Book I "MOSQUITO CREEK INN"

*Sonia Molosky's quiet summer vacation and that of her school friends begins to shift after an insurance investigator arrives in Mosquito Creek, Montana to settle the vast estate of a young heiress who disappeared seven years before. When Sonia discovers the contents of a suitcase behind a hidden door at the back of her mother's closet, she convinces six of her pals to help her search for new clues to the unsolved mystery. 

Curiosity soon escalates events to an unexpected discovery that challenges their untested resourcefulness and courage in order to outwit and expose a cruel and cunning foe. 

While attempting to retrace the path the missing girl rode her horse the afternoon she disappeared history begins to repeat itself...

 

  CHAPTER ONE

Something Very Dusty

Dear Patrick, June 11…1997

                        It all started when part of the wall gave way and Sonia fell, face first across the threshold of a hidden doorway…  

            That night Sonia wasn’t supposed to be trying on her mother’s new shoes.  After her mother left to show some houses and her grandpa went to Dr. Howes’ for his weekly game of chess, she was supposed to put her younger sister and two younger brothers to bed, then she was supposed to finish a Girl Scout badge assignment, and then she was supposed to finish some ironing.  But after the younger ones were in bed, checking out both pairs of her mom’s fancy new shoes became Sonia’s biggest priority. 

            When she stood in front of the mirror with one green, high heel shoe on her right foot and one red, wedge heel sandal on her left Sonia was instantly taller.  She fussed with her hair and twisted it into a knot high on her head. Suddenly taller and with her hair high on her head she felt stylish, almost elegant… That is until she tried to walk.

            Watching her mother and her aunt walk in high heel shoes, it had looked easy enough. But looking at high heels and walking in them was like being on tippy toes held up by a nail. When she wobbled, she over corrected.

            Scrambling, in a panic to regain her balance she grabbed for several of her mother’s hanging dresses with one hand, and then stretched out for the back of the closet wall with the other. But the dresses came off the hangers and the wall opened up as if it was air.

            After she hit the floor a whole lot of dust came up that made her sneeze. Her eyes watered and she blinked several times trying to see. Sonia wasn’t hurt, but the front of her bathrobe was a mess and she had to brush off the dust along with a lot of sticky cobwebs. That just made her sneeze again, and she still couldn’t see very well.

            There was only a single bulb in her mother’s closet that cast more shadows than light. Squinting seemed to help her eyes adjust. In the dim light Sonia counted nine file boxes stacked on the far left of the small space she had discovered, with two very tall narrow boxes pushed to the right. There were two suit cases wedged side by side between the two tall boxes. The suitcases were the same size, but one was a dust covered blue and the other suitcase was grey.

            At first she could hardly believe what she had discovered. Kids always think there must be a secret room, they even dream of a secret room but they rarely find one. This was where her mother hid the birthday gifts and Christmas presents, and the false wall was the reason Sonia had never found anything before.

            All the boxes and suitcases were connected by major cobwebs and covered by a layer of dust, so she wasn’t sure where to look first. But the suitcases were the easiest to reach without actually needing walk into the space behind her mother’s closet, so Sonia decided to start with them.

           

            On the blue suitcase she blew off the surface dust that covered just the top edge and the handle then wiped the rest with her bathrobe sleeve. The two clasps stuck a little but when she laid it down on its side she got the catches to release.

            The lid flew open and a framed photo of her parents wedding was right on top. She didn’t want to cry but tears stung her eyes when she lifted the picture. This photo disappeared after her father left when she was almost four. More family snapshots and mementos, just made her feel worse because their lives had gone on without him and she barely remembered her dad. Abruptly she reclosed the suitcase and pushed it back into place.

           

            For a few seconds Sonia just stared at the grey suitcase, then on an impulse she pulled it out, wiped off the dust with her other sleeve and opened it too. On the very top was a large brown envelope with no address or any markings. But inside was the high school diploma of her mother’s younger sister, Monica.

           

            Below the diploma was a photo album with snapshots of her Aunt Monica as a baby, and then as a small child, and then a young teen. In nearly all of the photos, with Sonia’s aunt, beginning at the age of four was a childhood playmate. The second name, hand printed on the back of each picture with the date, was…Zara.

