The Sight

by Jude Watson

  “But I know it’s true. I want you to know that I told Shay that I’m signing over my half of the house to her as long as you can inherit it.”

  I guess I’m supposed to gasp and say thanks. But it means so little to me. Half a house? Is that payback? Is that what it’s all worth to him?

  I think he realizes what I’m thinking, because he leans back, and suddenly, it’s like, pull up a chair, because sadness just walked in the door.

  There isn’t anything he can say, anything he can give me, that will make up for not having him. He knows it. I know it.

  I just don’t know what to do with it.

  Nate drives me home. I get out. He gets out. I wonder if we’re supposed to hug when we say good-bye, and if I want us to.

  But suddenly, a shadow moves across the lawn and forms into a person, rushing at us, and I gasp.

  It’s Mason. He looks bigger in the dark.

  Nate moves in front of me so quickly, I don’t have time to think.

  Mason points a finger at me. “Stay out of my business, Kenzie, or you’ll be sorry!”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “I’m not in your business.”

  “Just keep your freaky nose out of it, freak!”

  “Hey!” Nate moves smoothly forward and puts his hand on Mason’s shoulder. He must have applied a nice amount of pressure, because Mason steps back as though he’s propelled.

  “Good night, friend,” Nate says. “That’s enough.”

  Mason shoots me a dirty look as he goes.

  “What was he talking about?” Nate asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want me to stick around?”

  What a question. Another wrong step in the minefield. Of course I want him to stick around. I’ve wanted him to stick around since I was three years old.

  I say what I always told myself on all those days I missed him, on all those times I wondered about him, on all those nights I dreamed of him.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  THIRTEEN

  The next day, we have off for a teachers’ conference, which is a gift. I don’t want to have to face Mason at school. I don’t know why he’s angry at me, but I’m sure it has something to do with Hank Hobbs.

  I’m still spooked to be in the house, but I decide to be brave and hit Diego’s computer after he leaves for work.

  I plug Hank Hobbs into a search engine. Even Joe couldn’t be angry with me about that. I can’t believe the flood of information that comes up. He had some career going, and he was on the boards of a bunch of companies. It makes for rough going. I can’t get through the information overload, and after spending over an hour scrolling through corporate newsletters and articles about “synergistic strategies,” I feel like my brain cells are going to fuse.

  Time for my own personal computer geek.

  I met Ryan last summer, when I was nosing around trying to find out what had happened to Emily. He had a bit of a crush on her, and a bit of a crush on me, but now he has a girlfriend, Tobie, so we’re able to be friends. Whenever I have a glitch I can’t solve, I call Ryan, and he leads me through a fix-it strategy while blasting my ear with his newest obsessions—last time it was polka-rock (yes, really), the mating habits of polar bears, and Turkish food.

  “Gracie! Awesome!” Ryan also has a tendency to speak in exclamation points. “What brings you to call me on my landline?”

  “I’ve got a sleuthing problem.”

  “Talk on, Nancy Drew.”

  I explain my information deluge, and what I’m looking for.

  “No worries!” Ryan says. “I can devise the right string to find the info. Can you hang on for a few?”

  I hang on. I hear the clackety-clack of computer keys.

  “Got something!” Ryan says. “Hang on… Yeah, the newspaper on Beewick back there in the ice age was called the Beacon, not the Star. And they totally rock, because their archives are all online. Some sort of historical record project. I’m going to e-mail this to you.”

  A moment later, Ryan’s e-mail pops up. I click on the URL.

  “ACCUSATIONS LEVELED AT MONVOR FOLLOWING DISAPPEARANCE”

  I read the article quickly. Shay is quoted saying that Billy Applegate went off to see Hank Hobbs. She makes it clear that she suspects him of hiding something and challenges him in print to “tell the truth about what happened that night.”

  No wonder Hank Hobbs tried to get her fired.

  At the end of the article, it notes, “Ms. Kenzie has also been questioned regarding Mr. Applegate’s disappearance.”

