AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARD

by Gloria Dank

  “I’ll wake him up in a little while and help him to bed. It’s peaceful here, Snooky.” Maya stretched out her long legs onto the coffee table, and dabbled a finger in her cup of hot chocolate. “Very peaceful. You know how to create an environment.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You should be a host more often, instead of a guest. Your considerable talents are wasted as a guest.”

  “No, Maya. No. I fear that you are wrong. I am also the perfect guest. Anyone who can stay with Bernard for more than two days has to be the perfect guest, someone highly skilled in the art of imposing on people.”

  “You are that.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the middle of the night, Bernard sat up with a start. Where was he? Oh … right. He had somehow, in a befuddled daze of sleep, managed to throw off his clothes and climb into bed. He remembered getting up off the couch at Maya’s urging and staggering toward the bedroom. After that, oblivion had come quickly.

  His mind was racing. He pulled up the pillows, hunching them behind his head. Yes … yes … that was it, all right. He had it!

  His heart began to beat loudly, so loudly that he thought Maya could hear it and would awaken and tell him to go back to sleep. He could see the outline of her cheek in the moonlight, her dark hair falling over her face, her chest slowly rising and falling to her peaceful breathing. She did not seem aware of his heart. She was buried in her dreams. After a moment, he moved aside the thick covers and got stealthily out of bed.

  He put on slippers and a robe and, closing his bedroom door silently behind him, padded down the hallway to Snooky’s room. The fire had burned low and the cabin was freezing. He shivered miserably in his thin robe. Opening Snooky’s door, he crept inside.

  Snooky’s window was wide open, the curtains flung back to let in the pale blue streaks of moonlight. The room was at least thirty degrees colder than the rest of the cabin. Snooky was sprawled across the bed, his head hanging off the side, one arm flung over the edge, the covers mangled in a pile on top of him. He had a pillow scrunched over his face and another one behind his back. He barely seemed to be breathing. Bernard minced unhappily across the cold floor. He shook his brother-in-law’s arm.

  “Snooky—Snooky!”

  Nothing happened. Snooky’s chest, Bernard noticed in a detached manner, was fluttering gently up and down. He seemed to be comfortable in this unorthodox sleeping position. The moonlight streamed in, outlining his rangy form under the pile of twisted blankets.

  Bernard wobbled his arm again. “Snooky!”

  The pillows moved, the blankets moved, and the arm moved. The pillow slipped aside, and an eye regarded him reproachfully from near the floor.

  “Bernard?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m asleep. I assume you didn’t notice?”

  “I have to talk to you, Snooky.”

  “Talk to me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  The eye regarded him more reproachfully than ever. Snooky heaved himself up on the bed, switched on the bedside light, grabbed the pillows and adjusted them behind him.

  “Of course,” he said. “Sit down. Please. So you have to talk to me now? God knows you never want to say a word to me when the sun is up. Have a seat.”

  Bernard sat down on the edge of the bed. “I have to talk to you,” he repeated woodenly.

  “Of course you do. It’s—” Snooky checked the clock on the stand by his bed, “it’s four o’clock in the morning. I’m pleased, actually. I was hoping someone would come and engage me in conversation right around now.”

  “It’s about Bobby’s murder.”

  Snooky’s eyes narrowed with interest. “Yes?”

  “I don’t know who killed him.”

  “Neither do I. Thank you for waking me up to tell me that.”

  “But I think I know how to find out.”

  “How?”

  Bernard told him.

  In the darkness, Snooky’s face shone with a ghostly pattern of light and shadows, like a clown’s face inexpertly applied. “You’re right,” he said slowly. “You’re absolutely right. That’s what she was hinting about. Damn it. Why didn’t I see that?”

  “You’ve had a few other things on your mind.”

  “We’ll have to go over to Hugo’s Folly first thing in the morning. I’ll find out when Sarah’s not going to be there.”

  “Good. Are the police still sniffing around at the Folly?”

