It Happened in the Pine Barrens

By Mary Casella

It Happened in the Pine Barrens is a compelling saga of
love, death and destiny set in the heavily forested area
of coastal plain stretching across southern New Jersey.
Casellas newly published book transforms this Pinelands
into a center of thrilling events that arouse the curiosity
and excitement of fi ction fans through three riveting stories:
Snakes with Ruby Eyes, Love and Death in the Pines
and Closure in the Pines.
Snakes with Ruby Eyes follows the mysterious turn of events
in the life of Elizabeth Little. After the death of Catherine, artist
mother and owner of The Little Antique Shop, Beth strangely
inherits a huge amount of cash and a long list of questions
about her parents life. Stan Turner, who perseveringly pines
for her love and affection, witnesses and supports Beth
throughout her journey towards self-rediscovery.
Love and Death in the Pines picks up the story from where
the fi rst tale left off. It revolves around the entwined destiny of
two disparate people Dr. James Bradley, a physician and an
undercover FBI agent, and Dr. Meghan Malloy, an art history
professor. They met at the opening of The Pines Antique Shop.
James was invited by his friend, Meghans aunt, now proprietor
of The Pines Antique Shop (previously The Little Antique Shop).
Meg had created an art gallery for the shop to display the
artwork of Catherine Little. Both never knew that a chance
encounter would lead them to love.
Closure in the Pines completes the trilogy in stunning fashion.
James wants to resign from the FBI to work as a physician at
a Veterans Administration hospital. His resignation is denied.
Meghan returns to her teaching position. While fi nalizing
some cases, Meghan suddenly disappears. A manhunt ensues.
Drug traffi cking and gunfi ght also makes this fi nal story a
perfect closing salvo. However, as one of the characters aptly
put it, There is no closure in the crime business.
Creatively blending fast-paced drama, mystery and romance
with the slow-paced life in Pine Barrens, Casella has successfully
put the place on the map for another remarkable reason. It
Happened in the Pine Barrens is a book that leaves readers
deeply satisfi ed yet eagerly longing for answers to more
questions inherent in the saga.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479737659

Mary Casella

Mary Casella is an educator and an award-winning playwright (New Jersey State Council on the Arts). Mary Casella’s latest endeavor is to translate some of her plays to novels. Written in the Sand is a novella that had its original life as her play, A – Is For Andy. This play had a staged reading at the Urban Arts Theater in New York City, sponsored by the now defunct Forum of Italian American Playwrights (Past-President, Mario Fratti). Also, she was chosen for a brief stay to be a visiting playwright at the acclaimed Actors Studio. Recently VSA New Jersey, State Organization on Arts and Disability, produced two of her plays Between First and Third and A is for Andy at the George Street Playhouse in New Brunswick, New Jersey. Here a scene from Scampolo (her translation from the Italian) had a workshop presentation.

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Mary Casella.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012919813

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4797-3764-2

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4797-3763-5

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4797-3765-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Snakes with Ruby Eyes

Love and Death in the Pines

Closure in the Pines

To My Amazing Family -

My Compass and My Rudder

Snakes

with

Ruby Eyes

front%20cover%20art.tif

IN NEW JERSEY ONCE

In New Jersey once, marigolds grew wild

Fields swayed with daisie

Oaks stood tall on mountains.

Powdered butterflies graced the velvet air.

Listen. It was like that.

Before the bulldozers.

Before the cranes.

Before the cement sealed the earth.

Even the stars, which used to hang

in thick clusters in the black sky,

even the stars are dim.

Burrow under the blacktop,

under the cement, the old dark earth

is still there. Dig your hands into it,

feel it, deep, alive on your fingers.

Know that the earth breathes and pulses still.

Listen. It Mourns. In New Jersey once,

flowers grew.

© Maria Mazziotti Gillan, From "Where I

Came From" (Guernica Editions, 1995)

Chapter I

April 24 The Pine Barrens

The early morning sun was shining on a small group of mourners in an obscure cemetery in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. Father Hillary was leading them in the Our Father as Catherine Little’s casket was lowered into the grave. She had earned her eternal rest.

