by Becky Wade
She’d made two additions to the original schedule.
One, she’d taken up a hobby. Granted, the macabre pursuit of researching the Shoal Creek Killer and Russell Atwell’s death may not have been what the doctor had had in mind.
Two, she’d been talking to and hanging out with Sam more often. He’d told her she could call him, and so she had been. Also, at long last, he was comprehending her “I’m desperate for human interaction” signals. If he was at home when she gardened or did laundry, he joined her.
She didn’t know whether the Shoal Creek Killer research was benefiting her. But she knew for certain that her time with Sam was. His presence was like body butter for her parched soul.
She’d gone on outings with her parents. Joined Natasha’s family for dinner. Enjoyed her morning walks on the farm. Downed coffee and more coffee. Eaten convenience meals cooked in her mini-kitchen. Made time for lunch dates with old friends. Taken a visit to see Nanny, her dad’s mom, who was suffering from dementia.
Whenever she was at the cottage, she’d taken to lighting her apple cider candle. It was burning even now, on this Friday night, twining its rich scent through the small space.
Had she been at home in Nashville this evening, she’d have plans with friends or she’d have a date. Not so, here in Misty River.
She tapped her big toe against the leg of her desk and leaned forward to try to catch a glimpse of Sam’s farmhouse through the trees. She could make out a small glow through the darkness, nothing more. It was enough. Warm sparkles revolved within her chest.
She’d get to see him tomorrow at the Fall Fun Day.
She transferred her vision back to her computer and continued reading the article that filled its screen. No one knew how the Shoal Creek Killer, Terry Paul Richards, had chosen his victims. The experts speculated that he may have seen them on the street and followed them to their address. Or he may have simply parked in a random neighborhood and waited until a male entered one of the houses alone.
Great similarities linked his six murders, and only slight variances from his pattern made each of them distinct. He’d killed his first victim without any apparent struggle. He’d killed his second victim with his own hammer, instead of with an object belonging to the victim. He’d killed his third victim, then taken his shirt, in addition to a lock of hair, as a trophy. He’d killed Russell and arranged his body afterward, instead of leaving it where it fell. He’d killed his fifth victim with a single blow because the man had been elderly. He’d killed his sixth victim and taken the man’s money from his wallet—
That did it. She couldn’t take any more. She closed her web browser and turned on “Black Widow” by Iggy Azalea. She sang every lyric, dancing hip-hop from one corner of her cottage to another in order to lift her mood from serial killer gloomy to hip-hop hopeful.
Feeling slightly better and a little out of breath, she ate a package of jelly beans, then dialed her sister.
In lieu of a simple hello, Natasha answered with “‘In vain I have struggled. It will not do.’”
“‘You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’” Genevieve finished the quote from Pride and Prejudice with gusto.
“I love you, too,” Natasha said. “Recovery update?”
“Still clean.”
Natasha gave a whoop.
“I’ve finally finished reading everything about Terry Paul Richards and Russell that I could find online. You?”
“Same. I’ve also finished the two books I told you I checked out from the library.” Children’s shrieks came from Natasha’s end. “Hang on,” Natasha whispered. “I’m going to hide from my kids in the pantry, which might buy me one and a half minutes of privacy. There.” The shrieks dimmed. “Oh, gosh. I’m so bloated! Maybe I’ll down a shot of apple cider vinegar while I’m in here. Um . . . what were we saying?”
“I was about to say that I’m frustrated because there’s not a lot of reliable news from the time period about Russell specifically.”
“I know, there’s only those two articles from the Camden Chronicle. I’ve run search after search, and every time I get those same two articles.”
“Then tons of speculation spouted by amateur investigators and conspiracy theorists in all the years since,” Genevieve said.
“Which I don’t put much stock in.”
“Me neither. I tried to call the Camden Chronicle earlier today to see if I could get my hands on more back issues, but they closed down in 1990.”
“What about the Camden library? Would they have back issues of the paper?”
