Chill Waters

by Hovey, Joan Hall

  Rachael followed Betty to the junction of the highway, waved goodbye. Then she sat for several minutes in the car, feeling both relief to be alone, and an acute sense of emptiness.

  She glanced at the bags on the back seat. Mostly items for the house, cleaning supplies. It was a small step, but a step just the same. Something.

  As the car neared Bay Road, a police siren went off behind her, startling her. She pulled off to the side of the road to let it pass. Up ahead the cruiser pulled into the small parking lot of Iris’ store, where a small crowd had gathered. Alarmed, she stepped on the gas, bypassing her turn-off.

  Amidst the throng of onlookers, Iris was easily recognizable in her long black coat, the silvery, blunt-cut hair. Hands buried in her pockets, she was deep in conversation with a tall, fair-haired man in stone-washed jeans and a leather jacket. On closer inspection, she saw it was Peter Gardner. Iris’ nephew. Unconsciously, Rachael’s hand moved to her cheek, touched the spot from where he had removed the sliver of glass.

  “Rachael,” Iris said as she approached, her smile warm if weary. “It seems we’re having something of an epidemic around here. I hope the siren didn’t scare you. Elton doesn’t get to use it much since leaving the big city.” The lightness draining from her voice, she added, “Though I suppose that’s not exactly true of late.”

  Iris’ store had been broken into. “They didn’t get much of value,” she told Rachael. “But they took my radio, damn them. Peter gave it to me when he was still in school. Best little radio I ever owned.”

  “Cost me all of ten bucks,” her nephew said. “I’ll get you another one.”

  “Can’t. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

  “The main thing is that you’re okay,” Rachael said. Iris’ gaze shifted past her shoulder, and Rachael turned to see a big man in an overcoat making his way toward them. Iris introduced him as Sergeant Sorrel.

  “Prichard must have hit here after, or maybe before, he wreaked havoc on your windows, Ma’am,” he said to Rachael. “But not to worry; he’s behind bars where he belongs.”

  As he spoke, his shrewd eyes studied her. His big shoulders were hunched inside the overcoat like a man who could never quite get warm.

  “Whoever burglarized my store, Elton,” Iris spoke up, “it wasn’t Tommy Prichard. There might not have been a lot of stock left, but certainly whoever took it would have needed a car to haul it away in.”

  Rachael immediately envisioned three boys piling into a black sportscar.

  “Or a truck, Iris,” the policeman said pointedly.

  “You’re out in left field on that one,” Peter Gardner said. “Nate would have had Tommy’s hide if he touched that bucket of bolts of his.”

  “You didn’t see him this morning, Peter. I’d say the old man did a pretty good job on him.”

  Rachael saw Peter’s mouth tighten, his blue eyes go hard as flint.

  “Would you like to come back to the house, Iris?” Rachael asked impulsively, a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll make us some tea.”

  “Good idea,” Peter said before his aunt could reply. “A cup of hot tea will do you good. Settle your nerves, Aunt Iris. There’s nothing more you can do here.”

  Iris’ chin lifted perceptibly. “You’re wrong about that, Peter,” she said a tad stiffly. “Rachael, thank you for the offer, but I want to take a more careful inventory of what’s been taken, for my insurance adjuster. May I take a raincheck?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Rachael didn’t miss the grin that touched the corners of her nephew’s mouth, or the raised eyebrow at the mild, but definite, rebuke. His expression said he should have known better. He seemed to enjoy his aunt’s spunkiness, her independent nature.

  She didn’t like to think about what trouble that spunkiness might have gotten her into if she’d happened to catch the culprits in the act. Iris was definitely not the type to cower in the face of danger. No doubt the same thought had already occurred to Peter Gardner.

  Should she mention the incident with those boys this morning? Yet, she had witnessed only a classic case of bullying. And bullying wasn’t against the law. Bullies had reigned terror against those smaller and weaker when she went to school, and no doubt would continue long after she was gone. She suspected most bullies grew up to be model citizens, with little, if any, recollection of their victims. While the kids they tormented bore the scars to their graves. Well, not much she could do about it. And the ‘Catch your later’ comment was no doubt just some empty grandstanding in front of his friends.

