by Donna McLean
The young writer opened the cover and turned the faded yellow pages carefully. She exclaimed in surprise, “It’s a tiny sketchbook!”
“So is mine! The artist was purty good, too. Lots of flowers in here,” Tilda said approvingly.
“Lots of pictures of dogs and cats, too. Some birds and a cute little chipmunk. Here’s a lovely landscape, though. It looks like a sketch of the beach.” Addie turned the pages with delight. “And this one is a pretty little cottage! It looks like something out of a fairy tale.” She perused the book silently for a few moments, then Addie looked at Morwenna and asked in a puzzled tone of voice, “It is very nice, but why did you think I would be interested?”
Morwenna replied softly, “Look at the artist’s name. In the lower corner of each drawing.”
Tilda and Addie peered closely at their respective books. In each corner a swirling combination of letters nearly intertwined with the drawings in a way that made it difficult to spot, unless one intentionally looked for a signature.
Addie spied it first and a pleased cry escaped her lips. “Ada! It’s my grandmother’s sketchbook!”
“Well, I’ll be dogged, so it is. Where in the world did you find these, Morwenna?”
The story keeper said, “Ada gave them to me many, many years ago. I never knew why, until I met you, Addie, and then I knew that she wanted me to pass them along to someone who would appreciate them.”
Addie studied the story keeper’s face curiously. The comment seemed like a strange one for anyone else to make, but Morwenna’s comments always seemed to have a deeper meaning behind them than the ordinary person could ever imagine. Her fingers entwined the little book slowly, carefully, and Addie felt a sense of peace.
“Thank you, Morwenna, I will treasure these little books forever.”
An hour passed while Tilda and Addie thumbed through the sketchbooks and then exchanged them, thumbing through each book again. Many fond comments and gentle laughter floated between the three women as they commented on the various drawings and wondered about the young girl who had sketched them.
“Edgar Van Devlin said that my grandmother had an appreciation for beauty and a gift for art,” Addie said. “I’m no expert but I think she did have some talent.”
“Ah, Edgar Van Devlin,” Morwenna repeated thoughtfully. “I haven’t thought of that interesting young man in years.”
The young writer laughed. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t recognize him today. He’s no longer a young man, although he is very interesting. And nice. I liked him.”
Morwenna caught the inflection in the young woman’s voice. “So someone else did not like him?”
Addie glanced up at her. The story keeper’s face and eyes were emotionless. She appeared to be waiting for the response like the cat Quinn waited for expected praise.
“Pearce Allen seemed to think that the artist may have murdered my grandmother. He thinks it was a crime of passion. I can’t believe that of him. Edgar Van Devlin seemed to me to be a man who is still in love, even after all these years.”
Morwenna stirred in the chair. She fanned herself with an old fashioned paper fan, sat up straighter and gazed across the yard and over the tombstones to the little chapel. The beautiful tuxedo cat on the porch railing stretched and stood up, watching the story keeper with her luminous green eyes.
“Passion can sometimes lead to terrible things,” the story keeper began. Tilda and Addie grew quiet, sensing a change in the previously contented mood of the afternoon, like a storm off in the distance charges the air with electricity long before the clouds are seen or the thunder is heard.
“Two lovers lie buried in the old churchyard, separated by time and space but not by hearts. Eloise McHenry died young; her true love, Jake McHenry, lived long but unhappily and alone. A terrible suspicion had overtaken his heart soon after they were first wed, when her former beau came to town. This was in the long ago days of chivalry and honor. The beau was challenged to a duel. Jake believed that Eloise’s beau had returned for her, and he was consumed with jealousy. Eloise denied every accusation but her denials fell on deaf ears.”
“And so at dawn the two men marked their paces, and turned, and fired, and two people soon lay dead upon the ground. One was Eloise’s beau, the other was Eloise, who had rushed onto the field and thrown herself in front of her one true love, her husband Jake McHenry, to save him. At last he knew that she loved only him, but it was too late. She was buried in the old churchyard in a double crypt, and after many sad and lonely and miserable years her true love joined her there. People have often thought and even said that all this tragedy and tears happened needlessly, all because love, rather than turning to trust, had turned to obsession.”
