Cold Waters (Normal, Alabama Book 1)

by Debbie Herbert

  I bounded up the last couple of porch steps and set my umbrella against the wall.

  “So it is. You must be Calvin.”

  “Calvin Donnell Andrews. I’m this many”—he held up four fingers—“years old. Mommy’s in the bathroom,” he added.

  I bent down on one knee and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Calvin. I’m—”

  “Vi-let. Mommy’s friend.”

  “Right.”

  Calvin stuffed the lollipop in his mouth and offered me his hand—all red and sticky with sugary goo. Laughing, I ignored the outstretched hand and shook the relatively clean one by his side. “Nice to finally meet you, little man.”

  I stood and slipped out of my dripping rain jacket.

  “Calvin! Where are you?” Libby’s voice drifted toward the open door. She appeared two seconds later, hair wrapped in a towel and a harried expression on her fresh-scrubbed face. I blinked, startled at the contrast with how I usually saw her, sporting heavy eye makeup and red lipstick.

  She ushered Calvin back through the door and waved me inside. “I saw that look on your face.” She grinned. “All my careful artistry takes time.”

  “You look nice either way—just took a sec to take in your natural beauty.”

  Libby snickered and scurried to a small kitchen table, where she plucked a wipe from a plastic bin and scrubbed Calvin’s sticky fingers and mouth. “Just gave him a bath. You should have been here five minutes ago; he was clean as a pin. Go have a seat in the den. We’ll be right there.”

  Libby’s house was small and in an older neighborhood, but I loved the old-fashioned vibe of the architecture, which contrasted with her eclectic, modern style. The sofa was red leather and positioned atop a black shag rug. Bold abstract paintings brightened the walls, and Calvin’s photos were proudly displayed among them. A few of his toys lay scattered on the floor, and a pile of women’s magazines was stacked on a glass coffee table.

  It had a homey, comfortable feel. A place where you could put your feet up and relax.

  I’d no sooner settled on the sofa than Calvin ran across the room and plopped beside me.

  “You wanna read me a story?” Without waiting for my answer, he picked up a children’s book from the coffee table and handed it over.

  “I’d love to.”

  Libby touched the towel turban on her hair. “Sure you don’t mind?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay, that’ll give me a chance to comb out my hair. Back in a few.”

  Calvin cuddled his miniature body against mine. He smelled of soap, shampoo, and a faint trace of sugar. Five pages in, his eyes began to droop closed. It was clearly bedtime, but he fought the good fight against that trap of resting. I remembered that as a kid, I’d hated bedtime, too, convinced that the minute my body betrayed me and drifted off, I would miss all the grown-up fun continuing on without me.

  The rain outside intensified, and the night grew darker. I stopped reading and played with one of Calvin’s ringlets. His eyes popped open. “Read more,” he commanded.

  I did. Again, he nodded off. But minutes later, thunder rumbled, and he awoke once more, pulling himself to a standing position. He grabbed onto my hair like it was a pull bar.

  “Ouch!” I winced and couldn’t stop the gasp of pain.

  “What happened?” Libby flew into the room. “Calvin, let go of her hair. You’re hurting her.”

  “I’m sorry.” He let go and patted my shoulder. “You got a boo-boo?”

  “I’m fine.” Involuntary tears ran down my face, belying my words.

  Libby frowned and walked closer. “Let me see.”

  She’d leaned over and run her fingers through my hair before I guessed her intent. I hissed when the tendrils were stirred.

  “What’s this?” Libby cried. “You’ve got a bald patch of raw skin. Calvin, what did you do?” She dropped her hands and quickly scanned both her son and the sofa, evidently looking for a clump of my hair.

  “Don’t scold him. Calvin didn’t do it; this happened last night.”

  “Was an accident?” he asked, again patting my shoulder.

  “Right.” I mustered a smile that pacified him, but not Libby, judging by her deepening scowl.

  “Let me grab my first aid kit. Calvin, time for bed. Come along.” She held out her hand, and Calvin sighed heavily before scrambling off the sofa. He recognized the firm command.

