Chapter 10
Abigail’s first stop on Tuesday was the office of the town’s daily newspaper, the Lincoln City Gazette. After making her request for information, she was directed to the records department where the sole occupant of the basement room was clipping out an article with an enormous pair of scissors.
All she could tell from the top of his bowed head was that he was plagued by cowlicks, but the voice was youthful. “May I help you?” The scissors made a quick upward slash.
“I need your morgue checked for any articles about a woman named Rosemary Dickison.”
He put the scissors down and pushed his glasses back into place, leaving an inky stripe of war paint along the side of his nose. “What did she do to get herself into the news?”
“She died. Do you file by name, date, or occurrence?”
His teeth flashed white under the neon glare of the overhead lights. “A date might help my morale. I get off at four-thirty and I like spy flicks and Chinese food.”
With a smile, Abigail shook her head. “August 7, 1937 is the only date I’m talking about.”
“Ah, coming up on an anniversary, then, for poor Rosemary’s death.” He accepted defeat with a philosophical shrug, hopped off the stool, and disappeared into a maze of filing cabinets. After a few minutes, a disembodied voice floated back eerily, “Nobody with that name listed.” A drawer slammed.
Abigail glanced down at the sheets of newsprint covering the battered wooden desk. Part of an index card was visible under the papers, and sliding the scissors to one side, she drew the card out long enough to read the block printing.
A sneeze warned her just before her helper ambled back around the corner of the bank of filing cabinets. Another cowlick had lifted a tentative peak during his absence.
“The morgue goes back to 1893 when the newspaper was founded, but the library’s got a complete set of newspapers on microfilm. Maybe you can find something there. Rosemary Dickison, huh? Pretty name—sounds like a pretty girl.” Through the lenses of his glasses, his eyes gleamed. “My nose tells me that this Rosemary could be the beginning of a career in feature reporting. Care to share any details?”
“Your nose is wrong, Mr…” She looked for a name plate.
“Call me Woody.” A wink. “Call me anytime.”
As Abigail climbed the stairs, she wondered why Woody had an index card marked with Rosemary’s name and date of death on his desk and why he’d lied to her.
After the sound of her footsteps had died away, Woody opened a drawer and pulled out a slim folder marked Rosemary Dickison. The male caller had been right about the woman’s visit, just hadn’t leveled about what a knockout his girlfriend was. Woody figured no harm had been done by going along with the charade—after all, she could get copies of the articles at the library where, as the man had said, another surprise awaited her.
Woody tapped the folder, his eyes thoughtful. His nose for news was a big joke with the guys upstairs but he had a hunch he was right this time. Two people interested in a girl who’d died over half a century ago…
Seated in front of a library viewer, Abigail discovered that the newspapers reduced to narrow ribbons of microfilm offered a window into the past, a step back to a time when Grandma Hattie’s birthday party received as much space as President Roosevelt’s struggle to realign the Supreme Court. She found herself pausing to keep up with the comic-strip adventures of Myra North, Special Nurse, and marveled that leg of lamb sold for only fifteen cents a pound and one could purchase a straw boater to wear to church for thirty-nine cents.
Rosemary died on Saturday, August 7th. Since the paper wasn’t printed on Sunday, Abigail didn’t find the first mention of the death until the front page of the August 9th edition. The story was two columns in length and dissected the sparse details available into microscopic fragments. The writer’s lurid style hinted of rape and blunt instruments, reporting that the body was “arrayed in a fancy party dress” and “sprawled on the dusty surface of Kelton Road.”
The photos were of poor quality. One depicted the dirt road where the body was found, but bright sunlight washed out any possible details of the landscape, and the other was a front view of a one-story brick building with a flagpole—the town hall where the dance was held and the “victim was last seen alive.”
Abigail advanced the film to the next edition. Rosemary’s death should have been the hot topic of the week, but she found no further reference to the tragedy until Friday’s edition, which had a brief mention in a small box on the third page: “Dickison case closed by coroner. Ruled death by misadventure.”