  Still, they did have a car. And they were definitely fitting candidates to any variety of offenses.

  At a sudden rumbling and banging, she turned to see a truck pulling into the parking lot and a man in greasy overalls and a faded plaid shirt shamble out. He bulled his way through the crowd, parting it like the Red Sea. Glowering up at the door, at the circular hole someone had punched out with a rock, (just big enough to allow a hand to pass through and turn the lock), he raved, “Damn little jerk gives me nothing but trouble, just like his old lady. She took off and left me with the kid. Probably not even mine.”

  “That’s Nate Prichard,” Iris said quietly beside her. “Meanest-son-of-a-bitch you’ll ever meet.”

  “Show’s over, folks,” Sorrel said, as he worked his way through the murmuring crowd that, sensing a juicy scene about to erupt, was miffed at being deprived of it. “Go on back to your homes, now.”

  Approaching Nate Prichard, who was still ranting to anyone who would listen, he clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Okay, let’s move it along, Nate. Your boy ain’t been charged with nothing yet. We’re just holding him for questioning. And I don’t want to charge you with anything either. But I will if you give me any grief. Assault and battery, for starters.”

  “I never touched that kid. He’s lyin’. Hey, I called you guys. He did that Myers girl and …”

  “Go home, Nate,” Sorrel spat, looking as if he had just bit down on something bad. “Just get the hell out of here.”

  Iris walked Rachael to her car. “I really do appreciate your stopping by, Rachael. And for the offer of tea. It was kind of you. And I would like to talk to you soon. Actually, I was going to call you. I wonder if I might come byperhaps one day next week.”

  “Sure. That would be fine. For avisit, you mean,” she added foolishly. Rachael wondered what she was letting herself in for.

  Her eye followed Iris’ to Nate Prichard who was now getting back in his truck, his meaty face sullen and hostile. Sergeant Sorrel stood closeby, keeping an eye on him. Rachael had the idle thought that Nate Prichard would have liked nothing better than to stomp the gas pedal to the floor, but couldn’t quite gather up the nerve.

  When the truck was no longer in view, Iris turned to Rachael. “Yes, Rachael,” she said pleasantly. “For a visit.”

  Seventeen

  After spending the morning in a cell, now Tommy sat on a hard-backed chair in a windowless room watching Captain Sorrel circle him like a hawk, talons poised for the big kill. Tommy’s eyes flickered over the other two cops in the room. The one with the cold eyesofficer Masonwas leaning against the wall by the door, beefy arms crossed over his chest. The bald one with narrow shoulders and a gut hanging over his belt, looked a little less redneck.

  Thumb-tacked on the greasy green wall above the bald cop’s head, a yellowing wanted poster showed a picture of a guy not much older than Tommy, but with an old fashioned mustache that drooped down on either side of his mouth. The caption said he shot four people in a bank holdup.

  The room reeked of stale cigarette smoke, mixed in with sweat and fear and desperation. Or maybe the desperation was coming from himself. Meeting Sorrel’s eyes, Tommy had to breathe shallow quick breaths to bear the pain in his ribs. He tried to block it out, but that was impossible.

  Behind the opaque, glass door, he could make out silhouettes moving about on the other side. He could hear the muffled ringing of te
lephones.

  “I know how you feel, Tommy,” the sergeant said in a tone intended to be fatherly. “But like I said, you gotta tell the truth. It’ll make a difference in what happens here.”

  “I told you the truth,” Tommy said.

  Sorrel’s hound-dog eyes hunted his. Just as if Tommy hadn’t spoken, he said, “So, now, why not come clean and make it easy on yourself? She didn’t want to go all the way? You find out she was seeing someone else? Was she trying to break it off with you? You know, Tom, a classy girl like Heather Myers couldn’t have been too thrilled at having a boyfriend who worked in a scrapyard.”

