by Ellery Adams
What happened to you? Nora silently asked.
She let her flashlight beam fall on Bren’s face. Leaning closer, she was immediately struck by the fetid odor of vomit. As she sat on her heels, breathing in fresh air, Nora noticed Bren’s hand. It was small, and the skin was delicate and smooth. She chewed her fingernails. The skin around her nails was red and flaking. Her dark polish was mostly picked off.
“Why were you so unhappy?”
Nora thought of the books she’d wanted to give Bren. She thought of how Bren would never read another book, create another memory, or make another necklace. She wouldn’t meet new people or live the daring life she’d dreamed about. The life that would start only after she left her mother.
“Oh, Celeste.”
Tears blurred Nora’s eyes. The longer she stared at Bren’s nails, the more they looked like works of abstract art. Nora believed that the comparison would please Bren.
When the wail of sirens finally broke the stillness, Nora didn’t feel relieved. She felt like running away.
“You didn’t do this,” she reminded herself.
But was she a bad person for assuming that Bren had overdosed? What if she hadn’t? What if something else had caused her death?
Resuming her examination by flashlight, Nora saw no obvious signs of violence. There was no blood. No bruising on the exposed skin. Bren’s clothing was intact. She’d vomited, and when June had seen Bren retching a week ago, she’d suggested that Bren might be on something. It was possible she’d been using tonight as well. Something other than the joints she’d smoked.
The sirens grew louder, and Nora brought the light back to Bren’s face. She noticed a twig caught in Bren’s hair and gently pulled it free. The movement tugged a lock of Bren’s hair to one side, revealing a dark mark at the nape of her neck. Nora shone her light on it.
The mark was a line of tiny tattoos. Symbols. Just like those written on the piece of paper tucked under Nora’s doormat.
“What the hell?” she whispered, her fear returning.
She scooched away from Bren’s body, casting wild glances in every direction.
The sirens were deafeningly loud. Help had arrived.
Within minutes, multiple beams of light cut through the darkness. Deputy Fuentes knelt next to Nora and draped a blanket around her shoulders. She didn’t remember what he said, but somehow, he got her to stand and walk with him to her house.
“You know that girl?” he asked once Nora was sitting on her sofa. The blanket was still around her shoulders and a glass of water was within reach.
“Her name’s Brenna. She’s Celeste Leopold’s daughter. They’re new to town. They run Soothe together.”
Fuentes exchanged glances with Wiggins, the female deputy who trained the K-9 officers.
Wiggins consulted her notepad. “Andrews was at the store earlier tonight.”
“Right. The mask and pitchfork,” Fuentes said.
“The devil stuff didn’t bother Celeste,” Nora butted in. “But she told Andrews that she was worried about her daughter. She said that Bren left the shop at lunchtime and didn’t come back. She didn’t reply to texts or calls, and her mom thought that she might be in trouble. I don’t know what she meant by that.”
The man in the shadows. The joint. The tattoos.
Fuentes signaled to Wiggins to write everything down. Focusing on Nora again, he said, “I need to get back out there. You gonna be okay?”
Nora nodded. When Fuentes opened the door to leave, she added, “Be gentle with her.”
Solemnly, he said, “We will.”
Alone with Wiggins, Nora asked if she could brew coffee while they talked. The truth was she needed to do something besides sit and moving around her kitchen helped her regain a measure of control.
While the coffeemaker spluttered, Nora repeated the conversation she’d had with Bren earlier that night. She then went on to recount everything she knew about the young woman, which wasn’t much.
Naturally, Wiggins was interested in the man from the park, and Nora wished she could provide more of a description than a forearm covered with tattoos and an impression that he had a wiry build and long, thin fingers.
As Wiggins took notes, Nora realized that she’d yet to mention the piece of paper she’d found under her doormat. It now sat on the counter, next to the fridge.
She was about to raise the subject when two things happened. First, the coffeemaker beeped, signaling the end of the brew cycle. Second, Wiggins got a call on her radio that was too garbled for Nora to understand. It must have been significant to the deputy, however, because she said that she needed to step outside for a minute.
