by Tess Rothery
"I'm sorry. I just got to thinking about you. Not long ago, before Maddie, um, passed, I was in her room and heard someone in your room."
"Oh." The single syllable had a dead hollow ring to it.
“Is everything all right?"
"I'm sure everything will be fine." Physically rigid and so self-contained, Lorraine hardly seemed like a madwoman.
Taylor could not imagine her having an emotional breakdown—the crying kind or the smashing things kind. She must have been comforting her daughter that night.
"Is Tansy okay?"
Lorraine flinched. It was quick, but it sent shivers up and down Taylor's spine. Lorraine's eyes had gone completely wide for the briefest of seconds. And her body had recoiled.
"This is a hard season for everyone." Lorraine paused making deep eye contact with Taylor. "And when I say everyone, I do mean everyone in this world. This is a deadly global pandemic that is guaranteed to get worse and may never get better. Small crimes and large crimes like murder continue to happen all around us, but who has the emotional energy to handle that when even getting a week’s worth of groceries feels like a risk to our lives?"
"I didn't realize Tansy was taking it so hard. It seems like most of us in Comfort or the general area, have it easier. We've got wide open spaces and safe streets. We know the grocery store owner by name and trust him. I just hadn't thought anyone here was struggling in that way. Especially someone with a family at home to keep them busy and entertained."
"The cares of the family can weigh heavily on a sensitive person."
Taylor hadn't thought of Tansy as particularly sensitive, however that was no reason to say she wasn't. In fact, it often seemed that most people were more sensitive than she gave them credit for. As she thought this, the muscle in her thigh that had been stabbed cramped. She pressed her palm to her thigh and said, “Psychosomatic.”
Lorraine tilted her head.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that out loud."
"That is not the correct term," Lorraine corrected. “That would refer to physiological reaction to psychological problem."
"Yes, that's why I'm sorry. I was thinking out loud. That my leg just cramped up. It's something that happens when I feel stressed. There's no reason for it. I shouldn't still have pain there, but it’s psychosomatic.”
Lorraine shifted, moving the arm that had been stabbed many times some forty years ago, but she didn't say anything about it.
"Somebody had a significant emotional breakdown recently. They must have had, to make them throw the rooster bones off the gallery. It wouldn't have been Tansy, would it?"
"I worry it was her." Lorraine stood. "I shared my fear with the sheriff when he interviewed me, but after our lengthy discussion about The Cutter, I suspect he doesn't trust my testimony. It would be a considerable help if you would share your concerns with him."
Taylor swallowed nervously. "I will. I don't think she would've murdered Maddie, but eliminating these distractions from the murder investigation can only help, can't it?”
"Distractions. An interesting choice of word.” She walked to the door and opened it.
Taylor wanted to stay and ask more questions, though she recognized she was being directed to leave. Given this was Lorraine's room, she had every right to do that.
But Taylor didn't oblige her. She hadn't gotten what she was after yet. “Before I can talk to the sheriff about this, I'll need to know what’s been bothering Tansy.”
Lorraine looked to the hallway. She stared into the darkness for at least a minute and then pulled the door shut. "Distractions. The word you chose is apropos. Very interesting. The worst comes out in some people in times of crisis, and were it not for the murder investigation, this would not be my story to tell, and is not yours either. You understand that, yes?"
"I can’t say till I know what it is.” Taylor crossed her hands on her knees. She felt as though she was channeling a proper Edwardian lady.
"Tansy's husband called her right before she left for our weekend. He was supposed to be out getting treats with the kids. They aren’t used to Tansy being away. Perhaps he was, but he found a quiet moment to call and tell her that when she came home from this ladies' weekend, he was going to move out.”
Taylor stared at Lorraine. This was an unimaginable trauma to inflict on someone right now. A horrible, selfish act.
What could be happening in his life that would make pandemic the right time to abandon his family?
They had to have a couch he could have slept on until things were safe again.
Or the kids could bundle up in one room and give him the other one if he needed privacy.
He didn't have to behave like a husband, but to move out, to actively move out and leave Tansy with two small children and no job while a deadly virus raged unchecked across the globe was the greatest act of selfishness Taylor could possibly imagine.
She was stunned.
Nothing Tansy had said in their conversation had hinted at a deep, devastating grief. She had held her cards so close to her chest that, for the first time ever, Taylor saw a real similarity between Tansy and the stoic who sat before her.
"So, you see, I believe my daughter had enough emotional stress that the murder of a friend could easily make her experience a brief emotional breakdown."
"If I tell the sheriff that I suspect Tansy of breaking those bones, I'll have to tell him about this.” Taylor didn't apologize. She wasn't asking permission. She was just stating a fact that made her uncomfortable.
"I believe this will be better coming from you than from me.”
"Thank you for trusting me. I'll do the right thing, and I hope Tansy will be okay." Taylor stood, ready to leave. This was what she had come for, but it was the last thing she would ever have wanted to hear.
Lorraine and Taylor walked to the end of the hall together in silence. As Taylor walked down the steps, she remembered the text on Maddie's phone.
