Page 40 of Stay Buried

The woman looked blankly at the photo, then up at Ashley. “Can’t say I do.”

“You don’t have records of guests? A logbook or anything?” Ashley asked, glancing pointedly at the book the clerk had written Ash’s name in.

“From two years ago?” The woman seemed to be stifling a laugh. “We don’t keep anything that long, hon.”

“Got it,” Malcolm broke in, smiling at the clerk. “Thank you. We’ll go get settled. Let you get back to your puzzles. Doing them in pen like that… that takes skill. You must be good.”

“You should see all the pages where I’ve had to scribble things out. What a mess!” She smiled up at him. “I’m Liz, by the way. Liz St. James. You need anything while you’re here, you let me or my husband, Jack, know. He’s here in the evenings. Works up at the factory during the day.”

“Great, thanks. Is there a Wi-Fi password?” Ashley asked.

“No internet. Have cable TV, though. Thirty-one channels.” She said this with an air of pride. “I’m partial to the baking shows. The cakes they make… works of art. I can make a cake, a good one too. I won a blue ribbon one year for my angel food.”

Mal smiled. “I love angel food cake.”

“The trick”—Liz leaned toward him with a conspiratorial smile—“is letting the eggs warm up. Cold egg whites don’t froth up right.”

“Well, Ash, seems you’ve got some competition here.” But he kept looking at Liz with his most charming smile.

“Anyhoo… don’t want to hold you two up. The pub’s about the only place in town to get food. The general store makes sandwiches and now they’ve got a pizza oven, so that’s an option too. If you need Wi-Fi, the library’s the place to get it. When it’s working, that is.”

“The pub sounds great,” Malcolm said.

“Could you tell us how to find the town hall?” Ashley asked. Sheknew that was the first place her mom would have gone to do genealogy research.

“Don’t have one.”

“Really?” Ash couldn’t keep the suspicion and disbelief out of her voice. When she’d done research on Boone’s Ferry and looked at maps, she was sure there had been a town hall.

“You could go see Lorelei Prentice,” Liz said. “She’s our town clerk. Her office is in her house. Go back across the bridge and take your first left on Hook Meadow Street—it’s just past the clothespin factory. Lorelei’s place is the fourth house on the right, pink with white trim. You can’t miss it. ’Course, on a day like this, she may not be in. She’s a painter. Does lovely watercolors. She did this one here,” Liz said, pointing to the deer painting.

“Very nice,” Ashley lied, looking at the painting. She noticed now that there was an ominous reflection in the animal’s huge black bulbous eyes: the gray silhouette of a man with a rifle. Down in the lower right corner, it saidOpening Day—Lorelei Prentice.

EIGHTEENFRANKIE

March 13, 1919

I’d been dreaming of my mother again. I was snuggled up against her while she burned feverishly in her deathbed, her lungs rattling as she struggled to take in air. She was clinging tightly to me, wrapping her whole self around me like a terrible serpent, crushing me, expelling all the air from my chest, leaving me breathless, while the walls started crumbling and closing in around us.

I sat up with a jolt, gasping for air, my own sheets damp with sweat. I lit the lamp and fumbled for my pocket watch. Someone was pounding on the door.

Quarter past four in the morning.

I’d gotten into bed just four hours ago.

We’d put Emile in Aunt Margaret’s sewing room behind the kitchen. There was a small bed in there so the room could double as a guest room when we had visitors. We’d checked on Emile before retiring at midnight, and he was still unconscious. Uncle Thomas had sewn up the wound on his neck, and we’d managed to warm him with hot water bottles and blankets. We couldn’t yet determine his prognosis—he’d lost a lot of blood and had been out in the bitter cold a very long time.

Uncle Thomas had applied a salve and a light dressing to Margaret’s abdomen where the hot water had scalded her skin. As he was tending to her, I noticed the dark circles under my aunt’s eyes, the hollow look on her face. She looked like she was losing weight when she should be gaining. Perhaps Uncle Thomas was right to be worried about her.

He’d left me with Emile while he brought Margaret upstairs to give her a sedative.

Since learning she was pregnant, Aunt Margaret had been sleeping on her own in the second bedroom upstairs—what’s to be the nursery when the baby is born. She’s always had trouble with fitful sleep, and it’s worse with the pregnancy. She thought it would be better for them both if she slept on her own.

The pounding at the door continued.

I jumped out of bed. My bedroom had once been a storage room. Now it contained a bed and a dresser, a few pegs on the walls to hang shirts and coats. The air was chilly, and I pulled on a pair of pants and a coat over my nightshirt and went to see who was banging on the door.

Uncle Thomas was running down the stairs, Margaret behind him.