“I know,” he said, taking his arm off my shoulder. “If what you want is peace of mind, the best thing you can do for yourself is to forget the past and move on.”
I fought to keep my voice steady. “My mother’s dead, and I know nothing will bring her back. I can face that. But coming here to Lorens . . . has made me feel like I never really knew her. If I could only find out who she was—it—it would help me.” I faltered at what I could not speak aloud, at what I had only just begun to realize: maybe it would help me understand myself.
Justin ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “All right.” His words, grimly decisive, left no room for doubt. I felt immense relief, as if simply by his consent, everything would work out.
“I’ll tell you where to start. It’s a place even reporters turn to for doing research. Maybe you’ve heard of it—it’s called a library.”
Our laughter broke the tension.
We walked along the sidewalk for about a block before reaching the public library. When we stepped inside, the air conditioning hit me like a bucket of cold water, waking me from my dreamlike state and dunking me back in reality. This was no dream, and I wasn’t going to accomplish anything by simply drifting along. I was glad I’d made my decision.
“You can start by looking through the old newspapers. There’s sure to be an article on the accident. Probably more than one, because something like that would have made big news in a small town.” After a pause, he added, “It’s obvious why people aren’t supposed to go inside the mansion anymore.”
Resenting his tone, I retorted, “I wasn’t alone.”
“I know. You had Phillip what’s-his-name to protect you.”
“Barnstrum.”
“Sure. Anyway, they keep old local newspapers on microfilm.” Justin, apparently very familiar with all this, led me to a small room in the back of the library. The walls were lined with dated film cartridges standing neatly on shelves.
“You work the machines like this.” I watched carefully as Justin demonstrated, but it turned out to be a simple enough process, nothing I couldn’t have figured out on my own. “I’ve got to get back to work now,” Justin said, moving away from the table. “They’re probably afraid I’ve left for good this time.”
I smiled. “Thanks for all your help.” I meant it, and as eager as I was to get started, I found myself wishing Justin didn’t have to leave.
“You know,” he said, and I looked up expectantly, “we could go out for pizza tonight or something when I get done with work.”
My heart jumped. Then I remembered Philip.
“Sorry.” I looked down at the machine. “I already have a date for tonight. I’m going for Italian with Philip.” Besides, I told myself, living with my uncle, pizza is the last thing I want.
Justin shrugged. “Have a good time then. I just thought maybe you’d like to talk over what you find—if you do find anything.”
You could at least sound disappointed.
“Whatever it is you’re looking for, good luck. Oh, and about your question—come and see for yourself.”
“Huh?” I looked up. “What question?”
“You asked if I really do eat lunch at the park every day.” He grinned. “Stop by one of these days and see for yourself.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the projection machine.
* * *
Cartridges of film stood stacked in a precarious tower beside me on the table. Whatever I was looking for, I wasn’t finding it.
I rubbed my temples and sighed, but I was determined to go through however many rolls of film it took to find something relating to my mother’s accident. What I wanted was an official account. All the facts.
Because hearing it told wasn’t enough. Though I was going on nothing but instinct, I felt that the story my uncle had told me was incomplete. I wanted something concrete to help me pinpoint what was missing. Once I had the exact circumstances of the accident set before me in the clear black and white perspective of newspaper printing, maybe that would also help them become clear in my mind.
I put in the last microfilm roll dated 1979 and cranked slowly through the pages. I couldn’t afford to miss anything, not even the tiniest article, because it might be just the one I wanted. The word “Ingerman” flashed before my eyes in giant letters, and suddenly there was the headline I’d been looking for: Ingerman Mansion claims another victim.
How awful the way newspaper people had to make everything sound as dramatic as possible; all they cared about was selling their papers. Reading that bold headline, I almost didn’t want to go on.
But I couldn’t stop my eyes from running down the article.
Tiffany Hutch, an 18-year-old senior at Lorens High School and an intern of this newspaper, was rushed to a hospital late the afternoon of May 3 after falling 20 feet from a balcony of the Ingerman Mansion.
I cringed as a vision of the rocky ground beneath the balcony flashed before my eyes.
After questioning Anthony Ingerman, 63, owner of the mansion, it has been established that Hutch, who had been given his permission to go through the dilapidated structure, was there gathering research for a story she was writing. Ingerman had entrusted Hutch with a key to the mansion, enabling her to enter.
Examination of the broken railing shows that the old wood had been decaying for quite some time. Therefore it would not have taken much force to break it. It is believed that Hutch, unaware of the danger, leaned against the rail, causing it to break.
Ironically, it was from this very same balcony that Connie Ingerman—a great-aunt of Anthony Ingerman—is believed to have thrown herself to her tragic death in 1851. In a further twist of fate, it is this incident that constituted a large part of Hutch’s research.
Fortunately for Hutch, she was found by a friend, Christopher Renton, 22, with whom she had a date to meet that afternoon at her home. Upon finding her absent and after being informed by Hutch’s brother, Peter Hutch, of her whereabouts, Renton told investigators that he decided to drive to the mansion.
