by Joanne Pence
Speaking of unpleasant…her thoughts drifted to Moira Tay. She had to be the guilty one. Getting rid of Finley would make her owner of the inn. Getting rid of Patsy meant there were no obstacles to her and Running Jerk being lovers once more. And with Miss Greer gone, then what? Moira could do the cooking? No, that was no reason to kill someone. What clue was she missing?
She looked around, so lost in thought she’d paid little attention to where she’d gone. At the top of a knoll the young boy with the Chicago Bulls cap stood watching her. “Hello, there,” Angie called and headed toward him. The knoll was steep and she soon found herself struggling to climb it. “Can you give me a hand?”
The boy’s eyes widened and his face flushed. “Sure.” He scampered down the hill.
She held out her hand. He stared at it. “Wow. You’ve got long fingernails. Purple, too. Just like on TV.”
“Rose mauve, actually. But thanks.”
The boy rubbed the palm of his hand against his jeans, then took hers. To her surprise, he was strong enough to give a hard yank on her arm as he began to run back up the knoll. Angie could scarcely move her feet fast enough as she found herself going uphill almost as quickly as she usually went down.
Angie had to bend over, her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath, when they reached the top. The boy laughed.
“I didn’t know you’d get so tired,” he said.
“Who’s…tired?” she wheezed, then straightened, her hand on her still heaving chest. The boy’s eyes traveled to the curve of her breasts, then locked for a long moment. When he stepped back, his ears had turned flaming red.
“My name’s Angelina Amalfi. I never did learn yours.”
The boy bit his bottom lip before replying, “Danny.”
“Danny what?”
“Just Danny.”
“Ah.”
“Where were you going?” Danny asked.
“Toward the cliffs. I’m looking for a lady from the inn who’s missing.”
Danny’s face paled, his eyes wide. “Mom?” he whispered.
“Who?”
“Is Moira Tay missing?” Danny’s voice was small, scared.
Moira…Danny’s mother. Angie began to slowly walk along the knoll, Danny beside her. “No, not Moira. It’s another woman. Her name is Patsy. She’s thin, with light brown hair. Have you seen her around anywhere?”
Danny shook his head. “How come she’s missing? Did she go out alone or something?”
“It seems that way.”
“You got to be careful out here. You got to know what you’re doing, like I do. There’s some places, if you step on them, they can give way and you’ll slide all the way down the hill and end up in the ocean. It’s pretty dangerous, if you don’t know it.”
“So I’ve learned,” Angie said. Danny’s description brought back the memory of her own quick trip sliding down the rocks yesterday, just before finding Finley’s body.
They walked in silence. Angie surreptitiously studied Danny and mentally kicked herself for not having noticed how much he resembled Moira.
“I’m twelve,” Danny said after a while. “How old are you?”
Angie smiled. “Considerably older than twelve.” Double it, in fact. She felt old.
“Really? I’m almost as tall as you are,” he said.
“Yes. You’ll be a tall young man, I think.”
“Do…uh, do you like tall men?”
“Oh, of course.”
“Good,” he said with a sigh.
She did a double take.
Suddenly, he ran off.
She stood watching him disappear. Well, Angie, she thought, you certainly have a way with men. Even young, completely inexperienced ones hightail it away from you as fast as they can go.
She continued onward. The rain, which had stopped for a while, began to fall once more. A bolt of lightning flashed and thunder rolled across the landscape.
She reached the cliffs, but there was no sign of anyone. It figured. Given her luck lately, they’d probably gone in the opposite direction to search. Being out here alone was probably foolish, anyway. Time to go back to the main house. She turned around and started walking, following her footprints in the soft, damp earth. The rain fell harder with each passing minute. As she retraced her steps, the footprints grew smoother, less visible, until they disappeared altogether in the rainstorm.
Foolishly, she hadn’t paid a lot of attention as she walked with Danny, more intrigued by his relationship to Moira than where she was walking to. But at that point she was headed west toward the cliffs. It wasn’t as if she could miss them.
Going back and trying to find the inn was a different story. She’d have to find footprints or a trail. They must be somewhere. Thunder clapped. She wouldn’t let herself think about the mountain lions and snakes and wild boars Paavo had mentioned. It was daylight. They wouldn’t come out now. Would they?
Up ahead she saw an indenture in the ground. She ran to it. A footprint. Looking at the size and shape of the shoe, she realized it was hers. Lewis and Clark, move over! She’d blaze this trail right back to the inn. Maybe tracking wasn’t as hard as it was cracked up to be.
Carefully, she followed her footprints in the opposite direction from which they headed, not letting herself miss a single one. When she passed an especially gnarled tree for the second time, though, she realized something was wrong. She looked up, looked around, and realized she’d been following the footprints she’d made while walking around in circles looking for her footprints!
God, now what? No wonder she never left the city. Where was a taxi when you needed one?
Thoughts of Patsy and what might have happened to her filled Angie’s mind. What if Patsy had only meant to go for a walk in the woods and then met up with…what? Or who? And what did that person or animal do to her?
