by Madelyn Alt
True to form, Mom was ready and waiting at the door when I pulled up outside the old farmhouse, her coat on, hair combed, and purse slung over her crooked forearm. She hesitated only a moment before opening the passenger side door and settling herself into the sagging bucket seat.
“Have you considered looking into a new car for yourself, honey?” she asked politely as she eyed the faded dash. “This old thing looks to be on its last legs.”
“Get rid of Christine?” I scoffed. “Hold your tongue, woman. She may be a little worn around the edges, but she’s got a lot of life in her. Sturdy. Reliable. A true classic. They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”
“You won’t think it’s so reliable when it leaves you stranded along the highway in a storm. You should ask your father to help you look.”
“Which way to the Robersons’, Mom?” Notice the deft change of subject, a tactic I’d long since mastered. Self-defense, doncha know.
The Robersons had once lived in the same quiet subdivision that Evie’s mom and dad called home. Sometime in the last ten years they had traded up for a more expensive home on the bluffs overlooking the river a few miles west of town. I couldn’t help staring just a bit in awe as I turned off onto their paved driveway. Thoroughly modern in style, it was imposing with windows that stretched two stories high, fashionably bare and revealing a great room with a cathedral ceiling and a big marble fireplace.
Criminey.
I was suddenly glad that I’d worn my best work outfit that morning, a pair of black wool slacks that still fit me reasonably well and a charcoal gray turtleneck that clung to me in all the right places. At least I wouldn’t embarrass my mother too terribly. Pulling the collar of my pea coat up around my neck, I came around to where my mom was struggling to extricate herself from the sucking motion of the bucket seat and pulled her to her feet. Together we scurried up the brick path to the recessed door and pushed the bell.
Two additional tries gained no more response than the first. “Maybe she’s not home,” I said. It was too much to hope. I wasn’t sure that this was the best timing to descend upon the woman unawares.
“The TV’s on,” Mom replied, cupping her hand to the glass of the sidelights and peering in.
“Do you see anyone?”
“No.”
“Maybe she’s stepped out.”
“For what? The poor woman’s being medicated, Maggie. I don’t think Sid would leave her the car keys. Besides, her car’s in the garage—didn’t you see it when we pulled up?”
I had missed that, but then, Nancy Drew I most certainly was not. I didn’t have the nerve for it. “Where are you going?” I called after my mom as she wandered toward the corner of the house. Her answer was lost in the whine of the wind, forcing me to follow her if I wanted to be sure she didn’t break a leg slipping and sliding down the landscaping mounds.
Her instinct proved worthwhile, though. As soon as I rounded the corner of the house, my eye was drawn toward the back edge of the property. There, poised near the edge of the bluff overlooking the river with her back to us, stood Amanda’s mother.
Mom was already in motion, her legs pumping as she raised her arms over her head to wave her friend down. “Wendy!”
For a moment, my heart was in my throat. The disconsolate stance, the stooped shoulders, the waves of despair that emanated from her . . . What if she meant to jump? What if she leapt over the edge right before our eyes? And then I was running, too, my feet carried by the potential urgency of the situation.
The cold wind beat at us, but I heard only the echo of my own harsh panting in my head as I crossed the wide expanse of lawn. Mom reached the danger zone before I did, taking Wendy Roberson by the shoulders and turning her away from the edge. Only as I approached did I notice the cardboard box a few feet away, next to a small hole freshly dug. A spade lay next to it, damp clumps of dirt still clinging to its blade.
“Come away from the edge, Wendy,” my mother said. It was the same calm and soothing voice she might have used with me as a child, loving and reasonable, but firm, and it was no less effective now. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s far too cold. That wind’s enough to scrub the skin clean off your face.”
“I was just looking at the water,” the blond woman murmured, turning to gaze back over her shoulder. The day was unnaturally clear and bright, and sunlight danced and shimmered across the mosaic tile surface of the wind-stirred water. It also ruthlessly revealed every line on Mrs. Roberson’s well-cared-for face. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? It’s one of the reasons we bought this land, built this house. I never thought . . . I never . . .”
