She Stopped for Death

by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli

  She pressed her hands to the broken glass, cupping her fingers around her eyes to keep out all competing light. Alex thought she saw a red edge—maybe part of a car door—at the bottom of the tarp.

  She couldn’t tell for sure. Couldn’t see well enough. It might be her imagination. She blinked a few times then cupped her hands at the window and looked again.

  Red. Only an inch or so showing under the tarp. But certainly red.

  “Get away from there!”

  Zoe fell off her stool, stumbling backward until she grabbed onto a small tree and pulled herself upright.

  Emily stood at the corner of the garage, her body stiff, arms down at her sides, one hand holding onto a small board. Her face, eyes bulging, looked like something straight out of hell.

  She took a step toward Zoe, raising the board ever so slightly.

  Zoe stepped back. She looked quickly around, turned, and started to run. First she needed to get around to the other side of the garage. Maybe then she could slip back around the sheds and get to her car.

  When she tried to double back, Emily stood there, between Zoe and what seemed to be the only way out. This time the piece of board was in both of her hands. She looked at Zoe, tipped her head, and smiled.

  There was no way Zoe could run out toward the house or even to the street. Emily stood in her way. Zoe looked over her shoulder. There was a path behind her. At least it was an opening. It might lead to something. She took a few steps backward, then turned and ran up the path leading directly into the swamp.

  The ground was slick, a little damp under foot at first. At least she could run, arms pumping, and feel she was headed somewhere where she could hide, even if it was deeper into the swamp. She could hide down between roots, or climb a tree. She was ahead of Emily Sutton. And she was smarter. She’d find a place. She looked over her shoulder and slowed to listen but heard nothing but her own breathing. The path underfoot got mushier, but continued straight ahead. She stopped to listen again, breathing harder. She heard nothing behind her.

  She edged farther along the path, careful not to slip into the water on either edge as the path narrowed. With every step, a frog or lizard leaped or scurried ahead of her. Bulbous eyes stared up from the water through a scrim of pollen and floating algae.

  She moved on, testing the ground at every step.

  The air tasted green, almost furry, in her mouth. The sounds around her were unseen skitterings, then a splash. Bird calls. Nothing else. She was protected along this stretch of the path by thick cedar branches and dipping hemlock trees.

  Another step.

  Another.

  The path curved, got mushier, water seeped into her footprints behind her. She walked carefully, in the very center of the path.

  Gnats swarmed her face and head. They got in her open mouth so she had to stop to bend and spit. Like a miracle, the path got firm again and then opened into a wide plateau where Zoe stopped and bent, hands on her knees, to catch her breath.

  She fell down to sit on a fallen log, then sat up to watch and listen, adjusting her bottom to the chinks and knobs of the dead tree.

  She was alive. She’d stay here until it was safe. Until it was night. Until somebody came to get her.

  Everything around her went quiet again. She wondered if she shouldn’t go back. Emily must have given up the chase by now.

  She could walk slowly, stopping to listen at every step.

  Zoe gulped air and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she noticed that the grasses here, on this small island of land set above snaking black water, were bent as if pounded to the ground. Across from where she sat, she saw a ring of what looked like dead flowers. She got up to look closer. Dead roses. An entwined ring—brown and brittle. The dead flowers formed a wreath. At the center of the dead wreath, two long sticks formed a cross. She got down to crawl on her hands and knees to where the dead flowers lay. A grave came to mind. Maybe a beloved pet was buried here. Or maybe the animal had been lowered into the water and the wreath marked the spot. She moved, still on all fours, to the water’s edge and looked over, at floating scum moving in waves. Something white beneath the scum swayed.

  She stuck her hand down into the water and stirred the scum in circles until it pulled apart. Through the now-opened circle, she saw the white limbs of a tree, maybe petrified, not far beneath the surface.

  She reached into the water and grabbed ahold of one of the white limbs to pull it up. If nothing else, it could be used as a weapon in case Emily waited back along the path. At least with a weapon, they would be equals.

