The next clipping on the page was titled “O’Shea Murder.”  I flipped the page; other slayings followed.  I saw a photograph of a young woman, smiling into the camera as she held a little baby, and an article titled “Sheriff’s Office Baffled.  FBI. Called In On Yet Another Murder.”  I next viewed the snapshot of a little girl and read the headline “Lifeless Body of Three-Year-Old Discovered.”  I closed the book.    

Back downstairs in the kitchen, I placed The Chapman Murders and Year Round Cooking scrapbooks on the table.  Mrs. Peach half turned from the stovetop; the vegetable soup she was stirring simmered quietly, its wonderful aroma spreading throughout the kitchen and beyond.  “Find something interesting?”

 Tapping her long wooden spoon inside the pot, she laid it aside and, as was her habit, wiped her hands on her apron.  The one she wore this day portrayed winter, with miniature scenes of snowmen, children sledding, lit fireplaces, and snow covered villages.  It was one of my favorites.  

“The old trunk is full of scrapbooks and albums,” I told her.  “I didn’t look through them all but I found these.”

Mrs. Peach stepped away from the stewing pot of vegetables to glance over my shoulder.  The book of recipes was on top and she smiled with pleasure when she saw it.  “You’ve found Vera’s cookbook!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together.  “I’ve been looking for it for the longest time.”  Her smile was tainted with a touch of sadness.  “Vera was such a good cook.  Her dishes usually won first prize at the County Fair.”

  I returned the older lady’s smile.  Mrs. Peach had been my great-grandmother’s sole one true ally, her only real friend.  

“I’ll make us some tea and we’ll take a peek,” said Mrs. Peach, hurrying to put the kettle on.  “I hope her recipe for meatloag is in there.”

“I found another scrapbook,” I said, wandering what meatloag might be.  I lowered myself into one of the kitchen chairs.  “It’s called The Chapman Murders.”

For a few seconds Mrs. Peach froze, one hand holding two flower-patterned teacups, while the other held their matching saucers.  “Oh,” she replied softly, gazing into the cupboard she’d opened moments before.  “I’d all but forgotten.”  Then she added as she resumed her tea making, “I’m not surprised you found a scrapbook about them.  I’d imagine there’s others in that trunk pertaining to deaths and killing, from all over the world.  Your great-grandmother was intrigued with murder.”

Hmm…, I thought.  A woman who never sees her daughter from the age of four, cuts off all contact, never keeps a single picture of her in the house.  Yes, that kind of warped person I could easily imagine being addicted to murder and mayhem.