Abigail frowned, wondering why the paper with its gossipy, tabloid style hadn’t followed up on the mysterious death of a beautiful girl. Someone had slammed the door on this investigation, and from experience, she suspected that money had changed hands in more than one office during the week of August 8th. Jotting down the coroner’s name in her research notebook, she sighed. Unless he’d been a relatively young man in 1937, the chances of his being available now for an interview were slim—for a conversation with Mr. Givens would probably have proved very enlightening.
After making prints of the article and photographs, she stopped at the front desk and watched as a librarian totaled the charges. A sign indicated a fifteen percent discount to card holders. Abigail located her library card in her card case and dropped it on the desk, along with payment for the prints.
“Oh, you’re Abigail James.” The woman smiled in pleased recognition. “We did have that book on the shelf.”
“Book?” Abigail frowned. “I haven’t requested a book—I haven’t even been in here since I registered for a card.”
The librarian plucked a book with a dark green cover off a shelf behind her and showed Abigail the piece of paper held in place against the front of the book with a rubber band. “But you ordered this book. See? Phone request—Abigail James.”
Abigail sat in the car and studied the volume titled Elaine’s Treasury of Herbs and Flowers. Perhaps Flora had called, seeking to interest Abigail in the herb garden. But how would Flora know she would be here this morning—she hadn’t told anyone she would be stopping by the library. First Woody and then this book. It was as if someone was walking just ahead of her. She felt goose bumps rise on her arms, although the interior of the car had been baked by the sun while she was inside the library.
Placing the book on the seat beside her, Abigail decided to see what Elaine had to say on the subject of herbs. Although she had little knowledge in this area, she was aware that some herbs were quite poisonous and Flora was isolated in that towering mansion, dependent upon a housekeeper-herbalist’s “natural” remedies.
Checking her watch, Abigail put the key in the ignition. Her appointment with Connie Pringle was for two o’clock.
Chapter 11
“Come in, come in! My stars, this is so exciting!”
Dangling starfish earrings swung and plastic bangles clattered on plump wrists as Abigail’s hostess ushered her inside. Connie had blue permed hair above a smooth, round face and tottered on three-inch heels, the effect combining to match the bungalow’s exterior in artificiality.
“I mustn’t keep you standing in the hall—I’ve got a pot of tea brewing.” Making shooing motions, she directed her guest to a sitting room that seemed to be bursting with dogs. A lanky, weather-beaten man rose from a chair and introduced himself as Harold, Connie’s husband; the tangle of teeth and tails resolved into two German shepherds and a frisky terrier pup, the latter lunging forward to inspect Abigail’s shoes.
Harold chuckled. “The tiny mite here is Gatsby. He’s doing his best to keep us young, or drive us to an early grave.”
After a few brave sniffs at Abigail’s briefcase, the pup retreated behind the safety of the larger dogs who continued to study the newcomer. Connie bustled in bearing a tray laden with cups, saucers, and a brightly painted teapot. Placing her load on the table near her husband’s elbow, she poured a cup and han
ded it to him before bringing one across the room to Abigail.
She seemed to notice the dogs only after stumbling over an outstretched paw. “Gracious, Harold. Can’t the dogs go out in the backyard? Perhaps Miss James is allergic to fur.”
“She’s not sneezing, is she?”
“Please, let them stay,” Abigail interceded. “I love dogs.”
Her sincere response contributed to the growing atmosphere of congeniality as Harold beamed and raised his cup in a silent toast of appreciation.
Abigail slipped a notebook into her lap. She preferred to record the interview, but thought the elderly couple might tense up at the sight of a machine storing their words. At her station by the teapot, Connie adjusted one of her bangle bracelets and patted a curl into place. She was in constant motion, a person who would compulsively check and recheck whether her car keys were still in her purse or if she’d remembered to unplug the iron.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so perhaps we could talk while we drink our tea,” Abigail suggested.
