by Shelly Frome
Pru brushed past Emily, moving deeper into the arbor until she reached a back wall of rambling roses and honeysuckle, so thickly woven from top to bottom that her compact frame was completely in shadow.
“I don’t follow?” said Pru, flinching as her back scraped against the roses.
“Yes, you do. Come on, Pru, stay with it. To get your apron snagged on the twisted oak, you had to unbutton your topper, rip off a piece, attach it, button up again and, when the fog lifted, move on.”
“Who said, who said?” Pru cried out like a little girl.
“And well before that, as you rode up on the cart, you weren’t looking back because you were afraid somebody was following. You were looking back so that Tom would tell me about it. And you were looking back because you were afraid good ol’ dependable Emily might not be following.”
Pru gingerly ran a forefinger along the rose thorns. She reached inside her apron, snapped her pruning clippers a few times, cut off a deep-red bud, held it to her nose, and smiled mischievously.
“How about this, Pru? You’ve been duped.”
“Words, words, words.”
“Don’t you see? Don’t you get it?”
“No.”
“I’m telling you, you’ve been used. You’ve been had.”
No mischievous smile this time. Nothing in the offing save for a faint shuffling sound nearby.
Then Pru went on the offensive. “So you say, Emily Ryder. But it’s all a jumble. Like these vines and roses and bittersweet. You couldn’t tell a story if your life depended on it. Bits and pieces, that’s all you’ve got. Bits and pieces and you can’t put them together.”
“Your voice is on the answering machine, dammit!”
“What did you say?”
“I said, your Miranda Shaw imitation is on Chris Cooper’s answering machine, plus the exact time and date. Chris didn’t tell me he talked to anybody. He only said he got a message impugning his workmanship. That’s what sent him over there. And right after, high up in the driving rain, the voltage from the power line jolted his heart. Jolted him off the roof!”
Emily may have heard the shuffling sound again but was too close to the clincher to stop. She grabbed Pru’s arm and yanked her up to the arbor opening.
“Look out there way past the side of the house. See the sidewalk and the cars going by? That’s real, that’s happening. And so is what you did.”
Pru followed Emily’s directive and gazed straight ahead, down the side yard out at North Street. But she didn’t seem as though she was finally coming to her senses. She seemed as if the wheels were spinning rapidly in her brain.
Speaking as slowly as you would to a misguided four-year-old, Emily stood close by Pru’s side and said, “I’ve got the answering machine with your voice on it. They’ve traced Silas’s gun to the collector in Bath. It’s the twin to the one that’s missing from the glass case down in Silas’s vault. The one I noticed while I was down there cleaning up for him the day before I left. The very twin he later hid in his satchel. The one Cyril found.”
“Cyril? Found?” Pru said, back in her singsong tone.
“Stashed by the castle ruins.”
Pru peeked out again. Emily followed her gaze until she spotted Will’s pickup along with a glimpse of Oliver’s blocky head. The truck eased to a stop by the sidewalk fronting the façade of the Curtis house exactly as Will told her. Will got out, may have waved to her—she couldn’t tell—unhitched the tailgate, and was soon out of sight.
Emily had no sooner noted Oliver’s muzzle protruding over the truck-bed railing when, out of nowhere, Silas slipped out from the shadows of the rear entrance, stepped in front of her, and blocked everything. Squinting over his bifocals, he said, “Not good, not good.”
“Shut up, Silas,” said Pru, flinging the rosebud at him. “You’re supposed to be at the lawyer’s.”
“Turned around and came back. Emily and you alone in the garden. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
“It has to be spun, that’s all. So go away.”
“Not if she’s got you on an answering machine. Not good, Pru.”
“Not good at all,” said Emily. “So if you’ll kindly get out of my way.”
Silas shuffled back and forth before he reached into his back pocket and jerked out the nickel-plated .32 Smith and Wesson.
“What are you doing?” Pru said, glaring up at him.
“Emily knows. Knows what this regulator was used for.”
“Forget it, Silas,” said Emily. “It’s over.”
