An Accidental Woman

by Barbara Delinsky

  Poppy pictured the little girl with long, silky hair framing pale skin and deep-set dark eyes. She loved both of Micah’s girls, but Star had always been the one to tug at her heart. “Of course I can do it,” she told him, confused, “but Heather isn’t someone else. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not talking about anything. It’s the FBI that’s saying it.”

  “Killed someone? I don’t think so. We’ve been friends since she first came to town. She went through my accident with me, and she couldn’t have been more selfless or giving or understanding. Or comforting or helpful. Heather couldn’t kill anyone if she tried.”

  “That’s what I said, but I don’t count. I’ll be there in five minutes, okay?”

  “I’ll be at the door.”

  And she was. Poppy was a minimalist. She didn’t bother with fancy clothes or makeup, rarely had, even before the accident. Rebels didn’t primp and preen as their mothers might have them do. At the time, defying Maida in that way had given her great joy. Now, it wasn’t rebellion that kept her from fussing, but pragmatism. A quick trip to the bathroom, where everything was perfectly situated for wheelchair access, and a cursory washing up was all she allowed herself this morning. What time she spent was in layering up her legs and pulling on sheepskin boots, so that her feet didn’t chill without her knowing it.

  On the porch, draped in a heavy parka, she combed her pixie-short hair with her fingers as she watched the headlights of Micah’s truck approach. The road was narrow but paved, the latter being one of the concessions that Poppy had made when, soon after the accident, her parents had carved off a wedge of their own land to build her a house. She had put her foot down on having a direct link to their place, needing what small semblance of independence she could retain, and had opted instead for the longer road out to the street. Paving it meant less of a risk in foul weather. Indeed, the most recent snow, fallen three days before, had been plowed aside, leaving patches of bare pavement that had been neatly sanded. This morning even those patches wore a sheen of ice.

  The ramp from the porch was built with the most shallow of declines, and even then, it had heat coils underneath that enabled Poppy to glide down without fear of skidding. Doing that now, she was at the side of the pickup when it stopped.

  Micah was out in an instant. He was tall and solid, hatless as he often was, though his dark hair was thick and worn longer than even the country norm, so Poppy figured it kept his head warm. He wore faded jeans, work boots, and a plaid wool jacket that flapped open exposing a thermal shirt as he loped around to the passenger’s side and lifted both girls out. Each wore brightly colored parkas and carried small backpacks.

  “There’s lunch in the packs,” he told Poppy. “Heather made sandwiches last night. She always does it the night before . . . always . . . prepared.” His voice trailed off and he looked suddenly stricken, as though what had once been innocent, even praiseworthy, was no longer so.

  The implication, of course, was that Heather had been expecting something like this to happen—which Poppy couldn’t believe was true. So she urged Micah on with the hitch of her chin toward the road. “You go on. Get this straightened out.” She took the backpack that Missy was already passing to her as the older child moved behind the wheelchair to push. Then she held out an arm to Star, who stood braced against Micah looking forlorn. Poppy had to pat her lap before the child came forward.

  “I appreciate this,” Micah murmured. For a moment, he looked at the girls in a startled way that said he was only then beginning to think about consequences.

  “They’re okay,” Poppy assured him. He looked at them a second longer, before returning to the truck. Poppy had Star on her lap by the time the truck was gone, at which point she declared, “Well, we passed that baton smoothly enough.”

  “What’s a baton?” Missy asked.

  “It’s a thing that kinda looks like a rolled-up magazine. They use them in relay races, where one person runs his part of the race and hands the baton to another person, who then runs the next part. Push me up, Missy.” She worked the wheel with one hand and held Star with the other, leaning around to peer at the smaller child. “Did you guys have breakfast?”

  “We were gonna, then we didn’t have time,” Missy answered from behind.

  “Daddy forgot,” Star said.

