Free Scraps of Paper by Kathryn Meyer Griffith Page A

pounds, she was happier than she’d been in a long time and it made a difference.
    She’d shown Frank the Mason jar the minute he’d arrived at her house that morning.
    “Have you told anyone else about these messages?” he’d asked.
    “Just Martha and you. She called this morning and it slipped out.”
    “Martha? Then the whole town knows. That woman can’t keep her mouth shut even on pain of death. I know. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It was all so long ago, if there’d been a crime involved, the culprit is probably dead or long gone. But then again…maybe not. Be careful.”
    “You think like a cop.”
    He tilted his head to the side and breathed in the summer air. “Do you see that baby rabbit there in that bush?” He pointed. “It thinks we can’t see it. It thinks it’s safe. Like you. That’ll be its downfall. Better if it lays low and stays quiet. Safer that way.”
    “You trying to tell me something? That I’m putting myself in danger by publicizing my interest in these peoples’ disappearance, and I should keep my mouth shut?”
    “Something like that.”
    She ignored his warning. “Smells like summer…wild strawberries and clover. When I was a child, my brother and I used to run around barefoot in the dirt on a road like this. The sun so hot, the air so thick with these same smells. Looking for something to eat. Wild strawberries or grapes. We were always hungry. My dad was a salesman and not a real good one. We didn’t have much money or food most times. We did without. But I had brothers and sisters, parents, and a home I loved; woods to play in, trees to climb, and dusty paths to follow. I have many fond memories of my childhood and this place reminds me of where I grew up.”
    “You had a hard time of it, didn’t you? Like the Summers kids?”
    Never wanting any pity, she downplayed things. “A lot of kids did. I’m not complaining.” She met his gaze. “But I was loved, protected, that’s all the difference. No one neglected, browbeat or demoralized me. My father would have punched out anyone who hurt any of us kids in any way. In that respect we were better off than most.”
    “Then you were one of the lucky ones,” Frank remarked, looking handsome in jeans and a green shirt, his hair freshly washed and his eyes movie star blue. The man had this confident way about him, made her feel safe and comfortable at the same time. From observing him she’d learned he could read people; had an eye for anything out of the ordinary. He must have been a heck of a detective.
    Childishly giddy with the anticipation of a picnic and fireworks, Abigail couldn’t wait to get to town. It’d be nice to be among other artists and to spend the day looking at what they’d created. And she’d meet more of the townsfolk. Perhaps some of the older residents would recall Emily and her children. Which reminded her.
    “Frank, do you remember what the Summers kids looked like? The artist in me wants faces with the names.”
    “You really want to torture yourself, don’t you? Tow-headed with hazel eyes. Shy smiles. You could tell they were twins, alike in appearance, a little too thin to be healthy, with Jenny having more delicate features and longer blond hair. They were constantly hungry, their hand me down clothes shabby. Jenny had this scar in the middle of her forehead from walking into a brick wall, she said, when she was five. Artistic. Dreamers. Too smart. Different from the other kids. Didn’t have many other friends, so they usually played together. But I thought they were good kids. I used to bring them hamburgers from the town diner. I remember one time Christopher got beat up and I gave him advice on how to defend himself.
    “They had a swing set in the back yard they played on, singing songs in the dark as they’d swing. Let’s see, what else? They loved to play in the woods. Come to think of it…they had a tree house out there somewhere, don’t know where precisely. They spoke of