Her voice broke and she pulled away from my mother’s hands. Mom and I stood by, helpless, as she wept silent tears, her thin shoulders shaking violently with the vast depths of her grief. Deep within me, I felt my stomach knot and twist with it. My breath hitched and caught in my chest. I bit my lip and closed my eyes in an attempt to strengthen my personal boundaries by willing the invasion of emotion away.
Abruptly the struggle for personal space stopped as Wendy Roberson took a ragged breath, straightened her spine, and lifted her chin. In the same moment that she reigned in her sprawling emotions, I felt the tension within me ease. But while the tragedy had drained from her features, the calm mask that took its place was somehow even more horrible than the anguished tears.
Mom put her hand on Mrs. Roberson’s arm. “Let’s go inside, Wendy, shall we?”
She shook her head. “I have to finish this.”
“Finish? Finish what?”
Without a word Wendy Roberson walked back to the box and took it into her hands. Carefully, calmly, she knelt before the hole and settled the box into place. I looked at my mom, my brows raised in question. Mom looked at me, a faint grimace tightening her brow, before she knelt beside her friend and took her hand.
“Your hands are freezing. You’ve been out here too long. Let Maggie finish this for you. Come inside and let me make you a nice strong cup of coffee.”
Mrs. Roberson looked at me as though it was the first she’d noticed I was there. “Maggie.”
“Yes, Maggie. My daughter, remember? She’ll cover that up for you, and she’ll do it up right, won’t you, Maggie. Now let’s get you inside.”
This time Mom was successful. Mrs. Roberson allowed herself to be pulled to her feet and led off toward her expensive house. I watched as the two older women disappeared into the glass-walled all-season room that jutted off at an angle from the main shape of the house before I turned to my assigned task.
I’ve always been a curious person. As I may have mentioned, there have been times when that’s gotten me into . . . trouble. So when the first thing that occurred to me to do once they’d passed out of sight was to dig my keys out of my pocket and slit the packing tape that sealed the lids shut . . . well, what can I say? I’m a bad, bad girl. I just couldn’t help wondering what it was that she was burying at such an odd time.
I zipped my house key along the flaps, then, with a last glance up toward the house, I slid my thumbs beneath and revealed the contents.
Underwear.
Lots of underwear.
Frilly, frothy bits of lacy, feminine underwear. Silky low-cut panties, demi-bras, thigh-high stockings galore, and at least one garter belt. Now, Mrs. Roberson was a petite woman, granted, but these weren’t the kinds of things that would flatter the figure of a woman that had borne children. And the panties were extra small.
Ten to one, they belonged to willow-thin Amanda. But why bury them?
Frowning, I closed the box and rose to my feet. It didn’t take long to heap the dirt on top of the lot, mounding it up when there was too much left over due to the amount of space the box itself claimed. I used the spade to smooth out the dirt as best I could. As an afterthought I found a flat fieldstone and placed it on top as a marker. Who knew, maybe Mama Roberson would suffer a change of heart and want the items back. Stranger things had happened. And that done, I carried the
spade back up to the house, eager to get warm again.
It felt weird just wandering into Mrs. Roberson’s house, but no weirder than ringing the bell when my mother was inside and the owner already knew I was there. Or at least, she should. By the looks of things out by the river, she was a little loopy on happy pills, so maybe she wouldn’t remember me after all. Still I stood the spade up on end on the patio and pushed open the French doors.
The doors led into a big, modern family style kitchen, with stainless offerings to the appliance gods, sleek countertops, and whitewashed cabinets. I slipped my shoes off by the door to keep from making tracks across the pale wood floors and wandered toward the next room, from which low-pitched voices emanated.
I’d been in Liss’s house, which had been impressive enough, but The Gables had a cozy intimacy that this house was lacking. This house was built for effect. Everything was in some shade of white, from winter ice to vanilla, with punches of black and aubergine to break up the monotony. The contrast between it and my own apartment was more than a little depressing. How did people afford all of this?
