She weighed the risks of turning on her cell phone. Use it even once, and she could be tracked here. But I’m so tired, she thought, and I don’t know what else to do, or where else to go. I’m stranded in a small town and the only person I know here seems to be unreachable.
Headlights appeared on the road.
The car moved toward her—a patrol car with blue rack lights. She froze, unsure whether to duck into the shadows or to brazenly maintain her role of stranded passenger.
It was too late to run now; the police cruiser was already turning into the mini-mart parking lot. The window rolled down, and a young patrolman peered out.
“Hello, miss. Do you have someone coming to get you?”
She cleared her throat. “I was about to call a cab.”
“That phone’s out of order.”
“I just noticed.”
“Been out of order for six months. These phone companies hardly bother fixing them now that everyone’s got a cell.”
“I have one, too. I’ll just use it.”
He eyed her for a moment, no doubt wondering why someone who had a cell phone would fuss with a pay phone.
“I needed to use the directory,” she explained and opened the phone book that was hanging in the booth.
“Okay, I’ll just sit here till the cab arrives,” he said.
As they waited together, he explained that the previous month there’d been an unpleasant incident involving a young lady in this same parking lot. “She got off the eleven PM bus from Binghamton, just like you,” he said. Since then, he’d made it a point to drive by just to make sure no other young ladies were accosted. Protect and serve, that was his job, and if she knew about the terrible things that sometimes happened, even in a little village like Waverly, population forty-six hundred, she’d never again be caught standing alone at a dark mini-mart.
When the taxi finally arrived, Officer Friendly had been bending her ear for so long she was afraid he might follow her home, just to continue the conversation. But his cruiser headed in the opposite direction and she sank back with a sigh and considered her next moves. The first order of business was a good night’s sleep, in a home where she felt safe. A home where she need not hide who she really was. She’d juggled truth and fiction for so long that she sometimes forgot which details of her life were real and which were fabrications. A few too many drinks, a moment of carelessness, and she might let slip the truth, which could send the whole house of cards tumbling down. In her college dormitory of partying students, she had remained the sober one, adept at meaningless chitchat that revealed absolutely nothing about herself.
I’m tired of this life, she thought. Tired of having to consider the consequences of every word before I say it. Tonight, at last, I can be myself.
The taxi pulled to a stop in front of a large farmhouse and the driver said, “Here we are, miss. Want me to carry those bags to the door?”
“No, I can handle them.” She paid him and started up the walkway, wheeling her suitcases toward the front steps. There she paused, as though searching for her keys, until the taxi drove away. The instant it vanished from sight, she turned and headed back to the road.
A five-minute walk brought her to a long gravel driveway that cut through thick woods. The moon had risen, and she could see the path just well enough not to stumble. The sound of the suitcase wheels plowing through the gravel seemed alarmingly loud. In the woods crickets had fallen silent, aware that a trespasser had entered their kingdom.
She climbed the steps to the dark house. A few knocks on the door, a few rings of the bell, told her what she’d already suspected. No one was home.
Not a problem.
She found the key where it was always hidden, wedged under the stack of firewood on the porch, and let herself in. Flipping on the light, she found the living room exactly as she remembered it since she’d last visited two years ago. The same clutter filled every available shelf and niche, the same photos framed in Mexican tin shadow boxes hung on the walls. She saw sunburned faces grinning from beneath broad-brimmed hats, a man leaning on a shovel in front of a crumbling wall, a redheaded woman squinting up from the trench where she knelt with trowel in hand. Most of the faces in those photos she did not recognize; they belonged to another woman’s memories, another woman’s lifetime.
