Dying to Decorate

by Cyndy Salzmann

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” He whistles.

  “What?” Marina demands, walking closer to peer over his shoulder.

  “It looks like a little room.”

  “A storage room?” asks Lucy. “Maybe something from an earlier renovation?”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” Marina unceremoniously tries to elbow her way into the room.

  Jeff holds out his arm, effectively barring her from the space. “Why don’t you let me check it out first?”

  “Listen, Bubba,” Marina sputters, “I’ve got a gun strapped to my ankle. I think I can handle it.”

  “Marina!” I hiss.

  “No, she’s right.” Jeff steps aside. “It’s better to let a trained professional investigate. You’re not afraid of possums, are you, Marina? Or river rats? You never know what you’ll find in the walls of an old house.”

  Marina looks over her shoulder and—of all things—sticks out her tongue.

  “So much for our trained professional,” I mutter as she heads into the chamber.

  “Liz, I’m going to scream if I hear you say, ‘What in the world?’ one more time,” Marina complains. “You’re a journalist, for heaven’s sake! How ’bout a little variety?”

  “Just for that comment, my friend, there will be no panini for you tonight!” I set a platter of the hot sandwiches down with a thump on the long kitchen table that already holds my colorful Cold Broccoli Salad.

  “Panini? Now the girl thinks she’s Italian!” teases Marina.

  I’m grateful for Marina’s attempt to lighten the mood. We are all a little edgy after sorting through the strange collection of articles she and Jeff discovered in the space behind the cupboard.

  From what they could see in the dim light, the tiny room is about 4x6 feet in size. Stacked in a far corner was a chest filled with old clothes and blankets, a stoneware water jug, and some sort of rusty apparatus. Stuffed behind the chest, was a tattered quilt with a large dark stain.

  Mary Alice gingerly fingered the quilt. “What do you think motivated someone to save this?”

  “Whoever kept this old rag certainly didn’t read your column on getting rid of clutter, Liz,” says Kelly, peering at the faded fabric.

  Jess pokes Kelly in the side with her elbow. “Hey! Remember, Kel, one person’s trash is another’s treasure.”

  “I really feel sorry for the family that considered this old quilt a treasure. It’s not only a pile of rags—it has brown stains all over it.”

  “Let me see, M.A.,” says Jess, motioning to Mary Alice to pass the quilt across the table. “It almost looks like . . .” A small gasp escapes from her lips.

  “Jess?” asks Kelly. “What . . .”

  I see Jess cut her off with a quick flick of her hand.

  This piques my interest and brings me right back to my days as a cub reporter covering the police beat. Could the brown stains possibly be blood? Is that what caused Jess to shut Kelly up?

  Before I can investigate, Lucy has a question of her own. “What could this have been used for?” she asks, holding up a thick piece of rusty chain that is riveted to a crudely made iron band.

  “Jeff, you’re the carpenter,” says Kelly. “Is it some sort of tool?”

  “It’s like no tool I’ve ever used. I hate to say this, but I think Marina may have had more experience with this kind of thing.”

  We all look at Marina who, it suddenly occurs to me, has been uncharacteristically quiet ever since we began to sift through the dusty contents of the hidden room.

  “So, Rina,” Kelly asks, “what is this?”

  “I’m not positive, but it could be . . .” Marina stops speaking and looks down at her hands.

  What, Marina?” Lucy prompts. “Tell me what you think this is.”

  “Lucy, I have an idea, but I might be wrong. I really should do a little research before I go spouting off like—”

  Lucy cuts her off sharply. “Marina, please. Since when have you ever been afraid to speak up? I need to know what you think.”

  “Luce, as I said, I could be way off here. But if I had to guess, I’d say this was once part of a set of handcuffs . . . or shackles, as they used to be called.”

  “Shackles?” I ask. “What would shackles be doing—”

  Marina cuts me off with a stern look as I begin to put the pieces together. Clothing. Blankets. A water jug. Shackles. Is it possible that someone once used this room as a secret prison cell? As I study the faces around the table, I suspect the same thought is occurring to each of my friends.

