When Emmalynn Remembers

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Em!” Billie protested. “I think it would be best not to—”

  My hand was already on the knob. I turned it and pulled the door open. A great gust of cold wind came rushing in, striking me in the face, fluttering my hair. The front porch was dense with shadow. Rain dripped loudly from the eaves of the veranda. I saw no one. I stepped out on the porch. I knew that I must be standing almost exactly where Henrietta had stood on the night she was murdered. I braced myself. I forced myself to be calm. There was no one in sight.

  “Em—” Billie was right behind me, as puzzled as I.

  “Someone was here,” I said, “but—”

  A dark form stirred among the shadows on the step. Billie screamed. I seized her arm. Black waves washed over me, and I saw an axe, blood, heard screams, saw a head roll, all in a split second, and then a little boy stood in front of us, his face pale and worried, his shoulders trembling in the cold air. It was Sean Murphy.

  “I didn’t think anyone was at home,” he said in a thin voice. “I had to sit down and rest a minute before I started back.”

  “Sean—” I cried. “You—you frightened us.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Rogers. I was just—is Betty here? Please tell her to come on out and come home. My mother is worried, you see, and Betty shouldn’t do these things. Not when—please tell her to come on out, Miss Rogers.”

  “But, Sean—”

  “Please,” he said, his thin voice full of anguish. “She’s got to be here. Tell her—tell her she won’t be punished. Just to come home. That’s all. Mother’s so worried, you see, and—and Betty’s never been gone this long before and I’ve looked everywhere else, up and down and all her usual places and she wasn’t at any of them so she’s got to be here. Won’t you get her for me?”

  He stood there bravely, his arms at his sides, his hands clenched into tight little fists. He looked like a miniature adult with his well developed body and his solemn, sober face, but the corners of his lips quivered and his large brown eyes betrayed a child’s fear. I could see that he wanted to break down and cry, but that would not have been manly. He stood with his shoulders thrown back, his jaw thrust out, and his eyes pleaded with me to say the words he wanted to hear.

  Billie and I exchanged glances. She gnawed her lower lip.

  “She isn’t here, Sean,” I said quietly. “She hasn’t been here.”

  “I was afraid of that,” he replied. His voice held firm.

  “How long have you been looking for her?”

  “For hours. She disappeared shortly after you left the store. At first we thought she’d just run off, but then—then she didn’t come back. I knew something was wrong. Mother did too. I said I’d find her.”

  “Maybe she’s returned home while you were out looking,” I suggested. I could see the words were little comfort to him.

  “Have you had dinner?” Billie asked. “You haven’t, have you? There’s some stew left, and cheese. You come with me. You’ll feel better after you eat something.”

  “I couldn’t eat,” he said simply. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll drive you back to the store,” I said. “Maybe Betty will be back when we get there. If—if she isn’t, we’ll help you look for her. I’ll go get the car and bring it around the front. You stay with Miss Mead. Billie, get the—uh—you know what. In the kitchen, on the drainboard. Put it in your purse.” I kept my voice deliberately light and airy. “We might need it, I think.”

  “Yes,” she replied blithely. “We just might. Come on, Sean. You’re wet. You’ll catch a nasty cold. I’ll get you a towel. You can dry off. Em, dear, are you going to the garage by yourself?”

  “I’ll have to,” I said.

  “Luck,” she retorted.

  “The keys are in the ignition, aren’t they?”

  “Should be. I’ll bring your purse out.”

  She put her arm around Sean’s shoulder and led him inside. I went down the steps and started around the side of the house. The ground was wet and muddy. The air was fresh and cold. The moon was behind a bank of clouds, gilding them with silvery radiance, and the rest of the sky was light gray, wet. Everything was sharply etched, black against gray, and I could see clearly. The carriage house reared up at the end of the drive, swathed in shadows. The door yawned open, a great black hole with the rear fender of Clive’s car projecting out of the darkness. There was no sign of Boyd. I walked towards the door. My shoes crunched noisily on the drive. I knew I couldn’t step into that darkness. I knew I didn’t have that kind of courage.

