Law student Abigail Daniels struggles with the sudden death of her mother. Officials call it a heart attack, but after viewing the body, it appears she was more than likely frightened to death. Abigail then uncovers the town's secrets.

When Angels Cry

Buy The Complete Version of This Book atBooklocker.com:

http://www.booklocker.com/p/books/3233.html?s=pdf

Also by Dawn Meier:

A Bird Named Enza Forever Conceal, Never Reveal

When Angels Cry

By

Dawn Meier

1

CHAPTER ONE The house has always looked haunted to me. Perhaps it is the

spire-topped room protruding from the roof top or the dark windows. Perhaps it just looks deserted and empty. It is called the “movie house” by locals. It was nicknamed that after Hollywood scouts spotted the house while scouting along the Oregon coast for a film location. Not everyone can remember the name of the movie that was filmed at the house but, from that day forward, the house need only be referred to as the “movie house” for people to know exactly where you were talking about. I could see why Hollywood thought it was the perfect place for a movie shoot. It sits alone on a boggy terrain overlooking the Siletz River. It was surrounded by winding canals and miniature sand dunes peppered with coastal bunch grass.

Small coastal pine and Douglas-fir trees lines the back side of

the house, their western branches dwarfed by a constant barrage of wind. The leeward sides of the trees look quite normal, but their brothers on the windward side are woefully lacking in uniformity, their growth dictated only by what the constant wind would allow. The Oregon coast is hammered each year with huge winter storms producing gale force winds. Rain can be measured in feet. The river in front of the movie house is controlled only by ocean tides and mountain rain run-off. Flooding is constantly a concern, but the movie house endured whatever Mother Nature threw at her.

The only access to the movie house is by watercraft. A small

aluminum boat stands guard on a private moorage floating in front of the house. That boat is the only way you can get to the mainland. That boat is what my father used to shuttle me across the river every morning to meet the school bus. That boat is what my father used to shuttle me back to the movie house every afternoon when the school bus dropped me off alongside the highway.

Dawn Meier

2

We moved into the movie house 15 years ago—when I was six years old. I thought that living in the famous house made me kind of a celebrity. Whenever anyone asked where I lived—I only had to say “the movie house” and people would know. But standing here fifteen years later at my old school bus stop looking at the house was quite painful. Its shuttered windows seem sad and droopy. The siding on the house was in desperate need of paint as well as repair. The wooden shingles on the roof were bleached out from the deluge of salt water it received on a daily basis. Then it struck me that I would never see my mother again welcoming me from the dock. Tears welled in my eyes and I quickly wiped them away. I need to stay strong for my father. I parked my car next to my father’s old pickup truck in our designated parking lot. There was no visible activity around the boat for my ride to the house so I flipped open my cell phone. I sent a text message to my father that I had arrived and was waiting for my boat ride. My father knew how to receive text messages, but he never learned how to send them. I closed my phone and waited to see activity from within the house.

My summons back home was unexpected. I was a third-year

student at Harvard University. Due to a great high school academic career with a 4.0 grade point average and a low income family I was able to secure full scholarship funding to Harvard. I was going to be a lawyer—something I had always dreamed of. I was captain of our high school debate team and valedictorian of my senior class. I had it all. I was on my way to a very successful law career and dreamed of the day I would be part of a prestigious law firm.

Then I received the phone call that would disrupt my dreams.

My mother suddenly became very ill and died. My father called me at my dorm room almost one week ago. He was incoherent. He cried all the way through the conversation. I clutched the phone in grief and sympathy for my father as well as myself; my father, now totally lost without my mother, his beloved wife and myself now, grieving for someone who loved me more than life itself. Dad wanted me to come

When Angels Cry

3

home for the funeral. He needed me there to help with the arrangements. How could I say no?

I looked around my sorority house in a panic. I knew if I left

Harvard and went home, I would never return. I knew if I went back for my father, he could never let me go. But, after considerable thought, I knew I had to return home—I owed him that much for all he had done for me.

I packed what I thought I would need for a short trip home and

headed west. When I reached the open highway, I flipped open my cell phone, punched in 411 and asked for the Seaside Mortuary in Taft, Oregon. I was connected after the computer told me the phone number. I scribbled the number on the palm of my hand with a pen in case I needed it later. Someone answered within four rings.