  Lucy breaks the silence. “Well, girls, I hate to put a damper on our weekend, but I have no desire to spend the night in a house of horrors.”

  “Now, Lucy,” says Jess, taking one of Lucy’s thin hands in both of her own, “there are a lot of possible explanations for what we’ve found.”

  “It’s the curse of reality TV,” Marina mutters. “Everybody thinks she’s an investigator. Jess is right, Lucy. There are a million scenarios that could explain what we found in that room.”

  “Such as?” Tears brim on Lucy’s lashes.

  Seeing Lucy’s tears just about breaks my heart. This was supposed to be a fun weekend. A way to get Lucy out of the house—and her mind off her problems. Some dark family secret is the last thing she needs. This just isn’t fair. Come on, God. How about giving her a break?

  “See?” Marina adds. “That’s a perfect example of what I’m trying to say. The problem with amateur detectives is that they start laying out possible scenarios before they have all the facts. The first rule of investigation is to let the facts tell you the story. And right now we have very few of those.”

  “You go, girl,” I tease. “Now you do sound like a professional.”

  Marina shoots me a sarcastic look across the table. “The first thing we need to do is talk to the people who might have some knowledge about the room. Now, who would be on the short list?”

  “There’s Aunt Bette,” says Jess. “She lived here most of her life.”

  “And Janelle,” I add. “I also might be able to find something at the Cramer County Historical Society. Maybe some architectural drawings for the original structure. They have an office at the library downtown.”

  “See? We’ve already got some good leads,” Marina insists. “Why don’t we dig into this great food Liz has made and then talk about where to begin in the morning?”

  Lucy puts her head in her hands. “I don’t think I can stay in this house overnight.” Her words are muffled. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep wondering if someone who was related to me could have—”

  “Stop it right now, Lucy,” Kelly demands, slapping her hand down on the table. “As Marina says, we need to gather the facts. Instead of sitting around, I say we go see Aunt Bette right now.”

  “Kelly, I can’t—,” Lucy tries.

  Kelly’s frown deepens. “Yes, you can. Come on, Liz, we’ll take Mary Alice’s SUV. You don’t mind, do you, M.A.?”

  “Whatever you—”

  “Great. The rest of you can get started here. I’ve already laid out a work plan. It’s posted on the refrigerator. Any questions?”

  We all sit in stunned silence—me with my mouth open—staring at our friend in full commandant mode.

  “Good. Grab a sandwich and let’s go,” Kelly says, pulling Lucy gently but firmly from her chair. She shoots me “the look” as they head toward the door. “Come on, Liz. We don’t have all day.”

  HOW TO BREW A PERFECT POT OF TEA

  1. Bring fresh, cold water to a rolling boil.

  2. Preheat teapot by pouring a little boiling water into it and allow it to sit for a few seconds. Discard water.

  3. Place one tea bag or one teaspoon of loose tea per cup of water in teapot.

  4. Pour hot water over tea and allow to steep for the correct amount of time.

  Steeping Time

  Green Tea: 3 minutes

  Black Tea: 5 minutes

  Herbal Tea: 6
minutes

  SIMPLE SHORTBREAD

  1 cup butter, room temperature

  1/2 cup powdered sugar

  2 cups sifted flour

  Instructions:

  1. Cream butter with sugar.

  2. Add flour until well combined.

  3. Press into greased 10-inch pie or tart pan. Mark into 12 wedges. Sprinkle with mixture of 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon and 1/4 cup sugar, if desired.

  4. Bake at 300 degrees for 30 minutes. Cut while warm.

  I always suspected there was a secret room,” says Aunt Bette.

  Lucy’s aunt seems to be in another world as we sit on the veranda of her new home at the Pacific Meadows Retirement Community. The setting sun is lighting the sky with thick bands of color ranging from pale pink to deep purple. Although the surroundings are serene, Lucy, Kelly, and I are far from calm.