Beth, her only child, gave each mourner a white camellia to throw on her mother’s simple pine casket. Her face was frozen in a weak smile as she sobbed softly. The burial crew had arrived, and she threw the remainder of the camellias on the casket.

It was time to leave her mother.

The cemetery emptied except for a worker tending to a nearby grave; his back was to Father Hillary and Beth. They started to walk toward the parking area; only her car and an old gray Jeep were left.

The good priest tried some levity, as they walked, to ease the sorrow that enveloped Beth. It is a lovely spring day. I’m tired of seeing burials on TV and in movies, carefully filmed during a rainstorm, with mourners in dark glasses and handsome black cloths, holding huge black umbrellas. It’s an official montage, I guess.

Beth gave Father Hillary a grateful look. You have kept me from falling apart, Father. I hope you don’t mind—we’re supposed to join Janet Cook and the Ladies Auxiliary at Mom’s shop; they want to discuss any last-minute issues about their takeover of the shop.

You’re rushing things, Beth. Give yourself a few days to rest and think things over. You need time to get organized. The sixty-seven-year-old priest pushed his hand through his snow-white hair as he faced this beautiful woman whom he baptized twenty-six years ago. He sighed hopefully.

Rest is the last thing I need, and everything is organized. I’ve been cooped up these last few months, watching my beautiful mother decay from pancreatic cancer. Beth started to sob again, and Father Hillary quickly handed her his handkerchief.

Controlling her emotions, Beth told the priest, It’s settled, Father, the Ladies Auxiliary is taking over—Janet Cook has set up a committee…

That woman has a committee for everything. God help us if they ever ordain women as priests. She would form a committee to take over the Vatican.

She has been a great help. The ladies took over the shop when Mom got sick. They worked hard and got to know the business. They deserve it.

You are being overly generous. Catherine was an artist. She created a charming shop. Why don’t you carry on her work?

Near tears again, Beth explained, I loved the shop, but I don’t have the skill Mom had. She could display a simple dish and make it look like a piece of art. Anyway, too many memories. One more thing—Janet had a professional antique appraiser evaluate the inventory. Other than the antique silver and the Roseville china collection, there are no hidden treasures there. The Auxiliary is doing me a favor. I feel less guilty about leaving. She turned for one last look at her mother’s burial site. Let’s go, Father.

Father Hillary climbed into Beth’s green Volkswagen. They made the sign of the cross, and drove out of the cemetery onto NJ Route 9 South. A short drive later, Beth parked in front of The Little Antique Shop, one of many antique shops along Route 9; however, this one was particularly inviting. Large iron pots of red geraniums lined the driveway to the cottage, and its well-worn cedar shingles provided the unique look of the area inland shore architecture. Lace curtains adorned the large bay window that displayed colorful antique artifacts of the whalers and Quakers, who, centuries ago, settled in the Tuckerton area of New Jersey.

Reluctantly, Beth got out of her car. She held the priest’s arm for support as she climbed three steps to the front door that had a sign on it: Closed Temporarily. She walked through the door and thought that this could be the last time she crossed the threshold of The Little Antique Shop. The familiar aroma of the room, full of hand-dipped candles and baskets of potpourri, filled the air. The memory of the day her mother died caused her to falter, but she pulled herself together for the task ahead.

Janet Cook, ready and waiting, greeted Beth and Father Hillary, It was a lovely Mass, Father. Catherine would have been pleased. She turned to Beth. The ladies felt you would want to rest, so they went home instead of coming back here. I thought it best if somebody from the Auxiliary came.

Father Hillary said, I tried to convince Beth to take her time about all this, but to no avail.

Janet explained further, Beth did say she wanted to leave in the morning—that’s why I thought we could—

It can wait. Father Hillary sounded annoyed.

I made some soup. It’s in the kitchen. Janet ended the discussion.

Thanks, Janet, soup sounds good. Want to join me, Father?

No, no, thanks.