“Hello, this is Abigail Daniels. I believe you’re holding my

mother’s body there waiting for arrangements?” That sounded so shallow. This was my beloved mother I was talking about.

“Yes, Ms. Daniels. We are waiting for someone to tell us what

to do with the body. All I knew was to prepare for a service, and we haven’t heard any more.”

“I know,” I replied sympathetically. “My dad is having a hard

time with her death. It was quite sudden, you know?” “Yes,” the mortician answered. “It has been very difficult for

all of us.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Have you talked to your dad about your mother’s death?” he

asked.

Dawn Meier

4

“No, I’m on my way home from the East Coast right now. What’s the problem?

“You should talk to your dad. The only thing I need to know is

when you want the service and what final burial arrangements have been made.”

“My dad said they have a double plot at the city cemetery. She

should be buried there. As far as the services go, I would think I’ll be the last person to be arriving in from out of town. I should be there by Friday. Can we make the services on the following Saturday? Do you have an open time?”

The mortician seemed to be pondering silently. “It looks like

1:00 p.m. is open. Do you think it will be a large service? We have a small chapel or a larger one for larger services.”

“I would think Mom would prefer the small chapel. Do I need

to do anything else? “Because I hadn’t heard from anyone concerning the service,”

he answered. “I took the liberty of preparing an obituary notice and made some printing decisions for the funeral handouts. I guessed most women prefer the Thomas Kincaid collection and chose them for you. I hope that will be sufficient. The only thing I need now is the choice of casket and who will be delivering the eulogy.”

I thought the Kincaid choice perfect and said, “That would be

just what Mom would have wanted. Thank you very much. I would think I should be the one to deliver the eulogy. I have a lot of time on the road to prepare something. Can you tell me how much the casket and service is going to cost?”

He pondered silently again and said, “There’s a lovely mauve

metal with white satin lining that would be very color coordinated with the Kincaid collection prints. That would run about 8.”

When Angels Cry

5

Eight, I thought. I assumed he didn’t mean eight dollars and I mentally tried to figure out if Dad had eight thousand dollars to spring for the mauve metal casket with white satin lining. It seemed as though we had little choice. “That sounds perfect also. Can you get everything ready by Saturday?”

“We can, of course. We will expect you here at the chapel

about one hour before the service to make sure everything is perfect. Please call me with any questions you might have. And, I send sincere condolences to you and your family.”

“Thank you very much, sir.” I answered. “I’ll see you

Saturday.” I flipped down the phone. That was a pretty odd conversation. I couldn’t figure out how it was so difficult for a mortician to deal with my mother’s body. They must get all sorts of gruesome repairs on horrendous deaths. I would talk to dad when I got home.

* * * As I waited for Dad to boat over to pick me up, I looked at the

whitecaps forming on the river. Wind change suddenly from the west indicated to me that the tide had changed in the ocean. Low to high tide pushes the wind in from the ocean. High to low tide pushes the wind out from upriver to the ocean. The strongest winds were always from the ocean.

Dad finally came out of the house and waved at me. I waved

back and smiled. As he jumped into the small boat, I flashed back to the many times my father shuttled me across the river in drenching rain and high winds to get me to school. There were only a few days that the weather was so bad that we couldn’t get across the river – but with our heavy raingear, I made it to school with an almost perfect attendance.

When Dad drove the boat up the small dirt landing, he jumped

out and ran to me. We clutched each other for what seemed an eternity.

Dawn Meier

6

Then we both started crying. “I’m so glad you are home, Abby,” he whispered in my ear.

“I’m glad to be here, Dad,” I whispered back. “I don’t know

what to say. I’m so shocked about Mom.” “I’ll tell you all about it later. Let’s get your things in the boat

before the wind whips up anymore. Did you bring much with you?” I didn’t tell Dad my thoughts as I was packing. I wanted to

leave many of my belongings at the sorority house so I could be assured of returning soon, but knew in my heart I would never be back. “I just have my computer, some books, and a suitcase. I have finals in a few weeks and need to do a lot of work before I get back.”