No! It was the city where those horrible things happened. Not the country. But Angie would have known better than to go wandering into strange neighborhoods in the city. Why hadn’t she used the same caution here?
“Danny!” she called. “Danny! Come back, please!”
Silence.
She made her best guess and started walking in one direction.
Up ahead, she saw a small cottage with lush plants and ground coverings, unusual since it was winter. She knew Quint had a cottage on the property somewhere. That had to be his.
As she walked up to it, the front door opened. She froze, holding her breath.
“I didn’t know you wanted to come here,” Danny said, his head bobbing out at her. “I thought you were going to the cliffs.”
She released her breath in a whoosh. “Nope. Changed my mind.”
Quint’s cottage was small but clean and comfortable. It had a large sitting room with an eating area in front of the windows, looking out on what would be a lovely rose garden once spring arrived. A kitchen nook took up one side of the sitting room. Beyond the main room was a large bedroom with a single bed and, on the far wall, a roll-away all made up as if a guest were expected this evening.
“This is nice,” Angie said. “So you’re staying with Quint?”
“What makes you say that?” Danny struggled to keep all expression from his face as he followed her glance. “Oh, my bed.”
“Don’t you want anyone to know you’re staying here, Danny?” she asked.
“It’s nobody’s business.”
“That’s true enough.” Angie went to the window. The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets. “Aren’t you afraid out here alone?”
“In here? Afraid of what?”
Angie looked around the snug, secure little cottage. Good question, she thought. “Afraid of being alone, I guess,” she said.
“No. But Moira would let me sleep at the big house if I was scared or got lonely.”
“Good.” Angie peeled off her wet jacket and spread it over the back of a chair. “Have you always lived here?”
“No,” Danny answered.
�
��Just with Moira, then?”
“Moira?” the boy said, trying to sound surprised. “No, I don’t live with her.”
“You’re quite the loner,” Angie said.
“That’s right.” Danny clamped his mouth shut defiantly.
“If you’d like something hot to drink, hot milk, or chocolate, or anything like that, just show me where it is and I’ll make it for you,” she offered.
“Cow’s milk isn’t good for you, and chocolate has caffeine and other bad stuff, so I can’t have any,” he answered.
Now I know for sure this is Moira’s son, Angie thought. “Do you have soy milk?”
“I hate hot soy milk! The only thing Mom gives me is herb tea, but I don’t much like it. I’m fine. But Gran—I mean Quint, keeps coffee for himself, so if you’d like some, I’m sure he won’t care.”
Gran? Quint was the boy’s grandfather? That meant Quint was Moira and Finley’s father? Impossible. He and Finley, in particular, weren’t at all alike. For that matter, neither were Finley and Moira. What was she missing here?
“I’d love a cup of coffee. Bless Quint for having it—and you for telling me about it.”
As Angie went into the kitchen area, Danny sat at the table, watching the rain. “What do you think happened to the woman who’s missing?” Danny asked after a while.
“Some people think she ran away.”
“What if she’s dead? Like Finley.”
Angie’s hand stilled as she counted measuring spoons of ground coffee and put them in the filter. “You heard about Finley?”
“Yeah.” Danny didn’t elaborate.
“I see.” Angie finished setting up the coffee, then turned to figure out something to make for Danny.
“Maybe that woman jumped off a cliff like Elise Sempler,” Danny said.
“I can’t imagine she’d do that.”
“But didn’t they find something of hers by the cliffs?”
“You do learn a lot out here,” Angie said, impressed and curious about what else this boy might know. She found some apple cider and heated a cupful of it. “Do you think Patsy is much like Elise?”
“I guess not. Like nobody took her baby away or nothing.”
“Her what?” Angie stepped into the living room. “Whose baby?”
“Elise’s. Elise jumped because she was so sad after Susannah took her baby away.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’ve seen Susannah’s diaries, and some letters,” Danny said.
Angie’s heart leaped. The thought of getting her hands on the letters and diaries of the strange Semplers…
“They’re kind of hard to read,” Danny continued, “but I also heard Quint and some other people talking about what they said, so then I was able to understand.”
Angie tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. “Do you know where these diaries and letters are?”
“They’re here in a box. Finley wanted to throw them away, but my…Moira put them in a box and brought them here. She said it was evil to throw away their things. Moira believes in stuff like ghosts.”
“I’ve noticed.” And I just might start, Angie thought.
“Would you like to see the letters? I don’t think she’d care. She said it’s okay if I read them, but I have to be real careful not to tear them because they’re so old.”
“I’d like to see them. Very much.”
A little while later, they sat on the sofa. Angie had a cup of hot coffee, and for Danny she made a cup of hot buttered apple tea, a mixture of hot tea and hot apple cider. For flavor, she mixed together dark brown sugar, cinnamon, clove, the zest of a lemon, and a little butter, then dropped the mixture by the teaspoonful into the hot drink until the taste was just right.
Danny gave her a hatbox filled with Susannah’s memories, Susannah’s life—a single dance card, a theater program from Eureka, some ribbons, a lock of fine blond hair in a small envelope, a diary, and tied in a pink ribbon, a packet of letters.
