by Mary Gray
Really, I’m grateful to get out, but I wouldn’t exactly complain if I had to go to a beach in Cabo. A park in Spain. Shoot, a mountain pass in Oklahoma would do the trick, but I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I’m out of the house. Blessings.
By the time I make it to Grady Dean’s, Olly’s shift must be over, because an old lady with the world’s worst arthritis rings me up, practically moving backwards in time. When I jog toward home, groceries in hand, at last, my good spirits are reblooming. The sun’s out. Nutcrackers line a pretty, paved driveway, and a pair of loose pups become my new running buddies. One’s a gorgeous German Shepherd. The other’s a beautiful caramel-colored mutt with a lab head shape.
I can’t help but smile. “Hey, guys.”
The duo sniff at my bags, obviously hungry. I wish I had a treat, but Tansy only ever lets me buy kitty litter and her food. Unable to help myself, I slow to a stop. Set down my bags on the shoulder of the road and scratch behind their ears, greedy for their company.
“Who’s a good girl?” I ask the German Shepherd, whose tongue is lolling to the side. “Oh, are you a good girl, too?” I ask the lab mix, making sure to give them both a thorough scratching.
Their tails are practically battery-operated, wagging double-time. I pat their beautiful stomachs. Scratch their furry sides, when a stout woman in a purple jogging suit comes bouncing down the red brick mansion’s driveway.
“Jewel!” she cries. “Macy!”
Oh, looks like I’ve found their owner. I wave.
“Here they are.” The woman’s cherry lipstick matches the friendliness on her face. Exhaling in relief, she reaches for her fur babies with a double-sided leash. “Little devils slipped through the door the second I opened it.”
I can’t help digging my fingers into their glorious fur. “Bet they’re fast.”
The woman secures Jewel, the German Shepherd’s collar says, first, then Macy. “Oh, you have no idea.” Standing up straight, she somehow levels me with her squat five-foot-nil height. “I get seizures, see. And dogs? Well, I’ve always been terrified. But I got Jewel here to help me.” She pats the German Shepherd’s head. “Had to stop my fearful side from holding the reins.”
I scratch behind Macy’s soft, caramel ears. “I’m sure you had a reason to be worried.”
The sun’s starting to set. Looks like it’s about that time. Grabbing my bags, I take a few steps toward home and Tansy.
“They’re beautiful animals!” I stumble on a pothole but right my footing. “Actually, I wish I could have a pair of dogs. But my ... friend insists cats are all we can handle.”
I stumble again. Swing the bags in lame apology. “Anyway—” I accidentally slam the cans into my legs. Try not to wail in agony. “You know how it is. Gotta listen to keep the peace!”
7
By the time I wander home and into the den, the last thing I want to see is Tansy’s latest batch of “No Trespassing” signs. This is her way of telling me there are too many tourists, and this, she hopes, will chase them away. But we already have half a dozen signs posted around the property.
Half-empty paint buckets perch precariously on the floor, no drop cloths in sight. Yellow paint splatters across one of the couches, and I have to wonder where Tansy scrounged up the metal signs. Maybe they were in the shed? But she doesn’t like to venture out. Maybe she half woke me up to get them, then tucked me back in before I became cognizant of what was happening.
Something ... smells like it died.
I track the scent to the back porch, where the odor only intensifies. Reminds me of a skunk under water. The pit in my stomach grows wider. I sincerely hope Jerusha or Hawkins haven’t died.
I open the screen door, hinges shrieking, and there, on the deck, lies a squirrel, splayed across the welcome mat, intestines spilling out. The smell of putrefying flesh has me placing my arm over my nose. I spy an old, chopping knife about two feet from the squirrel, stuck into the wooden porch like a trophy.
Tansy.
Actually, there’s a sense of pride in the precision of the cut, like she wanted to photograph the scene. But I know why she did this. Anything to scare away the tourists, she would say.
Drifting outside, I let the screen door fall, bouncing shut behind me, and spot another black and white lump on the porch. Flies buzz on black and white feathers, hungry.
