The Wicked Hour

by Alice Blanchard

  It was getting chilly out. She rubbed her shivering arms through the flimsy fabric of her jacket. “Who else besides Russ Swinton and Isabel Miller talked to Morgan Chambers that night? Do you have any idea?”

  “I personally didn’t notice. However, my employees have talked to the police about any interactions they may have witnessed, which means Gossett will have that information.”

  “What about drugs at the party?”

  He shrugged. “We served Grey Goose, Maker’s 46, and Veuve Clicquot rosé. Sapporo beer for guests with yeast allergies. An assortment of vintage wines. If there was any drug-taking, I wasn’t aware of it. Here we are.”

  They stood on the edge of the woods facing Hollins Drive, where traffic was sparse this time of night. Hunter pointed out the underbrush by the side of the road where his security guard found the violin case, and there were broken twigs and muddy footprints scattered all around it. The site had obviously been disturbed by the security team, along with Gossett and his men.

  She asked a few questions, and Hunter elaborated on the events that had led to the discovery of the violin. Then he sighed and said, “You look cold. Are you cold, Natalie?”

  She hadn’t noticed she was shivering until right this second. “A little.”

  He touched her arm briefly. “Let’s go back.”

  They turned around on the path. “So I’m assuming Russ was on the guest list?” she asked on their way back through the woods.

  “Okay, look. Morgan Chambers came with Swinton as his guest and left about an hour later,” Hunter told her. “She called an Uber. That’s all I know. That’s every last bit of it.” He stared at her. “And I can’t imagine who could’ve killed her. I don’t have any guesses as to who that could be. If I suspected someone in my circle of drugging girls … I’d never associate myself with them. I’d turn them in. Occasionally, at these parties you’ll have a scene. People drink too much, it gets late. Jealousy, love triangles, it’s all so boring. I don’t know. Maybe I won’t be throwing another party next year.” He shook his head. “When I was in college, there was lots of craziness going on. This is nothing, really. This wasn’t a sex party, or anything like that. I mean, there may have been sex going on somewhere inside the house, privately … just as there were probably people smoking weed or taking ecstasy. Shit happens. Not so shocking nowadays, right? But the thing with the Wiccan performance piece … I paid the artists very well. I have a big house, my guests are free to roam and express themselves. We had a lot of different performers, including a fire-breather, acrobats, and dancers. No lap dancers or strippers. It wasn’t that kind of thing. Also, I’m not into the occult, but this is Burning Lake, and so … we had a reenactment of an occult ritual, accurate down to the smallest detail. It was, after all, Halloween. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going this way.”

  They had reached the edge of the forest, where the path forked in two directions.

  “I’m afraid we must part company,” he said with solemnity, like a character out of Jane Eyre. She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

  Natalie tried to see the world through Hunter’s lens—an upside-down world full of power encased in an idyllic wooded enclave among the powerless. Many years ago, when Hunter was in high school and his parents were never around, he threw the best parties and invited all sorts of kids to hang out in his backyard, drinking beer and dancing to the music bleeding out of the house. Natalie and Bella never got invited to these parties until they’d reached the end of their senior year. Natalie had a flash memory of Hunter rolling a joint in the living room—he was in college by then, and Bella couldn’t hide the fact that she’d always had a huge crush on him. Hunter sat back on his haunches and sparked up. He picked a bit of weed off his tongue, then handed the joint to Bella. “Age before beauty,” he said, but instead of mocking him back, Bella sat frozen with adoration. Natalie glanced at Bella’s impassive face, snatched the joint from Hunter’s hand, and took a toke. “Who’s the snarky little bitch now?” she said, and Hunter cracked a delighted smile. “Thank God you girls have come of age,” he said.

  “One last thing,” she told him now. “I’m not the rabbit. I’m the hound running for his next meal. Whoever killed Morgan Chambers … that’s the one who’s running for his life.”

  Hunter smiled and nodded. Then the rain took him.

  36

  Natalie called Luke with an update, and he promised to call her back with more information as soon as he’d spoken to Gossett.

