Scrapbook of Secrets

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  “Maggie Rae had loads of pictures of her kids, and even some of herself as a child,” Beatrice said.

  “My mom always sneaked in some pictures,” Tina Sue said. “My dad didn’t like it. And well, you know, Maggie Rae had a mind of her own. She married off the mountain.”

  Odd turn of expression, Annie thought.

  “What’s the problem with pictures?” Annie asked, switching on her recorder.

  “It’s a belief based on the Second Commandment, Exodus 20:4: ‘Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth,’” Beatrice answered.

  “That’s right.” Tina Sue smiled. “Not too many people know that.”

  “I’ve been in Cumberland Creek a long time, Tina Sue, though I was brought up on the mountain,” Beatrice said; then she picked the glass up to her lips and took a long drink of the sweet iced tea. “Besides which, I know my Bible. Mmm. Good iced tea.”

  “Thank you,” Tina Sue said, turning her attention to Annie. “Now, what can I help you with? Are you sure I can’t get you some tea? Lemonade?”

  “No thanks, I’m fine,” Annie said.

  Beatrice sank back into her chair, listening to the conversation, but taking in the scenery. Or, rather, the lack of it. There was no television, no stereo that she could see, not even a book, except for some Bibles. One large Bible was open on the buffet next to the dining-room table and another at her elbow on the coffee table.

  The rugs were beautiful, woven by hand on the loom. Beatrice recognized them. Her mother had a few like it. Shades of green and blue woven in between the off-white. Twin brass candlesticks sat on either side of the large Bible on the buffet, and underneath was a red velvet cloth. Something about it reminded Beatrice of an altar.

  The couch was green plaid and matching chairs sat on either side—one of which she was sitting on. The curtain swags even matched—but the curtains looked like plain muslin hanging from the rods. Streams of sunlight came in the living-room window. Even lit, the place was immaculate. No dust. No happy piles of magazines and newspapers. The oak furniture glistened.

  “Must be pretty important for you to come all the way out here.”

  “As I explained on the phone, I didn’t want to make you drive again. It’s not a problem for me. Beatrice helped me find the way,” Annie said, handing her the Photoshopped picture of her family.

  “What do you think of this?” Annie asked.

  Tina Sue took the photo with her facial expression empty.

  “Tina Sue?” Annie said, with one eyebrow lifting. Curious. Beatrice had never noted that about her before. “Could you tell me what you think of the picture?”

  “Well,” she said, drawing it out slowly. “It’s a picture of us on our front porch. But ... oh, this is so typical of her.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe she did this.” She threw the picture on the floor. “Trash. That’s what it is.”

  Beatrice set her glass down on the trivet that was sitting on the coffee table next to her. Was that sweat forming on Tina Sue’s forehead? And her pretty little lipstick-smeared mouth suddenly seemed hard with tension. Bea glanced at Annie, who was trying to make eye contact with the shifty-eyed Tina Sue.

  “What do you mean?” Annie asked.

  “I don’t know how she did it, but I’m sure it was Maggie Rae. That’s the face of our dad, placed on our stepfather’s body.” Her voice cracked.

  “Why would she do that?” Annie asked.

  “How would I know?” Tina Sue snapped. “There was only one picture ever taken of our father. And he didn’t like it. It was against his beliefs. She’s made a mockery of both of them!”

  In the silence that followed, Beatrice mulled over everything she’d just heard. She was mostly focused on the edge in Tina Sue’s voice. Beatrice picked up her pocketbook and dug inside—yes, she had remembered her gun, and there was the tissue she needed to pretend to blow her nose.

  “Hmmm,” Annie said, finally breaking into the uncomfortable quiet that hung in the air as thick as the humidity on an August day. “Maybe she was just learning how to do Photoshop and was just playing with pictures.”

  “Playing with?” Tina Sue raised her voice. “No. My sister knew what she was doing. She—”

  Just then, an alarm went off, and Annie gasped. Beatrice jumped, placing her hand back inside her pocketbook.

