Chapter 50

Annie pulled a few of her own pages, as well as Cookie’s scrapbook, out of her bag. “Here it is.”

“Well,” Vera said, “I’ve already seen it.”

She continued to sit in her chair while the other women gathered around as Annie sat the book on the table at Cookie’s spot, placing her own pages-in-progress in front of her.

“By the way,” Paige said, “I looked up Mary Jenkins to see if there were any traceable progeny. It doesn’t seem like it. I still need to check census records. So I have no idea who that woman in the picture is.”

“It’s odd that you couldn’t find anything. I mean, you know so much local history,” DeeAnn said. “Now, this book is amazing,” she said, turning back to Annie.

“It’s remarkable,” Annie said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s a beautiful pop-up. A story. A blue velvet pocket. Silk pages. Books within books. A bunch of stuff.”

DeeAnn folded her arms. “It’s hard to believe that Cookie could work any of that stuff. She could barely cut a photo out when she first started.”

“I know,” Annie said. “It’s odd. There must be an explanation. But I can’t get in to see her.”

“Neither can Bill half the time,” Vera said.

“What?” Sheila squealed. “He’s her lawyer.”

“She doesn’t want to see him,” Vera said and shrugged.

“Oh, look at this, this recipe tag, with these moon embellishments,” DeeAnn said.

Paige reached her hand to the page and felt the tag. “So smooth and rich,” she said. “Recipe for mugwort tea . . . hmm. Look at the beautiful ink and lettering.”

Annie ’s attention shifted to her own page. Ben’s soccer page. His sweet face looking at her from the page. She was considering where to place the soccer ball sticker.

But Sheila’s innocent words stuck in her gut.

I’m surprised you’re not with them.... To get the story, of course.

What had she turned into? When she lived and worked in Maryland and D.C., she covered several dangerous stories—everything from a cocaine ring to a dogfighting ring. Those were some dangerous men. Sure, she was a little afraid, but she was smart and figured they were not. She outsmarted them every time with her careful research and methods. Why was this case any different?

“Isn’t that beautiful?” Paige said, pointing to a page.

“Beautiful and strange,” DeeAnn said. “How did she do that? Get that color?”

“She painted the paper and the photo,” Sheila said. “Interesting.”

“There’s a strand of red hair in the blue velvet pocket. I’m assuming it belongs to the woman in the picture,” Annie said. “Whoever she is.”

“Hmm,” Sheila said, barely paying attention. The three of them were immersed in the scrapbook, with all its beauty, its weird images, and information.

“What did you think, Annie?” Vera said from across the table.

“When I first saw the strand of red hair, it startled me. I immediately thought of the dead girls,” Annie said, then took a long drink of her beer.

The women mulled over the clipped red hair and sat silently for a few moments.

“Have you tried the hummus?” Vera said to Annie.

“It’s good, “Annie said and went back to her page.

Yes. She had always been a good journalist. Careful with her facts and research. Willing to take calculated risks. But maybe this risk was too much. There was a murderer out there—a troubled person, carving runic symbols into young redheads, perhaps painting them on houses, someone who perhaps had it in for her and her family simply because they were Jewish. There was that mysterious call. Then Beatrice’s house being painted. But it had started before then—the day she’d driven Beatrice out to Jenkins Hollow and she’d seen the swastika on a barn. Since then, Detective Bryant had told her it was more than kids playing pranks. Hadn’t he?

She thought about her grandparents and the people they knew who were in the Holocaust, and an overwhelming sense of awe came over her. How did they survive? What kind of strength and fortitude did they have? What was her problem? Why couldn’t she face this ignorant group of locals?

“My God,” DeeAnn said. “Is that Elizabeth?”

“What?” Vera stood up. “Where?”

“Here, in this picture.”

Vera walked around the table. “Yes. It’s a picture of Cookie with Elizabeth.”

“It’s so odd-looking,” DeeAnn said. “Look how old it looks.” She held up the picture.

“Oh,” Sheila said, “you can age any picture with the right techniques.”

“Sure,” Vera said and sighed. “But I wonder what this picture is doing in this scrapbook of shadows.”

Sheila shrugged. “Oh, you know Cookie isn’t the most organized person. It could’ve come from anywhere.”

“Wow,” Paige said. “Look at this pop-up. Amazing.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” Sheila said.

“You know, from this angle it looks like our mountains,” Vera said.

“What are you talking about?” Annie said.

“You know . . . I think you’re right. Look,” Paige said. “The center mountain is the shape of Jenkins Mountain. This looks like the hollow. And here is the cave. . . .”

Annie’s stomach churned, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up, something it had done only a few times in her life.

“Okay,” Vera said after several minutes of utter silence, each woman deep in thought and looking at the scrapbook. “It’s a model of a section of the local mountains. So?”

Just then Annie’s cell phone went off. Damn. When she saw the call was from her editor, she momentarily thought of not picking up. “Excuse me, ladies. I have to take this.”

“Annie Chamovitz.”

“Annie, this is Steve,” her boss from the paper said. “How are you doing? They find him yet?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. The last I heard, they were looking for him in the mountains.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Is that where you are?”

“No. I’m at a friend’s house. It is Saturday night and—”

“Listen, Annie, should I send someone else?”

“No, of course not,” she said. “It’s just I’m not sure I have to be on the ground for this. If they find him, Bryant will let me know.”

All the women were now looking at Annie.

“Are you kidding me, Annie? I want you on that guy’s case. Maybe I should send a staff reporter. I want us to be the first one on this story.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Murder in a small Virginia town? That doesn’t make headlines in a Washington paper, even online. You need to tell me what you know, or you can find someone else to cover this. And you can bet your sweet ass they’ll get lost for days up there.”

Her friends’ eyes widened.

“Okay,” he said after a minute. “We’ve gotten an anonymous tip that there may be some major drug trafficking moving in and out of that area. You in?”

“Now you’re talking, and I’m on my way,” she said, hanging up the phone and gathering up her things. Should she call Mike, wake him up, or just wait to fill him in tomorrow?

“I’ll put on a pot of coffee,” Sheila said.

“I’m going to call Mike and tell him I’ll be late,” Annie announced.

“What are you doing?” Vera said. “You’re not—”

“I’m going to Jenkins Hollow. I need to be covering this story,” Annie said.

“Tonight?” Vera said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? The cops are up there tonight, still looking for Luther,” Sheila said, switching on the coffeepot. “Let’s all go. We’ll be safe. Now, go call your mom, Vera. Tell her you’ll be late.”

“She has Lizzie for the night. I don’t need to call her. They are probably both sound asleep.”

“You don’t have to come, Vera. None of you need to come. I’ll be all right. This is my story,” Annie said, thinking that it was time she followed her gut instincts. From the minute she met Luther, she’d felt ill at ease. She’d allowed her fear to get in the way. What was she turning into? She’d been seriously sidetracked by trying to prove that Cookie was innocent.

“Are you kidding?” Paige said. “I know those mountains like the back of my hand. You don’t. You’re going up there to get lost. I won’t have it. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do. Besides, this is exciting. I wouldn’t miss it. I’m always up for an adventure.” She closed her scrapbook and then reached for her purse.