“Sure, honey,” Dad answered abruptly as he opened the trunk of

my car and grabbed my things. I looked at him filling the boat and realized he also knew I would never be returning. “I’m glad you drove your car back. My old pickup is about to give up the ghost.”

“I could leave it here for you and fly back to Harvard,” I threw

out to him. “We can decide that later,” he shouted into the wind. “Let’s get

home.” The boat ride back over the choppy waters was an adventure in

itself. I clung onto the side of the boat as the wind hit us broadside. I planted my feet on my suitcases and had my computer case strapped around my neck. If we went over, I probably would go down like a rock. Luckily, it only took a few minutes to span the water. We tied up at the dock and ran into the house as large water droplets began pelting us in a downpour.

It was November at the Oregon coast and the rainy season was

in full swing. We barged into the house with luggage in tow and stood

When Angels Cry

7

at the entrance of the now quiet and empty house. No one was there to greet us. No wonderful smells came from the kitchen. I looked at Dad. “I know how you feel,” he whispered. “I can’t get over the emptiness. I can’t believe how big the house seems. I’m so glad you are here.” Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he put down my bags and walked over to hug me.

I knew at that moment there would be no final exams at

Harvard that year. I knew that I would never be able to return to my college and my college friends. I also knew that my career was on hold for—who knew how long. I hugged him back and cried for myself as much as I cried for my father.

102

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“You go first.” “No, you go first,” I whispered pushing Andy toward the dilapidated fence surrounding the tiny rundown beach house. “No, you go first,” he argued. “I’ve been up there before and the person living in that house did not get her nickname ‘witch’ by chance. I really believe she is a witch; a bona fide, caldron-stirring witch.” “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” I snapped. “I feel like I’m in elementary school.” I tucked the newspaper article about the pirate ship sinking outside the bay entrance under my arm and pushed Andy toward the gate. “You are the man. You go first.” “Oh, now you play the sexist card,” he yelled as his hand hit the fence. The gate was hanging on the fence by a mere thread of metal. When Andy hit the fence, the gate shuddered and fell flat on the ground. “Now you’ve done it. You wrecked her gate. That should make her very anxious to talk to you now.” “Maybe she didn’t see you break the gate,” I said as I hurriedly picked up the fragile pieces of wood and propped them against the equally fragile fence. “Me!” Andy exclaimed. “You pushed me. You pushed me into the fence. Don’t try to blame this on me.” “OK. We are both to blame. Now go up to the porch and knock on the door.”

When Angels Cry

103

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he looked horrified. “This was your bright idea. You go up and knock on the door.”

I spun Andy around and looked him square in the eyes. “This is the only person I know of in the area that is almost as old the story in this newspaper,” I shook the papers in his face. “She has to be over a hundred years old. Even though she may be a witch, she knows what this area looked like before all the buildings sprung up. I need to talk to her to find out what she might know. Something she knows could be the reason someone would want to see my mother dead. We have to try. We have to at least try, Andy,” I pled.

The look on Andy’s face told me he was giving up the fight.

“All right—all right,” he submitted. “But you are going to be right behind me. And if she turns me into a frog, just know it’s your fault.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” I laughed. “I know the rumors that

have been going around forever about our resident witch. I would never want to go talk to her in a million years if I didn’t think it was necessary. I need to talk to her. All I need you to do is knock on the door. Then if you don’t disappear, I’ll take it from there.”

Andy looked down at me. “Great,” he laughed. “What are you

going to do if I DO disappear?” “Run like hell,” I said as I shoved him forward. The path up to the front door was overrun with weeds and

blackberry bushes. We had to scoot sideways in several overgrown areas. Sand had blown into small dunes in the front yard. Remnants of old flower gardens were splattered here and there, all remaining flowers brown and broken.

“This witch has absolutely no idea how valuable this property

is. The other side of the house sits right on the sand. I have many prospective buyers who would give a fortune to buy her out. I tried to

Dawn Meier

104

visit her and see if she wouldn’t sell it to me, but she ran me off with her broom.”

“Oh, get real,” I snarled. “A broom?” “I swear,” Andy said as he slid sideways through the

blackberries. A thorn snagged on his shirt and he whined; “Now you owe me a new shirt.”