Damn.
Then again, money wasn’t everything. The Robersons had money, plenty of it, but it hadn’t protected them from the ill winds of fate, and the energy of the house was all-consuming: despair, grief, gloom. The dark with no end.
Damn, damn, damn.
Mom and Mrs. Roberson sat together on a sofa. Mom was speaking quietly and holding her friend’s hands in her own. She looked up as I walked through the doorway. “There you are, Maggie. See, Wendy? I told you she’d take care of it for you. No need for you to be troubling yourself over something like that at a time like this.”
Wendy Roberson peered at me through eyes red-rimmed and damp. She smiled weakly. “Thank you, Maggie. Won’t you sit with us? You must be freezing after that.”
I perched warily on the very edge of a chair, hoping against hope that I hadn’t spattered myself with dirt and grime.
“You’re very lucky to have such a helpful daughter, Pat.” She sighed heavily, dabbing a balled-up tissue to the corners of her eyes. “She must be a blessing to you.”
“That she is. Hush now.”
But she couldn’t seem to stop. She looked at me, her eyes eager. Hungry. “You baby-sat for my Mandy, didn’t you? When she was a little girl?”
I cleared my throat. “That was my sister, actually, Mrs. Roberson. I do remember Amanda, though. She was a beautiful girl.”
Mrs. Roberson frowned as though working hard to bring my sister’s face to mind. “Two daughters.”
“That’s right,” Mom soothed. “Maggie works at that gift shop, remember? She is going to take the clock back for you, if you still want to return it.”
“The clock. Yes. My Mandy was such a good girl. You remember. Headstrong but good. My little girl was smart. She knew what she wanted. She was going places. She was going . . . places. Nothing was going to stand in her way. She was just like Sid in that way. Much smarter than me. Just like Sid. Daddy’s girl.” She took a deep breath. It came out with a little whine at the end, half sigh, half whimper. “She was going to be some kind of corporate executive. A woman with power. I knew it. Sid did, too. He was the one who made sure she was exposed to his world so that she’d be prepared for the future. Took her to the country club. Taught her how to network. Me? I insisted she get a job, something that would teach her a little bit about regular people. The real world. Well, she’s seen more than enough of that now, hasn’t she?”
Her words were getting slower. She was drifting away. I could feel that, too. In the harsh sunlight flooding through the sky-high windows, her face seemed to be made of paper that had been crumpled up into a tight little ball and then flattened out once more. I could see the cracks in the veneer of her well-cared-for face, tiny fissures ever expanding with the twin pressures of sorrow and guilt battling within her. But even worse were her eyes, vague and lost in the depths of her own private hell.
“Hush, Wendy. You really should rest. Where is Sid?”
Wendy looked around as though confused. “Sid? Oh. He had to go in to the office to take care of some urgent details. He’s devastated, make no mistake,” she said, suddenly defending her husband’s choice, “but he has to keep busy. Yes, he does.”
“Will he be home soon?”
“Mmm. Soon.” But the airy answer wasn’t convincing. In fact, I wasn’t sure she’d even registered the question.
Neither was my mother. “Let’s get you into bed. You really should have someone here with you, honey. It’s not good for you to be by yourself just now. Come along,” she said, gently urging Mrs. Roberson to her feet. “Maggie, you run on ahead and turn down the bed.”
I did as I was bid, glad to do something useful. Mom, as usual, had everything under control, while my mind was just a jumble of confused thoughts and emotions. I was glad for a breather, no matter how short.
A wide hall ran the length of the upper story with open doors leading off on each side. Only one door remained closed. Amanda’s, I assumed. The master suite occupied the entire south side of the second floor. Plush ivory carpet softened my steps as I stepped into a room stark in its simplicity, spartan in its design, containing only the most basic of bedroom furniture. Bed, sleek Oriental armoire, a wall of mirrors of all shapes and sizes, and two small ornate shelves serving as bedside tables. The bed, a massive wrought-iron offering, didn’t actually need to be turned down—its many layers of white bedding had never been made that morning. I hurried over and pulled each up, one at a time, before peeling them back as one so that Mrs. Roberson could lie down unimpeded. I finished just as the two older women entered the room.
