The Spirit of Grace

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  His face looked ashen. He had circles under his eyes, and for a moment I wondered if he were ill.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not. I am a man who has made a huge mistake.”

  “Are you talking about--”

  “My marriage? Yes. What was I thinking, marrying a woman who is so much younger than I?”

  “Perhaps you were flattered?” I wanted to scream out what I knew about Vivian, but didn’t dare. At some point I would tell my father exactly what his wife was. Now was not the time.

  “I was a fool. Never mind that. I’m sorry I need to cut this conversation short, but I need to finish packing. Zeke is driving me to the airport this afternoon.” He stood up and walked over to his bed, where he flipped open the lid of his suitcase.

  “Did Viv--Grace tell you that Anca quit?”

  He put a stack of folded shirts into his suitcase. “Not only does Grace have a hot temper, she is impetuous, and I’m sorry if she showed Anca disrespect. Surely you didn’t expect Anca to live with us and take care of you forever.”

  “I don’t think this was planned,” I said. “She never mentioned it to me.”

  “Sarah, Anca told me that she was planning on leaving. I didn’t tell you because she wanted to be the one to do it. This little spat with my wife just hurried the inevitable.” He put two pairs of pajamas into the case and shut the lid once again.

  “So that’s that,” I said, resigned to the idea of life without Anca.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Do you mind if I use the car to run into town before you leave?” I asked.

  “Sure, just be back in an hour.”

  I kissed his cheek and headed back to my room. I took the letter that I had stolen from Gran’s office, and put it in my purse, where I knew it would be safe from prying eyes. If I hurried, I could make it to town, speak to Sheriff Carpenter, and be back before my father had to leave for the airport. The sheriff needed to know that Vivian had a motive. I didn’t have to go far. He and Zeke were in my father’s office, talking to each other in lowered voices. They stopped talking when I came into the room. Zeke smiled at me briefly, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Oh, I was just coming to see you,” I said to Sheriff Carpenter. I wondered if he had ever investigated a murder before, never mind that the victim was someone with whom he had more than a passing acquaintance. The sheriff and Gran were old friends, and I had often wondered if Sheriff Carpenter held a torch for my strong-willed grandmother.

  “What can I do for you, Sarah Jane?”

  I had Zeke’s attention now, too. I shut the office door and walked over to his desk. He had sat down, and Sheriff Carpenter was perched on the corner, one leg swinging. I took the letter my mother had written to Gran and handed it to Sheriff Carpenter.

  “When did you find that?” Zeke asked.

  “Yesterday. I meant to tell you after I found it but--” I didn’t want to remind him of our conversation, the tragedy that befell him, and the honesty which put a chasm between us that now seemed insurmountable.

  “Where did you say you found this?” Sheriff Carpenter asked. The hand that held the letter trembled.

  “Gran’s house,” I said. Before Sheriff Carpenter could scold, I rambled on. “I know I wasn’t supposed to go in there, but everyone thinks I’m the one who killed her. I need to prove I didn’t--”

  “What did you hope to find?” At least he had enough tact to refrain from scolding me.

  “I don’t know. I just searched the house. The envelope was sticking out from underneath the carpet in the living room.”

  “Well, I would say Vivian Mason has motive to kill Gran.” Zeke had read the letter and handed it back to Sheriff Carpenter.

  The sheriff put it in his shirt pocket. “Miss Bennett--Sarah, we never thought you were a suspect. We just didn’t want Vivian--your stepmother--to know we are watching her.”

  “I’m certain this woman murdered the real Grace Kensington. What are we going to do about that?” I asked.

  “Nothing, right now,” the sheriff said.

  “My mother’s murder--and her aunt’s--are just not important, I guess.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my voice. “My god, she burned them alive! Doesn’t anyone care about that? Why is that not important?”

  “Think before you shout.” Zeke stood up from the desk and leaned close to me. “She’ll hear you, and then we’ll have bigger problems,” he whispered.