Nora didn’t care why the deputy needed privacy. She was anxious to have a few moments to herself. Not only did it give her a break from talking, but she could also photograph the old piece of paper.
It would have to be collected as evidence, she knew, but she still wanted to study it. There was a reason someone had left a book or manuscript page under Nora’s mat, and she wanted to know who had left it there and why. Was it Bren? Had she placed the page under the mat before stumbling behind Nora’s house to be sick? If so, what message had she been trying to convey with these symbols?
I told her where I lived. In case she needed a friend.
She hadn’t expected Bren to take her up on the offer. But if she hadn’t come to confide in Nora, then why else would she be lying dead on the hill behind Nora’s house?
Wiggins returned, interrupting Nora’s thoughts while casting a hopeful glance at the coffeepot. Nora poured coffee into mugs and pointed at a sugar bowl and a carton of half-and-half.
“I’ll let you doctor your own,” she said.
Wiggins added a splash of cream to hers. “Thanks. It’s going to be a long night.”
Nora gave Wiggins time to drink half a cup before telling her about the page of symbols.
“I figured you’d be taking it, so I put it in a plastic baggie.”
Wiggins peered at the symbols through the plastic and then turned to Nora. “What am I looking at?”
“Based on the size and texture of the paper, this could be a page from a very old book or manuscript,” Nora said. “The robes the figures are wearing look medieval to me. But they could be monk’s robes too. As for the symbols, I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“You sell rare books, right? So do you know anyone—another bookseller or collector—who could identify this if you sent them an image?”
Nora hesitated. She didn’t have a connection through Miracle Books, mostly because the most expensive books in her inventory were first editions signed by popular contemporary authors or unusual vintage novels. However, she’d once been very close with the woman who now ran Columbia University’s Rare Book and Manuscript Library. But that woman was a part of Nora’s former life. Her married, suburbanite librarian life. The life she’d renounced.
Six years ago, after being discharged from a burn unit in Atlanta, Nora had moved to Miracle Springs. In all that time, she’d never gone online to see if her ex-husband had married his pregnant mistress. She’d never reached out to old friends or family members. Those people shared a past with the woman who drove drunk and struck a car carrying a mother and her young son. Nora wasn’t that woman anymore. The fire had made her someone new.
“I don’t sell books this old,” Nora told Wiggins. “This could be a museum-quality document. If it belonged to Bren, her mom might be able to identify it.”
“What makes you think it belonged to Bren?”
Nora didn’t mention the tattoo below Bren’s hairline. The ME would see it soon enough, and Nora didn’t want to admit that she’d been examining Bren’s body. Besides, she wasn’t altogether sure that the symbols tattooed on Bren’s neck matched the markings on the paper. She wished Wiggins would leave so she could open the image on her phone before she forgot what the tattoos looked like.
“I just assumed she put it there,” Nora said. “Then agai
n, maybe it was the man Bren was with in the park. The tattoos on his arm remind me of these symbols.”
After taking a final sip of coffee, Wiggins picked up the plastic bag and said that she’d probably have more questions later. For now, though, Nora should rest.
But Nora had other ideas. “As far as I know, Celeste is all alone, and she’s about to go through the worst night of her life. She’ll have to identify her daughter’s body, right?” Wiggins nodded, and Nora continued. “I’d like to be there with her.”
“We’ll get a social worker too, but that would be good of you. I’ll let you know when to come in.”
“Where should I go?” Nora asked.
After providing the details, Wiggins left.
Nora sat at her kitchen table and studied the image she’d taken of the strange piece of paper. Though larger than the pages in a contemporary novel, it looked like a book page. Only one of Bren’s tattoos matched a symbol on the page, and Nora had no idea what it meant. If Celeste couldn’t identify the document, the sheriff’s department would have to consult a linguistics specialist or a rare book and document expert.
“What are you up to?” Nora asked the robed figures.