  “Do I hafta, Mommy?”

  “You hafta.”

  I chuckled as Libby scooped him to her hip, and they headed out. “Back in a jiff,” she called over her shoulder.

  My new friend was a good mother; that was plain. I couldn’t imagine ever having a rug rat of my own. Had never even been on my radar. But a twinge of envy tugged at my heart. Unconditional love was an awesome thing to witness. Maybe one day I’d have that in my life again. When Mom had died, so had the one person who’d loved me in that no-holds-barred kind of way.

  I walked to the window, enjoying the light display from distant lightning bolts. Storms intrigued and stirred me. I’d latch on to whatever random happiness came my way and celebrate it. Libby’s unexpected friendship was one of those rare, undeserved blessings.

  “Now tell me what really happened.”

  I whirled around, caught off guard.

  Libby ran one hand through her still-damp hair and lifted the red plastic box she held in the other. “Time for a little TLC.” She sat on the sofa and threw a floor pillow at her feet. “Sit down here, and let me have a look. How’d it happen?”

  Sighing, I obeyed and settled on the large throw pillow. Might as well tell her the truth. She’d get it out of me eventually. “Delaney.”

  “What the hell?”

  “I know. I’m still surprised. It’s as if we were kids all over again. You’d think we’d have learned some restraint at our age.”

  “That’s it. You’re moving out of that house. You can’t live with a maniac.” Her hand rummaged in the first aid kit, and she pulled out a tube. “This might sting a bit at first, but it’s an antibiotic and numbing cream. You’ll thank me later.”

  Cold goop pressed on the burning, raw sore. “Ouch.” I jerked out of Libby’s grasp.

  “All done,” she pronounced brightly, handing me the tube. “Take it with you when you leave and reapply as needed.”

  “Spoken like the mom of a toddler and an experienced LPN.” It did feel loads better, and I sighed in relief.

  “Are you going to press charges?”

  “What? No.” The idea had never entered my mind. Besides, I had hurt Delaney as well.

  “You should.”

  “I’d rather avoid the police right now, if you know what I mean.”

  Libby gave me an assessing look. “There’s no reason to fear. You had nothing to do with Ainsley’s death.”

  “How can you be so sure of that?” I asked, blinking back unexpected tears. Kindness always did me in, wrecked me deeper than any mean act ever could.

  “Because you’re a good person.”

  “But . . . maybe I wasn’t always so good.”

  “We went to the same elementary school and junior high. I saw you around.”

  “Still . . .” That was hardly a ringing endorsement for understanding my true character.

  “One time in elementary school, I saw you stick up for a special ed kid in the cafeteria. Johnny Nix and Carl Randall were making fun of the way he walked, eyes always peeled to the ceiling. The kid ignored them, so they blocked his path and pushed him. Everyone stood around watching. Except you.”

  I tapped my lip, thinking. “Oh yeah. That little boy who didn’t talk and didn’t appear to even notice anyone. I’d forgotten all about him.”

  “You told the bullies to leave the kid alone. His name was Eric . . . something. His family moved away a couple years later. Looking back, I realize he must have had autism. Anyway, I never forgot it—or you.”

  “Thanks, Libby.” My words weren’t enough, but they were a
ll I had.

  “Stop being so hard on yourself. Anyone who’d stick up for another kid like that—well, it showed me where your heart’s at. I don’t know what happened to you that night you were found roaming the woods, but I do know you couldn’t kill anyone.”

  I stared down at my hands folded meekly in my lap. Those same hands had slapped Ainsley. What else had I done in my anger? And did I really want to know the truth? I looked up and faced Libby, wondering how much I could reveal.

  “But not remembering what happened plays with my mind. I mean, we all have a dark side. Right? What if I were angry with Ainsley, and for, let’s say, five seconds—I lost all my self-control? The logical, rational part of my brain might have been overpowered by rage.”

