“When I saw you pull up in front of the Dysons’,” she began before I had made it to the doorway, “I knew they wouldn’t see you.”
“They’ve been through quite a lot.”
“We all have.” She didn’t look up at me.
Immediately I began to worry about eye contact, concerned that my size would make her feel uncomfortable. How would I look at her? Where would I sit? Was all the furniture in the house her size?
“A lot of people worry about that,” she said matter-of-factly.
I froze in the doorway.
“Did I say something?”
It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d spoken a thought out loud without realizing it. Crawling through the caverns of my brain has always been a little like spelunking without a light.
“I read faces,” she said softly, “not minds. Lots of people worry about where to sit, where to look when they first visit me. I choose to think it’s sweet: people are concerned about my feelings. Don’t worry.”
The house was my size. To the right there was a living room with a stone fireplace, built-in bookshelves on either side. To my left a pair of French doors led to a study. Beyond the living room lay the dining room through a large, rounded archway. A grand art nouveau chandelier hung over a dark, mahogany Empire table.
The living room was immediately comfortable: a worn leather chair, a sturdy sofa from the 1930s, an expensive Oriental rug on the floor, burgundy and blue. There was even a fire in the fireplace. I shed my leather jacket.
Judy took the chair, indicated the sofa for me.
“You’re looking for answers about my girls,” she began before I had settled in on the sofa.
“I am.”
“You’re having trouble with the sheriff in that regard.” she went on. “Which is troubling to you, because he’s your friend.”
“You say you’re not clairvoyant,” I told her, smiling, “but if you keep divining facts like those, I’ll never believe you.”
“Given your father’s profession,” she sighed, staring into the fire, “I wouldn’t imagine you’d need to be told the tricks of the trade.”
I wasn’t entirely surprised that this woman would know my father’s occupation. Lots of people in Blue Mountain still remembered my parents’ odd traveling show. It had been disbanded for over a decade, but stories still circulated about my father’s magic act, and my mother: his lovely assistant. They’d performed several tricks that had never been explained and were the subject of some conjecture in the world of professional magicians—a world I knew nothing about.
“What’s the surest way to guess the outcome of any problem?” she went on.
“To already know the answer before someone asks the question.” Clearly.
“I feel I already know you,” she said, a strange non sequitur. “You look a little like my beau. He has white hair, though his comes from being an albino whereas yours comes from worry.”
“I look like your boyfriend?” I shifted on the sofa, trying to get a little eye contact.
“Same jawline, same lips.” She finally turned my way, smiling. “Of course, he’s cuter to me, but you’re both pretty fine.” She locked her eyes on mine.
“Thanks,” I said, taken aback by her bold stare.
“He’s Orvid Newcomb.”
“Your boyfriend is a Newcomb?” I didn’t even bother to hide my surprise.
The Newcomb family had been our most prominent one when the area around the mountain was first settled. The town had, in fact, been called Newcomb Junction until the 1920s. The family had grown gothic and spooky by then, and a quasi-incestuous relationship had produced several children who were born small. One of these offspring, Tristan, the famous, self-named Newcomb Dwarf, had owned the traveling show that had employed my parents. Blurting out the particulars of their family always seemed odd to the casual visitor in Blue Mountain, but to most natives it was nothing special, like people who live in New York and take the Empire State Building for granted.
“Orvid’s the reason I live here.” She returned her gaze to the fire. “We met in Chattanooga, but he wanted to come home. Maybe you can understand that.”
Once again I had the eerie sensation that she was inside my mind. Like Orvid, I was an odd prodigal, gone from our town for years, always swearing never to return. But something had drawn me back—was it really only two years ago? I told myself I’d come back to collect folklore, even admitted that Lucinda had been a part of my decision. But as I sat in Judy Dare’s living room, I suspected that Orvid and I might have returned to Blue Mountain for other reasons. Maybe we’d come back to see if the town was ready to accept us for what we were, take us in. Maybe we were hoping the place would seem like home—at last.
“What makes you think I’m having trouble with Sheriff Needle?” I asked, mostly to shake darker thoughts from my mind.
“He came by. Told me not to talk to you. That seemed odd. Didn’t you two work together on that mess with Truevine Deveroe?”
“We’ve worked together on things since we were boys,” I answered her solemnly. “But that was before he became sheriff.”
“It’s a big responsibility,” she agreed. “But he’s missing a bet with you. You’re the one to do it.”
Her eyes welled, and she sniffed twice, finally reaching in her pocket for a tissue.
“Do what?” I leaned forward a little.
“You’re not as ignorant as most around here,” she said, dabbing her nose, “but you’ve got the same kind of stubbornness with words and ideas.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Getting folks to admit they know the time of day around here,” she shot back, “is like pulling hen’s teeth.”
“Oh,” I sighed. “That. I do find it frustrating.”
“But you do it yourself,” she insisted. “You’re doing it right now!”
Her voice was getting higher, and her face reddened.
“You can’t be wandering around town picking up trash on the side of the railroad tracks and visiting these old fat boys and the junkyard.” Her voice was iron. “You have to help me!”