  I pushed all thoughts out of my mind and stepped through the door.

  It was pitch black. I could smell gasoline fumes and rusted metal. Someone was standing in the dark corner watching every move I made. In a moment he would leap out at me. I opened the car door and got behind the wheel. I fumbled on the dash and jerked the light switch. The headlights flooded the place with sharp yellow light. There was no one in the corner. Now he was sitting in the back seat of the car, raising his hand to lay it on my shoulder. I turned on the interior light. A pile of magazines and a scarf were on the back seat, nothing else. I backed the car out, turned it around in the space provided in front of the carriage house and drove around front. Billie and Sean came out a few minutes later.

  “Did you get that certain item?” I asked Billie as we drove away.

  “Mmm,” she nodded. “Not on the drainboard, though. You left it on the high stool beside the stove. I looked and looked.”

  “Did I? I could have sworn—oh well, you got it.”

  “I put it in your purse. Has our friend left?”

  “Apparently. The apartment was dark. There were no signs of anyone.”

  I drove along the road Boyd had taken this afternoon. It was still wet, slippery now. I had to drive slower than I would have preferred. The headlights glistened on the wet pavement and made bright yellow sweeps over tree trunks and shrubs as I turned. Sean sat in front between us, his face grim. Billie had given him a towel to dry off with and replaced his wet shirt with a bulky navy blue turtle neck sweater which fit him remarkably well. She had also given him some crackers and cheese, and he ate them apologetically as we drove.

  I found the turnoff and coasted down the road that led to the beach. I turned and started towards the shore. The sea was a sullen silver gray mass, hissing on the sand. The tacky little resort area looked shabbier than ever in the moonlight. The tiers of summer homes might house ghosts. The casino was a ruin washed with shadow. The whole place seemed desolate and deserted until we reached the store. It was ablaze with light. Three cars were parked in front of it, one of them a police car.

  A policeman stood at the front door, barring our way. He wore a short, slick cape and a helmet with leather band fastened under his square jaw. He had a broken nose and dark, ugly eyes, and he scowled at us, his massive shoulders filling the doorway. Sean told him who we were, and he permitted us to move past him, blocking the doorway again as soon as we were inside. The store was brightly lighted, stark white light pouring down on colorful cartons and canned goods. A cluster of men stood around the counter, smoke from their cigars and cigarettes clouding the air.

  Three of them wore police uniforms, and they stood around with their faces flushed and ruddy, their eyes grim. A fourth man wore a soiled blue suit and a gray and black tie hastily knotted. His thin brown hair was rumpled, and his pale, fleshy face looked sleepy. Despite all this, he had an air of authority that could never be mistaken. He saw us. He said something to one of the policemen and then hurried towards us. He held out his hand and I took it. I introduced Billie to Officer Stevens of the Brighton police.

  “Miss Rogers, Miss Mead,” he said tersely. “I was going to send for you. You’ve saved me the trouble.”

  “Did Betty come back?” Sean asked, his eyes large and frightened.

  “No, son, not yet,” Officer Stevens said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re back, though. That’s one problem solved. You were gone for a
long time. Your mother called us. She thought maybe you’d disappeared, too.”

  “You wanted to see us?” I inquired.

  “I thought maybe you knew something about the missing child. Evidently you don’t.”

  “I saw her this morning and again this afternoon when I came to buy my groceries.”

  “Mother,—” Sean began.

  “She’s all right, son. She’s in her room. Why don’t you go see her? She’ll want you.”

  Sean moved quickly to the door that led to the living quarters. I saw George Reed leaning against a wall of boxed cereals. His face was grave, the brown eyes dark with worry, deep creases in his cheeks. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn this afternoon, the white shirt with sleeves rolled up, the soiled white jeans and scuffed tennis shoes. He looked like a Greek statue suddenly endowed with life and bewildered by the odd clothes and strange surroundings.

  “What’s he doing here?” I asked. Officer Stevens glanced at Reed.

