“You’re never going to call me Blaise, are you, Gerry?”
“Blaise, are you all right?”
“We created a diversion, didn’t we, David?”
David positively grinned.
Cathy patted her sister’s hand with a water-moistened napkin. “Oh, sweetie, I wish you’d remembered to take off your rings.”
“It’s not too bad,” Markie replied gruffly. “Don’t make a fuss.”
“Well, I think you’re very brave,” commented Bea.
Ralph, being watched over by Andrew, wailed from the floor, “No chick packs a punch like that! That ain’t no chick!”
“She is if she wants to be,” Andrew replied, giving Markie an admiring glance.
Calmly, Prudence and Cece cleared the table of the dessert plates. When Gerry followed them into the kitchen, she found them washing up. “You called the police, didn’t you, Prudence?”
Prudence nodded.
“Sensible woman,” Cece commented.
Gerry continued, “Aren’t you curious about what’s happening outside?”
“Go and look,” suggested Prudence. Gerry put on her coat and boots and let herself out the side porch door.
She breathed the unusually soft air. Almost like spring, she thought. A fine mist fell from above and the land exhaled a thin vapour. She turned her attention to the frozen lake, where a few lights bobbing along the shoreline informed her of the presence of the police. But where was Steve? And Doug? She walked down the backyard’s incline to the edge of the lake.
Far out, she spied first one, then two dark figures running. Steve must be trying to cross to get to the deep dark pine woods on the other side. The figure closest to her was gaining on the other. Doug must be so pissed off, she thought.
Steve looked over his shoulder, put on a burst of speed, lurched and dropped from view. He’d gone through the ice.
Doug braked, then, to Gerry’s horror, got down on his stomach and began slowly crawling toward the hole in the ice. “Hey! Hey!” Gerry yelled, jumping up and down and attracting the attention of the police. “Man in the lake!” she cried. Two of the officers dashed onto the ice while the other two rushed toward her.
“Do you have a long ladder, a rope?” one shouted.
“Yes! Yes! Both! In here!” she struggled up the slope to the shed. Locked. Banging open the kitchen door, she clawed for the key on the rack, handed it to one of the police, then shouted at the startled Prudence and Cece, “Steve’s gone through and Doug’s going after him.”
“Good God!” she heard Prudence exclaim as she dashed back outside to the shed.
“No! No! We can’t go in that door!!” She led them to the front of the shed. Focus, Gerry, a voice told her.
They located the ladder, the one last used by Doug to clear the eavestroughs of autumn’s leaves, and the rope. Gerry realized there was no way they could turn the ladder to fit out the small door they’d just entered by. “Break a window!” she said.
They heaved a piece of wood through the glass and pushed the ladder out. By now most of the occupants of the house were outside. Cece and David ran with the police and equipment onto the ice. “I’m going, too,” said Gerry.
“No, you’re not,” Prudence replied firmly, holding her by the arm. “Unless you want me out there with you.”
Andrew, supporting the sagging Ralph, joined the group. “Certainly not, Gerry. Let the professionals do their job.”
And indeed, once near the break in the ice, the police motioned Cece and David to stay back and went into action.
Gerry counted bodies. “One, two, three, four. How many police were there? Where’s Doug?” A gasp went up from the group assembled in the backyard as the police pulled one body out of the freezing cold water.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” moaned Gerry, jumping up and down. Then a cheer broke out from her guests as David stumbled toward the rescued man, clasping him; he and Cece leading him back towards the house.
“Steve!” The force of Ralph’s scream ripped through their hearts. He broke free of Andrew and stumbled through the snow and onto the ice. Cece and David had their hands full with Doug and ignored Ralph as he raced past them. The watchers saw one of the officers catch him and handcuff him and turned their attention to Doug, who could hardly walk.
“Not brandy,” said Cece. “Hot tea with sugar. A heating pad, hot water bottle, wool. Anything to warm him up.” They all ran toward the house.