  “Daddy has lots on his mind,” Poppy said, “but I have only you, and besides, you love my kitchen.” She tightened her arm around Star as they rode up the ramp, entered the house, and headed straight for that kitchen. Everything in it was lower and more accessible than in a standard kitchen, from counters and cabinets, to sink and stove, to lazy Susans everywhere. For Poppy, these things were a necessity. The girls saw them as play.

  Poppy was dying to know more about Heather, because the situation was bizarre. But she couldn’t ask the children. Nonchalance was the way to go here.

  So she acted as if nothing were unusual as she popped waffles into the toaster, and as she buttered them and doused them with syrup from the maple crop Micah had produced the spring before, she chatted with the girls about school, about snow, about upcoming Ice Days. Missy chatted back. Star remained quiet, close by Poppy’s side.

  “Doin’ okay?” Poppy softly asked the little one from time to time, always getting a nod in return, albeit a solemn one. It didn’t take a genius to know that the child was worried about Heather.

  She’ll be fine, Poppy wanted to say. She’ll be back. This is all a mistake. Your dad will take care of everything.

  But she didn’t say a thing, because she didn’t know a thing. And that irked her. She prided herself on being the pulse of Lake Henry, but she hadn’t seen this one coming. She wondered if anyone had.

  The more she wondered, the more annoyed she grew, because her thoughts moved beyond the simple fact of an arrest. She was adamant in believing that Heather was innocent of what they said. But someone had fingered her. With virtually anyone else, Poppy might have wondered if one ornery Lake Henryite had resented her easy acceptance by the others, but this was Heather. Everyone liked Heather. Even more, they liked Micah, who, though marginally reclusive, was a native, one of their own from the get-go. Heather would have been protected if for no other reason than that she was part of Micah’s life.

  Poppy particularly doubted that the betrayal had been internal, because there had been so many opportunities for others. Three months ago, Lake Henry had been the center of a news event that had focused on Poppy’s own sister, and the media had been all over town. Poppy would put money on the fact that someone from that faction was responsible for this sudden upheaval.

  But she couldn’t say that to the girls, either. So, calmly, she washed syrup off their hands and mouths, helped them back into their parkas and pulled on her own. Back outside again, she let them ride the lift with her up into the brand-new Blazer that her mother had insisted on buying her before the onset of winter. It was poppy red and had been adapted for her needs; once the three of them were inside, she patiently pointed tobuttons and let the girls retract the equipment. Focusing solely on them, she made sure they were belted in, drove them to school, and gave them big hugs before sending them off.

  The instant they disappeared inside, she was on her cell phone calling John Kipling. Though born and raised in Lake Henry, John had spent most of his adulthood in exile. Given that he had left town at the age of fifteen—and that he was ten years older than Poppy—she had been too young to know him then. They had become friends only in the three years since his return. As of nearly six weeks ago, they were even related. On New Year’s Day, John had married Poppy’s sister Lily.

  But Poppy wasn’t calling him either as a friend or a brother-in-law. She was calling because he was the editor of the local newspaper, and she had an ax to grind.

  Since it was barely eight-thirty in the morning, she tried him at the little lakeside cottage that Lily had inherited from their grandmother, Celia St. Marie. The cottage was smaller than John’s a bit
farther down the shore, but it had a history. So John had moved in, and they would be putting on a sizable addition once sugaring season was done. Micah was slated to do the work, which gave John an even greater incentive to help figure out what had happened to Micah’s significant other.

  No one answered the phone. Poppy guessed that John was either having breakfast at Charlie’s Café or already at work.

  She passed Charlie’s first. It was a cheery sight with snow capping the red clapboards of both the general store and adjacent café. The wide brick chimney exhaled a curl of smoke, and a smell tinged with bacon and birch wafted into the Blazer.

  She exchanged waves with the three men chatting out front, their breath puffing white against their dark wool jackets as they huddled into upturned collars, but she saw no sign of John’s Tahoe. Less than a minute later, she spotted it down past the post office, at the yellow Victorian that stood near the edge of the pristine expanse of snow on the lake. That yellow Victorian housed the newspaper office.

