SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 Page 5

I backed into the kitchen, hurrying to turn off the water. Once again, I felt helpless and frightened for my friend and her father. The pleading continued, but I stood in the kitchen wrapping my arms around myself—trying desperately to block out the frantic words.

  “What’s that?” Mr. Davis howled. “Me, come and join that weird bunch? Why, Berta Jean, that’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t think of leaving my life behind for that oath-taking baloney. How can you?”

  I fought back tears and hurried outdoors with the glass of water. By the time Chelsea was ready to come indoors, the phone conversation had come to an abrupt end. It wasn’t up to me to fill her in. I shouldn’t have heard any of it in the first place.

  “You okay?” I asked, watching my friend closely.

  She steadied herself against the kitchen counter. “I’m so mad I can hardly stand up,” she admitted. “All the weird stuff. Mom’s totally flipped—hiding out in that shed, so close to our house.”

  “It’s not that close.” I glanced out the window. “You can hardly see it from here.”

  She came over and stood beside me, still wheezing slightly. “I guess you’re right, but…” She stared out the window, wearing a troubled look. “You don’t think…my mom’s not living out there, is she?”

  “There’s no evidence of a bed or anything.” I thought about the phone conversation I’d partially overheard. “No, Chelsea, I don’t think your mom’s staying there.”

  “I sure hope not,” she whispered, forcing her gaze away from the window.

  I gave her a quick hug good-bye. “I think it’s time you talked to your dad, though. Just the two of you.”

  Her father came into the kitchen looking dejected, and Chelsea rushed over, crying. They scarcely noticed as I slipped out the back door.

  The sun was slipping fast over the horizon as I ran down the dirt lane toward home. I held on to my camera case, keeping it from flopping.

  Lights twinkled in the downstairs windows of my house just ahead. How I welcomed their golden glow!

  At the intersection of Strawberry Lane and SummerHill, I ran across the street, then darted up the long, sloping lawn, past the grand white gazebo centered in our backyard, and onto the back steps. For once I didn’t check to see if any of my feline friends still lingered outdoors.

  It wasn’t until I was washing my hands for supper that I realized I hadn’t returned the diary. The hard, fat lump protruded out of my back pocket.

  Chelsea’s mom had been writing bizarre things in her daily entries, that was true. I could only hope that by snooping a little, perhaps I’d find additional clues.

  Where was Chelsea’s mom?

  Chapter

  10

  Supper by candlelight meant one of two things at our house: Either we were entertaining company, or it was a holiday.

  Mom had a funny way of connecting with holidays—even the insignificant ones. They were her excuse to show off culinary skills, not to mention her fine hostess abilities.

  But a linen-and-lace tablecloth and napkins on the first Friday in October by no means represented a holiday, significant or otherwise.

  Still, it was a special event—Skip’s first weekend home since we’d bid him farewell on that sweltering day in August.

  “How’s college treating you?” Dad asked, slapping Skip’s shoulder playfully as the two of them wandered into the dining room.

  “I like it just fine,” Skip said, his face shiny and hair still damp from his shower. Mom always liked it when we freshened up before mealtime. Besides, Skip probably needed freshening up—he’d driven many miles in order to put his feet under her table.

  We sat opposite each other, Skip and I. Dad’s easygoing grin stretched from ear to ear as he settled into his usual spot at the head of the table. Mom sat at the far end across from Dad, nearest the kitchen. Dad prayed, thanking the Lord for Skip’s safe return, then the food was passed. Prime rib, mashed potatoes and gravy, dried-corn casserole, sweet baby peas, homemade biscuits and butter—the works. Once again, Mom had knocked herself out for us. For Skip, really.

  Halfway through supper, I asked Skip if he knew who Randall Eastman was. “Supposedly he won first place in the photography contest last year.”

  Skip glanced at the ceiling, thinking. “Oh yeah, I remember hearing something about that. Isn’t he the principal’s nephew or something?”

  “Something like that.” I couldn’t believe he hadn’t paid attention to last year’s contest. Having a sister who was a photography fanatic ought to have tuned him in at least a little. “So do you know him?” I persisted.