  “Oh, it’s just the pie,” Tina Sue said. “I thought you ladies might like some pie this afternoon. I got a late start on it, though. Excuse me.”

  “Of course,” Annie said, reaching down to pick up the picture from the hardwood floor.

  She looked at Beatrice and shrugged. “This is not going anywhere.”

  “I beg to differ,” Beatrice answered quietly. “The picture pushed her buttons. Keep pushing.”

  They could hear the squeaky oven door opening, a pie being slid onto the counter, and the door closing. Beatrice could smell it—it was some kind of berry—blackberry?

  Annie crossed her legs and sat back in her chair, tapping her pencil on the tablet of paper sitting on her lap. Intent on her notes, Annie was slumped over them on her chair and leaning on the coffee table. Above her head was a framed needlepoint Bible verse—the Lord’s Prayer—and next to Annie’s elbow on the table was a statue of praying hands.

  When Tina Sue came back in the room, Annie began speaking immediately.

  “Well, now, Tina Sue. If you don’t believe in pictures and such, how did you feel about Maggie Rae’s scrapbooks?”

  Beatrice stiffened. What was Annie doing?

  “Her scrapbooks were empty,” Tina Sue said, meeting Annie’s eyes.

  “But why? Why would she buy all that stuff, take photos, get them developed, and then not put them in the scrapbooks?”

  “Maybe her conscience got the best of her?” Tina Sue said. “I mean, she was a modern thinker, whatever that means, and all that. But we were still raised with the idea that pictures were a sin. Maybe she couldn’t place them in the scrapbooks for everybody to look at.”

  “It doesn’t seem likely. The last time I checked, sleeping around was also deemed a sin. She did that frequently,” Annie said.

  Beatrice held her breath.

  “I explained all that to you, Ms. Chamovitz. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “Did she ever tell you who she slept with? Like maybe your stepfather?”

  “Oh my,” she mumbled as she sat back down, looking a little as if the air had been knocked out of her. “You sure do ask a lot of questions, and some of them are mighty unchristian, considering that I just lost my sister.” When she said the word “unchristian,” she emphasized it. Of course, she knew Annie was Jewish.

  Annie sat up. “I think it’s time to leave, Beatrice. I’m sorry if I have offended you, Tina Sue, so much that you have to bring my religion into it. And it’s not the first time, I might add. I’m just trying to piece this together, thinking maybe we can help find Maggie Rae’s murderer. But since I’ve offended you, and you won’t answer my questions, I see no point in taking up your time, or mine, for that matter.”

  She began to gather her belongings and place them in her bag, and Beatrice took another long swallow of her tea, then placed it on the table. Was Annie really going to give up that easily?

  Tina Sue’s face reddened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Annie turned around and looked directly at her, flinging her bag over her shoulder.

  “I wish I had known Maggie Rae,” Annie said. “Just from what I know of her, she seemed open-minded, and I can’t imagine how she got out of this family with any sense of self. No wonder she wanted to be hurt. No wonder she couldn’t be loved.”

  “What? Well, I never—”

  “Why can’t you answer the questions?” Beatrice said.

  “She can’t answer them because she’s been forbidden to,” a male voice came from around the c
orner.

  Beatrice thanked the universe that she already had taken the safety off her gun; her hand searched for it in her purse. After finding the hard, cool gun, she left her hand there.

  “You ladies best be leaving. You got no business out here,” he said, looking straight at Annie. Beatrice assumed he was Tina Sue’s husband, with wild blue eyes and curly hair, a blue T-shirt that was a bit too tight, revealing a magnificent, muscular body. Good Lord, a strapping mountain man with a pistol tucked in the front of his jeans. He noted Beatrice looking him over and smirked.

  The audacity.

  “We are on our way,” Beatrice said, looking away, keeping her hand on her gun in her bag, hoping that Annie would just keep moving.

