by Ellen Hart
After stoking the embers and tossing on a couple chunks of birch, Butch turned around, seeing that Lena was struggling to get up.
“Let me help you.”
“No, I can do it myself.” With a lot of grimacing, she stood and moved over to the chair. “I need to get my feet up. Puts less pressure on my knees.”
He’d never seen her out of the chair before and was glad to know that she had some ability to maneuver.
“Come sit down on the couch. I have a question for you.”
He brushed the wood dust off his sweater. “Sure.” As he sat down next to her, he said, “Shoot.”
“You ever get a tattoo?”
He blinked. “Tattoos? Yeah, I’ve got a couple.”
“Let me see.”
“Seriously?”
“Come on. Don’t be shy. Where are they?”
He was appalled and enchanted in equal measure. She never failed to surprise him. “I’ve got one on my chest that runs down my arm.”
“Great. Take off your sweater.”
Again, he laughed. “Okay. You asked for it.” He removed it and then the black T-shirt he wore under it.
She reached behind her and turned on a lamp. “Come closer.”
He bent down next to her.
“It’s beautiful. What’s it mean?”
“Well … it’s all kind of personal stuff.”
“Did it hurt? The needle? When they were doing it?”
“Yeah. Sometimes.”
“But it was worth it?”
He shrugged. “I thought so.”
“Okay, put your shirt back on. And, may I add, you have a nice body.”
He blushed. Sitting back down on the couch, he wondered where she’d take the conversation next.
“Christmas is coming,” she said.
“Don’t I know it.”
“I want a tattoo for Christmas. Been thinking about it for months. I even designed one. You know any tattoo artists here in town who wouldn’t mind working on an ancient old lady?”
He was amazed at how alive she was. She was confined to the house, living in a chair, always in pain, and yet she still had a sense of humor and … a spark. A deeply human spark. “I’m sure I could find one for you.”
“Would you take me? You’d have to carry me out to the car. I’m not heavy.”
He said the first thing that came into his head. “I’d be honored.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes, “you don’t have to go that far.”
“Let me check it out. I’ll get back to you.”
“Perfect. Also, if you don’t have anywhere to go on Christmas, you can always join us here. Except?” She looked over at the fireplace. “We need to bring the Christmas decorations up from the basement.”
“And you should have a tree. A nice big one for that corner over there.” He pointed.
She sighed. “Sometimes we can get Frank to buy one for us, but he’s got a bad back. It’s always something with that man.”
“Not a problem. I’ll bring one by in the next couple of days.”
“Really?” Her face brightened. “A white spruce. They’re my favorite.”
“My gift to you.”
“You’re a good kid, you know that? You and Rich. He irritates the hell out of me sometimes, but you’ve both become my friends. Warms an old lady’s evil heart.”
“Don’t say that. You’re not evil.”
She struggled to pull the lever on the side of the recliner, to raise her feet.
Butch wanted to help, but remained in his seat, assuming she wanted to do it herself.
“I am what I am,” she said, stretching out. “Whatever the hell that is. It’s too late to change now. Hey, be a good lad and run get the bottle of Old Crow in my room. I’ll finish it and then start in on the CC tomorrow. And then,” she said as he rose from the couch, “you are officially dismissed.” Reaching for his hand as he moved past her chair, she said, more softly this time, “Thank you, Butch. I mean it.”
23
The heavy snow had stopped around two in the morning, leaving a quiet, crystalline world in its wake. Jane had wanted to be home to see the dogs’ excitement at the first snow of the year. Watching them play in the backyard, tunneling, leaping, eating the flakes was a moment of pure joy for her. But, alas, after she and Cordelia had finished their dinner with Britt, they’d returned to the Skarsvold house.
Jane made it in to work by nine, late for her. She’d slept in because, in the middle of the night, Cordelia had appeared at her bedside saying that she’d heard a funny noise. She was sure it was a ghost, the soul of the malevolent Stew Ickles, unleashed by the bones discovered in the garage. Jane let her crawl in, but once she was asleep, she moved across the hall to Cordelia’s tiny bedroom. She kept the door open a crack, wondering if Cordelia really had heard something strange. The door to Eleanor’s bedroom was closed, as usual, as was the door to Quentin Henneberry’s room. She listened for the “funny noises,” but eventually fell asleep.
Sitting behind her desk at the restaurant, she checked her stack of messages, then, pushing them aside, took out the folder of notes she’d made on Britt’s case. Beginning a new page, she quickly detailed what Britt had explained last night. The private investigator Britt’s mother had hired to track down information on Stew Ickles likely did a reasonable job, though Jane wanted to follow up on a few things to see if she could shake more information loose. She transferred the photos she’d taken during the last few days from her phone to her laptop, hoping that enlarging them might prove useful.
Coming across the shots she’d taken of the interior of the garage, she was once again intrigued by the mural painted on the rear wall. It seemed a shame that so much junk covered it. A series of license plates had been tacked up somewhat haphazardly around the top. One, orange with a black boarder, went all the way back to 1953. Most were from the seventies and eighties with a few from the nineties. Not every year was represented, but there had to be several dozen. All were Minnesota plates except for one that stood out because the lettering was green. Squinting at the photo, Jane struggled to read the date.
