“Oh, at least one.” Sylvia shrugged back the sweater, and I spied what she was hiding.
Her gun.
I held up the pages of the herbal like a shield.
As if they could somehow protect you from a bullet, Amy. Yeah, brilliant.
But Sylvia did drop her arm and seemed to forget the gun. Her eyes focused on the pages as if she could ignite them with her gaze. “You found them.”
“Yeah, the missing pages. The ones Great-Grandmother Rose claimed contained recipes for poisons when she accused Eleanora Cooper of murdering Daniel.” I lowered the papers and pressed them to me.
“The ones she tore out and hid. Wrote a confession on them too, didn’t she? Yes, I know all about it.” Sylvia allowed the gun to dangle from her crooked fingers. “I visited Rose, you see. Many times. Lydia wasn’t always around.”
“Using your key to get into the house.” I inched a few steps to the left, incrementally closer to the front door.
“Exactly. At first I just wanted to hear all the old family stories. Someone needed to preserve that history.” Sylvia shrugged. “Lydia always seemed so disinterested. Too wrapped up in her torrid love affair with that painter. Oh, didn’t you know what a passionate thing Lydia was back in the day?” Sylvia clucked her tongue. “Shameful, the way they carried on.”
“They were married.”
“Yes, but still . . .” Sylvia patted her hair. “I’ve had my share of lovers, but there’s a time and a place. Lydia and Andrew seemed to feel that place was anywhere.”
An image of Richard filled my mind, and I knew I would feel the same as my aunt. Especially if we were an established couple.
You have to live long enough to make that happen, Amy.
Yes, I had to live. Somehow. I held out the herbal pages. “Is this what you want? Go on, take them. It’s just history now, anyway.”
“Is it? Rose killed Eleanora, you know. Ah, you guessed that already. Well, I prefer not to have one of my ancestor’s murderous actions exposed, if you don’t mind.”
The irony of this brought a sharp retort to my lips, but I clamped my mouth shut. Sylvia was already burning with some strange insane passion. No use adding fuel to her fire.
“How do you know she killed Eleanora? I never would’ve imagined that. Before I saw this, I mean.” I stretched out my arm. “Here, take them.”
Sylvia snatched the pages from my hand. “She told me. Rose rambled quite a bit, but in the midst of all the nonsense, there were moments of lucidity. And once, when I think she mistook me for her mother, she confessed. Not how she did it. She never said that. Just talked about getting justice, but then she cried that maybe it hadn’t been and moaned about guilt, as well as something about a prison. ‘Cold and dark,’ she said.”
Cold and dark. The words my mother had used when she’d fled this house after Rose’s funeral. I shivered. “That was after the orphanage tragedy. After she knew she might’ve been wrong about Eleanora.”
Sylvia stuffed the pages into her pocket. “Poor thing, she really seemed to suffer. Started at shadows like she saw ghosts. Kept saying she felt betrayed because she thought she’d done the right thing. She couldn’t believe she’d been wrong but was terrified she had been. And so on. A tortured soul, in the end.”
I slid a few more inches to the left. “So it wasn’t just protecting your illegal deals and your investment in the mayor’s development. It wasn’t simply hiding the family’s involvement in the orphanage cover-up either—you wanted to make sure no one found out about Rose.”
“Yes. Didn’t want people putting two and two together. Orphanage well and Daniel Cooper’s well—not a big leap.”
“No, it isn’t. Richard’s been using Daniel Cooper’s old well. He had to have some medical tests, and the doctors found seriously elevated levels of iron in his blood. It wasn’t hard to figure out the entire story from there.”
“You see”—Sylvia swung the gun up, pointing it at me—“much too clever, little girl.”
“But you can’t just disappear. People can’t, these days.”
“Maybe not without a lot of money. But I have a lot of money, and most of it is in foreign banks.” Sylvia took several steps toward me. “The kind of banks that are very, very protective of their clients.”
