I washed my dishes and set them in the drainer to dry. The house seemed extraordinarily quiet after I’d been among family at my mother’s house. I’d stayed at Woodhurst Hall at Isa’s urging. I couldn’t have driven home anyway, not in the deluge.
With some dread, I’d made up the bed in the Oak Room, and Isa asked if she could sleep with me. We saged the room for good measure and then played a rousing game of gin to chase off any spirits. I was relieved to see that her confession had left no lingering stain on her mood—in fact, it seemed to have given light to some space in her heart.
Before we climbed into the bed together, I secretly placed a dinner plate full of dry rice on the bureau, because ghosts liked to count things, and rice was hard to count.
She fell asleep quickly. I did not. Nor did I find myself on edge, fretting about what I might feel or dream in this big, old, empty house. Lying there in the dark, smelling that sweet herbal scent of her hair, I was swamped with such love that I thought it might carry me away right there. It was as if life had saved a special, wild surprise for me late in life, the gift of a love so sweet and pure I hardly knew what to call it. I did not have to do anything for her, or shape her, or earn her love or even have her love. I was free to simply, wholly adore her, just as she was. I’d never experienced such an emotion in my life. Closing my eyes, I twined a lock of her hair around my finger and whispered, Thank you.
We slept well and deeply, my granddaughter and I.
Now tonight, I missed her. I worried about what kind of toll the assault would take on her over the course of her life, and I wanted to talk with Zoe, and perhaps Martin, about strategies to heal her as fully as possible.
Not that it was my place. But it was until Zoe knew.
Apart from my worry, I wanted to hear Isabel laughing again, and to show her more about tarot, which she was eager to learn. I wanted to know every thought in her brain. I wanted to avenge the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her so-called friends, but more, I wanted to teach her how not to mind, to live her own life and not carry shame like a cross on her back.
But to do it, I would have to make peace with Zoe.
Idly, I picked up the soft old tarot deck I’d not yet returned to my glove box and shuffled it. The cards knew her heart, or at least they could help me think of ways to soften her.
A moth fluttered hard around my head, startling me, and I dropped the cards with a little cry. They scattered across the floor, all facedown but two. The King of Pentacles and the Tower. I looked up at the moth fluttering about the kitchen, small and white. It alit on the windowsill and moved its wings, as if speaking to me; then it fluttered through the window and out into the garden.
I looked at the cards again. Who was the King of Pentacles, the powerful man behind all of this?
Chapter Forty-Two
Zoe
I was the first one awake Thursday morning. The view out my windows was gloomy, the sea a surly dark gray. The working fishing boats were already out, but I wondered about the yacht cruises. With so much going on, two deaths in a week, would they still go out?
I could see the festival grounds from my window, high on the opposite cliff, and it was plain that it was still on. It would open tonight with a big food festival. Booths and tents were being set up, and what looked like a carnival had moved in overnight, occupying a wide space nearby, by the woods.
Where we’d searched for Diana. Memory made my gut feel hollow. We hadn’t gotten very far last night in our quest to solve the murder, even with the expert Lillian and her clever, puzzle-piecing brain. We were all exhausted with emotion and events, and when it became clear we weren’t getting anywhere, we all went to bed. I’d asked Sage if he wanted to stay, but he’d had to get back to his animals.
As a farmer must.
In the stillness, I padded downstairs in the socks Sage had let me keep and put the kettle on. I’d tucked my art bag into a corner and now picked it up, thinking that maybe I’d be able to focus better if I drew for a while. As the tea brewed, I opened the bag and took out the Inktense pencils and a sketchbook.
Isabel had left a stack of her photos on the table, some of which we’d combed through last night, searching for possible clues, looking at photos and combing back through the spreadsheets. The vague figure in the background of Isabel’s photograph in the bluebell wood proved to be more frustrating than helpful, and even Lillian finally tossed it aside with a grunt. “Nothing to be seen here,” she said.
Now I looked at the other photos, the artistic group, of bluebells and the trees, and chose one to draw. Just below it were a few others I hadn’t seen last night, shots of the harbor and of a boat being loaded for a trip.
A man glared at the camera, and right below him was the name of the boat: Persephone.
Persephone.
Urgently, I looked for the ledger that Sage had brought from Diana’s house. Hadn’t the strange notations been for Perse? Could that have been an abbreviation for Persephone?
I texted Sage:
Did you take the ledger back?
Yes. Thought I’d go through it again. Problem?
No.
I stirred sugar in my tea and called him. “Hey,” I said. “This is easier.”
“Sure. What’s going on?”
I realized he probably had a million chores. “Are you busy? I just had a couple of thoughts about the clues.”
“I’m working but I’ve got headphones. Tell me.”
“Isabel has some photos here of a boat named Persephone. Maybe that’s the business we were wondering about.”
“Maybe.” He sounded hopeful, then made a noise I recognized as a dog command. Hoi! “The ledger is out here. I can bring it into town later.”
“Or I’ll drive out there,” I said before I realized how forward it sounded. And when did I care about being forward, anyway? What was this, 1962? Before he could respond, I said, “Or not. I’m just thinking aloud.”
