Donn's Hill

by Caryn Larrinaga

  “That sounds great, but this isn’t the best time. Can I take a rain check?” I smiled at her, hoping she didn’t feel like I was blowing her off.

  Her face fell. “Oh, yes. That’s fine.”

  I nodded at her, then crossed the street to Gabrielle’s house. The shades were drawn over the first-floor bay window, and the CLOSED sign was still lit up. She was missing out on a lot of potential business by keeping the bookstore closed when there was a flood of tourists just across the street.

  Maybe it’s worth it. Who knows what people pay to attend her séances? Probably way more than she makes selling ten-cent copies of used books.

  I set Striker down, and she followed me as I skirted the edge of Gabrielle’s lawn and headed down her driveway. She seemed to know exactly what we were here for, and headed straight for the greenhouse to paw at the door.

  “You just want another crack at that mint, don’t you?” I teased her.

  The greenhouse was unlocked. I pulled the door open, and Striker darted inside, immediately leaping to the wooden shelf at the back that held the small pot of fresh mint. She opened her mouth wide and chomped on the plant.

  I left her to her meal and examined Gabrielle’s collection of sage bundles. She had more than a dozen, and I wondered if it wouldn’t be prudent to take two of them. Maybe I could burn one while I was attempting to make contact, so it would be ready to go if I decided I needed to banish the spirit. Or would the burning sage discourage Tom’s ghost from coming at all? I weighed a pair of bundles in my hands and chewed my lip.

  A loud crash from the back of the greenhouse interrupted my ruminations. Striker was sitting atop the shelf, gazing down at a pile of shattered pots, soil, and leaves.

  “Striker!”

  I hurried across the greenhouse and knelt to assess the damage. She’d managed to destroy four pots, but the plants looked like they might survive if they were repotted right away.

  Something shiny in the wreckage caught my eye. I brushed away some of the soil, uncovering three narrow silver rectangles. I picked up one of the objects and turned it over in my hand. It was lightweight and about the size of a USB flash drive. There was a seam at one end. I removed the cap and realized that it was, in fact, a flash drive. It wasn’t like any I’d ever seen, though. In addition to the shiny USB connector, there were three small buttons running down the side of the device. I scratched away the stubborn bits of soil that covered them, revealing playback controls.

  It’s a voice recorder, I realized. An adorable, itty-bitty recorder. I couldn’t resist pressing the triangular play button.

  A man’s voice issued from a hidden speaker on the end of the stick. It sounded tinny and slightly muffled.

  “I just heard back from my guy in St. Louis,” the man said. “We should get the money within a week.”

  “Do you trust the driver? I don’t want a repeat of last time.” The second voice sounded like Brian Andersen, but it was difficult to be sure through the low-quality recording.

  “Cut me some slack, would you?” the first man snapped. “I learn from my mistakes.”

  Booming laughter came out of the speaker, and I felt confident that it belonged to Brian. “I don’t know about that, Tom.”

  I gasped. Tom, as in Tom Bishop? Was I listening to a recording of the two dead men?

  “Let’s move on,” Tom said. “We need to start thinking about the next job. What do you have for us?”

  “I’ve got one in Chicago,” a woman said. “She’ll be in Paris in October, and her home will be vacant for several weeks.”

  My heart stopped. Even through the recorder, I recognized the accent in an instant. It was Gabrielle.

  Her voice came again, but not from the tinny speaker. This time, it was right behind me.

  “I can’t tell you how much I regret you finding those.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Gabrielle and I stood face-to-face, only a few paces apart. The temperature inside the greenhouse was uncomfortably warm, and a thin rivulet of sweat ran down my temple. Her voice was still coming out of the tiny device in my hand.

  “She has a collection of gemstones that will make the trip worthwhile,” she was saying.

  I flicked the stop button with my thumb to silence the recording. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard, and my mind reeled from the implications. Gabrielle—sweet, kind Gabrielle who had been my mother’s friend—was a criminal.

  “You were talking about Lillian, weren’t you?” I asked quietly.