  “We picked Reed up, brought him here,” he informed me. “He was apparently the last one to see the child. He was on the pier down the beach a ways, talking to her. Around two-thirty or three this afternoon. Several people saw them together. He claims he left her there and went back to his cottage.

  “She’s been missing that long?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so. We’ve got a search party out looking for her. It seems she runs away quite a lot, but she’s never been gone this long. The widow called us a couple of hours ago. She’d sent the son out to find Betty, and when he didn’t come back she finally phoned us.”

  “It’s terrible,” Billie whispered.

  “That it is,” Officer Stevens said grimly. “Missing child—suspicion of foul play—”

  “You suspect foul play?” Billie asked in a faint voice.

  “The mother does. Wouldn’t tell us anything. Sat there like she was in a trance, just kep saying ‘He got her. He got her’ over and over again. Shock, of course. She’ll talk later on.” His sharp blue eyes looked into mine. He nodded slightly. “I think this might have something to do with the other,” he said quietly.

  “I’m sure it does,” I replied. My voice was shaky.

  “It looks bad, Miss Rogers.”

  “She knew something, it would seem.”

  “She did. Betty saw something that night. She told me. She wouldn’t give me any details, but she saw something. Someone found out. Someone was afraid she—”

  “Let’s keep calm,” he said sternly. “That’s the only way.”

  “The widow knows,” I said abruptly. “Betty told her mother what she saw, and her mother told her to keep quiet about it. She was frightened. She warned Betty not to say a word—but she did. She hinted around with me this morning, and—” I suddenly remembered seeing Betty with Gordon. I remembered her showing him the wooden animal Burt Reed had carved for her. I could feel the color leaving my face.

  “What is it?” Officer Stevens demanded brusquely.

  “I—I think she told someone else,” I said in a voice that was barely audible.

  “Who?”

  “Gordon Stuart.”

  “The brother?”

  “Yes. He—he seemed very interested in whatever she was saying. They were talking together early this afternoon, while I was here doing my shopping.”

  Officer Stevens nodded his head, his lids narrowed. He signaled one of his men to come over. He took the man aside and said something to him. The man made a telephone call behind the counter and then left the store. I stood beside Billie, gripping her hand tightly. I closed my eyes for a moment. I took a deep breath. I forced back all the horrible visions that threatened to take root in my mind. I had to keep calm. I felt that I was partly to blame for all this, and I had to do something. I had to help.

  “I want to see the widow,” I told Officer Stevens. “She—she needs a woman right now. Perhaps she’ll talk to me.”

  “I doubt it,” he retorted. “She’s in a pretty bad state.”

  “Let me try,” I insisted. “It’s important—”

  “The boy needs something to eat,” Billie added firmly. “I doubt if his mother is in any condition to see to it. He was out in the rain, and he needs to get out of those wet trousers and socks. There are probably a dozen things—”

  “Go ahead,” Officer Stevens said. “Both of you. You might be able to get something out of her. But—Emmalynn—uh, Miss Rogers—be careful. Be gentle. She’s in shock, you know. Her little girl is missing. Be sure you don’t say anything that would—”

  “I think I can handle it,” I said crisply.

  “I’m sure you can.” He stepped aside to let us pass.

  We walked towards the door in the rear of the store. We had to pass in front of George Reed. He stood up straight to let us by. His eyes spoke to me, pleaded with me. He made as though to reach out and touch my arm. I gave him a frosty stare and moved on by. He sighed and leaned back against the wall of boxed cereals.

  Widow Murphy was sitting on a shabby blue sofa in a tiny living room with faded violet paper on the walls and limp white curtains at the window. Her hands were folded primly in her lap, and her eyes stared without seeing. Tragedy had stamped her face. There were dark smudges under her eyes. Her thin lips were pale, twitching slightly at one corner. Sean sat beside her, looking helpless and utterly crestfallen. He looked up when we came in. Hope danced in his eyes for a brief instant, then vanished. He introduced us to his mother. She gave no response.