“You were so mysterious on the telephone that I’m simply eaten up with curiosity.” Connie’s eyes were squirrel bright. “Will our pictures be in the paper? Will we have to go to court?”
Realizing that the woman was probably imagining herself on the cover of People magazine, Abigail tried to downplay her mission. “This is a routine case, Mrs. Pringle. I’m merely helping a client trace her sister and your name was mentioned as one of the sister’s friends.”
A puzzled frown creased Connie’s brow. “Now who could that be, dearie? No one I know has ever disappeared.”
“Is the name Rosemary Dickison familiar, Mrs. Pringle?”
Familiar? It struck her hostess with the force of a blow from an open hand and she sat frozen, one hand gripping the teapot handle in the act of pouring a cup for herself. The liquid overflowed, but she seemed unaware of the waterfall splashing into the saucer.
Harold jumped up and rescued the teapot. His wife’s face flushed crimson. The tide of color gradually receded, leaving her features as pale as bleached sand. The plump cheeks sagged as though punctured by a dart as she turned and stumbled from the room.
With the clumsy hands of a man accustomed to other tools, Harold mopped up the spilled tea with a napkin. “Don’t know what got into Connie. She acted like she saw a ghost.”
Abigail closed her notebook. “I didn’t realize the mention of Rosemary would upset her.”
“Upset? Downright flighty, running out on a guest.” He sent a frown in the direction of his wife’s empty chair as if in rebuke. “She’ll remember her manners and be back in a moment.” He forced a smile. “Now the name ain’t familiar to me—Connie must have known this woman before our marriage.”
“When were you married?” Abigail watched him rub the bald spot on the top of his head, the whiteness of the skin signifying he usually wore a cap outdoors. She hoped he could coax his wife out of hiding. This interview might be even shorter than the one with the Kyles.
“It was in July of 1943—I was home on leave from the Navy. The assistant recorder at a Liberty Bond sale looked so perky in her blue skirt, white blouse, and red sash that I gathered up my courage and asked her out. I proposed over a cup of coffee in a diner and we were married at midnight by a justice of the peace. The old coot was decked out in his bathrobe and slippers, his jaw bristling like a porcupine.”
On the surface, Harold and Connie were an unlikely couple, Connie with her flamboyant jewelry and stolid Harold in khaki coveralls, but the tension of the “live each day as if it were your last” war mentality had melded a man of the earth and a soap bubble into a single unbreakable unit.
Apparently feeling the burden of host, Harold brought up the subject of his garden, a topic dear to his heart. They were standing at the window so his guest could admire the lines of potato plants and the russet hues of summer squash peeping out from beneath leafy vines when Connie reappeared with reddened eyes.
A much-subdued Connie—even her earrings had lost their bounce—cradled a yellowing sheet of paper in her hands. She gave Abigail a watery smile. “I haven’t thought of Rosemary for many years.”
Harold surreptitiously fed a bite of chocolate cupcake to Gatsby, who was now perched on his knee. “You’ve never mentioned her, Honeybun. Were you very close?”
A vase curved in the shape of a snail shell held Connie’s attention, as though images from the past were reflected in its pearly sheen, passing in a parade invisible to the others. “She was my best friend. I remember trying to copy the way she tilted her head and hiked up her skirt above her knees when she sat down. Except Rosemary was drop-dead gorgeous, and when she walked down the street, men would turn and stare after her.”
Connie fell silent, studying the piece of paper in her hands as though the lines for her next speech were written there.
“It’s funny. Rosemary was my best friend, and I don’t even have a picture of her. She was impetuous, generous, and could think of the funniest pranks—once she invited the boys to a pageant of bathing beauties and when they showed up at the lake, all they found was a flock of ducks. But Rosemary never allowed me to get close to her. It was as if she’d erected a fence to protect her innermost thoughts, a fence too high for anyone to peek over.”