  Had it been summer—or spring or fall—she might have pulled in and talked with John face-to-face near the willows. But this was winter, and winter made maneuvering in and out of the Blazer over icy paths, muchless unshoveled ground, harder to do. Besides, she wanted to get home to her phone lines. So she simply punched in the Lake News number as she drove past.

  “Kipling, here,” John answered in the distracted voice that said he was buried in the Wall Street Journal, New York Times, or Washington Post.

  “It’s Poppy,” she said and jumped right in. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “Hey, sweetie.” His voice lightened instantly. “No. What’s going on?”

  “You haven’t heard any news?”

  “Uh, we slept late,” he said a mite sheepishly. “Just got in, actually.”

  Poppy felt a twinge of envy imagining the why of Lily and him sleeping late. It didn’t help her mood any. “And you haven’t had any calls?” she asked tartly.

  “You’d know that better than me.”

  “John.”

  “No. No calls yet.” He was cautious now. “Tell me what I missed.”

  “Heather,” Poppy announced, letting loose with her disgust at the situation in general and the need to place blame in particular. “You missed Heather.” She gave him the basics, then said, “I’m wondering how something like that could happen in a free society, because Heather is the last person I would ever accuse of anything, much less false identity and murder. But someone did. So I’m driving along here,” now on the road that circled the lake, with no other cars in sight, just tons of snow, scads of naked trees, and plenty of questions, “and I’m thinking about who the canary could be. No one in town would snitch on Heather, because everyone here loves her, and even if they didn’t, they love Micah, and even if they didn’t, they wouldn’t betray one of us for fear of reprisal from the rest. So I’m thinking it has to be one of the bozos who was in town last fall during the whole mess that gave Lily her unwanted fifteen minutes of fame, and those guys are your friends—”

  “They are not,” John broke in, “but hold on, back up. What happened to Heather?”

  Slowing when a deer darted across the road ahead, Poppy watched its white tail twitch as it leapt gracefully over a snowbank and loped off through the trees. “She was arrested by the FBI. I don’t know much more.Micah dropped the girls here in a rush and went to get Cassie. They were going off after the Feds. I don’t know where—”

  “To Concord. The Feds go to federal court, and the nearest one is in Concord.”

  Poppy drove on at full speed again, both hands tight on the wheel, though the road was beautifully plowed. “Federal court.” She tried out the words. “Heather in federal court. Doesn’t work for me.”

  “That’s because you assume she’s innocent.”

  “Well, don’t you? Think back to every single interaction you’ve ever had with her. Did she ever sound like she was concealing a dark past?”

  “No, but that’s because I don’t take her for a pathological liar. If she were one, though, chances are she could fool people. You’d be amazed at how convincing a pathological liar can be.”

  Poppy bristled. “Heather is totally honest. People trust her. Ask Charlie. He knows how to spot the good ones. It took him less than a year to get Heather out of the kitchen and into managing the restaurant. Hell, Kip, she’s the one he leaves in charge when he and Annette go away with the kids—and, technically, she isn’t even working for him anymore! Would he do that if she was dishonest?” She edged the Blazer to the right when an old station wagon approached. It was the postmaster, Nathaniel Roy, on his way to work. Nat was a bespectacled seventy-five, but he was sharp enough to know Poppy’s Blazer and would have been agile enough to flick his headlights if he wanted her to stop. The fact that he simply waved and drove on told her that he hadn’t heard about Heather, either.

  “Poppy, you’re preaching to the choir,” John said. “I agree with you. But it’s not like we’ve known her all her life.”

  “We haven’t known you, either,” Poppy pointed out. “Or Lily. Both of you spent years away.”

  “But we were both born here.”

  “And you’d condemn Heather because she wasn’t?”

  “Poppy, Poppy,” John pleaded, “I’m not condemning her. I’m just making the same point that other people are going to make.”

  Poppy wanted to argue, but she knew he was right. “Fine then, let’s move on. Can you make some calls? Find out where she is? Try to keep alid on things? I don’t want history repeating itself. Lily was hit with false charges, and the result was two lost jobs, an abandoned apartment in Boston, and a media circus.”