She left her suitcases in the living room and went into the kitchen. There the same clutter reigned, blackened pots and pans hanging from ceiling racks, the windowsills a depository of everything from sea glass to bits of broken pottery. She filled a teakettle and put it on the stove. As she waited for it to boil, she stood in front of the refrigerator, studying all the snapshots taped to the door. In the midst of that jumbled collage was one face she did recognize. It was her own, taken when she was about three years old, seated in the lap of a raven-haired woman. She reached up and gently stroked the woman’s face, remembering the smoothness of that cheek, the scent of her hair. The kettle whistled, but Josephine remained transfixed by the photo, by those hypnotic dark eyes gazing back at her.
The whistle of the kettle abruptly cut off, and a voice said, “It’s been years since anyone’s asked me about her, you know.”
Josephine whirled around to face the lanky middle-aged woman who’d just shut off the burner. “Gemma,” she murmured. “You’re home after all.”
Smiling, the woman strode forward to give her a powerful hug. Gemma Hamerton was built more like a boy than a woman, lean but muscular, her silvery hair cropped in a practical bob. Her arms were ridged with ugly burn scars, but she brazenly showed them off to the world in a sleeveless blouse.
“I recognized your old suitcases in the living room.” Gemma stepped back to give Josephine a thorough perusal. “My God, every year you look more and more like her.” She shook her head and laughed. “That’s some formidable DNA you’ve inherited, kid.”
“I tried to call you. I didn’t want to leave a message on your answering machine.”
“I’ve been traveling all day.” Gemma reached into her purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping from the International Herald Tribune. “I saw that article before I left Lima. Does this have anything to do with why you’re here?”
Josephine looked at the headline: CT SCAN OF MUMMY STUNS AUTHORITIES. “So you know about Madam X.”
“News gets around, even in Peru. The world’s become a small place, Josie.”
“Maybe too small,” Josephine said softly. “It leaves me no place left to hide.”
“After all these years? I’m not sure you need to anymore.”
“Someone’s found me, Gemma. I’m scared.”
Gemma stared at her. Slowly she sat down across from Josephine. “Tell me what happened.”
Josephine pointed to the clipping from the Herald Tribune. “It all started with her. With Madam X.”
“Go on.”
At first the words came haltingly; it had been a long time since Josephine had spoken freely, and she was accustomed to catching herself, to weighing the dangers of every revelation. But with Gemma, all secrets were safe, and as she spoke, she found the words spilling faster in a torrent that could no longer be held back. Three cups of tea later, she finally fell silent and slumped back in her chair, exhausted. And relieved, although her situation had scarcely changed. The only difference was that now she no longer felt alone.
The story left Gemma stunned and staring. “A body turns up in your car? And you left out that little detail about the notes you got in the mail? You didn’t tell the police?”
“How could I? If they knew about the notes, they’d find out everything else.”
“Maybe it’s time, Josie,” said Gemma quietly. “Time to stop hiding and just tell the truth.”
“I can’t do that to my mother. I can’t pull her into this. I’m just glad she isn’t here.”
“She’d want to be here. You’re the one she’s always tried to protect.”
“Well, she can’t protect me now. And she shouldn’t have to.” Josephine rose an
d carried her cup to the sink. “This has nothing to do with her.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“She was never in Boston. She never had anything to do with the Crispin Museum.” Josephine turned to Gemma. “Did she?”
Gemma shook her head. “I can’t think of any reason why the museum should have those links to her. The cartouche, the newspaper.”
“Coincidence, maybe.”
“That’s too much coincidence.” Gemma wrapped her hands around her teacup, as though to ward off a sudden chill. “What about the body in your car? What are the police doing about it?”
“What they’re supposed to do in a murder case. They’ll investigate. They’ve asked me all the questions you’d expect. Who might be stalking me? Do I have any sick admirers? Is there anyone from the past I’m afraid of? If they keep asking questions, it’s only a matter of time before they find out who Josephine Pulcillo really is.”
“They may not bother to dig that up. They’ve got murders to solve, and you’re not the one they’re interested in.”
“I couldn’t take that risk. That’s why I ran. I packed up and left a job I loved and a city I loved. I was happy there, Gemma. It’s an odd little museum, but I liked working there.”