“I wasn’t really worried,” Renton said, “I thought she’d probably just lost track of time or something.” Upon discovering Hutch’s unconscious form, however, Renton saw this was not the case and immediately called for help. “I was afraid she was dead,” Renton said.
Authorities say it is very likely Renton saved Hutch’s life by finding her when he did. A half an hour more could have been too late. At the time of this printing, Hutch is still unconscious and listed in critical condition. Peter Hutch offered no comment. The incident is still under investigation.
The “incident.” So that’s what they called it. I shuddered. The report gave the facts in such a cold, unfeeling way. Everything fit with what my uncle had told me, but he hadn’t gone into such detail. I turned the projector handle, searching for more, hoping for a follow-up article. Several editions of the paper later, I found one.
Hutch unable to remember accident
Tiffany Hutch, 18, is now listed in stable condition after her fall from a balcony of the Ingerman Mansion on the afternoon of May 3. Her injuries include numerous scratches and bruises, a broken leg, and a head injury resulting in memory loss.
As yet, Hutch cannot recognize friends, let alone recall the accident. However, it is believed by officials that with time and care, Hutch will gradually recover from this state of amnesia. “How much time it will take we have no way of knowing,” stated Dr. Kimberling. “It really depends on the individual.”
As of this time, no new information pertaining to Hutch’s accident has been found.
My heart was thumping so loudly, I expected a librarian to appear and order me to silence. I tried forcing my tense muscles to relax, which of course did no good. Wondering if there could be another article, I rolled madly through the film, half hoping—half fearing—there would be.
There was.
Injured girl’s memory returns—but not completely
Tiffany Hutch, 18, is still suffering aftereffec
ts from her traumatic experience: a 20-foot fall from a balcony of the Ingerman Mansion on May 3. Yet while much of her memory has returned, Hutch can recall no particulars of the accident, and further questioning by investigators proves futile.
“Of course, in an incident such as this, nothing is ruled out immediately,” explained Detective Bankwell. “With no witnesses to the accident, we have to consider the possibility of foul play. Yet with no new developments, we have no reason to believe foul play was involved, and at this point I think we must conclude that Miss Hutch was merely the victim of unfortunate circumstances.”
When I looked up from the projection machine, it took me a moment to realize where I was. Except for my beating heart, the library was unearthly quiet, making me feel more than a little ill at ease, sitting alone in that tiny microfilm room.
I found no more related articles. The three I had found, I reread so many times that I felt I had them memorized. There were the facts, all cut and dry as I’d wanted. Now I should be satisfied.
But I wasn’t. Perhaps I’d known all along I wouldn’t be. What was it Justin had said? “This isn’t a game. Once you start, you can’t quit.” I hadn’t reached the end yet, and though I had no idea where the end lay, I knew I hadn’t gone as far as I could go. And that’s why I couldn’t be satisfied.
I continued turning through the last pages of the paper, and paused to read the page devoted to the 1979 graduating class of Lorens High School. My mother’s name was not listed. Of course, I’d known it wouldn’t be.
You were so close, Mom, I almost whispered. Why did you throw it all away? It wouldn’t have been so difficult to catch up.
It was as if she didn’t care.
There was nothing more for me to learn here, so I put everything away and left the room, absorbed in thought. I felt let down that I hadn’t made any great discovery. But, I consoled myself, I had found something new. Something my uncle hadn’t mentioned. Someone named Christopher Renton had found my mother, and by doing so, probably saved her life. I wondered why my uncle hadn’t told me this. I stopped right in the middle of the library entrance while the name was fresh in my mind and jotted it in my sketchpad. Then, as I was writing it, I realized there was something significant about the name. I felt a spark of excitement. Yes! That last night by my mother’s side, I had heard her mention Christopher. Possibilities began rushing through my mind.
Christopher Renton was probably still alive. He’d only be forty-two. Maybe he still lived around Lorens. My thoughts skipped ahead eagerly. Maybe I could locate him!
I turned around and fairly ran to the information desk, where I asked for a telephone book. I skimmed down the list of names. Rent . . . Rentil . . . No Renton. I closed the book and caught the librarian’s attention.
“Excuse me, does the library keep old phone books?”
The librarian nodded. “Over there against that wall.” She pointed to a low shelf. “But we only keep books going back five years.”
I looked through those books, but wasn’t surprised when I didn’t find Renton listed. These books were too new. What I needed was a book from when I knew Christopher had lived here, twenty years ago. Because if he didn’t live here now, at least his old address might give me some place to start looking for him. I was about to return to the desk to ask where else I might go to find old phone books, when I noticed the clock on the wall. Four-thirty. Philip would be picking me up in less than an hour. I had to get home and get ready.
Hurrying out of the library, I managed a smile as I passed a young mother leading a little boy and girl inside. The kids were dressed in matching outfits, and I wondered briefly if they were twins.
On the street corner, I passed a few teenaged girls huddled in a group, talking and laughing so loudly, I couldn’t help catching strands of their conversation.