“Nineteen seventy-eight,” she whispered. That was the year Britt’s grandfather had died and the same year Stew Ickles had gone missing. It was a North Carolina plate, which didn’t make much sense. It was possible, she supposed, that someone in the family had bought a used car that year, replacing the NC plate with one from Minnesota. As Jane sat back, wondering how she could check it out, her cell phone trilled. It was a text from Britt:
Talked to cops. Told them my story.
Hard to tell what they thought. I gave
DNA sample. Now we wait.
Drawing a circle around the name Matt Ickles, Jane brought up the online version of the Boston White Pages. Sure enough, his name was there. Only one Matt Ickles listed. She punched in the number, noting that it was an hour later on the East Coast.
A woman’s voice said, “Hello?”
“Is Matt there?”
“Who’s calling?”
“My name’s Jane Lawless. I’m a private investigator.”
A pause. “What’s this about?”
“I’m working for Britt Ickles, Matt’s niece. She’s trying to find information about her father’s disappearance back in 1978.”
Another pause. “I believe my husband already talked to someone about that. I doubt he has more to offer.”
“I just have a couple of questions,” said Jane. “It won’t take long.”
“Oh, all right,” the woman said with an exaggerated sigh. “Let me see if he’ll talk to you.”
A few seconds later, a man’s voice came on the line.
“This is Matt. Not sure what I can say to help. I haven’t seen or heard from my brother in forty years.”
“I appreciate that,” said Jane. She had a theory about the plate and hoped he could confirm or deny it. “Do you remember if your brother ever traveled to North Carolina—or knew a
nyone there.”
“Oh, gosh,” he said. “Let me think. Yeah, I believe he had a girlfriend who lived near Raleigh. He was married, but, you know, my brother didn’t really believe in monogamy.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“Just a sec.” He called to his wife. “Connie, bring me our old address book. The red one. I think it’s in the hall closet in that white storage box. Probably the one on the bottom.”
Jane waited, tapping a pen impatiently against a mug of cold coffee.
“Yeah, here it is,” said Matt. “He called me once from her place. It was on his truck route. I thought it was Raleigh, but I made a note that it was Charlotte. I’ve got a phone number, but no name. Do you want it?”
“Please,” said Jane. She wrote it down and then repeated it back to him.
“Yup, that’s it. You know, as I think about it, I believe her name was Dixie. I remember now because I thought it was funny. A woman from the South named Dixie.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” said Jane.
“I don’t know what happened to Stewart. Probably something bad. If he was still alive, I’m sure I would have heard from him. If nothing else, he would have hit me up for a loan. You have any idea about what happened?”
“Possibly,” said Jane. “Nothing for certain. But I’d be happy to let you know when I find out something definitive.”
“Great. Well. You’ve got my number. It’s hard, you know? Losing a brother like that.”
Jane thought of her own brother, now working as a documentary artist in England. She hadn’t seen him or his wife and daughter for several years. Something had been amiss with Peter before he and his family had left for South America to shoot a documentary on the Latin American Spring in 2013. She could never quite put her finger on what it was. He emailed occasionally—a few times a year. It was never enough. “I’m sorry,” said Jane.
“Yeah, thanks.”
They spoke for another few seconds and then said goodbye. Immediately punching in the number he’d given her, Jane pulled the notebook in front of her and began doodling. After four rings, the call went to a voice mail box. “This is Dix,” came a high voice with a heavy southern accent. “Keep it short and I’ll get back to you.” Jane left a brief message, saying that she was a private investigator looking into the disappearance of Stew Ickles. She left her cell phone number and asked Dixie to give her a call. If Matt was right and she had been Stew’s girlfriend, Jane hoped her curiosity would cause her to reply.
A few months back, Jane had hired an ex-cop, Nicole Gunness, to do background checks for her. She’d forwarded the names Britt had given her to Nicole and, yesterday morning, the faxed response had landed on her desk. She’d already read through most of the information. Nothing had stood out. Now she emailed Nicole Stew Ickles’s name and what little she knew about him and asked her to get the info to her ASAP. She also wanted information on Frank Devine and Richard Novak, the block captain on Cumberland Avenue. She’d seen him talking to Lena more than once. She’d also watched him outside one evening just before dark, staring into the remains of the burned garage. Perhaps he was nothing more than a neighbor, a friend of Lena’s. Whatever he turned out to be, she had to do a little due diligence to figure it out.
Jane was about to run upstairs to go check on the food for the wine tasting when her cell phone rang. Seeing that it was Julia, she scooped it up. “Hey, hi.”
“Hey, yourself.”
“Are we still on for the wine tasting tonight?”
“I’m looking forward to it. Have you been outside? How are the roads?”
“The main routes are fine. The side streets are a mess.”
“Yeah, figured as much. Carol and I are planning to work from the house this morning. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment at two. Hopefully, the roads will be okay by then. By the way, your snow removal guys are here at the house right now.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. That headache that’s been dogging me for the last couple of weeks is pretty much gone this morning. Anyway, tell me what time I need to be at the restaurant.”