  “Not that I know of. Bentley has talked to everyone several times, and he doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere. This case has him confused.”

  “It has everybody confused. One more question, Snooky. Why is your window wide open?”

  “Fresh air,” said Snooky. “Fresh air, Bernard. Wild air. Raw, natural air. Air as it was meant to be. It’s good for you.”

  “I see. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  After Bernard had left, shuffling away on frozen feet, Snooky switched off the light and sat for a long time looking out the window. The moon had sunk low and could be clearly seen, its brilliant white orb surrounded by witch’s clouds. A branch from the great oak tree outside the cabin scratched forlornly on the glass, making a distant creaking sound, like someone trying to communicate in an alien language. Usually Snooky found the oak tree’s speech reassuring, but now it seemed vaguely ominous. He felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. He knew himself well enough to know that sleep would be elusive for the rest of the night. He threw aside the covers and went barefoot out to the kitchen, where he made himself a cup of boiling hot milk and honey. Carrying it back to his room, he climbed into bed and huddled comfortably underneath the quilt, cradling the mug in his hands and breathing in the sweet hot vapor gratefully. His mind was racing. Sarah … Gertie … he hoped very much that Bobby’s murderer would turn out to be Gertie, as she was dead already and the knowledge could not touch her. Roger … Dwayne … well, perhaps it was Roger, with his gun and his hunting habits. Although God knows Sarah had said he couldn’t hit an elephant at a distance of three paces. Apparently he never hit anything. He just talked a big show.

  Snooky sighed, his head drooping. The milk drink made a warm soft spot in his stomach. He lay down, burying his head under the pillows. Fifteen minutes later he was sound asleep, sprawled in his favorite position crossways on the bed, the blankets twisted around his legs.

  ———

  The next morning, Snooky’s little red car crunched up the long gravel driveway to the Folly. Snooky and Bernard got out.

  “You’re sure Sarah’s not here?”

  “Positive. She said she’d be out all morning.”

  Snooky opened the door, which was, as always, unlocked. They went into the foyer, where the mirrors and brightly polished gewgaws winkled solemnly at them. He led the way upstairs and down the long hallway to Gertie’s bedroom.

  The room was as neat and clean, as rigidly organized, as it had been when its denizen was alive. Gertie had been scrupulous about keeping her nest clean. There was a small bed with brass knobs on the corners, one narrow window, a long wall taken up entirely by bookshelves, and an antique desk, piled high with papers and books. Gertie’s collection of woodland specimens was proudly displayed on several shelves, the trophies of thirty years of forest scavenging. Snooky moved over to the bookcase. Nearly all the books were nature directories and encyclopedias, thick red books with titles like Wildlife of North America and Wildflowers of New England. They were arranged, with Gertie’s meticulous sense of order, by subject and by size. On another shelf were several rows of paperback books, again organized by size. Bernard knelt down to look through them. They were mainly children’s books having to do with animals. He saw The Rescuers and The Wind in the Willows, as well as a well-thumbed copy of Black Beauty. This was Gertie’s leisure reading. Something about it touched him: the image of
Gertie sitting alone in her dark room, rereading Black Beauty for the hundredth time. Gertie had had an inner sensibility, he thought, of which most people were unaware. Who knows what fantasies she had constructed around her life and these books.

  “Over here.” Snooky was looking at the row of notebooks that marched in hairline precision along the length of a shelf. “Gertie’s journals.” He took one out at random. The thick looseleaf paper was yellowed with age. “August 4, 1972,” he read out loud. “Found an excellent example of the yellow monkey flower (Mimulus guttatus) in the woods behind the Folly. Note smooth stem and yellow flowers with closed throats. Sample enclosed.” Glued to the page was a brown, dried-out flower. “Saw two raccoons, a hermit thrush and an ovenbird today. Fed the squirrels. There is a family of rabbits in the old burrow near the road. One of them came out and looked at me.”

  He closed the journal, put it back on the shelf, and drew out another one.

