Abbey Burning Love

By Donan Berg

Abbey Burning Love--Entertaining mystery, heartwarming romance.

Stunning beauty and stock car racer Melissa Malone debuts as MC to raise funds for The Abbey, a historical Western Illinois nunnery with a humiliating past. A murderous explosion rocks Melissa's world and she cheats death carried by unknown captor.

With multiple twists and turns, Melissa battles zoning staffer Rob Campbell and internal barriers to rebuild The Abbey and find love never certain of what the future holds.

Abbey Burning Love represents the third small town murder mystery by Author Donan Berg.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9780982085554

Donan Berg

Award-winning United States author Donan Berg tempts the reading world with First Place Gold Award romance, adventurous teen fantasy plus entertaining mystery, thrillers, police procedurals, and. from his first novel, A Body To Bones, entertaining mystery. "A winning plot ..." said Kirkus. "...Not only well written ... characters rich in depth and background.," wrote a reviewer.To quote another reviewer, Lucia's Fantasy World "is a captivating story ... and the author perfectly captures the innocence and imagination of the characters in the book." It joins Find the Girl, A Fantasy Story, for fascinating adventure filled with child-like imagination, friendship, magic, and sorcery. For 435 days, Find the Girl topped the AuthorsDen most popular book list, all genres. This chart-topping glory eclipsed both A Body To Bones and Alexa's Gold. The mystery and romance thriller, at separate times, both exceeded 100 days as Number One.A native of Ireland, Author Berg honed his writing skills as a United States journalist, corporate executive, and lawyer.The stimulating, page-turning bedrock, underpinning his twelve novels, explores the human drama of individual flaws and challenges before victory over a wide range of antagonists, outed to be societal monsters and/or deftly hidden. A dastardly scheme can be diabolical as in Aria's Bayou Child.His prior mystery, Into the Dark, brings intrigue front and center where unaccountable cash, threats, and societal ills bring twists and turns sprung with gusto. A thoroughly engaging Sheriff Jonas McHugh, first encountered in Baby Bones, Second Skeleton Mystery Series, adds a heightened imagination to grow stronger. Alexa's Gold, a five-star, new adult romance, combines a unique contemporary heroine and a thrilling mystery.Gold and five-star writing awards and reviewer accolades were on the horizon after he landed in the winner's circle four times at the Ninth Annual Dixie Kane Memorial Writing Contest. This bested his three awards in the prior year's eighth annual contest.The bedrock of his mystery writing is his three-part skeleton series mysteries: A Body To Bones, The Bones Dance Foxtrot, and Baby Bones. The series followed by Abbey Burning Love, Adolph's Gold, and One Paper Heart, his Gold Award romance.A reviewer of his short story, Amanda, notes that Author Berg offers a keen insight into couple relationships and a very clever ending.

Book preview

Stories

One

IN THE FADING ILLINOIS TWILIGHT, Melissa Malone’s right thumb spun the wristwatch minute hand backward. Despite a prayer, the rewind couldn’t erase memories of ex-boyfriend Attorney Mark Brooks. When her gaze lifted from the 18-karet Everose-gold-encircled dial, she gasped. Mark scurried with long strides in her direction along the cedar-mulched garden path beneath The Abbey bell tower? Molars crunched a green-striped breath mint; it’s aftertaste as unpleasant as the expected confrontation.

Refusing my invitation was rude, Mark snarled. I bought a table.

Please, no new heartaches, Melissa whispered. She gazed up at the treasured gothic tower, a Boulder Isle landmark and her childhood escape and fantasy playhouse. She swallowed hard; her balance on heels unsteady.

Mark’s muscular abdomen didn’t bulge; what was that bump under his gray suit coat a right hand clamped tight? Casting me off one thing; embarrassing me in public unnecessary salt to the wound. He bit into his lower lip as if to dam the venom Melissa expected. Within earshot, chattering escorted female gala arrivals, in floor-length satin bustier dresses and embroidered chiffon skirts bunched in clenched wedding-banded hands, tiptoed through dusty parking lot gravel to The Abbey ballroom entrance.

Now’s not the time or place.

Lately, never is. Mark bumped Melissa’s shoulder causing knees to twist as he strode off, elbows pinched to his sides. Without a caustic word, he faded into the darkness between a parked black Cadillac and Hummer.

