Early Summer

Carol L. Paur

Description

Helene Denny worries about everything, even the prospect of leaving home to attend college. It doesn’t help that she’s fascinated with serial killers.
 
In her final semester of high school there’s a string of missing girls. Helene immediately thinks a serial killer is loose. When Fred Thompkins arrives in town to become mayor he becomes her primary suspect.
 
No one takes her seriously. Helene steps into the dark web to search for the culprit, only to endanger her own life. Can Helene solve the case before someone close to her goes missing?

Connie and I happily watched the clouds shake out snowflakes. School was canceled. We put on our snow gear. I was almost eighteen but snow days still thrilled me. It gave me an excuse to avoid homework and thinking about the future.

While we were excited, Dad frowned. “This is why I hate my job.”

Dad drove semi for Duncan Trucking. It didn’t matter what kind of weather we had, he would still need to get to the terminal and make his deliveries. He was lacing up his Sorel boots when Mom asked, "Since you’ll be out anyway, could you stop off at the hardware store for canning lids? Tomorrow I’m going to finish pickling the beets.”

Mom canned, pickled, and froze most of the produce from our garden. Some of it we harvested and stored in the cellar over winter. If she thought the vegetables were about to spoil, she would process them. It didn’t matter that it was winter.

“Wide or regular?”

“One of each, I guess.” She looked at Connie and me. “If school is closed tomorrow, maybe you could help.”

“Yuck, pickled beets,” Connie answered. “Come on, Helene, let’s make our snow family.” Outside we rolled and shaped a snowman family of four—Dad, Mom, Helene, and Connie.

“Let’s make one for Grandpa Denny. If the roads get better he’s coming for supper.” Connie said, patting her snow person’s head.

We rolled two large balls for the base and torso and a smaller one for his head. He towered over the other snowmen.

“Do you think we made him too big?” I asked.

“He’ll love it. Let’s do some selfies.”

“First I’ll see if Mom will give us carrots and raisins for the faces.”

When I returned with the goods, Fred’s Lincoln stood next to our snow people. Connie leaned inside to pet the dog. Fred hovered over Connie. Was he about to push her inside?

“Hey! Get away from her!” I shouted.

ONE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

TWO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

THREE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

FOUR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

FIVE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

SIX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48

SEVEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

EIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72

NINE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81

TEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90

ELEVEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .102

TWELVE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .111

THIRTEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .121

FOURTEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .133

FIFTEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .142

SIXTEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .151

SEVENTEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .159

EIGHTEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .168

NINETEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .178

TWENTY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .186

TWENTY-ONE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .202

TWENTY-TWO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .211

TWENTY-THREE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .222

TWENTY-FOUR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .233

TWENTY-FIVE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .243

TWENTY–SIX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .250

TWENTY-SEVEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .259

TWENTY-EIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .268

TWENTY-NINE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .279

THIRTY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .288

THIRTY-ONE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .297

THIRTY-TWO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .305

THIRTY-THREE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .311

THIRTY-FOUR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .323

THIRTY-FIVE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .332

EPILOGUE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .342

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .349

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .351

ABOUT THE AUTHOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .353

Sujets

• Univers ado
• Suspense
• Suspense
• Children's
• Thrillers
• Mental Illness
• Social Themes
• Young Adult Fiction
• Mental disorder
• Crime
• Suspenso

Informations

• Publié par: Orange Blossom Publishing
• Date de parution: 01 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781949935431
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Table o f Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Tw enty-Three
T wenty-Four
T wenty-Five
Twenty–Six
Tw enty-Seven
Tw enty-Eight
T wenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Th irty-Three
T hirty-Four
T hirty-Five
Epilogue





© ٢٠٢٢ Ca rol Paur
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in part, in any form, without the permission of the pu blisher.
Orange Blossom Pu blishing
Maitland, Florida
www.orangeblossomb ooks.com
info@orangeblossomb ooks.com
First Edition: Septem ber 2022
Library of Congress Control Number:
Edited by: Arielle Haughee
Formatted by: Aut umn Skye
Cover design: Sanj a Mosic
Print ISBN: 978-1-949 935-42-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-949 935-43-1
Printed in th e U.S.A.


Dedication
To Les, Elizabeth, Bridget, Genevieve, a nd Monica.
“And what does your anxiety do? It does not empty to-morrow, brother, of its sorrows; but, ah! it empties to-day of its s trength.”
— Alexander Maclaren, 1859 sermon “Anxi ous Care.”