  The white limb broke the surface, tipping Zoe backward, so she lay at the center of the dead wreath. She looked up at what she held. A long white bone. At the end of the bone, a skeletal human hand hung above her head.

  When she heard the scream behind her, she rolled away from the terrible noise, only to hang there, grabbing at nothing, before falling down, first through scum that choked her, then into dark, cool water. She stopped thrashing as she fell deeper, beyond where she could help herself.

  Chapter 27

  Inside her house, Dora peeked through the curtains and put a smile on her face when she saw Abigail Cane at her door in all her finery—and so early.

  Abigail was dressed for fall in a brown pantsuit with gold chains over the jacket and a brown, green, and rust shawl draped across one shoulder. A leather bag hung from the other shoulder and, in the crook of one arm, she held a manila folder.

  Dora knew what manila folders meant in the arms of a woman like Abigail. She was either taking names for contributions to one of her pet charities or she needed more help with the Emily Sutton event. Dora would have taken bets as to which it was.

  Dora opened the door. She smiled and waved Abigail in. They kissed cheeks. Dora offered her a chair, then a cup of coffee.

  “I have a twofold reason for coming this evening, Dora. And without calling first—I do abjectly apologize for that.”

  They sat across from each other in the living room, in the Queen Anne chairs. Abigail sat at the edge of her chair, as a proper lady would sit. Dora relaxed back and prepared to defend herself against whatever Abigail wanted this time.

  “Are you here about Emily Sutton?” Dora broke through a stream of opening comments, cutting to the chase because she was weary of problems.

  “Yes. For the most part. But also to bring good news.”

  Dora smiled a tired smile. “Good news first, please.”

  “The town council is in agreement with me. My father’s statue will come down. To be replaced with something of my choosing. It won’t be for a few weeks yet, and I want to plan a party for all of Bear Falls. I wish it could be closer to Emily’s event. Two birds with one stone, you understand. But it can’t be.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Dora said and meant it, knowing the full story of what Joshua Cane did to Abigail’s siblings, two of them dead now because of the terrible man.

  “I’ve found as many of his other children as I can find. And talked to each of the women who mothered a child of his. The mothers of children he refused to claim. Women he lied to, cheated, and left bereft. They want to come to our little ceremony in the park. I hope the cheers raised fly to the heavens. Or in the other direction, if that’s where Joshua Cane was rightly sent.”

  “So now. What else brings you here?”

  For the first time since Dora had known Abigail, she looked flummoxed.

  “It’s Emily Sutton.” Abigail took a deep breath. “I spoke to her this morning. I refused to leave her porch and knocked steadily until she opened the door. I’ve tried being patient but Emily Sutton would try the patience of Job. She’s come out of her shell with a vengeance. You should have seen her this morning. Hair as wild as a savage. Face livid. I told her I’ve been trying for days to get a hold of her. There are so many details to work out.” Abigail half-rolled her eyes. “Between us, Dora, the greatest detail is what the woman chooses to wear.”

  Dora smiled and rela
xed. Zoe and Jenny already agreed to see to her wardrobe and go over her poetry. She assured Abigail that her girls would take care of everything.

  “But that’s not all. I had everything planned. I would interview her and then she would read her work. She went so far as to stomp her foot at me. No interview, she demanded. Nobody on stage but her. No podium. She wants a high-backed chair where she can sit and read. The chair is to be covered with red velvet. There is to be a table beside her—with a huge bowl of white and pink water lilies. Now, where do you imagine I’m to get water lilies at this time of the year?”

  Dora thought. “That’s a tough one. You’d better negotiate with her. Maybe urns with fall leaves would be more practical.”

  “Negotiate? Emily Sutton doesn’t negotiate. She gives orders.” Abigail closed her eyes a minute, either resting or too aggravated to talk. “I know Jenny and Zola plan to see to her clothes, but I went ahead and purchased a lovely dress for her.”

  Dora felt trouble coming.