“Help you do what?” I implored, at sea.
“You have to help me get who killed my girls!”
Five
It took several moments for Judy to calm down, and even then her hands were still shaking.
“There’s no evidence at this point that anyone killed those girls,” I said as soothingly as I could manage.
“Don’t insult me,” she snapped. “Don’t insult God. God does not take away a treasure, only something evil will do that.”
“The girls were something special,” I had to admit, mostly to veer her away from her emotional gestalt.
“You don’t know how they were,” she sniffed. “The first night I was ever in their house, had dinner with them, they were nothing but tads then. I was supposed to be the babysitter. We were all sitting around, looking down at the dishes and talking about this and that, and Rory spoke right up and said, ‘So, Judy—pardon me for saying so, but you seem to be a midget.’ I thought her mother would die.”
“Sara is easily embarrassed.” I grinned. “What did you say?”
“I let out a big old laugh.” Judy’s face was transformed with the memory of the girls. “‘Well, I’ll tell you, Rory,’ I said, ‘I am. That’s just what I am, although most of us prefer to be called little people now days.’ She says, ‘Like the leprechauns?’ Her mother made her apologize to me but I said, ‘Being little isn’t a disease; it’s okay to talk about it. In fact, I kind of hate when people don’t talk about it and try to pretend it doesn’t exist, you know—I mean, I am shorter than anybody here.’ And Tess stands up and says, ‘I don’t know, I might have you beat.’”
Judy looked up at me.
“Children get right to the heart of the matter, is my point.” Judy sighed. “They don’t mind talking, don’t beat around the bush.”
“I understand you were close to them
.”
“You don’t understand a thing,” she said plainly.
“All right, then explain it to me.”
“Explain what?” she growled.
Asking the right questions in a situation where you don’t know the answers is as much a matter of psychology as anything else. For years I’d asked people as ornery as Judy about their lives the same way. I knew there was treasure to be had, but I didn’t know what it was, or how deeply it was buried.
Ask a question, then be quiet and listen, I always used to tell my students. You can miss a lot if you’re trying to think up your next question when the informant is talking.
“Tell me about Orvid.” I sat back. “You brought him up for a reason.”
“He’s little, if that’s what you mean,” she said, but it was nothing more than a statement of fact, “and he’s what they call albino, white as milk. His hair’s snow white, and his eyes are pinkish, and he can’t go out in the sun long or it would kill him.”
“You met him in Chattanooga,” I prompted.
“I was standing at the bus stop in front of the Aquarium in the middle of the afternoon.” She smiled unconsciously. “There was a kind of a gang of young tough boys and they were bothering me. Big, tanned college boys from Florida, I think. They were drunk. They would run at me, and at the last possible moment, they’d leapfrog over my head. So close it would mess up my hair. I was scared.”
“Unbelievable. Were they saying anything?”
“Calling me names.” She shrugged. “I’d heard them all before.”
“Terrifying.” I shook my head.
“Then,” she said sweetly, “out of nowhere comes Orvid. His legs are kind of bowed out the way a lot of little people’s legs are, and he walked with a cane. It was quite stylish: a wooden stick near as high as he was tall, with a shiny silver knob at the top and a metal cap of some kind at the bottom. I was scared to death, but Orvid seemed completely calm and even looked at his watch to see what time it was as he came to stand beside me at the bus stop. He told me, real quiet, that the bus would be along any minute and not to worry. Said he’d wait with me. I felt better.”
She sat back, her smile bigger.
I had in my mind the image of the white-white, little man and the big, tanned boys leaping. I resisted the urge to comment.
“The college boys kept on saying things to us,” she went on, swallowing, “and I was afraid they might do something worse when one of them made the mistake of going to jump over Orvid’s head. Now, I didn’t even see Orvid move except kind of out of the corner of my eye, but just as the man cleared the top of Orvid’s hair and before his feet even hit the ground, Orvid grabbed ahold of the silver knob at the top of the cane and drew out the longest, meanest-looking knife blade I ever hope to see.”
“The boy landed on top of it?” I leaned forward.
“Astride,” she said casually. “Orvid turned that blade up so that the boy was kind of frozen, straddling the blade, and afraid to move. The other boys stopped talking all of a sudden. I mean, I’m sorry to say this, but that blade was a quarter of an inch away from making that boy a gelding.”
Judy didn’t look me in the eye.
“I was so scared, I couldn’t speak,” she went on, “but Orvid said to the boy, more calm than ever, ‘Don’t you think you should apologize to my date for scaring her?’ and the boy said, right away, ‘Absolutely. Ma’am, I am heartily sorry for disturbing you.’ And at that exact moment the bus pulled up.”
She grinned at me then.
“What did you do?”
“I jumped on the bus!” She smoothed her hair behind one ear. “Orvid put his cane back together and followed me right on. We sat all the way in the back and he escorted me to the house where I was staying.”
“You were living in Chattanooga?” I asked.
“Studying. I was taking my degree.”
“Really?” I leaned her way. “What was your course of study?”
“Dental assistant for juveniles,” she told me confidently. “That’s my line of work.”