  On the way home, she drove past Dr. Russ Swinton’s house. He lived on the northwestern edge of town in an old farming community where the corn grew tall in the summertime and cattle dotted the hillsides. As you approached Mercy Lane, the forested hills gave way to farmsteads and orchards, weather-beaten barns leaning into the wind.

  About a mile down the road, she spotted a mailbox with SWINTON painted on the side. She felt a dull throbbing in her chest as she pulled over to the side of the road and let her confusion pass. Swinton’s house was isolated. He lived alone. He had access to pharmaceuticals, as well as to drug addicts who came into the emergency room. Russ had withheld important information from her. He came across as guilty, as if he were hiding something.

  She hated herself for suspecting him. She’d trusted him for years. But now that she thought about it, there was a slight creep factor. Once, when Natalie was in college, she’d bumped into Russ in a Boston sports bar. He was sitting with a bunch of other well-dressed doctor types, and they were teasing the waitresses. It turned out he was there for an emergency medicine convention, but there was something disturbing about seeing him drunk and sweaty and laughing with his friends at the harried waitresses.

  Still, she thought, the evidence was thin at best. Besides, it wasn’t possible. She’d known Russ ever since she was a kid, and he’d always come across as a stable, caring professional. He’d treated her for a bad case of poison ivy once; another time for food poisoning. He’d been there when the boy had attacked her in the woods. Dr. Swinton had calmed her down, resting his broad hand on her shoulder and looking into her eyes, and what she saw was kindness, genuine concern, and an absolute faith in his ability to help her. He’d been part of the background of her entire life, a steadfast ally, someone she could always count on. This had to be a mistake. Another false lead.

  Back home, Natalie felt a little weak-kneed getting out of the car. She hadn’t eaten all day and was hungry and exhausted. She crossed the yard, wind blowing wetly against her face. The rainstorm had moved on, but the air was thick with humidity. A few brittle leaves rattled across the porch, lifted by the damp breeze.

  She collected her mail, unlocked the door, and reached for the lights. She dropped all her stuff in the living room. The kitchen counters were cluttered with flyers, an opened mayonnaise jar, unpaid bills, and insurance forms. The breakfast table was dusted with crumbs. She threw away the mayonnaise, opened the jiggly kitchen cupboard, and took down a jar of peanut butter. Natalie preferred eating peanut butter standing up with a spoon, because it didn’t count that way.

  The kitchen floor was uneven. The cracked linoleum made popping sounds when you walked across it. The kitschy curtains were patterned with wild stallions. Her dad used to love those old black-and-white cowboy movies on TV. Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Clint Eastwood—never any doubt about who the bad guy was.

  Natalie put away the peanut butter and went downstairs, got on the treadmill, and listened to her playlist. She wanted to be ruthless. She wanted to catch a killer. She wanted her life to have meaning.

  She worked the treadmill hard and fast, breathing deep from her diaphragm. She checked her time. She toweled the sweat off her face. The bottled water tasted flat. She could still smell the crime scene in her hair—that sweet, putrid aroma that soaked into your pores.

  She took a hot shower, her thoughts growing muddy and stagnant. They were knee-deep in the case, not yet fully immersed. They weren’t even up to their thighs yet. It was nice to th
ink you might get lucky this time, that you could solve the case quickly, that the suspect would reveal himself early on. But it was just wishful thinking.

  Natalie got dressed for bed. It was only nine o’clock. She felt a windswept hollowness inside her body and lay awake, playing with the thin silver bracelet Ellie had given her to remember Grace by, engraved with Grace’s name in tiny elegant letters. She twirled the silver band around her wrist, wondering if it was too late to call her niece.

  On an impulse, she tried calling Ellie, but there was no answer. She didn’t bother leaving another message. She thought about Bella.

  Maybe the past was trying to tell her something?

  Upstairs in the attic, Natalie tried not to kneel on moldering insect husks as she pulled the storage boxes out from under the eaves. She found her old LEGO Wild Hunters, television plug-in games, Roboraptors, Mattel’s My Bling Bling Styling Head, Smart Charms, and a fleet of broken balsa wood flyers.