Alerted by renewed gravel-crunching footsteps, Melissa clasped both hands behind her back to hide an elbow’s non-tender, bumpy, red, stress rash.

Find Rob Campbell? friend Sarah, in a gala volunteer blue vest, asked.

Melissa glanced left and right. Who said I was looking for him?

C’mon. We in the thirty-plus lonesome sisterhood read minds.

Tonight’s money to stop the wrecking ball more important.

Above them, the scrolled, rust pockmarked, wrought iron hands of The Abbey tower clock’s interlocked gears squeaked loud to foreclose Sarah’s further probing. The cast-iron, massed bells rotated to chime seven times. The notes mesmerized Melissa. Trembling, she tried to rub warmth into her left forearm counteracting the chilly, freshening east breeze that filled her nostrils with roasted prime rib aromas wafting from kitchen exhaust vents. Exactly a week before Melissa waited in this exact spot with crossed fingers during a public health inspection that by three points reversed a prior failing stove safety grade, which would’ve canceled this evening’s fund-raising gala.

Whatever. Don’t stew. What did Mark say?

Nothing worth repeating. Melissa hugged arms to chest.

He, muttering who knows what, pivoted in the parking lot when he saw me. His eyes on a hand holding something important, hiding it under his coat.

A gun?

Don’t think so. See ya. Sarah started to jog away. Got cars to park. Her slowdown shout to a BMW snatched Melissa’s gaze across the parking lot toward a streetlight-silhouetted figure. Couldn’t be Mark or Rob ... too fat ... too short. The figure’s movement blocked by the stone Celtic cross saved by her eighty-three-year-old father during a lifetime dedicated to preserving the historical Western Illinois nunnery and beneficiary of tonight’s festivities. Backstopped by 3,000 petition signatures gathered by Melissa and older sister Carol, Aleck Malone’s singular force of will, and a threat to chain himself to the chapel doors, deflected the scheduled 2011 wrecking ball.

Achoo. Before spring ragweed allergy stuffiness plugged thirty-one-year-old air passageways, Melissa reached for a gold-chained black pearl-studded purse only to remember she left the purse, inhaler, and black silk gloves inside backstage. Her handheld Blackberry rang with the caller ID stating Wally’s Club. She couldn’t report to her employment, not tonight, but still she answered. Can’t. Could I visit Pedro in the hospital tomorrow? Trust me. Leukemia isn’t that fast acting.

Inside at the welcome desk, left hand clutched the Blackberry while her right hand exchanged handshakes with four donors and apologized a duty promised to Father beckoned. Quick steps on the balls of her feet and a helping handrail guided her to stage right curtains behind the stage’s proscenium arch. Melissa’s hand creased the corner stage curtain to peek at the audience. Rob’s in the ballroom. Where? Where is he? Prior to going outside, she walked past his reserved table placard. The place setting’s cloth napkin dropped on the table’s empty chair seat. What if she used the PA system to say he had a message? No, absolutely no. She’d revisit Rob’s table after she fulfilled her promise to Father she’d make him proud as fund-raiser MC.

A deep breath temporarily relaxed the stomach butterflies always aflutter before she spoke to large groups. In the grand ballroom of Boulder Isle’s The Abbey, tonight would be a critical debut to represent her family’s passion for The Abbey. However, stepping out of the stage wing solved neither personal quest nor quelled hundred’s of furiously flapping butterflies churning a queasy stomach. The dazzling spotlight beam practically blinded her. She couldn’t positively identify anyone beyond the third table row. However, Father sat front and center in the row closest to the stage apron, his outstretched hand and ear-to-ear toothy smile greeting big and small donors alike.

Following the announcement she’d be the Gala Chair, best friends Sarah and Alice nagged and challenged her to jettison a lackluster tailored pants suit image. Hours before she’d snipped price tags off a torso-clinging black mini. The stretch-scuba dress, like the fine leather racing gloves she ordered for driving in stock car competitions, embellished gentle curves with a tight fit. A duo of glittering diamonds embedded in a gold clasp retained long blond head hair twisted behind and slightly right of center. As grandmother and mother before, she wore the heirloom clasp proudly. An elegant, single-strand, pearl necklace matched a pair of pearl-stud earrings.

