s fine now,” Annie said. “Though I’m not sure he’ll be fine for the whole time he’s in school.”
“Where are the parents of these other children?” Sheila almost yelled.
“The kids are just spouting their parents’ viewpoints,” Annie said, setting out her scrapbook. “Those views seem to be more popular than I imagined.”
“I don’t believe it,” DeeAnn said. “I don’t believe that the people in the community hate witches, or anyone, for that matter. I mean, here we are. We disagree all the time. We’re all of different backgrounds. And we set that aside.”
“Not everybody feels the way you do. I mean, look at this business with Cookie. Don’t you think some of us here at this very table suspect her because she’s a witch?” Annie said.
“Now, hold on,” Paige said. “It has nothing to do with that. It has to do with that book. I don’t give a hoot if she’s a witch or a wizard. Facts is facts.”
“What about the person? Not the book. Not the religion. The person!” Annie said.
The room was silent, except for the music playing.
Sheila turned the music up a bit. “I love this song.”
“Nice beat,” DeeAnn said, and stood to dance around a bit at her chair. She was a large and curvy woman. Watching her move to the music was like watching the earth move.
Vera laughed. “You missed your calling!”
When the song was over, and all had calmed down, Annie cleared her throat.
“I brought the scrapbook,” she said quietly. “Does anybody want to see it again?”
Chapter 50
Annie pulled a few of her own pages, as well as Cookie’s scrapbook, out of her bag. “Here it is.”
“Well,” Vera said, “I’ve already seen it.”
She continued to sit in her chair while the other women gathered around as Annie sat the book on the table at Cookie’s spot, placing her own pages-in-progress in front of her.
“By the way,” Paige said, “I looked up Mary Jenkins to see if there were any traceable progeny. It doesn’t seem like it. I still need to check census records. So I have no idea who that woman in the picture is.”
“It’s odd that you couldn’t find anything. I mean, you know so much local history,” DeeAnn said. “Now, this book is amazing,” she said, turning back to Annie.
“It’s remarkable,” Annie said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s a beautiful pop-up. A story. A blue velvet pocket. Silk pages. Books within books. A bunch of stuff.”
DeeAnn folded her arms. “It’s hard to believe that Cookie could work any of that stuff. She could barely cut a photo out when she first started.”
“I know,” Annie said. “It’s odd. There must be an explanation. But I can’t get in to see her.”
“Neither can Bill half the time,” Vera said.
“What?” Sheila squealed. “He’s her lawyer.”
“She doesn’t want to see him,” Vera said and shrugged.
“Oh, look at this, this recipe tag, with these moon embellishments,” DeeAnn said.
Paige reached her hand to the page and felt the tag. “So smooth and rich,” she said. “Recipe for mugwort tea . . . hmm. Look at the beautiful ink and lettering.”
Annie ’s attention shifted to her own page. Ben’s soccer page. His sweet face looking at her from the page. She was considering where to place the soccer ball sticker.
But Sheila’s innocent words stuck in her gut.
I’m surprised you’re not with them.... To get the story, of course.
What had she turned into? When she lived and worked in Maryland and D.C., she covered several dangerous stories—everything from a cocaine ring to a dogfighting ring. Those were some dangerous men. Sure, she was a little afraid, but she was smart and figured they were not. She outsmarted them every time with her careful research and methods. Why was this case any different?
“Isn’t that beautiful?” Paige said, pointing to a page.
“Beautiful and strange,” DeeAnn said. “How did she do that? Get that color?”
“She painted the paper and the photo,” Sheila said. “Interesting.”
“There’s a strand of red hair in the blue velvet pocket. I’m assuming it belongs to the woman in the picture,” Annie said. “Whoever she is.”
“Hmm,” Sheila said, barely paying attention. The three of them were immersed in the scrapbook, with all its beauty, its weird images, and information.
“What did you think, Annie?” Vera said from across the table.
“When I first saw the strand of red hair, it startled me. I immediately thought of the dead girls,” Annie said, then took a long drink of her beer.
The women mulled over the clipped red hair and sat silently for a few moments.
“Have you tried the hummus?” Vera said to Annie.