  So Nate was right.

  “Here’s something interesting,” Ryan says, breaking into my thoughts.

  My little flag pops up, and I click on Ryan’s e-mail. He’s included a paragraph from another article that mentions that Hank Hobbs’s house was broken into twenty years ago. The police investigated and “concluded that it has no connection to the Applegate disappearance.” A few things were stolen, including a briefcase. “I was certain I’d set the alarm, but I guess I didn’t,” Hobbs said.

  A briefcase was stolen. Could it have contained the documents that Billy Applegate had claimed to have, the ones that proved that Monvor had falsified data? The break-in had happened just a few days before he disappeared. Just around the time he told the group that he had the goods on Monvor.

  “It’s got to be it,” I whisper.

  “Hey, this is weird,” Ryan says. “This guy Hobbs was married to a woman named Pam. But back then, he got engaged to someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “An Elizabeth Anne Dunwoody. I love these announcements, they are so incredibly cornball. Elizabeth, known as Betsy, has attended the Heath School in Seattle and is currently—”

  “Known as Betsy!” Jeff Ferris had heard Hank talking to a Betsy on the phone.

  “Is that something? Did I find something?”

  “You are an incredible genius.”

  “I have to inform you, Gracie, that I am taken. Tobie is the axis around which I revolve. So even though I worship your completely awesome personhood, we must remain attached on only a spiritual plane—”

  “Can you find out if Betsy Dunwoody is still living around here?”

  “Does a chicken have lips?” I hear keys clacking again. “Betsy Dunwoody married someone else. She is now Mrs. Elizabeth Dunwoody Wheeler, and she lives in Bellevue, Washington. Let me see…museum trustee, country club, chair of Save the Parklands committee…yeah, we’re talking major Betsy bucks.”

  Bellevue is a swanky suburb of Seattle. It’s only an hour south of here. And Diego has a car.

  FOURTEEN

  "You’re kidding, right? Because if you’re not kidding, you’re nuts.” Diego sits at the kitchen table, his spoon halfway to his mouth. He’d just been about to dive into a tempting bowl of Shay’s granola. I like to hit him up in the mornings, before he’s made plans. Marigold sleeps late on Saturdays, but Diego is an early riser. He always wakes up in a good mood, too.

  That is, if I don’t spoil it.

  By my silence Diego correctly assumes that I’m not kidding.

  “You’re nuts,” he says again. “Do you happen to remember what happened the last time I drove you into Seattle on the trail of a kidnapper? And do you happen to remember that you yourself were kidnapped while I stood around in the park half out of my mind? Do you remember that my mother has still never forgiven me?”

  “All of this is true,” I say. “But this is different. I’m not investigating a suspect. I just want to talk to—”

  “That’s what you said last time!”

  It’s clear I have to tell Diego everything. I pull out a chair and sit down. “Joe thinks Shay is a suspect in the murder of Hank Hobbs,” I say.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Of course it is. He also thinks it might have been my father.”

  Diego blinks. “Not so ridiculous,” he says. “I mean, he just shows up on the same weekend that someone is found dea
d…”

  “Yeah. Exactly. So I’m going to go from the weird girl who sees things to the weird girl who sees things whose father is a murderer. Can’t wait.”

  “It doesn’t matter what your father is, or does. Anyone who knows you knows—”

  “Diego, you sound like a guidance counselor. Come on.”

  “Well, it’s true. I never knew my father. He could be a murderer.”

  “But he isn’t, is he?”

  Diego takes a sip of juice. His father is something we never talk about in this house. Nineteen years ago, Shay went on a trip to Spain and came back pregnant. She simply told her family that she was having the baby and raising it, and his father would never be discussed. Somehow, she pulled it off.

  I’ve asked Diego about his father. He’s told me that he knows some things, but it’s obviously difficult for Shay to talk about, so he doesn’t ask her about it. And when I press him for details, he fixes me with his beautiful liquid eyes and tells me to ask Shay.

  I still haven’t worked up the nerve.