My hip bumped into the side table that sat against the staircase wall. Acting on instinct, I grabbed the ceramic bowl and threw it at Sylvia, knocking the gun from her hand. As she shrieked a string of swearwords, I spun on my heel and made a run for the front door.
Sylvia ignored the gun and leapt to her feet. I slid my cell phone from my pocket, hoping I could punch in 9-1-1 before she reached me.
She was fast though, faster than I expected. She clutched my arm and slammed my hand against the table, sending my phone sailing into the opposite wall.
I tripped her, sending her sprawling. Before I could do anything besides scoop up my phone, Sylvia sat up, holding her head. My kick had sent her smashing into the wall. She was groggy and incapacitated. But not for long.
Run, Amy. Time to run.
I headed for the back porch. The garden would hide me for a while. At least long enough for me to make a call.
Shoving my way through the unlocked back door, I took the stairs two at a time to reach the ground. Hopping over the gravel as it bit into my feet, I dashed into the heart of the garden, where the waving fronds of chamomile and plate-sized borage leaves would hide me from immediate view.
The back door swung open. Sylvia stood on the top step, surveying the garden. Light spilling from the back porch glinted off the gun in her right hand.
Stupid, Amy, you should’ve grabbed that gun. Too late now. I swore at myself and tapped my phone. It didn’t light up. Frantically pressing the power button, I realized it was broken. That smash against the wall had been more destructive than I’d imagined.
Sylvia must’ve spied the movement of my hands or shadow. She dashed down the main pea-gravel path as if pursued by devils.
Or ghosts. She’s probably created a lot of ghosts, I thought and had to bite my lip to stifle a burst of hysterical laughter.
I circled around the flowerbed, hoping Sylvia would keep to the main path, but when a dark figure loomed before me, I knew she’d cut off my escape. I flung out my hands in a panic.
She grabbed me and spun me around to pull my arms behind my back. “I’d blow your brains out right now, except I don’t want to draw the attention of that deputy out front. So come along, back into the house, and let’s discuss this matter in private.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” I twisted and looked up into Sylvia’s face, then shrank back. Her eyes had gone blank, and her lips were curled away from her teeth like a rabid animal. I pulled one hand free and raked my nails across her cheek. She grunted and thrust me aside, her fingers catching on one of the sunburst medallions on my tunic. It popped free and sailed into a tangle of dark foliage.
That was how it happened, I thought as I shoved Sylvia with more force than I thought possible. That was how Eleanora’s brooch was lost in the garden.
Because Eleanora must’ve struggled too. Hit back against Rose. Fought for her life.
Sylvia swore under her breath as she tumbled to the ground but kept her grip on her gun. I wanted to pry it from her fingers but stepped back instead. Grabbing the gun was a foolish risk, particularly now, when Sylvia’s anger might drive her to use it indiscriminately.
But I had to do something. I knew once she regained her footing, she would come for me again. Running to the front of the house and flagging down the deputy was my first choice, but the open stretch between the house and gardens would make me a perfect target—especially if Sylvia was now willing to shoot and damn the consequences.
There was only one avenue of escape. I had to head for the woods and take the path Richard had shown me. Maybe I could circle around the side of his house and reach the road without giving Sylvia an opportunity for a clean shot.
; My bare feet would be ripped to shreds by the rough path, but I would grit my teeth against such pain. It was better than a bullet.
I reached the trees just as I once again heard the crunch of hard-soled shoes on pea gravel. Sylvia was close on my heels.
I dove into the woods, searching desperately for the path. Batting aside blackberry vines, I finally found it. I was limping by this point, but I forced my body forward.
Pain cannot stop you. Keep going, no matter what. You must.
Behind me, thin limbs and dead leaves crackled. I knew what that meant. Sylvia was close. Too close.
Run, Amy. Don’t think. Run.
I flew through the arbor, my feet barely hitting the ground. As I reached the far side, I heard Sylvia calling.
“Amy, you really can’t get away, you know.”
The hell with that. I dashed out into Richard’s yard.
