Chapter Forty-Seven Piper
Chapter Forty-Seven
Piper
Kiersten closed the book. Her features hardened into an expression Piper had never seen before.
“What do you think he’s going to do?” Rosamund whispered.
“I don’t know. I only know that he’s awful,” Kiersten said with a quiet vehemence that startled Piper.
“What else do we know about him?” Piper asked, going into investigation mode.
“Not much.” Kiersten’s shoulders hunched. “We don’t know his last name. Or Dottie’s married or maiden name. Dottie’s father owned a car dealership somewhere nearby. She was valedictorian of her high school class. And that’s it. Dottie and Dickie, newlyweds who lived on Beaverbrook Lane in 1965.”
“Anything else?” Piper asked.
“Those names didn’t ring any bells with the old guy who lived in our house.
He suggested we talk to Lillian. She’s eighty-seven and sharp as a tack, according to him.
And I’ve been meaning to, but I’ve been so busy with school and the Harvest Festival that I haven’t had time to sit down with her.
And she’s leaving early tomorrow morning to visit her son in Chicago again. ”
“What about the Influencer?” Rosamund asked. “Weren’t you going to talk to her husband’s Grammy and Grampy?”
Kiersten nodded. “I was, but Grammy just had cataract surgery, and I didn’t want to bother them until she’s had a chance to recover. I plan to talk with them both, once we get this harvest extravaganza over with.”
“Have you read anything beyond this diary entry?” Rosamund asked.
“No.” Kiersten shook her head. “It takes time. A lot of the entries are devoted to recipes she’s experimenting with, and mundane things like the weather and washing the curtains. And her handwriting is so small that it’s hard to read.”
Piper nodded. “It’s been a long time since I’ve read anything in cursive.”
“I’ve been going slowly,” Kiersten said, “to make sure I don’t miss anything, like a name or an initial or a reference to something that might help us figure out who she is. Like the other day I went back and reread early entries and realized that she referred to her school as ‘good old SMA.’”
Piper frowned. “SMA?”
Kiersten nodded. “Dottie got married right out of high school, so it’s not a college. I’m not sure what it stands for.”
Piper sighed. “Someone on this street must know something about the past.”
“I always thought the past was better,” Kiersten said quietly.
“Everyone knowing their neighbor. No social media. But now I’m starting to think .
. . I don’t know . . . like the fact that she needed permission to get birth control pills.
I guess I thought the ’60s were all drugs and free love .
. . but this . . . well, this is very different from what I imagined. ”
Rosamund took a sip of tea. “I think the late ’60s were different. But this phase, in the early to mid-’60s, right before the women’s liberation movement . . . well, I think maybe these are the reasons there was a women’s liberation movement.”
Kiersten nodded. “I’d have burned my bra too. I mean, I’ve always wanted to be a nurse, and I could have done that in 1965, but there were no female police officers back then. What if I’d wanted to go into law enforcement, like you?”
Piper was silent for a moment. Then she said, “There’s something else going on right now that isn’t very nice and pumpkin spice either.”
Kiersten frowned. “What?”
“Someone is leaving things . . . in my yard. On my front porch.”
“What kinds of things?”
“A box of worms from a pet-supply company.”
Rosamund shuddered. “Worms?”
“Yeah,” she said grimly. “Someone also left a bloody piece of paper in my front yard.”
Kiersten’s eyes went wide. “I found one of those nailed to the tree in my front yard too. And in my backyard.”
“Did it say anything?”
“Something like ‘I’m watching you.’ At first I just assumed it was one of my kids.”
Piper felt her eyebrows shoot up. “Your boys would do that?”
“As a joke, yes. Boys are wonderful. And disgusting. But I asked them, and they didn’t know anything about it. I thought about calling the police, but I wasn’t sure if it was serious enough, and then with everything else going on, it kind of moved to the back burner.”
Rosamund’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been finding . . . dead things . . . on my welcome mat.”
“What kind of dead things?” Piper asked, leaning forward.
“Two or three mice. A frog. And last week, a squirrel. I thought it was our cat . . . but maybe it’s not?”
Piper sighed. “Okay. I need to think about this. Do you want to keep reading?”
“Yes,” Kiersten said. “I feel like Dottie’s trying to tell us something. Something important.”