I grind my teeth together. It’s a once beautiful, living magpie. “Okay, I understand your discontent with the tourists, but, Tansy, this is just awful!”
One of our neighbors—a bald guy in tan overalls—rolls his dumpster out to the road. I duck behind the pillar just as he looks our way.
“We are going to officially be known as the creepy squirrel and bird lady!”
Neighbor Guy jerks his head up to look even closer at me, but Tansy has us spinning on our heels and lurching us back through the screen door.
I’m a marionette, and she’s pulling my strings.
Wishing more than ever that she hadn’t done this, I let her march us past the paint buckets and into the kitchen where the counters are strewn with used chamomile tea bags and stains.
“You think you’re clever,” I say. “You think this will keep the tourists away—but, in case you haven’t noticed, I am you. When you give me extra chores to do, it eats into both our time!”
Tansy stews beneath my surface, fuming. Our hands are balling into fists and a low snarl is curling at the back of our throat. “What if I told you I didn’t do it?”
I lift my hands. “Then we’d both know you’d be lying!”
“I could say you’re doin’ the same thing. Besides, the both of us know about your lil’ trick of bringin’ home fewer cans than usual just so you can get the drop on me!”
“I ... didn’t do that.”
“Thirteen.” Tansy’s voice gurgles with anger. “Don’t you dare try to deny it. I know how you’ve been covetin’ my time.”
“I got fourteen!” Unless, somehow, I miscounted while trying to avoid Olly. If so, Tansy should have calmly brought it to my attention, not kill the first defenseless animals she sees.
I spin to stalk into another room. “We both want more time.”
Tansy spins me back. “Stay!”
Curling our fingers into fists, I prepare for her to push me out when a rush of excited voices whoop from outside. Car doors slam, and Tansy stills like a sunken log inside me. Someone’s already saying how pretty the cupola is while Tansy takes deep and calming breaths.
“They won’t stay long,” I try to comfort her while she pulls in our arms and breathes raggedly.
“Hope you’re right.”
My stomach twists. I never like to hear her frightened voice. Someone out there complains about needing to pee—guess they’re too far away to see what Tansy did to the squirrel and magpie—but after a long time, car doors are slamming again, and a diesel engine roars to life.
“I’ll go clean it up,” I reassure my other half with a sigh.
Tansy has us jutting out our lower lip. “I’m fine with you waitin’ at least a week.”
“But there’s blood on the porch,” I hiss, pacing to the den. “It’ll stain.”
Tansy wildly waves our hand in the air. “With all your social proclivities, Nostradamus, you can be such a killjoy.” She reaches toward an antique side table and snatches up a pair of satin opera gloves and starts pulling them on, of all things.
I tug them off. “And you need to get back to reality. Remember, we have to live in this town, Tansy.”
She grasps for the gloves. “I like anonymity.”
Exasperated, I toss the gloves to the table and give her a look that rivals the time I caught her licking each and every one of our bowls clean. I had to give her a thirty minute discussion on germs and hygiene.
Tansy slumps, but she’s still eyeing those opera gloves, so I snatch them up and stuff them inside the table’s drawer. “How do you think I’ll bury the bodies without being seen?”
8
I do feel a little terrible for not digging two graves, but I’m in a rush, and, for all I know, Tansy will soon be insisting that the squirrel “belongs” with the magpie.
At least I’m out of the house. Gaining a little independence, one secret step at a time. Truth be told, I’ve been stockpiling change for a while—all the dollars and cents from buying groceries. Tansy may be the one who knows where the bulk of the money is, but, slowly yet surely, I’ll be able to accumulate enough to go on a trip. Nashville’s been calling to me for ages. Maybe I’ll eventually be able to prove to Tansy that we’re healthy enough to leave Deep Creek. I’ll know more about what happened in our past, and she’ll agree that her regimented schedule is a bit extreme.
Shoveling the remaining dirt over the corpses, I try to think how to get Tansy to split more fair hours with me. I get every-other-weekend? But she already accused me of cheating her to steal time ...
A twig snaps, practically a bomb going off in the copse of trees.