As she went through the contents of the box, Danny sat down beside her with his cider. He proclaimed it the best thing he’d ever tasted.
Once Angie became used to the flowery script Susannah used with her wide-nibbed ink pen, she was able to read through the diary fairly rapidly. The early entries were dull, talking about needlework, gardening, an occasional book read, or her dog.
She turned a page and found a sprig of dried violets pressed between them, and soon, as she read, the world of the snug little cottage disappeared.
18
May 4, 1893
Cousin Elise arrived today. She’s prettier than I expected, given the lack of fashion or quality of her dress and the shocking inferiority of her upbringing. Her manners are so vulgar I suppose it will fall to me to show her how a lady comports herself.
Her hair is black, a most unrefined color, and she persists in wearing it in a braid down her back as though she was still a child. Her face is dreadfully browned by the sun, and her cheeks positively glow red as hot coals.
I fear I shall have quite the task to make a silk purse out of that ear.
I was quite surprised that Jack paid her so much attention. He gave us each a posy of violets.
The diary was filled from that point with one slam after the other at Cousin Elise. As Jack and Elise grew closer, Susannah’s venom increased.
August 19, 1893
My heart is broken. Father sent Jack away, all because of that hateful creature. Something happened yesterday. No one will tell me precisely what it was, but do they think me so naïve that I don’t know?
Father was in a rage all evening. This morning, he took Jack to Eureka to put him on a merchant ship where he must work off the humors of the blood that have caused his unnatural interest in his own cousin. “There’ll be no Sempler by-blows in this house,” Father said, not knowing I was near enough to overhear. I’m unable to cast the ugly, shocking words from my mind.
Already, I miss Jack’s smile, the soft hazel color of his eyes. I’ll never forgive Elise for taking him from Father and me. I’ll hate her forever. Beyond forever. If possible, even beyond the grave.
Angie shuddered; but, compelled, she continued reading and found out that Jack took a position on the Titan, a cargo ship out of San Francisco that traveled throughout the Far East and South Pacific.
November 2, 1893
The worst has happened. Every day Elise grows more sickly. She’s thin, pale, and constantly has trouble holding down her food. We thought she feigned love sickness for Jack. But then Father called Dr. Hayden, who informed him that Elise is with child.
How can we bear the humiliation this will cause, especially if people suspect who the father might be? Any prospects Jack had for a good marriage are now crushed. And what of my own?
Will I spend my days here, watching that woman and her child, knowing they’ve disgraced this family’s honor and our proud name?
It must be hateful to say, but it would be a mercy if she were dead.
Quickly Angie turned the pages, skimming over the mundane, day-to-day things Susannah wrote about to find further mention of Elise or Jack. A word in passing of Jack’s travels was all that she wrote. It was as if she wanted to ignore the fact that Elise was living with her and her father, until—
April 30, 1894
Last night Elise was delivered of a boy child. Father named him Benjamin. I would not look at him. Not even when I gave him over to the stableman’s wife to care for. She has such a passel of brats, what’s one more child to nurse to the likes of her? Anyway, it’s only until the babe is old enough to travel with the barren couple Father has arranged to give it to.
God grant that we are doing the right thing.
The next entry in the diary wasn’t until two weeks later.
May 13, 1894
I don’t know if I should try to capture on these pages the suffering I have endured these past weeks. If I should ignore these dreadful events, will I, in time, forget they ever occurred? No, I t
hink not, for some events are so monumental they shape and destroy all that comes thereafter.
I think I will always remember, always hear, Elise’s pleas for her child. We told her the boy had died, but then she overheard two of the stableman’s children talking about their new baby, of his black hair and hazel eyes, so different from the rest. She knew.
She begged to see the child, to hold him. Wasn’t it bad enough that Jack had forsaken her? she pleaded. That he had gone away and had never written or tried to reach her again?
We could not let her have any happiness, Father and I, when she’d taken ours so completely. Her tears did not move us.
I last saw her standing atop the cliffs at sunset, staring out at the sea. Sometime last night, she jumped, or fell. We found her this morning on the rocks below.
May God forgive her. And us.
The diary was blank after this.
Angie slowly put it down, back in the box where it had lain for so many years.
She looked at the packet of letters. They were from Jack.
Letter after letter begged for news of Elise. Why hadn’t she written to him? Was she all right? Had she found someone else? Had she never loved him at all?
Then the letters came less frequently. Jack told Susannah that he’d learned to face the truth—that Elise had never loved him. He never wanted to return to Sempler House, the site of his great folly.
Angie watched the parade of postmarks from around the world as the years went by. But she also watched the dissolution of Jack’s spirit. Where the first letters were warm, passionate, and full of hope, the last ones were of a man who’d seen too much of the underside of life.
The last letter from Jack was dated February 1, 1905, and postmarked Pago Pago. His penmanship was thin and shaky.
Dear Susannah,
The doctors here say I must return home for an extended rest or the fever will take me. Part of me longs for such a consummation, yet another part, more rational perhaps, wishes to see you, and home, at least one last time. I should be strong enough to travel in about two weeks.