Children Lost on The Darkest Of Nights:
The Legend of Peg Powler
(A Sewing Box Mystery)
Chapter 30: Wednesday, October 31, 2012, 6:01 pm
Nine months had passed since the funeral, a whole year since the night Missy almost drowned in the river Tye. Missy’s life had finally returned to what she considered normal, though she was still getting used to the idea of having a half-sister.
Initially, Missy didn’t know how to feel. She was angry with Jeanette for not telling her sooner, especially in light of Dorie’s funeral, mainly because she felt that might have been a bonding experience for her and her half-sister – a real missed opportunity. She didn’t speak with Jeanette for a full week, the longest they’d ever been angry with one another, but Missy then decided she was being foolish. After all, Jeanette was now all she had.
Except, that wasn’t quite true.
As it stood? Well… Missy could only describe it as ‘uncomfortable’. Oh, things between Jeanette and Missy were good… fine, in fact. Cassandra, on the other hand?
Missy decided to break the ice by inviting her half-sister to coffee. They met at Missy’s favorite coffee shop in uptown on Hennipen Avenue and from there had planned to show Cassandra her apartment. It felt like a sisterly thing to do. She’d hoped to impress Cassandra a little, coming off as the sophisticated older sister… well, sophisticated for Minneapolis.
Things got off to a rocky start. Cassandra was over fifteen minutes late. She then launched into a rant about how coffee beans are sourced, taking advantage of people in underdeveloped areas, and how coffee wasn’t good for your health. Missy tried not to take offense, writing it off as their twelve-year age gap showing.
They were such different people. Sitting there in that coffee shop, with Missy still in her office clothes, the two must have looked like polar opposites. Looks-wise, no one would ever peg them as related. Cassandra sported a badly-bleached spiky mass of short hair with lots of dark roots showing. She had a tattoo of some anime character on her neck, some type of tribal band on her upper right arm and an anarchy symbol on her left wrist. Her right wrist was festooned with layers of wrist bands, some made of woven fabric, some bright rubberized plastic declaring her support for this cause or that charity. Cassandra’s uniform of choice always seemed to be a t-shirt with short-sleeves rolled up like a 1950’s greaser featuring the logo of a band Missy was unfamiliar with, a pair of carpenter pants complete with hammer loop, and a pair of men’s work boots. But the most off-putting thing about her half-sister’s appearance, for Missy, were all the body piercings; she had a small ring in her right nostril, a bar of some type in her left eyebrow, numerous ones in her ear lobes and along the edges of her ears, and, on the left side, a tiny ring in her lower lip. Missy wondered what the maintenance was like for all that metal meeting flesh, but never broached the subject.
Actually, she never got the chance to.
Cassandra took control of the conversation, and, really, never allowed Missy to do anything other than ask the occasional question for clarification. In fact, Missy didn’t get to share much of anything about her life, her job, her history, or her childhood and her invitation to come see her apartment was sharply declined, Cassandra explaining that she had other (rather vague) plans and wouldn’t have time.
Missy learned that Cassandra, now in her Junior year at the U of M where she was managing a full-time class-load focused on women’s studies, had been dropped off at Jeanette’s by Dorie when she was sixteen years old, something Missy already knew, because, in the course of patching things up, Jeanette had given her the whole story. Her aunt knew about Cassandra shortly after her birth, but had been sworn to secrecy by Dorie, giving Jeanette a bit of leverage when it came to her little sister. However, what really amazed Missy was how her aunt had managed to keep her half-sister a secret for the past four years. It demonstrated to Missy that her aunt was far more sly than she’d ever imagined.
Back in the late spring of 2007, Dorie had shown up on Jeanette’s doorstep in the middle of the night with Cassandra in tow. Details were few and far between, but apparently Dorie was on the run due to some type of falling out with her latest lover. To make things easier for herself, Dorie begged Jeanette to take care of Cassandra until she was back on her feet. She would have gone to her mother, but Grandma Jean was by then living in a small condo and at an age when taking care of anyone but herself was out of the question. Truth was, Dorie still couldn’t face her mother, wanting to spare herself of having to deal with Grandma Jean’s unavoidable judgement. So, Jeanette took Cassandra in, promising not to tell either Grandma Jean or Missy about the girl. And Jeanette had kept her promise, taking it right to the grave… Dorie’s grave.
The arrival of Cassandra in Jeanette’s life prompted another change: Jeanette decided to retire from her duties at the Hell’s Angel’s brothel. She simply couldn’t reconcile having that element in her life while trying to raise a sixteen year-old girl. The organization had always treated Jeanette with the utmost respect and took good care of her financially. In turn, Jeanette had also been very careful with her money, so, while she didn’t have a lot to spare, she had enough to live comfortably.