Based on the bowl, the snake, and the two small plants she hadn’t noticed before, it seemed like the figures were getting ready to mix certain ingredients. But was their product a medicinal cure? Or the opposite? Was it a recipe for poison?
Nora wanted to open her laptop. She wanted to lose herself in research—to click on website after website featuring old manuscripts and documents. But she knew her feelings would catch up to her eventually, and it was better not to run from them.
If Jed was around, she’d call him. But his mom was sick, and Nora didn’t want to add to his burdens. Hester would probably be with Jasper, and Nora didn’t want to interrupt them. Nor did she want to disturb Estella and Jack. That left June.
June answered her phone by saying, “You never call this late. Are you all right?”
Nora mumbled “no” and began to cry.
It took June no time at all to throw on some clothes and drive to Nora’s house.
She and Nora stood on the deck, watching two men carry the stretcher with Bren’s body to the parking lot. When the doors to the coroner’s van slammed shut, June flinched.
“Should we go now?” she whispered.
Nora glanced down at her phone, saw the message from Wiggins, and nodded.
Ten minutes later, she and June sat in molded plastic chairs in the morgue’s dim hallway. When they heard a woman’s heart-piercing scream from the direction of the exam rooms, they reached for each other’s hands.
“Thank you for going through this with me,” Nora whispered to June.
June’s bottom lip quivered. She was trying to hold it together. She was a mother, and she felt the agony in Celeste’s scream. What Celeste was going through right now was June’s worst nightmare. It was too easy for her to picture her son’s body on that metal table. Tyson was an addict, which is why his mother would never stop fearing for his life.
Deputy Fuentes appeared in the hallway wearing a grave expression.
“She’s in a bad way,” he said. “I hope you ladies can help because I’ve got to ask her some questions. Right now, I don’t think she’ll talk to anyone.”
Anger flared in June’s eyes. “She just lost her baby girl!”
Nora squeezed her friend’s hand. “All we can do is offer her comfort,” she told Fuentes. “She’s probably too shocked to take anything in. What if we just talked to her while you listened? Or Deputy Wiggins? I have a feeling Celeste would prefer the company of women right now.”
“Okay, let’s see how it goes,” Fuentes said. “And, thanks for being here. I know it’s late and this is hard. We’re still waiting on our social worker. She’s on her way, but it’ll be another twenty minutes.”
Nora considered the night Fuentes had ahead of him. After handling the various challenges of a festival crowd, he now had to investigate the death of a young woman. Fuentes was from a large family. He had two brothers and four sisters. His youngest sister was close to Bren in age, and that sister would probably be on his mind while he worked Bren’s case.
But as challenging as Fuentes’s night would be, it was nothing compared to Celeste’s torment.
Fuentes and Wiggins physically supported Celeste on the way to a small room containing a worn sofa and several mismatched chairs. After gently lowering Celeste onto the sofa, Wiggins retreated to the hall.
“I’ll get some drinks from the vending machine,” she said. “Be right back.”
Nora sat on the empty cushion to Celeste’s right, and June took the cushion to the left. Celeste’s face was almost as gray as her hair. Her eyes were vacant, and she stared at the doorway as if it were a portal to another world.
For a minute or two, the three women sat in awkward silence while Fuentes gazed at his notebook. Then Nora reached for Celeste’s hand. Her fingers were like ice, so Nora stroked the limp hand, hoping warmth would return to the chilled skin.
June leaned forward a little, giving Nora a barely perceptible nod. It was time to see if Celeste had anything to say.
“Honey, we’re here for you.” June’s voice was calm and reassuring. “We’re going to sit here with you. You don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to. We just want you to know that you’re not alone. We’re here with you.”
To Nora’s surprise, June began to hum. Nora didn’t recognize the melody, but it was lovely. Celeste began to sway as if the music was rocking her in its arms.
“We’re here,” Nora whispered.
