Sundrenched Water

By Dr. Sandra Tanner

The mysterious disappearance of recent high school graduate Livvy Whitlock took place in the summer of 1960. Her whereabouts was
revealed thirty years later.
Thirty-eight-year-old interior decorator Mattie Noble, who was eight years
old at the time of the disappearance and lived on the same Pittsylvania
County, Virginia, tobacco farm as Livvy, has always held the key to
solving the mystery, though she did not know it.
"Together, Mattie and Ms. Happy (Livvy's mother) . . .retell how the mystery of Livvy's . . . disappearance was unraveled. And how Sundrenched Water
was at the root of it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479767885

Dr. Sandra Tanner

Dr. Sandra Tanner, author of murder mysteries Sundrenched Water, Secrets of Salmer Tawgg, Sacks of Murder, and Stolen Four Minutes was born in Pittsylvania County, Virginia. She is a graduate of Cappella University and the University of Richmond. At an early age, she developed a love of mystery, suspense, and thriller stories from reading Sherlock Holmes and Ellery Queen. She directed her love into writing her first mystery—Sundrenched Water. She loves to watch popular detective shows in order to solve the crime ahead of the detectives. She considers herself to be an amateur sleuth and delights in her keen eye for the unseen. She has written several short stories. Her story Oh, My Dear God! won 3rd place in The Writers Weekly 24 Hour Short Story Contest. Dr. Tanner lives with her husband in Richmond, Virginia. She is currently working on her fifth novel, Six Good Ones.

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Copyright © 2013 by Dr. Sandra Tanner.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012923635

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4797-6787-8

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4797-6786-1

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4797-6788-5

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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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127161

To my parents

L. Rebecca Gunn Tanner

Herman A. Tanner, Sr.

Is a candle brought to be put under a bushel, or under a bed? and not to be set on a candlestick? For there is nothing hid, which shall not be manifested; neither was any thing kept secret, but that it should come abroad.

—Mark 4:21-22, King James Version

MATTIE

Ms. Happy was the first person I ever told about my recurring dumping-hole memory. The only reason I told her was because I had no other choice. For you see, a force beyond my control set my course of action years ago. My recurring dumping-hole memory had willfully plagued my existence for thirty years. I began referring to it as the flashback though I don’t remember the first time I used that term. Like my other childhood memories, I assumed the flashback was just a recollection of a long ago guileless event that had had a small impact on my life at the time. During those thirty years, it never occurred to me that the flashback concerned my mother’s best friend’s daughter, Livvy Whitlock.

Back in 1960, Livvy was the prettiest girl I knew. I was fascinated with her beautiful long coal-black hair that glistened like the flowing sun-drenched water in the spring from whence we drew our household water. I never saw her wear it in any way other than a ponytail that hung down past her waist. Beautiful big colorful barrettes always adorned her ponytail. Frequently, when I sat behind her on the school bus, she would consent to her hair being my amusement. I would run both my hands through it, finger comb it, twist it, and dream that someday I would have hair like it. That summer, three weeks after graduating from high school, Livvy ran away from home. I never saw her again. I was eight years old; Livvy was seventeen, turning eighteen that July 4.

Twenty-two years after Livvy ran away, I turned thirty years old, and this is when I noticed two significant differences between the flashback and other childhood memories. These other memories had decreased in frequency, and certain details had faded away, but the flashback recurrences had increased, and the details remained as vivid and clear as if the incident had happened yesterday. The other difference was in the presentation. The flashback always began exactly the same and no scene ever out of sequence. However, bits and pieces of other childhood memories would invade my mind in no particular order. These other memories eventually faded away completely, and I considered this waning to be a natural progression of aging. But details in the flashback never diminished. I dismissed the whole thing believing that the flashback would eventually fade like my other childhood memories.

Looking back, I should have asked myself why this memory continued to plague me. Instead, I concerned myself with getting rid of early gray hairs, staying young, lacking a husband or even potential suitors—the normal things young women worry about as they cross that thirty-year-old threshold.

No matter what I did or how I spent my time, certain things I encountered brought on the flashback: seeing trash thrown about, seeing colorful glass, especially red ones, and hearing the sound of empty food cans being tossed about. With these few exceptions, the flashback appeared without a warning no matter my preoccupations. It appeared in my dreams, when I rested, when I stared out of the window, as I cooked dinner—anywhere and everywhere.

Three years after I had first noticed these differences in memories, I met my knight in shining armor. His name was Rudy Morgan. He was six feet, handsome, had a muscular build, and my same age. He had been on the Philadelphia police force for eight years. Rui, as everyone called him, and I began seeing each other every day. One Saturday morning, out of the blue, he asked, Why do you tune out like that?

What do you mean?

"You said you were going to put the