“ . . . and everyone was laughing at her. I mean, she’s seventeen and she’s never even been kissed! Can you believe it?”
More laughter.
“But can you blame her? I mean, who’d want to kiss that girl? She’s got a face like a—”
I never will know what her face looked like. I’d purposely quickened my steps and passed out of hearing range, feeling repulsed and suddenly very much alone.
I’m not sure why their words had such an impact on me, why they made me want to turn and yell: “I’m almost eighteen, and I’ve never been kissed! I’m not ashamed of it. Why should I be? I’m not going to kiss someone just to prove something—I have more respect for myself than that. If I ever do kiss someone it will be because I love him, nothing else. So maybe I’ll live to be a hundred without kissing a guy. So what? At least I’ll have been true to myself.”
The only thing stopping me from proclaiming this was that I knew the girls would go off into gales of laughter. These were no mild-mannered milkmaids. California or Wisconsin, teenagers were the same.
My thoughts were bitter all the way home.
Chapter Ten
By the time I saw Philip’s sleek red car pull into the drive, I’d managed to work myself into a better frame of mind. I was determined to enjoy the date that I had been so looking forward to earlier.
My uncle had only recently arrived home. On my way to the front door, I passed through the kitchen, announcing, “I won’t be here for dinner. I’m going out with Philip.”
My uncle looked up from the pizza he was unwrapping. “I assume this is the same young man that you went out with the other day?”
I bristled. “His name is Philip. And yes, he’s the same.” At that moment the doorbell rang.
“I’d like to be introduced,” my uncle said.
Begrudgingly, I made the introductions. Philip was his usual charming self, and he even complimented my uncle on his well-kept front lawn.
So that should satisfy him, I thought, still feeling annoyed as we drove away. I just bet he’ll be sitting up all night waiting for me, too. Someday I won’t have to put up with this, I consoled myself. Someday soon. Philip turned up the radio then, and the blaring music drowned out my resentful thoughts.
A short time later, Philip swung into a gravel lot and pulled up to the front of a rather simple, boxy building hung with a banner striped in red, green, and white—the colors of the Italian flag. “Here we are. Little Italy, the only Italian restaurant within thirty miles.” He opened the car door. “Hope you like it.”
The moment we swept inside, I knew I would. It was a simple yet charming place, and the windows actually let in light—a welcome contrast to that other restaurant. We were led to a cozy table near the back wall. Italian music floated through the room in soft romantic strains, creating a pleasant foreign atmosphere.
A young waitress, her flushed cheeks suggesting she was very busy but her smile implying she enjoyed the activity, came to take our order. Raven hair framed her face in a soft, careless way that was very becoming. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. I noticed Philip’s eyes lingered on her a little too long, and I felt a twinge of jealousy at the way he smiled at her.
“Working hard tonight?” he asked.
The waitress’s eyes got even brighter, if that were possible. “Yes. Every time I step out of the kitchen, someone flags me down.”
“Maybe because you’re the loveliest waitress they’ve ever seen.”
I bit my tongue and stared at the menu. Don’t let it get to you. That’s just how Philip is, I told myself. He’s friendly with everyone. But I knew this was more than friendliness; this was flirting.
“Enjoy your meal,” the waitress told us after delivering our plates.
I will now, I thought as she flitted away. I had already forgotten the name of the dish, but it tasted delicious. Recalling Justin’s offer to take me out, I smiled, thinking I could very well be eating a Bitty Burger at the dinky diner right now if I hadn’t been careful.
“What’s so funny?” Philip asked, twirling spaghetti around his fork.
“Oh, nothing.” Then, in a mischievous mood, I realized thi
s was my chance to get back at him for making me jealous.
“I was just thinking how much nicer this place is than that little diner—Mary Anne’s, I think it’s called—and I’m glad you asked me out, because I had an offer from someone else.”
“Oh?” Philip’s mouth smiled, but his eyes probed mine, and I suddenly wished I hadn’t said anything. “I’m glad you realized the better offer. Who is this guy? What’s he doing moving almost as fast as me?”
“You wouldn’t know him.”
“Try me.”
I shifted in my seat. “Justin Landers—some reporter for the Lorens Daily Journal.”
“How’d you meet him?”
Let’s see . . . I was not going to go into detail here. “He was just helping me with some . . . research. At the library. That’s all.” I put a forkful of fettuccine in my mouth and began chewing. A few strands escaped my teeth and slithered down my throat. I didn’t want to talk about Justin. For some absurd reason, it made me feel guilty. As if I were betraying him or something.
“You don’t need his help, Robin. You’ve got me. I’d be glad to help you with anything, anytime at all. Remember that. What sort of research?”
I took a sip of water before replying. “I was trying to find out about my mother.” My voice grew quiet. “About her accident. I found three old newspaper articles.”
“And what did they tell you? Anything you didn’t already know?”
“That’s just the problem. I mean, the articles reported the accident . . . but that’s about it.”
“The problem is?”
“I was looking for something more.”
“Like what?”
Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Page 10