by Shelly Frome
“Her?”
“Pru, as in Harriet, Silas, and Pru. Okay?”
“Now what do you want to do that for?”
“Because she’s just lost her stepsister. Because I don’t really want to go into it now, if you don’t mind.”
Like Babs, Will was completely thrown by the news about Harriet.
“It’s too complicated, Will, and I don’t have all the details.”
Will started to speak, apparently thought better of it, and then came out with, “And I suppose you know that this Doc character called me not more than an hour ago and is driving up, on his way over here. He got the idea from Babs that you’re still at it and is coming after you.”
“Is that what he said?”
“In so many words. I thought you were trying to stay clear of him.”
“That’s right,” said Emily, checking her watch while Will cut the large avocado in half and removed the pit.
Working some romaine lettuce into the mix, Will said, “If you’ve heard anything I’ve said, if you have any idea about the implications—I mean all of it, what happened to Chris and now this stepsister Harriet . . .”
“I’m going to talk to Pru, Will. Help her with the garden. I’m going to leave Doc and everything else aside, that’s it.”
Will scattered lettuce and coconut on two platters, absentmindedly added the other ingredients, and drizzled lemon and lime over the concoction. Setting the plates down on the table, handing Emily her ice tea, and plunking down his usual frosty Corona, Will sat opposite her. Neither of them spoke or began to eat until Will said, “So please, can we work this out?”
Emily started picking at the salad. The truth was, she was beginning to like the idea of Will close by on her side and, in some way, even Babs. It certainly couldn’t hurt.
After sipping her iced tea, telling Will what a great salad he’d made, Emily rose up, pushed back her chair, and said, “Okay, I’ll take it under advisement.”
“Hold on,” he said. “You’re really only going to talk to Pru?”
“Garden and chat, Will. In broad daylight, out in the open, under the clear blue sky.”
“Just you and—”
“This little bitty woman who I had in grade school. Who I’ve gotten to know better, who’s afraid of big dogs and Dartmoor ponies and her own shadow.”
“For how long? And when exactly?”
She checked her watch again. She needed to leave enough time to get back in touch with Maud, drive down the short distance to the Curtis house, set it up, and get some answers.
“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes from now to no later than four-fifteen.”
Will got up from the table, went outside, induced Oliver to flop back down, and stood there. Abruptly returning to the kitchen, he said, “A compromise, okay?”
Retrieving the silver whistle on the rawhide loop, Will admitted the training session wasn’t just a ruse. After Babs called and told him she’d be by to waylay Doc while Emily was beyond the high meadow over at the Curtis place, Will had his suspicions. Worried that Doc wouldn’t make it to the B&B and just come after Emily.
“All right,” said Will. “Now that we got it set that Oliver will obey the whistle, this is what we’ll do. Since I’ve got to go to the bank anyway, I’ll drive up around three-twenty, way before the lobby closes, and when the bank is least busy. I’ll park my truck in front of the Curtises’ side yard, leave the tailgate down, walk the few yards and ask Chuck, the security guard, to do me a little favor and keep an eye out.”
“Are you serious?” said Emily.
“Well, believe it or not, I’ve already given it a trial run.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“No, listen to me. This way, Oliver will be at your beck and call, sitting up at the rail of the open truck bed, watching people and cars go by. Any sign of trouble, all you got to do is blow the whistle. As soon as Chuck spots Oliver bounding off, he’ll alert me, and I’ll come around to check if you’re okay.”
Responding to the exasperated look Emily was giving him, Will added, “All I’m talking about is covering a five-minute gap in case Doc drives in early and happens to see you out there. No pressure on my part, no keeping tabs on you or crowding you, just a precaution. Seeing how I have to go to the bank anyway, heard about him being on his way, thought about him coming after you in England. And now, especially after this news about Harriet.”
“Will, this is so stupid.”
“Fine, it’s stupid. Take the whistle anyway. Meet me at the bank, we’ll intercept Babs and maybe all three of us will go after Doc with the burlap sack and have it out. I just want to end this thing.”