  Gabrielle’s eyes were pained. “Mackenzie, I can explain.”

  “I’d love to hear it. Please, tell me all about how you helped rob that poor old woman.”

  “Please. I made a mistake. It wasn’t something I wanted to do in the first place, but I really had no other choice.”

  I stared at her. “No other choice? What could make you do something like that?”

  “Losing my sister.” Gabrielle took a step toward me. “You understand, don’t you? What it’s like to lose someone?”

  Her eyes searched mine. She must not have found what she was looking for because she shook her head. “No, you can’t possibly understand. Not fully. You were a child when Evelyn died, and your father left you money. You might understand part of it, part of the grief, like the crying—the endless, unstoppable tears, the ones that sneak up on you just when you think the crying is over. When you feel as though you’ve moved on from that place where grief is the master of all of your other emotions. But then, in some ordinary moment, it jumps out from behind the bushes and supplants the happiness or the contentment or even the anger you were feeling just seconds before.”

  I’d never seen Gabrielle this way. She looked broken. Her green eyes were dull, and she stooped like an old woman.

  “It’s the little things, really,” she went on. “Thinking about the coming change to a season and how impossible it seems that life can be moving on without her. Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend almost every day of your entire life—your entire life—with someone? She was my twin. Literally, from the moment I existed, Rosanna was there. Her absence takes a toll on everything. Getting out a winter blanket and knowing she’ll never feel cold again or feel warm again or feel anything again because she’s gone.”

  She was rambling, twisting her skirt in her hands. I took a step forward and reached toward her.

  “Gabrielle, I do understand. I’ve lost people too. You know that. I wouldn’t even be in this town if my father was still alive. Please, let’s sit down. Let’s talk about this.”

  I wanted to rest my hand on her shoulder to help calm her down, but she jerked back away from me and paced the floor, covering the distance between the shelves of her greenhouse with quick, shuffling steps as she spoke. The folds of her long black skirt fluttered as she walked.

  “No, Mackenzie!” Her voice was suddenly shrill. “Don’t tell me you understand! You had options. Without Rosanna I had nothing. And her hospital bills were crushing. If I didn’t do something, I’d lose this house— Rosanna’s shop. Working with Tom was the only way.”

  “You’re right,” I said. I inched forward toward her again. “I’m lucky I didn’t have to go through that. But it’s not too late. We can fix this. Come with me to the sheriff’s office—”

  She stopped pacing and turned to stare at me with wide eyes. “You’re going to turn me in?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m going to go with you so you can explain what happened. Deputy Wallace can help you. We can make things right for Lillian.”

  “Lillian?” She ran her hands through her thick, graying hair. “Lillian is the least of my worries. You really don’t understand, Mackenzie. Tom wasn’t going to just let me walk away.”

  “What are you saying?” I was afraid to ask the next question, but I had to know. The words were difficult to force out. “Did you… did you have something to do with Tom Bishop’s death?”

  Gabrielle looked away from me
and stared at a spot on the floor. “Yes.”

  The word was like a lightning bolt in my stomach. Yes. She killed Tom Bishop.

  “I thought you loved him.”

  “I could never love Tom.” Gabrielle still averted her gaze. “He was a womanizer and a criminal. I only told you we were together to explain my conversation with Brian.”

  Another terrible thought struck me. “Did you kill Brian too?”

  Gabrielle shuddered. “I never meant to hurt anyone, Mackenzie. They were both accidents.” She raised her head and looked me in the eye. “You must believe me.”

  I took advantage of the fact that she was finally standing still and moved toward her again, my hands outstretched with both palms facing downward. “We have to go to the police,” I told her. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “What if we didn’t?” Gabrielle raised her head and looked me in the eye. “You don’t have to tell anyone. It can be our secret. The damage is already done.”

  I paused. Gabrielle sensed my hesitation and barged forward. “Please, Mackenzie. Think about it. Everything can stay the same, and I can still teach you everything I know. Not just about your abilities. I have so many letters from your mother that I still need to show you.”