It had been hard to say good-bye. So many memories. It was funny, but Jeanette had never really noticed that through the years, the women who worked the brothel had gotten younger and younger as she grew older. She ruled that place with an authority which was unquestioned. Protector, accountant, bouncer, social worker, therapist, midwife, nurse, mother… her job description covered a lot of ground. As the women aged, she’d seen them through cancer scares, medical emergencies, and in two cases, actual death. It all stemmed from a kindness she felt she needed to repay, for those women had been there for her in her darkest hour. After surviving the abusive relationship which had brought the brothel into her life, Jeanette never allowed a man to have power over her of any kind. And due to some of the injuries she’d sustained during that tumultuous relationship, she knew she could never have children of her own, so… what did she need a man for?
Instead, she poured all her maternal feelings into the care of the women in that house, which was sorely in need of help when she first came on board. Sexually transmitted diseases were terribly common at the time, so mandatory weekly testing became one of the first things Jeanette implemented. She organized the place, ran it like a real business. Learned how to handle people and stand her ground. The bikers recognized her value, so they always did right by her and, to this day, she still held a place of esteem in the organization’s eyes.
When she retired, the Hell’s Angels were really sad to see her go. She was family because of all that she’d done on behalf of the women associated with the organization – which went way beyond the walls of the rather secretive/stealthy house off Second Street North – for any woman associated, be they wife or girlfriend, could come to Jeanette for help.
It was that dedication to the welfare of other women which now drove Jeanette’s current obsession: the whereabouts of Darlene. Apparently, Jeanette had adopted the motto ‘leave no woman behind’ and that applied to Darlene, who still remained missing. Jeanette hounded Sheriff Paul weekly, demanding answers. After what Jeanette had witnessed in that field, she couldn’t fathom how a twenty-something woman carrying a child could disappear without a trace. It brought out the mama bear in her. In fact, Jeanette was chomping at the bit to return to St. Petersburgh, something which Missy kept vetoing. For Missy had lost her taste for sticking her nose in the business of the citizens of that particular town and had no desire to return.
When she thought of the events of a year ago, each incident was like a kick to the stomach.
Missy hadn’t spoken to Peter for a whole year. She had no idea how he was doing or how he was coping with Darlene’s disappearance, but then, she also felt that it wasn’t her business anymore. When she was in the hospital, Peter had sent both a card and flowers; she’d thrown them both in the trash.
She and Jeanette, as victims and witnesses, were both still very much involved with the on-going investigations in St. Petersburgh. Sheriff Paul had visited or called them a number of times with questions, in need of more information or clarification. That gave Missy ample opportunity to keep tabs on the goings-on in that town.
One of the things she’d learned was, after discussing it among those involved, The Sleep Inn had decided to keep the sex dungeon in the basement open, but with a new list of rules – which Duane promised to enforce – in light of the attack on Missy and Dorie.
Another bit of news was that the Oswig sisters’ fortunes had made a turn for the better. Buzz in the town was that old investments had suddenly found new life, or they must have decided to sell off a few of the family’s lesser real estate holdings. Those were the only explanations the town had for all the renovations taking place over at the old mansion. For it seemed every week something new had been accomplished, slowly restoring the manor to its former glory.
In light of that bit of news, Missy was still surprised to find an invitation from the Oswig sisters in that morning’s mail. Among the usual junk and bills, it certainly stood out – it was beautiful – printed on lovely paper, a matching decorated envelope containing an elaborate Christmas-themed fold-over.
The phrase, “In honor of recent events…” had been written by hand at the top of the invitation in an elegant, sure, cursive, followed by the typeset invitation in a festive font.
You are invited to participate in
The Oswig Family’s
*Revived*
Annual Christmas Tableau
Friday, December 14, 2012
At the newly renovated Oswig Opera House
Rehearsal: 10:00 am
Luncheon: Noon
Second Run-Thru: 1:00 – 3:00 pm
Final Dress Rehearsal: 4:00 – 5:00 pm
Informal Dinner: 6:00 pm
Performance: 8:00 pm
A reception to follow.
RSVP by November 14, 2012
(Please include any dietary restrictions in your RSVP)
— —
Missy had no intention of going, but it was nice to be asked.
But it wasn’t the only interesting piece to arrive that day; a note, in a much smaller envelope with no return address nearly escaped Missy’s attention. She would later learn that the postmark was from the main branch of the Minneapolis post office, meaning there was no way of tracing it’s origins. Scrawled in block letters, it read:
“Those who dabble, invite trouble.
Leave well enough alone.”
Missy had no idea what to make of it, but, as it made her feel ill at ease, she decided she’d pass it on to Sheriff Paul at some point.
