Read Online The Garden of Dead Dreams by Abby Quillen - Free Book Online
Authors: Abby Quillen
Tags: Women Sleuths, Mystery, literary suspense, literary mystery, psychological mystery, Gothic thriller, Women's action adventure
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trees. She couldn’t face Chase and Petra right now. She’d take the shortcut through the forest to the men’s cabins and then take the trail from there to the theater entrance.
Etta stepped into the clearing outside the men’s cabins, and her eyes went to Jordan’s door. The porch light was on, a ghostly blue beam in the haze. Was Olivia there? Etta had only been over to Jordan’s cabin twice, both times with Olivia, but she moved toward the light. Maybe she and Olivia could walk to the kitchen together; they could talk. Etta knocked on the door and waited. No answer. She knocked again, and then pulled her hood off, wiping beads of water from her eyebrows and the tip of her nose.
“Jordan?”
She waited.
“Olivia?”
Etta stared at the doorknob. Jordan didn’t lock his door so that Olivia could come and go as she pleased. Etta brought her hand to the doorknob and twisted, pushing the door open a crack. “You here, Jor?”
The curtains were drawn. It took Etta’s eyes a minute to adjust to the shadows. Then a chill rose through her. Jordan’s bed was neatly made. The dressers were bare. The cabin looked vacant, except for Jordan’s 1939 Remington typewriter, which sat on his desk. “Would Fitzgerald have used Microsoft Word?” Jordan had asked Etta over lunch one day. Etta didn’t see why he wouldn’t have if it had been available, but she hadn’t challenged Jordan on it.
“Jor,” Etta called again. She stepped into the cabin and the floorboards gave a little under her weight. She pressed the door closed behind her and looked around, searching for any signs her roommate had been there. Then she saw Olivia’s name. For a moment it felt like she’d conjured it. But there it was, Olivia , on a small yellow sticky note affixed to the top of a stack of papers next to Jordan’s typewriter. Etta stepped closer, leaning over the chair to make out the rest of the words.
In your haste to break our engagement, you forgot “your” story.
Etta almost reached over to pluck the sticky note off the paper so that she could see the notebook paper beneath it. But she yanked her hand back. She was dripping wet. Beads of water were rolling off her coat onto the floor.
The pages beneath the sticky note were yellowing at the edges, and someone had written across the pages in jagged all-caps letters, The felt-tip pen had bled in spots and blacked in parts of some of the letters. Something about the way the words crowded into the margins made Etta want to draw her eyes away. It certainly wasn’t Olivia’s handwriting.
After Etta slammed Jordan’s door shut, ran down the path, and pulled the heavy theater door open to the sound of Maura Wilkins’ girlish voice echoing from the stage, Etta finally absorbed the words on the sticky note: In your haste to break our engagement . . .
* * *
Flute music drifted from the kitchen. Etta stopped outside and ran her hands through her hair, trying to shake some of the water out. The flute faded, and was replaced by a synthesized drumbeat. Then chanting female voices. Was Carl listening to New Age music? Etta pushed the kitchen door open.
Candy stood behind a stainless steel table in the center of the room, her blonde hair and bangs flattened beneath a hair net. Pots and pans hung on a rack several feet above her, like oversized wind chimes. She punched her fists into a ball of dough, her eyes closed.
“Hello,” Etta called.
Candy didn’t seem to hear, which wasn’t surprising with the chanting vibrating through the room. Etta walked to the table and watched Candy flip the dough over and form it into a ball. Her eyelids sparkled with a swath of silver eye shadow, which extended to her tweezed eyebrows and onto her temples. It looked a little like the Elmer’s glue and glitter projects kids concocted in grade school. A high-pitched hum was coming from somewhere behind her nose—more of a whine than a chant.
The song ended, but the breathy high-pitched hum still
Etta stepped into the clearing outside the men’s cabins, and her eyes went to Jordan’s door. The porch light was on, a ghostly blue beam in the haze. Was Olivia there? Etta had only been over to Jordan’s cabin twice, both times with Olivia, but she moved toward the light. Maybe she and Olivia could walk to the kitchen together; they could talk. Etta knocked on the door and waited. No answer. She knocked again, and then pulled her hood off, wiping beads of water from her eyebrows and the tip of her nose.
“Jordan?”
She waited.
“Olivia?”
Etta stared at the doorknob. Jordan didn’t lock his door so that Olivia could come and go as she pleased. Etta brought her hand to the doorknob and twisted, pushing the door open a crack. “You here, Jor?”
The curtains were drawn. It took Etta’s eyes a minute to adjust to the shadows. Then a chill rose through her. Jordan’s bed was neatly made. The dressers were bare. The cabin looked vacant, except for Jordan’s 1939 Remington typewriter, which sat on his desk. “Would Fitzgerald have used Microsoft Word?” Jordan had asked Etta over lunch one day. Etta didn’t see why he wouldn’t have if it had been available, but she hadn’t challenged Jordan on it.
“Jor,” Etta called again. She stepped into the cabin and the floorboards gave a little under her weight. She pressed the door closed behind her and looked around, searching for any signs her roommate had been there. Then she saw Olivia’s name. For a moment it felt like she’d conjured it. But there it was, Olivia , on a small yellow sticky note affixed to the top of a stack of papers next to Jordan’s typewriter. Etta stepped closer, leaning over the chair to make out the rest of the words.
In your haste to break our engagement, you forgot “your” story.
Etta almost reached over to pluck the sticky note off the paper so that she could see the notebook paper beneath it. But she yanked her hand back. She was dripping wet. Beads of water were rolling off her coat onto the floor.
The pages beneath the sticky note were yellowing at the edges, and someone had written across the pages in jagged all-caps letters, The felt-tip pen had bled in spots and blacked in parts of some of the letters. Something about the way the words crowded into the margins made Etta want to draw her eyes away. It certainly wasn’t Olivia’s handwriting.
After Etta slammed Jordan’s door shut, ran down the path, and pulled the heavy theater door open to the sound of Maura Wilkins’ girlish voice echoing from the stage, Etta finally absorbed the words on the sticky note: In your haste to break our engagement . . .
* * *
Flute music drifted from the kitchen. Etta stopped outside and ran her hands through her hair, trying to shake some of the water out. The flute faded, and was replaced by a synthesized drumbeat. Then chanting female voices. Was Carl listening to New Age music? Etta pushed the kitchen door open.
Candy stood behind a stainless steel table in the center of the room, her blonde hair and bangs flattened beneath a hair net. Pots and pans hung on a rack several feet above her, like oversized wind chimes. She punched her fists into a ball of dough, her eyes closed.
“Hello,” Etta called.
Candy didn’t seem to hear, which wasn’t surprising with the chanting vibrating through the room. Etta walked to the table and watched Candy flip the dough over and form it into a ball. Her eyelids sparkled with a swath of silver eye shadow, which extended to her tweezed eyebrows and onto her temples. It looked a little like the Elmer’s glue and glitter projects kids concocted in grade school. A high-pitched hum was coming from somewhere behind her nose—more of a whine than a chant.
The song ended, but the breathy high-pitched hum still
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