“I’d be glad of the company. I’ve just been so bloody sad.”
“Me too.”
“I would cook you dinner if you came to get the ledger.”
I smiled. “I’ll bring bread.”
“Good.” He gave a long whistle. “Sorry, I have to go.”
“No worries.”
I sat down at the table, bringing my tea, a banana, and an enormous muffin. I drew the bluebell and its stem, and then, in small letters, I began writing in a spiral, starting at the bottom corner of the page and going around.
Dear Diana,
I just can’t seem to think clearly without being able to talk to you. I miss you, so much. I want to tell you everything. About Isabel and the way she’s blooming here and how hard it is to see my mother like this, just right there, like she’s just an ordinary person, which of course she is, but you know what I mean. But mostly I want to tell you about Sage, and how real this feels. Again. I wonder what you would say? Be careful? No, that’s not you at all. You’d say go for it, be happy, you’ve always loved him. OMG, how will I live without you?
Love,
Zoe
The words curled into the flower and turned into a bee with a little coaxing. For the first time, I realized, I hadn’t wept while I’d drawn it. The ache was there, deep and painful, but maybe I’d wept enough yesterday that I could function today. There was much to do.
One of the first things was to go to the website the constabulary had set up. We’d read through it last night, but I’d been so exhausted that not much had sunk in. This morning, fortified by strong tea and my substantial breakfast, I scrolled through the notes left by the community. Much of it was speculation—that her boyfriend had killed her, that the “Londoners” flooding the town all summer must be the responsible parties, that drugs were obviously involved. As ever, the rhetoric took a xenophobic tone, blaming everyone for mysterious things.
Impatient, I clicked off. This was not going to solve the problem. But maybe going back to Diana’s house would. What had she been hi
ding?
I left a note for Isabel, letting her know I’d be back later and to stay in touch. The nurse had settled into the apartment just off the kitchen, so no matter how Gran woke up, stable or unstable, she’d be covered. Last night she’d been sharper than ever, so I hoped it would be the same today.
I headed for Diana’s house, wondering if it would be closed off now that she’d been found, but it looked exactly the same. If it had been named a crime scene, I didn’t see any sign of it, and if anyone came, I’d just say I was looking for her will. I let myself in the back door, only realizing as I did so that it was going to be very different this time. It would probably count as evidence tampering at this point. I’d just feign ignorance.
But also, I now knew that she was dead. Knew that she would never be coming back here. Emotion rose in my throat, but I swallowed it back down. She deserved justice, and maybe I could help get that for her.
I took my time, going through her bedroom carefully, looking in all the drawers all the way to the bottom for something hidden. I found racy lingerie and some sex toys that made me laugh, but nothing else. I didn’t know what I expected. Notes on what she’d been thinking? A journal? A will?
Nothing like that turned up. Not in the bedroom or the kitchen or the desk in the living room. Flummoxed, I was about to leave when I remembered an old show we’d seen about how to keep things safe from thieves. One place we’d both thought brilliant was the freezer.
I hesitated. By now everything in the refrigerator would’ve been spoiled, and I fancied I could even smell rotten food, but the freezer would be fine. I opened it to find the usual things—frozen peas and single-serving meals and ice cream. Boxes of frozen vegetables. Carrots, potatoes, okra.
I paused. Okra? She hated it, in every variety. I pulled the box out and opened it. Behind a thin layer of freezer-burned vegetables was an envelope. I shook the veggies into the sink and extracted the envelope.
It was money. A thick stack of £50 notes. Good God. I opened the freezer again and started checking all the boxes. Every single box and bag contained more notes, thousands and thousands of pounds. For long agonized moments, I had no idea what I should do with it. Tell the constable? Put it back? Stash it somewhere safe?
What I was afraid of was that it might mean she’d been mixed up in something criminal. Why hide bills? It wasn’t the way you saved carefully. And it was certainly not what the fastidious Diana would have done. She saved in high-interest accounts.
In the end, I went upstairs to get a bag from her bedroom and started stuffing the money into it. I was almost finished when I heard someone at the front door.
My heart slammed into my ribs, and I grabbed the bag and dashed to stand against the wall of the kitchen, a place I knew would be out of the line of sight. Whoever it was knocked, waited, knocked again.
Holding the money made me feel guilty. I couldn’t quite catch my breath, and when they rattled the door handle, I slid down the wall and tried to make my body very small. What if they came to the back door?
I jumped up, staying low, and locked the back door, then hid against the wall, keeping my body crouched, the bag in my hands. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the back door rattled and someone called out, “Hello?” A man with an accent that was not Devonshire.
It suddenly occurred to me that whoever had killed her already knew she was dead and they were coming to find something, just as I was. The sound of my amped-up heart filled my ears, and I tried to think what I would do if they broke in the back, but I heard someone shouting. “Hey, you, what are you doing? That woman is dead! Have some respect!”
Whoever it was abandoned their quest. Afraid the neighbor might call the police, I ran to the front door and slipped out, hoping no one saw me. I walked as naturally as possible, then ran to my car in the Tesco lot and drove home as quickly as I could.
