According to Connie

This scene is from Chapter 4 of Disturbing The Fleece. In this scene, Megan and Connie are searching for Dorothy so they can make sure she’s OK following a heated confrontation with Annabelle Shrover, and to giver her back her wallet, which she had dropped in the parking lot at Latte Da.

First we have the scene as written in the book from Megan’s point of view. Then, we have the re-written scene from Connie’s point of view.

Megan’s point of view…

Inside the community centre, everyone is still gathered in the large foyer where the dramatic scene unfolded.

Connie elbows her way to the centre of the crowd, dragging me and the giant pastry box behind her. In passing, I overhear snippets of overlapping chatter. Organizers, volunteers, and out-of-town guests speak in hushed tones, sharing their shock and awe about Annabelle’s dramatic outburst and her shouting match with Dawn.

“Hello, everyone,” Connie announces in her most authoritative tone, silencing the crowd. “Where are Dawn and Dorothy?” she asks, scanning the crowd. No one answers. “Has anyone seen Annabelle since she ran off?”

People turn to each other in search of the missing women. A few people shrug or shake their heads. The murmurs grow loud again.

Connie claps her hands twice. The crowd again goes silent, focussing their collective attention on her. She apologizes for the disruption, thanks everyone for their patience, and asks the volunteers to resume whatever they were doing before the interruption.

“I need to find Dorothy,” I say as everyone disperses.

Connie relieves me of the heavy confectionery box and hands it to a nearby volunteer, instructing them to walk around and offer every volunteer a pastry until the box is empty.

“I checked with Dorothy before I went outside, my dear. She assured me she’s fine.”

“That’s a relief.” I slide Dorothy’s wallet partway out of my jeans pocket and jut out my hip so Connie can see it. “But I have her wallet.” I slide the compact billfold back into my pocket. “I promised Eric I would give it to her. She might not know it’s missing.”

I follow Connie to a nearby table where a clipboard rests atop a box of lanyards, beside an abandoned Latte Da to-go cup. The coffee cup is about two-thirds full, and the lipstick stain on the rim matches Dorothy’s preferred shade, Coral Almond, a subtle tone with a hint of colour and the only make-up I’ve ever seen her wear. She insists she doesn’t wear it for the colour, but for the moisturizing effect it has on her lips.

“Dorothy must be around here somewhere,” Connie says. “She wouldn’t go far without her clipboard.” She picks up the clipboard and raises the reading glasses that hang around her neck to her face. “Let’s see.” She flips through the pages. “According to this, the next group of vendors is scheduled to register at 9 a.m.” Connie checks her watch, then dips her chin, eyeing me over the top of her reading glasses. “I bet she’s getting the basement ready for the Dye Young class.” She places the clipboard back where she found it and removes her reading glasses, folding the arms and letting them free fall to the end of the cord around her neck.

We head toward the basement door, between the concession stand and the washrooms. This part of the community centre feels abandoned. The lights are off, and the rolling counter doors at the concession stand are closed. There are no signs of life.

We check the basement first, opening the door and shouting down the stairs.

“Hello?” I call into the dark void on the other side of the door.

No answer.

“Dorothy?” Connie calls over my shoulder. “Annabelle? Dawn?”

We look at each other and shake our heads.

I release the doorknob, and the door closes with a heavy thunk.

“If she’s not in the basement, she must have found something else useful to do,” Connie hypothesizes. “Dorothy Hollis couldn’t just sit around doing nothing for an hour. Honestly, I don’t know how we would have pulled off this event without her.” She waggles her finger in my direction. “She has never knit a stitch in her life, yet she has made herself an integral part of the Charity Knitting Guild. She even redesigned our website and helped us set up project management software for our charity projects.”

In just a few weeks, Dorothy has become a local legend. Never one to sit still, Dorothy has thrown herself into the proverbial deep end of the community pool, taking an active role in local events and initiatives. Between community activities, she has also used her tech skills to revamp the Knitorious website and streamline our online ordering process.

At first, I worried Dorothy was struggling with her transition to retirement, so accustomed to busyness that she didn’t know how to slow down and relax. But after witnessing how much joy she got from re-organizing our laundry room to maximize workflow––her words, not mine––I realized that staying busy and involved is how Dorothy relaxes. Dorothy is an extroverted woman of action. Helping people, making herself useful, and keeping busy are her happy places. She seeks opportunities to improve efficiency and streamline processes the same way I seek limited-edition yarns and out-of-publication vintage knitting patterns. Dorothy Hollis is a productivity hobbyist, and Harmony Lake is reaping the benefits.