“Oh, that’s very sad,” Tilda remarked. “I’ve often wondered why love takes some people that way. Some people are just meant to be together and are so happy their whole lives long, that’s how it was with me and Timothy Donal MacArdan. But some couples just never can work things out no matter how much they seem to care about each other.”
Addie grew quiet. She thought back to her encounters with Pearce Allen and the differing emotions she sensed within him.
The muggy heat of the day suddenly seemed oppressive. Tilda and Addie tried to fan themselves with the sketchbooks and Morwenna used the folded paper fan that she carried on such days, and Quinn slipped silently away out of the bright sunlight and found a spot of cool shade beneath the porch.
Tilda stood up and said, “Addie, dear, I believe we should be going. The afternoon is drawing to a close and we’ve taken up all of Morwenna’s Sunday.”
They murmured their goodbyes and arrived at Tilda’s house a few minutes later. “Would you like a nice cold soda and a sandwich for dinner, Addie? It’s too hot to be cooking today.” She noticed that the young woman had appeared downcast since leaving Morwenna’s house and wondered what was bothering her, but respectfully said nothing about it.
Addie shook her head no. She sat down in the big white rocker on the front porch. “I think I’ll just sit here for a while, Tilda. It’s such a pretty day that I hate to go indoors.”
She stayed outside, thinking, until the sunlight began to fade and the twilight to steal in on soft breezes while the tree toads and night birds began to sing, and the heady scent of night honeysuckle overpowered the air.
seventeen
Tilda’s garden boots were covered with mud and damp white sand. She pulled off the pink polka dotted gardening gloves, flung them down onto the potting bench, and stomped both boots upon the floor of the screened back porch as hard as she could. She did this a couple of times and then stopped suddenly.
There seemed to be an echo.
She paused, listened, then shrugged her shoulders at the little dog who watched her curiously. Tilda stomped her feet again, and froze. The echo was back!
This time, however, Puddin’ turned and fled into the kitchen, barking. Tilda’s ears finally focused and she realized that someone was pounding on the front door and yelling, “Addie! Addie!”
She tossed her hands in the air. “Oh my goodness. Company! Who in the world can that be? And my clothes are a mess, a pure mess.”
The little lady started to go into the kitchen and then realized that the boots were still stuck on her feet, and still covered with mud. She opened the screen door to the outside, stuck her head out and yelled as loud as she could. “Yoo hoo! I’m on the back porch! Can you come on around?”
Tilda MacArdan sat down and tugged at the stubborn boots, trying to pull them off her feet in a hurry. Just as the last one hit the floor she looked up to see Pearce Allen staring at her from outside the screen door.
“Ms. Tilda?” he asked, leaning forward and cupping one hand over an eye to look within. Puddin’ ran toward him, barking with exaggerated wrath.
“Shhh, Puddin’, hush! Hush!” She shooed the little dog behind her and pushed the screen door open. “Why, Pearce Allen! What have you got there?”
The ha
ndsome young man was standing awkwardly with one foot on the bottom step, one foot on the ground, a laptop under one arm and a bundle of limp daisies dangling down from his hand. With his empty hand he grasped the door handle, pulled it wide and said, “I’ve just got to see Addie, Ms. Tilda!”
Her heart went out to the forlorn suitor. “Well, Pearce Allen, I hate to tell you this but—”
He interrupted her in a fervent rush of words. “I know she doesn’t want to see me but she’s just got to!” He walked into the house before Tilda could protest, handing her the sad little bunch of flowers. “Can you put these in some water? Thanks. I have to see Addie and I have to see her right now!”
Tilda shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but he kept talking. “Look, I understand why she’s mad but she’s got to get over it.”
“Pearce Allen Simms, you do not understand. Now you just listen to me!” Tilda protested.
He ignored her, strode purposefully into the kitchen and pulled out a dining chair. “Look, Ms. Tilda. I’ve got something here that changes everything, and I do mean everything! She’ll have to forgive me when she sees this.” He placed the laptop on the table and flipped it open. “I know whodunit, and I have proof!”
“Proof?” she asked. Her imagination started humming. She followed him and peered over his shoulder at the images on the laptop screen.