When Emily still didn’t answer, he said, “The long and short of it is, I don’t trust any of it. No whistle blown, no problem. But if anything’s wrong, if Oliver springs up, if Chuck or I spot him taking off . . .”
Feeling a bit lightheaded, Emily hesitated. At the same time, she wanted Will in reserve.
“Fine,” she said. “Okay, you win.” She snatched the whistle out of his hand and hurried out the kitchen door, startling Oliver. She headed straight for the cottage and waited impatiently inside for Maud to ring her back.
After making sure the items in the Harrods bag were in the exact order and checking back with Babs to make sure they were still on and she’d occupy Doc for a while, Emily was about to slip on her running jacket when the phone rang.
After Maud’s comments about “possible dodgy evidence,” Emily admitted that she had no idea how she was going to use this new information, let alone pry out the whole scenario. Especially in light of her fishing expedition with Miranda Shaw that turned into such a farce.
All the same, she eased Maud off the line. Yes, she would let her know soon as it was sorted.
For her part, if it came to anything, Maud promised to relay Emily’s findings to Hobbs. “Let him deal with all and sundry at this end and, I shouldn’t wonder, find his cheeky self back in the constabulary’s good graces.”
Emily hung up the receiver. With that item taken care of, she patted the open mesh-pocket of her running jacket to make doubly sure she had everything, snatched up the Harrods shopping bag, and slipped out the door. The wired feeling that accompanied the pulsing on-again, off-again jet lag raised her adrenalin level higher, knowing once she started pressing for an advantage, she’d lock into the ebb and flow and damn well keep the ball in play.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“It’s so-o-o unfair,” Pru called out from the opposite side of the rose arbor, reaching up with the long-handled shears and snipping at a vine. “Look at this. Where does it begin? Where does it end?”
Still looking for a way to get Pru’s attention, Emily kept on working. She raised her spade, chopped off more woody tendrils of bittersweet, grabbed an armful of the invasive vine, and added it to the pile in the wheelbarrow
Dropping her shears, Pru moved along the trail of cocoa mulch she’d tossed under the scraggly line of laurel bushes, rhododendron, and lilac until she disappeared behind the rambling house. Like a child, she did an about-face and marched back, past the rose arbor, phlox, cosmos, and zinnias. She skirted by Emily, all the way to the swath between the red flags leading up the slope to the tree line and the high meadow.
Calling out again, Pru said, “We might have to start from up there in the trees, work all the way back down, and still never stop it. Still never keep the bittersweet from crawling everywhere and taking over.”
It was yet another gross exaggeration. The swath consisted of overgrown grass and weeds. There was not a bittersweet vine in sight. But Pru being Pru had to make it into much more than it was, deflecting, avoiding anything too real for as long as possible. Even the terrible thing that happened to Harriet. Making Emily’s objective here that much more difficult.
Another about-face, and Pru marched right back down the swath between the red flags, brushing by Emily again, up to the rose arbor, and pointed all around. “Clip an
d chop away and still never keep it from climbing up and choking the Don Juan roses and the honeysuckles. So unfair.”
Emily couldn’t help wondering how Pru was able to keep this up unless she’d really distanced herself from reality this time and was that far gone.
Another wave of fatigue came on. As it passed, Emily figured now was as good a time as any if there was any hope of getting Pru’s attention. She pretended to tighten the laces of her running shoes, slipped her hand inside the open-mesh pocket of her jacket, and called back.
“Speaking of things being unfair, nothing is actually fair if you think about it.”
Pru thought for a moment and said, “I suppose.”
Taking that as a sign that Pru was back in the here and now, Emily said, “Like all that preparation you did. And coming up with a posh English accent to a T.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You know. That warm-up you did for the village kids at the Twinning.”
“Oh? What about it?”
Emily stood up and moved closer. “How you had them going with that posh accent. Just as good as Miranda Shaw’s.”
