Hidden in Shadow Pines (8 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sunday, August 11, 2013, 12 p.m.
(day 6 in Shadow Pines—on my own)

Two-and-a-half hours of church was too much for me. I was ready for fresh air. Jaime invited me to her older brother’s house for lunch, but I told her I wanted to return the cupcake plate to Francine. What I really wanted was to be alone for a while and check out my hunch.

By the time I walked back to Jaime’s house to pick up the cupcake plate and the long walk to the Stovall residence, it was almost two o’clock.

The Stovall home was the largest in town and the only house on Stovall Street, the northern-most street in Shadow Pines. A quarter-mile driveway led to the white, two-story colonial-style house with four large columns. The house had probably been beautiful at one time, but now it looked as though it hadn’t seen new paint in twenty years. Based on the houses in Jaime’s neighborhood, I expected the house to be in pristine condition. Apparently the upkeep guidelines didn’t apply to the founding family.

I rang the doorbell, but no answer. I knocked, then knocked a little harder. Finally, I heard someone yell, “Hang on!”

Francine Stovall opened the door wearing a faded pink bathrobe and dirty white slippers. She looked at me in disgust and grunted, “What do you want?”

Trying not to seem shocked, I smiled and in my most pleasant voice said, “I brought back your plate. The cupcakes were fabulous. Red velvet is my favorite. Plus, I was hoping we could talk.”

Francine let out a big sigh. “Talk about what?”

“Shadow Pines. You’re the first family, and I haven’t had a chance to get to know you yet.” I couldn’t let on that I hoped the map Gloria had given me led to a clue.

Francine put her hands on her hips and looked me up and down. “Yeah, sure. Come on in,” she mumbled. She turned and shuffled down the hallway, yelling, “Close the door behind you. I’ll be in the kitchen making coffee.”

I stepped over the threshold and closed the door, having to give it an extra push to close it tightly.

The inside of the house looked as bad as the outside. Varying sized boxes sat stacked beside the front door, while a pillow and blanket lay on the living room couch. Several plastic bags filled with canned goods sat on top of the dining room table.

On my way to the kitchen, I looked at the antique photos hanging in the hallway. One photo caught my eye. “Francine, what’s the history behind this picture?”

Francine stuck her head around the kitchen corner so she could see the picture I pointed to. “My husband’s great-great-grandfather built that fireplace for the servants’ kitchen. It was a big deal back then—all the intricate detail. Building’s out there in the backyard.” She pointed her finger and I could see the building through the French doors.

I tried to calm my excitement. This photo looked like the drawing Gloria had given me. “Could I go out and look at it?”

Francine stuck her head around the kitchen corner again. “Why’d you want to do that? It’s just old and crumbling.”

Lying was becoming very easy. I didn’t enjoy lying, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. “I was fascinated with the 1800s in junior high. Even wrote several papers on the wealthy and poor of that period. Just being nostalgic.”

With a wave of her hand, Francine said, “Sure. Go ahead and look. I’ll have the coffee ready when you come back.”

I walked out the French doors and across the patchy lawn to reach the small building. A few chips of white paint remained sprinkled across the wood façade, and a few bricks were missing from the chimney.

Opening the door, I peeked inside before walking to the center of the room. The paint was peeling, and broken chair pieces were scattered across the floor. Footprints in the dust showed that someone had been in here recently.

The fireplace, the real reason I’d come in, was spectacular. It looked just like the drawing Gloria had given me. Deep down inside I had a feeling this fireplace meant something to me. It would help me figure a way out of Shadow Pines. I just couldn’t understand how right now.

Deciding not to keep Francine waiting, I started back to the house. Devlin stood in the backyard, ten feet from the French doors, giving me the same, unfriendly stare he’d displayed at church.

“Don’t want you here,” he said.

Not wanting to get too close, fearing he might hurt me, I stopped about five feet in front of him. “I’m sorry your father died trying to save my grandfather. I don’t think it’s fair you don’t like me because of that incident.”

In a slow, demanding voice, Devlin said, “Never, ever, tell me how I should feel.”

This was a different Devlin now, from the way he stood—taller—to the way he spoke—articulate.

Francine opened the French doors. “Coffee’s ready. Devlin, why don’t you go paint for a while.” Her timing couldn’t have been better. I shook off a shiver.