            Sonia got lost in the album and the snapshots and the funny comments written by her aunt of the shared experiences with her best friend as they grew up together. But without any explanation the pictures, train and theater tickets, bowling scores, post cards and report cards just stopped.  After Aunt Monica’s fourteenth birthday the rest of the album pages were empty.

            She thought that was odd and searched for another album. But what she found was the front page of a newspaper that gave Sonia a real blunt explanation for the blank pages after her aunt’s birthday.

THE  MOSQUITO  CREEK  WEEKLY  REVIEW    August 18, 1990

Mosquito Creek, Montana                               Park Sullivan, Editor  

                       

…LOCAL  GIRL GOES  MISSING  IN  SEVERE  STORM…

Sometime in the late evening of August 16, my fourteen year-old granddaughter Zara Grant, vanished.

            Zara Grant was heiress to a vast, historic, family fortune. Her paternal grandfather Kohrs Grant reported her missing to local authorities. Mr. Grant became concerned when about an hour after Zara left her home at Grant Ranch to go riding, her horse returned to the ranch alone.

            An immediate search for the teenager was hampered by a severe rainstorm that moved into the area with over 100 recorded lighting strikes throughout the night.

Sheriff, Jeff Howard, was interviewed by The Review. The sheriff stated that he did not suspect foul play as they expected to find Zara with the help of local tracking dogs.  “That storm rolled in pretty fast.” The Sheriff stated. “Her horse likely threw her and she is just hurt, maybe has a broken leg.”

As the search for Zara progresses the Review will keep Powell County  residents informed.

            The face of the missing girl in the photograph published with the newspaper story, haunted Sonia. She hadn’t known Zara Grant, but she felt sad that her Aunt Monica had lost a dear friend so young.

            The sound of her grandpa’s old truck coming up the driveway startled her back to the present - in her mother’s closet - and it almost stopped her heart. Shaking, she fumbled to close the suitcase and close the small hidden door, to re-hang her mother’s three dresses and to fit the stupid shoes back in their boxes.

            When Grandpa Molosky came upstairs to check in and say goodnight, Sonia was at the ironing board faking interest in some kind of game show blaring from the small television on her mother’s tall dresser, while she pretended to iron.

            She was so sure that her grandpa would hear the loud drumming of her heart that she was grateful for the noise of the television show and when he hugged her – she was even more relieved that he hadn’t noticed the iron wasn’t even on.

CHAPTER TWO

Nothing Ever Happens Here!

 June 12…

            “Joker! No!” Eric Molosky’s chubby arms tried to save his Aunt Monica’s birthday cake from turning into his dog’s afternoon snack. And Joker’s large, flat paws left two damp-grass marks on the front of Eric’s t-shirt, showing just how close he came.

When he spun around to avoid Joker - the four layer cake and the serving plate made a hard landing on the kitchen table. The top half of the cake slid sideways part way off the bottom half, cause Mrs. Molosky always spread her peach marmalade real thick between each layer.

            “Yikes!” Eric over reached and almost did a shoulder plant in the cake but Joker jumped up again ready to play. He was knocked to the floor and his ear was immediately filled with Joker’s wet tongue.

            “You crazy dog!” Eric struggled to sit up. “Sit!” He got to his knees and peeked over the top of the table at the cake.  It wasn’t completely off the plate, but it didn’t look good. “Mom’s gonna turn us both inta stew!”

            The Molosky’s dog was a two-year-old mutt. Joker was part Cocker Spaniel, part Dalmatian and probably other parts too. He had curly, gold colored fur with uneven, black splotches. He actually looked as if someone had splattered paint on him.

            When Grandpa Molosky saw the puppy for the first time, his shocked comment was, “That dog looks like a very bad joke.”  And the name, Joker, stuck.

After he got back on his feet, Eric led Joker to their glassed-in back porch then closed the kitchen door. Joker barked at Eric then ran out the pet-door to the backyard.

            As serious panic set in both Eric’s hands gripped the light brown curly hair on his head, while he tried to think. Somehow, he needed to slide the top half of the cake back across the bottom half, without breaking the whole thing it into a hundred chunks.

            He figured that since the cake got lopsided, pushed too far one way, maybe he could fix it if he tipped it in the other direction. So he held the edge of the plate and the bottom half of cake in both hands and kept tilting it more, and more, and more until the top layers slid almost back into place.