  “Barely.” He pulled on his open shirt collar. “Seems to me the guy’s a loner. A little nerdy, too.”

  “That figures,” I sneered. “Most artists are misunderstood.”

  He shot back, “Well, you oughta know.” Skip was taunting me. I wished he’d stayed at college.

  Mom leaned forward, reaching for my hand. “Oh, honey, that’s not how we think of you.” She’d always been quick to qualify off-the-wall statements by her firstborn. Especially those directed at me. Or Faithie. Except that my twin sister hadn’t lived long enough to experience the unrelenting nature of our big brother’s flapping tongue. I was almost positive if Faithie were alive today, she would be even less tolerant of Skip’s constant condemnation.

  “You just have to have someone to pick on,” I muttered.

  Mom eyeballed me. “Your brother’s been home less than an hour, and here you are—”

  “Hon,” Dad intervened as usual. “It’s okay. We’re all a little tense from the long week. The kids, too.”

  “Yeah,” Skip said, hopping on Dad’s bandwagon. “Let’s cool it, okay?”

  I wanted to bop him good. How was it that he could get by with derogatory comments? This was firstborn ballyhoo at its best!

  Mom and I cleared the table, letting the men in the family sit around and twiddle their thumbs. The way I saw it, if Dad truly had a say in serious table etiquette, he would’ve been up helping us by now. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who insisted on being served by females. Never had.

  But Skip? My brother simply adored being waited on. Hand, foot, and mouth. I, despising the submissive younger-sister role, had made a point of sidestepping the issue as much as possible. With him at least.

  The festive dinner tapers had burned down about an inch when Mom and I brought in her cream cake. Made with sweet milk from the Zooks’ dairy, the dessert was unbelievably rich. The cream filling alone was outrageous. Dad’s cousin Hazel had once called the sumptuous dessert sinful due to its extravagant, fattening ingredients.

  “Well,” Dad said, eyes shining in anticipation, “shall we ask the blessing once again?”

  Mom giggled like a schoolgirl. “You may, if you like.”

  “Oh, Dad, please,” I groaned.

  Skip joined Dad in rubbing his stomach and, in general, hammed it up.

  Dad was on his second cup of coffee when Skip started telling about some of the extracurricular activities on campus. “You name it, we’ve got it,” he said with pride. “Several Bible study groups meet after hours. One in particular is kinda cool.”

  Dad’s cup clinked as he placed it back on the saucer. “Let’s hear about it, son.”

  I knew I’d be required to stay put and listen, even though Skip’s idea of captivating conversation was about as interesting as a car mechanics manual.

  After another ten minutes of college talk, I excused myself. “I’ll start loading the dishwasher.”

  Mom nodded silently.

  Unfortunately, I could still hear Skip’s voice even as I made the usual kitchen clean-up noises. I drew the hot water for the silverware. Never in a million years would Mom allow the dishwasher to clean her good stuff. So I washed the flatware by hand, beginning with the spoons.

  Dad’s comments floated into the kitchen. “Sounds like a simple case of first-semester blues,” he was telling Skip. “You’ll survive it, son. Give it a few more months.
”

  Without help from Mom, I finished off the work in the kitchen, even the pots and pans. I was on my way upstairs, heading to my room to tackle homework, when I thought of Chelsea. I said a prayer for her and her family and then worked on history questions until I got stuck. Quickly, I went back downstairs to ask Dad about it.

  In fifteen minutes, I had my answer and was scurrying to my room when I nearly collided with my brother. He was coming down the hall, waving his portable phone. “Was my little Merry hiding the phone?” he taunted.

  I lunged at him. “Were you in my room? You know better! And don’t call me your little Merry!”

  Playfully, he pushed me away. “Hey, relax, cat breath.” He shoved the phone into his back pocket. “Don’t freak out.”

  “Stay out of my room, you hear?” I shouted, turning on my heel and slamming my bedroom door.

  Mom came up in a few minutes, inquiring about the racket. “I want the two of you to stay away from each other,” she said as we stood in the hallway.