“Did I tell you that?”
“More or less.”
“No, I didn’t. I did not say that.”
Turning her curly head, Pru engaged Emily directly this time. “But it is true how good I can be. If it hadn’t been for Harriet slipping and falling like that, I could’ve gone back to those kids and really pulled it off.”
“All that bad luck,” said Emily, pressing a bit more, underscoring her words. “What happened to Harriet and right before that, you being chased and getting lost. Unbelievable.”
“Yes. Not just getting lost but wandering aimlessly in the mist and fog and cold. That was really something.”
Pru reached into her apron, pulled out some pruning clippers, shuffled by the near side of the arbor, and began deadheading sprays of Shasta daisies growing wild behind the zinnias. She looked over at Emily, shoved the clippers back into her apron pocket and said in that singsong voice of hers, “What do you mean, Emily? What are you getting at?”
Feeling her anger slipping in, Emily had to remind herself it would do no good to snap at Pru. She also reminded herself that chatter was worthless. Only strong indications of probable cause would do. She’d gleaned that much from Dave Roberts.
Easing off, Emily said, “I mean, it’s still such a muddle. And the jet lag doesn’t help.”
“What’s a muddle?”
Taking her time, Emily resumed her spade work. She moved past the arbor and chopped what was left of the bittersweet around the low-lying beds of creeping myrtle and said, “Well, you’ve got this posh English accent. Posh and sleepy like Miranda’s. You know, perfect for Sleepy Hollow.”
“Oh,” said Pru, back to her singsong. “Now I get it—sleepy, like the Sleepy Hollow story. But did I really say that? And what do you mean about being chased?”
“You said you were being chased and ran off into the moor. Tom, the cart driver, told me.”
Pru pivoted under the glinting afternoon sun as though unsure of where she was. Then she peered at the long side of the clapboard colonial as it led her gaze all the way out to North Street and the passing cars. She kept looking in that direction as if she might have heard something, perhaps out there on the main drag or close by behind a window. Then she pivoted again and peered behind her house where she’d tossed the cocoa mulch.
“Remember how things were, Emily?” said Pru, tracing an imaginary line from the far corner. “First the lilacs in bloom, followed by the rhododendrons and the laurels. Like a wave. The rambling roses cascading over the arbor next as the annuals joined in, marching like a colorful parade.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Pru rubbed her eyes and said, “Whew, I’m just like you, I guess. Haven’t gotten over the jet lag. Been back a few days and I’m still trying to get reacclimated. My body tells me it’s after eight, time to start thinking about turning in, as if it was cool and dark. But it’s only after three, isn’t it? On a beautiful, clear afternoon. Right back here in the old home place where I belong. So-o-o different.”
“Totally different.”
“And it’s getting hot and sweaty. How can you keep that running jacket on?”
“No problem, it’s un-zipped. Besides, it has a wicking feature.”
“Oh, what will they come up with next? Amazing how you can always find ways to . . . to . . .”
But Pru didn’t finish the thought. The way Pru was drifting in and out, she was liable to wander off back inside the house and that would be that.
In motion again, Emily piled up the bittersweet, grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow, made another trip to the rear of the arbor, and dumped the snake-like clumps. Then she decided she couldn’t hold back, couldn’t keep toying with Pru a moment longer.
She went to the spot behind the compost pile where she’d stashed the Harrods shopping bag. There, for the first time, she noticed a low wire fence running the entire length of the back area, marking off the old vegetable garden. Why she noticed the wire fence and what it might mean was beyond her, and she let it go.
With the file of wooden stakes, overarching annuals, and the bird feeder for cover, she pushed the wheelbarrow up to the back of the arbor, left it there, stepped inside, and started to rummage through the contents of the bag.
Taking the bait, Pru entered the arbor and joined her.
“What are you doing? And where did that bag come from? I thought we were going to conquer the bittersweet?”