For the next several minutes, Connie and I walk through the community centre, washrooms, and library. We ask around, searching for Dorothy while also keeping our eyes peeled for sightings of Dawn Spiffin and Annabelle Shrover. Nobody has seen them. In the kerfuffle following Annabelle’s public meltdown, all three women have somehow vanished without a trace.

We find ourselves back at the basement door where our search began and decide to check the basement again, hoping that while we were searching for her, Dorothy found her way down there.

I open the door just enough to poke my head into the silent darkness.

“Dorothy?” My voice echoes down the dark stairwell.

No response. I shut the door.

Connie and I let out simultaneous exasperated sighs, and I lean with my shoulder pressed against the cool metal of the closed basement door.

“Maybe Dorothy went home,” Connie suggests. “If she had realized her wallet was missing, she could’ve gone home to look for it.”

I point out the window at Dorothy’s car in the parking lot.

“Maybe she walked,” Connie suggests with a half shrug.

“Maybe,” I hesitantly agree, sensing that Dorothy isn’t at home, but is here somewhere. “But why wouldn’t she take her car? It would be the most efficient way to get home and back before the next vendors arrive at 9 a.m.,” I argue. “And Dorothy always chooses the most efficient option.”

Connie bites her lower lip, searching for a logical answer to my question.

“Maybe she didn’t want to drive without her driver’s licence,” Connie blurts, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, proud of her logical explanation. “Technically, it’s illegal to drive without your licence.”

“Her nephew is the chief of police,” I remind her. “Trust me, Eric would let her off with a warning and a hug.”

If I were Dorothy and I had just discovered that I’d lost my wallet, the first place I would check is my car. If it weren’t there, I would drive back to Latte Da and check there. I wouldn’t walk because I wouldn’t want to be late when the next vendors arrive for registration at 9 a.m.. Dorothy hates to be late. Every cell in my body is tingling; Dorothy is close.

“Just in case, I’ll text Eric and ask if she went home,” I say, already unlocking my phone screen.

I text Eric, asking if Dorothy made an appearance at home, choosing my words carefully so as not to alarm him that Connie and I have misplaced his favourite aunt.

“He hasn’t seen her,” I say to Connie when Eric replies to my text right away. “He said to check the library because she’s been talking with the librarian about volunteering there after Woolstock.”

“We’ve already checked the library,” she laments. “Twice.”

Worry creeps into the lines on Connie’s face, deepening them.

“I’ll check the parking lot,” I say, taking a step away from the basement door.

“I’ll come with you,” Connie offers. “You know what Dorothy’s like. She probably stopped to talk to someone and lost track of time. Last week, she spent an hour debating the merits and limitations of the Dewey Decimal system with the librarian, but she swore they only spoke for a few minutes.”

“You’re right.” I nod. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, and we’re worrying over nothing.”

Two steps into our journey, Connie stops mid step, grips my forearm, and raises her index finger to her mouth.

We freeze and listen, though I’m not sure what we’re listening for.

“Did you hear that?” Connie hisses.

I shake my head.

“Hear what?” I whisper.

“A voice.” With her body still frozen in place, Connie’s eyes and ears search for the source of the mysterious voice.

“Whose?”

“I can’t tell,” she mumbles.

I cock my ear into the silence, hold my breath, and listen. Just as I’m about to tell Connie that I don’t hear anything and suggest we continue on our way to the parking lot, something buzzes.

“Do you hear that?” I whisper.

Connie nods. “Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz,” she mimics the distant intermittent buzzing we both hear but can’t locate.

A muffled voice warbles in the distance. I can’t distinguish words, or even whether the voice is male or female, but there is a definite voice nearby, trying to be heard, reminiscent of a distant radio or TV.

On the balls of my feet, I sneak back to the basement door. The buzzing intensifies. I nod at Connie and point at the basement door.

“Someone’s down there,” she hisses, pressing her ear against the steel fire door.

The buzzing and the voice stop. Did they stop because they heard us coming? Is someone hiding in the basement?

The Knot of Doom forms in the pit of my stomach. The Knot of Doom is my built-in warning system. It goes off when something bad is about to happen. The Knot of Doom has never been wrong. As it surges and tightens, my heart rate speeds up and pounds in my ears. Every instinct I have is warning me not to go into the basement. I take a long breath, hold it, and let it out. Heavy shoulders, long arms, I remind myself. Some of the tension leaves my neck and shoulders.

