Scrapped

Here she was, a woman who until recently was haunted by her husband’s ghost. And a woman who believed in quantum physics, had seen it applied in her own life. She was a national expert; she was quoted in journals and books about the ways of quantum physics. So often, she was the subject of ridicule by the scientists on the other side of the issue—physicists who would not entertain some of her research, particularly her ideas about creating reality, the shifting nature of time, and the possibility of time travel. And yet the minute Cookie started talking with her about witchcraft, she jumped to all the wrong conclusions.

Well, hell’s bells, how was she supposed to know that witchcraft was a real religion? And it was a religion that asserted that you could alter reality—which was right up Beatrice’s alley. She’d participated in experiments that proved that thoughts and prayer could shift reality.

“You can call it prayer,” Cookie had once told her. “I call it magic. It’s about connecting with the universe, asking for it to listen, and watching as things unfold. We use different props, that’s all, my friend.”

And Beatrice had always believed in the possibility of prayer and had seen its power many times in her life. Sometimes, when she was alone on a warm night, especially in the hills, and she looked out on the star-filled sky, she felt like all she needed to do was ask and she could be lifted into the night.

So, tonight, as cool as it was, she bundled up and sat on her front porch to talk with whatever entity was listening, to let him, her, or it know that she knew she was full of hubris and probably had been her whole life, but that she knew, felt it in every inch of herself, that Cookie was an innocent woman. Even with her strange, wild ways and mysterious past. This young woman was good.

Something had brought Cookie to Cumberland Creek. Whatever it was, Beatrice was grateful for it. This young woman added so much to their lives. Elizabeth loved her. And no matter what you say, babies, children, they know good people. Yes, they do. So please, God, Goddess, all, and whatever angels, ghosts, or demons are around, please help get our Cookie out of trouble.

Beatrice knew Annie was upset and had tried to talk the detective out of believing the evidence. But the fact that the earring was at the crime scene? That was strong evidence and really, really bad luck. How to prove Cookie was innocent? How?

She thought back to the day they found the first body. Cookie was at Vera’s, making pumpkin soup and bread. She was as shocked as everybody else by the murder. Beatrice knew that Cookie did not commit that murder. Goodness filled her—even if it was a kind of goodness Beatrice could not quite relate to.

Beatrice looked at the stars, the planets, and wondered if Cookie even had a window. She thought about the look on Cookie’s face when she left the room that night, and was certain that she would not do well in jail. As strong as Cookie was, there was an underlying fragility in her.

Beatrice stood. She opened her door and turned her back on the night sky, grateful for the heat of her home as it rose to meet her old bones.

Sunday mornings used to be so calm for Vera—now they were filled with the chaos and noise of motherhood. And she preferred it like this. Only sometimes she wished for a moment of solitude.

But this morning her phone rang around ten—still early for a Sunday. She propped Lizzie on her hip and answered it. “Hello.”

“Hey there. It’s me,” Sheila said.

“What’s up? Did you go for your run yet?”

“Of course I did. I changed my route this morning, kept close to home. I’m a little freaked out by all the murders. I thought about not going at all, but I try to run every morning. You know that. Might do you some good. Gets your blood moving.”

“I chase Lizzie around and dance Tuesdays through Saturdays. That’s enough for me, dear,” Vera said.

“Are you going up to see your aunt?”

“Next Sunday,” she said. “Bill will have Liz. Besides, I wasn’t too sure about heading up there this weekend. It’s creeping me out.”

“I know what you mean,” Sheila said. “If you get a chance, why don’t you come by? I want to show you this book.”

“What book?”

Lizzie was squirming and wanting to get down. Finally, she slid down Vera’s body to the floor.

“Cookie’s book that we found. It’s here, and it’s, um, odd.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you come for lunch? I’ll see what Annie and Bea are doing. I’d like you all to see it.”

“Must be a hell of a book.”

“There’s leftovers from last night, so let’s just meet in the basement and I’ll show you what I mean.”

After she hung up the phone, Vera ran into the living room, where Lizzie was scattering clean laundry all over the carpeted floor. Through the window she could see Beatrice coming up.

“Come in, Mother,” Vera said.

“What? Are you psychic now?” Beatrice said, opening the door.

“I wish. I’d play the lotto and win all kinds of money and not have to work a day in my life.”

“Now, I hope you’d remember your poor old mum,” Beatrice said, giving her daughter a hug before bending down to pick up Lizzie.

“Gran!” Lizzie squealed.

“How are you?” Beatrice said to her, sparking up the way she did every time she saw her.

“Well, Mom, help yourself. There’s biscuits and coffee out there in the kitchen. I need to take a shower. Do you mind?”

“Nah, of course not.”

“Listen, Sheila called and said she has one of Cookie’s books. . . .”

“That scrapbook-looking thing?”

“I guess,” Vera said as she started up the stairs. “Anyway, she wants us to come for lunch and to check it out.”

“Eh, I don’t know. I’ve got a snoot full of the scrapbook queens these days. You know me. I like being alone.”

“Suit yourself, but I’m heading over there to check it out. She said the book is very strange.”

“Strange, huh? Maybe I will go.”

When she reached the top landing, Vera remembered that Sheila had invited Annie to tag along, and went back downstairs. “Can you call Annie? Sheila wants her there, too.”

“Annie’s not home. She’s off to the prison this morning, interviewing Mary Schultz.”

“I thought she was finished with that book?”

“She is.”

“Then what—”

“I believe she’s trying to get information about the recent murders.”

“From Mary? Bill said she’s lost her mind over killing her father.”

“He pushed her to it, I’m sure,” Beatrice said. “Can you imagine?”

Vera turned and walked back up the stairs. Why, she had never thought that there could be a link between Mary and the murder victims. That thought moved around in her brain and both intrigued her and scared her. Poor Mary Schultz had gone through hell, which left her a bit crazy. There was Annie, off to see her. God, she hoped Annie was careful—and she hoped that her friend would unearth what she needed to help get Cookie out of jail.