  “Don’t you touch me,” I hissed, wriggling out of his grasp.

  My words cut Zeke. The hurt flashed through his eyes. He recoiled and stepped away. The muscles along his jaw line flexed as he clenched his teeth. He was angry at me now.

  I didn’t care. I was tired of being brushed aside and lied to.

  “This whole case is going to be turned over to the FBI. They want to find out who this woman is working with and what she actually knows. We’ve received intelligence that has led to a smattering of arrests over the past few days, but no one’s talking--they’re afraid of whoever they answer to, the higher-ups in the organization. Once we get a handle on the magnitude of their operation, they will investigate the murders that she committed. Meanwhile, you need to stay out of her way.” Sheriff Carpenter spoke in a soft voice that I had to strain to hear. “I wonder if we should move you someplace safe.”

  “Won’t that be a little suspicious? I think I should stay here and carry on as usual. She doesn’t suspect anything.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to her,” Zeke said.

  “I’m a phone call away. You can call me any time, even at home. Okay? You have my number?”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I’m sorry that you have to go through all this. We’ll get her for your grandmother’s murder, and we’ll get her for Grace Kensington’s murder too. I promise you that,” Sheriff Carpenter said as he stood up.

  After he had gone, Zeke and I were alone in the office. Zeke fidgeted with the papers on his desk. He looked at me as if he wanted to say something, but changed his mind. When he turned his attention back to his notebooks and lists, I walked out of the room.

  Chapter 14

  Once in my room, I closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, glad for the sanctuary of my own space. I sat on the bed, not quite sure what to do with myself. Zeke had gotten the car from the garage. From the vantage point of my window, I watched as he pulled the car up to the front door. He turned off the engine. I heard footsteps on the gravel below and my father’s voice as he spoke to Zeke. Their voices were clear and easy to hear through my window, which was cracked open for fresh air.

  “You’ve taken care of my reservations at the Algonquin?”

  “I reserved a suite. Your luncheon appointments and speaking engagements are confirmed and noted in your calendar. You were going to make your own dinner plans.”

  “That’s right. Good man.”

  The car doors slammed, Zeke loaded the luggage in the trunk, and soon the car drove away, leaving Anca and me alone with Vivian. I would rest easier when Zeke was back from the airport. After my father was settled in at the Algonquin, I would call him and tell him everything I had discovered about his wife. Telling him was the decent thing to do, and I wasn’t going to wait until he got home. I’d call him, never mind the continual admonition over the radio and in the newspapers about using the phone lines for unnecessary long-distance calls. I knew that the telephone lines needed to be kept free for the war effort and should only be used in an emergency. This was an emergency.

  ***

  When the pipes started banging as Vivian drew her bath, I eased out my bedroom door, careful not to make any noise, and tip-toed down the hall to her bedroom. I stood still, and listened until the bathwater stopped running. Copying the detectives in the mysteries that I loved, I used an unbent hairpin as a key, sticking into the keyhole like I had seen in the movies and wriggling it until the lock gave way. I had never ventured into lock picking before,
but the locks on the interior doors at Bennett House were simple enough to make my task easy. I crossed over the threshold and into her room.

  After a minute my eyes adjusted to the dark. I could see Vivian had made a lot of changes to this room she had claimed as her own. Midnight blue curtains now hung in the windows. She had painted the room a shade of light blue, which reminded me of the beach in summertime. The bed, a mahogany four-poster that had been taken from the guest room down the hall--God only knows how she managed to move it--was covered with a white counterpane.

  She had chosen the most valuable knickknacks from those that were scattered around the house. I recognized a Limoges vase that Gran had given to my adoptive mother, Jessica, along with a silver inkwell that had belonged to my great grandfather. She had taken two silver candelabras from the dining room. They each held five white tapered candles, which now provided sufficient light to make the room stylish and inviting despite the lack of electricity. The seascapes that she stole from my room now hung over the small secretary that she used for a writing desk. I wanted to snatch the pictures off the wall, but thought better of it. Logic and reason needed to guide me now.