Black pantyhose, stretched around muscular thighs and well-developed calves, shimmered in the spotlight as the miniskirt hem visually elongated legs. The nylon swished with each tottering step toward the center stage standing microphone. Journey completed, she wobbled ever so slightly on trimmed in black patent leather straw sandals with three-inch stiletto heels.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? Jam-packed to the fire marshal limit, the guests slowly clamped their collective jaw. Three hundred pairs of eyes gazed at Melissa. Overhead ballroom lights dimmed and a yellowish spot of light encircled her body, center stage. She patiently waited, rocking imperceptibly back and forth trying to steady herself on the balls of her feet, and still she couldn’t catch a glimpse of the one attendee her heart longed for. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you. I believe you all recognize me. I’m Melissa Malone, chair of this year’s forty-first fund-raising gala for The Abbey. I would like to thank each of you for coming and for what I know will be your generous monetary support. With your help, we’ll surpass the forty-five thousand dollars raised last year. She glimpsed downward to bathe in Father’s warm smile. He occasionally failed to remember names of lifelong donors, but Melissa well understood his devotion to his beloved Abbey would never falter. He’d teared up that morning telling Melissa how his heart swelled with pride when she assumed his leadership role to preserve The Abbey.

From center stage, she heard the paneled-wood entrance door bang twice. Blaring, piercing police and fire department siren high notes startled her to the core. A queasy stomach knotted when the screeching sounds escalated louder and louder. She pivoted to gaze left into the stage wing where a woman’s hands collided in their frantic frenzy to locate light panel dimmers to power-up the main ballroom lights. Melissa gasped as the far wall spotlight glowed like a Fourth of July sparkler and sprayed flashes of light up, down, left, and right. A deafening sibilant crackling sound accompanied the rising crescendo of the spotlight’s housing vibration until it burnt out. Darkness enveloped Melissa. For several seconds, miniature light rings from the spotlight glare danced behind closed eyelids. Teary moisture aided refocusing eyes as fingertips rubbed both eye socket corners hard. Core panic welled in an instant. She could barely see fingertips or painted nails on an outstretched hand.

A voice bellowed from the ballroom floor: There’s smoke in the kitchen. A chorus of voices yelled, Fire! The kitchen’s on fire. Melissa sensed wild pandemonium replace the joyful chatter of friends gathered for an evening of festive good cheer. Shadowy ballroom guests below near the stage apron, outlined by the flickering glow of table candles, pushed, jostled, and shoved. In the narrow aisle between the first table row and the elevated stage deck, they bunched together in a centipede motion left toward a battery lighted exit sign.

Father, where are you? She couldn’t hear his voice or see him.

An earsplitting explosion pained Melissa’s eardrum. Beneath soles the rumble and creaks of uplifting and dropping ancient timbers combined to sway her left and right. Fine un-deciphered particles stung forehead and cheeks; she raised a forearm to protect both eyes. The crashing metal and glass boom heard before the screams she believed to be the spotlight. Frequent air gulps coated the mouth’s roof with a fine powder, which activated a gagging reflex. The airborne particles clogged nostrils. Mary, she shouted. The lights! Where are you? No response. Gone too was access to an inhaler.

An oxygen-consuming heat blast deflated Melissa’s lungs. Shouts carried to the stage announced the far ballroom wall had collapsed. Shrieks, moans, and groans ricocheted off ballroom surfaces suffocating each prior volley. Melissa’s muscles tensed and a gripping head-to-toe paralysis immobilized her.

Flames flashed overhead.

In the ever-increasing density of a smoky haze, her brain separated two rays of light that entered the ballroom. Please be help, she prayed. Melissa wished she could cover eardrums from the screech and scrape sounds of chairs and tables pushed and dragged along the floor. A veil of heat descended, intensifying as it wrapped cheeks tighter and draped shoulders. Screams warning of falling ceiling debris echoed above gala attendees while a loud baritone voice pleading for calm resonated as from a megaphone.

Below one of the light rays, a helmeted fireman in full gear illuminated by a fire-flame flash popped out of the chokingly dense, smoky haze near the stage. A hose nozzle protruded from under his right arm.

Melissa’s upper body pressured knees to buckle as calf muscles relaxed. Her right foot stepped forward, full weight on its ball with the extended leg absorbing tilted body weight. Blurry, fuzzy vision combined with building, choking black smoke to obscure where her foot landed. Ear canal activated balance reflexes signaled muscles and tendons to exert pressure onto the floor to prevent a stumble.