  “My granola’s getting soggy,” Diego says.

  “So’s your logic. And if those two candidates for the slammer aren’t enough, the other suspect is Mason Patterson. Do you want Marigold’s brother to go to jail?”

  Diego doesn’t say anything. He’s thinking.

  “This woman was engaged to Hank Hobbs twenty years ago. Maybe they reconnected. Maybe she knows something. Maybe if we just go down there and talk to her, we’ll be able to go to Joe and give him a new suspect. Just think how grateful Marigold would be if you took the heat off Mason. You’d be the man.”

  “When you start talking like a bad TV show, I know you’re desperate,” Diego says. “I don’t care about being a hero to Marigold. I just want to bask in her lovelight.”

  “Oh, gross!”

  Diego grins. “But I’ll take you.”

  Diego may give me a hard time, but secretly, he loves surveillance. We sat outside Betsy Dunwoody Wheeler’s McMansion in Bellevue in Diego’s old Saab, watching the house.

  “What if she doesn’t come out?”

  “It’s Saturday morning. Everybody goes out on Saturday morning sometime.”

  “Wait, I see the side door opening—”

  “It’s her! Duck!”

  “Why?” Diego asks me. “She doesn’t know us.”

  “Oh. Right.” I peer through the windshield as Betsy gets into a Mercedes SUV.

  “Looking good for a mom,” Diego notes approvingly.

  It’s true. Betsy has a trim body, and her chinlength blond hair is glossy and full. From behind, you could mistake her for a teenager, especially for the jeans and tiny jacket she wears. She starts the car and drives down the long driveway toward us.

  She turns into the street and we follow, winding through the neighborhood and then out onto the main road. When she turns at the light, we turn. When she picks up speed, we pick up speed.

  “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” I say to Diego.

  “Don’t push it,” he says.

  Suddenly, Betsy pulls over.

  “She’s going to that Starbucks!” I yell. “Pull over!”

  “Why, do you want a latte?”

  Betsy gets out of the car and goes into Starbucks.

  “Wait here,” I say to Diego.

  “Bring me a cookie!” Diego yells after me as I scoot out.

  I follow Betsy into the Starbucks. I maneuver close to her, pretending to study the muffin selection.

  “A tall two-shot nonfat latte,” Betsy says.

  Bingo.

  I race back to the car.

  “Where’s my cookie?”

  “She ordered a double-shot nonfat latte,” I say. “Just like the cup on Beewick. That was definitely her!”

  “What now?” Diego asks. “Should we go in and talk to her?”

  I shake my head. “She’s leaving. We have to keep following her.”

  Diego pulls out after Betsy. We follow her through the hills, up and down the twisting roads, trying to keep at least one car behind her. Finally, she pulls into the long, curving drive of the Conifer Country Club.

  We drive in. Diego parks the car an aisle away from her.

  “We’re going to have to talk to her quickly,” he says. “We can get busted if we don’t. We’re not members.”

  It occurs to me at this moment that I have no idea what I’m going to say. But it’s too late now. I get out of the car and we walk toward Betsy. She’s grabbed a tote bag and is heading for the front door of the club, swinging the bag as she walks. She reaches the front door before we can catch up and disappears inside.

  “Now or never,” Diego says.

  I push open the door. My foot hits a deep rug on a bleached wood floor. A huge orange glass object is spotlit on a shelf, looking like a giant clam. I see paintings. What Shay would call window treatments, not curtains. The whole place screams “tasteful.”

  “Go,” Diego says. He gives me a small push in the middle of my back.

  I need it. I’m intimidated.

  “Betsy!” I cry. My voice sounds like a croak.

  I try again. “Betsy?”

  She hears me this time. She turns, already smiling, thinking I’m a daughter of a friend, perhaps. I see her searching her memory banks.

  So I blurt out the thing I shouldn’t say, the only thing I can say.

  “Isn’t it sad about Hank Hobbs?”

  Her smile disappears. I see panic in her eyes now. And the panic opens her up to me like a picture book.