Devlin said, “Okay, Momma.” He gave me one last chilling look, then limped inside.

Francine pulled out both chairs at the island and handed me a cup of coffee. “Devlin will always be my little boy even though he’s twenty-five. When he was seventeen, he and his friend, Lincoln Blair, were riding four-wheelers and there was an accident. Devlin’s never been the same since then. His mind doesn’t work the way it should. He sees Claudia Parker for therapy twice a week. She helps him with his nightmares.”

“Did Devlin get his limp in the accident?” I asked.

“Yeah. He can’t do much, but he’s a beautiful painter. Spends a lot of time in his room painting and drawing.”

During our conversation I couldn’t help but look around at the cluttered kitchen. Several muffin tins and pie plates were stacked on the counter, along with four cake mixes and a dozen eggs. Three bowls, beaters, scrapers, and two plates sat in the sink. Plugged into the outlet behind a bag of flour was a flip phone. I looked twice, then a third time to be sure that’s what it was. Jaime had told me Shadow Pines didn’t have phones.

Francine asked me how I liked my activities, and how Jaime was treating me. At one point I felt that this was an interrogation rather than a friendly chat. I guess Francine was satisfied with my answers, though, because she suddenly said, “I’m sorry to have to kick you out, but I’ve got to make some cupcakes for a birthday party tonight.”

“No problem,” I answered promptly. “I have another engagement to get to anyway. Thanks for the coffee.”

Francine stood, tightening the belt on her robe. “Thanks for stopping by. Don’t mind Devlin. He’s harmless.”

As I walked down the driveway, I felt uneasy. I turned and saw Devlin standing in the front window, watching me.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sunday, August 11, 2013, 6:49 p.m.
(day 6 in Shadow Pines—at Thomas’s house)

“Hope I’m not too early,” I said to Thomas as he opened the door. He’d invited me over for dinner, and I hoped we
could figure a way to get me out of Shadow Pines.
According to the note left in the safe deposit box, he was the only other person I could trust, now that Gloria had died.

“Nope, perfect timing. Just need to put the final culinary touches on my famous chicken taco casserole,” Thomas said. “Come on into the kitchen.”

The layout of his house was similar to Jaime’s, except a wall separated the living room from the dining room. The placement of the couch, two chairs, and bookcases on either side of the fireplace mirrored Jaime’s living room. However, Jaime used red accent pillows, where Thomas used dark blue.

Entering the kitchen, I took a big whiff. “Smells delish,” I told Thomas.

“You like to cook?” Thomas stood at the island mixing butter, bread crumbs, and a dash of herbs in a small bowl.

I shrugged. “I’m an okay cook. I really enjoy making pies. Last week I won a blue ribbon at the
county fair for my apple pie. Seems like a lifetime ago now.”

Thomas sprinkled the mixture over the casserole. “I have the perfect pie dish.” Looking up and using his elbow as a pointer, he said. “It’s on the buffet behind you. Cranberry colored.”

I walked over to the buffet and picked up the dish. “I have one just like this.”

“Not like that one,” he objected. “Specially made for Shadow Pines residents to celebrate the town’s one-hundredth anniversary in 1954. It’s carved
sp
on the bottom.”

I flipped the dish over.
sp
. “But it is just like mine. I have one with the same initials.”

“That’s not possible…unless…” Thomas put the casserole in the oven and set the timer. “I need to get a photo. I’ll be right back.”

I put the dish down and looked at the other collectibles
on top of the buffet: a silver thimble, bronze cowbell, square glass dish full of marbles, and three pieces of rose china.

Thomas came back in the room with an expandable folder and emptied the contents on the dining room table.

“Thomas, what are you doing?” I asked.

Thomas didn’t answer. He was too focused on finding something as he rummaged through papers and photos.

“I can’t believe it,” he said enthusiastically, holding a photo in his hand.

Not sure if I was supposed to feel happy or scared, I asked, “Believe what? What are you talking about?”

Thomas looked up at me with a wide grin. He stretched his arm out, shaking the photo in his hand. “Here. Look at this photo. It’s a hutch. There’s a space.”

The photo in front of me, my first response was shock. The picture had obviously been taken at the scene of a house fire. Tiny patches of red showed through the otherwise charred remains of a hutch. Confused, I said, “So there’s a space.”