  I froze as the bathroom door started to open, then I flew into the open wardrobe and tucked myself in the farthest corner. Vivian came into the room, unaware that I hid in her big armoire, not three feet from where she stood, watching every move she made. Through the hanging dresses that served as my camouflage, I saw her bare feet, pale and white with toes painted blood red. She set the lone candle she carried on her dresser, walked over to the wardrobe, and came to a stop inches away from me. I held my breath as she took a peignoir off one of the hangers before closing the wardrobe door and returning to the bathroom.

  After several minutes had passed, I stepped out, still and silent until Vivian was back in the tub, humming and splashing. I moved catlike through the room, opening the drawers to her nightstand, her dresser, her desk, looking for my passport and birth certificate and for anything that would tie her to my mother, Grace Kensington, and expose her for what she was. I needed to do this--this was my way of avenging Grace Kensington’s death--but my search was in vain. I could have searched the pockets of Vivian’s clothes, but it would take too long to rifle through every garment.

  An old leather satchel lay open on the bed. I opened it up and fished around inside to find a compact, a wallet, and an old tube of lipstick. I opened the wallet--empty. My birth certificate and passport weren’t in this room. Where would I hide something if I didn’t want anyone else to find it? I turned around, taking in my surroundings as a whole.

  I was about to abandon my search all together, when I noticed that the mattress was crooked on the bed, as though someone had changed the sheets but hadn’t bothered to put things back. I ran my hand between the mattress and the box spring and found an envelope made of thick paper fastened shut with a bendable metal clasp. I pulled it out of its hiding place. Before I opened it, I listened to make sure Vivian was still in the tub. The splashing had stopped and the room was silent. I hoped that she had leaned back and was soaking in the scented bubbles.

  I unbent the metal clasps, opened the envelope, and pulled a piece of microfilm, thin as paper yet stiff as cardboard. I held the film up to the light, but couldn’t make out the imagery on it. Not sure what to do, I put it back in the envelope and in turn slid the envelope back between the mattress and box spring.

  I had read about devices that spies used to convey messages. Ingenious inventions, such as cameras shaped like pens and tubes of lipstick were standard fare for a modern spy. I wasn’t surprised that my stepmother would carry microfilm. Here was evidence of her treasonous activities. What to do about it? Nothing. I would wait until Zeke got home.

  Back in my own room, I locked the door behind me. I stoked the fire and curled up with my father’s book. His storytelling didn’t captivate me like the British mysteries that I favored, but there was something about my father’s prose that I found familiar and comfortable.

  I enjoyed the novel’s premise, wherein a young woman attends college, despite the obstacles put before her due to her sex. Of course, someone is murdered and the heroine is the suspect. She solves the crime and wins the affection of her young, handsome professor, with whom she falls in love. My father’s characters had depth and breadth to them and were crafted with a sensitivity that was almost feminine. I had no idea my father could write at all, never mind step out of himself so completely. He had channeled Jessica’s death and the ensuing grief into something positive, for Jessica’s influence was everywhere in the book. Some of the main character’s mannerisms and colloquialisms I recognized as hers.

  When I finished reading, I closed the book and set it on my nightstand. At least now I could say that I had indeed read my father’s debut novel and discuss it with him if the need arose. I picked up The Circular Staircase by Mary Roberts Rinehart, a perennial favorite that I would read next, and soon became lost in the story.

  The sun was starting to go down when Anca knocked on my door. My stepmother had requested a dinner tray in her room, so Anca and I agreed to eat dinner in the kitchen together, like we had done a thousand times before.

  We listened to “Nazi Eyes on Canada” on the radio for as long as we could handle hearing about Hitler’s plans for world domination. I flipped the switch, turning the show off. I had had enough violence to last a lifetime.