  Kelly’s lead foot brought us to the tiny town of Orrick in record time. We had found Aunt Bette in the garden, finishing an after-dinner stroll with another resident. She was hard to miss with a brightly patterned shawl wrapped around her tiny frame—a colorful barrier to the chill of the autumn evening. As she approached, the setting sun backlit her wispy white hair, making it look like the halos common in religious art. She greeted Lucy with open arms and seemed not at all surprised by our visit. Or Lucy’s description of the gruesome discovery behind the kitchen wall.

  “What would make you think there might have been a secret room at Locust Hill, Aunt Bette?” Lucy asks, jarring the old woman from her private musings. “Now I’m more confused than ever.”

  “Of course you are, dear. I’m so sorry. Let me start from the beginning.”

  “Frankly, after finding all those ghastly things behind the wall, I’m not sure I want to hear the entire story.”

  “Of course you do, Lucy,” says Kelly. “That’s why we’re here.” Apparently noticing Lucy isn’t quite convinced, Kelly asks pointedly, “Right, Liz?”

  “Umm, I guess.” How easily I slip into my role as agreeable sidekick.

  “I’m beginning to think it was a mistake coming here,” Lucy says with a tremor in her voice. “Or even coming to Tredway at all.”

  “No, no, dear, you did the right thing. You needed to come—especially now.”

  “Why now?” Lucy massages her temples as if her head aches. “I’m not sure I can take much more.”

  “Lucy, I may be an old woman with old-fashioned ideas, but some things hold true through the generations. And this is one of them. Although it’s not always easy, my dear, we need to understand where we came from if we want to move forward.”

  “How will it help to find out I come from a line of sadistic monsters?” Lucy moans.

  “Come on, Lucy,” Kelly scolds. “You don’t know that.”

  Lucy takes a long breath and presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Honestly, I just don’t know if I’m up to this.”

  “I understand how upset and confused you must be right now,” says the old woman gently. “I only ask that you try to keep an open mind. Things are not always as they appear at first glance.”

  “You sound like Marina,” mumbles Lucy.

  “Marina?”

  “She’s one of our friends . . . a police officer,” I explain. “Marina’s the one who helped uncover the room and its contents this afternoon. She said not to make any assumptions until we have all the facts.”

  Aunt Bette’s eyes twinkle. “Well, she sounds like a wise young woman. You should listen to her advice.”

  “Miss Crawford, please don’t repeat that in front of Marina,” says Kelly. “Her ego will swell more than one of her mama’s ravioli.”

  Aunt Bette laughs. It’s a warm, musical sound that fills the veranda, prompting other residents to smile. “I promise. But only if you will also do a favor for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Call me Aunt Bette. Miss Crawford is much too formal.”

  “No problem. Aunt Bette it is,” Kelly promises.

  “Thank you, dear. Now where were we?”

  “You were just about to reveal the diseased roots of our family tree,” Lucy murmurs sarcastically, looking away.

  “Lucy, come on,” Kelly chides. “This cynicism isn’t at all like you.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know the real me, Kelly. I obviously have a few skeletons in the closet.”

  “Dear child,” says Aunt Bette, “suspecting the worst is not going to help at all. Just indulge me and listen with an open mind. I think you’ll be surprised with what you find.”

  Lucy’s head whips around. “I’ve had enough surprises, don’t you think?” Her eyes now sparkle with anger, instead of tears.

  “Yes, of course you have,” Aunt Bette soothes. “That was a poor choice of words, my dear. I’d just like the opportunity to pass along a little family history. Then I have something to give you that will help to answer your questions. After that, you are free to make up your own mind. Is that fair?”

  “Yes, of course, Aunt Bette. I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just that . . .”

  The deep wrinkles in Aunt Bette’s face crinkle as her lips form a gentle smile. “No need for explanations, my dear. But down deep you want to know the truth, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “One of my favorite memory verses from Sunday school is from the Gospel of John. It reads, ‘You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.’”

