Elsie
Chapter One
I’d gotten as far as the bakery.
An improvement from yesterday, when I had made it only to the end of my street before I’d been stopped and interrogated.
Apparently, in a town as small as Colbridge, blending in was not in the realm of possibility. The Wikipedia page failed to mention that tiny detail. Though, to be fair, I should’ve figured it out on my own when I read the population was a measly two thousand three hundred and four souls.
I made a mental note to add it myself—thank you, Wikipedia, for the community edit option—prepare any future temporary residents for the predicament I’d faced for the entire thirty-six hours I’d been here.
How could I word it?
Warning: Be prepared for cross-examination upon arrival. And then again, when you meet the next person. And then again when you meet the next. And so on and so forth.
I bit my lip to keep from smiling, trying to reengage in whatever the matronly woman in front of me was saying.
“And they told me, no one would ever move into Mr. Briggs’s old place, what with the murder business and all—”
“The what?” My eyes widened, the topic becoming interesting enough to finally lock me into the conversation.
“—but I told them: these young people, they don’t care about that stuff anymore.
They aren’t superstitious the way we old folks can be.
I told them how you young folks watch true crime for fun now, isn’t that right?
” She chuckled, clearly not aware that I—despite being one of those ‘young people’—was very much unnerved by the possibility of murder in the house I was currently residing in.
“Wait, sorry—can we rewind to the part about the murder?” I tried to cut in, thinking that Wikipedia wasn’t the only one to fail to prepare me for this town, but the Zillow listing as well, which certainly didn’t mention anything about the house I was renting being a crime scene!
“Oh, you didn’t hear yet? I thought someone would’ve told you by now,” she babbled. “Honestly, I’m shocked it hasn’t come up yet. It’s one of our best town stories. Who’s come over to visit with you so far, anyway?” She narrowed her impossibly wide eyes at me.
I blinked.
Truth be told, there had been more than a dozen knocks at my door since I’d arrived.
All of which went unanswered as I wallowed in the bedroom with the blinds drawn, trying to reconcile the fact that my life had fallen apart and I’d been self-exiled to some strange, land, that was perhaps only forty-five minutes South of my former life, but foreign all the same—all in the span of a week.
But when I finally emerged from the cocoon of isolation and ventured out the front door, I’d met no less than three people on my walk down the street before I decided to promptly turn around and go back into hiding.
This town was…strange. I noticed that immediately.
It was almost as if I’d been transported back in time.
People here talked to each other. They sat on their porches with neighbors.
Every shop was a mom-and-pop type of establishment, and there were more people walking and riding bikes than I’d seen anywhere except maybe in an eighties film.
All together, it gave me the eerie feeling of being stuck in a Truman Show type of situation.
“I, um, met a few people. I’m bad with names,” I said sheepishly, knowing quite well I had fully spaced out during all the conversations the same way I was doing with this poor woman. What had she said her name was? Debra something?
It wasn’t their fault. Everyone had been lovely…if a little overbearing. I just wasn’t in the headspace to make connections right now. Even trivial ones to sustain me for the next three months.
Debra something apparently didn’t care that talking to me was probably less of an interactive experience than she was hoping. She seemed happy enough to stand there and talk at me, which I let her do gladly.
I didn’t want to recap the ugly little whys regarding the reason a young, twenty-six-year-old would pack up her life and move to a town like Colbridge for three months. But I knew I’d need some type of explanation fast. One that didn’t leave room for questions.
“Oh, look!” Debra cut herself off in the midst of some drawn out monologue about her neighbor. “Here comes Cathy! Yoo-hoo.” She waved. “Cathy! Come meet our new friend, Elsie!”
I fought the urge to groan and run from yet another awkward encounter with someone I didn’t know. For a town so small, there never seemed to be a lack of people willing to make conversation.
To my dismay, the woman came barrelling over at a frightening speed. I wondered if she’d spent her mornings power-walking in practice for this very moment. If so, she’d take the gold.
“Well, well, well,” the woman said, striding up to us with a Cheshire cat grin. “What do we have here?”
I raised my hand, opening my mouth with a greeting prepared when Debra beat me to it.
“This is Elsie Cameron. She’s just moved here from Boston and she’s staying in old Mr. Briggs’s house,” she said, perfectly reciting every detail I’d told her in the first minute of our conversation.
“Oh, Mr. Briggs.” The newcomer tsked in dismay. “Shame about that murdering business, God rest his soul.”
“Yes, about that—” I tried again, demanding to know what on God’s green earth happened in the house I was laying my head down in each night. “Can you elaborate on what exactly—”
“Oh! You’re a darling!” the woman—Cathy?—cooed, looking me up and down like a proud grandmother. “And look at that hair. Beautiful.”
I tugged at my braid self-consciously. I never considered the coppery hues to be anything special, but one thing was for sure—every woman over the age of fifty certainly did.
“Thank you, but see, the problem is—now I’m kind of freaked out about sleeping in the murder-house tonight.” I grinned uneasily, feeling a stream of nervous laughter bubble out of me.
“Oh, don’t you worry.” Cathy smiled warmly, as if she didn’t just make me second guess (or, if I’m being honest, quadruple guess) my choice to stay here. “We’ll get you Will’s number, and if you have any issues, you can just give him a call. That’s what we all do.”
“Will?” I shook my head, feeling dazed, but Cathy and Debra were already deep in a conversation about the local grocer’s personal life that I felt like I had no business overhearing.
“—and his wife doesn’t even know,” Cathy quipped with a disapproving click of her tongue.