Connie wraps her hand around the doorknob and looks at me. She raises her eyebrows and nods.

I swallow hard and nod back.

Connie turns the knob and opens the door.

I reach inside and grope along the wall for the light switch. My hand finds the toggle switch and flips it to the ON position.

Fluorescent lights flicker to life, humming and illuminating the empty stairwell.

The intermittent buzzing starts again, and at the bottom of the stairs, a cell phone lights up, dancing in place as it vibrates on the cold, hard floor.

Connie slips past me, descending the stairs and approaching the vibrating phone as it emits a humanoid voice. “Incoming call from Liza Merkin.” Brief pause. “Incoming call from Liza Merkin.”

She stoops to pick up the phone but becomes distracted by something I can’t see from the top of the stairs.

I hurry down the stairs after her, eager to see for myself what caught Connie’s attention just as she gasps and abandons the ringing phone.

“Connie?!” I shout as she lunges out of my sight, surprisingly spry for someone who’s seventy-one years young.

“Dorothy!” Connie shouts.

I jump over the last two steps and land on the floor at the bottom of the stairs.

“Dorothy!” Connie shakes Dorothy’s limp shoulder.

Dorothy is slumped against the wall with her legs outstretched in front of her. Her chin is against her chest. Her wire-framed glasses hang off the tip of her nose, held in place only by the hook of one very determined temple tip clinging doggedly to her ear.

Dorothy moans and mumbles incoherently at Connie’s attempts to rouse her. Her heavy eyelids flutter open, then close again.

“What happened to her?” I ask, assessing Dorothy’s condition. “Is that blood?”

“I don’t think so,” Connie replies. “I think it might be dye.” She continues her efforts to rouse Dorothy.

She’s barely conscious. Dorothy’s practical, loose flowy pants, matching tunic, and coordinating silk scarf are splattered with the same red dye that is all over her hands. What happened to her?

“I’ll call an ambulance.” I pull out my cell phone and move closer to the bottom of the stairs, where the signal is strongest.

In my peripheral vision, I spy a figure in the darkness on the floor across the room, near the emergency fire exit. I run to the wall and turn on more lights. All the lights. I flip every toggle at once, lighting up the dark space.

On the opposite side of the basement from Dorothy is a woman. She’s on the floor, on her knees like she’s practicing yoga and doing child’s pose except her head is immersed inside a shallow dye vat.

“Annabelle?” I call, recognizing the woman’s distinct long, multi-coloured hair cascading in the water around her head.

She is perfectly still. Too still.

“Annabelle!” I rush over and kneel next to her, placing my hands on either side of Annabelle’s head. She doesn’t move. I gently lift her head until her face is out of the red dye-stained water. “Annabelle, are you OK?” I ask, assessing her dripping wet, dye-stained face.

She’s not OK.

“No, no, no,” I mutter, gently releasing Annabelle’s head, controlling its lifeless descent and carefully keeping her dye-stained face out of the water.

“Is that Annabelle?” Connie asks, still at Dorothy’s side. “Is she OK?”

I shake my head. “Annabelle Shrover is dead.”

Connie’s point of view…

The community centre is bustling. People flit from one small group to the next like busy bees buzzing from flower to flower. But instead of collecting pollen, these busy bees are gossiping about the outlandish exchange we all just witnessed.

I elbow and squeeze my way through the crowd, keeping a tight grip on Megan’s hand so we won’t get separated. As I cut a path to the centre of the hall, I catch bits and pieces of various conversations. How embarrassing that our community’s proverbial dirty laundry has been aired in public in front of out-of-town guests and dignitaries. 

“Hello, everyone,” I shout, using the most commanding tone I can muster. 

The crowd silences immediately. 

“Where are Dawn and Dorothy?” I demand, scanning the room for their faces.  

Not one response. 

“Has anyone seen Annabelle since she ran off?” I ask, my voice teetering on the fine line between authoritative and shouty. 

Lots of shrugging and head-shaking. Several people crane their necks, scanning the crowd for the missing women, but no one knows where she is. 

The murmuring intensifies again. 

I clap my hands to redirect their attention to me.

After apologizing for the unplanned dramatic scene, I thank everyone for their patience and instruct the Woolstock volunteers to proceed as planned. 

“I need to find Dorothy,” Megan tells me.  

I take the large white box out of Megan’s arms and hand it to a nearby empty-handed volunteer. “Please offer all the volunteers a pastry until the box is empty.”