“Eight. I’m setting it up in the Fireside Room.” There were two banquet spaces at the Lyme House. The larger of the two, the Lakeside Room, was upstairs, across from the main dining room, and could comfortably seat fifty. The Fireside Room was smaller, on the lower level across from the pub. As the name implied, it contained a large handmade fieldstone fireplace, something that Jane considered a work of art. “Do you need me to pick you up?”
“No, Carol can drop me off.”
“Great. See you tonight.”
Jane sent up a silent prayer that Julia and Cordelia could keep a lid on their animosity for a few hours. As much as Jane loved Cordelia and cared about Julia, she was sick to death of the personal melodrama they both lived to stoke. After texting Cordelia the time of the event, she headed up the back stairs to the kitchen.
24
Frank sat in his therapist’s office, watching the snow melt off the soles of his Maine hunting boots and drip onto the carpet. He had little idea of what to say, even though he’d been the one to call Dr. Bachelder last night in a panic, pleading for another session.
“So,” said Bachelder in his typically calm voice, a voice that, during the last couple of weeks, had come to sound just like nails on a blackboard to Frank. “You were upset last night. What’s going on?”
With his eyes still on his boots, Frank shrugged.
“Did you have another fight with your wife?”
“No.”
“I’m here for you, but I can’t help if you won’t talk to me.”
Frank flicked his eyes to the doctor. Bowing his head, he said, “Well, the fact is … I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?”
He cleared his throat. “Me.”
“You’re scared of yourself?”
“Yeah.”
The doctor shifted in his chair. “Can you give me more? For instance, are you afraid you’ll do something to hurt yourself?”
“No.”
“But something … you’ll regret?”
“Yeah.” He felt all itchy inside. He shouldn’t have come.
“Like … hurt someone else?”
“Maybe.”
Bachelder leaned forward in his chair. “The last time you were here, we talked about your anger. You said you’d never hurt Wendy. Is that still true?”
“This has nothing to do with my wife.”
Bachelder hesitated. “Okay, then does it have something to do with that time in your life you don’t want to talk about? When you were thirteen?”
Frank looked out the window, then up at the ceiling, anywhere but at Bachelder. “Sometimes … you know … when you can’t control your feelings? Does that ever happen to you? When they get ahead of your better judgment and you just … you react?”
“Go on.”
“How do I stop that?”
Bachelder frowned, pausing before he spoke. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this, Frank. What you’re telling me is serious. If you won’t face what happened when you were young, if you continue to push it away, there will be consequences. Not just for you, but for the people you love. I’m assuming you don’t want that.”
What Frank wanted was to move to Neptune and set up housekeeping with an alien life-form. He was sure he’d feel more at home with an arrangement like that. “No, that’s not what I want.”
“Then talk to me. Let it out. I’m not going to judge you.”
Frank felt himself beginning to crack. He wanted to tell someone. He ached to tell the truth, let it all hang out there. He took a few breaths. Squared his shoulders. Then lost his nerve.
“Tell me what you’re thinking. It will help. I promise you that.”
“I’m thinking,” said Frank, his eyes bouncing around the room, “that this was a mistake.” He pushed off his chair and made for the door. “I’m fine,” he said as he negotiated a swift but awkwa
rd exit. He would deal with it the way he always had. So what if that ax had frightened him last night? An ax was just an ax. A simple tool. Nothing to worry about. Of course, there were other ways to take care of business. Pills. A gun. A knife. A garrote.
“Dream away,” he whispered, jamming his key into the lock on his car. At times like this, being a gutless wonder might be the better part of valor.
* * *
Eleanor poured more coffee into Iver’s mug. Setting the carafe back in its holder, she joined him at the table.
“Marge is really failing,” he said, toying with the half-eaten tuna sandwich on his plate.
“I’m so sorry,” said Eleanor, covering his hand with her own.
“It’s funny. It’s been devastating to watch her succumb to Alzheimer’s, but at the same time, you kind of get used to the status quo. I can’t imagine losing—” He swallowed back the words, unable to complete the sentence.
In her younger, more romantic days, Eleanor would never have accepted the notion that a person could love two people simultaneously. She believed in one true love. A soul mate. Loving two women and refusing to give either up went against all the rules, whether religious or cultural. Once upon a time she’d been terribly jealous of Marge. As Iver’s wife, she had the status and social position that Eleanor never would. She also had a physical relationship with him, one Eleanor could only dream about. And yet, as time went on, Eleanor began to see that she had a kind of freedom Marge’s life completely lacked.
Iver shot up from his chair to give a hard rap on the window overlooking the backyard. “Frank’s out there. He’s ripping down the yellow crime scene tape.”
“Goodness,” said Eleanor, covering her mouth. “They told us not to touch it.”
“That man has no sense.” He kept rapping until Frank turned around. “Come inside,” he mouthed, pointing to the side door.
Slogging through the snow, Frank came back toward the house.
“If there was ever a time we need to be careful not to call attention to ourselves,” said Iver, “it’s now.”
“He’ll want coffee,” said Eleanor, rising from the table. “And maybe a sandwich.”