by Luanne Rice
“Hey,” he said, sliding into his seat.
“Thanks for meeting for lunch,” Tom said. “I was surprised to hear from you. You’ve been so busy.”
“I needed a break,” Reid said.
The waitress came over, and they both ordered fish and chips. Reid asked for a coffee.
“What’s going on?” Tom asked.
“Nothing, and that’s the problem,” Reid said, drinking the instant the waitress set down the cup, burning his mouth. “Ouch.”
Tom watched him, and Reid recognized the expression: half-amused, half-concerned.
“Here,” Tom said, reaching into his glass of water, fishing out a handful of ice cubes. “It’ll stop the burn. An old Coast Guard trick.”
Reid took the cubes, nodded across the table. Tom never stopped being an older brother. He thought about siblings, how strong the bond was. He wondered how Kate was handling the day. It must have shown on his face.
“What’s going on?” Tom asked. “You okay?”
“It’s Beth’s birthday.”
“Oh, man,” Tom said, leaning forward, watching Reid.
“Probably a really hard day for Kate and Sam,” Reid said.
“And you too?” Tom asked.
“A little,” Reid said. “But let’s talk about something else. How was teaching?”
“I’m done for the day,” Tom said. “It’s always good to be at the Academy, see the kids coming along.”
“So the Coast Guard will be in good shape with the next generation?” Reid asked. Their platters of fish and chips arrived, and he realized he didn’t feel hungry. He sat back, listening to Tom talk about the seamanship class he’d just taught. It made him think of sextants and celestial navigation and the astronomy professor at Osprey House, and when he glanced toward the lunch counter, there he was.
“The astronomer,” Reid said.
“Who?” Tom asked, his mouth full.
“Martin Harris,” Reid said. “The guy I told you about? Who knew too much about Beth’s crime scene?”
“Right—connected to Pete by the stars,” Tom said.
“Give me a minute,” Reid said. He left his brother sitting there and walked around the counter, right through the swinging door into the kitchen. It was a small space that smelled like fried food, noisy with clattering dishes and the hiss of the griddle.
Martin Harris carried a big rectangular gray plastic bin full of dirty dishes from out front, placed it in a deep stainless-steel sink, and turned on the water. Reid waved at Alma, the cook. They knew each other from his many lunches at the detectives’ table over the years. He raised his eyebrows in a question, pointed at Harris, and she nodded her okay. Thanks, he mouthed.
“Mr. Harris,” Reid said.
Harris glanced over his shoulder, his eyes as bloodshot as ever.
“I’m working,” he said.
“I see that,” Reid said. “I only want a few minutes of your time. Your boss doesn’t mind. Let’s step outside.”
Harris looked over at Alma, who was busy at the stove. He led Reid out the back door into an alley. It ran the length of the block behind the church. People were milling around outside the parish house, lining up. He realized they were waiting to go into the soup kitchen.
“That’s where you eat sometimes, right?” Reid asked.
“Yes, it is,” Harris said.
“It’s strange to me, Martin, that when I asked you about Beth Lathrop, you didn’t mention you ate there. Because she worked there.”
“Yeah, she and her friend. Two nice ladies from a fancy town,” Harris said. “Serving food to people like us. Who’d a thunk?”
“So you did know Beth.”
“Not really,” Harris said. “Yes, I’d see her at meals sometimes, and she was really nice. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t do anything, and I knew you’d think something bad.”
Reid didn’t say anything, held his emotions inside. But he thought of Beth feeding Martin Harris, being kind to him, having no idea of the kind of crimes he had committed, making herself vulnerable to what he could do to her.
“We never got together outside here or anything,” Harris said, sounding nervous. “I barely even talked to her, just thanked her for the food. I hang out more with her friend.”
“Jed Hilliard?” Reid asked.
“Who, that artist guy?” Harris asked. “I know him from here, but we’re not friends or anything.”
“Then who is it you hang out with?”