An unknown vise-like force compressed above pelvis cloth and skin, left and right. Without warning, the pressure subsided. An excessively stimulated brain failed to energize tightening larynx muscles as two imagined arms encircled the waist and emulated a boa constrictor to squeeze lower abs against her spine. From the rear a shoulder-to-shoulder force nudged and pushed forward. Before Melissa’s face would lead a full body pancake onto the wooden stage floor, the arms, with thumbs locked into her bellybutton, jerked her stiff torso erect.

Smoke-filled air irritated lungs, parched eyeballs, super-heated skin, and stung nostrils. While Melissa struggled to prevent panic gulps from activating the throat’s involuntary choking reflex, she kicked heels left, then right.

Nothing.

The clenched capturing hands didn’t release.

No escape.

Roughly twisted by repositioned hands and momentarily rotating in midair, she perceived landing on a broad shoulder. Envisioned waist-grabbing hands now splayed fingers to stretch fibers covering nylon-clad hamstrings.

Father, she tried to cry out and failed.

Flailing two arms, one fist struck and bounced off hardened muscle. Additional swings missed everything, created fruitless motion, and sapped strength close to exhaustion. Wiggling hips sped dizzying blood to saturated brain cells positioned by her captor closer to the floor than feet. The faster she thrashed, the harder abductor fingers and palms squeezed on thigh flesh, tightly compressing heat-flushed sweating feminine skin to bone.

A familiar door bang interrupted, once then louder. Legs extended, a right heel pierced an unknown object. Twirled once, she heard cloth tear with eyes closed; every pore sweated in pain. A tingling, sliding touch to the calf and a third hand grabbed an ankle. Cooler air rushed between her legs.

* * *

Miss Malone, can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?

A blurry male face, atop a white medical coat, appeared high to the left, a stethoscope draped around his neck. Where ... where am I? Searching, groggy-minded words dropped off cracked lips into the room’s shade-filtered sunlight. A large, black-screened, unblinking monitor hovered above the man’s shoulder. Aching lungs that wouldn’t breathe normally scared her.

How many fingers? ... Please? His high-pitched voice echoed sweetness.

Two, I think. Questions flourished and bloomed. Had she been assaulted? Would blinking eyes ever stop hurting? A parched, inflamed throat ached. More important, what happened to the people she loved. Where’s my father? Have you heard about friends ... Sarah, Alice? Sister ... Carol?

The boyish-looking man scribbled onto a clipboard before he tilted his chin upward. Miss Malone, I don’t know. If your pain becomes unbearable, press the nurse call button. Your doctor entered a computer order for codeine. He hooked the clipboard over the metal bed end.

Melissa prided herself on being a resilient person. She’d ferret out answers. Working a lifetime to assist others eliminate cancer fears meant she could help herself. Where am I?

Boulder Isle Hospital. He slid his hand along the bed rail coming into clearer focus. Metal stethoscope ear tubes clinked against its polished bell.

My father … my friends, they okay? Her throat ached with each word.

Again, I don’t know. I’ve only been on duty an hour, since seven. Now rest, don’t speak. I’ve O.K.’d a soft breakfast. Eat all you can. Don’t be surprised if you can’t. Do your best.

The Abbey. What happened?

Not good. Now rest. Expect your family doctor before ten a.m. Suspect he’ll allow limited visits this afternoon. You’ll be outa here before you know it.

What day is this? Eyes squinted. Straining, she couldn’t read the embroidered or stenciled name on his coat. The try set off sharp migraine pain.

Saturday. You spent last night in emergency. The intern departed.

* * *

Melissa, half asleep, startled by a bed rail rattle, squinted bleary eyes to adjust to the switched on room light. She blinked twice. Focused, retina images separated circular sequenced red and white carnations and yellow daisies less then three feet from the tip of her nose. The bouquet's fragrances undetected, overpowered by the room’s stronger aromatic flowers. A dimpled chin appeared to rest, centered, atop the blooms and petals.

I’m sorry. Elbow bumped the bed. Mark Brooks’s voice sounded flat and unemotional, sunken eyes set in a rectangular, sharp-featured face.

You shouldn’t be here. She’d buried their broken dating relationship deep within her. Slow-rising disillusionment simmered past the action stage weeks ago, a do-not-enter yellow sign superglued on her heart.

Mark’s florid features stiffened. Green paper crinkled as he extended the flowers. When she made neither movement nor offered words of acceptance, he in silence laid the bouquet next to the portable nightstand water pitcher. Wished to see if you were okay. That’s all, nothing more. I’ve always felt inferior to you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.