It might make things uncomfortable, but I had to tell her.
Taylor found the sheriff seated by the French doors in the library. The strong stocky man sat on a wooden folding chair that might have been an antique. He wore a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and was turning the pages of a book bound in dark brown fabric. Gold lettering on the spine almost sparkled between his fingers, but not enough showed to reveal the title.
“Glad I found you." Taylor felt the inadequacy of those words. She was not glad she found him.
"Make yourself comfortable." He did not look up from his book. "Seen the news lately?"
"Should I have?" Taylor pulled a dark brown leather footstool across from the sheriff and sat. Being so low felt strangely like visiting your grandparents when you’re young, though Sheriff Rousseau wasn't nearly old enough to be her grandfather.
"That Graham Dawson of yours wrote an article about our murder. Figured you'd have looked for it after giving him quotes.”
"I didn't." She stiffened. She hadn’t given Graham any quotes. She hadn't clarified that she was talking off the record, but why should she have? She’d just been having a conversation with her boyfriend.
The Sheriff harrumphed. "He got a lot of it right. More than we wanted out there, but then we hadn't told anyone not to take interviews." He finally looked up. "It doesn't feel good to find out you’re both old and naïve. I thought being quarantined would keep our situation out of press for longer than it did. You know why we keep some things out of the news, don't you?"
"To prevent distractions." Taylor found herself using that word again. "To prevent people from misleading the police for attention."
The Sheriff nodded but didn't respond with words.
"I guess I'll have to look at the article. I'm not sure what he could've quoted me as saying besides, ‘Please come, I miss you. There’s been a murder.’”
"You'll definitely want to read it then."
“I guess the odds of me getting in on the investigation are pretty slim now."
The sheriff smiled but not with his eyes. “We like to protect and serve. While you might think it would serve you to be in on this, it would not protect you."
Taylor almost withheld her information. It was hers after all. She’d established a trusting relationship with her source. She hadn’t given up when she’d been dismissed by Lorraine. But she hadn’t sought the information for herself. As the sheriff had said, it was “to protect and to serve.” So, after clearing her throat two times, she spilled all, from the worries that had led her to Lorraine's door, to her newly formed idea that the text message on Maddie's phone had been from Tansy's husband.
She had Sheriff Rousseau’s undivided attention.
"It might make things uncomfortable, but I had to tell her." Rousseau repeated the content from the text message. "I don't think it's much of a jump. You’re probably right.” He sighed heavily. “That Tansy is a nice kid. Me and Phil Dorney have been friends for years. Tansy and my youngest are old friends, though Tansy is a few years younger."
And this was the trouble in a place like Comfort.
The sheriff was as emotionally attached to the woman who was suddenly the number one suspect as if she had been his own kid.
Taylor remained on her little stool. She didn't know where to go. Not to bed, surely. Not with her heart in a panic like it was.
Had Tansy, a perfectly nice girl, just been pushed into murder by a cheating husband?
No.
If Tansy had murdered Maddie, then she was not a “perfectly nice girl.”
But even if she hadn’t killed anyone, her life was in pieces right now. And nothing the sheriff learned could fix that.
Rousseau set his book down and stood. “Time to make my rounds. Thanks for the info. I think I'll let Tansy sleep for now."
Taylor watched him leave and then picked up the book he'd been flipping through. Twice Told Tales. She didn't have the heart to read Hawthorne's expansive sentences tonight, so she abandoned the book and returned to the room she was sharing with her sister.
Belle looked up when the door opened and gave a small smile but then turned back to her phone where she was typing with the speed and efficiency of someone who had grown up typing on a smart phone screen.
Taylor hoped this meant that Belle and Jonah were communicating and that things for the two of them would improve shortly. Any good news right now would be welcome.
Taylor slept fitfully. Every hint of noise seemed to wake her, and even this newer wing of the old house had plenty to say in the night.
At around 1:30 she could’ve sworn she heard a door latch clicking, but their bedroom door was closed, and she was so far from any exterior door that it would have been impossible.
She’d once heard that Freud claimed the brain made noises to wake itself. She decided that must’ve been the case this time. Her brain wanted her awake.
She’d also heard that the brain solved problems while it was asleep, so she had to assume that the current problems were too much for her. Her brain refused to solve this murder.
She longed to turn on her phone and watch her mom doling out advice on sewing and life, but she didn’t want to wake her sister. She could have gotten headphones, but it was that hour of night when leaving the bed felt dangerous. It was safer to lie here sweating in the warm June evening with her quilt pulled up to her chin than to risk the shadows.
And yet, she was so much better than she had been.
She didn’t panic every night anymore. And this wasn’t panic.
This was caution.
She smiled at the word. Caution. Being fully wrapped in a quilt was just a preventative measure in case a murderer was lurking in the dark corners of the room. Perfectly reasonable given the circumstances.
She closed her eyes and began to count in Spanish. She’d studied Spanish in high school and counting as she was trying to sleep had been good practice back then, plus it always resulted in sleep before she’d hit treinta. This time she only reached quince when she was interrupted by a slamming door.