Janet had one more item on her agenda. Maybe this isn’t the time, Beth, but a week ago, a biology professor from the Community College called the rectory, looking for rooms in the Pine Barrens. He mentioned he saw the sign Closed on the door of the shop with the Auxiliary’s phone number on it. He asked if this place had rooms available. I said I would check with the owner. Oh yes, I asked for ID. He showed me his driver’s license—Dr. Kurt Mitchel. I called the college, and they said he’s been there three years, doing some research on the birds of the Pine Barrens.

I haven’t the energy to think about it right now, Beth said.

Not daunted, Janet continued, It would be nice for the Auxiliary to have the apartment in the back rented. A tenant would discourage intruders.

Father Hillary thoughtfully added, I have to agree. Despite a good alarm system, insurance companies are reluctant to insure empty houses.

Beth gazed around the room. This is my home, where Mom and I lived.

The priest gave her some advice, Do not make a shrine out of it, Beth. Your mother will be with you always—here or in New York City. Since you are determined to leave tomorrow, I pray that you have a new and hope-filled life in the city.

Father Hillary is right, Beth. If it’s OK with you, I’ll get your friend, Stan Turner, to have someone handle the details and forward you the money from the rent. It will help with your expenses in the city.

Beth sounded short-tempered. I think it’s a good idea, but the money must go to the church—same arrangement as the shop. Don’t worry about me. I have a job waiting, and Mom’s insurance money will take care of the rent on my apartment. As I said to Father Hillary, you are doing me a favor taking over the shop. I will feel less guilty about leaving. Tell Stan to please get someone to handle the lease to the apartment. If Dr. Mitchell or anyone else decides to rent—Mom’s room is not part of the deal. I want her room locked and armed. There will be a lovely three-room apartment left with a private back entrance. Suddenly very tired, she continued, If you don’t mind, I’m going to have some of that soup.

Father Hillary, Janet, and Beth said their affectionate but sad good-byes. Janet asked Beth if she would like her to stay for the night. Beth thanked her and refused.

After they left, she closed the blinds on the bay window and the door. She then shut all the lights, except one, and looked around the room with unfathomable sorrow and love. Beth was overwhelmed by the many wonderful memories of her life in this cottage. It was an enchanting place to live, but without you, Mom, all these beautiful antiques are just… things.

She never had the soup.

Beth went to the rear of the shop and unlocked the door to the apartment that she and her mother had shared. She entered the apartment, alone for the first time since her mother’s death. She wanted to turn around, get her luggage, and leave. She started to shout, This is not my home! This is not my home anymore! She ran to her old room where only the furniture remained and said, This is not my home! Slowly, she controlled her hysteria and walked down a small hall to her mother’s room. The peaceful aura that surrounded her mother in life still permeated the room. This was Catherine Little’s sanctuary. This was where Beth found refuge from problems as a child and comfort as an adult. No, Father Hillary, it is not a shrine. This is where a wonderful, loving woman lived her private life. Her books, her paintings of the Pine’s flora and of camellias… are all here.

Photographs of Beth at all stages dominated the wall above the fireplace. She sat on the settee facing the fireplace, reliving some of the more happy events of her life. One photograph was taken with her mother on the day she graduated from Douglass College. Her mother, a little more than five feet tall, had stylishly short black hair, porcelain skin, and luminous, dark brown eyes. Beth towered over her at five feet seven inches with fair skin, long auburn hair, and glorious green eyes rimmed with long dark lashes. Their smiling faces were captured in a moment of love and pride.

The room still held the particular scent of Catherine Little: Chantilly. The fragrance was long missing from modern cosmetic counters. A half-empty bottle of the perfume was on the night table. Everything about Beth’s mother indicated that a lady of style and grace had inhabited this room. Why did she bury herself in the Pine Barrens? Beth wondered. She shuddered at her poor choice of words: buried herself.

Weeks ago, Janet had helped Beth remove her mother’s clothes. There was one more thing she had to do before she locked the room: empty her mother’s desk. This was not a welcomed chore. She sat and opened the drawers