“It’s good, “Annie said and went back to her page.
Yes. She had always been a good journalist. Careful with her facts and research. Willing to take calculated risks. But maybe this risk was too much. There was a murderer out there—a troubled person, carving runic symbols into young redheads, perhaps painting them on houses, someone who perhaps had it in for her and her family simply because they were Jewish. There was that mysterious call. Then Beatrice’s house being painted. But it had started before then—the day she’d driven Beatrice out to Jenkins Hollow and she’d seen the swastika on a barn. Since then, Detective Bryant had told her it was more than kids playing pranks. Hadn’t he?
She thought about her grandparents and the people they knew who were in the Holocaust, and an overwhelming sense of awe came over her. How did they survive? What kind of strength and fortitude did they have? What was her problem? Why couldn’t she face this ignorant group of locals?
“My God,” DeeAnn said. “Is that Elizabeth?”
“What?” Vera stood up. “Where?”
“Here, in this picture.”
Vera walked around the table. “Yes. It’s a picture of Cookie with Elizabeth.”
“It’s so odd-looking,” DeeAnn said. “Look how old it looks.” She held up the picture.
“Oh,” Sheila said, “you can age any picture with the right techniques.”
“Sure,” Vera said and sighed. “But I wonder what this picture is doing in this scrapbook of shadows.”
Sheila shrugged. “Oh, you know Cookie isn’t the most organized person. It could’ve come from anywhere.”
“Wow,” Paige said. “Look at this pop-up. Amazing.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Sheila said.
“You know, from this angle it looks like our mountains,” Vera said.
“What are you talking about?” Annie said.
“You know . . . I think you’re right. Look,” Paige said. “The center mountain is the shape of Jenkins Mountain. This looks like the hollow. And here is the cave. . . .”
Annie’s stomach churned, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up, something it had done only a few times in her life.
“Okay,” Vera said after several minutes of utter silence, each woman deep in thought and looking at the scrapbook. “It’s a model of a section of the local mountains. So?”
Just then Annie’s cell phone went off. Damn. When she saw the call was from her editor, she momentarily thought of not picking up. “Excuse me, ladies. I have to take this.”
“Annie Chamovitz.”
; “Annie, this is Steve,” her boss from the paper said. “How are you doing? They find him yet?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. The last I heard, they were looking for him in the mountains.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Is that where you are?”
“No. I’m at a friend’s house. It is Saturday night and—”
“Listen, Annie, should I send someone else?”
“No, of course not,” she said. “It’s just I’m not sure I have to be on the ground for this. If they find him, Bryant will let me know.”
All the women were now looking at Annie.
“Are you kidding me, Annie? I want you on that guy’s case. Maybe I should send a staff reporter. I want us to be the first one on this story.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Murder in a small Virginia town? That doesn’t make headlines in a Washington paper, even online. You need to tell me what you know, or you can find someone else to cover this. And you can bet your sweet ass they’ll get lost for days up there.”
Her friends’ eyes widened.
“Okay,” he said after a minute. “We’ve gotten an anonymous tip that there may be some major drug trafficking moving in and out of that area. You in?”
“Now you’re talking, and I’m on my way,” she said, hanging up the phone and gathering up her things. Should she call Mike, wake him up, or just wait to fill him in tomorrow?
“I’ll put on a pot of coffee,” Sheila said.
“I’m going to call Mike and tell him I’ll be late,” Annie announced.
“What are you doing?” Vera said. “You’re not—”
“I’m going to Jenkins Hollow. I need to be covering this story,” Annie said.
“Tonight?” Vera said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? The cops are up there tonight, still looking for Luther,” Sheila said, switching on the coffeepot. “Let’s all go. We’ll be safe. Now, go call your mom, Vera. Tell her you’ll be late.”
“She has Lizzie for the night. I don’t need to call her. They are probably both sound asleep.”
“You don’t have to come, Vera. None of you need to come. I’ll be all right. This is my story,” Annie said, thinking that it was time she followed her gut instincts. From the minute she met Luther, she’d felt ill at ease. She’d allowed her fear to get in the way. What was she turning into? She’d been seriously sidetracked by trying to prove that Cookie was innocent.
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