  I see…a small, empty room with a raised platform and a view outside to the tops of trees. Skylight overhead. I hear a woman crying.

  …a white carnation, its petals brown and crumbling.

  …an ache somewhere, something hurting, a knee.

  “Yes. I haven’t seen him in years, though.” She backs away a step and then the smile is there again, a practiced smile.

  “That’s not exactly true,” I say.

  Her eyes flick from me to Diego, and suddenly, she looks hard. “Who are you?”

  “We live on Beewick Island,” I say. “We—”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “We just wanted to ask you a few questions,” Diego says. “That’s all. We’re not here to harass you.” He smiles at her in a friendly way.

  Usually, when Diego turns on his charm to any female with a pulse, he gets results. But not with Betsy.

  “You’re not members here, are you?” she says in a glacial tone. Her gaze roams the hallway behind us. “I’ll find someone to escort you back to the parking lot.”

  “How’s your knee?” I ask.

  “My knee?” She looks confused again.

  “I know it’s still bothering you.”

  “An old ski injury. How do…”

  “And that room you built at the top of your house, where you go to be alone…you were going to do yoga there, but all you do is cry. Alone. Where no one can hear you.”

  “H-h-how do you know these things?”

  “You wonder if your whole life is a mistake, but then you look at your children and you think, How could I think that? But you keep thinking it.”

  “Who are you?” she whispers.

  “The carnation that means so much to you…”

  Now she gives a cry and steps back, her hand at her throat.

  Diego puts a hand under her elbow. There’s a fireplace at one end of the long hallway, with some armchairs around it. He walks her all the way there, gently places her in one, then draws the others closer. We sit.

  “What is this?” Betsy asks. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

  “My cousin is a psychic,” Diego says. “She sees things.”

  “And you were drawn to me for some reason?” Betsy’s green eyes are wide. I can tell that this excites her. Betsy’s not a skeptic. She’s eager to believe.

  “Yes.” I pitch my voice low, trying to sound more mature, like someone she’d listen to…and give answers to
. “Hank’s death left disturbances behind.”

  “Oh.” The word is a cry, and Betsy presses her hand against her heart. “It did.”

  “You loved Hank Hobbs,” I say, because I’m picking this up most of all. “You met him on Beewick Island. You saw his new house, the house he was buying so that you could be together.”

  She bites her lower lip and looks up at me. “How did you know about the carnation?”

  “The carnation?” Diego asks.

  I nod to give Betsy encouragement. I know what I saw, but I don’t know why I saw it, or what it means to her.

  “It was…a joke,” Betsy says. “From one afternoon when Hank and I were together…after he found me again. He couldn’t remember my favorite flowers, and I teased him, because he remembered everything else. The day we met. The song that was playing the night we got engaged. What I wore, the things I said…it was amazing. So I reminded him that I didn’t have a favorite flower, but the only flower I couldn’t stand was a carnation. That night, when I got home, I opened my purse…and there was a carnation.” She smiled. “I don’t know how he found one and sneaked it in there, but he made me laugh. That was the day I knew I still loved him.”

  “So he looked you up,” I say.

  “It had been so long. Twenty years. And he e-mailed me out of the blue—Are you the Betsy Dunwoody with eyes the color of sea glass? We started writing, and then we met, and then…” She looked at the fire. “We didn’t have an affair. We just wanted to be friends. We didn’t want to fall in love.” She looks down at the rings on her left hand, a band with three large diamonds, and, above it, a squareshaped diamond.

  “You were thinking of leaving your husband.”

  “Yes,” she whispers. “How do you know these things? Do you…see things in me? Things you want to tell me? Because there is so much I want to know.”

  I see bottomless need in her eyes. Here is a woman in need of so many things—reassurance, direction. I don’t really have any for her. I can’t tell her about her life. I can’t tell her if she made the right choices. She doesn’t understand that even though I can pick up flashes from her, I can’t validate her. But that’s what she wants.