  “Gabrielle…”

  She reached out and grabbed my wrist. “Promise me, Mackenzie. Don’t turn me in.”

  Her eyes were wide with fear and desperation. Something in my chest twisted. This woman had suffered so much heartbreak in her life already; could I really add to her tragedy?

  Is that what you’re really worried about? Or do you just want to hang on to a last piece of your mom?

  If I went to Deputy Wallace with these tapes, Gabrielle would go to prison. There was no doubt in my mind. What remained of the life she’d built with Rosanna—the store they’d started, the home they’d shared—would be ripped away from her, and this living connection to my mother would be ripped away from me.

  But as I considered helping Gabrielle, I saw the photograph of my parents in my mind’s eye. My father was a generous man, always putting the needs of other people before his own. And my mother was a kind woman. Would she approve of what Gabrielle had done, for any reason?

  No. Neither of my parents was capable of murder. I knew it in my heart. If they were in my shoes now, I knew what they would do. Sadness and resolve flooded into me, and I tried to pull my arm out of Gabrielle’s grasp. I needed to put some distance between us and call Deputy Wallace.

  Gabrielle’s grip tightened, and her face paled. She’d seen the decision in my eyes. “I won’t let you do it,” she said, her voice a low growl.

  With her free hand, she reached into the folds of her skirt and retrieved a long, sickle-shaped knife. I recognized it immediately. It was a part of the witching collection she kept in the glass case in the bookshop.

  My limbs went cold. For the first time since finding the voice recorder, I felt afraid. My eyes were glued to the polished blade, and I tried to pull away again. Gabrielle’s hand clenched my wrist like a vise, and she dug her nails into my flesh.

  “Gabrielle, please! Let me go!”

  She shook her head with a violent jerking motion. A few minutes ago she’d seemed broken, but now she looked completely unhinged. Her eyes were wild and unfocused, and her face was a blotchy red.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” She yanked me closer and raised the curved edge of the knife to my neck. I lifted my chin, trying to keep my throat away from the blade. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But the spirit at the lake pushed things.”

  Our faces were inches apart. My mouth was dry, and now my sweat had little to do with the temperature in the greenhouse. Gabrielle was shaking, and the sharp edge of the knife jittered against my skin. Any moment now, she might cut my throat, whether she was ready to or not.

  “Gabrielle—” I croaked.

  Something dark flew over my head. A loud shriek pierced my eardrums, and my neck burned. I raised a hand to touch it and swooned when I pulled it away; my fingers were tinged red with blood. Stars popped in front of my eyes. Gabrielle screamed again, and I looked up to see her fighting off Striker, who was digging her claws into Gabrielle’s face.

  Adrenaline pumped through my veins, and instinct took over. I rushed forward, lowering my body and twisting my torso so my right shoulder was toward Gabrielle. I bowled into her, knocking her backward onto the concrete floor. Striker jumped away onto a potting table, and Gabrielle’s knife went flying beneath a long shelf. I lunged after it, landing on my hands and knees, but before my fingers could close around the hilt, Gabrielle seized my foot and yanked me backward.

  My arms flailed as she dove past me for the knife, and I grabbed the first thing my hands came into contact with: a small clay pot. Jumping to my feet, I brought it down on her head as hard as I could. Her scream mingled with the sound of the stoneware shattering, and I scooped up Striker as I dashed for the door.

  The cold air outside the greenhouse burned in my lungs as I pounded down the long driveway and burst into Gabrielle’s front yard. The town square across the street was flooded with tourists, but I saw a familiar figure on the sidewalk.

  “Penelope!” I screamed.

  She turned around, and her face paled when she saw me.

  “Call 911!” I shouted. “And come with me!”

  I turned around and sprinted back down the driveway. I paused as soon as I reached the backyard, panting and clutching Striker to my chest. A tall man stood at the entrance to the greenhouse, closing the door and trapping Gabrielle inside. He slowly looked over his shoulder, but I knew exactly who he was before he turned around.