  We agreed to read to each other from Life Magazine, where we could pick and choose what we wanted to hear. We read about society weddings and other stories not war related. If Anca noticed that I had taken to carrying the shotgun with me and had propped it against the wall near the refectory table where we sat, she didn’t let on. We read and talked, reminiscing about old times until we were both ready for bed. Anca stood up from the table and bid me good night. She went to pick up the tray that was littered with our tea cups, saucers, and the now empty plate which had been piled high with my favorite cookies.

  “I’ll take care of that,” I said.

  She smiled at me and said good night for the last time. Tomorrow she would leave us for good.

  “Will you please lock your door tonight?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t ask me why I requested this. She trusted me enough to comply without question.

  I cleaned up our dishes and, with my shotgun in tow, went upstairs to bed.

  Zeke should be back from the airport by now. What was taking him so long? Unable to sleep, afraid of the things I couldn’t see, I put on warm clothes and kept a restless vigil by my open window, hoping all the while that Zeke would return soon.

  Hours went by. Zeke did not appear. It must have been around midnight when I decided to make myself some hot cocoa. I closed the window, pulled the blackout curtains tight, and lit the candle by my bed. I decided against bringing the shotgun downstairs with me, knowing full well that I couldn’t shoot someone while carrying cocoa. In the kitchen, the open curtains allowed the moon to cast her glow on the old flagstone floor. Outside the oleander swayed, the moonlight shimmered on its leaves like silvery filigree. Using my candle, I lit the gas stove and turned the blue flame on high. I had just taken one of the copper pans off the shelf when a figure dressed in dark clothing crept across the back lawn toward the woods. Without thinking, I turned off the stove, blew out my candle, and headed into the night.

  Vivian, with her fashionable hair style, her well-groomed feet, and closet full of elegant clothes, didn’t strike me as someone who would spend her free time trekking through the woods, messing up her hair and smudging her makeup. She knew the path that wove parallel to the beach and took it tonight, with only the moon to light her way.

  I followed her, knowing that we would wind up in town, avoiding the beach proper. She left the safety of the trees and shrubs and stepped onto the main street, behind the post office. She headed toward the community center, a non-descript wooden building, painted white, with a shale roof that was forever in need of repair. Tonight a dance was i
n full swing. I recognized a Benny Goodman tune and wondered at the live dance band in Bennett Cove.

  On first glance, the blacked-out community center windows made the building appear dark and desolate, but the sound of the orchestra and the people who milled about outside revealed the buzz of activity that took place inside. I could see Vivian now. She dashed into some bushes and, in a matter of seconds, stepped out of them dressed in a sky-blue silk dress and off-white high heels. Her metamorphosis was remarkable. There was no evidence of her trek on foot from Bennett House. She came out of those bushes looking like she had been driven to town by a chauffeur. Rather than going in to the dance, she walked past the front door and into the darkened alley on the side of the building. I marveled at her professionalism as I followed her, ducking along in the shadows and using the bushes for cover. A series of waste bins were lined up near the door by the community center’s kitchen. I ducked behind them and watched my stepmother as she approached a man dressed in civilian clothes.

  The band was too loud for me to hear what they were saying, but by some fortuitous coincidence, the musicians took their break, and I was able to hear every word of Vivian’s clandestine tryst. The man she met was not a love interest. She kept too much of a distance for any intimacy. When he stepped close to her, perhaps so they wouldn’t be overheard, she stepped away, as if she didn’t trust him. He was shorter than she, which wasn’t saying much, because she was a tall woman. The man to whom she spoke was dressed like a dock worker, with a tattered pea coat, a dark knit cap, and heavy corduroy trousers--common working attire for the men who made their living catching fish in the waters off Bennett Cove, the same fishermen who now went out with radar--provided by the military--to look for submarines.

  His shoes gave him away. The shiny black oxfords were polished to such a high shine the moonbeams bounced off them. These were not the shoes of a dock worker or a fisherman. They were city shoes. I crept behind the waste bins, moving closer to where they stood.