  “Please, Mother, Miss Rogers and Miss Mead. Miss Mead let me wear this sweater. She gave me crackers and cheese. They want to help.”

  “No one can help,” she said. She might have been talking in her sleep. “He got her. I know he did.”

  Billie and I exchanged glances. Billie frowned. She stepped over to the door that led to the kitchen and looked inside. The kitchen was small, cluttered with unwashed dishes. It smelled of grease. Billie pushed up her elbow length puffed sleeves and looked very resolute. She took Sean by the hand and led him towards the kitchen.

  “We’re going to wash these dishes and clean this place up,” she told him, “and then we’re going to make a nice hot meal. The two of us. First you’re going to go to your room and take a hot, hot bath and put on pajamas and robe. House shoes, too. While you’re doing that I’ll make coffee. Does your mother drink coffee?”

  “Sometimes. The pot’s in that cabinet.”

  “I’ll find everything for myself. You run on. Hustle, kid. I’m going to need plenty of help around here, and you’re elected.”

  I sat down beside Widow Murphy. I didn’t say anything. I knew what she was going through, and I knew that words would be useless at the moment. I was relieved when Billie came in with two cups of coffee on a tray. She put the tray down on the small table in front of the sofa and went back to the kitchen. Widow Murphy took a cup of the steaming beverage and held it, her hands wrapped around it as though for warmth. I heard Billie splashing water in the sink, rattling pans. The domestic noises were comforting. The widow finally sipped her coffee. She set the cup down and turned to me.

  “Sean—” she said. “Wet clothes—”

  “We’re seeing to that. He’s taking a hot bath right now. We’re going to see that he gets a hot meal, too. I wish you’d eat something as well. I know you don’t feel like it, but it’d be good for you.”

  “You’re kind, Miss Rogers. You always were.”

  “You don’t have to talk, Mrs. Murphy. It isn’t necessary. But if you would like to—”

  “One must go on,” she said slowly. “The blows come. One goes on. I have to think of that.”

  “They’ll find her, Mrs. Murphy. You must believe that.”

  Widow Murphy made no reply. She finished her coffee. It seemed to revive her somewhat. Her lips were not as white as before, and her eyes had lost that distant look. She glanced up when Sean came through the room. He was wearing a pair of long white pajamas and a brown corduroy bathrobe. His skin
glowed rosy from the bath and his hair was wet. His mother nodded. She watched him go into the kitchen.

  “I have to tell someone,” she said haltingly. “I may as well tell you. It’s too late for it to matter now—now that Betty’s gone. It will help the police bring justice. Justice didn’t matter before. Now it does. Now my Betty is gone—”

  “Mrs. Murphy—”

  “Let me talk. You were there that night, Miss Rogers. They say you saw. You understand what I’m talking about?”

  “Of course,” I replied quietly.

  “They say you saw and don’t remember. I can understand that. It must have been a terrible shock—too terrible to keep in your mind. Betty saw something that night, too.”

  She paused. She closed her eyes for a moment. I could hear something sizzling in the kitchen, and I smelled bacon. Sean was cracking eggs and plopping them into a large bowl. The normal noises coming from the kitchen made a chilling contrast with the tension and terror felt here in the living room.

  “She used to run off all the time,” the widow continued. “I couldn’t do anything with her. She’d run off from school and prowl around. Everyone around here liked her. They were used to seeing her hanging about. She was a nosy child. She knew everything that went on. She even made notes about what she saw. That was bad enough. Then she started sneaking out of bed at night and going for long walks along the beach. I tried to put a stop to it. I tried everything—”

  She sighed heavily and ran her hand over the faded blonde hair pulled so tightly over her skull. She looked utterly exhausted, as though it had drained her energy to say this much. I thought for a while that she was going to slip back into the near-catatonic trance, but she pulled her back up rigid and folded her hands in her lap. She examined the hands as though she had never seen them before and wondered what such alien objects were doing in her lap. When she finally spoke again her voice was flat.