  She found her mother’s old wire-rim glasses. She hesitated a beat before putting them on. She looked at the world through Deborah’s eyeglasses, trying to see what life was like back then. To see the whole world—their house, the town, Willow, Grace, Natalie, and Joey through these blurry lenses.

  Her mother had been thin-armed and beautiful. She smelled like a snuffed-out candle, slightly waxy. She never went to a salon in her life. Once in a while, Deborah would ask Grace or Willow to trim her hair, which she’d pull back with a scrunchie. She was a creature of habit. She had breakfast at six in the morning. She ate scrambled eggs on Monday, oatmeal on Tuesday, buttered toast on Wednesday, pancakes on Thursday, et cetera. She read the newspaper from front to back while she ate. She started recycling long before it was fashionable. She saved the Sunday Times and grocery bags, folding them up and stacking them one on top of the other. She saved flimsy plastic bags, coffee cans, and glass bottles. She recycled as much as she could, which was truly admirable. She would fill the dishwasher until every inch of it was crammed with glassware, and when she couldn’t slide another butter knife into it, then she’d run it on economy.

  The attic smelled like wet insulation. An oppressive humidity saturated the air. Natalie heard the dull buzzing of the paper wasps overhead as she tunneled farther underneath the eaves, where the ceiling was so low it was like crouching inside a dollhouse. The particleboard walls had been torn down, revealing the bare struts and joists. She slid out another heavy, dusty box. This one contained old toys, paperback books, and a musty baby blanket.

  Natalie sat back on her heels and heard a soft scrabbling sound. Mice had left their droppings everywhere. There were little holes in the insulation where the mice had gnawed through, searching for secrets. There was an abandoned wren’s nest in the rafters. Her father Joey once told her, A secret is like a magic mirror, with endless layers of illusion. People will do anything to keep their secrets hidden from the world, but also from themselves. They’ll bury them under layers of delusion, ego, and denial. We’re like archeologists, Natalie, digging through the painful past. You have to be careful, because some people will do anything to keep their secrets hidden. If you pick up a stone, it might be the truth, or it could be a lie. Whatever you assume is fact, isn’t always. Pick up a stone and peer underneath, and sometimes worms crawl out.

  In her line of work, facts were often accompanied by worms—those horrible wriggling truths people couldn’t stand to acknowledge. Finally, she found a box full of her old sketchbooks and carried it downstairs.

  37

  Natalie spread her sketchbooks across the living-room floor and stood studying the pencil drawings, watercolors, and pen-and-inks. She didn’t know what she was looking for but remembered coming home after school and sitting cross-legged on the bedroom rug, her long brown hair lying flat against her spine like a second set of vertebrae, while she drew pictures of all the things she loved—her best friends, her sisters, her mom and dad, this house, the backyard, birds, flowers, insects landing on the windowsill. She also painted nightmares—gargoylish creatures tearing into flesh, zombie monsters drooling in the midst of a postapocalyptic wasteland. She would lean over each clean sheet of paper and gaze at its blankness, her eyes narrowing with concentration until inspiration struck. Suddenly, she would dip her brush in the water and run the fine bristles over a small disk of color—red or blue or green—and start to paint. She used swift, deft strokes and let the colors blend together. Sometimes she used a pencil or pen and ink. The medium didn’t matter. Getting her vision down on paper did.

  Now she noticed a pencil sketch of one of the witch trees of Burning Lake. When she was ten years old, Natalie decided to carve her and Luke’s initials into the bark of her favorite witch tree on the edge of McKinley Forest. As legend had it, if you carved your deepest desire into a witch tree, then over time, as the tree grew taller, the bark would slowly swallow up the carvings until they became indecipherable, and only a witch could read them.

  Natalie went over to the bay window. Rain clouds had gathered around the moon, which shone like a pale dish of milk. She could barely breathe. What did she want?

  Natalie wanted the thing that eluded her the most. She wanted love. She wanted happiness to surge through her—raining, crackling, gorgeous flashes of lightning. Orange fire. She wanted the sun to rise in the dead center of her soul.