“I’m way ahead of you, sister of mine.” Genevieve had a perfectly good brain, but because she was older, Natasha often couldn’t resist rushing in with suggestions before Genevieve finished talking. “The librarian I spoke with told me that they once had every issue of the Chronicle in their collection. However, they lost the issues in a fire in 2007.”
“Bummer.”
“The librarian went on to tell me, though, about a woman who lives in Camden. Her name’s Mrs. Birdie Jean Campbell. She’s ninety, and apparently she’s kept a scrapbook-style diary for eighty years. Whenever people ask for old newspapers, the library sends them to Birdie Jean.” Genevieve crossed to the fireplace and arranged logs inside. Since coming to stay at the cottage, she’d become a decent fire builder. A remote cottage with a fire in the fireplace was cozier than a remote cottage sans fire in the fireplace. “The librarian recommended that I call and schedule a visit with Birdie Jean. Evidently, Birdie Jean feeds visitors delicious but very sticky pecan pie, so she warned me about my dental work.”
“That sounds promising.”
“The visit or the pie?”
“Both.”
“If I can reach Birdie Jean this weekend, I’m hoping to set up a meeting on Monday.”
“Gen! I’m impressed.”
“Thanks.” She added kindling to the logs.
“I, too, have something new to report.” A door rattled in the background. It seemed one of Natasha’s kids was mounting a siege. “Everything I’ve read about Russell showed one of three photos of him. The college yearbook one, the grainy one from high school, and the one with his church baseball team. None were with Mom. But then it occurred to me. A wedding picture of Mom and him must have run in the Athens newspaper along with their wedding announcement, since she was from Athens and they were married there. Right? So after two phone calls and some time online, I was able to locate their announcement.”
“What? Why haven’t you sent it to me?”
“Because I found it a little while ago, right when Owen was having an epic meltdown. Here. I’m sending it to you now.”
“Mo-mmy!” came the muffled sound of a child’s wail.
“Got to go,” Natasha said. “Talk later?”
“Yep.” They disconnected, and Genevieve opened her text messages. Natasha had sent two photos. One containing a picture. One containing text.
She inhaled sharply as she studied the photo. The close-up image captured her mom, the bride, with Russell, her groom.
In contrast to the dress her mother had chosen when she’d married Dad, here she wore the style of gown Genevieve would have expected of her. Formal and southern. Its sweetheart neckline lay beneath a sheer layer of tulle covering her chest and arms. Delicate needlework embellished the tulle at her throat and wrists, and along the contours of the bodice. She wore her hair swept up beneath a veil. Her bouquet burst with small roses.
Russell looked dashing and confident in his tux. His smile was broad and sure, his blond hair a gleaming match to Mom’s blond hair.
The couple appeared just the way a couple should appear on their wedding day—happy and excited about their joyful future. They couldn’t have known, in the millisecond when this photo was snapped, that Russell had very little future ahead of him. Which meant their marriage had very little future.
Genevieve rubbed her forehead. It bent her brain to see photos of her mother wit
h this other man.
Dad was Mom’s spouse. Dad, not this stranger. Mom and Dad had been a pair for as long as Genevieve could remember and for years prior to the start date of her memories.
Mom belonged with Dad.
Dad belonged with Mom.
Their identity as husband and wife was a foundational part of who Genevieve had known—knew them to be.
Yet she was holding in her hand evidence that proved Russell to be the one Mom had fallen in love with first. Picked out china with first. Exchanged vows with first.
Genevieve moved on to the second image Natasha had sent. The text of their wedding announcement.
Caroline Herrington, daughter of Rosemary and Marcus Herrington of Athens, Georgia, married Russell Atwell, son of Helen and Gordon Atwell of Camden, Georgia, in a ceremony at St. George’s United Methodist Church on July 18. A reception followed at Timmon’s Restaurant.
The bride is a graduate of Mercer University and is employed at Shady Grove Elementary as a second-grade teacher.
The groom, also a graduate of Mercer University, serves as an associate at Colonial Savings and Loan.
