Raccoon Racketeer

Chapter Nine

According to the raccoon that lived under my porch, my nan had some kind of deep, dark secret that would change everything. We’d already established that Pringle was a thief. Could he be a liar, too?

I should have turned away and refused to hear any more, but I just couldn’t help but wonder… Might the raccoon be telling the truth?

Pringle placed a hand on my leg and gave me a short series of pats. “There, there, princess. I can see you’re taking this hard. I can also see that you haven’t decided whether or not you believe me, so let me do you a solid.”

He turned away ruefully and slipped under the porch, emerging mere seconds later with an aged envelope gripped in his hand. He lifted it toward me in offering. “Be careful with this. I don’t want you getting any dirty human fingerprints on it or otherwise contaminating the best secret I’ve ever collected.”

My hands shook as I accepted the thin letter. It had already been covered in actual dirt from its time within the raccoon’s lair, so I didn’t see how my touching it could make things any worse. The envelope had been torn clear across the top, and there was a single sheet of cream-colored paper folded and placed inside.

Dorothy Loretta Lee was written in a tight, controlled script. The top corner didn’t have a sender’s name, only an address somewhere in Georgia. Seeing it firsthand, I had no doubt the letter was authentic.

“Read it,” the raccoon urged, watching me with a shiny, probing gaze.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, still not ready, doubting I’d ever be ready.

“From your nan’s things,” he said with a slow nod. “It was a couple weeks ago. I noticed her going up into the attic, and then I remembered that I have a private entrance into that place, so I climbed through the hole in the roof, and—”

“Wait. There’s a hole in my roof?”

“Not the point of my story.” He paused, presumably to make sure I had no other questions or arguments before he continued. “Anyway, I climbed through the hole in the roof, but I couldn’t find anything good. So I watched and waited. Eventually she went back, and that’s when I saw she had a special hiding place tucked into the wall. There was this wooden border between the floor and the wall.”

“Baseboard trim?” I suggested gently. Why was I getting caught up in the details?

“Sure. Whatever. Point is if you kick it, it falls out, and behind it, there’s a hole. I found a lot of pretty green papers there, too.”

“Green papers?” I gasped. Could he mean…? “Would you show them to me?”

“Sure thing, babe.” Pringle went back under the porch and was gone for a little longer this time. As tempted as I was to read the letter, I still couldn’t bring myself to face whatever truths it would reveal. Would I still be able to look at my beloved nan the same way once I knew?

The raccoon returned with a giant wad of bundled bills in his hands. One-hundred-dollar bills.

“Pretty, right?” he asked with a smile. “They’re not exactly the right shape, but I thought they might make nice paper cranes once I get going with my origami.”

“Give me that,” I said. At the same time, I grabbed the currency from his paws. “This came from Nan’s hiding place in the attic?”

“Yeah, it was with the letter and some other papers. They were boring, though.” He tilted his head to the side in thought and then amended his previous statement with, “Well, all except one.”

“Can I see them?” I asked, just short of begging. Anything to stall a bit longer.

Pringle shook his head and clicked his tongue. “How about you read the letter, eh? I’m going to need it back, so just get on with it already.”

He was right. I couldn’t stall any longer. Reaching into the envelope, I pulled out the antique letter at last and attempted to smooth the wrinkles before lifting it toward a beam of light from the porch.

“Careful with that. It’s important to me,” Pringle hissed, but I had already tuned him out and lost myself in the words that waited for me on that page.

Dear Dorothy,

Dorothy, that was my nan. I sucked in a deep breath and forced myself to read the next couple lines.

I know what I did to you was wrong and that you’ll probably never forgive me. You don’t owe me anything, but I have no one left to turn to.

That sounded awful. What had the letter writer done? And if it was so bad, why had she kept this letter tucked away all these years? I would definitely be asking Nan, but first I had to get through this short but apparently earth-shattering missive.

Don’t punish little Laura for my mistakes.

Laura was my mother’s name. Could she be the “little Laura” in question? Oh my gosh. What had happened? What did this mean?

Give her a chance at a better life, at the life we always dreamed of living together.

Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. I almost stopped right there, but it was too late. The cat was already half out of the bag. I might as well get it all the way out into the open.

I’ll be home on leave in two weeks’ time and will wait for you in our place that Thursday night.

A secret meeting. Did she go? If so, what happened? What did he want? Was it a he? It seemed that way with the reference to the life they’d dreamed about living together. There was just one little line left, which I read with teary eyes.

Please be the better person. Please come.

W. McAllister

I finished reading, even more confused than before I’d started. Who was W. McAllister and what had he wanted with my nan? Did he know my mom? Was she the Laura in the letter?

“I found this in there, too.” Pringle raised another sheet of paper my way. Apparently he’d collected it while I’d been engrossed in the letter.

Of course, I recognized the official nature of the document right away. It boasted an intricate colored border and at the top of the page read Certificate of Live Birth.

The mother was named as Marilyn Jones, and the father had been listed as William McAllister, most likely the same W. McAllister that had written the letter to Nan. The place of birth was that same unknown town in Georgia, and the baby had been named Laura—my mother’s name.

The date of birth matched my mom’s, too. It had to be her.

Did this mean that she had never really been Nan’s?

That I wasn’t Nan’s, either?

And what was with this all going down in Georgia? Nan had spoken fondly of her memories growing up in the south, but she’d claimed to be from one of the Carolinas.

Not Georgia. Never Georgia.

And if she’d fibbed about her home state, then what else might she have lied about over the years?

Oh my gosh, did my mom know about any of this? If not, she’d be devastated to learn now. Should I tell her? Or wait until I knew more first?

I had so many questions, and short of tracking down this William McAllister, there was only one person I could ask.

I marched into the house, letter and birth certificate in hand, to confront Nan and demand the truth.