The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

were looking for resolution, to close this chapter.
    Elsa Vitty was laid to rest beside Finn following a short service. Meli was touched to see that Finn ’s grave had been reclaimed from the dirt and undergrowth, and even sported a new headstone. Holding, or rather gripping Cal’s arm as the community flocked tightly around the gaping hole, waiting to consume the coffin, fearful that at any moment she could be pushed over the edge, Meli listened to the hushed voices of the other mourners. She obviously wasn’t the only one feeling that this was the end of an era, as she heard the comment passed more than once. How right they were; Elsa was definitely unique! It was precisely at the moment that Ken stepped forward and threw the first handful of earth into the hole, that Meli decided to close her investigation into Elsa. There was little point continuing now. Better to lay everything to rest with the old woman. If Meli had had her note book with her, she would have tossed it in on top of the coffin.

    Dean became a regular visitor, often popping in when his dad went down to the farm to check on the work, or calling to see Cass on his days off. Apparently he hadn’t wanted to visit before in case he bumped into his mum. That was quite understandable! A garrulous, friendly lad by nature, he became noticeably mute whenever the conversation turned to Elsa; although in fairness his memories would be quite limited, after all, he had been very young when Ken moved them both out. Meli couldn’t tell how he was feeling about the whole thing.
    “You off out?” Meli glanced at the boys over the brim of her cup of coffee.
    “We’re off to see the Grim Reaper,” George said. Meli had long since given up trying to discourage their fascination with graveyards, Tim and anything remotely morbid, which had only been encouraged by Elsa’s death. She was taking the stance that they would grow out of it, and the upside was that at least she always knew where they were lately.
    “Don’t upset Tim with that,” she called after them as they vanished out the door, kicking a football. Finishing her drink of extra strong, black coffee, she rinsed out the cup and then stood daydreaming into the garden. Through the open window she could hear the buzz of a bee as it nosed around the roses. The bee didn’t seem to be having any difficulty getting going this morning. Unlike her. She had about as much enthusiasm to get on with the day as a wilted rosebud covered in greenfly in a drought. Listlessly, she cast her eyes around, looking for something to do that wasn’t too taxing. There were some newspapers that needed clearing away, and the carpet could do with a hoover. Sinking onto a chair she closed her eyes, hoping that the caffeine would kick in soon. Maybe if she walked down to the Post Office for a paper it would liven her up? She didn’t move. She stayed that way for three or four minutes before opening her eyes. Rising to her feet she decided to put some washing on and then go across to her studio. She was on the home stretch now and was well on schedule to have the masks finished on time, but not if she carried on like this she warned herself; they wouldn’t finish themselves.
    Working her way through the contents of the wash basket, she went through her usual routine of inspecting the childrens clothing, especially Cassie’s. This involved sorting out anything that was still clean and presentable, giving it a good shake, before folding it and then putting it in the airing cupboard. Damned if she was going to wash and iron anything that was still clean, and had probably only been worn for half an hour. By the time she had finished, she had reduced the pile by almost a quarter. There was only one garment she couldn’t bring herself to touch. Stuffed right at the bottom of the basket was the jeans she had been wearing on the day Elsa died. She had just left them there, blood and all. She had wanted to thrown them out several times, but they were her favourites. Leaving them where they were, she put them out of her mind again. She’d deal with them when she was good and ready, but that wasn’t today.
    Leaving the washing machine to whirl and hum through its cycle, she called Quassi, and together they went to the studio. After a difficult first ten minutes, where she could barely hold a paintbrush, she gradually became embroiled in her work, overcoming her numbing lethargy. Hunched over the wooden upturned face, the face of