  Libby shook her head emphatically. “Nope. Don’t believe it.”

  Because you haven’t experienced a dark shadow side like I have. Libby was a better person than me, even if she hadn’t figured that out yet. But I’d said enough. So I shrugged and summoned a smile. “You have more confidence in me than I have in myself.”

  “Now, if I’d heard that Delaney had been suspected of murder, I wouldn’t be surprised. God, she’s always been such a little diva.”

  I gave an uneasy laugh. “Thanks for staying my friend. It can’t be easy with all the news stories and speculation going on now.”

  “How’s everyone treating you?” Libby asked. “Everything okay at Whispering Oaks?”

  I nodded. “Soon as I got to work this morning, Cora took me aside and told me not to worry about the news coverage, that I hadn’t lied on my application, my references checked out, and staff and patients were pleased with my job performance.”

  “See? Everyone likes you.”

  “Not everyone”—Emmeline Upchurch came to mind—“but today wasn’t near as bad as I’d imagined.”

  A few people had eyed me with a new curiosity after last night’s news bomb about the discovery of Ainsley’s remains. Emmeline Upchurch had turned her nose up whenever I’d entered her room, but the rain had kicked up her arthritis, and my murderous character hadn’t been front and center on her mind.

  “Seriously, Violet. You need to get out of that house. I don’t have a spare bedroom, but you could sleep on the sofa until you find a place.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Who would feed my crows? But that sounded silly—I couldn’t admit such a thought. “It wouldn’t be fair to you and Calvin if I stayed here.”

  Libby opened her mouth to protest, but I rushed on. “Besides, I need to find out if Delaney is overmedicating Dad. I wouldn’t feel right leaving and not trying to help him.”

  “You could report suspected elder abuse to authorities.”

  I shuddered to think of Delaney’s reaction if an investigator arrived on our doorstep.

  “You’re scared of your sister, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe a little,” I admitted. “But her anger is usually short lived. And she can be nice sometimes too. This morning she apologized and fixed me breakfast.”

  “Big freaking deal.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But what? Delaney attacked you. What was that all about, anyway?”

  Heat chased across my face as I remembered I hadn’t been entirely innocent in that altercation. “Delaney said I was an embarrassment to the family. Which is true.”

  “Your dad’s past caring. All she’s concerned about is herself.”

  I couldn’t deny that truth. “Jeez, Libby. But she’s my sister. You know? I do have some good memories of our growing up together. She and Ainsley and I used to . . .” I faltered.

  “Go on.”

  “We had some good times. We’d sneak out of the house at night and meet Ainsley by the river.” I thought longingly of those carefree summer nights—the utter freedom of escaping adult supervision and running wild under the moonlit skies. The scent of honeysuckle and the kiss of cool water on bare skin.

  Libby’s sharp voice interrupted my reverie.

  “Was Delaney with you the night Ainsley disappeared?”

  “Huh? No. At least . . . no, she must not have been. I do remember being found by my mom and the detective. They led me back to the house. Dad and Delaney were already there, waiting on us.”

  “Doesn’t mean they were home all that night,” Libby pointed out.

  “But—wait a minute—what are you saying?”

  “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that maybe you weren’t the last person who saw Ainsley alive?”

  “No,” I whispered. That wasn’t entirely true, though. Early in our rendezvous, I’d heard something . . . a rustling in the distance. A snapped twig and then eerie silence that had prickled my skin. I dismissed this chain of thought. The woods were full of deer, foxes, rabbits, and other roaming creatures. To bring it up only sounded like a lame attempt on my part to cast suspicion on others.

  One coral sandal had been found less than six feet from a blood-splattered patch in the sand. Blood had also been found on a boulder in the middle of the river.

  Ainsley’s spilled blood.

  My sandal.

  The only physical evidence and clues of what had happened.

  “What if Delaney followed you out of the house and you didn’t notice? Or your dad might have—”

  “Leave my dad out of it,” I snapped. He might have been a mean drunk, but to cold-bloodedly track us down and kill . . . no, I couldn’t see it.