One
L ooking back I see now that my hobby was a bit odd. It had consumed my free time with internet searches, trips to the library, and culling through newspaper articles. My parents despised it. It was no different, I had reasoned, than studying volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, or tornadoes, though my fixation with serial killers had nothing to do with the climate.
From my research, I discovered that serial killers often (but not always) share personality traits—they’re control freaks, sociopaths, arrogant, and manipulative—yet often appear to be upstanding citizens. Some type of psychosis is often present, and many come from dysfunctional or abusive families. They are typically above average in intelligence, yet often jump from one career to another.
Mom said I was living an odd sort of d ichotomy.
She complained one day when she discovered me reading Mind Hunters , an FBI book on the investigation of serial killers. “Helene, how can a girl who is terrified of college gorge on all that crap?” She held out her hand, where I placed the book without letting her know what was hiding under my bed, an old DVD of The Silence of the Lambs , my favorite movie. I would be banished if she discovered it. “Helene, statistically, there are very few serial killers out there. Besides, there are lots of things that are worse than serial killers.”
Even if there was only one serial killer in the whole world, wouldn’t that be bad enough? Furthermore, how could can she say there is anything worse than a serial killer? They snatch away people and chop th em apart.
My therapist once told me I had two different people living inside me. No, I did not suffer from a personality disorder. Instead, there was one side of me that dreaded leaving the security of my home for college, while the other side was held spellbound by the antics of serial killers. Strange, but somehow this covert fixation was an escape from the impending doom I felt about going away to college. It made no sense to anyone, not even me.
Mom’s nagging to fill out scholarship applications only intensified my anxiety. I’d stare at the form for hours trying to answer the same question every college posed in different ways: What are your goals in life ? Does any seventeen-year-old know the answer to this question?
How do you write “study serial killers and become an actress,” so it doesn’t make you sound like a complete freak? After struggling with the question, daydreaming would push out all rational thoughts.
Scotland Yard calls. “There’s a string of girls missing. We need you.”
“I’m right in the middle of a film. Let me talk to the director to see if I can take off a few days.”
After getting permission from the director, I hop on my jet, fly to London, and solve t he crime.
At a distance. No meeting up with the serial killer, like Clarice Starling.
I knew it didn’t make sense that I wanted to catch these murderers in comfort and safety, much like an armchair qua rterback.
The other thing that probably didn’t make sense was why Scotland Yard and not the FBI? Flying to London seemed more romantic than Washington D.C. Geography, tha t was it.
The anxiety of having only one more semester before heading to college jarred me awake the January morning after Christmas break. Still in my pajamas, I tromped downstairs to flip the pages of the John Deere calendar on our kitchen wall. Ninety or so more days. Then break followed by college, which would cut into summer and destroy my life.
“Why are you looking at the tractor calendar?” Connie, my younger sister, asked. She slopped down the generic oat cereal, milk dripping on her chin.
“I’m trying to see how many days I have left until graduation.” Instead of breakfast, I went upstairs, showered, and popped a few Tums.
I returned to hear the sink running and Mom saying, “Hurry up, girls, or you’ll miss the bus.” She sat at the table to drink h er coffee.
“Dad said I cou ld drive.”
Mom sighed. “The car’s been making odd sounds. We’ll take it to the mechanics before you drive it.”
That meant we’d probably be taking the bus for the rest of the semester, since finding extra cash for car repairs was almost as likely as finding platinum in the cow manure dotting our farm.
We frowned and shrugged on our coats. Outside the blast of cold slapped, but I quickly melted inside the overheated bus transporting us to Rhode’s combined elementary, middle, and high school. Once we found our seats, the bus roared away to capture more students.
I studied the students’ frozen expressions, with their unkempt hair and unzipped jackets, as if they had just rolled out of bed. My auburn hair was washed, dried, brushed, and carefully tucked under a felt hat, which I removed as soon as I entered the bus. It would stay in my backpack until I returned home this afternoon. It was my concession with Mom, who worried about the cold while I worried about hat hair. My coat was freshly washed, pressed, and zipped. Beneath it was my new sweater and jeans, both also washed and pressed. Wrinkles anywhere on my body spiked my anxiety fever higher than the trip back t o school.
If I had not hated it so much, I would have pitied the month of January. It followed the wildest, happiest month of the year—December—with its decorations, foods, and celebrations. The first month of the year offered only debt, diets, and darkness. Who would want to befri end that?
I popped another Tums while glancing out the window at the leafless trees and brown grass. The dormant vegetation shared my despondency. Occasionally, I would turn to watch my younger sister jabbering away with her group of gir lfriends.
Connie had been my parents’ happy surprise. They were told they would never have any more children after me. I was eight when Connie arrived into the world. It was as if my parents went to the store and picked out the perfect Christmas gift for me—baby-doll Connie, with her strawberry-blonde hair, fat pink cheeks, blue eyes, and a little birthmark on her ri ght knee.
“What’s that?” I had pointed to the spot one day while Mom changed h er diaper.
“That’s a little fairy kiss,” Mom answered. “When God is creating you, the fairies are in such awe of your beauty, they kiss you. You have one on your bum.” Why couldn’t she just say the word— butt ?
I said it instead. “Fairies kissed my butt?” The thought of tiny, winged creatures kissing my other cheek caused my face to redden. Then I grew curious. “I wanna see it,” I begged, pulling down my jeans.
“Helene! Keep your pants on. It’s too far down for you to see anyways.”
“Why did the fairies kiss Connie’s right knee but my butt?”
“Their wings flap so quickly like hummingbirds, their lips have no control on their landing.”
“Where’s your fairy kiss?” Was Mommy’s also on her butt?
She lifted up her shirt over the belly button, and ther e it was.
“Wow, that fairy must have had big lips!” I looked at the tan-colored splotch on the right side of her stomach. “Why is there a freckle in th e middle?”
My mother must have foreseen this conversation, for she quickly responded, “That kiss was from a fairy who was in the middle of eating a choco late bar.”
I giggled and then begged to hold the baby. On the couch, I would sit, and my mother would place baby Connie gently and carefully on to my lap.
Connie was my doll. She washed away my first eight years of loneliness. When my mother wasn’t watching, I’d pull Connie out of her baby seat and bounce her around the living room. Once, I tripped over the ottoman and dropped her on the floor. Connie smiled. I picked her up and tucked her back into the seat. She cried.
“What happened?” Mom rushed into the living room and scooped up the cryin g infant.
“Nothing, ” I lied.
As she grew, however, Connie was another source of my Tums addiction. She applauded at all the wrong times, talked too loudly in church, told people their outfits were ugly. Worse. She burped and farted in public. No Filter Connie , I called her. I blamed myself for Connie’s behavior because I had dropped her. Years later I confessed the deed to my parents.
“Connie says and does the most inappropriate things, and it has to do with her falling out of my arms.”
“Or the fall created a genius,” Dad r esponded.
My parents laughed, but I scrunched my face in displeasur