She flicked back to the wedding photo. Russell had been more attractive than her father, which left her feeling protective of her dad. Which was ludicrous, since poor Russell had been the one in need of protection. She didn’t want to feel bitter toward Russell at all. Not at all. He’d been murdered incredibly young, his life . . . and his wife . . . ripped from him. Russell deserved nothing but her compassion.
She returned to the announcement, poring over every detail of it for long minutes. Then she lit her fire and thought about Mom and Russell and Dad as she contemplated the flames.
This event is precious,” Genevieve’s mom called to her as she walked toward Genevieve’s position at the farm stand the next day.
Dad ambled a few steps behind Mom, hands in his pockets.
“Thanks!”
“Sweetie.” Mom greeted her with a long, tight hug.
Dad gave her his customary one-armed side hug and kiss on the temple.
“I love what you’ve organized for this Fall Fun Day,” Mom said, squeezing Genevieve’s hand. “It’s so good of you to volunteer your time this way. So giving.”
“I’m happy to do it. Things are going really well so far.” They’d opened for business at ten, two hours ago.
“Tell us what you have going on here,” Dad said.
She explained the complimentary hot apple cider, the pick-your-own produce in the garden, the farm stand, and the hayrides Sam was giving that included a stop to harvest fruit at the apple orchard.
People had been arriving in a steady stream and leaving happy. With the exception of the couple who’d come to pick their own beets and had needed to be rescued from a discourse given by a volunteer named Oliver, their Fall Fun Day was clicking along very successfully.
“Aren’t you too warm?” Mom asked.
“No, I’m okay.” Genevieve had dressed in a lightweight sage green and white plaid shirt and artfully holey skinny jeans for the forecasted high of seventy-four. She’d weaved her hair into a messy side braid.
“Sure you’re not too hot, sweetie?” Mom asked. “I have a travel cup of iced tea in the car.”
“I’m sure.”
“It’s been so long since we’ve seen you.”
It had been three days. “I’m glad you could come by.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it. I didn’t want you to be lonely out here today all by yourself.” Mom was still holding her hand.
“A girl named Anna will be taking over for me here at the farm stand any moment now. As soon as she arrives, I’ll give you a tour.”
“More satisfied customers,” declared a deep voice.
Genevieve turned to see Oliver returning from the garden with a group of four visitors holding baskets brimming with the vegetables they’d harvested.
Genevieve extracted herself from her mom to ring up the guests’ purchases.
Oliver addressed her parents with an air of importance. “Oliver Kingsley.” Earlier, Oliver had informed Genevieve that he’d recently retired from his work at a local museum.
“Judson and Caroline Woodward,” Dad said.
“We’re Genevieve’s proud parents,” Mom added.
“And well you should be proud. Genevieve’s a writer and speaker, which is work for the thinking person! I’ve done a fair bit of writing and speaking myself.”
“Oh?” Mom asked.
“My PhD thesis, of course, is on the pre-Columbian peoples of South America. After that, I wrote a great many articles for those of us who roam the hallowed halls of academia. I’ve been asked to speak on numerous historical topics, history being my professional area of expertise. But I’ve also taken it upon myself to educate on topics in which I’ve invested personal study. For example, wine, art, literature, horticulture, and symphonic music.”
“How fascinating!” Mom said.
“Mmm.” Dad gave Oliver his polite attention.
Genevieve bagged the guests’ produce and handed them receipts. Once done, she poured cups of steaming cider for her parents.
Oliver was of medium height and, likely thanks to his personal study of wine, husky around the middle. He kept what was left of his sandy gray hair short and tidy. He’d clocked in for work this morning dressed in the most dapper gardening clothes Genevieve had ever witnessed on someone who wasn’t an online model. A field shirt from L.L. Bean, zip-off pants he (mercifully) hadn’t zipped off, a bush hat, and gardening boots.
“During my years in Bogota, after receiving my PhD, I was pressed into service as a writer and speaker. The people practically broke down the doors, insisting to hear what I had to say.”