            Majorly relieved Eric set the plate down on the table and licked the icing off his fingers. His effort wasn’t perfect. In fact the cake was still slightly off, but much better than on the floor with Joker’s foot through the middle.

            Mrs. Molosky’s mini-van pulled up in front of the garage and stopped. The van doors slammed as Eric ran to open the back screen door.  Ursula Molosky came through the door with a tangle of bags looped over each arm. She carried her purse by the handles clenched between her teeth.     

            For a small, slim lady she always seemed nervous. Her dark blonde hair generally looked like she’d just stood in a strong wind. Mrs. Molosky was often rushed, and usually in a hurry. And that afternoon was no different.

            But she wasn’t in so much of a hurry that she walked right by the kitchen table. The lopsided layer cake and the icing mixed with some large crumbs, was impossible to miss. She dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and then studied the cake, then looked at her son. “Had a little trouble spreading the icing I see?”

Eric shrugged.  “I saved the cake from Joker.”

“Joker!”

“He didn’t lick anything.”

            Mrs. Molosky took some groceries out of the bags.  “It looks dreadful.” She emptied the first bag. Let’s hope the decorations camouflage some of…of…this.”  Mrs. Molosky nodded toward the jinxed cake.

            Eric rushed over to the grocery bags to be helpful and took two boxes of cereal to put away in their pantry. When he pushed a chair up to the top pantry shelf, he could see the cake from a higher vantage point. “How much decorations did you buy?”

            Mrs. Molosky reached into one of the bags and removed candles, sprinkles and candy flowers. She lined them up on the table next to the pistachio cake that looked like a science experiment gone wrong.

She studied the cake again, looked at her son, then back to the cake.  “More icing,” she decided.  “It needs more icing.  My younger sister will love that.”  She got another mixing bowl and then began to pull out ingredients to make more pastel green icing.”   

           

            “Eric, I need you to put away the rest of the groceries, but leave out the coffee so I can make up our big pot.”  Then she thought out loud. “Let me see, there will be seven of us for dinner and five more later, for cake and ice cream...”

“Mom, there’s no coffee in any of the bags.”

“What? Are you sure?” 

 “Yeah, I’m sure. Look for yourself.” He shook all three bags upside down.

“It may have fallen out.  Check the van, please.”

Eric ran out the back door to search and then returned shaking his head.

Mrs. Molosky made the face she always made when she struggled not to come unglued. When that happened she often talked to herself, mentally trying to reorganize everything. “How could I have forgotten the coffee? I can’t leave again!  I need to finish the cake, write up a listing on the Meeker house, then start dinner...”

            She stood for several seconds with the faraway look that always worried her kids. Then she remembered Eric was still standing by the back door.  “I know your brother Marc went with Grandpa. Where are your sisters?”

            It took another second for Eric to realize she actually was talking to him. “They went over to the McKenna’s house.  Sonia talked Salina into going with her to help Gillian McKenna sew a skirt. But Sonia was really hoping that G-o-r-d-o-n might be home, too.”

            Mrs. Molosky blinked several times. More complications were piling up. “Sonia has a crush on Gordon McKenna?”

            “She’s in l-o-v-e!” He gestured out with both his arms, with the kind of motive behind his smile that only a younger brother could have.

“She’s only eleven! Gordon is only twelve!  Good grief! Your sister thinks she’s in love?” 

Eric nodded pleased that his mother’s attention was no longer focused on him and the state of his Aunt Monica’s birthday cake.

           

            Mrs. Molosky shook her head, then she checked her watch, then she checked the cake.  “Ohhhh, I don’t have time right now to deal with Sonia’s budding romance.  Okay. Get on your bike and ride to Anderlund’s Market. Get a pound of coffee and see if you can find your grandpa.”

Eric flew out the screen door, leaped down the steps in one jump and was down the driveway on his neon blue bike. At the end of the driveway he shot straight out onto the street, and skidded sideways to change direction toward the south end of town. 

            Anderlund’s Market was part health-food and part art gallery. 

Carl Anderlund bought the town’s abandoned train station and renovated it himself. According to local history the building had been there since 1909. It was a sturdy structure of pine logs and river rock. 

            Eric propped his bike against one of the posts that supported the wide front porch roof. The floor inside was also pine, thick, wide plank and original from a time when the train station still shuffled passengers. Over the years the wood had warped slightly and it squeaked almost everywhere. The market always smelled of fresh dill and dried sweet basil.