“No problem,” the young volunteer replies with a smile.  

Turning my attention to Megan, I say, “I checked with Dorothy before I went outside, my dear. She assured me she’s fine.”

“That’s a relief.” Megan slides something out of her front pocket and pokes her hip toward me. “But I have her wallet.” She pushes the small, folded leather wallet back into her pocket. “I promised Eric I would give it to her,” she says. “She might not know it’s missing.”

Megan follows me to Dorothy’s station where a box of lanyards, a clipboard, and a cold, lipstick-stained cup of coffee are the only evidence that Dorothy was here. 

“Dorothy must be around here somewhere,” I insist. “She wouldn’t go far without her clipboard.” I put on my reading glasses and scan through the pages of Dorothy’s clipboard. “Let’s see… according to this, the next group of vendors is scheduled to register at 9 a.m.,” I say, putting on my reading glasses and checking my watch. “I bet she’s getting the basement ready for the Dye Young class.” I place the clipboard exactly as I found it because Dorothy is particular about things like that, and remove my reading glasses.  

In unison, Megan and I start toward the basement door, which is shrouded in darkness. The door is away from the main lobby, nestled between the concession stand and the washrooms. The lights are off because the concession stand isn’t open yet. 

Megan opens the basement door a crack, and I peer over her shoulder.  

“Hello?” she calls into the darkness. 

No reply. 

“Dorothy?” I call over Megan’s shoulder. “Annabelle? Dawn?”

We look at each other and shake our heads. 

Megan lets go of the door and it closes with a deep thud.  

“If she’s not in the basement, she must have found something else useful to do,” I reason. “Dorothy Hollis wouldn’t just sit around doing nothing for an hour. Honestly, I don’t know how we would have pulled off this event without her.” I shake my index finger in Megan’s direction. “She has never knitted a stitch in her life, yet has made herself an integral part of the Charity Knitting Guild. She even redesigned our website and helped us set up project management software for our charity projects.” 

In just a few weeks, Dorothy has become an integral part of Harmony Lake’s tight-knit community by immersing herself in local events and organizations. Besides her community involvement, she has used her computer skills to upgrade our town’s online presence and virtual community. 

Megan and I tour the facility in search of Dorothy. We check the community centre, washrooms, and library. We ask everyone we see to keep an eye out for Dorothy, Dawn, and Annabelle. Nobody has seen them. In the frenzied aftermath of Annabelle’s public meltdown, all three women have disappeared. 

When we find ourselves back at Dorothy’s station, her box of lanyards, clipboard, and cold coffee remain untouched. Worried, we decide to check the basement again, hoping that while we were searching, Dorothy went down there. 

Megan opens the door just wide enough for us to poke our heads through.  

“Dorothy?” Megan’s voice echoes through the dark, silent stairwell. 

There’s no reply, so we shut the door.  

We sigh in stereo and lean against the cold metal door. 

“Maybe Dorothy went home,” I suggest. “If she had realized her wallet was missing, she could’ve gone home to look for it.” 

Megan gestures at the window. Dorothy’s car is in the parking lot. 

“Maybe she walked,” I say, shrugging.  

“Maybe,” Megan agrees, but I can sense that she’s not convinced.  

“But why wouldn’t she take her car?” Megan reasons. “It would be the most efficient way to get home and back before the next vendors arrive. Dorothy always chooses the most efficient option.” 

She’s right, and I don’t know how to respond. But I need to say something so Megan won’t worry. 

“Maybe she didn’t want to drive without her driver’s licence,” I blurt. “Technically, it’s illegal to drive without your licence.” 

“Her nephew is the chief of police,” Megan reminds me. “Trust me, Eric would let her off with a warning and a hug.” She lets out a long sigh. “Just in case, I’ll text Eric and ask if she went home.”  

I help her phrase the text carefully so Eric won’t worry that his aunt has vanished into thin air. Then we wait anxiously for his reply.

“He hasn’t seen her,” Megan says when her phone dings just moments after she hits send. “He said to check the library because she’s been talking with the librarian about volunteering there after Woolstock.” 

“We’ve already checked the library,” I grumble. “Twice.”

Worry niggles at me and I try not to let it show on my face. 

“I’ll check the parking lot,” Megan says, stepping away from the basement door. 

“I’ll come with you,” I say, following her. “You know what Dorothy’s like. She probably stopped to talk to someone and lost track of time. Last week she spent an hour debating the merits and limitations of the Dewey Decimal system with the librarian, but she swore they only spoke for a few minutes.” 