“Who gave you the pie dish?”

I tried to comprehend what the picture had to do with my pie dish. Rolling my eyes, I replied, “I don’t remember. I got it sometime after my parents’ accident. A lot of people brought food to the house. Not everybody came back for their dishes, so I just kept them.”

Thomas stroked his chin. “Interesting. Do you remember a man in his late fifties, early sixties?”

Now, I was officially mystified. What did a charred hutch and an elderly man have to do with my pie plate? And why was Thomas so eager to find a connection? I rubbed my right temple, thinking it would help me remember. “Fits the description of a few guys who worked with my dad. Why? Will you please tell me what’s got you so excited?”

“That picture and the rest of the folder deal with your grandfather’s house fire.”

I darted my eyes between Thomas and the photo in my hand. “Why do you have these pictures?”

“Besides being the bank manager, I’m also a volunteer fireman. I maintain records of cases that involve a death. Bowman Stovall died that day. We always thought your grandfather died as well.”

“Thought?” I stood staring at Thomas in disbelief, my mouth wide open.

Thomas walked over to me, grasping my upper arms and in a persuasive voice said, “I’m pretty sure your grandfather got out of Shadow Pines just like your father.”

“Are you crazy?” I was shocked, distressed. What was he suggesting?

“No. Look.” He pointed at the picture. “The empty space. That’s where the pie plate went. Your grandmother won pie baking contests. The last one she won was the year she passed away. Your grandfather must have taken the plate with him when he left. He secretly gave it to you because he figured out who you were.” Thomas looked as if he’d just solved a stunning mystery, but I definitely wasn’t on the same page.

I put the photo on the table and took a step back. “Okay, going along with your insane theory, if my grandfather didn’t die, whose body did they find?”

“I don’t know. The body was badly burned. We assumed it was Edison. No one else was reported missing.”

I frowned. “This theory would make a great storyline for one of my novels.”

Thomas shook his head as if pitying me for my refusal to believe him. “Then explain how you have a Shadow Pines pie plate.”

“I can’t.” I sighed. “How do you even know the pie plate sat in the hutch? In that very spot?”

“I went over to their house for dinner every other Sunday,” Thomas answered firmly. “Your grandmother never moved anything in the hutch. The first shelf held three china cups, the second shelf had four carved crosses, and the bottom shelf had the pie plate and two muffin-shaped candles. One time when I went over for dinner and noticed the empty spot, I asked her where the plate was. She said we were having apple pie for dessert and no other pie plate would do. It’s amazing the little things we remember. But that pie was the best I’ve ever eaten.”

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep.
Saved by a kitchen timer
, I thought. All the speculation about my grandfather was giving me a headache.

“Casserole’s done,” Thomas said.

Luckily Thomas changed the topic during dinner and we talked about my writing career. I tried to stay focused on the conversation, but still kept going over in my mind who could have given me the pie dish.

“Dinner was fabulous,” I said. Now we needed to talk about the real reason I’d come that evening—getting me out of Shadow Pines. “I’d love to say you can make dinner for me again. However, I don’t want to be here long enough for that to happen. I need to find a way out. Like my father.”

“And your grandfather,” Thomas added.

Oh no, here we go again
, I thought. I bit my lip. “I’m still not sold on your theory.”

Thomas stood, grabbing both plates and silverware. “I’ve got a box of photos in the closet. I’m sure I have a picture of Edison.”

Since Thomas wasn’t giving up on the subject, I decided to do a little research of my own. “Do you mind if I look through the folder?”

“No, go ahead. I’ll be right back.”

I grabbed the incident report first. The fire had started in the kitchen. Edison’s and Bowman’s bodies were found near the front door. Neighbors recalled Bowman entering the house minutes after flames were spotted. Firefighters arrived ten minutes after the siren. The house was a total loss. Cause of death for both men was ruled smoke inhalation.

“I found a few photos,” Thomas said, reentering the room. “I want you to look at them and see if you recognize anyone.”

What if Thomas’s theory was right? I took a deep breath. “Okay. Ready.”

Thomas handed me the pictures. My hands began to tremble. I looked at Thomas with tears in my eyes as I pointed to a man in the third photo. “I know this person. He’s my neighbor and my friend—Ed.”