  Libby threw up her hands. “Just throwing out possibilities. Something spooked you that night. Could have been an unexpected encounter with a dangerous man or some punk guys. Lots of people went to that same swing by the river.”

  “The police looked into that, even had me medically examined to see if I’d experienced any sexual trauma. There was nothing to indicate rape.” I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with the memories of that hospital visit and staring into the overhead fluorescent light as a doctor did something down there, where I wouldn’t look. Bad enough to feel the cold metallic instrument probe.

  “It was so long ago,” I said at last. “We may never know what really happened.”

  “What if there was a way?”

  I threw up my hands. How many times had I tortured myself over the years trying to remember what I’d seen that night? What little I remembered, the argument and my push, only damned me further.

  “I’ve tried everything. Different therapies and drugs, hypnosis, revisiting that area in the woods, dream analysis—”

  “I’m not talking about your memory.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  Libby leaned forward. “Have you ever heard of gaslighting?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen that old Bette Davis movie where her cousin tries to drive her insane.”

  Libby raised her brows. “Can’t you see the parallels in your own life? Delaney’s trying to make you think you’re either mentally incompetent or guilty.”

  “Maybe.” I couldn’t deny that my sister had a dangerous temper. But a deliberate, prolonged campaign to drive me insane? Did she really hate me that much?

  Libby ticked off incidents on her fingers. “She steals your money and gets you to accept her crime without reporting it. She guilts you into practically being her slave and has you watch your dad in almost all your free time. And then, to top it all off, she tells you to confess to a murder you don’t remember committing. And all those misplaced items of yours? The nightmares she claims you have? The way she talks behind your back and lets everyone think you’re not quite right? She’s gaslighting you, babe.”

  Rain slashed against the den’s bay window, and I startled like a baby bunny rabbit. “An organized campaign to drive me bonkers? Why would she do that?”

  “Money.”

  “We can’t have much left, so—”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I haven’t seen a bank statement,” I said slowly. “But they don’t live like they’re wealthy. The house is old and needs work
, their cars are old, and they don’t ever go anywhere.”

  The list of Delaney’s extravagances spent from my trust fund came to mind. Whatever traveling Delaney had enjoyed had come at my expense.

  “Exactly.” Libby slammed a hand down on her chair’s arm. “Bet she’s hoarding every penny of the estate, along with your dad’s disability checks. And who knows how much money her lovers slip her on the side?”

  I hugged my arms around my knees, drinking in her theory. “So you imagine she wants to have me put away. That way she doesn’t have to share any money with me.” I placed a hand on my chest and felt comforted by the steady beat of my heart.

  “Yep. Prison or the mental home. Either works.”

  “Come on. A bit far fetched, Libby.” But even as I outwardly denied her theory, doubt assailed my mind.

  “Money is a powerful motive; don’t discount it. Delaney might be gaslighting you so that you appear guilty of the crime. As if you’re a mentally unstable person who can’t handle the real world because of a secret shame that eats away your sanity. Isn’t that what a desperate, greedy woman might do to preserve her way of life?”

  Inwardly, I winced. Secret shame. A montage of wrongdoing squirmed like a rumba of rattlesnakes in my belly, all roused for a lethal strike—my angry hands jabbing at Ainsley, screams absorbed in the malignant night.

  “You’ve watched too many old movies.” I gave a weak laugh and stretched out my feet, crossing them at the ankles. “And even if you’re right, it doesn’t help solve the mystery of Ainsley’s murder. Don’t worry about me—I can handle Delaney until I get the opportunity to move out. Can we drop all this and play cards or something?”

  “First, hear me out. I have an idea.”

  How could I graciously refuse? “Go on,” I said reluctantly.

  “Reverse gaslighting.”

  I blinked at the fervent gleam in her eyes. “Meaning . . . ?”

  “Give Delaney a taste of her own medicine. See if you can rattle her, expose her darkest secrets.”

  “You’re assuming she has some.”