The flowers … they’re beautiful. Thank you. Trained to dissuade eyes from seeking out treatment-induced baldness and immobilized extremity deformity, this ability unused for Mark had none. She’d been a witness to his ups and downs, mostly the latter, and wasn’t ready to restart their journey and desired to short-circuit, not endure, another of his self-critical monologues.

A scrubs-clad nurse strode into the room. She carried a pitcher of water; ice cubes heard sloshing against the glass sides. Melissa watched the nurse lift the flowers to her nose, inhale, and take them with. Mark stepped back and slid a foot toward the door. He halted when in a louder, but hoarse voice, Melissa said, She’ll be back. Going for a vase.

Oh, Mark replied. Thought maybe you were allergic.

Melissa shook head no. That’s chocolate. The uttered sarcastic tone hung in the air, most evident on the word’s middle syllable.

Yeah. He scanned the room where flowers and plants overwhelmed every inch of available windowsill or other horizontal space.

At least she had to be polite. Why the suit? Someone said it’s Saturday.

Had a late afternoon client meeting. Everyone expects an attorney should be dressed up. Mark unbuttoned his jacket. The blue-green, rep tie hung flat against a white shirt Melissa knew covered well-toned abs on a six-foot frame. No bulge as seen outside The Abbey.

As you see, I’ve enjoyed better days. She tried to force a smile. A card would’ve sufficed. With both hands, Melissa stretched the crisp starched white bed sheet and cotton blanket to her throat.

Mark compressed lips tight as the nurse placed a vase with his flowers on the nightstand. When the nurse glanced her way, Melissa nodded. Sir, only another minute or two, the nurse said. Doctor ordered Ms. Malone to rest.

I’ll be but a minute. The nurse left. Mark returned his gaze to Melissa. I’ve got my own aches and pains and couldn’t stand you abandoning me.

I don’t wish to reconsider. In the last month, she’d begun to analyze a romantic fulfillment hunger hundreds of times. Melissa wouldn’t launch her heart into Mark’s love boat. Better he floated away. The fire interrupted both the desire to test the waters with Rob Campbell and ignited desperation to learn the identity of the mystery man who’d either assaulted or rescued her, or perhaps both. Melissa gazed at Mark. We’ve got to move on.

I’m lonely without you. Wanted you to know that. He brushed stray hair strands from forehead to crown before they sprung forward again.

Please... Her voice faltered. She gazed upward, silent, and then at Mark. The nurse entered to tug at Mark’s elbow. He shrugged and departed.

Melissa, despite great wishes, couldn’t force herself to be angry with Mark. During the six months they dated, she’d learned how very self-critical he could be. There’d been fine dining and exciting expensive outings. She closed eyelids convinced his companionship lacked long-term potential.

* * *

Melissa.

Was the voice real or a Celtic fairy spirit?

Melissa, can you hear me? Rolled onto her side, Melissa’s right eyelids parted into a squint to see older sister Carol. How you doing? Carol’s hands rested on the raised rail.

Oh, I’ve been better. Snarky. Should apologize. Sorry, Sis. It’s been a downer of a day, she whispered. Carol leaned over the rail to pull a top sheet across Melissa’s shoulder with a chin tuck. Melissa flopped on her back and with her free hand folded the sheet to its former position uncovering her throat. She gazed at her sister circle the bed. Melissa’s lower back ached; a sharp pain cramped the right calf. Through clenched teeth, she asked, What day is it? I can’t remember.

Saturday ... Sunday in three hours, Carol replied. You look better than when I peeked in this morning, although you certainly aren’t your normal upbeat self. Melissa felt a welcome facial sensation when the far mouth corners twitched. Twenty years younger than Carol, Melissa periodically fended off the older sister’s habit for mothering. Father, accused behind his back of robbing the cradle, married Melissa’s mother after his first wife died leaving him a widower with three children—Carol and two brothers. If one only considered Father and Melissa’s mom, she qualified as an only child, but hadn’t been made to feel that way. No family member ever added the word half before any sibling reference.

You need anything? Carol asked. Reddish eye circles and collapsed cheeks dominated her sister’s face.