But I hadn’t considered the illumination of his back porch spotlight. There was a crack like a large branch breaking, and something whistled over my head.
A bullet. I zigzagged as Sylvia took another shot. Although she apparently wasn’t quite the crack shot she thought she was, I couldn’t stay out in the open. It was too dangerous, with the yard so open and brightly lit.
I choked back a sob and veered right, heading back into the woods.
My big toe caught on the edge of a low stone wall. I stumbled forward, my arms outstretched, beating at the empty air.
The well. I fell onto my hands and knees. The rotten wood boards groaned and gave way, plunging me down.
Down into the cold. Down into the dark.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I fell, the boards still beneath me, and hit bottom with a jolt.
The well was dry, but a thick layer of silt cushioned the boards as they crashed to the bottom, protecting me from serious injury. The silt shifted under my weight, and I panicked, imagining sinking into that dark mass of dirt and debris. But thankfully the boards, which were lashed together, had pressed tightly against the sides of the well, preventing them from tipping. After a moment, the boards settled like a raft on a calm sea.
Sitting up, I uncurled from the ball I’d instinctively tucked into as I fell. I tested my limbs, leaning against one side of the well and touching the other side with my toes. I winced. My left ankle throbbed and appeared to be swelling. Glancing down I realized that the pain radiating up my arm was due to my right wrist, which was twisted at an odd angle. I attempted to open and close my right hand, and my fingers barely moved. Great—at least one sprained ankle and a broken wrist. Not much chance I could climb out under my own power.
Not that it would’ve been likely anyway. As I glanced upward, I noted the moss-slicked stones as well as the distance between me and the circle of sky. Even someone in top physical shape would have had difficulty climbing out without a ladder or rope.
As I stared longingly into the violet twilight, a shadowy form obscured my view. Sylvia, leaning over the opening to the well.
“Just like fish in a barrel,” she said, pointing her gun at me.
“No, no, no,” I said in a voice that was far too calm for the situation. It was shock, turning an unimaginable situation into something like a slow-motion dream.
As Sylvia leveled the gun at me, I closed my eyes, hoping it would be over quickly. Just let it be over. Let it be done.
A gust of wind whistled over the well, knocking Sylvia backward. The gun fired, but the bullet sped heavenward, rendered harmless by its unexpected trajectory.
That was odd. All had been still before that sudden gust. There was not even a breeze stirring the leaves this evening. It was as if the gust had appeared out of nowhere, like invisible hands shoving Sylvia aside and throwing off her aim.
I said a little prayer of thanks while Sylvia swore loudly. “Lucky girl,” she yelled. “I’m out of ammunition.” She peered down at me. “Or maybe not so lucky. If no one finds you in time, I’m afraid you’ll be wishing for a bullet before the end.”
She laughed and turned away. The clear evening sky once again filled the circle above my head, and I heard her footsteps grow fainter and fainter.
Wish for a bullet? No. Because I knew someone would find me. Somehow. Someone had to find me.
Sirens pierced the evening air. I straightened and began to scream for help. Surely they would hear me. They would hear, and discover me, and pull me out of this dank stinking hole.
But then I heard the sound of a car speeding away. The sirens followed and faded.
They were chasing Sylvia. Who would never tell them where I was. Who was leading them away.
Continuing to scream was probably fruitless, but I had to try. I yelled for help over and over, until my voice grew so hoarse, it was simply a raspy whisper.
Exhausted, I slumped against the damp stone wall. Groundwater seeped through the stones, soaking the back of my tunic. Cradling my injured wrist in my lap, I examined my circular prison.
The stones were old and worn smooth. No decent foot or handholds even if I could bear the pain of my ankle and wrist long enough to attempt a climb. I looked closer, noticing the vegetation that had wormed its way between the stones, creating a lattice. I grabbed one slender snaking vine and tugged until it broke off in my hand. Well, that was no use. The vines were certainly not strong enough to hold my weight.
Maybe there was something down in the silt that could help. A chain from an old bucket, perhaps. That was unlikely, but I had to consider every option.