“I know. But as I was saying, I can’t stop wondering about things. I’ve been helping you and now, if you can keep your mind on it, perhaps you can help me.”
Pru stared at the bag with the Harrods logo as though unsure of where she was again.
Pressing much harder this time, Emily said, “It’s the logic of it all. Things just don’t fit. And it’s not as if I can pretend like you. I need to make some sense out of it and then check it out with Hobbs.”
“Hobbs?”
“The constable, the one Harriet was so anxious to meet.”
“Running away from, you mean. You saw her. Running off, like she ran off from here and left us in the lurch.”
“You see?” said Emily, “that’s one of the problems. Hobbs came down from the pub at noon. Before that, Harriet kept looking up the High Street. She was looking up the High Street when the flower ladies ushered her back to her post. She must have tried again but somehow wound up at the castle ruins. She wouldn’t keep going up that way unless she was trying to get to Hobbs. Or at least get to a phone like those other times.”
“What other times?”
“You know what other times. Like when she was so antsy in the car to get off the motorway, supposedly for a cream tea. And, speaking of running away, let’s get back to you being chased by Doc or Cyril.”
“Who?”
“Stick with it, Pru. Why didn’t you have Tom drop you off at the pub so you could get hold of Hobbs or tell Maud or somebody, instead of running off? You see what I mean? It doesn’t fit.”
As a ploy, Emily glanced out past Pru. “Oh well, I guess I’ll have to make a long-distance call to Hobbs, run the discrepancies by him along with these other things.”
Tugging at Emily’s sleeve, pulling her back deeper inside the shade of the arbor, Pru said, “What other things? What has gotten into you all of a sudden? And what does this silly bag have to do with it?”
Emily reached inside and pulled out the crinkled papers and computer printouts. “This bag, as it happens, contains what I’ve compiled. And the more you think about it, the more curious it gets.”
“How come? And where did this come from?”
“Constance handed it to me as I was leaving. Since it was shoved behind a dustbin, you must’ve thought it would be thrown out. But that’s not the way Trevor operates. He’ll sweep up as far as any undesirable people are concerned. But he’s not g
oing to dirty his hands with leftover trash discarded in his spotless manor. That’s strictly my responsibility. I have to see to it, sort it, and leave not a trace behind. And so, what have we got?”
Warming to the subject, Emily said, “These printouts are off the Internet using an old dot matrix printer—the kind they haven’t made for years. The kind Silas has hooked up in his basement vault. These two pages are weather forecasts for the week in question for both here and Dartmoor—light fog and heavy rain for the time of Chris’s dreadful fall with a check mark next to it. Dense fog in the moors and precipitation in the lower elevations during the time of Harriet’s fall also marked with a check. Nothing else highlighted or marked.”
Pru’s eyes locked on the Harrods bag, her body motionless.
Emily went on. “And what have we here? Trevor’s hand-drawn map with a check next to the area where your strip of apron was found, and another check next to the stone circle dead ahead. No indication of any witch’s hut, something that neither Trevor nor Tom the cart driver, nor anyone else for that matter, knew existed.”
Still no response whatsoever from Pru.
“And another thing” said Emily, pushing her case, “even though you claimed you’d been corresponding, there are no e-mails or letters. Instead, we’ve got these crumpled printouts from websites like Devon Folktales with stories about the Dewerstone where the devil guided lost travelers. And you know what else? Those stories originated miles away from our sister village. And so did the one about the fickle maidens and all the rest of it.”
With her eyes darting here and there, Pru finally spoke. “But when you add it to my adventure with the mist and the cold and the wild pony, you have quite a story to tell.”
“When you add how scared you were out there, you mean. And how somebody put you up to it and it wasn’t at all like they said it would be. But you went ahead anyway and followed the map. When I finally caught up with you, you kept looking at your watch on the way back, and all of a sudden, were relieved and cheerful. You even bypassed any mention of the crone storyteller like you knew it was all a crock in the first place.”