She turned to Abigail and thrust the sheet of lined tablet paper into her hand. “Here. When we were fifteen, our teacher assigned us an in-class essay on What I Did This Summer. Rosemary wrote for almost the whole hour, but tore her paper in half and slipped the pieces into her English book. The essay she read aloud was boring stuff about going to the local fair and winning a stuffed dog at the ring toss. But I dug this out of the wastebasket later—only found half of it. No wonder she didn’t ask me to go to the fair with her.”
The document had the brittle, smooth quality of aged paper and words covered the half sheet in a round girlish hand. Abigail read it slowly, aware that Connie’s gaze was still fixed on the essay.
What did I do this summer? My summer was wonderful! I tasted a boy for the first time—Matt Boyington. It was better than biting into a plump pear and having the juice run down my chin. Although Matt’s nearly five years older, he asked me to go to the fair with him. We kissed on the Ferris wheel at the very top—with only the stars to witness the union of our lips. Sharing pink cotton candy, we nibbled at a strand until our mouths touched and he took me in his arms and for a moment we hung above the bright lights and the noise and the dust and he tasted so sweet and alive that I wanted to dive inside his mouth and (Here the words had been obliterated by erasure until the paper was almost worn through.)
When he drove me home, he told me he wanted to marry me—promised to let me grow up just a little more, but when I’m eighteen, Matt’s going to propose—
The essay ended in midsentence. The romantic starry-eyed dreams of a fifteen-year-old set down between the prosaic lines of ruled tablet paper—Abigail wasn’t surprised Rosemary hadn’t volunteered to read it aloud. The grammar was shaky in spots but Abigail could feel the intensity of Rosemary’s young passion, the excitement of receiving her first marriage proposal, even one postponed to a future date. But Flora had said nothing about a fiancé, and Austin Kyle had been intimate enough with the girl to have painted her portrait in miniature.
Abigail was trying to fit the unknown quality of Matt Boyington into the scenario when Connie held out her hand for the essay. “It’s all I have left of her. In away it still hurts that she never confided in me about that night.”
Carrying the paper as tenderly as a baby bird, she bore it out of the room and returned with a handkerchief clenched in her right hand. Dabbing at her eyes, she asked, “Why does Flora want to know about Rosemary? She didn’t care when Rosemary was alive—is her conscience bothering her at last?”
The switch to a sneering tone shocked Abigail into defense of her client. “Flora cared. She still does.”
“If Flora had made her sister a dress, I would’ve
been there to protect Rosemary that night.” Connie’s gaze returned to the snail shell vase. “But in the end I was the one who let Rosemary down and she ended up lying on a rickety table at the hospital. Like a chain of dominoes—and clumsy Connie knocked the first one over and triggered the whole horrible mess.”
Abigail watched the woman weep, reflecting that Connie slipped easily into the role of a scapegoat, perhaps unconsciously defining herself in contrast to Rosemary. Connie the bungler, Connie the foolish, while Rosemary’s image remained untarnished and pure.
“Why do you blame yourself?”
Connie pressed her hands against her cheeks, tears smearing the mascara on her lower lashes. “Rosemary wanted a new dress. Well, I was always bragging about how generous my daddy was, perhaps because it was one area where I felt superior to her. Rosemary’s father hadn’t loved her enough to stick around and watch her grow up. So I told her my father had promised to buy us new dresses.”
Harold leaned forward. “But he hadn’t?”
His wife shook her head. “Rosemary must have tried on twenty dresses until she found what she wanted. I was willing to take any punishment if my father let me keep those gowns, but on the morning of the dance the bill arrived and he was furious. He made me take them back and forbade me to attend the dance.
“I had tears in my eyes as I carried those elegant white boxes back to the store, but there was no time to weep. Rosemary and I had an appointment to meet at the Brown Dog Café…”
Chapter 12
The shoehorn salesman had been informed that no liquor was served at the Brown Dog Café until eight P.M.—so families would feel comfortable coming in to order the blue plate special of pot roast or, on Fridays, the baked cod. But a fifty-cent piece slipped into the waitress’s apron pocket had brought a bottle of beer out from behind the enormous bar that stretched across one end of the café.
Rosemary for Remembrance Page 6