“Well, did we really expect anything less from Tommy’s boy?” Debra shrugged, resigned to accept the deterioration of character of the man she got her produce from. “It’s just a shame that poor Abbigail is stuck with him. She could’ve had her pick of the lot, but she chose him.”
I debated the likelihood of fleeing while they were hyper-focused on the town gossip, but as if sensing her prey escaping, Debra turned to me at that moment with renewed interest in her eyes.
“Have you met Abbigail yet? I think the two of you would be a pair.”
“Uh, no,” I said, shuffling my feet. “I only got here yesterday afternoon. I haven’t met anyone yet.”
“And how are you liking it?” she asked intently.
“It’s…” I thought of a suitable word for a place I had no particular interest in being and couldn’t wait to leave. “Perfect for what I need.”
AKA a temporary reprieve from the absolute hellscape that my former life had turned into.
The truth was, I didn’t know a thing about Colbridge before stepping foot here. I found a listing for a month-to-month house rental that was decently affordable and jumped at it.
All I could think was: out. I need to get out. I can figure out the rest later.
And a week later, here I was. I wasn’t pretending that Colbridge offered anything more than a decent deal on housing and the convenience of a speedy move-in date.
And the truth was, it was quaint. Adorably picturesque. Trees lining each cobblestone road, streams under bridges, gazebos in parks, and the type of old-school architecture that didn’t make your soul crumple under the weight of brash modernity.
But the thing was—I wasn’t going to be happy anywhere. I just had to work on putting the pieces of my crumpled self back together and deciding what the hell I needed to do with the rest of my life now that everything I’d ever planned went out the window in one single night.
Nope. I chastised that hellish inner voice determined to keep my brain on a feedback loop of that godawful night. Not doing that right now.
They stared at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to elaborate.
I wasn’t going to cave, I really wasn’t.
But something about those watchful, unblinking eyes honed in on me made me feel like I had to offer up something to appease these women and their undying curiosity about the newcomer to their town.
“I’m a writer.” I offered the bare minimum of the truth. “I’m staying here for a few months as a sort of…retreat. To clear my head.”
And figure out where the hell to go next. Preferably out of the country. Maybe even the continent.
“Oh, wonderful! A writer!” Debra smiled.
“Well, you’ll just be our local celebrity, won’t you?” Cathy added. “What have you written?”
Ah, there’s the question.
How could I admit that I was a writer who hadn’t even finished a novel yet? I’d made a few fair attempts, sure. But around the 80% mark, I always scrapped the work completely in favor of starting over.
“Well, actually, I used to write for my local paper,” I said lamely. “And some freelance work. But I came here to start my first novel.”
Why did I feel so pathetic every time I tried to talk about my writing?
Maybe because it was a pipe-dream, and I knew it.
How many people out there tried their hand at writing only to end up some poor vagabond with too many maxed out credit cards and nothing to show for the last ten years of their life?
Still, the women didn’t seem to discriminate, finding my career choice charming rather than the disapproving glances I was used to getting back home.
It warmed my heart a little toward them to not be met with uneasy smiles and glazed over, waxy expressions of barely concealed judgment that said loud and clear: you’re wasting your time.
“Well, that’s wonderful,” Debra said. “This town will be the perfect inspiration for you. We have a lot of characters running around the place.”
They both chuckled at that, as if they weren’t the very characters they were referring to.
“Thank you,” I said, finally working up the courage to make a natural exit. “It was really nice to meet you both. I’ll see you around.”
A sentiment that was probably true. This wasn’t the type of town where you could easily avoid someone. Not that I necessarily needed to. No one here knew my past. No one knew what had happened.
So why did the embarrassment linger, feeling as if the memory of it had been burned into my skin, like something visible and radiating off me for everyone to see?
“Oh, wait—don’t forget to grab Will’s number,” Debra said, rifling through her purse. “You’ll need it!”
“Who is Will?” I asked again.
“Oh, you haven’t met Will?” Cathy asked. “He’s darling.”
“What would I need his number for?” I asked, wondering if these women were attempting to set me up on a blind date with a stranger.
“Car issues. House issues,” Debra rattled off, pulling a notepad and pen out of her purse.
“Pest control issues.” Cathy nodded along. “He does it all.”
Debra scribbled off a phone number and handed it to me. “Here you go.”
Will Hughes. I stared at it, wondering how that would go over if I picked up the phone and called him, like they were so insistent upon me doing.
Hello? Will Hughes? This is Elsie Cameron.
I know you don’t know me, but I was told to call you if I need anything, and right now, I desperately need someone to come do a seance to get the evil murdered spirits out of my house?
Do you do that? Because I was told you do everything that needs to be done in this town.
Somehow I figured this number would go unused.
“Well, thank you,” I said, holding up the piece of paper in salute. And since they were more than willing to help out, I figured I’d ask them for directions instead of wasting time wandering on my own. “Is there anywhere I can get some coffee?”
“Oh, well, that’ll be Will’s place.”
“He owns the coffee shop, too?”
Who is this guy, the mayor?
“It’s been in his family for years,” Cathy explained. “You’ll find it right in the town square. Across from the park. Lovely little spot. I’m sure you’ll spend a lot of time there, what with your writing and all.”
“Right.” I nodded, thinking the last thing I wanted was to become a local at the town coffee shop. I doubted I’d be able to get much writing done camped out there.
But for now, I was in desperate need of caffeine and figured there wasn’t any harm in a quick in and out to get a glimpse of this infamous figure who was apparently the solution to any issue I could ever have.
Because apparently in Colbridge, all roads led to Will Hughes.