Silas shook his mop of woolly hair, his gun wavering as well. Trying to steady his hand, he said, “No, no, no. Not when you have a regulator. Kept it in perfect condition to fulfill its purpose. Yes, yes, to regulate, keep everyone in their place, where they belong.”
“The twin to the one you retrieved from the dealer in Bath,” said Emily. “Handy as can be the whole while, hanging up in the glass case down in your vault. We know, we know.”
“Exactly. To regulate, restore, keep things going.”
“I told you to shut up, Silas,” said Pru.
“Which was why Harriet kept asking what you were up to,” said Emily, “and what you had hidden in your satchel. Could it be that duplicate, the one Maud just confirmed?”
“Maud? Confirmed?” said Silas, shaking his head again.
“Over the phone, Silas, long distance. Poor Harriet tried to put an ocean between you, shake off being implicated somehow. Took money from the GDC and thought she could get lost in the flower show. Made calls to the hospital to see if maybe, somehow, Chris was still alive. Even tried to reach Miranda because it was her roof where it happened. Maybe she’d heard something. But when there was no way to shed herself of the two of you, no way to shake off the pressure of being complicit, what did she do?”
Silas’s beady eyes seemed to lock for a second.
“She thought she could get hold of Hobbs, the roving constable. Right after judging the flower show. Reveal who the real culprit was. Isn’t that the gist of it, Silas?”
Silas muttered and shook his head again as if it was all going much too fast for him.
Tired of humoring him, tired of humoring them both, Emily said loud and clear, “It’s no use. You’ve had it. So step aside.”
“Can’t oblige,” said Silas, brandishing his weapon. “Not like this. Oh no, oh no. Not until everything is regulated.”
“Stop it,” Pru said. “No more guns.”
“That’s right,” said Emily. “We’re going to notify the police. They’ll take the gun. They’ll take it all from here.”
But the minute she said it, she glanced back and realized her cellphone was in the Harrods bag.
Pru glanced back at the arbor too, like she had some other way out right on the tip of her tongue. Silas didn’t budge, watching Pru, waiting for a cue.
“Got it,” Pru said, snatching up the Harrods bag, stepping out into the sunlight. “She’s guilty of theft. And she’s guilty of trespass. Yes! This is our territory. She’s not in charge. She’s on our soil. The gun is good, we can use it.”
Silas backed off a short distance, nodding to himself.
Fully aware the .32 was still pointed at her, Emily drifted toward him, trying to distract his attention away from Pru. She kept going a few steps at a time until she was almost abreast of the flags and the upslope to her left. Were it not for the weapon, she had a clear path directly ahead, a dash to the sidewalk to her car, its hood jutting out in plain sight. Or a quick jog to Will at the bank. A clear path, including the open tailgate of Will’s pickup and Chuck petting Oliver, his back to her, his service revolver holstered, a weapon that in living memory had never been drawn but was always at the ready.
But the escape route was obliterated the second Pru yanked out the dog whistle from the bag and said, “Look. Can you beat it? She was actually going to blow the whistle on us. Well, let me tell you, two can play at that game. We’ll blow the whistle on her.”
&nbs
p; Silas spun around, placing Chuck and Oliver directly in his line of fire, his shaking hand signaling an urge to shoot at something. Coupled with Pru carrying on about “a citizen’s right to bear arms as a matter of self-protection,” the madness of it all was absolutely crystal. They’d both snapped. Perhaps just now, perhaps all along. Barking mad—the two of them.
In that same moment, Emily knew it would take nothing to provoke Silas, a man who couldn’t abide confusion. Or Pru, up on an imaginary soapbox, the whistle close to her mouth, about to blow it like some agitated London bobby.
Reflexively, Emily cut to her left and sprinted up the slope between the red flags, counting on covering enough distance between herself and Silas, for Chuck to turn around if Oliver began to bolt, for Silas to lower his weapon, and for Pru, even for an instant, to see what was happening.