  Now her phone rang, and she fumbled for it.

  It was Ellie. “Aunt Natalie?”

  Joy ran through her. “Hey kiddo, how are you?”

  “Sorry I didn’t call you back, but I’ve been super busy lately. I also heard about the woman in the dumpster, and it made me think of Mom. And I sort of couldn’t deal with it. I hope you understand. Otherwise, I would’ve called you right away…”

  “I understand completely,” Natalie said.

  “Do they know who did it yet?”

  “We’re still investigating.”

  “My therapist told me not to dwell on negativity,” Ellie said softly. “I’m supposed to compartmentalize my thoughts. Like, I have a special time when I think about Mom. I’ll carve half an hour out of my schedule and sit alone in my room and light a few candles. I have this little antique cabinet Dad bought me, where I keep all of her stuff, you know? Her bracelet with the four-leaf clovers, her gloves, that book of poems she gave me—stuff like that. I’ll sit with the lights off and think about her. And then, after I blow the candles out, I’m supposed to resume my life. To not think about her anymore. But sometimes the past will leak into my day, and I’ll have to run to the restroom and hide in a stall and bawl my eyes out.” She laughed. “It’s embarrassing, but it happens.”

  “I wish I could see you,” Natalie said. “Maybe when this case settles down…”

  “That would be fun. I’ll take you to my favorite haunts. Anyway,” Ellie said with a sigh. “I’m not supposed to think about it the rest of the time. Because if I did … if I let myself think about it, I wouldn’t be able to cope. You know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean. That sounds like a good plan.”

  “How was Halloween? I really miss Burning Lake.”

  “Oh, you know. The usual chaos. It was insanely ramped this year,” Natalie said. “How’s school? What classes are you taking?”

  “History, French, creative writing … a few generic college-prep courses.”

  Natalie smiled. “You mean, math? I hated math.”

  “Aunt Natalie, I have a boyfriend,” Ellie blurted excitedly.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. Dad wants to lock me up in a castle tower until I’m twenty-one.”

  “Your father’s a smart man,” Natalie said with a smile.

  “His name is Asher. I really like him, Aunt Natalie. We kissed on Halloween.”

  “Oh?” she said lightly, feeling sweaty all of a sudden.

  “Yeah, Dad freaked out about it, too. But don’t worry. We’re taking it nice and slow. Asher’s in a rock band. He’s so talented. We’re inseparable, but not
in an unhealthy way.”

  “So what you mean is … you’re growing up, huh?”

  “You always said that when two people love each other…”

  “Oh, please don’t quote cool Aunt Natalie to me,” she said half-jokingly, wondering what Grace would have thought about all this. “Just be careful, sweetie. And if you ever need to talk about, you know, stuff…”

  “Don’t worry, Aunt Natalie, I know all about ‘stuff,’” Ellie reassured her. “And Dad already offered me his shoulder to lean on. So I’m good. But I’ll call you if I have any questions, okay?” Ellie said, as if Natalie were the one who needed reassuring.

  “How is your dad?”

  “He’s great. His job is incredibly stressful, but he always finds time for us to spend together, and I love him, even though he’s always changing our vacation plans.” She laughed. “He makes sure that once a week, we go out to dinner and a movie, sort of like a father-daughter date. And he listens to me. He doesn’t just pretend to listen while glancing at his phone, like Phoebe’s father. Phoebe’s my new best friend. She wears glitter on her face, and she used to be a cutter. She let me feel her blading scars once. We share the same therapist, but it’s much easier to talk to each other. Adults don’t understand what it’s like…”

  “Right, because we were never kids,” Natalie said.

  “Snark!”

  “Well, it’s true, isn’t it? You forget, I have my own adolescent angst I’m still carrying around.”

  “That’s why I trust you. You get me.”

  “You can always tell me things, Ellie. I’ll give you the best advice I can.”

  There was a long pause before Ellie said, “I really miss her.”

  Natalie nodded slowly. “Me, too.”

  “But we have to believe, right? That she’s in a better place? Asher has been helping me cope. He comes from a religious family. He’s helping me pray for Mom.”