“And the people? Is there any chance one of them might be involved?”
“I don’t see it.”
“Sometimes you can’t see it.”
“They’re completely harmless. The curator, the director—they’re both such kind men.” She gave a sad laugh. “I wonder what they’ll think of me now. When they find out who they really hired.”
“They hired a brilliant young archaeologist. A woman who deserves a better life.”
“Well, this is the life I got.” She turned on the faucet to rinse her cup. The kitchen was organized exactly as it had always been, and she found the dish towels in the same cabinet, the spoons in the same drawer. Like any good archaeological dig, Gemma’s kitchen stood preserved in a state of domestic eternity. What a luxury to have roots, thought Josephine as she placed the clean cup back on the shelf. What would it be like to own a home, to build a life she would never have to abandon?
“What are you going to do now?” asked Gemma.
“I don’t know.”
“You could go back to Mexico. She’d want that.”
“I’ll just have to start over again.” The prospect of that suddenly made Josephine sag against the countertop. “God, I’ve lost twelve years of my life.”
“Maybe you haven’t. Maybe the police will drop the ball.”
“I can’t count on that.”
“Watch and wait. See what happens. This house will be empty for most of the summer. I need to be back in Peru in two weeks, to oversee the excavation. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to.”
“I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
“Trouble?” Gemma shook her head. “You have no idea what kind of trouble your mother saved me from. Anyway, I’m not convinced the police are as clever as you think they are. Or as thorough. Think how many cases go unsolved, how many mistakes we hear about in the news.”
“You haven’t met this detective.”
“What about him?”
“It’s a her. The way she looks at me, the questions she asks—”
“A woman?” Gemma’s eyebrow twitched upward. “Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Why?”
“Men are so easily distracted by a pretty face.”
“If Detective Rizzoli keeps digging, she’s eventually going to end up here. Talking to you.”
“So let them come. What are they going to find out?” Gemma waved at her kitchen. “Look around! They’ll walk in here, get a look at all my herbal teas, and dismiss me as some harmless old hippie who couldn’t possibly tell them anything useful. When you’re a fifty-year-old woman, no one really bothers to look at you anymore, much less value your opinion. It’s hard on the old ego. But damn, it does make it easy to get away with a lot.”
Josephine laughed. “So all I have to do is wait till I’m fifty and I’m home free?”
“You may be home free already, as far as the police are concerned.”
Josephine said softly: “It’s not just the police who scare me. Not after those notes. Not after what was left in my car.”
“No,” Gemma agreed. “There are worse things to be afraid of.” She paused, then looked across the table at Josephine. “So why are you still alive?”
The question startled Josephine. “You think I should be dead.”
“Why would some weirdo waste time scaring you with creepy little notes? With grotesque gifts in your car? Why not just kill you?”
“Maybe because the police are involved? Ever since the scan of Madam X, they’ve been hovering around the museum.”
“Another thing puzzles me. Putting a body in your car seems designed to draw attention to you. The police are watching you now. It’s a strange move if someone really wants you dead.”
The statement was typical for Gemma: factual and brutally blunt. Someone wants you dead. But I am dead, she thought. Twelve years ago, the girl I used to be dropped off the face of the earth. And Josephine Pulcillo was born.
“She wouldn’t want you dealing with this all alone, Josie. Let’s make that phone call.”
“No. It’s safer for everyone if we don’t. If they’re watching me, that’s just what they’re waiting for.” She took a breath. “I’ve managed on my own since college and I can deal with this, too. I just need some time to catch my breath. Throw a dart at the map and decide where to go next.” She paused. “And I think I’ll need some cash.”
“There’s still about twenty-five thousand dollars left in the account. It’s been sitting there for you. Waiting for a rainy day.”
“I think this qualifies.” Josephine stood to leave the room. In the kitchen doorway she stopped and looked back. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. For me. And for my mother.”
“I owe it to her, Josie.” Gemma looked down at her burn-scarred arms. “It’s only because of Medea that I’m still alive.”