At first, Emily’s run seemed to be paying off. She kept racing higher up the rise, to reach a safe distance, to reach the tree line.
But she heard the report of a gun, like a blown tire, along with the blare of a car horn. Twisting around, she caught a glimpse of the recoil as Silas’s outstretched arms flew up and straightened like he was on a firing range.
The next thing she knew, Silas began to scramble up the slope after her, slow as can be, but bound and determined. The only words she could make out were “only a warning shot.”
She scanned the area below for some sign of Chuck or Will or any passersby to no avail. She twisted back around and headed for cover toward a stand of maples. More beeps of a car horn as a second warning shot pinged off a tree trunk somewhere above.
At the same time, she could hear Pru’s screams, perhaps at Silas, perhaps at a bounding eighty-five-pound retriever who may have heard the silent whistle or merely spotted what he took to be a perky child in an apron he could jump on and tussle with as it crumpled to his level.
Emily sprang forward, running harder, darting through the trees as the branches whacked her shoulders. She kept going until she hit the wide stretch of meadow. She ran on with no other thought than to cross the high grasses as fast as she could, all the way over to the downward rush of the trail in the distance that led to her cottage below and a phone. Or Babs. Or anyone. All the same, she figured there was no way in this world that discombobulated Silas could ever get this far.
For a moment, there was no more gunfire, no third warning shot winging by. She picked up the pace as the tracery of thick pines at the head of the trail drew closer. But just then, her right foot hit a snag, jerking her around, and sending her spinning onto her back. Stunned, she tried to right herself, but the pain shot up her leg from her ankle to her wrenched knee. The glinting rays of sunlight shifted behind a cloud and spilled out again, hurting her eyes, coupled with her hard breathing and exhaustion, all of it forcing her to lie still until the dizzy, whirling sensations subsided.
Chapter Thirty
A few minutes ahead of schedule, Will had cruised by Emily’s Camry and pulled up to the curb by the verge of the Curtises’ side yard. Driving fast and being ahead of schedule was unusual in his approach to things, but he did it quick enough in order to get there in time to glance over and see that Emily was okay. More than okay from the looks of things. She was standing close by a little lady who might very well have needed consoling. After finishing up with whatever help the woman needed with her scraggly garden, he assumed Emily would come walking up to Oliver and the pickup and, momentarily, they’d take it from there.
As practiced, Will put the tailgate down and, sure enough, Oliver took his station right up to the back of the cab. He stuck his head out to get the best view of folks going in and out of the bank, but mostly in anticipation for Chuck to come over, pet him, and reward him with some milk bones hidden in the pocket of his uniform.
One more “stay” command on Will’s part and he covered the remaining few yards to the bank in no time. All he had to do was get by Chuck’s small talk while asking for two little favors.
Like Will had figured, there was hardly any bank business at this hour, with everyone still at work or having completed their transactions earlier in the day. Luckily, there was also no sign of any small children for Oliver to knock over.
Will took the stone steps in stride. Chuck appeared before Will reached the glass-paneled door, milk bones at the ready, pushing the same ol’ subject.
“So, you say Oliver’s so light colored ’cause he’s English. Not like the dark amber or russet ones you always see, that American variety.”
“That’s right. Listen, Chuck—”
“And you say this yacht lady gave him to you because—”
“He’d gotten too big. And I still don’t remember exactly who she got him from.”
“Well, you see, in a funny way, he reminds me of me. Not that I’m frisky. But Oliver’s so easygoing. He never gets riled.”
“Sorry, got no time for this now, Chuck.”
Another first. Cutting someone off. But Will had given himself only a few minutes to use Chuck as a lookout while cashing the check from Mrs. Ryder and scooting back to the pickup to meet up with Emily.
Will pointed out Emily’s Camry across the Curtis driveway from his pickup and made certain Chuck knew that Doc was his main concern. If Chuck spotted a car with New York plates going by and making a U-turn, he was to notify Will immediately, whether Will was through cashing his check or not. Same thing goes if Chuck spotted Oliver taking off.
