When Angels Cry

By Dawn Meier

Called back to her hometown on the Oregon Coast, Abigail Daniels struggles with the sudden death of her mother. The doctor calls the death a heart attack--but Abigail believes she was more likely frightened to death. Abigail delves into the town's secrets. The more she uncovers layers of possible murder suspects, could the motive for murder be buried treasure washed ashore 150 years earlier?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dawn Meier
• Release date: Feb 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311029164

Dawn Meier

Dawn Meier lives in the Coast Range Mountains of Western Oregon. She established Blue Unicorn Publishing in 2001 and currently has 4 books in publication.

Book preview

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.

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 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.

"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.

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. 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 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.

CHAPTER TWO

Dad took the luggage up to my room as I found my way to the massive stone fireplace that was the center of our home. The fireplace had a huge opening for a fire and Dad had filled it with fir and oak. It now blazed forth illuminating the room with light and warmth in an otherwise damp, cold house. I curled up in an overstuffed chair close to the flames. The chair was identical to the one next to it. This one was my mother’s and the twin was my father’s.

The small, soft quilt that graced the back of the chair fell down on my shoulders. I felt the quilt in my hands and looked at several of the worn squares. I remembered this quilt well as Mother made each square while pregnant with me. She made each square with loving hands just for her new child. When I was born, she told me she swaddled me in the quilt when coming home from the hospital. That quilt kept me warm and safe for 18 years on my bed. I left it at home when I moved to college. Mother moved it down to her chair so she would never feel very far away from me.

Dad came into the room with two steaming cups of hot apple cider, handing me one. Your mother put that quilt in her lap every evening. She never got over you moving clear across the country.

I know, Dad, I answered, feeling very guilty.

I sipped the cup of apple cider and said, Tell me what happened to Mother. Everything was so sudden. I didn’t even realize she was ill. What happened?

Dad carefully placed his hot cider mug on the table between the twin chairs. He leaned forward with his hands reaching out toward the warm flames. He then rubbed his face and spoke in barely a whisper as his hands fell into his lap.

It’s so hard for me to talk about her, he began. I knew when you returned, I would have to confront this moment, but it hurts so much. The anguish was evident on his face.

I reached over to him and placed my hand in his. Dad, I need to know. I know it hurts, I’m hurting too, but I need to know how Mother could be alive one day and gone the next. She was so healthy. What happened?

The doctors are puzzled, as puzzled as you and I. They said she had a massive heart attack, more like a heart seizure. It was like her heart was squeezed so hard that it almost burst. She died before they could get her to the hospital. But the look on her face . . . he said as his voice trailed off. They said she must have been in a great deal of pain. It looked like she clutched her throat, not her chest. It was like she was choking—like something had held onto her throat and she couldn’t breathe.

Dad then broke down and wept like a baby; upset and sniveling as tears covered his face. I went to him and knelt in front of his chair. I took him in my arms and together we wept until there were no more tears. Dad finally got up to add more logs to the fire. I returned to Mom’s chair and wrapped myself in the little quilt. Even with the warm fire, I felt cold down to my bones. I couldn’t get warm, the dampness permeated my soul. I waited for Dad to continue to tell me as much as he could. He sat down again, satisfied now that the fire was going to last for some time.

"When you left for school, Elizabeth was having a hard time dealing with your absence. It’s hard for you to realize, but after taking care