Chapter Forty-Three
Isabel
I was supposed to talk to Dr. Kerry this morning, but I didn’t think I could do it and hide the truth from her, so I pretended I forgot. She pinged my cell phone, but I’ll say I was in the shower. Or sleeping. Or something.
I feel guilty that I told Poppy about the stuff with Katrina and Madison and I haven’t told my mom. Poppy—I still don’t really know what to call her, and everybody else calls her Poppy—is really easy to talk to, and you just get the feeling that she’s not judgmental at all. Like she’s lived this crazy life and she’s done a bunch of things wrong and would get it if you screwed up.
Which makes it sound like my mom is judgy, and she’s not. Well, she is, kinda, about her mom, but they have some stuff between them I can’t quite figure out. Like, my grandmother left her, but now she’s back.
And my grandmother is the person everybody really loves. She’s kind. She listens. She has this way about her that just makes it easy to be yourself. I want to tell my mom that, but she hates Poppy. Hates her.
But how would I feel if my mom had left me when I was seven? It makes my stomach hurt to even think about it. We are really, really close. Like, I can’t stand it when she’s disappointed in me, but living in the modern world isn’t that easy, and I sometimes just want to fit in, so a little partying doesn’t seem that bad, and I don’t want her to know about it.
So why can’t I tell her about the pictures?
It just makes me want to cry to think about it. I think about the words they wrote on me, stupid things, mostly, but in very personal places, and they were looking at my private, personal body when they did it, all of them, invading my privacy in such a bad way . . . and I just can’t. Not yet.
But if she finds out I told her mom first, she’s going to be furious.
Anyway, I’m going out tonight with Molly and Isaac and some of the other people. We’re going to the festival, which tonight is mainly about the carnival and the foodie stuff, not the art yet. But tomorrow I’m totally going to look at all the photos and think about how I’ll do that someday maybe.
In the meantime, I need to write a little bit more on the fairy story.
Chapter Forty-Four
Zoe
I drove to the farm in the late afternoon, armed with a fresh loaf of bread that filled the car with a mouthwatering aroma and the bagful of cash I’d taken from the freezer. I’d been jumpy all afternoon, second-guessing myself and wondering what the hell I was doing.
Gran and Isabel spent the rainy afternoon making collages with her photos and a stack of magazines Isabel had found somewhere. I offered my art supplies to give them more to work with, and they cooed like doves. Isabel told me that she planned to go to the festival if it stopped raining. I told her to text me when she left and to stay in touch.
“Mom. I’m fine,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I know.” I kissed her head. She seemed a hundred times better in just a week’s time. For a moment, I paused, wondering if she’d just swept her pain under a rug and if, in bringing her here, I was letting her run away.
“Really,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“Be home by nine thirty.”
“Fine.”
I checked in with Margaret, the nurse, on my way out. She said she’d be sure to be in the room with Gran or check on her regularly until I returned, just to be safe. “But she’s having a good day. You needn’t worry.”
I wanted to say My oldest friend was just murdered. I’m worried about everything, but I didn’t. “Thanks. You have my mobile if you need me.”
The farm was only ten minutes out of town, but down looping lanes that moved you from the civilized, village- and town-centered coast to the open expanse of fields and livestock. As I drove, I felt my anxiety sliding away, letting my shoulders ease away from my ears, my heart slowing to a more normal rhythm.
When I pulled into the drive, Sage came out, still wearing his muddy wellies, and Matt came running down the hill. It was so much like the day I’d first come here again when I was fifteen that I wanted to get out and run over to give him a hug.
>
I was too shy. “Hi.”
He kicked one foot out in front of him, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Hello.” He inclined his head “Are you getting shy on me again, Zoe Fairchild?”
“Maybe?”
He left his spot and came toward me. “Where’s the shameless girl who leapt out of her grandmother’s car and flung herself into my arms, eh?”
“I just thought about that!”
He opened his arms. “Give her a try.”
So I did. I felt silly and then I didn’t, because when I launched myself, he caught me, and it was exactly right. He smelled exactly right. He felt exactly right, and when he spun me around, it put the world exactly right. “Come on in,” he said. “I’ve got supper in the oven.”
“I brought bread. And something to show you.”
He kissed me, then pressed his forehead against mine. “My heart is so heavy.”
“Mine too.”
We took comfort in each other, in the quiet of the land. When Matt came over and leaned against us, we laughed softly. “Good dog,” I said, reaching for his ears.
We went inside to feast on baked pasta with cheese and a rich tomato sauce along with the crusty bread I’d brought with me. Sage lit candles and poured big glasses of milk. “You can bring wine if you like. It doesn’t bother me.”
He’d never been a drinker. “I don’t care that much.” The milk was cold and refreshing, and it gave me the courage to say, “I went to Diana’s house today. I found something strange.”
“Yeah?”
My phone stuttered a text alert. “Sorry. Isabel is under orders to text me.”
On my way to the Festival
Ok. Be safe! Home by nine thirty.
I know!
The Lost Girls of Devon Page 28