  Tom Bishop stared at me with dark eyes, and a wide grin spread across his face as he faded away into the next life. I fell to the ground as Striker leapt out of my arms, and then darkness took me.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  My neck stung. A white bandage covered the small nick where Gabrielle’s knife had cut into my skin, and I pulled my hair forward to hide it. I felt conspicuous, sitting at a wooden table in front of the coffee cart in the town square with Striker on my lap. She hadn’t left my side since I’d passed out in front of the greenhouse.

  “My little hero,” I told her, scratching her beneath her chin.

  She’d given me the window I’d needed to gain the upper hand against Gabrielle the day before. If she hadn’t been there, who knows how the struggle would’ve played out. I massaged her ears while I waited, trying to spoil her as much as possible.

  Penelope was late. She’d insisted on meeting here and then hadn’t shown up, which didn’t seem like her. The afternoon sun beat down on me, and just as I was considering heading home and trying to reschedule our meeting for later, my cell phone rang.

  “Hey, Mac,” said Deputy Wallace when I answered, “Penelope Bishop asked me to call you. She just left the station and says she’s on her way.”

  “Okay, thanks. Oh, hey,” I spoke in a rush, wanting to make sure Wallace didn’t hang up, “How’s Gabrielle?”

  The events in the greenhouse had shaken me. For a moment, I’d been certain I was about to die. After Deputy Wallace had arrived and arrested Gabrielle, I was interrogated, poked, prodded, and bandaged up all at the same time. It was a terrible combination.

  But oddly, the worst part was seeing Gabrielle being led away in handcuffs. Her shoulders had been hunched forward, and she walked with dragging steps. Her face sagged as though all life and personality had left her. She looked nothing like the kind woman who had shared photographs of my parents with me.

  “She’s fine,” said Wallace. “Her injuries are minor. You don’t need to worry. She doesn’t even have a concussion.”

  “I mean how is she… emotionally?”

  “Oh.” Wallace inhaled slowly. “I’m not sure what to tell you. She’s despondent, but she seems contrite. She gave us a full confession yesterday and corroborated everything we suspected about Tom Bishop’s illegal activities. Apparently his family cut hi
m out of the Bishop family fortune a few years ago, and he started running drugs out of Main Street Diner and bringing prostitutes to the motel in order to maintain his rich lifestyle.”

  The warmth drained out of my face. “Was Gabrielle part of that stuff too?”

  “She claims she was ignorant of those operations until after Tom’s death. She says she was only involved in the burglaries and only as far as giving names, addresses, and times to hit the homes of her wealthier séance clients and their friends.”

  Hearing it come from Wallace in that clinical, detached way was like a knife in my heart. Gabrielle had betrayed her clients, those people that trusted her in such an intimate way. I couldn’t reconcile that with the Gabrielle I knew.

  “Did she say why she did it?” I asked.

  “Financial reasons. Her house was in pre-foreclosure when Tom came to her with the idea. She says he sold it as a ‘victimless crime,’ because the targets all carried insurance policies on their valuables. She was desperate to keep her home and her sister’s shop.”

  “What about Tom and Brian? She told me their deaths were accidents.”

  “She’s sticking to that story. She says she was trying to wrestle a voice recorder away from Tom at the lake. He lost his footing, hit his head on the dock, and fell into the water.”

  Tom Bishop’s waterlogged body, floating out from among the reeds, flashed into my mind. Had it really been an accident? Or had the ghost of Richard Franklin taken yet another life? I shuddered. Either way, that ghost was too dangerous to be allowed to linger between worlds. Someday soon I’d have to return to that cabin and get rid of him for good.

  “Accident or not,” Wallace went on, “Gabrielle didn’t jump in after him.”

  “And Brian?”

  “His death is a little more complicated. Gabrielle claims they were arguing in the cabin about what to do with the voice recorders Tom had stashed there. Apparently, he’d been recording every conversation about the burglaries as some kind of fail-safe. If he went down, he wanted to be sure he could take his accomplices with him.”