“You are such a big baby. Just keep going and knock on the

door.” Andy reached the front porch that stood in major disrepair. We

stepped slowly onto the boards as we waited to fall through. Andy knocked lightly on the door. “Maybe she’s not home.”

“Where would a 105-year-old woman go? Can’t imagine she

can see past her nose. She’s probably taking a nap. Knock louder.” “I didn’t realize just how pushy you are,” he glared down at me. “Knock!” Just as Andy was prepared to rap loudly on the door, it opened a

small slit. One large eye appeared through the slit and blinked as if it hadn’t seen daylight for awhile.

“Hello. Ms. Batten—Hattie Batten? Do you remember me,

Andrew Andrews?” “What-a-ya want you sniveling little snit?” her voice cracked

loudly. Andy backed out of the doorway some and motioned to me.

“This is my good friend Abigail Daniels. She lives out at the movie house.” He waited for the information to sink in.

When Angels Cry

105

“Well, you little turd,” she shrieked. “What do you want me to do, applaud?”

“No,” Andy said sheepishly. “I was just introducing my friend.

She recently lost her mother.” “Oh,” the witch said dripping with sarcasm. “Do you think I

might be able to find her?” I knew this situation was getting out of hand, so I pushed Andy

aside and stepped up to the door, my hand pressing slightly on it to avoid having it slammed in my face.

“We are sorry to bother you, Ms. Batten—Hattie, but I think my

mother was murdered. I was hoping you would help us figure out who did it.” I waited for a moment and the big eye blinked.

The big eye started to talk. “I suppose you want to come in,”

the eye softened. “That would be nice. I have something to show you and it

would best be talked about around your kitchen table. We are parched; do you have any bottled water?”

“Why would you put water in a bottle?” the eye asked. “I have

plenty of water coming out of my tap. I even have some in the refrigerator.”

“That would be fine,” I answered hesitantly. I couldn’t imagine

what color the water might be. “May we come in?” The eye disappeared for a few seconds as we heard the rustling

of paper. The door opened slightly more and a hand waved us through the threshold. Nothing we could have imagined could prepare us for the sight inside the house. It was extremely dark, which was probably a good thing. The interior of the front room was lined with large stacks

Dawn Meier

106

of newspapers. You couldn’t see the walls up five feet from the floor because of the huge stacks of papers. I looked all around the room and each wall carried the burden of the same stacks of papers. There was a small aisle in between stacks that lead to the back part of the house. Andy and I looked at one another.

A small dark object moved in front of us. “Come this way to

the kitchen.” The object moved toward the rear of the house. As we approached the kitchen, a sliver of light slid through a small crack in a pane of the kitchen window. The rest of the glass was covered in years of dried sea salt from the sea water blowing against it. The dried salt made an eerie kaleidoscope effect on the kitchen wall as the sun tried to penetrate it. A small kitchen table sat against the wall. Two wooden chairs sat waiting for occupants. The small creature that led us to the back of the house turned to look at us.

The one eye that peered at us through the doorway was the only

working eye this little creature had. The other eye was gone. In its place was dried up skin sunken into the eye socket that once housed her eyeball. I couldn’t help but stare at it. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help myself.

The small creature, dressed in a long dark dress and a shawl

over her shoulders, got close to my face and said “Lost my eye in a fight with a drunken pirate.”

I took two steps back as the stench from her rotting teeth

breathed fire upon my face. “Sorry to hear that,” was all I could say. I fell back into one of the wooden chairs and brought my newspaper story to rest on the table. A small saucer graced the table in which it held one cube of butter. A cat jumped up on the table and startled me. It casually went over to the butter dish and licked at it. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from vomiting.

The small creature turned as her dress swished across the floor.

She waddled to the small refrigerator and opened it. As the light shone

When Angels Cry

107

inside the refrigerator, I could see that she ate very sparsely. I saw a mason jar filled with water, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and something that looked like a pack of bologna.

She retrieved the Mason jar full of water and three dirty glasses

from the sink area. She blew into the glasses and I could see a cloud of dust rise in the sunlight. I couldn’t take my hand from my mouth yet as I watched her pour the water into the filthy drinking glasses. I watched in horror as she placed the three glasses on the table. The cat turned from eating the butter to the water glasses now lined up beside it. The cat proceeded to lap water out of one of the glasses and then jumped off the table.