  I glanced at Skip. “For the whole weekend?” I hoped she meant it.

  “We’ll have to wait and see.” Before she said more, Skip, sporting a smirk, disappeared into his room. “Now, Merry,” Mom continued, “your brother’s home for a reason. He’s tired and was severely homesick, so I want you to ease up on him. Please?”

  “Tell him that!”

  “Merry? What’s bothering you?” She looked concerned.

  I fought my anger over Skip’s coming home and barging back into my life. I struggled with feelings of helplessness over Chelsea’s mother. Where was she? How could she leave her family? I hated the lump in my throat.

  Then I did an impulsive thing. I threw myself into Mom’s arms.

  “Merry, honey, what’s wrong?” She held me close.

  I cried as though my heart would break. Actually, it was breaking. Breaking for my friend Chelsea and the horrible thing she was going through.

  Before too many more seconds passed, I broke free of Mom’s embrace without a word and made a beeline to my room. There, I finished crying my eyes out in private.

  Chapter

  11

  Thank goodness Mom didn’t hound me about being upset. She was smart that way. She’d learned not to push things with me when I was off-kilter. And it was a good thing, too, because there was no getting around it—I wouldn’t break my promise to Chelsea.

  Later, when I settled down a bit and my voice didn’t sound all crackly from crying, I called Chelsea. “I’ve been thinking about you,” I said, curled up in Dad’s comfortable desk chair downstairs. The study was quiet—no chance of being disturbed here.

  “I’m glad you called,” she said. “My dad and I talked for a long time after you left. And I told him that you knew everything.”

  “Even about the missing money?”

  “That too.”

  “Is it a problem…my knowing?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Not really. Dad’s so bummed out he couldn’t care less who knows anymore. But I’m not just gonna sit around and wait for him to wake up. I’d like to jolt him good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She sighed. “Oh, Dad’s so into himself these days—won’t talk much. Withdrawn, I guess you’d say.”

  “He’s mad, probably.” I would be, too, I thought.

  “I’ve been thinking, Mer. What if we called the cops and reported a missing person?”

  “That’s a jolt, all right.”

  “So…what do you suggest? Got a better idea?” I could tell she was desperate.

  “There is something,” I said, thinking about the phone call from Chelsea’s mom. “You know about your mom’s call to your dad today, right?”

  “Uh-huh. Dad told me, and he’s mighty sick about her attitude.”

  “Well, what if there’d been a tap on your line when she called? Then the phone company could’ve traced the call, and we might know where your mom is hiding out.”

  “Hey, a genius idea, Mer! When could we get it done?”

  “The sooner the better,” I suggested.

  “But…wait a minute. Don’t we need to call the police about something like this?”

  I gripped the phone. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “Okay,” she said, trying to sound more confident. “I’ll call the police department tomorrow morning.”

  “What about now?” It was a test. I wanted to see how serious she really was.

  “Now?” came the raspy reply.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  There was an unusually long pause. “Well…okay, I guess.”

  “Call me after you talk to the cops,” I said.

  “Man, Dad’s gonna kill me,” she whispered.

  “Wait till he goes to bed—then call.”

  “Good idea.” She paused for a second. “Could you put the portable phone under your pillow again tonight?”

  “I’ll see. I’ll have to smuggle it out of Skip’s room, you know. He’s home now and being a bear about it.”

  “Try really hard. Please?”

  “Okay, I’ll give it a shot, but knowing Skip, I can’t promise anything.” I sighed. “Oh, before I hang up, I’d better tell you that I accidentally brought your mom’s diary home with me.”

  “Just bring it over tomorrow.”

  “I will…and Chelsea?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I wanna go back to the hut again.”

  “You do? Why?” There was fear in her voice.

  “I wanna have another look around.”

  “Didn’t you get enough pictures?” she asked.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Thanks for calling, Merry.”

  “Take care. ’Bye.” I hung up feeling closer to Chelsea than ever. Something was different between us. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I sensed it strongly. I was pretty sure when things had begun to change—after the prayer on the stone walkway today. That was it! Chelsea actually seemed different after my prayer.