“But,” Chuck said, “you left the tailgate down.”
“That’s right. For the next couple of minutes, I need you as a kind of safety net.”
“Okay . . . I guess. Sort of on guard for real, you mean.”
“You got it.”
“And we can talk about English goldens some other time.”
“You bet.”
“Lucky, Brian Forbes just took off suddenly. Leaving me to my own devices, like they say.”
“Lucky all around,” Will said as he moved past Chuck into the bank.
Like clockwork, Will spotted the vacant window of the nosy-but-efficient teller. Even the mortgage consultant and customer service representatives sat snugly in their cubicles, pecking away at their computers, trying to look busy during the lull.
“Is Mrs. Ryder still scouting other B&Bs?” the teller asked Will in her usual crisp, cheery tone.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All around the Berkshires and the Green Mountains, I expect. Prime season thereabouts.”
“Yup.”
“Still, you have to wonder about her prospects, given the ups and downs of the tourist trade. Especially hereabouts.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And the threat of those condos. Not that I don’t appreciate the revenue they might bring in. But it’s got to add to her worries.”
“For sure.”
The good thing was that the teller was able to talk, cancel the check after Will endorsed it, and dole out the fifties and twenties at the same time.
The bad thing was that, just when Will thought he was home free, the teller stopped counting at the sound of a car horn somewhere at the front of the building. The teller smiled and offered a guess that crotchety Mrs. Pritchett was at it again, probably having trouble removing her ignition key. Something about not being able to figure out how to shift into park, turn off the motor, and push the key all the way to disengage it. And not press the panic button.
A little miffed at Will’s disinterest in how, no matter how many times Chuck explained it to her, this kept happening, the teller took her sweet time handing Will the rest of his pay. As Will pocketed the envelope, Chuck entered the lobby, shrugged, and spun around at the sound of a cane tapping at the door behind him. He gave Will a signal he’d be right with him while escorting the grumbling Pritchett woman to the customer service cubicle as she too took her own, sweet time.
Back outside the lobby door, Chuck said, “Oliver is fine. I checked on him and we had a high old time. No sign of any car with New York plates pass
ing by either. But, naturally, I did have to hightail it back, what with Mrs. Pritchett’s car horn blaring, making all that fuss, and me on duty to see to the smooth comings and goings. You see, it doesn’t matter how many times I tell the lady—”
Will left him hanging and rushed over to his truck to check. But by the time he got there, both Oliver and Emily were nowhere in sight.
Midway down the Curtises’ side yard, Will found the dog whistle glinting in the grass and, almost immediately, noticed the little woman in the apron standing by a rose arbor, looking dazed.
As he approached her, whistle in hand, he couldn’t help but be reminded of that spinster who rode the Catfish Queen riverboat. The one who had that same faraway look as he handed her another frosty glass of Southern Comfort and peach liqueur. It seemed she’d been searching the passing riverbanks for her old “angel of a love,” pinning her hopes on the daydream he would reappear on this very crossing. Will had let her be and tended to his bartending like he let most things go.
But there was no way he was going to let this little Pru lady be, even if she turned out to be just as dotty.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Will called out. “Could you help me out here? I’m looking for Emily and my golden, and it makes no sense that Emily might’ve blown the whistle and dropped it. No sense at all.”
With her blue-button eyes darting around, she broke out of her stupor and said, “Your dog? Well I’ve got news. He knocked me down, ran me over. There is a village ordinance covering that sort of thing. An ordinance protecting smaller citizens from unleashed hounds.”
Moving away from the arbor, she set out for her sagging back porch. “I’m sure Trooper Dave Roberts would like to hear about this. And he’ll do something too. For your information, he was a pupil of mine in grade school, not a stranger like you. And he has always been obliging.”
Will tried to intercept her, recalling how Mrs. Ryder told him about the dingy interior, gloomy central staircase, and funeral room where the bodies were once laid for the undertaker. The last thing Will needed right now was to be sucked inside, hassling over stupid ordinances.