The creature pulled out the only remaining chair and sat upon it.

I moved the water glasses aside and spread out the newspaper. “This is an article that my mother had saved before she was murdered,” I started.

“Before you get started, dear,” she smiled showing only gums

and no teeth, “I would like to know more about why you think your mother was killed.”

Andy pulled up a stack of newspapers and sat beside me. I

started with the telephone call from my father and ended with our finding the newspaper stuffed in a drawer at the Carousel. Even Andy was impressed with all that I had accomplished in such a short period of time.

The small creature furrowed her brow when I told her of the car

that tried to push me in the river. Other than that, her face was expressionless. She pulled the newspaper article toward her and put on an old monocle she found in her dress pocket. She adjusted it several times in her one good eye then stuck her nose close to the print. I took Andy’s hand in mine and waited for her to read the account. She looked up at me and asked, “How do you think I can help you?”

Dawn Meier

108

“You are the oldest person in the town. You have lived here all your life. If anyone knows what happened more than a hundred years ago, it would be you. Can you tell us what you know about this legend of a pirate ship, the bounty it contained, and where it might have ended up?”

Her long-nailed fingers tapped up and down on the table. “It

seems to me that this same story surfaced many, many years ago. Let me see,” she pondered. She rose from her chair and shuffled into her bedroom. We heard a rustle of papers; then the creature returned. She had a newspaper in her hand and she laid it in front of me.

“Here it is,” she proudly proclaimed. “This is the story that ran

– let’s see. . . .” She said as she stretched to see the date on the top of the newspaper. “November 13, 1956—right there,” she said as her bony finger tapped the dateline. “And if I’m not mistaken, you will find a map in that paper somewhere.” “A map?” I quizzed.

“A map of the city as they thought it was back in the days of that pirate ship sinking. It was a pretty big deal back then. People were digging up their cellars trying to find the gold. It was insane.”

I searched through the paper and found the map she was talking

about. She took her long fingernail and placed it on a spot near the bay. This is where my house was built—back in 1920—lived here ever since. Saved every newspaper the town has ever printed.”

“What happened to your family,” I quizzed. “Most of my family died in 1918—Influenza—nearly wiped out

the entire countryside. I never married—haven’t lived with anyone since I moved into this house. Became kind of a hermit, I guess.

When Angels Cry

109

“I inherited my father’s livery stable business, but I had to sell it to live. I built this house and have lived off his money ever since. I don’t require much, as you can tell. I do know about pirates, though. When I was about 16 years old, I dated a pirate for while—a real honest-to-goodness pirate.”

“Really,” I exclaimed. “How did you happen to know a

pirate?” “Well,” she pondered as her long dirty fingernail tapped lightly

on her cheek. “It was in 1911, I believe. Hmmm . . . .” her voice trailed off in her thoughts. “I was in Newport shopping with my mother. I met a beautiful pirate named Captain Jack. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen. He looked a lot like that pirate in that new movie.”

“A pirate in a new movie?” I questioned thinking of the new

movies out now. “Yes,” she said as she got up and walked to the front room. “I

have a picture of him here somewhere.” “A handsome pirate,” I pondered. The creature returned with a newspaper and spread it out over

our stacks accumulating on her kitchen table. She thumbed through pages and stopped at the advertisements for movies. “There he is,” she exclaimed. “My pirate looked just like him.”

I looked down at the newspaper and saw she was pointing to an

advertisement for Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest playing at the Lincoln Cinema. “Johnny Depp!!” I shouted. “You dated a pirate that looks like Johnny Depp?”

Dawn Meier

110

“Yes I did. Isn’t he handsome?” She looked longingly at the newspaper. “I think he liked me because I had only one eye—something a lot of pirates can commiserate with.”

I shot a glance at Andy. He was smiling. I made a face at him.

He shrugged his shoulders. He really believed this story. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I started. “How did you lose

your eye?” “My little brother and I were playing on a big maple tree. I fell

off and on the way down, I clipped a branch. One of the twigs went clean through my eyeball.”

“Oh, that must have been just awful,” I sympathized. “It was very painful. After it healed, I tried wearing a patch, but

I didn’t like that at all. I even tried a glass eyeball, but it kept popping out. So I just finally decided to go a’ natural—like God intended me to.”