“You know, the other lady from Black Hall. She’s really nice. She buys us drinks once in a while, and she’ll join us.” He laughed. “She’s a hoot.” Then a serious look crossed his face. “But she is really broken up.”
“About what?”
“Beth, of course. They were so close. You could tell, just seeing them here. When she talks about what happened . . .” Harris closed his eyes tight, as if it was too awful for him to contemplate.
“What does she talk about?” Reid asked, feeling sweat run down his back.
“The death. What was done to Beth. The bruises. Those bone chips, pearls in the blood. The lace around her neck, the way it dug in . . .”
These were the things Harris had said before that had caused Reid to suspect he had been at the crime scene, or that Pete had told him about it. Harris was practically salivating now, and Reid saw him in the grips of a fantasy, made more thrilling by the fact the ingredients had come from someone so close to Beth.
“Did she tell you how she knew those details?” Reid asked.
“No, and I didn’t even ask. She’s tight with the family. I figured Beth’s sister told her, or you did, or someone involved with the investigation. I was just happy to listen.”
I bet you were, Reid thought.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Harris,” Reid said, filled with urgency, knowing what he had to do. He left him standing there in the alley and ran back into the Black Whale to tell his brother he had somewhere to be.
54
These feelings of pure connection were unfamiliar to Kate. When it was time to meet the others, she found herself not wanting to leave the house without Clementine. Online literature regarding the rescue of wild animals encouraged the rescuer to place the animal in a warm, quiet, dark place where it wouldn’t be disturbed. Kate had found the perfect corner of her loft and done that. But when she knelt on the floor and saw Clementine lying on her side, watching her with those wide velvet-brown eyes, she fought the urge to take her along.
“You’re coming with me,” she said after a minute, not even feeling foolish for speaking out loud to a rabbit.
She put Clementine’s crate on the car seat beside her and turned up the heat. Popcorn squeezed into the back. She drove straight to Mathilda’s. All the leaves were off the trees bordering the private road up toward the house. The bare branches interlocked overhead, forming a dark canopy against a white sky. Snow was forecast. Kate could feel it coming. The air was charged with static electricity.
It was only 3:15, and she was the first to arrive. She stopped at the head of the hillside meadow, got out of the car with the basket she’d brought from home. She left the car running to keep the heat going for Clementine. Popcorn went bounding through the field. The only sound was the November wind blowing through an acre of hay, whispers from the sea. She tugged handfuls of tall grass. When she got home, she would weave them into a bed for Clementine. Crouching down, she ran her hand over a patch of dry clover, picking a bunch for her food.
The first snowflakes fell. She glanced down the hill, pictured how it looked when it was covered with deep snow. She felt a pull back to childhood. She could see children on sleds. Beth in a red snowsuit, Kate in blue. They would tear down the hill, top speed, hitting bumps, steering the best they could and hoping the long glide at the end would stop them short of the lily pond. The pond usually froze solid by mid-December, but Kate still worried about breaking through the ice.
Rescuing Clementine helped her remembe
r how protective she’d felt of her sister, of how it had helped to care at a level deeper than words, to feel it in her skin. They had had so much fun, sledding down and running back up the hill, but Kate’s mind would be busy formulating plans for what she’d do if Beth went into the icy pond. Kate weighed whether it would be better to kick off her boots, toss her down jacket aside first—without them she’d be more buoyant—or whether the extra seconds would mean less time to save Beth. It wasn’t actual fear, just a measure of how seriously she took her responsibility as a big sister.
“You ready?” she remembered saying to Beth. Kate was nine. She sat behind Beth on the sled—a Flexible Flyer that had been their mother’s when she was young—her arms and legs wrapped around her sister, holding her tight.
“Don’t go so fast this time,” Beth said.
“You don’t have to be scared.”
“I don’t want to fall off,” Beth said.
“I’ve got you.”
And they pushed off and flew down the hill again, shrieking with the thrill of it all.