  “I left it on her porch yesterday afternoon. Of course she hates it. She said she simply wouldn’t appear dressed as a drab old lady.”

  “Goodness! What now?”

  “She’s making her own dress—heaven help us! I’ve done everything I can humanly do to tame that woman.” Abigail looked around. “Is Jenny home by any chance? I called Zoe Zola but she didn’t answer.”

  “Jenny’s not home.” Her face flushed as she tried to come up with a good reason Jenny hadn’t been home all night, that she’d called from Tony’s house to say she’d be home in the morning.

  Abigail didn’t press the matter; she was too distracted for ordinary curiosity.

  “I need your help in the morning, Dora. I hope you’re free. We’re having a run-through at the opera house. I have to find that chair she wants. The table. The flowers. If you will help, I will be deeply grateful. We’ll check on tickets and the seating chart. So many details. Minnie’s been a tremendous help but she doesn’t seem to be a detail person. Once I’d thought I would be doing these things with Emily. Obviously we will be lucky if she shows up and reads her damned poetry.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. From what I’ve seen of Emily, she’s really excited.”

  “Oh? Really? Anyway, would you ask Jenny and Zoe to call? We need to talk.”

  * * *

  The next morning Dora didn’t ask Jenny a thing when she walked in the house, only if she’d had breakfast. Remembering Tony’s pancakes with Northwoods maple syrup made Jenny smile as she assured Dora that she’d eaten.

  The first thing Jenny wanted to do was call that nurse again. She and Tony had talked about Myrtle and how she thought it was Emily who’d been in the hospital with her. They agreed that the nurse was crucial. If for nothing else, then to rule out the wild idea that Emily had killed her mother.

  She called Zoe first but got no answer. Zoe had her hands full already with a deadline and her upcoming trip to New York. She was nervous about it. Nervous about meeting with people from PBS, and nervous about something else she’d been worrying about.

  “What if Christopher proposes?” Zoe had asked Jenny the night before last.

  “Proposes what?”

  “You know very well what I mean.”

  “You’ve never even been out with him.”

  “That’s not always how things work, Jenny.” Zoe pursed her lips.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Lots of things. This could be very big for all of us.”

  “Say anything about proposing?”

  “Don’t be silly. Why would he?”

  “Then why are you worried?”

  Zoe had looked away and changed the subject.

  Jenny called Zoe again just before noon and left another message. She called the number she had for Constance Proust, got the answering machine, and asked again that Constance call her as soon as possible.

  Dora was dressed and hunting for her new fall shoes to wear to Traverse City. Jenny followed along behind her, feeling at loose ends and thinking maybe she would take a ride to Fife Lake and find Constance herself.

  “Did you look in the front closet?” Jenny asked.

  “You’re probably right.” Dora hurried back to the living room, glancing out the window to see Abigail’s black Cadillac pulling up the drive.

  “For goodness sakes. Here she is. Help me, Jenny. Look in the back of the closet, will you? I don’t want to kneel down in these slacks.”

  Jenny pulled the shoebox from the closet just as Abigail came through the front door, huffing from climbing the steps.

  She greeted Jenny but turned quickly to Dora. “I think I’ve forgotten my list of things to see to. All those orders from Emily. Who would have thought she’d get so high-handed? Now of all times for me to get absent-minded. Well, I’m glad to see at least you’re ready.”

  Shoes on, Dora picked up her purse and stood smiling in the open doorway, waiting now for Abigail.

  Abigail turned to Jenny. “I stopped at your neighbor’s house this morning, then called and left a message for her to call me back. I haven’t heard a word. Do you know where she is?”

  Jenny looked at her mother, then shook her head. “I haven’t seen her. But she’s been busy.”

  “Isn’t she supposed to go to New York soon?” Dora asked. “Something with PBS?”

  “Not before our event, I hope.” Abigail’s face was alarmed.

  “Oh, no. Of course not. Anyway, she would have asked us to watch Fida if she had to leave,” Jenny assured her.

  “Maybe she went for a drive.” Dora hurried to calm Abigail.