  I fooled around, watching TV for a while. Skip kept to himself in his room the rest of the evening. Dad and Mom were kind of out of it, too. I didn’t blame them for hanging out upstairs in their master bedroom. They had a sitting area in one corner, and I could imagine Mom curled up with a book in her favorite overstuffed chair. Dad was probably already snoozing. He fit the old adage, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”

  Around nine-thirty, I felt restless. Nothing good on TV, as usual. I retreated to my room, calling for my cats to follow but keeping my voice down. Skip was cat queasy, and the last thing I wanted to deal with tonight was a tongue-lashing about my precious babies.

  Once inside my room, the cat quartet knew where to go. My blue comforter was their favorite indoor place to be.

  I undressed for bed, looking forward to sleeping in. No school tomorrow—Saturday. I knew I’d have to get up at a fairly decent hour, though. I wanted to start scouting out the possibilities for good photography subjects. The contest deadline was one month away, but the way I liked to work, I needed every bit of that time to choose a subject, take various angles, have the film developed, and then select my best work.

  All comfy in my long pajamas, I slipped into bed and pulled up the blanket and comforter. My Bible was within reach on the nightstand, but when I stretched out my arm, my fingers touched something else: Mrs. Davis’s diary.

  I picked it up. Do I dare read it? I wondered.

  Feeling a twinge of guilt, I opened to the first page. The name Berta Jean Davis was scrawled across the top. I looked for a phone number or an address but found nothing.

  I studied the writing. Since I had no idea how Chelsea’s mother usually signed her name, I had no method of comparison. But looking at it now, her signature seemed hurried, almost frantic.

  Mrs. Davis had never impressed me as someone in a hurry. She was the epitome of neatness and order. She was a nurse after all, and must’ve been a very g
ood one to reach administrative levels.

  I was about to close the diary and quit my snooping when a tiny set of symbols caught my eye. It was quite difficult to see them—if a person hadn’t been searching out clues as I was, there’d be no spotting them.

  Anyway, there in the lower left-hand corner, I noticed the same mysterious marks as I’d seen on the long black box in the shanty hut. Only these had been written upside down.

  I stared at them, fighting the urge to record the strange marks on a piece of paper. Hesitating, I wondered if they might be some sort of curse. I cringed at the thought of having the diary inside my house. At night, no less! I abandoned the idea of copying the marks and placed the diary back on my lamp table.

  Stress had always triggered hunger pangs in me, so I got up and went to my walk-in closet. There, in several shoe boxes, I had stashed snack food. My own private food pantry. Although Mom thought it was downright silly, she didn’t mind. I found some apple-flavored fruit leather to munch on. After brushing my teeth the second time in less than an hour, I reached for my Bible and devotional book, allowing the Scriptures and thoughts for the day to wash over me.

  I kept waiting for Chelsea to call. After all, I’d gone to great lengths to get back the portable phone—waiting until Skip was asleep to make my move. Into his room I’d crept, tiptoeing through enemy territory. Silently, I’d snatched the phone off the dresser and padded down the hallway, quiet as a cloud.

  Now the phone lay innocently under my pillow. But it hadn’t rung yet, and I seriously doubted if Chelsea had called the police like she’d said she would.

  Sleep played tag with me—I was ‘it’ and couldn’t catch her. I turned on my side, thinking of Chelsea Davis and the eerie feeling I’d had as my friend and I stepped gingerly toward the hut. Worse, I remembered Chelsea’s dad’s persistent pleadings when his wife had called.

  The day’s images floated over me. I flipped on my back, staring up at the dark ceiling. “Oh, Lord, please do something,” I prayed. “Don’t let Mrs. Davis get sucked into this…this evil hole.”

  More images. This time, the memory of Chelsea’s eyes darting away from mine, tears glistening after my prayer. I felt dizzy. Lying here in my own bed, I felt faint! Yet the more I pushed the images and words away, the more they persisted. True light…resisting the true light. The woods…dark, snarling vines…the old hut. Black candles…incense…wine bottles…the possibly satanic book…