After that, Beth couldn’t get enough. The speedier they went, the better. Kate had loved watching Beth find her inner daredevil.
When Kate had filled her basket with enough grass and clover, she checked her watch. The others should be arriving at any time. She continued up the hill on foot, leaving her car parked on the side of the driveway. She opened the door to the garden shed, where the sleds had been stored. They were still there—their red runners rusting, the oak boards weathered and lettering nearly invisible with age. The shed’s interior was colder than the outside; she saw her breath.
Ice skates hung from pegs on the wall. Six pairs: Mathilda’s and Ruth’s, Kate’s and Beth’s, and Kate’s parents’. There was a time when the whole family had been happy together. Kate closed her eyes and saw her father building a bonfire down by the pond. Mathilda had filled thermoses with hot chocolate, and after skating, everyone drank from green pottery mugs, blowing on the steaming chocolate to cool it off while warming their frozen fingers on the hot cups.
Kate and Beth had always squeezed together on the rough wooden bench. They’d shared warmth through their jackets, arms pressing together, listening while the grown-ups talked. Back then, Kate had always been happiest when there was as little room as possible between her and Beth.
When she heard tires crunching on the gravel, she called Popcorn and drove the short distance to the turnaround in front of the house. She saw Pete’s car parked there. Her blood boiled. She had told him he couldn’t stay, but typical Pete, doing just what he wanted. She didn’t want him here ever but especially not on Beth’s birthday.
She reached into Clementine’s crate, gently touched her soft fur. It reassured Kate to feel her breathing in and out. Lulu pulled up the drive, then Scotty. Kate saw that Scotty’s car was full—Isabel in front, Sam and Julie in back. They’d all come to celebrate Beth. Popcorn bounded out of the car.
Everyone piled out, hugged each other. They all wore warm coats, and they squished together in a big circle and didn’t want to let go.
“I didn’t expect him to be here,” Kate said, gesturing at Pete’s car when they broke apart. She glanced at Sam, not wanting to hurt her, but unable to hold back her real feelings—especially today.
“Should we go somewhere else?” Lulu asked.
“Well, he is Sam’s dad,” Scotty said. “Beth’s widower.”
“He said he didn’t want to celebrate,” Sam said. “Maybe it’s better we leave.”
“We’re not leaving,” Kate said. “He is.” She had started toward the house when she heard Julie squeal.
“Bunny, a bunny!” Julie said, her palms pressed to the passenger-side window of Kate’s car.
“That’s right,” Kate said.
“What’s wrong with her?” Julie asked. “She sleeping?”
“She got hurt,” Lulu said. “Kate rescued her.”
“Want to see her; let me get close,” Julie said.
“Oh, come on,” Isabel said. “It’s freezing out here.”
Kate agreed, but Julie was so insistent, and she had planned to carry Clementine inside anyway.
“Her name is Clementine,” Kate said, crouching beside Julie.
“Little rabbit,” Julie said, reaching out one finger but not quite touching Clementine’s twitching nose. At the same time, she glanced nervously over her shoulder. “Don’t want to go in there.”
“In where?” Kate asked.
“Inside the house. Reminds me of Sam’s mom.”
“It’s good to remember people we loved,” Kate said.
“It was strange, very,” Julie said. “Don’t want to go in. I will stay with Clementine.”
“God, Julie,” Isabel said. “Don’t be so annoying! This is about Mrs. Lathrop. We’re thinking about her on her birthday.”
“I will stay with Clementine,” Julie said, scrambling into the car.
“Julie, get out here right now,” Scotty said.
Kate leaned past her, face to face with Julie. The girl who never looked her in the eye suddenly did.
“Are you afraid of something?” Kate asked.
“I don’t like pretend talk. To Sam’s mom.” Her eyes darted to Lulu, then to her mother.
“Did something happen?” Kate asked, alarmed by Julie’s panic. “That makes you feel this way?”