  “The result of which,” John noted, “was that she fell in love with me.”

  “But Heather already loves Micah,” Poppy reminded him sweetly. “She already loves the girls. She doesn’t need a crisis to bring her to her senses. Honestly, why would someone do this to her? I cannot imagine she has a single enemy in town—and while you’re asking questions, I want to know who thought he recognized her. In the process of clearing Lily’s name last October, you humiliated several rather powerful media guys. Think there’s a chance that one of them is seeking revenge?”

  “They wouldn’t dare.”

  Poppy gave a shallow laugh. “All three of them are still working.”

  “Yeah, but in lesser jobs and under closer watch, and there’s still me. They know I’d have no qualms about pointing the finger at them if they tried to point it at someone here without cause.”

  “Well, someone did point a finger. While you’re in Concord, see if you can find out who. You’re an investigative reporter. Being nosy is what you do best.”

  “Yeah, well, in this situation, it could backfire. You want to keep this contained? Restraint is the way to go. Ask too many questions, and people start thinking you have something to hide. So let’s concentrate on whatever’s happening in Concord today. Let me make some calls. I’ll get back to you when I hear something.”

  Poppy ended the call. Seconds later, she passed the stone wall that marked the entrance to Blake Orchards, her mother’s pride and joy. The stones of the wall were waist-high lumps of snow, and the sign was draped with more of the fluffy white stuff. If she turned in and drove a half mile along the gravel road, between stubby apple trees that looked smaller than ever without leaves, she would reach her mother’s house and a bit farther on, the cider house. Both were closed up for the winter.

  Instead, she stayed on the main road as it climbed a hill and wound away from the lake for a bit, then back. Turning onto her own road, she followed it down to the lake. At the house, she quickly maneuvered herchair out of the Blazer and rolled inside to the console that held dozens of buttons. She was anxious for news. John wouldn’t have called back so soon, but what she really wanted was a message from Micah.

  * * *

  Even slouched against the wall, Micah was taller than almost everyone else in the court
house lobby, and a motley crew it was. Lawyers stood out from the rest in their suits, some of which had seen neater days. The people with them ranged in age from a pregnant young girl to a grizzled old man, and varied in dress from high school sloppy to rural casual, from Manchester stylish to Sanbornton woodsy to Claremont salt-of-the-earth. What all these people had in common was an air of unhappiness.It was an emotion Micah shared with them. This was not where he wanted to be. He was supposed to be in the sugarbush with Heather, checking the mainline for last-minute damage. Yeah, he could do it alone, but he liked having Heather with him.

  He had no choice, though. Cassie had told him to wait here, so he waited, his fists deep in the pockets of his flannel jacket, one booted foot flat to the wall, his eyes hooded, and his jaw clenched. He wanted to get Heather and get home. That was all. Get Heather, and get home.

  After what seemed like an eternity standing there in that lobby, surrounded by the rumble of low conversation, Cassie strode down the hall from a room at the end. Long-legged, she was a standout in wool slacks and a blazer, a silk blouse and scarf, and a head full of curly blond hair, but the pickup of Micah’s pulse had nothing to do with her good looks. He respected Cassie, but he wasn’t drawn to her for anything but her legal expertise.

  With Heather on his mind, he straightened.

  Cassie didn’t say anything when she reached him, simply indicated that he should follow her. Down another hall, they turned a corner. She knocked quietly on a door, the upper half of which was a milky glass, then turned the knob.

  Micah expected to find Heather inside, but instead there were only an old, empty desk and a pair of battered metal chairs.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  “Apparently still on her way,” Cassie replied, putting her briefcase on the desk. “Here’s the thing. There’ll be a hearing in a little while. It isn’t an indictment, per se, just a hearing in front of a magistrate during which the Feds return the warrant—the warrant in question being the one involving flight to avoid prosecution. Heather won’t have to say anything.”