I took a deep breath to bring myself back to the present. Time to focus on the search. I scanned the shelf over the clothes rail. About two feet deep and five feet across, it was jammed with boxes of assorted sizes. I counted seven shoe boxes. I didn’t think they were likely repositories for the newsletters. None of the other containers bore a label to give me any hints. I would have to pull out each one and check it.
The first box, heavier than I’d expected, contained five handbags of varying size. I pulled one out and opened it, curious to know whether my aunt had left anything in them. I found four bobby pins, a crumpled tissue, and an ossified stick of gum. I decided I wouldn’t look inside any of the others for now. Laura might enjoy looking through them. I never knew what retro item might be fashionable again, but my daughter would. I knew Aunt Dottie would be delighted for Laura to use one. The rest ought to go to charity. I would have to talk to Azalea about clearing this closet and any others with similar contents.
The second container held seven small bags and two large ones. The third box held six more. Quilt squares and fabric swatches filled the next two. Aunt Dottie was an indifferent quilter, but one of my treasured items was a wedding ring quilt she made for Jackie and me when we got married.
Next came a box of yarn and not-quite-finished crochet projects—scarves, one half of a sweater vest, and a blanket that might work for a Chihuahua but not much else. I smiled. Aunt Dottie always preferred reading over handiwork like this, although I knew she sewed competently. Whenever I stayed with her, she repaired rips in my clothes, because I often snagged myself on sharp things. Somehow sharp edges and I seemed to find each other way too easily.
I checked the shelf. Other than the shoe boxes, there were only two cartons left. I selected the larger one and pulled it down. The weight surprised me, and I almost dropped it on my toes. I managed to grab a firmer hold and set it gingerly atop a stack of two of the handbag containers.
The contents, I discovered, consisted of scrapbooks and photo albums. I had thought I knew where all Aunt Dottie’s albums were, but I obviously had missed several. I pulled the first one out and began to flip slowly through the pages. The theme of this one was church activities, and I figured I would find nothing relevant to my current search. Particularly since the items appeared to be at least forty years old.
The next album held neatly labeled family photos. I set that one aside for further study. Genealogy was an interest of mine, and I thought it would be fun to go through these pictures with Sean and Laura—provided that I recognized some of the subjects.
By the time I’d finished with the scrapbooks in that box and the remaining one, I was tired and thirsty, not to mention a little sweaty. I was disappointed as well, because I hadn’t found a single Veronica Thane newsletter. If they weren’t here, where else could they be?
My erstwhile assistant hadn’t moved from the bed during my labors. That surprised me because normally Diesel adored boxes—as indeed most cats do—and he couldn’t resist snooping in them and trying to get inside.
While I looked at him, though, he began to stir. He yawned and stretched before he rolled over into a sitting position. He stared at me, yawned again, then meowed. He spotted the boxes and immediately leaped off the bed to investigate. I watched, ready to intervene if it looked like he might damage anything, but he seemed content to play with flaps and poke his head inside.
My glance fell on the two boxes of scrapbooks.
Scrapbook.
I felt like an idiot. How had I forgotten the one I found a few days ago when I came to pick out books for the exhibit? The one devoted to children’s series books and their authors.
“Come on, Diesel, we’re going downstairs.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Diesel looked up at me from the box he was investigating and meowed with what sounded like an indignant edge.
“Yes, I know you just started playing with those boxes, but I have something I need to do. You can’t stay here by yourself.”
He stared at me and meowed again. Then he darted under the bed.
“Diesel, come out from under there. Right now.” He was like a contrary child sometimes.
I waited for perhaps thirty seconds before I repeated my command.
Still no results.
Aggravated, I got down on my hands and knees to look under the bed. Luckily for me it was an old-fashioned one, high enough off the floor that I didn’t have to lie prone to see exactly where he was.
Against the wall halfway between the legs of the bed, naturally. I wasn’t going to crawl under to drag him out, however. I knew a better way to get him to come with me.
I put my left hand on the bed for leverage. I stood, wincing as my knees creaked. As I steadied myself, I glanced across the bed at the wall beyond where an old chifforobe stood.
A six-drawer chifforobe.
Why hadn’t I thought about checking there for the newsletters? The antique piece was the only other furniture in the room that could hold them.
I moved around the bed, and momentarily left Diesel to his own devices. I pulled open the door of the wardrobe half, but it was empty except for three hangers on the rail.
The top two drawers held old linens, now yellowed with age. The middle two were empty, but the fifth drawer down held a wooden box of a size appropriate to contain the newsletters. I checked the bottom drawer, and it was empty.
I picked up the box and placed it on the bed. The shallow, grooved lid came off easily, and inside lay a stack of papers—what I had been looking for during the past half hour or more.
I replaced the lid and tucked the box under my arm. I was halfway down the hall, having shut the door behind me before I remembered that Diesel remained under the bed. I smiled. This was what I’d planned to do anyway, because Diesel didn’t like being shut in a room by himself.
After standing in place for about two minutes, I moved quietly back to the door. I waited a few moments more, then I heard the cat scratching at the door.
“Come on, then, and I’ll give you a treat,” I said when I swung it open. “I told you I wanted to go downstairs.”
Diesel stared up at me for about three seconds and then shot out into the hall and down the stairs. I knew he would be waiting in the kitchen for the promised treat to materialize.
I stopped by my bedroom to retrieve the scrapbook. When I reached the kitchen, the cat sat near the chair I usually occupied. He warbled, obviously irritated with me for taking so long to fulfill my promise. I set the box and scrapbook on the table and retrieved the treat. I ended up giving him a small handful of the little tidbits, and he scarfed them down in three seconds flat. He stared hopefully at me, but I waved my hands in the air and said, “That’s all.” He muttered but didn’t press me any further. He stretched out on the floor by my chair and started grooming his front paws.
After my labors in the closet, I was thirsty, and before I set to work going through the newsletters and the scrapbook, I washed my hands and drank two glasses of water. Only then did I sit and pull the box toward me. Perhaps three inches deep, the box was filled almost to the brim with paper.