Swallowed better at dinner. Melissa rolled left to face Carol. Is Father okay? Keep asking and no one admits to know anything. This is the best trauma hospital in Boulder Isle, right? Tube from the I.V. fluid bag inserted after Mark left restricted lifting the left arm. A right hand finger scratched her nose. The requested painkiller flowed with the I.V. saline solution to tranquilize throat pain and to lessen anxiety.

Carol ambled to the window and raised the shade. No light entered. Melissa wondered why Carol took forever to answer. A helicopter flew Dad to a university burn unit last night. He … was hurt real bad. Carol hid her face from Melissa’s turned head and gazed out the room’s singular window into darkness, its lower panel frosted white to add privacy to the first floor room.

Why wouldn’t anyone tell me? Melissa’s nose itched.

I suppose not to worry you. Dad’s a fighter, but there’s little hope.

Oh! Omigawd! Again on her back, Melissa’s arm yanked the I.V. tube taut. Her right hand pressed both lips to smother the pain cry induced by a shifting needle. Carol faced her exposing cheek tears. How? What happened?

A burning ceiling beam … crashed down on him … and others ... so I was told. Fortunately he stumbled sideways, his walker on top of him. A friend said the walker deflected the beam.

Melissa kept a hand to her mouth. She wanted to rub eyes, but the doctor warned against it. Father’s always had the luck of the Irish.

What about you? You should feel darn awful lucky you got out.

And you? Melissa asked.

Fortunate to be in the chapel trying to locate a box of pledge cards left on a pew. Couldn’t get back into the ballroom against the crush of people. It was horrible. Hope you haven’t turned on the TV. Melissa shook head no. Good. Don’t. Ghastly pictures. Fire killed fourteen people. Another dozen or so, hanging on by God’s mercy. Area hospitals jam-packed. The radio news estimated a hundred nursed non-life-threatening injuries. Many with extensive burns or broken bones. Lucky ones have plain ol’ bumps and bruises suffered in the fire’s panicky stampede. Carol moved from the room’s window to the hallway door. She gazed past the doorjamb for several seconds as if she expected someone.

What about The Abbey? Melissa’s whisper scratchy.

Gone. But don’t fret about it. Her sister gazed to the ceiling. Only a building, wood, stone, and glass.

It’s more ... more than a building. Adrenaline surged through Melissa’s veins. It’s Father’s dream. A dream he struggled to realize all these years. Hoarseness deepened her voice. The chapel ... a pampered child to him. He agonized when birds crashed into the stained glass windows. Remember when separated carpet seams underneath the last row of pews unglued him. For Father ... we’ll rebuild. She kicked both feet up and hard to loosen the tucked in sheet restricting movement. Please check the closet. See if I have clothes.

Carol peeked behind the closet door. Nothing here. Did a fireman strip you to examine for injury? Melissa, exhausted, let out a raspy cough. Her heart gladdened taking in Carol’s elfish grin. A knuckle cracked when Melissa stretched and flexed the left hand.

Carol’s flippant comment regenerated Melissa’s vague introduction recollection and a blinding spotlight. Then darkness, smoke, and strong, slightly calloused hands gripped like a vise. If they removed clothes, she’d no present recall. Don’t know. She paused for a deep breath. We’ll have to powder and dust the back of my legs for fingerprints. What do you say? You started this. Carol spoke not a word, lifted hands, palms up at the waist. Line up the entire Boulder Isle Fire Department and all male EMTs. Enough. Melissa inhaled, exhaled in painful spurts. Can’t talk. She scribbled a note on a nightstand pad for Carol to pick up clean underwear and sweats.

Carol closed the closet door and pocketed the note. Sure. Need a key. Stopped to feed your dog and obviously found the house locked.

Omigawd, my purse! Melissa stroked throat. A painful cough cleared mucus and left the throat momentarily tingling. She wrote a second note stating Gala night purse had been left at the rear of The Abbey stage.

What purse? Carol gazed again at the hallway and back at her sister.

Melissa tore off pad sheet to write: BE&D. Lined the abbreviation out and wrote: Black, pearl studs. She motioned for Carol to bend close to her. Melissa’s voice cracked, Fake eight-inch rock in garden. Key’s inside.

Carol stood upright. I’ll find it. Be back tomorrow with clothes.

The nurse entered to turn out all lights, except a nightlight. Melissa gazed at the ceiling. Dear Lord, shine your protective light over my father. Heavenly Father, safeguard all your faithful...

* * *

Sunday afternoon a cheerier Carol stood in Melissa’s hospital room doorway with a brown