Mr. Anderlund put the store checkout till behind the former ticket counter, to the left of the double front doors.

On the right just inside the front door was a giant metal birdcage that stood six feet high and three feet square. Inside the cage was Penny and Nickel, the two parakeets Mr. Anderlund won at the Butte Stock Show, two years before.  He called them his “guard birds.” 

Every time a customer came in through the front doors the birds chattered and squawked and dropped stuff on the floor for several feet all around their cage.  That day was no different and when Eric walked in seed husks crunched beneath his feet.   

All the aisles and bins at the front of the store displayed county grown produce, organic canned and dried foods, along with locally baked breads, pies and cookies. At the back of the store were locally made candles, quilts, pottery, oil paintings and water colors, leather tooling, wood carving and weavings. 

 

            Eric spotted Leif Anderlund, standing on a short ladder organizing boxes of wheat-free crackers on a top shelf.  “Where’s your coffee?” Eric asked.

            “My dad has all the coffee and tea on the next aisle, right about there.”  Leif pointed over the top of the cracker boxes with a thin, boney arm that matched his thin, boney frame. 

He was pretty tall for eleven, and wore dark rimmed glasses that really showed up against pale skin and his pencil straight hair, the color of snow.    

            Around the corner from Leif on the opposite aisle, Eric found eight clear plastic bins of whole coffee beans under hinged covers.  He had no idea which coffee bin to choose, and he had no idea how much coffee in one bag made a pound.

“You look confused, pardner.”

            Eric looked up to see Mr. Anderlund, who carried a case of organic, canned soup. 

The father was a taller, older version of his son.

“My mom forgot the coffee when she got groceries.  Don’t you have Folgers?  That red package is the only one I know.”

Mr. Anderlund put the box down on the floor, smiling. “Sorry, no Folgers, no Maxwell House or Boyer’s either.  No ground coffee - just whole roasted beans in bulk.”

            At that moment Eric was really confused and decided this errand just to get some coffee, was really more complicated than it should be.

“Here, I’ll measure out two pounds of our regular, medium roast, Columbian coffee.  When your mom buys my whole beans, this is the coffee she usually gets.”

            Very relieved, Eric reached for a paper bag then opened it.  “But she only asked for me to get one pound.”

“One pound it is – more or less.” Mr. Anderlund put in seven scoops of the coffee beans, weighed it then marked the price on the bag with a large wax pencil he kept tied to a string.

“Anything else?”

By then Eric just wanted to get back on his bike and go. He shook his head. “Nope, just this.”

“Okay, Mr. Molosky, I’ll have you sign the accounts book to make this transaction official.”

            Mr. Anderlund put his arm around Eric’s shoulder as they walked to the market’s front counter.  By the checkout till, a woman stood waiting with some fruit and organic snacks. 

            Eric didn’t recognize this woman. She looked to be about as old as his brother’s teacher, but certainly younger than his mother. She had short dark, wavy hair.  Her skin and blue eyes were so pale her hair almost looked like a wig.

 “Well,” greeted Mr. Anderlund.  “Hello, there.  Are you new to Mosquito Creek or just visiting?”  Mr. Anderlund was a very direct person and liked to know the details of any potential gossip, or as he called it “current events” firsthand.  In fact, Mr. Anderlund was so current on so many town events and issues, the newspaper editor Mr. Sullivan, often called Mr. Anderlund for information.

The woman smiled.  “Visiting, I guess.  I’m here on business.”  She paid for the produce and a bag of vegetable chips then pulled out a business card.  “Are you Carl Anderlund?”

                                                                                                            Mr. Anderlund nodded. He was surprised, but naturally very curious.

“I may need to speak with you later this week.  This is my business card.  My office and cell phone number are long distance, though I’ve noticed that my cell phone doesn‘t get reception so close to your mountains. No matter. To reach me locally you can leave a message with Sheriff Howard, or cottage number twelve at the Deer Lodge Motel.” 

She smiled at Mr. Anderlund, and to Eric then nodded to Leif who had watched everything from his vantage point on the top of the stepladder.  The parakeets shrieked and the bell above the door rang as she opened it to return to her parked vehicle.

  

            Mr. Anderlund watched her through the front window. Leif jumped to the floor from the step ladder and both boys rushed to look out the front screen door. The jeep the lady drove had Iowa license plates.