Doug’s white face with blue lips scared Gerry but galvanized Prudence. “Bring him by the fire. Move the cat’s box, Gerry. Wool blankets on the back bedroom’s bed, David. You know where it is. And there’s a heating pad under the covers. Hot water bottle in the upstairs toilet. Better bring some towels, too. Cathy, make tea. Markie, go tell Bea and Blaise what’s happened. Gerry, go get your robe and slippers.”
They dispersed on their errands. By the time Gerry returned, Doug had been stripped of his wet clothes and wrapped in Cece’s coat, his bare feet outstretched toward the newly blazing fire. He was shivering violently.
David appeared, his arms full. Prudence took a blanket, held it as a screen while Cece rubbed Doug down with a towel. “Gerry, your robe,” Prudence commanded. Gerry handed it over along with her slippers. So focused were they all that the arrival of a fire truck and ambulance barely registered.
Gerry could hear Doug’s teeth chattering. Prudence wrapped a woollen blanket around Doug’s upper body, including his head, then used another to enclose his lower half. “You’ll do,” she said, pushing him back down into a rocking chair.
“Tea!” Cathy said. “We made enough for everybody.” People brought chairs in from the dining room. Bea and Blaise were helped into the now warm living room. Everyone sipped their tea. Prudence held Doug’s mug to his lips.
“W-W-W-Winnie-the-Pooh?” whispered the shivering form huddled by the fire. It stuck one foot out from under its blanket wrapping. “Sp-SpongeBob s-s-slippers?” There was a startled silence followed by a roar of laughter as they realized Doug was critiquing Gerry’s wardrobe selection.
“I draw comics, okay?” She grinned defensively. “Those guys are my heroes.” This seemed to strike everyone as even funnier and they roared the louder.
Prudence kept to the protocol and removed one slipper. “His toes are all right,” she commented. “Let’s see your fingers.”
“No Scooby-Doo mittens?” joked Doug in a steadier voice and poked his hands out for inspection.
“They’re pink,” Prudence announced calmly. “Let’s see your face.” She bent over and peered under the hooded blanket. “No more blue lips. You’ll live.”
“Thank God it wasn’t twenty below,” said Bea.
“If it had been, the ice in the middle of the lake wouldn’t have thawed and no one would have fallen in,” Cece replied soberly. This reminded them that someone else had gone in the water and their faces became serious.
Doug shook the blanket off his head. “Can I come out now, Prudence?” he requested meekly. “I’m sweating.” She felt his brow and nodded. Doug slowly emerged. “I’m stiff,” he said. “Not used to running. What’s happening out there?”
Markie and Andrew were nearest the window. Markie spoke. “The police are standing around. With firefighters, too. And they have a stretcher. There was a pause. “They’re coming this way, but they’re not hurrying.” The implications of this sunk in.
“Poor Ralph,” Gerry said softly.
Only the meowing of hungry cats got Gerry out of bed the next day. That, and the sound of the bell at St. Anne’s church, alerting her that it must be almost ten o’clock.
“Cats must eat,” she grumbled, as she sat on the edge of her bed. Where were her robe and slippers? The events of the previous night came rushing back. “You knew, eh, Bob?” She tickled his tummy, and his paws, claws sheathed, clutched her hand. She felt an uncha
ritable spurt of pleasure at the thought that maybe Bob had inflicted on Steve Parsley a fraction of the pain he’d caused Betty.
The meows downstairs grew more insistent. Slipping on a pair of socks, she padded downstairs in her pajamas, eyes half shut. She fed the cats and prepared coffee.
In the living room, she found her robe and slippers in front of the dead fire. One of the kittens was curled up inside one of the slippers. Shifting the little beast back into the banana box, she yawned and put on her robe.
It smelled of Doug. Her senses tingled and suddenly, she was awake. She was just enjoying a second sniff when she heard Prudence’s shuffle behind her. Hastily, Gerry bent over and slipped on her slippers.
“Going to sniff them, too?”
Gerry scowled at Prudence’s back as the housekeeper entered the kitchen in search of her own coffee. She decided dignity demanded she ignore the remark.