I spin around, only to find naked tree limbs crowding round like prison inmates. I’m on the southwest corner of the estate—toward town, but away from the road. Not sure why anyone would be on this side of the property.
No one moves.
No one so much as breathes.
Must have been a squirrel ... just a squirrel ... one that hasn’t been split open with a knife.
Turning back to my shovel, I aim to finish the job when another twig-snap practically blasts a crater in the mess of dirt and leaves.
I reel around. Accidentally bite my tongue as a man with a mop of dark hair lurks like a thorn amidst the grapevine. He dons a brown jacket, snug-fitting blue jeans, and I’d say he’s handsome, except for the complete and utter lack of warmth in his eyes. It’s like looking into a glacier—cold, brittle; slow moving.
Only a few inches taller than me, the stranger eventually slurs, “What’re you buryin’ out here, Gemma Louise?”
I take my time smoothing out the rest of the dirt with the edge of my shovel. “Oh, just a little roadkill,” I lie.
“Ya know”—he licks his lips—“the vultures will make fast work of any”—licks again—“dead bodies.” The man’s gaze is so cool that an unexpected chill travels up my spine. He rearranges a lump of chew to his left cheek before spitting it out and nodding about three times. “Can’t hide in that house forever.” He hooks his thumb in his front belt loop and squares his shoulders like he deserves a medal. “Some might say these weekly excursions of yours are a tad bit risky ...”
The wind rustles the leaves—the ethereal sound of an oboe’s double reed. A larger animal might be foraging for food in the forest, for all I know. A bobcat. Or a coyote.
Again, the man licks his lips, revealing sores on the corners of his mouth. “An’ I know you killed WT.”
I don’t know what to say next. If it weren’t for the fact that I just finished burying two corpses, I’d have a much quicker reply.
As is, I grip the rough shovel handle between my hands. “I’m sorry?”
“It may’ve been when the bushes n’ such were, eh, ‘bushy,’ but I know what ya did. Four months ain’t that long. Not that it matters, as long as you stay tucked inside, mindin’ your own business.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulls out a badge with a silver star that has five points.
He’s the town sheriff. The bloody town sheriff, and, while I’m not exactly sure about everything he’s saying, I do know he’s accusing me.
Stomping past the paint buckets, I accidentally end up knocking one over in the hallway. Yeah, I should clean it up. But Tansy can do it—especially if she has time to dress for a ball every freaking day.
The drawer handles in the kitchen rattle with my every step. I’m half-tempted to take a swing at all her pretty teacups, but I take a few deep breaths to calm myself before I say what I need to say. “I talked to the sheriff. Why didn’t you say that the cops were watching me?”
Tansy’s consciousness lazily floats up like the triangular window of an eight ball. I can practically feel her filing her nails in luxury. “Oh?” Scratch, scratch, scratch; scrrrape. “And what, may I ask, did the illustrious Jesse Beauchamp have to say?”
I smack the marble counter. “He said that I killed a ‘WT’!” Really, I can’t believe I still don’t know the identity of Mr. “H.” But WT has to be him. Right? “Tansy, tell me. Is WT ‘Mr. H’?”
A strangled laugh tears like a train wreck through our teeth. “You need to calm down, G.”
But I can’t tell if she’s mocking me. “How am I supposed to calm down? You didn’t just get accused of murder!”
Sighing, Tansy rocks back on the heels of our consciousness. “He accuses you, Rosebud, he accuses me.”
All too soon, a hot flash burns across my cheeks. “You’re not the one who just talked to the guy.” I veer around the counter to let out some of my pent up energy. “He seemed to really believe that I’m guilty.” I smack the marble again. “I have no idea if it’s true! Am I guilty? You’ve got to level with me.”
“It isn’t true,” Tansy says far too sheepishly. “You simply let WT walk outta our life ...”
Bracing myself against the wall, I wait for Tansy to explain, but she doesn’t so much as look at an old family photograph, a meaningful teaspoon, a shot glass. Nothing.
“Were we married to him?”