“And Orvid saw you home that afternoon,” I coaxed.
“And he asked me out right away.” She blushed. “I’ll tell you what’s the truth: I surely did let him kiss me that night. I thought he was about the most dashing man I’d ever seen, even in the movies.”
“You let a stranger kiss you?” I teased.
“A stranger is only a stranger until you get to know them,” Judy answered. “And by that time, they’re a friend.”
“You’ve dated him ever since?”
“We’re engaged,” she said, uncharacteristically girlish.
She held out her left hand and displayed a ring, antique, ornate, covered with diamonds.
“That’s a family ring,” I guessed.
“The Newcombs surely do have money,” she acknowledged. “But I’m proud to say that Orvid works for a living. I help him with it, in fact.”
“What’s his business?”
“Cutlery salesman,” she answered, mesmerized by the glitter of her own ring.
Six
“You know that Tristan Newcomb owned my parents’ show before they took it over from him,” I said, my voice husky.
“The Ten Show,” she drawled. “Yes. These Newcombs, they own near about everything, don’t they?”
Her voice betrayed a vast suspicion and a subtle hatred. Both were common in Blue Mountain where the Newcomb family was concerned, but I found it odd coming from a woman who was in love with a member of that cursed family.
I steered myself back to the issue at hand.
“Well, I’m telling you, Judy,” I said, my voice a little flinty, “just as I told Lucinda: it’s most likely that this was a terrible, terrible accident. No one tied them to a railroad track and ran over them with a train.”
“Bullshit!” she snapped.
I confess to being taken aback by such an adult word in a child-sounding voice. I started to apologize for the phrase ran over them, but Judy went on before I could gather my thoughts.
“Would you sit on a train track and let the engine run you down?”
“Not deliberately,” I confessed, “but if my truck stalled, the door was stuck; I misjudged the time I had—if I had been drinking, say, or taking drugs.”
“Rory and Tess don’t drink!” Judy stood. “And they don’t fool with the drugs like a lot of these kids around here, so don’t even start up with that mess. Somebody’s responsible for this, somebody bad. I have proof. I swear to God, I’ll get the person that did this, and you’d better help me or you’ll regret it!”
Her voice had gone shrill.
“I know you’re upset,” I began, soothing, “and I’m unbelievably sorry for your loss—”
“That’s it!” she screamed. “Orvid!”
A dark form appeared in the doorway.
Orvid Newcomb was made of white fire. His eyes shone like lanterns; his wild, pale hair seemed to crackle about his face. He was dressed in a light green linen shirt, rolled to the elbows, and black pants. On his frame, the clothing seemed mythic.
He stood in the doorway, both hands on his silver cane, a smile creasing the right corner of his mouth slightly upward. As an afterthought I realized he was barely four feet tall; it was hardly the first thing anyone would have noticed.
I could not take my eyes off him.
“I’ve so looked forward to this meeting, Doctor,” he said softly.
His voice was hushed, deep, richer than complex Bordeaux. “He makes a nice appearance,” Judy said softly, “don’t you think?”
“Certainly startling,” I managed.
“Take your pick, Dr. Devilin,” he whispered.
“My pick?” I still stared.
His pale eyes flickered, his smile increased.
“When Odin made the world and the sky,” he told me, taking a step in my direction, “from the body and skull of Ymir, the first giant, my people lived under the earth, master craftsmen, great artists
in steel and wood.”
“Ymir?” I stammered. “That’s Norse mythology.”
“Or would you prefer the little people?” he shot back, his accent touched with a perfect brogue. “Fabulously wealthy drunkards whose special art was, I believe, shoes.”
His stance took on a vague menace.
I exhaled and looked him squarely in the eye, realizing he was testing me: a challenge. He was trying to scare me, intimidate me with his grasp of my own discipline. As luck would have it, I knew what he was doing.
“Right,” I said, settling back on the sofa, not rising to the bait. “I see show business is the curse of your family as well as mine. Nice entrance, though.”
He and Judy exploded in laughter.
“You have to admit,” he said, coming my way, “it would impress the rubes.”
“It’s your easy-reference world mythology that impresses me,” I said, coming to my feet and offering my hand.
He grasped it. His thumb and little finger barely made it around my palm, but his grip was a vise.
“Odin,” he said, “the father of the Norse gods, killed the giant Ymir and made the sea from his blood, I believe. The bowl of heaven was his skull. I like this vision of the gods and my imaginary ancestry much better than the sort of drunken shoemaker dwarves of Ireland.”
“You do fit the Norse mold,” I answered, “if you had anything to do with fashioning the cane you have. The Norse dwarves had a genius for metalwork and jewels. That cane’s beautiful, and, if what Judy told me was true, potentially deadly?”
In answer, he took a step back and drew a long, thin silver blade from the hollow of his cane. It was at least three feet long with one dull side and one sharp side, coming to a needle point at the tip.
“I did create this myself,” he said confidently. “Thanks for asking. Makes for a great demonstration at trade shows.”
“You said you’d been looking forward to meeting me,” I went on, taking my seat again.
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