“Well, I’ll be dogged! That’s a picture of Delcie and Magda when they were just young’uns! How did that get on your computer?” Tilda pulled up a chair and sat down next to Pearce Allen, leaning forward eagerly.
He flashed her a grim smile. “That’s not all. There are all kinds of pictures on here from the olden days of Sparrow Falls. It’s an archival history project that some of the high school kids have been doing in association with the Harbinger. Scanning our old photos and documents into the computer so anyone can access it later on. Pictures of things we shot but never published.” He clicked through a few more photos and said, “Here’s one from the fall of 1950. Blue ribbon winners at the county fair. Recognize them?”
Tilda peered at the faded gray image and then said, “Well bless my soul. I do believe that’s Frank and Frances Dowd! Look how very young they look. She was real purty too, wasn’t she? Tiny as a minute. I plumb forgot she ever looked like that.”
“Now look at this one.” Pearce Allen pulled up the next photo. The heading was entitled Town Picnic at Ambrose Lake, 1953. It was a wide shot of a crowd of people milling about in various groups, couples walking with hands clasped, kids walking singly or chasing each other around the picnic grounds. The band was setting up in the gazebo; the lake seemed calm and bright. All in all, it seemed a very happy picture of a lazy summer day in a small southern town.
Tilda clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, my goodness! Look at those pretty frocks, as my Mama used to call them. Dresses, you young folks call them now. Everyone dressed up to go to the annual picnic. That seems odd to people today, I know. People wear just about anything nowadays or next to nothing at all! They should be ashamed. And there’s Annabel Grayson, I haven’t thought of her for years! And I see some of my old school friends back when they were young. Dear, dear children they were. Oh, Pearce Allen, this is wonderful! Just wonderful!”
“Watch this!” He grinned and with one click of the mouse the picture grew larger and clearer right before Tilda’s eyes. “See anything interesting now?”
She nodded in silent awe of this amazing machine. Tilda leaned in closely and gazed at the faces of townspeople she had been fond of many years ago and still knew today. Their faces and forms had changed as the years passed, it was true. But she still knew all of them by name, even the ones no longer living.
“There’s Delcie, and Magda and Peggy close behind her, of course. Some things never change. And there’s your grandpa, Pearce Allen.” She pointed and the young man nodded his head in silence. Tilda continued. “That young woman looks just like Morwenna. Or I should say Morwenna looks just like her, because that has to be her mother or maybe an aunt or something. It’s funny but I can’t quite remember.” She paused for a moment and thought about it, but then shook her head. “Ah well, I’m an old woman now, I can’t remember everything!”
The lady leaned forward again and said, “And look, I do believe that is Frank Dowd. He’s moving toward the edge of the picture but it does look like—it looks like—like he’s following someone.” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
Pearce Allen placed the mouse over Frank and clicked it twice. The picture zoomed to a larger size.
Tilda MacArdan gasped. “That’s impossible. She wasn’t there, Pearce Allen! She wasn’t at the picnic that day!”
He turned to her and nodded his head. “Oh, yes, she was! And this picture proves it!”
Tilda’s hands went to her mouth. “She’s been lying? All this time? And what else has she lied about? Oh dear! Oh no! Pearce Allen, what else has she lied about?”
She grabbed the young man’s arm and leaped out of the chair, yanking him up behind her. “We’ve got to go, Pearce Allen! We’ve got to go right now!”
“What? Go where? I need to show this to Addie!”
Tilda shook her head and hurriedly shoved her feet into the canvas slip-ons she kept next to the back door. “I’ve been trying to tell you, Pearce Allen. Addie isn’t here. She went to visit Miss Frances Dowd!”
eighteen
Addie sipped the tea and tried her best not to grimace at the sharp taste. She glanced at Miss Dowd and saw that the elderly lady was beaming a bright, expectant look in her direction. Addie swallowed hard, not wanting to disappoint the kindly bookseller by refusing the hospitality offered her by way of the steaming beverage.
“Do you like it? I made a pot of my special tea just for you, a very special, one of a kind type of tea.” The crinkles around Miss Dowd’s blue eyes deepened in a pleasurable smile and the pink in her rosy cheeks blushed to a pleasing hue. She looked the perfect picture of the gracious southern hostess. “How does it taste?”