FOURTEEN
On Saturday night, Daniel finally came to her.
At the last minute, before he arrived, Maura rushed out to the local market where she bought kalamata olives and French cheeses and a far-too-extravagant bottle of wine. This is the way I’ll woo a lover, she thought as she handed over her credit card. With smiles and kisses and glasses of Pinot Noir. I will win him over with perfect evenings that he’ll never forget, never stop craving. And someday, maybe, he’ll make his choice. He’ll choose me.
When she got home, he was already waiting for her in her house.
As the garage door rolled open, she saw his car parked inside where the neighbors wouldn’t see it, where it would cause no raised eyebrows, no lascivious gossip. She pulled in beside it and quickly closed the garage door again, shutting off any view of the blatant evidence that she was not alone tonight. Keeping secrets so easily becomes second nature, and it was automatic for her now to close the garage door, to draw the curtains and smoothly fend off the innocent queries from colleagues and neighbors. Are you seeing someone? Would you like to come to dinner? Would you like to meet this nice man I know? Over the months, she’d declined so many such invitations that few were now offered. Had everyone simply given up on her, or had they guessed the reason for her disinterest, for her unsociability?
That reason was standing in the doorway, waiting for her.
She stepped into the house, into Daniel Brophy’s arms. It had been ten days since they’d last been together, ten days of ever-deepening longing that was now so gnawing she could not wait to satisfy it. The groceries were still in the car, and she had dinner to cook, but food was the last thing on her mind as their lips met. Daniel was all she wanted to devour, and she feasted on him as they kissed their way into her bedroom, guilty kisses made all the more delicious because they were illicit. How many new sins will we commit this evening, she wo
ndered as she watched him unbutton his shirt. Tonight he did not wear his clerical collar; tonight he came to her as a lover, not a man of God.
Months ago he had broken the vows that bound him to his church. She was the one responsible; she had caused his fall from grace, a fall that once again brought him into her bed, into her arms. It was a destination so familiar to him now that he knew exactly what she wanted, what would make her clutch him and cry out.
When at last she fell back with a satisfied shudder, they lay together as they always did, with arms and legs wrapped around each other, two lovers who knew each other’s bodies well.
“It feels like it’s been forever since you were here,” she whispered.
“I would have come Thursday, but that workshop went on forever.”
“Which workshop?”
“Couples counseling.” He gave a sad, ironic laugh. “As if I’m the person who can tell them how to heal their marriages. There’s so much anger and pain, Maura. It was an ordeal just sitting in the same room with those people. I wanted to tell them, It will never work, you’ll never be happy with each other. You married the wrong person!”
“That might be the best advice you could have given them.”
“It would have been an act of mercy.” Gently he brushed the hair from her face, and his hand lingered on her cheek. “It would have been so much kinder to give them permission to leave. To find someone who would make them happy. The way you make me happy.”
She smiled. “And you make me hungry.” She sat up, and the scent of their lovemaking wafted up from the rumpled sheets. The animal smells of warm bodies and desire. “I promised you dinner.”
“I feel guilty that you’re always feeding me.” He, too, sat up and reached for his clothes. “Tell me what I can do.”
“I left the wine in the car. Why don’t you get the bottle and open it? I’ll put the chicken in the oven.”
In her kitchen they sipped wine as the chicken roasted, as she sliced the potatoes and he made the salad. Like any married couple, they cooked and they touched and they kissed. But we’re not married, she thought, glancing sideways at his striking profile, his graying temples. Every moment together was a stolen one, a furtive one, and although they laughed together, sometimes she heard a desperate note in that laughter, as though they were trying to convince themselves that they were happy, damn it, yes they were, despite the guilt and the deceptions and the many nights apart. But she was beginning to see the emotional toll in his face. In just the past few months, his hair had gone noticeably grayer. When it’s completely white, she thought, will we still be meeting with the curtains closed?
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