Julie put her hands over her ears. “Stop it, stop. Mommy, no one listening like before, no one listening. Just talk to air, talk-talk.” Again, she looked at Lulu—whether in fear or a sort of pleading for understanding, Kate was unsure.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Scotty said, hugging Julie, “everything is fine.”
“Hey, where’s Sam?” Isabel asked.
Everyone stood still and looked around. Sam wasn’t there.
55
Pete wanted to feel amused to call this home. It had belonged to the great Mathilda, but he was here now. He sat in the recliner he’d brought from Church Street, making himself at home. He ate a big handful of Georgia peanuts, his favorite kind, from a tin Beth had given him for his last birthday. And today was her birthday. It made him feel terrible. Melancholy didn’t cover it. He couldn’t even enjoy the satisfaction of being in Mathilda’s house.
Kate had forbidden him to stay here, and even Nicola wasn’t very welcoming. That was their problem. He closed his eyes, going over the details for the many-hundredth time, sure that if he could put the pieces together, he would be able to figure out what had happened. He grieved Beth, and screw anyone who thought otherwise. But the events of the year prior, all the fights with Beth and Nicola, could cause him trouble, make him look bad, if they were brought into the open. And he knew the detective still thought he did it.
His back had healed from the scratches, the bite. He hadn’t meant to scare Nicola so badly that day. It had been a week before Beth had died, and Pete had been totally sick of women—of being torn in half. It was a beautiful day in July. Tyler was fussy, didn’t want to take a nap, so they loaded him into the car, went for a ride.
They wound up in the state forest near a waterfall. Tyler had finally fallen asleep in his car seat. Pete and Nicola sat in the front, windows open, listening to birds and the sound of rushing water.
She started in—When are you leaving her? When can we be together?—and he snapped.
“What the hell do you even want with me?” he asked. “All you ever do is complain about what I’m not giving you.”
“Why don’t you realize that it’s what I want to give you that’s killing me?” she said. “Not being able to do everything I want to do for you, for Tyler . . .”
He shook his head. “I can’t even remember the last time you kissed me.”
She smiled. She leaned across the console and kissed him the way she used to, the way that used to make him go crazy. Then he felt her hand between his legs. Next thing, they were out of the car. He took off his shirt, laid it on the ground for a blanket, and they made love r
ight there in the open, not caring if anyone came along.
“Is that better?” she asked, smiling up at him.
“Yeah,” he said, rolling off her and smoothing her hair back from her face. She was so beautiful, young and bright eyed. If only they could go back to the way they’d been when they first started. “Can I ask you to be more patient?”
“I’m trying.”
“Doesn’t seem it,” he said. He hadn’t meant it to sound harsh, but she reacted as if he’d slapped her. Her face turned bright red, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Here they come. Here come the sobs, right on schedule.”
She pushed him away, hard, and tried to get up. He grabbed her wrist, yanked her down. Anger boiled inside him. She provoked him every chance she got.
“You know what I’m giving up for you?” he asked. “I have a wife, a daughter. Beth fucking told my mother about us—now I’m going to have to face that. For what? This? Someone who cries every time I open my mouth?”
She was weeping now. Sitting on his shirt, hands over her eyes. He had had enough. She wanted to walk away just now? He’d see how she liked it. He stood up, hurried toward the car. He’d leave her right where she was, let her walk down the road. He’d be waiting there, but just then he wanted to really show her what could happen if she kept this up.
“See you at home,” he said over his shoulder.
“Pete!” she cried.
Pete glanced in the back seat. Tyler was still sleeping.
“I’ll take good care of him,” Pete said, dangling the car keys. “Just think about the way you act, how you’re pushing me away. You’re the one destroying us.”
“Don’t leave,” she cried.
He opened the car door fast, wanting to speed away.
“Don’t you take my son!” she screamed, and he felt her on his back—clawing, biting him as if she were an animal. He yelled, trying to shake her off, but she held on tighter. It was as if every emotion in the universe filled him, turned her into a monster, tore around them like a tornado.