Water pooled in Celeste’s eyes, and as June continued to hum, the tears spilled over and ran down Celeste’s cheeks. Nora pressed a tissue into Celeste’s hand, but she didn’t notice it. She kept swaying and crying.
Wiggins returned. She placed two sodas and three bottles of water on the table and took Fuentes’s seat. Fuentes left and Wiggins opened her notebook to a blank page and waited.
When June’s song came to an end, Nora let the silence settle around them again. This time, it wasn’t awkward. A bond had formed between the women on the sofa. It was fragile, but it would have to be enough. The deputies needed to know who Bren Leopold was. So did Nora.
“Brenna’s such a pretty name,” she said. “And unique. Where’s it from?”
Celeste smiled. “It’s Celtic. It means ‘raven-haired beauty.’ Brenna’s like Snow White. She can’t tan at all. She goes from milk-pale to lobster-red in sixty seconds. She spent her whole childhood wearing floppy hats and sunglasses like some kind of movie star. Now she’s into the color black. She says it’s the color of power. Of rebellion. And secrets.”
Nora noted Celeste’s use of the present tense. This was also her second time mentioning Bren’s secrets.
“I saw Bren tonight,” she said. “At the festival. We talked for a bit.”
Celeste’s gaze grew sharper. She reminded Nora of a diver who’d surfaced too quickly. She was disoriented but fighting to regain focus.
“You talked?” she asked.
Nora wouldn’t add to Celeste’s grief by repeating everything Bren had said. Instead, she described the radiance of the harvest moon and how the festival music drifted over to Bren’s park bench. She said that Bren must have enjoyed the food because all that was left on her cardboard tray was a balled-up burger wrapper and a few waffle fries.
“I was new to this town once too, so I told Bren to come to my house behind the bookshop if she ever needed a friend. She didn’t respond, but I could tell by the way she looked at me that the offer meant something to her.”
Celeste’s tears started again. “Did she come to you tonight? What happened? Were you home?”
Nora’s cheeks flamed with guilt. “I don’t know. I stayed at the festival for a while after we talked. Then I checked on Miracle Books on my way home.” Every word was filled with remorse. “Later, when I saw Bren again near my house, I sat wi
th her. It was very quiet. It was just us and the moon.”
Celeste hid her face behind a wad of tissues and sobbed. June rubbed her back and murmured gently to her. After a time, Celeste grew calmer and June coaxed her into drinking a little water.
“There’s something else you need to hear,” June said. “Bren wasn’t alone on that park bench. She was with a man. We all saw her talking to him.
Nora heard a crackle as Celeste squeezed the plastic water bottle in her hands. “What did he look like?”
“We never saw his face,” said Nora. “Does Bren know anyone in Miracle Springs? Did she make a new friend recently?”
Celeste threw up her hands. “I don’t know. She stopped talking to me about lots of things since we came here. She didn’t want to move, but we had no choice.”
Wiggins tapped her arm, reminding Nora about the tattoos on the man’s arm.
Nora described them as best she could. “Some kind of symbols. Here.” She touched Celeste’s forearm. “Do you know anyone with tattoos like that?”
Her reply was barely audible. “Too many secrets.”
Celeste was fading again. Sinking into the numbness. She was traumatized, and she was shutting down as a means of self-preservation. It would be cruel to keep her in this room for another second.
“She can’t do this anymore,” Nora said. “She needs to lie down.”
Seeing that Celeste’s face had resumed its ashen pallor, Wiggins stepped out into the hall to call for assistance. When she returned, she thanked Nora and June.
“The social worker’s here now, so you can go,” she added.
The two friends walked back to Nora’s house, too despondent to speak.
“You shouldn’t be driving at this hour,” Nora said. “Stay the night. I can sleep on the sofa.”
June gave a humorless laugh. “Honey, I’m an insomniac. If I wasn’t with you, I’d be reading, knitting, or leading a cat parade. Speak of the devil, here comes Tom. He thinks I started without him.”
She was right. A large, orange tabby was trotting across the parking lot. Other cats followed at a distance.