  Just then, they all heard a loud chop-chop-chop of a helicopter.

  “What the ... ,” Tina Sue said.

  Annie opened the door and they all filed out. It was a Forest Service helicopter, trying to land in the front yard.

  Well, now, doesn’t that beat all? There seemed to be just enough space for them to land the green helicopter—and what on earth were they doing here? Suddenly Beatrice’s thoughts swirled as she felt the onslaught of pain in her abdomen, then a violent uprising of sick. There was no way to be graceful about it. She crumpled over and vomited all over the front porch and Tina Sue’s husband. An instant relief overcame her. Next thing she knew, she was being lifted into the loud helicopter sound and gusts of wind. Poor Annie, she would have to ride home with that prick of a detective agent.

  Chapter 47

  “The minute I sit down at the computer, one of them yells for me,” Annie said to Mike in utter frustration.

  “At least you have no hard deadline,” he said, trying to alleviate her stress.

  “No, but this is a great opportunity. I don’t want to blow it. I can stay up to write, but then I’m tired and short with the boys the rest of the day And the two-half days in preschool and daycare simply aren’t enough,” She wanted to get her story written before all the information was officially released to the public on Monday.

  Mike took a bite of his lasagna. She’d made a double batch yesterday so they could eat it for a few days—just reheat it, without having to cook. She wanted to get the next story in—before any other reporters came snooping around. She was sure that that would be any day now.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you could hire a sitter to play with the boys when you’re writing,” he said. “Hmm. This veggie lasagna is so good.”

  “Yeah, but who?”

  “Ask around. Maybe one of the scrapbook queens would know someone,” he said.

  “Scrapbook queens?” she said, and smiled. “Vera is out of town, finally. Maybe Sheila would know someone.”

  Vera had finally caught her plane after being assured by the doctors that Beatrice’s own stomach expunged all of the poison that she drank in Tina Sue’s iced tea. It didn’t have a chance to seep into her bloodstream. Thank goodness, or they would have lost Beatrice. Her sensitive stomach saved her life.

  Annie thought over the events of the day and wanted to get them all down before she began to lose some detail. Of course, some details, she’d rather just forget. The strange place of Jenkins Hollow filled her with dread and sadness all at once. She thought the ride to Tina Sue’s was eye-opening, but the ride back into town was even more so, with the detective in the front seat and Tina Sue and her husband in the backseat. Unfortunately, the only police transport was the helicopter, and it was a tight fit, not enough room for everybody, so Annie’s vehicle was commandeered.

  When they passed the swastika on the garage, Tina Sue’s husband mumbled something; then he said it louder. “Filthy Jews, pshaw.”

  A shock of anger and disbelief ripped through Annie as she gripped the steering wheel. Did people still talk like this? Think like this? It turns out her parents and aunts and uncles were right. Anti-Semitism still existed. Oh, Annie knew that on some level, but to be confronted with it in this day and age—well, it was just plain scary.

  “Now, dear, we should pray for them,” Tina Sue said. “We need to pray for people who have not accepted Jesus Christ as their Savior.”

  “Would you two shut up?” the detective said sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Chamovitz. We’re not all like that.”

  She glanced at him and nodded. What should I say? Thank you, sexist bastard? Humph. She bit her tongue and concentrated on navigating the twisty dirt roads.

  “The sitter’s worth a try,” Mike interrupted her thoughts.

  “I want milk,” Ben said.

  “Juice,” Sam said.

  “No juice,” Annie said. “It’s too late for juice. Milk?”

  “Okay,” Sam said reluctantly.

  Annie leaned over and kissed him. He reached for her Star of David necklace.

  “Careful,” she whispered.

  Such a sweet boy. She felt a fluttering in her belly. She’d been missing out on some things while she was working on this story. She’d been distracted. Why wasn’t being a stay-at-home mom enough for her? Why did she feel the pull to the computer every night to write? Some days, she could be there; and other days, she found herself cleaning her kitchen floor and staring out the window.