“You’re right.” Megan nods. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, and we’re worrying over nothing.”

 What’s that? I stop abruptly and grip Megan’s forearm, silently pressing my index finger against my lips. 

We stand still, listening intently but hear nothing except the sounds you’d expect to hear in a busy community centre full of people getting ready for a major event.

There it is again!  

“Did you hear that?” I hiss. 

Megan shakes her head. 

How could she not have heard it?

“Hear what?” she whispers. 

“A voice.” Still frozen in place, my senses are on high alert for the mysterious voice. 

“Whose?”

“I can’t tell,” I utter just loud enough for Megan to hear. 

Megan pushes her brown curls behind her right ear and tilts it into the silence. 

We hold our breath and listen. 

Something buzzes. 

“Do you hear that?” Megan whispers. 

I nod. “Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz,” I say, repeating the intermittent buzz.  

Thank goodness we both hear it now. I was beginning to worry that I was hearing things!  

A muffled voice mumbles in the distance like a faraway radio.

As we tiptoe back toward the basement door, the buzzing intensifies. 

Megan points at the basement door and nods. 

We’ve found the source of the sound.

“Someone’s down there,” I whisper, pressing my ear against the cold steel of the fireproof basement door.

Silence. No more buzzing. No more mysterious voice. Is someone down there? Who would be down there in the dark? Why?  

I grasp the doorknob with my trembling hand. 

Megan and I make contact. 

I raise my eyebrows and nod, silently asking if she’s ready. 

She nods and swallows hard in response.  

 I turn the knob and pull the door open. 

Megan feels along the wall until she finds the light switch and flips it on. 

Bright, fluorescent lights fill the darkness and make the stairwell hum. 

The buzzing starts again and, at the bottom of the stairs, a flashing cell phone vibrates on the floor just below the bottom step. 

I squeeze past Megan and race down the stairs toward the phone. As I get closer, I can make out the words the AI voice is saying: “Incoming call from Liza Merkin.” After a brief pause, it repeats, “Incoming call from Liza Merkin.”

As I squat to pick up the phone, something in the periphery catches my eye. 

Is that a person? Covered in blood? 

Megan’s footsteps race down the stairs after me. 

“Connie?!” she calls just as I lunge away from the ringing phone toward the person against the wall.  

My seventy-one-year-old muscles and joints will feel all this lunging and squatting tomorrow. Thank heavens for ibuprofen!

“Dorothy!” I shout, realizing who I’m looking at. “Dorothy!” I crouch next to her and shake her lifeless shoulder. 

Dorothy Hollis sits slumped against the wall. Her legs are stretched out in front of her, and her feet are pointing at an imaginary ten and two. Her chin is pressed against her chest and her glasses are barely hanging on to her face. 

I shake her again. She lets out a moan and a grunt. Her eyes try to open, then give up and close again.

“What happened to her?” Megan demands, checking the pulse in Dorothy’s neck. “Is that blood?” 

“I don’t think so,” I reply. “I think it might be dye.” 

Dorothy’s flyaway duster pant suit set and matching silk scarf are wet and stained with red dye. The same red dye covers her hands.

What on earth happened here? 

“I’ll call an ambulance.” Megan pulls out her cell phone and curses the signal in the basement as she moves closer to the bottom of the stairs. 

As she talks to the emergency dispatcher, Megan lets out a gasp and runs to the wall with the light switches. She turns them all on, lighting up the entire basement, and gasps again. 

“Annabelle?” she shouts, dashing across the room.  

In the now brightly lit room, I see what caught Megan’s attention.  

On the opposite side of the basement, there is a woman on the floor. She is bent forward on her knees with her head immersed in a shallow vat of dyed water. 

I leave Dorothy’s side just long enough to confirm my suspicion.  

Annabelle! 

Why is she so still? Why isn’t she answering Megan?

“Annabelle!” Megan kneels next to her, gently lifting Annabelle’s head out of the water. She doesn’t move. “Annabelle, are you OK?” Megan asks the unresponsive, dripping, dye-stained woman. 

Annabelle is too still.  

“No, no, no,” Megan pleads, gently laying Annabelle’s lifeless head so that her face is out of the water. 

“Is that Annabelle?” I ask, returning to Dorothy and hoping against hope that I’m wrong. “Is she OK?”  

Megan shakes her head. “Annabelle Shrover is dead.”