  “I certainly hope so.” Abigail was through the door. “We know how flaky poets can be.”

  “Zoe’s not a poet.” Dora wasn’t happy.

  “Well, then writers. They’re all cut from the same crazy quilt.”

  * * *

  Jenny heard nothing from anyone all day. Toward evening, when Dora and Abigail weren’t back and there were no lights in Zoe’s windows, she wondered if she should be getting worried.

  Dora came home after eight. “That woman could wear out an elephant,” she said as she kicked off her shoes, dropped her purse to the floor, and made her way down the hall to her bedroom with no mention of dinner.

  Jenny made a last call to the Proust home and left yet another message. She called Zoe’s cell, expecting to hear her voice. It rang and rang.

  Later, in her own room, Jenny heard a distant barking and got up to listen.

  The barking stopped. It sounded as if it came from somewhere down the street.

  She slept, but not peacefully. Odd things kept running through her head. The worst being Zoe’s pretty face.

  Chapter 28

  There was no light and there was no dark. Wherever she was when she awoke, it wasn’t her house. She was not in her bedroom—the way she expected to be when she opened her eyes. And she wasn’t anywhere else she could think of.

  Not New York. It wasn’t time to go there yet. There’d been no call from Christopher Morley that she could remember. But that was one of her problems at the moment. She couldn’t seem to remember much of anything.

  And even if this was New York, she wouldn’t be in this kind of place—wherever this place was.

  She blinked hard to see if it was her eyes—strained from too much work. But no, nothing changed when she opened them.

  Because I could not stop for death . . .

  A line from Emily Dickinson was in her head. An omen. An explanation.

  She wondered if this was what it was—death—then touched her own clammy, but still living, skin.

  She moved from where she lay on a bare wood floor to sit up against a wall of nothing but studs. Everything hurt—her head especially. Her whole body. Her clothes were damp and clinging to her skin. She had no idea how she’d gotten here nor any idea where she’d been.

  Light was almost nonexistent except for a very weak glow coming in from what seemed to be a vent, high on one of the wal
ls. There was no window. She could make out the faint outline of a door.

  What happened? She reached up to touch her face and hair. Her hair was damp, too. Her arms hurt, as if someone had been pulling them. She began to shiver uncontrollably. When she could, she patted her hands along the floor around her. She hoped for a blanket, some old clothes—anything to wrap herself in. There was nothing but the dust and grit she wiped from her fingers. It was a little hard to breathe; the air was thick and stale.

  The boards under her felt like raw wood. She touched the studs behind her. An unfinished room.

  She sat still to think, until she began to shiver and had to rub her arms with her hands. She’d gone to Emily’s to drop off the groceries and other things she’d bought her. Oh! She sat straight up. She’d seen a car in that garage. That much she could remember. She rubbed at her forehead. And then being chased into Pewee Swamp.

  All of it came back too fast. She felt her hands, one rubbing the other, and remembered what they’d pulled from the water.

  She curled into a ball and hugged herself as tightly as she could. She remembered holding those bones above her head.

  A few deep breaths helped to calm her. She remembered falling into the water, or being pushed. She put a hand to her head and felt a lump on the left side.

  Emily had to have attacked her. She was the only one around, the only one who didn’t want people looking in her garage. Now she had a fact to hold on to. Zoe pushed herself up to think of other rational things. She was probably somewhere in the Sutton house now. How Emily could have gotten her here, she couldn’t imagine. There had been a wheelbarrow behind one of the sheds. And she was small. No wonder her arms hurt, she must have been pulled and pummeled.

  She listened to the noises in the house. A faint hum coming from somewhere. It could be music. Or just a sound the house made.

  She didn’t think she was on the first floor—this space was more like an attic.

  When she moved her hands over the bare boards under her, a sliver went into her finger, hurting. She pulled the splinter out with her teeth and spit it away. There seemed to be nothing there, at the end of the room where she sat. She crawled to the other end and came across a single wide-mouthed jar. A wide-mouthed, empty jar.