“This is what I was afraid of,” Tansy says way too rationally. “Rule Number Three.” She rolls the “r” again, seriously testing me. “Do not discuss our history. We risk you bein’ overloaded, and neither of us wants that, G!”
“But it’s like”—I think of the woman in the purple jogging suit with the seizures and dogs—“my brain is going to seize. I can feel the answers bubbling up, about to explode.” I pound the wall, and brittle wallpaper and plaster crumble in my wake. “Maybe we should let the answers come. Tell me exactly what’s going on. If it happens here, it’ll be safer, right?”
Tansy leans against a canopied bed she’s constructed in a frilly corner of our mind. “We married him about a year ago. The most handsome man in all the world. Wherever he may be.”
“So, we were married! ... Or are ...” I wish I had access to a picture of him in my head. The clothes he wore. If he had a kind face. “Wait, you mean you don’t know where he is?”
Tansy shrugs like picking out handkerchiefs would be a better use of our time. “He might be dead. Or he might very much be alive ...”
“So, then, why is the sheriff pointing a finger at me?”
Tansy snatches up a parasol that she left on the kitchen counter and tosses it in the air, making it flip, before catching it just in time. “All of that information will come, Rosebud, in good time.”
“Stop calling me Rosebud!” I rip the parasol out of her hand and toss it to the corner.
Tansy glowers. “You and I both know that these details are somethin’ I simply cannot explain. You need to artfully use your cerebral icepick to chip away at the memori—”
“How long ago did it happen?” Sheriff Beauchamp talked about the bushes “being bushy,” so it had to have happened last summer—or spring—but I have to see if Tansy’s being honest with me.
“I suppose,” Tansy says with deep regret, “it happened in the month that bears Julius Caesar’s grandnephew’s name.”
“. . . July?”
“August, Rosebud, the grandnephew’s name is Augustus. Honestly, it’s well-past time that you brushed up on your history.”
It looks like she’s being honest, so I’ll accept that. Okay. “So why do you think WT isn’t dead? Have you heard from him recently?”
Tansy smooths our hand over the fraying wallpaper with its pale pink flowers and olive green leaves. “There’s never been a body.”
A body.
An uninvited shiver scurries up my spine.
All right, I can wo
rk with this. There’s never been a body. Maybe I should stop while I’m ahead. Stay calm and collected, one puzzle piece at a time.
Except, now that I’ve got a whiff of the truth, no way will one puzzle piece be enough for me.
In an effort to appear calm and collected, I run my fingers through our tangled hair. Seems I have a husband that may or may not be alive—and the town thinks I killed the guy.
But I haven’t been locked up, which means they don’t have proof.
I knew I should’ve been paranoid about burying that squirrel and magpie.
Everything’s spinning out of control. I can’t believe I still don’t know much more than I knew when first waking up last time. There’s a decorative bench right across the hallway, so I wander over to its iron clutches to try and think.
“Tansy ...” She has to see logic—that I’m not merely digging for another puzzle piece. “Why did you have to go and kill those animals?”
“I didn’t, I swear to you!” She sniffs, something she often does when she lies. “And the tourists were goin’ to storm the castle. It happened to Marie Antoinette”—she waves an arm—“it could happen to me!”
“But we don’t live in France.” I fold our arms. “And this is not an aristocracy.”
“Oui, mon cherie, oui! But they could all be Guy Fawkes’, plottin’ to make us go ka-blooey!”
I raise a hand to argue, when I accidentally hit a shelf—and knock off an angel figurine. It smashes on the ground.
We both flinch at the noise.
And all we can do is stop and stare. Pull up our legs. From the way it broke, it now looks like a mask is covering the angel’s face.
Tansy whoops. “Looks like the Guy Fawkes’ are already inside!”
I try to stay calm, but, I can’t help it. In a bit of hysteria, I’m also laughing. “We really need to work on your fear of strangers.”
“I know ...” Tansy knocks our head against the wall as the plaster crumbles. “But the whole lot of ‘em give me the willies.”
I could tell her there’s nothing to worry about, but I can’t know that. The only things I know are what Tansy tells me.