She was awake enough to know for sure that this wasn't her mind creating a noise. She flung off the safety of her quilt and went running into the family room.
She slowed down before she got to the hall and listened. She’d heard a crash but where had it come from? It had to have been inside or she wouldn’t have heard it. But to the left or to the right? It could've come from Sissy’s room, but something told Taylor that it hadn't.
It was probably Deputy Maria’s turn on the watch. She’d be on top of whatever had made that noise, but she couldn’t hear the tread of the deputy on patrol.
Taylor threaded her way through the house. The dining room and parlor were both empty. Nothing had been smashed or knocked over, either.
By the time she was in the front hall she knew she’d gone far enough. There was no way she’d have heard something crash in here from all the way back in her room.
She held her breath, hoping that she’d hear something, anything, to direct her.
It wasn’t possible that she was paranoid. She’d heard a crash. A real one.
She retraced her steps, but this time she went down to the kitchen.
Deputy Maria was coming around the corner from the basement bathroom when she did.
"I thought I heard a crash," Taylor blurted out.
"Me too, but I've been over the house now from top to bottom and haven't seen or heard anything else. I suspect raccoons in the trash."
"But wasn’t it inside?” Taylor’s leg was weak, and she gripped the edge of the kitchen counter to balance herself.
“Not that I can see.” Maria glanced toward the window-wells, though they showed nothing but the dark of night.
“Where were you when you heard it?"
"I was in the library near the French doors, but I was just making a loop at the time. It seemed far away. Were you in bed?"
"I was and it sounded kind of close. I wasn't asleep."
“We'll feel a lot better if we see the trash cans knocked over." Maria led the way upstairs and outside.
They walked a loop around the house, but to Taylor's immense dismay, the trash cans were fine. When they found themselves back at the patio door, Deputy Maria shrugged. "We both heard it so wasn't in our heads, but nothing's amiss. I'll jot it in my notes. You should probably go back to bed."
"Are you sure?" Taylor asked.
"Old houses." Maria shrugged and walked Taylor back to her room.
Maria and Taylor were about the same age, and here she was, the face of safety and security at the house where a young woman had been viciously murdered. In the dark of night, it seemed unfair.
"How about I make some coffee?" Taylor asked.
Chapter Eighteen
Taylor thought one of the things Jonah and Belle would like the least about this house was the lack of a small kitchenette in their family quarters.
It was a significant pain to have to run all the way downstairs to the giant formal kitchen just to make coffee.
She didn't like the way every movement in the vast space seemed to echo.
She didn't like the way the shadows lurked in the dark corners when all you turned on was a tiny little work light you needed just for the moment.
In fact, she didn't like anything about this kitchen at all.
Maybe when they got around to doing things Jonah's way and rented out rooms to other online content creators it wouldn't feel so intimidating. But then again, this was now a house that had seen murder—both historic and the modern.
Nothing could restore the safe innocence it had been built with.
Taylor poured her own mug of coffee and took a long drink. She didn't regret her offer to stay awake with Maria, but she knew she needed coffee in her system to make it work.
She filled one of the carafes, grabbed a second mug, and headed upstairs. She had just entered the butler's pantry when a panicked scream rent the air.
She dropped the mugs, splashing hot coffee down her
leg and across the floor. But she lifted the carafe like a weapon and ran straight through the empty dining room into the parlor and all the way around the house till she found herself at back patio.
The doors were wide open and the vintage stained-glass fixture in the hall shed light on the scene before her.
Deputy Maria knelt on the back of someone, twisting an arm to hold her in place.
"You gotta let me go. You gotta let me go. It’s not me. You gotta let me go." The cries came through ragged breaths that made Taylor's own chest hurt in sympathy. “You gotta get Taylor. Just get Taylor. She knows me. She will vouch for me. Please.”
Maria wrenched the arm again and the voice cried out.
That voice.
It was Asha. Taylor would have recognized her voice anywhere. "Asha, what are you doing here?" Taylor asked.
Deputy Maria took her knee off the girl’s back and pulled her to standing.
Asha and Maria were both petite women, but Maria was something like ten years older and fit. She was strong in a way that made Asha look like a child.
"I followed Alex. I followed him.” Asha was panting for breath. “He said he was coming to rescue Aviva. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but he’s got his hatchet with him. The one he uses at the throwing club. You gotta find him, not me."
Taylor didn't stop to ask Asha questions. She had said the right name, so Taylor turned on her heel and ran.
Alex Stoner had only known two people in this house, and one of them was already dead.
She ran straight to the room Aviva and Sissy shared and checked the knob. It was locked. She went to her own room, popped the door open, twisted the lock, and pulled it shut again. Belle, Aviva, and Sissy were safe. She leaned against the door as though her body was one more layer of protection for her baby sister.
As she caught her breath, she listened to the sounds of the house.
This addition just had one story and an attic, but the ceiling creaked as the beams settled in the cooling night air. Were those slow footsteps she heard in the hall and around the corner? Would they be Sherriff Rousseau hunting for Alex? Or was it Alex hunting for Aviva?