Time and Again: The History Mystery Trilogy, #1

TIME AND AGAIN

Copyright 2011 by Deborah Heal. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, institutions, or locales are intended solely to give a sense of authenticity. While every effort was made to be historically accurate, it should be remembered that these references are used fictitiously.

Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, King James Version,

except for Jeremiah 29:11, which is from the NIV

Photograph: Heal Farm House by Robert Heal

ISBN: 978-1482627213

ISBN: 1482627213

Also by Deborah Heal in e-book and paperback:

The History Mystery Trilogy (Also available as audiobooks)

Unclaimed Legacy (book 2)

Every Hill and Mountain (book 3)

The Rewinding Time Series:

Once Again: an inspirational novel of history, mystery & romance (book 1)

Only One Way Home: an inspirational novel of history, mystery & romance (book 2)

How Sweet the Sound: an inspirational novel of history, mystery & romance (book 3)

A Matter of Time: an inspirational novel of history, mystery & romance (book 4)

More than Meets the Eye: an inspirational novel of history, mystery & romance (book 5)

Love Blooms at Bethel Series:

Holding On: an inspirational romance (book 1)

Two Hearts Waiting: an inspirational romance (book 2)

Keeping Faith: an inspirational romance (book 3)

In Memory

To Ruth Fite, my eighth grade English teacher, whose words next to the star at the top of my story opened my eyes to the possibilities:

Be sure to give me a copy of your first book!!

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

Jeremiah 29:11

One Year Earlier...

SUSANNAH ARNOLD FOLLOWED Michael out onto the front porch, flapping her bibbed calico apron to shoo away the smoke. She propped the screen door open with a brick so more air could get inside and sweep through the house and out the back door. There was a brisk wind coming from the east. That would help.

Spooky slipped outside too, meowing her opinion of all the tomfoolery going on. Michael sat down on the front step and cradled the little old sock monkey she’d made for him. Grunting, she lowered herself to the step beside him. Thank you, Jesus, for keeping us all safe.

Out in the yard her rainbow-colored zinnias waved in their tractor-tire flowerbeds. Other sweeter flowers were around back. Normally, she could smell them from the front porch this time of day. But now the stench of burnt cookies was the only thing in the air.

Sorry about your treat, Michael. She frowned in aggravation. And sorry I wasted all that butter and sugar, too.

The little boy patted her arm and told her that it was all right about the cookies and that at least Monkey got out safe and sound.

Smiling, she stroked his mop of shiny black hair. He didn’t talk often, and when he took a notion to, not many folks understood what he had to say. But she was used to his poor tangled tongue. Bless his little heart. He hadn’t learnt to talk right, what with his mama being deaf and all. But that didn’t mean the boy was stupid. No, sir. He was smart as a whip, especially for being only four years old. And she intended to help him catch up with his talking the best she could, even if it meant he grew up sounding like an ignorant hillbilly same as her.

Spooky came and leaned against her, asking for some loving, too. Stroking the cat’s back, she thought things over. Land sakes, she hadn’t burned a batch of cookies in years. She didn’t even need to read the recipe on the back of the oatmeal box to know that it took 12 ½ minutes for oatmeal raisin cookies to bake. With her memory getting worse by the day, she’d taken to using the timer on her Kenmore stove. But a timer wasn’t much good if you weren’t around to hear it go off. No, she’d gotten it into her wooly head to go out back and pull the weeds out of the green beans. She’d been working away until Michael came running out, pointing at the smoke pouring from the kitchen window.

If her grandson Andy knew how close she’d come to burning down her house—with Michael and Spooky in it—he’d really pester her about how she should move into the old folks’ home. Shoot, if he knew about her spell at Ruth’s house yesterday, he’d be moving her into the crazy hospital instead.

She gazed to the north as if by looking hard enough she’d be able to see past the mobile homes, Michael’s little brown house, and the stand of trees all the way to Ruth Stanley’s house clear at the end of the lane where it met Miles Station Road.

Poor Ruth lay upstairs in that big, old house all alone except for that nurse of hers who mostly just sat around reading People Magazine while she waited for Ruth to kick the bucket.

It was fretting about Ruth that had made Susannah burn the oatmeal raisin cookies—worry, plain and simple. She tried to cast all her cares on Jesus like the Bible said, but it was so hard when your best friend was dying, and there wasn’t a blamed thing you could do about it.

The wind kicked up a fuss, causing Spooky to yowl arch her back. There’s rain comin’, Michael, Susannah said, studying the sky. Let’s go on in, and I’ll fix your supper.

The clock in the kitchen cuckooed, and the boy ran ahead to catch a glimpse of the little wooden bird before it went back inside its house.