“You were very efficient last night, Prudence.” Gerry’s voice sounded stiff and formal in her own ears. It warmed as she added, “You were great.”
Prudence took possession of the other rocker with a sigh. “You were pretty great yourself, getting the ladder and rope out so quickly. The story might have had a different ending if you hadn’t.” They were silent, mulling over that possibility.
Gerry spoke first. “I think everyone was splendid. Imagine Blaise faking a heart attack to distract Steve and Ralph.”
“And Markie,” added Prudence.
“I know, right?” There was another pause. “She and Andrew seemed to hit it off. You all right with that?”
Prudence nodded. “I have to be, don’t I?” Both stared at the cold fireplace.
“So,” Gerry queried, “breakfast? There’s leftover trifle.”
Prudence smiled her thin-lipped smile. “You go ahead. I’ll just have toast.”
After they’d eaten and dressed and tidied up the remaining mess from the party, it was lunchtime. Left-over roast beef and turkey made wonderful sandwiches. Just as they were wondering what to do with themselves, Father Lackey phoned.
“Would this afternoon suit you? It only takes about twenty minutes.”
Gerry agreed, hung up and inquired of Prudence, “You coming?”
“Of course. He contacted me, after all.”
They drove to St. Pete’s. Father Lackey came out onto his porch as they parked. “Sunday is, of course, my busiest day, but I wanted to get this done as soon as possible. There he is. Good.”
If he noticed the seal on Cormac McCormack’s funerary urn was broken, he chose to say nothing, and led them to a freshly dug little hole in the cemetery. “We think this is where the paupers were buried long ago; people who couldn’t afford a grave marker. So, presumably, his sister Sheila is close by.” He said a few prayers; Gerry put the urn in the ground, a lump in her throat; a few more prayers and it was done. Both women sighed.
“Thank you very much, Father.” Gerry shook his hand. Prudence did likewise and they walked away. “Did you —” Gerry asked Prudence.
“Shush. Tell you later.”
Once home, their energy flagged. They relaxed. Gerry made tea. “Why did you open the urn?”
Prudence produced G.G.A. Margie’s diary. “Because of this.”
“You finished it?”
Prudence nodded. “Read this bit. Towards the end.”
Gerry read:
Feb. 14, 1945. Now that I’ve outlived both my husband and my son, I see no reason to keep hidden the thoughts and revelations that have occurred to me during a long long life.
I’m ninety years old and can’t live much longer. My sister-in-law Elizabeth, though elderly herself, is more vigorous than I. I feel sure she will outlive me. But in case she doesn’t, I wish to leave a correct account of my parentage, so no wrongful inheritance ensues.
When I was ten, my mother died, and when I was sixteen, noticing a doll she had cherished was becoming frayed by my brother Albert’s handling of it, I examined it with a view to repairs.
Gerry looked up. “But earlier, she wrote that she decided to look inside the doll because she felt grown up.”
Prudence shrugged. “The memory plays tricks. Both may have been true. She saw the doll was frayed and remembered her mother’s words.”
Gerry continued:
As I poked at the stitches, something crackled inside the doll, so I opened her up. Inside were the feather, the green glass lump and the wooden heart, all as I remembered. And, somewhat crumpled, was an envelope with my name on it, written in my mother’s hand.
As I took out the letter, a small golden key fell onto my lap. I set it aside and read.
Gerry looked up again. “It’s like peeling an onion. Layer upon layer.”
“Be careful you don’t cry,” Prudence admonished dryly.
I will paraphrase from my mother’s letter. All those years ago, I was aware only of shame and revulsion and though I destroyed it after I read it, terrified my father or Albert might one day read it and discover — but I’m getting ahead of myself.
My mother told of her happy childhood in Lovering and of how, when she was about ten, her father indentured a servant, a little Irish boy named Cormac McCormack, who, with his sister Sheila, had immigrated to Canada.