“Here we are. Now you just slip your shoes off and lie down, Wendy. We’ll settle you in. There you are. That’s the way.” To me, my mom said, “Maggie, stay with Mrs. Roberson a moment. I’ll pop down to the kitchen to make you a nice cup of chamomile.”
With Mom for the moment gone, I stood beside the bed, feeling awkward and not a little bit useless. Mrs. Roberson was watching me through tired eyes. I tried a sympathetic smile. “I really am very sorry, Mrs. Roberson. I hope . . . I hope they find who did it.”
I didn’t know what else to say. What else was there?
She rolled her head on the pillow to look out the window, blinking at the brightness. “The sun is shining,” she said, her voice as hollow as an empty glass. “I don’t know why that should surprise me, but it does. I’m standing still, but the world keeps turning around me, and around, and around.” She closed her eyes to it and turned her face away. “It shouldn’t be shining, you know. It’s impossible for the sun to shine this way when the light has left the world. It just goes to show you that what we’re seeing isn’t the truth. It isn’t real. It just isn’t.”
Her breath caught, and for one horrifying moment I thought she might let out a wail. I heard it inside my head, long and keening, before it sliced through my heart in one clean effortless motion. It took my breath away.
She grabbed my hand, staring at me with an intensity that unnerved me. “I should never have insisted she get a job. My fault. It was my fault, and Sid knows it. I see the way he looks at me. She would have been home, where she belonged. She would have been safe. She wouldn’t have been exposed to unsavory elements. It must have been the hotel. It must have been. There’s just no other way. No other—”
The last word was hiccuped out. Mrs. Roberson covered her face with her hands and cried silent tears, her shoulders jerking with the effort to hold them back.
“Mrs. Roberson . . . Wendy . . . It’s not your fault,” I soothed, hesitating a moment before reaching out a comforting hand to touch her shoulder. It felt right to do that. “Sometimes things just . . . happen, and there’s nothing we can do to change them. There’s no rhyme to it, no reason. It just is.”
She let her hands fall away from her face but kept her eyes closed. “I think I do need to rest now. I have some prescription sleeping pills on my husband’s sid
e of the bed. Could you get them for me, please?”
“Sure, if it’s okay.”
I handed them to her. She took one from the bottle and dry-swallowed it before lying down again with a sigh and closing her eyes. I stood at the window, watching the wind push cloud shadows across the surrounding fields as I listened to her struggle to lose herself in sleep.
So much pain. So much heartache. So much guilt.
Eventually her breathing slowed, became more regular. She rolled onto her side beneath the heavy covers, tucking her legs up and cradling her hands up to her throat as a child might. The bedroom windows had no curtains and no shades that I could draw against the late morning light, but it didn’t seem to matter. Almost asleep, I thought. With any luck she’d sleep until her husband got home from wherever he was. Mom was right—it didn’t feel right that she was alone so soon after what had happened. She should have family around her, helping her cope.
“The boys . . .” she murmured.
Not asleep after all. I reached out a gentle hand to stroke her hair as tears leaked from her closed eyelids. “Hush now. Hush. It’s all right.”
“Not her fault. I should’ve taught her . . . better. Too . . . embarrassed. Stupid woman.” The words came as though from the depths of her consciousness, slow and tortuous. “She was a . . . good girl. Good. It was too late . . . found out too . . . late. Jordan. She gave herself . . . to him. I knew. I . . . knew. Changes.” She took a deep breath, letting it whistle out slowly. “So many changes. Too late. My fault. Mine.”
She opened her eyes suddenly and stared straight into mine. Seeing me? I wasn’t so sure. The dilated pupils and wild look only served to confirm my suspicions. Reaching over the edge of the bed, her fingers scrabbled, tugged. She slipped something from between the mattress and the box springs. “You . . . take this. Please. Take . . .”