“It’s good. A bit bitter for my taste, but it’s good,” Addie said politely and tried to put the teacup on the table, but Miss Dowd quickly removed the silver tray and encouraged her to take another sip.
“Oh, the bitterness will subside quickly and then you will find it delightful. Remember the day you came for a visit? I made you some of my special recipe then, but you didn’t have a chance to even taste it.” Her voice was soothing and kind, but something in it changed ever so slightly, like one false note in an otherwise perfect song. “That Tilda showed up. She wasn’t invited. Only you were supposed to be there. So I knocked the teapot out of your hands. You didn’t know I did that on purpose, did you? You thought you were the clumsy one!” She giggled like a mischievous little girl.
The elderly woman stood over Addie now, blocking the table from her reach. She balanced the teacup and saucer on her knees while Miss Dowd waited expectantly for her to take another drink. Addie frowned, pondering the strange comments, wondering why Miss Dowd suddenly appeared almost threatening; trying to think quickly and put together the puzzle that was beginning to form in her mind, but her mind was moving sluggishly, slowly.
“I’m so sorry about your brother,” Addie blurted out suddenly, trying to think of something to say so that she wouldn’t have to drink any more of the awful tea.
Frances Dowd’s lips dropped from a beaming smile to a sad, almost petulant expression. “Frankie was my little brother. It was up to me to take care of him. He wasn’t right in the head, you know. But he knew things that other people didn’t know. So he had to go away.” Tears rimmed her eyes.
“You did the best you could,” Addie said soothingly. She was feeling more relaxed, almost drowsy, in the hot room. She smiled and tried to pay attention to Miss Dowd’s pretty southern cadence and the story the sweet old lady seemed determined to tell Addie.
Frances Dowd stared out the window and her fingers clutched the lacy drapes. Her voice droned on and on but
the soothing tones, the gentle words, were changing. Her voice sounded peeved now, like that of an impatient child.
“He practically told you and Tilda that Ada was here that day. I was so mad I could have pushed him down the porch steps right then and there! But you would have seen me do that, wouldn’t you? I didn’t want anyone to see that.”
Addie shook her head, confused. Her ears were ringing. What was Miss Dowd trying to tell her? Things didn’t make sense anymore. She had to push aside the drowsiness and concentrate. She had to remember the question she had come here to ask Miss Dowd, the question about her grandmother, and a picnic, and a bus schedule that seemed out of place.
“Miss Dowd, I wanted to ask you something about my grandmother’s death. I hope it won’t upset you, but something has been bothering me for a long time.” Addie bent her head and rubbed her temple to soothe the sudden pain. She tried to concentrate on forming a question that had nagged her ever since the day she and Pearce Allen had explored the secret file kept by Deputy Simms. “It was something about the town picnic that you missed because you went to take care of your sick uncle. I assume that you took the bus?”
“My sick Uncle Joseph, you mean?” Frances Dowd frowned. “He died soon after Ada passed.”
“Yes. And you took a bus to the town where he lived, didn’t you?”
Suddenly Miss Dowd laughed. The noise startled Addie. She stared at the old woman’s face and wondered what had seemed so humorous to her.
“I took a bus that day. I took the four o’clock bus while everybody in town was down at the lake, looking for the person who killed Ada!” Miss Dowd put both hands on her cheeks, laughing louder and louder, rocking back and forth in merriment while she laughed.
“Everyone believed that I had left on the eight o’clock bus that morning.” She beamed at Addie and began chatting with the young woman in a tone that was pleasant and eerily calm. “I had gotten dressed bright and early that morning just like I was going to Uncle Joseph’s house, and I walked down to the bus station and I sat right there on the bench like I was waiting for the morning bus to Pine Grove. And that nosy old depot man, Asa Atwood, well, he saw me sitting there and later he told the police that I had left on the eight o’clock bus! That silly old man! I was nowhere around when the eight o’clock arrived! And it serves him right, too. The fussy old know it all, sticking his nose into everyone else’s business all the time and thinking that he’s always right about every little thing. He wasn’t right about that!” The laughter bubbled up again.