I tried very hard not to laugh and tried to change the subject.

“So you met a handsome pirate and dated him for awhile,” I summarized. “Why did you quit dating?”

“He took off one night, back to his ship that was anchored

outside the Bay. He and his boys had a little shore leave and then one morning, just as quickly as he came to Newport, he was gone. But I did learn about the legend of that old pirate ship here outside Taft. What I can remember is almost exactly what you read in those two articles—the one in 1956, and the one this year. So, I would have to concur the account in these newspaper articles is very accurate.”

“So you had a fling with a Johnny Depp look-a-like, a real

pirate, and he told you the story as we are reading it today?”

When Angels Cry

111

“As much as my memory will allow, I believe it to be so.” She folded the newspapers and piled them beside her on the kitchen table.

“Ok, if we can agree that this ship may have deposited its

bounty somewhere in Taft upon its demise, does anyone know where the farmer’s home and storm shelter may have been?”

“If you look at this map in front of you,” she said as she turned

the paper toward her. “You will see that the estimated location of the farmer’s house and outbuildings were right about here.” Her long, bony finger laid its dirty nail upon the corner of the existing 10th and Main.

“But there’s no Main Street. There is only the main Highway,”

I pondered. “That’s right my dear,” she smiled her toothless smile once

more. “But that would mean that the farmer’s house and all his

outbuildings were right where my mother’s gift shop is.” I had a hard time trying to comprehend this information but when it sank in, I gasped. “So it is a possibility that the storm shelter where the farmer allegedly hid the gold tip of a horse wing from a statue stolen off a pirate ship that crashed into the coastline outside Taft could be under or around my mother’s gift shop?” I looked at Andy. His eyes were as large as saucers—his cheeks reddening.

“Did you know about this, Andy?” I asked briskly. “Did you

know about this when you were trying to get my mother to sell her shop to your developer?”

“No, Abby,” he pleaded. “You have to believe me. I had no

idea. No idea whatsoever. Please, you have to believe me. This is the first I have heard of it.” He looked as though he were ready to burst

Dawn Meier

112

into tears, so I had the inclination to believe him. It did seem a bit far-fetched.

I stood up in the dank kitchen and folded my newspaper in two.

I placed it under my arm and put my hand out to shake Hattie’s. “I can’t thank you enough. Your knowledge of the area and your fling with Johnny Depp has been invaluable. You’ve been around the earth for a long time. Look at Andy. Do you think he is telling me the truth?” I paused for a reply.

“There is no one that can answer that question, my dear. Only

your heart knows the truth,” she answered. “You know him better than I do. Look into his eyes and you will know the truth.”

I looked at Andy. He leaned in as close as he could without

bumping my forehead. “Look into my eyes, Abby. You know I didn’t have any idea that your mother’s shop was located near any suspected gold hide-away. You know that I’m telling you the truth. I’m as shocked as you.”

“I get the point,” I whispered. “Now quit breathing on me and

back off.” Andy looked down. I took his hands in mine and looked him square in the eyes once more. “Ok, please don’t start bawling. I believe you.”

Andy took me in his arms and squeezed me hard. “Thank you.

Remember, I don’t ever want to lose you.” Andy and I walked toward the front door. Andy stopped,

reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a business card. “Remember, Ms. Batten, I have a buyer for your house if you ever want to sell. I could make you a very rich woman and you would never want for the rest of your life.”

When Angels Cry

113

Hattie looked at the card and said, “Sure thing, Mr. Andrews. When I think I need the money, I’ll give you a call.” She winked with her one good eye.

Andy leaned in to her and whispered, “Just call me Andy.” He

flashed a big smile with lots of teeth and we were gone. “What a character,” I mumbled. Andy looked surprised. “Character? Who? Her or me?” “Both of you,” I laughed as I walked toward the Carousel.

Law student Abigail Daniels struggles with the sudden death of her mother. Officials call it a heart attack, but after viewing the body, it appears she was more than likely frightened to death. Abigail then uncovers the town's secrets.

When Angels Cry

Buy The Complete Version of This Book atBooklocker.com:

http://www.booklocker.com/p/books/3233.html?s=pdf