  She’d thought that being a mother would be the best thing she could do with her life, that it would be the most fulfilling and satisfying thing she could do. And it had its moments. But mostly it bored her, and she hoped that it would change. She hoped she’d somehow turn into one of those women who lived for their children, who knew everything they did and said and didn’t care about things like writing, or doctoring, or quantum physics.

  Some days with her boys were magical and wondrous. But most days were not like that. Most days were constant piles of laundry and toys and crayons and sticky juice messes. How could she have bought into that Hallmark version of motherhood? Was that really what she expected?

  But the truth of the matter was, nobody ever knew what to expect from being a parent. Who knew what kind of a kid he or she would have? How she would react to that child? How that child would react to her?

  So how did her writing fit in with this mothering thing? It was a sloppy balancing act. She’d have to let laundry go on some days so she could finish the first draft of an article. She’d give the boys more television time so she could do a little more research. So her mothering suffered a bit. She also felt like her writing did. She did not have a clear head when she approached the keyboard. Mama-voices whispered in the back of her head: When was the last time Ben took his antibiotics? Don’t forget to give him his next dose. What time is that appointment for his shots tomorrow? When is that puppet show going to happen, again?

  And then there was Mike. How to fit in what she was supposed to be to him—what she wanted to be to him—and still be a decent mom and good writer? Maybe it was all too much, she conceded. Maybe she’d have to give up the writing again. But maybe if she found a sitter, it would work.

  She picked up the phone and pressed the button for Sheila’s number.

  “Hi, Annie,” Sheila said.

  “Does your daughter babysit?”

  “Donna could. I’m not sure she’s responsible enough to be alone with small children,” Sheila said.

  “What about something like a mother’s helper?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Someone to play with the boys, maybe get them snacks from time to time, but I’d be right here, writing.”

  “I think she could manage,” Sheila said. “And it may be just what she needs. Thanks for keeping us in mind. When would you like her?”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Sounds good.”

  The two women exchanged good-byes and hung up.

  “I’ve got good news, boys. Sheila’s daughter Donna is coming to play with you guys tomorrow so that I can get some work done,” she said.

  “That’s fabulous,” Mike said. “I hope it works out.” It seemed like it could be the best of al
l possible worlds. Why did she have a sense of guilt, like she was being less of a mom by even caring about things other than her children? She would have to work through that. Other women did. It was possible to write and to be a mom—she just knew it was.

  What an odd twenty-four hours. Driving out into the middle of nowhere and seeing swastikas. Tina Sue’s comment about Annie being unchristian, and then her husband, Zeb, popping out of nowhere. The helicopter’s arrival.

  Detective Bryant had just rolled his eyes at Annie when he saw her. But he didn’t have time to talk—Beatrice was in a crumpled heap at her feet. She was long gone, flown to the hospital, by the time a flustered Vera arrived on the scene. Vera had to turn around to get to the hospital, where her mother already was.

  The doorbell ringing barely registered with Annie until she heard a crash and a groan.

  “Mike?” She ran out of the bedroom, to find Mike on top of Robert Dasher, blood spewing from somewhere on Robert’s face.

  “Is this your husband?” Robert managed to say.

  “Mike!”

  “Yeah, I’m her husband, you sick son of a bitch. And you don’t have a good reason to be here,” Mike said, enraged.

  Annie never saw him look like that—or sound like that. His face was red and swollen with anger. He almost didn’t even look like her husband. “Mike, please get off the man before the boys hear this,” she said, trying to control her voice. She walked over to him and placed her hands on his shoulder.

  He held Robert by his collar and smashed his body once more into the floor. He pointed his finger in Robert’s face. “If I ever catch you around here—”

  “You’ll what? Kill me?” Robert said, wiping the dripping blood from his face with his shirt.

  “Mike, please. Go sit down on the couch. Please. Robert,” Annie said, pulling her husband off Robert by the scruff of his neck. “What are you doing here?”