She hauled herself up and unpropped the door, muttering to herself, I reckon warmin’ up chicken and dumplin’s simple enough for even me to manage without burnin’ down the house.

As she stirred the pot, a thought came to her. Maybe it was God’s doing that she had burned the cookies. She had intended to take some to Ruth in hopes of perking up her appetite, but a little of the rich broth from the chicken and dumplings might be more tempting to Ruth than sweets, and easier to eat, too.

The idea grew as she and Michael ate their supper, and by the time she’d cleared the table, it was the only thought in her head. Now, Lord? There’s rain coming,’ and I’ve got Michael to think about.

The Almighty didn’t answer out loud, but his command was clear as day. She was to take Ruth some of the broth.

YOU’RE NOT PLANNIN’ on gettin’ any foolish ideas about haunted houses, are you? she asked as they approached Ruth’s house. She would have taken Michael’s hand to reassure him, except she needed both of hers for carrying the thermos of chicken broth. No one would blame the boy if he was a bit fearful. The house was a little creepy even on a sunny day, and with the darkening skies and wind it was downright unnerving.

But he shook his head and went on without a care in the world, letting Monkey pretend to fly in the wind alongside him.

In years past, Ruth had done a fair amount of bragging about how the house was built in 1854 by her ancestor Colonel Jonathan R. Miles. But she didn’t brag anymore. It hadn’t been painted since before her Ralph died, and now one faded blue shutter hung by a single hinge and was caterwauling in the wind like a wild thing. There was not so much as a daisy or zinnia to cheer the place up. Ruth never had been much of a gardener, and when she got sick she was even less of one. After a while, she’d had a man come take out all the shrubs and roses that had been Ralph’s pride and joy so she wouldn’t have to fool with pruning and spraying everything.

Now the place looked so bare and lifeless that a Hoover salesman wouldn’t even bother to knock. And if she was prone to fanciful nonsense—which she wasn’t, thank the Lord—she might get the notion that the old oak trees on either side of Ruth’s sidewalk were monsters, their branches gnarly arms trying to catch them as they hurried along beneath them.

Michael, now you remember what I told you about Miss Ruth. She might look kind of scary, but that’s only ’cause she’s real sick. You just keep in mind she’s your friend and how nice she’s been to you.

Michael nodded solemnly and then skipped on up to the front door,

Most days, Susannah spent several hours visiting with Ruth, talking with her if it was a good day, or praying for her if it wasn’t. But today she hadn’t gone because she hadn’t liked the idea of Michael seeing her look so bad. After all, the reason she was watching out for the boy in the first place was on account of his mama thought he was too young to go his grandpa’s funeral with her.

But it couldn’t be helped. God wanted her to go see Ruth, and so that’s what she was bound to do.

When they got to the bedroom, Susannah saw that Ruth had shrunk even more since she’d seen her the day before. A different nurse was there, busy fiddling with one of those plastic medicine bag contraptions hanging over Ruth’s bed. When the nurse realized she and Michael were standing there, she gasped and grabbed for her heart, like she was seeing ghosts. How did you get in?

Ruth’s laugh came out rusty and thin. It’s all right. They’re friends.

Sorry, miss, Susannah said. I didn’t mean to put a scare into you like that. I’m Susannah Arnold and this here’s Michael. Ruth gave me a key to make things a little easier. She set the thermos on the mahogany dresser and stuck out her hand.

I’m Cynthia Drury, the nurse said and turned back to doing whatever she was doing to the contraption.

Ruth, I’ve brought homemade chicken broth.

She won’t want any, Cynthia said. She hasn’t eaten all day.

Well, how about we let Ruth decide for herself.

Certainly. Cynthia stepped away to the foot of the bed and went to work doing something or other with a black case. She was a busy little thing.

Susannah went to her friend’s side. Ruth’s brown eyes were merry in her pale sunken face. I think I might like a little broth, she whispered.

Good. And looky here who I brought with me.

Michael, Ruth said in her raspy voice. It’s been a long while. I’m so glad you came.

Susannah worried the boy would be standoffish, but he went right up to the bed, patted the pink sleeve of Ruth’s nightdress, and told her how glad he was to see her, too.

Cynthia had a comical look on her face like she wanted to know what Michael had said but was too well mannered to ask.

He said he sure is glad to see Miss Ruth, too. Susannah poured broth into the cup she’d brought along in her apron pocket and then set it on the bed next to Ruth. She reached into her pocket again, and pulled out a cheery striped straw. There. How’s that for service with a smile?

You’re a good friend. Ruth took a pull on the straw. Ah, just what I needed. After three more sips, she set it aside. It’s delicious, but I don’t think I care for any more right now.