  “Found a patch of shinleaf (Pyrola elliptica) today. Note greenish-white, waxy flower and reddish stalk.”

  “Fascinating,” said Bernard.

  “The most recent one must be at this end,” said Snooky. He took it out and thumbed through it. “June … July … August … September … nope, this one ends a couple of months ago. ‘September 30th—smooth aster (Aster laevis)—beautiful sample—note lavender-blue flowers.’ That’s the last entry. There must be one more journal—the one she was working on when she died.”

  “Look through her desk.”

  They moved over to the desk, switched on the green accountant’s lamp and began to go through the papers. There were specimens, bits of bark, feathers, leaves, all neatly wrapped in tiny plastic bags and labeled; there were piles of paper with drawings of plants and animals on them in Gertie’s tiny, meticulous hand; there was an Encyclopedia of the Flora and Fauna of the United States, a thick burgundy-colored book with tissue-thin pages; and there was an assortment of pens, pencils, colored pencils and Magic Markers, all scattered about in confusion. However, there was no journal to be seen. Snooky went through the drawers, one by one. “No. It’s not there. Where could she have left it?”

  “She was working on it at the time,” said Bernard. “Maybe it got reshelved in the wrong place by mistake.”

  They began to go through the journals one by one, opening the pages gingerly, glancing through them for dates.

  “1971,” said Snooky. “1972. 1973.”

  “1974, 1975, 1976,” said Bernard.

  “1977, 1978.”

  “September ’79 to November ’80.”

  “December ’81 to August ’82. Wait a minute.” A small yellow piece of paper, folded tightly and wedged between the pages of the journal, had fluttered out when Snooky opened it. “What’s this?”

  He took it over to the desk and smoothed it out. At the top was printed simply:

  MY WILL

  I, Gertrude H. Ditmar, do hereby leave all my possessions in the world, including my books, papers, nature journals and whatever share of this house I may own, to the Conservation Society of North America, to be used however they see fit.

  It was signed and dated in a flourished script, curiously different from the meticulous writing Gertie used for her scientific observations. It had been witnessed by Irma Ditmar and somebody else whose signature Snooky did not recognize. He glanced up at Bernard. “So now we know how she left it.”

  “Yes. Keep on looking.”

  They went through all the journals on the shelf one by one. There were more than forty. At the end, Bernard glanced around the room with a puzzled frown. “Where else could it be?” He moved along the bookcase, running his hand meditatively along the shelves. “Let me see …,” he murmured. “Let me see … no. Where else? How about … aah!”

  He moved over to the bed, its brass knobs gleaming faintly in the lamplight, and opened the drawer of the rickety wooden bedside table. “Here it is.” He took out a large looseleaf notebook. “She must have worked on it in bed before she went to sleep. Let’s see now. October fourth … October tenth … hmmm … ‘saw a ruffed grouse in the woods on the outskirts of town’ … hmmm … November second … here we are. What day was Bobby killed?”

  “I don’t know. Was it the tenth?”

  “Yes. November tenth.” Bernard fell silent, absorbed in the pages of the journal.

  “Well?” demanded Snooky. “What does it say?”

  There was a long silence. Snooky began to feel very cold; a strange creeping kind of coldness, a bitter anticipation. “Well?”

  Finally Bernard said slowly, “I don’t think we have to worry about any more murders.”

  “Why? You mean … you mean, now that Gertie’s dead?”

  “No,” said Bernard. “I mean now that Irma’s dead.”

  He turned the page around so Snooky could read. There, in Gertie’s tiny hand, was the following simple entry:

  November 10th—was following a rose-breasted grosbeak with my binoculars in the woods on the edge of town this afternoon when I saw Irma shoot Bobby Fuller in the head. She stood over him for a while, then took the gun and left. It was snowing. I imagine he’ll be covered up by now. Good riddance.

  And then, at the bottom of the page, almost as an afterthought, Gertie had scrawled,

  “I wonder why she did it?”

  10

  “She did it,” said Sarah, “because he told her he was breaking the engagement and leaving her for his girlfriend.”

