Kissing Kin by Karen Hulene Bartell

Author:Karen Hulene Bartell [Bartell, Karen Hulene]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC027120 FICTION / Romance / Paranormal
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2023-09-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

An hour later, Luke and I walked the police officer into the vineyard. Shaking his head, the man stooped in front of the first severed vine and took the two pieces in his hands. “Think it’s kids? A prank?”

“No, sir.” Luke’s chest rose in a silent sigh. “Whoever did this knew exactly where to cut to do the most damage.” His voice sounded hollow as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

I dreaded hearing the answer but had to ask. “Will it kill the vines?”

“No, but it’ll take years until they produce again.” His shoulders drooped. “That translates to lost time and lost income.”

I knew his shoestring budget. Grimacing, I caught his gaze.

“Vandalism in Fort Lincoln. Who’d have thought?” The officer took snapshots of the lopped-off pieces, then began jotting notes. “Any idea who did this?”

His eyes narrowing to slits, Luke glared across the creek. Then he shook his head. “Nope.”

After a few more questions, the officer put away his pad and left.

As soon as he was out of hearing, I pounced on Luke. “You really don’t have any idea who did this?”

“I have an idea”—his eyes hard, he regarded the neighboring property—“but no proof.”

I followed his stare. “Bea?”

****

That night, a crying baby woke me again. I flipped on the light and strained to hear the muffled sound.

After circling the main room’s perimeter, I stepped into the bathroom, but the farther I ventured from the cabin’s center, the fainter the cries. Backtracking, I slowly moved between the pieces of furniture, listening.

The sound seemed to come from the hope chest. I pressed my ear against the wooden trunk. Though marginally louder, the cries were still indistinct.

Is that crying, sobbing, or chirping? I recalled a similar sound once, when I left a smoke detector in the garage, and the temperature dropped below freezing. Its insistent tweets didn’t stop until I brought it inside and changed its battery.

But what’s making this sound? I unpacked the diaries, careful to keep them in chronological order.

Though still faint, the intermittent cries were louder.

The chest’s empty. Where’s the sound coming from? I put my ear to the cedar frame. And is it crying or rustling like cellophane?

Unable to think of other options, I loosened a corner of the lining’s ancient stitching, and a mound of sand emptied into the chest.

What the…? I fingered the fine, beige powder. It felt coarse but not gritty. That’s not sand. That’s sawdust.

I ripped out the lining, and a horde of black carpenter ants swarmed from their hollowed-out excavations. Behind the fabric, the antique, wooden chest was riddled with tunnels where the ants had laid their eggs.

I was about to slam down the top, when I noticed several yellowed, crumbling documents tied together with a faded pink ribbon. Only partly visible, the bundle was wedged in the corner behind the torn lining.

What’s this?

****

I showed Luke the letters, clippings, and yellowish-brown pages at breakfast.

“Have you read them?”

“Not yet but look at the page numbers—these are the first sixteen pages of Marianna’s diary.

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