Her father had no use for Sheila and she became a servant elsewhere and eventually in the house of John Coneybear. My mother, Sybil, grew up an only child and so was attracted to Cormac, first as a playmate, and then, as the two became young adults, as more than playmates. They became lovers and my mother became pregnant, though she said she didn’t know she was.
She’d long been affianced to John Coneybear by her parents, but, as Cormac’s period of indenture was almost up, planned to marry him. In a piece of bad business, her father claimed the accumulated time Cormac had been ill over the years was to be added on to his period of servitude and refused to free him at the previously appointed time.
Terrified of running away and fearing to lose her parents’ approval, my mother acquiesced and married John. Weddings were different in those days; quiet, the way Christmas used to be. A quick ceremony, a breakfast with her family, and Sybil was led away to her husband’s house. And, eight months later, I was born.
I used to wonder why my father would sometimes fix me with a look, especially when I was chattering or laughing, a look in which his curled lip and narrowed eye spoke of contempt. I don’t remember if he looked at my mother the same way.
I only know that by the time I was aware of her as a person she had wilted and died. And, shortly after I was born, Cormac McCormack was also gone.
My mother wrote that one morning her husband brought her the little gold key he’d given her before they were married. He had a strange look on his face. He asked her if she’d lost it and she had to say yes. Of course, she’d foolishly given it to Cormac after her marriage, in an attempt to assure him of her continued love. Soon she learned from her mother that McCormack had “run off.” And she believed he had until just before her death.
Painfully, I read how my father (Perhaps I should refer to him as Coneybear, as he was not my father, though he supported me until I married.) pressed himself for years on my unwilling mother, and how she bore him child after child, only to see them sicken and die. How, while she was pregnant with my brother Albert, he told her what had happened to Cormac ten years earlier.
How, made sleepless one night by my infant crying, Coneybear had gone outside. How he’d surprised Cormac lurking behind the shed. How Cormac had reviled him and declared his love for Sybil. How Coneybear, angered, had seized a rock, rushed at the much younger man, who’d tripped. How, while Cormac had lain there, stunned, the other hit him once in the head. How once had been enough. How he’d slid the great doors of the shed open, praying no one would hear. How he’d pried up the floor of the shed, dragged and dropped the body, replaced the floorboards,
and returned to his house. How he’d found the key on a cord around Cormac’s neck and taken it. How he’d later brandished it in front of my mother’s sorrowing face.
It’s no wonder my mother died shortly thereafter. I believe she simply turned her face to the wall and let go. I helped the servants care for Albert until he turned twenty-one, at which point I married Jonas Petherbridge, a good man, taken from me too early.
“That’s enough,” said Prudence, handing Gerry a tissue. “The rest is about her marriage and her son, with a little about your Uncle Geoff at the end.”
“And now they’re all gone,” Gerry said, wiping her eyes. “Well, we suspected murder, but it’s terrible to have it confirmed.”
Prudence produced a small Mason jar half full of pale grey ash. “It’s obvious Cormac wants to be with Sybil. You know it’s her over in the crypt?”
“I never got over there to check,” said Gerry. “And John?”
“In the graveyard with Albert and Margie. I thought we could take this over to the crypt and sprinkle it around. It’s as close as we can get him to where she’s buried.”
Gerry spoke thoughtfully. “Why have a crypt, anyway? I know St. Anne’s wasn’t built yet when Sybil died, but there were other churchyards.”
Prudence shrugged. “Too far? People liked to keep their dead nearby, the way you buried Marigold under her favourite hydrangea bush. We guess where spirits need to be to rest.”
“Let’s do it now,” Gerry said impulsively, jumping up.
They crossed the road to the bit of land where the Coneybear family crypt squatted in the twilight. Gerry carried a pointed spade. They eased through the hedge and stood in damp melting snow, looking at the plaque. “Sybil and her babies.” Gerry shivered.
The crypt had been sealed with mortar and stone long ago. Gerry dug a small shallow trench below which the earth was frozen. “That’s good,” said Prudence, who crouched and gently shook the ashes out of the jar, then covered them.
“Should we say anything?” Gerry whispered.
The Cat Vanishes Page 21