  “Of course, you’re right. And even if you weren’t, my bullheaded friends wouldn’t let me rest until I hear the whole story. So let’s just get on with it.”

  “I believe you are making the right decision, dear. But first, why don’t I ask Emma to bring us a nice pot of tea?”

  When the sun sets, the outside temperature begins to drop. Aunt Bette suggests we move inside to a cozy corner of the spacious sitting room at Pacific Meadows.

  As we settle into our chairs, a young girl approaches, carrying a tray laden with a tea service and a beautifully arranged plate of shortbread.

  “This looks lovely, Emma, thank you. By the way, I don’t think you’ve met my great-niece, Lucy. And these are her friends, Liz and Kelly. They are staying at Locust Hill this weekend.”

  The young woman bows her head shyly. “Nice to meet you.” Then she addresses Lucy. “I recognize you from the photo in Miss Crawford’s room.”

  “You keep a photo of me in your room?” says Lucy, turning to Aunt Bette.

  “Of course, dear. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be. It helps me remember to pray for you.”

  “Janelle mentioned that when we visited Locust Hill the first time. She said you put me on the prayer chain at church.”

  “I learned a long time ago that the best thing you can do for those you love is to pray for them.”

  “That means a lot to me, Aunt Bette. Thank you.”

  The old woman pats Lucy’s hand with her own wrinkled one. “You’ll always be close to my heart, dear. Now I had better get to my story before I doze off. That happens to us senior citizens earlier than we like to admit.”

  “Trust me,” I say. “Dozing off early isn’t confined to the senior set. My family teases me about not being able to make it through a movie that starts after seven o’clock.”

  “Well then, for both our sakes, I’ll try to be brief.” Aunt Bette pours a cup of tea. “Lucy, I’m not sure if you knew this, but I haven’t lived in Tredway my entire life.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t aware of that until I read the note you left for me at Locust Hill. I just assumed . . .”

  “Of course you would, dear. The truth is, I was somewhat of a rebel for a woman of my day. My parents expected me to marry and settle down . . . preferably nearby. But I would have none of it. The thought of spending my life in small-town Nebraska was about as appealing as a wart on my thumb.”

  We all chuckle.

  “Really? What did you want to do?” I can’t help but ask.

  “I had my sights set on becoming a
fashion designer in the clothing capital of the world—Paris. Although World War I had ended several years before, things were still unstable in Europe. I didn’t want to cause my parents unnecessary worry. They were already opposed to my leaving Nebraska. It took some convincing, but they eventually agreed to allow me to attend the Stanley Fashion Institute in New York City.”

  “Aunt Bette, I had no idea!” Lucy leans forward.

  “How could you? All this occurred long before you were born, my dear.”

  “It must have been exciting to live in New York,” I say. “What was it like back then?”

  “Oh, my dear!” Aunt Bette laughs. “You make it sound like ancient history!”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “No, no offense taken, dear. It was quite a long time ago. More than seventy years now. Gracious! How time flies!”

  I grin in an effort to contain my embarrassment.

  “Now to answer your question, dear. New York was very cosmopolitan, of course. I loved everything about it—the theater, restaurants, design school . . . even the pulse of the city. I thought I had found the life I was born to live.”

  “So what brought you back to Tredway?” asks Kelly.

  “The same thing that often brings a woman back to the security of her family—a broken heart.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Aunt Bette.”

  “Don’t be, Kelly dear. I’ve come to understand that God often allows difficulties for our own good. This period in my life was no exception. The only problem was that I didn’t realize it at the time. I came back to Tredway a very bitter woman.”

  “Bitter? I can’t imagine it!” says Lucy.

  “I’m afraid it’s true.” Aunt Bette gazes out the window at the black night. “The memory of those dark days is still fresh in my mind . . . Anyway,” she continues, returning from her reverie, “I decided to stay on in the city after design school. I accepted a job with an up-and-coming designer that was too good to refuse. For fifteen years I was his senior assistant.”