Yes, think. Analyze and plan. No matter how futile, it was important to keep my mind occupied. Otherwise, I knew I would lose it.
I sucked in a deep breath, almost choking on the acrid scent tainting the air. Minerals, I thought. Iron, copper, and other minerals, dissolved in the groundwater. Seeping into the rock and dirt.
Pressing my back into the stones behind me, I gingerly slid my left hand between the edge of the boards and the wall and thrust it into the silt.
I gagged as my fingers explored the thick muck. It was deeper than I expected—I couldn’t reach the bottom of the well, even when I leaned over and thrust my arm in up to the elbow.
But my fingers hit something hard. A sharp object, slick as glass. Perhaps there really was something I could use to do . . . something. I yanked my arm back, and it pulled free with a sucking sound. My fingers still clutched the thing they’d encountered. I lifted my hand up to examine the object in the faint light spilling into the well.
And screamed again. Repeatedly, until I finally lost my voice completely.
It was a bone. A human bone, bare of any flesh, worn smooth by time and the elements. A finger.
Glued to the bit of finger by a thick glob of mud, a simple gold band still glimmered beneath a patina of silt.
Using deep breaths to calm myself, I laid the bone in my lap. I stared at the ring for some time, considering whether to remove it to check for any inscription.
But of course, I didn’t have to. I knew whose ring it was.
I knew that I’d discovered the answer to the final question.
I had found Eleanora Cooper.
* * *
Time passed like episodes in a dream—disjointed and submerged in shadows. Pain washed over me in waves, but I almost welcomed it. The throbbing in my ankle and burning ache in my wrist told me I could feel. And if I could feel, I was still alive.
I drifted in and out of consciousness for a while, dreaming of dancing with Richard, only to wake to the reality of my cold dark prison.
Cold and dark. Great-Grandmother Rose had spoken those words when she was old and wracked with guilt. I now knew why. Because she’d left Eleanora Cooper in this terrible place. But dead or alive? I rather hoped Rose had tossed Eleanora’s lifeless body here, but something whispered that Eleanora had plunged into this well as I had, fleeing her pursuer. It only made sense. Eleanora had fled a murderous Rose, only to tumble into an already abandoned well.
And Rose had left her here. To die. Alo
ne.
In the cold and the dark.
I touched my forefinger to the ring on the skeletal finger. A wedding ring.
No longer terrified, I now felt only pity for a woman who had tragically lost her young husband only to be accused of his murder by her husband’s friends. People who’d never accepted her. Who always thought the worst of the stranger, the outsider.
She had suffered through Daniel’s illness and his death and then a trial. Acquitted, she’d been attacked by her neighbor’s daughter and had died, slowly and horribly.
And alone. I allowed my tears to fall, afraid to raise my filthy hand to my eyes. Eleanora hadn’t even been granted the grace to be buried beside her beloved husband.
No wonder Great-Grandmother Rose had lost her mind when she learned what had happened at the orphanage. She had thought killing Eleanora was justified until she’d heard that well water could kill as effectively as hemlock or cyanide, though more insidiously. Such knowledge would’ve planted the seed of doubt, and the guilt would have grown, wrapping around her like a vine, poisoning her mind.
Rose was not to blame for the dementia that had plagued her later years, but I wondered if her true break from reality had started much earlier. She’d carried the terrible secret of Eleanora’s death for years until she was told another secret with the power to shatter her carefully constructed palace of justice. A hidden truth that had forced her to face her guilt, if not confess it.
I stared up at the circle of sky above my head—the same sky Eleanora would’ve seen as she died. The same stars winking against an indigo sweep of heaven.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Something blotted out the sky for a moment, and a light shone down, blinding me.
“She’s over here!” yelled a voice.
A blessed voice. A miraculous light.
I lifted my left arm and waved it as hard as I could. “Hello, hello,” I croaked.
“Amy!” shouted another voice. One I knew and loved.
A Murder for the Books Page 27