  “You knew all along,” said Snooky. He and Bernard had come downstairs to find Sarah in the hallway, looking at them in surprise. They had led her into the living room, where Snooky had showed her the journal entry. Sarah read it without emotion.

  Now she shook her head. “No. She told me at the end, in the hospital. She knew she was dying. She had one lucid period while I was sitting with her. Can you blame her for wanting to tell somebody? She said she couldn’t live with what she had done. That’s why she took those pills. She said he was the only man she had ever loved … more than she had loved Hugo, even.”

  Snooky sat her down firmly on a plush green Victorian divan, and drew up a chair next to her. “What did she say?”

  Sarah twiddled unhappily with her hair. “It was late one night, in the hospital. She woke up and started to talk. I don’t know if she knew it was me sitting there, or a nurse, or Gertie. It didn’t seem to matter. She rambled on for over an hour, but what I gathered was that right after they announced their engagement, Bobby told her he was leaving her for this other woman, I don’t know her name. Irma took it pretty calmly but arranged to meet him for a final talk the next day, in the woods on the edge of town. She went to Roger’s house that morning at a time when she knew he would be out and Dwayne would be downstairs in his darkroom. She knew where the gun was kept, of course. Roger had taught her to handle it years before, and she had picked it up quickly—a little too quickly for his comfort, actually. She took the gun from the closet, loaded it, and left in the car to meet Bobby. I don’t know how she explained the gun—I guess she said she was going to try her hand at a little hunting—but they talked it over, and she couldn’t convince him to stay with her. He said he was in love with someone else. Well, Irma went a little crazy. She said she felt dizzy and sat down, and when he turned away for a minute, she took the gun and shot him. She stood there for a while over his body, and then left and got in her car and came home. She said she didn’t know what happened to the gun; she must have thrown it down on the way to the car. She had been careful to wear gloves when she handled the gun, so there were no fingerprints. With the snow and everything, when the police found the body the next day, there was no evidence that anyone else had been with him.”

  “And certainly nobody would think of her in connection with his death,” said Snooky.

  “No. Even though she admitted she had been out that day. She told the police she had gone shopping. And she did do some shopping, on the way home from the woods. She went into Harry’s and bought some gre
en beans, and got some chicken from the supermarket and some bread from the bakery. Then she came home and helped me make dinner. She said her mind was working very clearly by then, and she saw how important it was that she act normally. So she and Gertie and I had dinner, and she went to bed early. I never knew a thing.”

  “And when the news came about Bobby—”

  “Well, that’s when she had her collapse. Up until then, I think she was denying what she had done. And I don’t think she had realized beforehand that the rest of the family would be under suspicion. That’s why she held to the idea of a hunting accident. She realized very early on that nobody suspected her, that nobody even knew about the secret girlfriend, that the girlfriend hadn’t gone to the police with her story, and that she’d have to do something to protect the rest of us.”

  “But Gertie knew.”

  Sarah nodded. “Gertie knew.” She motioned toward the journal. “Gertie saw it happen. Gertie and her trusty binoculars.”

  “Do you think Roger and Dwayne have figured it out?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t know until Irma told me herself, and it would be impossible for either of them to think that she did it. It was so out of character for her. A crime of passion.” Sarah smiled faintly. “You don’t think of a woman of nearly seventy as committing a crime of passion, but that’s what it was. She said that when Bobby told her he was leaving her, she got so angry that all she wanted to do was kill him.”

  “And she did.”

  “Yes. She did.” Sarah paused. “After that, she had her good days and her bad days, but she never really got over the shock. Some days she said she could put it out of her mind and think of it as a hunting accident, a terrible tragic accident that could have happened to anybody. But some days she couldn’t. And so on one of those days she took an overdose of medication. It was there by her bed, and she said she had been thinking about it for a long time.”

  Bernard nodded. “The police will have to be told.”

  “You tell them, then. I’m not having any more to do with that detective.”