When Leif and Eric hurried back to the counter to ask about her business card, Mr. Anderlund was already on the phone.  He handed the woman’s card to Leif while he waited for the numbers he had pressed to connect.

                                    Bella  Perez, Claims Investigator

                                    Mid-Western Insurance

                        1500 Mid-Western Tower

                                    Des Moines, Iowa

            Eric and Leif looked at each other, puzzled. They didn’t know anyone from Des Moines and they didn’t know anybody who knew anybody from Des Moines.

“Park hi, Carl here. How are you? Oh, I’m just fine.”  He motioned for Leif to return the business card and tapped it on the wooden counter top as he talked.  “Say, there aren’t any special events or seminars at the inn this coming week are there?”

The boys paid close attention to the end of the conversation they could hear.

The bell rang, the birds announced another customer and Eric’s younger brother Marc skipped through the door followed by their grandpa, Gunther Molosky.  Marc was much slimmer than his older brother with the same dark blonde hair as his mother. 

Grandpa Molosky always looked serious.  His dark brown eyes, thick brows, and straight, graying dark hair just added to his somber look.

The birds hopped from perch to perch in a flutter that sent even more small feathers to the floor, as Marc jumped around the cage tapping the mirror that hung above their water dish.

            Calmly, Grandpa Molosky placed both of his large hands on his grandson’s shoulders and steered him away from the agitated birds.

            Eric, who as a general rule couldn’t keep secrets anyway rushed to his grandpa and in a hushed voice - cause Mr. Anderlund was still on the phone–excitedly told him about the new stranger.  “There was a detective here from Iowa.  Where’s Iowa? I forget.”

Grandpa Molosky, not much impressed with modern education suspected that this time even though his grandson was only nine it wasn’t the fault of the school.  “You forget?”

Eric shrugged.

            Leif arranged four boxes of wooden matches in the shape of an “L” then he pointed to each one in order whispering.  “We’re in Montana here, Wyoming is south of us, Nebraska is east of Wyoming and then Iowa is here, east of Nebraska.” 

            Eric nodded that he understood.

            Everyone waited while Mr. Anderlund was still talking on the phone.

“I see. I thought there might be a business conference…  Oh, really?  Have you spoken with Jeff?  That figures.  How about the Ranch are they talking?  Okay. Uh huh. Sure will. Thanks, Park bye for now.” 

When Mr. Anderlund hung up he handed Mr. Molosky the business card the stranger had left, without saying a word, quite unusual for him.

Eric’s grandpa read the investigator’s name, the name of the company and the out of state address then returned the card to Leif’s father.  “What’s going on?”

Mr. Anderlund leaned forward on the counter. His long, thin body hung over the space like a draped coat.  “This is p-r-e-t-t-y big stuff.”

He waved the business card in the air.  “According to Park, who’s writing a front page feature for next Friday’s edition, this insurance investigator with Mid-Western arrived late yesterday.  I didn’t realize that Zara Grant disappeared seven years ago this coming August.”

“And this…huh,”  Mr. Anderlund looked at the business card again.  “Belinda Perez is here to complete a final investigation so the file can be closed and Zara Grant can be declared legally dead. Naturally Park is shaken, but doing his job just as he did when his granddaughter Zara disappeared.”

Most of the kids in elementary and junior high now, were too young to remember the desperate, stormy night back in August 1990. Then just about every adult in Mosquito Creek was out in a windy, cold rain, searching for the fourteen-year-old granddaughter of the local newspaper editor Park Sullivan and historic ranch owner, Khors Grant.  

“There’s eighteen thousand acres of ranch land and a huge fortune just sitting there.  I expect that Zara’s aunts, uncles and cousins have been crossing off the days–impatiently–waiting for these seven years to pass.”

Grandpa Molosky looked down at his two grandsons.  “Not a word of this to your mother or your Aunt Monica.  Especially your Aunt Monica, it’s her twenty-first birthday today and she might not have heard anything yet.”

“Your Aunt Monica and Zara Grant were best friends from first grade right through to grade nine.  When Zara disappeared…Well… Monica never completely got over the loss of her friend. Zara would have been twenty-one years-old as well later this month. Do I have your word, both of you?”

Eric and Marc nodded.  “I promise, Grandpa.”  They pledged together.

..............

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