Jeanette called right as Missy was making dinner. She, too, had received an invitation from the Oswig sisters and was rather excited at the prospect of returning to St. Petersburgh. Missy hated to disappoint her aunt, but there was no way she was going. Given that, she decided not to tell her aunt exactly why. Missy felt the anonymous note and the invitation arriving on the same day was too much of a coincidence to ignore. The whole thing felt like a trap and Missy wanted no part of it.
After dissuading a very dismayed Jeanette, Missy decided to put the anonymous note and the invitation in Grandma Jean’s sewing box, figuring out of sight, out of mind. She also grabbed the poem about Peg Powler which had recently been returned to her from Sheriff Paul along with the kitchen witch, with the intention of returning the poem to its secret hiding place under the box’s satin lining.
With the lift of the box’s lid, while sitting on her bed, Missy became mesmerized, sorting through the various items in the box, just as she had as a child. She examined each pin cushion, each button, each thimble, turning them around in her hands with great care. They all sat side by side with the map detailing the whereabouts of Jack Arneson and now, the poem, the note, and the invitation. Her eye gravitated to a Christmas-themed thimble in the shape of a bell, with tiny evergreen trees and a wiggly border painted on its porcelain surface. However, when she tried to place the thimble on her finger, she noticed that there was something lining the thimble’s interior. Taking a needle, she coaxed it out; there were three pieces of paper, each about the size of the fortune in a fortune cookie.
The first read:
Bring A Burial Bouquet
And the second:
Stay Far From The Third Candle
And the third:
Those Lost Are Found
The handwriting was unmistakably that of Grandma Jean, though none of the messages made any sense.
Staring at the pieces of paper, a sense of dread settled in Missy’s chest. She remembered how elated she’d been when she’d discovered the hidden poem. She’d been so excited about returning to St. Petersburgh. Now, that seemed ages ago. So much had changed, so much blood under the bridge. For some reason, it brought to mind a pair of couplets from T.S. Eliot’s Murder In The Cathedral which Missy had been assigned to decipher in a freshman lit class at college.
“Now is my way clear, now is the meaning plain:
Temptation shall not come in this kind again.
The last temptation is the greatest treason:
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.“
She wasn’t entirely sure how it applied to her current situation, but then, at the time, she hadn’t been all that sure what it meant in terms of the play. She simply preferred Eliot to, say Shakespeare, because at least Eliot’s stuff rhymed and therefore, stayed in your head. Maybe it was her subconscious’ desperate attempt to change her mind about attending the Christmas Tableau, the thought of which brought to mind the Oswig sisters.
That tea party with the sisters.
Missy yearned to feel the way she had felt in that moment. In that house, in the presence of those women she had felt… golden. And there was something else, a spark, one she had not felt since that time. To Missy, it seemed all that came after – Peter, the man in the basement, the stoning, that push into the river – had all robbed her of the joy and sense of personal power she’d enjoyed while in the company of those women.
Closing the sewing box, Missy thought of something else; something Grandma Jean had told her once, while trying to teach her to darn a sock, “When you drop a stitch, just pick it up again. That’s the only way to continue.”
Was this Christmas Tableau her means of picking up what she’d lost? Grandma Jean’s note promised that those lost would be found and Missy was indeed feeling lost. Her way? Currently, so very unclear. But there was one thing she felt certain; she’d left something in St. Petersburgh, something that belonged to her. And the only way she could think to get it back, to get that feeling back, to find herself again, was to return there, picking up the stitch she’d dropped. For, as Grandma Jean had said, “That’s the only way to continue.”
With that in mind, she put the sewing box back in it’s special place, the same place Grandma Jean had always kept it. She then made her way into the kitchen to grab her cell phone, lighting the burner under her tea kettle on the way. She called her aunt, who failed to pick up. Undaunted, Missy decided to leave a message.
“Hi. Hey, I’ve changed my mind. I think… I think we should RSVP ‘yes’ to that Christmas Tableau. I have no idea what to expect, but I have a feeling we weren’t included on a whim. You want to find Darlene? Let’s find Darlene. Call me.”
Missy strode over to the cupboard next to the stove, where she kept her tea. Lemon? No. Orange Spice? Yes. ‘Tis the season and all that.
As she waited for the kettle to wail, she stared at the kitchen witch sitting on the counter next to her canisters of flour and sugar. That blue dress. Something about it bugged Missy. It’s little berry eyes seemed to beam at her, daring her to learn the little poppet’s secret.
Maybe she should donate it to the museum in St. Petersburgh, as requested. A nice Christmas gesture?
But then she thought about that cryptic note. The anonymous one, with its odd warning.
Maybe she should hang onto it.
And maybe she should return that kitchen witch to it’s rightful owner.
It’s intended target.
— —
Coming: late fall of 2024
The Third Candle: Christmas Tableau at the Opera House
Sewing Box Mysteries by M.H. King 
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