Susannah put the cup on the nightstand and sat down in the chair next to the bed. Michael stood at her side looking sadly at their sick friend.

The wind blew in, turning Ruth’s curtains into fluttering blue kites, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Cynthia went and looked out the window. You ought to go before the storm gets here.

I reckon I’ll stay a little longer. You’re a lot younger than the other nurse, ain’t you?

"Mrs. Lukens isn’t a nurse, Cynthia said quickly. She’s an aide. I’m an L.P.N."

Susannah didn’t know what that those letters stood for, but it sounded important. And also a little scary. Did it mean regular nurses—aides—weren’t up to taking care of Ruth anymore?

Ruth was asleep, her eyes a-fluttering beneath her thin, bruised eyelids. You poor, poor things, she whispered, the soft words drifting out into the room like wisps of smoke.

Susannah wondered who she was seeing in her mind. Her hand lay on top of the blue sheet, looking so pitiful with the bandage and the tube coming out of it. Susannah couldn’t help but want to pat it. But at the last second, she pulled back, remembering what had happened yesterday when she touched her hand.

Ruth stirred and then spoke again, so softly Susannah could barely hear. But the last part was clear: Hush, hush, don’t cry, Charlotte.

Michael gently touched her old hand with his small young one. The sweet boy had such a loving heart. Her own lack of courage shamed Susannah, and so she reached out to comfort Ruth too.

The room went catawampus like before. Everything was turned around. The windows were gone. The pretty cabbage-rose wallpaper was gone too, leaving the wood walls and rafters to show. It wasn’t Ruth’s nice bedroom at all, just a dusty old attic.

It was dark except for a kerosene lantern sitting on the floor in a pool of light. Lord have mercy, there was a girl there! She wore a long dress and sat on an old-fashioned wooden trunk next to the lantern, weeping as if her heart would break.

Oh my, oh my. Susannah pulled her hand from Ruth’s, and the room went back to normal.

You shouldn’t worry about anything Ruth says, Cynthia said, frowning in puzzlement at her. She still stood at the window—only she’d shut it when Susannah wasn’t looking. It was no wonder, being as rain was pounding against the glass.

Cynthia came away from the window and looked at the dials on Ruth’s contraption. She’s been out of her head most of the day talking about jellybeans, Queen Victoria roses, Charlotte, and those ‘poor, poor people.’ It’s the morphine.

Morphine might be why Ruth was out of her head, but it didn’t explain why she was. Andy was going to commit her to the crazy hospital for sure.

Do you suppose she’s thinking about that old Bette Davis movie? Cynthia asked.

That must be it, Susannah said, even though she knew good and well the Charlotte that Ruth was dreaming about was the same crying girl she’d just seen in the sort of long dress her great-grandma had worn. She felt guilty for the lie. But she wasn’t about to tell Cynthia about it—nobody else neither.

Ruth slept, the storm raged, and Susannah prayed. The wind howled in the chimney, and the loose shutter made such a racket a body could hardly think. She wondered how her hollyhocks and gladiolas were holding up under the rain and wind.

Cynthia came and straightened the bed sheets. Ruth grunted at being jostled, and Cynthia looked sorrowful that she’d caused her pain. Thank the Lord she wasn’t one of those nurses that was all starch and no kindness.

But she sure was nervous. She started pacing the floor and asking foolish questions like why anyone ever chose to live in a Herman Munster house out in the middle of nowhere when they could be safe and sound in the civilized world where there were paved streets and streetlights to go with them.

Susannah didn’t take offense because she knew it was just her nerves talking. The poor woman jumped like a startled rabbit every time the lightning and thunder came or the shutter made an extra loud screech.

Michael wasn’t scared at all, bless his heart. He even spoke words of comfort to Cynthia.

What did he say? Cynthia demanded.

He said you should trust in Jesus so you won’t be afraid.

I’m not afraid. But then the power went out and she shrieked. The room was pitch black, except for the glowing green face of the wind-up alarm clock on the nightstand.

Ruth groaned, and Susannah patted her shoulder. It’s all right. We’re right here with you, honey.

To Nervous Nellie’s credit, her first thought was for her patient. Cynthia made her way through the dark room to the medicine contraption. After half a minute, three beeps sounded, and then the numbers glowed red again. Good. The battery back-up kicked in.

You’ll have to go get the lantern, Cynthia. Ruth’s voice came unexpectedly out of the darkness.

I’m sure I’d get lost in the dark. She sounded like she was spooked for sure.

It’s down in the kitchen on the shelf by the back door, Ruth said. The matches, too.

Susannah shrugged. I’d go myself, but I’m not as spry as I once was.

Then Michael volunteered to go get it. Susannah gave him a squeeze. "You’re a