“Mmm,” Dad murmured again kindly, sipping his cider.
“Do you have a family, Oliver?” Mom asked, making a naked bid to steer the conversation toward the topic she cared about most—the God-ordained fabulousness of mothering and grandmothering.
“I do not.” Oliver gave his belly two satisfied taps. “Many the lady has tried to turn my head from the delights of the scholarly world, but my heart has stayed true to its first love.” A gusty laugh. “Learning.”
“Well, we have two daughters,” Mom told Oliver, undaunted by Oliver’s lack of either interest in or experience with families. “And two grandchildren whom we’re crazy about—just crazy. When they say that the role of grandparent is the best in the world, they’re right. What a joy. What a joy.”
“I happen to believe that sommelier is the best role in the world. And I won’t be dissuaded.” More gusty laughter.
Just then, a bright blue Chevy Cruze roared up the farm’s drive and skidded to a stop in the makeshift parking area. A slim blonde stepped out almost before the tires had stopped spitting gravel. She walked toward them, her attention glued to her phone.
This must be Anna. Sam had told her that Oliver gave his time because he enjoyed talking to a fresh audience. Anna gave her time because she was attending community college and looking to accumulate service hours before applying to universities.
“A sommelier in Madrid,” Oliver blustered, “introduced me to a divine Tempranillo one humid night at a sidewalk restaurant on one of the plazas. Let me think how many years ago that was. . . .”
Anna lifted her head once she was upon them. “Oliver!” She gave him a wide smile and a hug.
Oliver stiffened. “Anna,” he said, the way someone might say Ebola.
Anna exchanged introductions with Genevieve and her parents. The girl projected sweet and wholesome prettiness. Her long hair appeared to have dried of its own accord, but had nonetheless dried in a mussed way that looked great.
“It’s so cool that your parents came by,” Anna said to Genevieve. Before Genevieve could reply, she continued. “I just finished brunch with my parents. My mom’s a nurse and my dad’s an accountant. You’d think accountants wouldn’t have any personality—because . . . numbers. But he has lots of pers
onality.” Her phone beeped, and she looked down at it for a few seconds. Her focus lifted again. “He took me golfing with him the other day, and he had the guys laughing and laughing. They were all drinking way too much on the course, by the way. I was all, ‘How are you expecting to drive the ball straight after flagging down the cart girl for beer every time she comes by’—and they called me a rookie. The day was so warm. Perfect for golf! Anyway . . . numbers.”
Anna’s conversation made as much sense as a preschooler’s scribble.
“Mmm,” Dad said, nodding.
Oliver cleared his throat. “About that night in Madrid,” he ventured, just as Mom said, “Do you have siblings, Anna?”
“Yep!” She tucked her phone into the back pocket of the tight jean shorts she’d paired with a voluminous T-shirt. “I have two older brothers. One’s still in college, and one’s working in Atlanta. I’m definitely going to stay with him for a few days over Christmas break, which can’t get here soon enough, you know?”
Mom’s face pinched with consternation as she waited for the tiniest of opportunities to talk about herself.
“I’m taking twelve hours this semester,” Anna continued, “and chemistry is kicking my booty. I need about five cups of apple cider to make me feel better after all that chem. Is the apple cider hot?”
“It is,” Genevieve supplied.
“Yay!”
Just then Genevieve spotted Sam’s John Deere tractor and her heart hitched with delight. The tractor topped a rise and continued toward them, slowly towing guests back to the farm stand.
Anna checked her phone, turned the mobile receipt printer a different direction, started to jot a note to herself, got distracted, then unstacked the baskets guests used to pick their own produce and displayed them in a different way.
Frowning, Oliver stacked them back the way they’d been while Mom provided Oliver and Anna with dossiers on her two grandchildren that Oliver and Anna obviously cared nothing about.
The visitors who’d taken Sam’s tour moved toward the farm stand with their apples. Anna snapped to attention when they were just feet away, as if she hadn’t seen them coming, as if they’d materialized out of thin air.