  He felt numb from sitting, his mind equally numb from answering the same questions over and over, each time with a slightly different spin. Questions meant to trick him into confessing to something he didn’t do. Aside from his shrieking ribs, his eyes felt as though someone had rubbed sandpaper over him, and the place beside his ear, where his father’s fist had landed, throbbed like a toothache.

  “Listen,” the police captain said, laying a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, “It’s not that hard to understand, you know? Women can do it to you. Make you nuts. Ain’t that right, Detective Mason?” The detective gave a nod of agreement, a smirk touching his mouth.

  Tommy shrugged the sergeant’s hand off his shoulder, which brought a swift anger to Sorrel’s eyes that Tommy ignored.

  “Why don’t you believe me?” he said. “I want Heather’s killer found as much as anyone. Maybe more. It’s just a job to you guys.” Every word he spoke was an excruciating effort, draining him a little more. “If you got anything on me, then arrest me. Otherwise, I’m walking out of here.” If I can, he thought miserably. “Look, I need to see a doctor. I thinkI’ve got a couple of busted ribs.”

  The stalking ceased, a bushy eyebrow lifted. “No kidding. And how did that happen? Did she manage to get in a good kick when you were holding that pillow over her face, smothering the life out of her?”

  “Yeah, right.” Tears sprung to his eyes at the horror of the image. “And then she beat the hell out of me.” He could say no more. Beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The killer’s face on the wanted poster wavered in front of his eyes like he was seeing it through water. He was going to pass out.

  “You are looking a little green around the gills, lad,” Sorrel said, sounding like he almost gave a damn. “You just take it easy. We’ll have a doctor look at you. In fact, I’m going to personally see to it that you have plenty of time to heal, with no one to disturb you. Not for a long, long time.”

  Eighteen

  Rachael’s phone was installed on Wednesday morning. No sooner did the blue van from the phone company drive out of the yard when it rang. A soft trill, but it startled her just the same. She picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  “Susan, darling…”

  “Are you okay, Mom?” Her voice sounded small over the line, a child’s voice, uncertain. “I got the number from information. You’re using your maiden name.”

  Rachael only replied that she was fine. A small lie, necessary. Susan was in her second year of college, studying marketing and communication, at the top of her class. Though she’d inherited Rachael’s grey eyes, and high cheekbones, she had Greg’s gregarious nature, his gift of persuasion. She would do well in her chosen field. She doesn’t need to be worrying about me.

  “Dad loves you, Mom,” she was saying. “He’s just going through some kind of mid-life crisis. Maybe if you got your hair done differently. Bought some sharp new clothes…”

  She’s telling me this is somehow my fault. It hurt, but came as no surprise. She loves me, but she’s first and foremost, her daddy’s girl. And why not? Greg was handsome and fun to be around. Rachael had always encouraged their special relationship, had nurtured it.

  Listening to Susan’s so-simple solutions, from the corner of her eye Rachael caught a movement down on the beach. Inching aside the new lace curtain, she recognized the man from the restaurant. He was leaning on his cane, snapping pictures of a piece of driftwood. His longish hair blowing in the breeze, he turned, aimed his camera at a lone seagull standing skittishly on Rachael’s flat-topped rock. She watched a moment, then let the curtain drop from her fingers.

  Allowing herself a moment to regroup after hanging up the phone, she dialed Jeff’s number. Getting the machine, she left a message, relieved at the reprieve. When she looked out the window again, the man was gone. The beach was deserted. She was about to turn away when she saw Iris Brandt’s car pull into the yard.

  She instinctively looked around her. The carpet didn’t look half- bad after a good shampooing. The musty house-fire smell was gone replaced by a clean piney fragrance. She’d replaced the torn lampshade with a new one, hung a couple of inexpensive Victorian prints.

  After she got home from the scene of Iris’ break-in, Rachael had launched into a marathon of housecleaning that lasted up until twenty minutes ago. She’d heard somewhere that the best weapon against feeling powerless was action. And it worked, at least temporarily.

  “I’m beginning to feel like the proverbial bad penny,” Iris said, when they were sitting in the living room sipping wine from long-stemmed glasses. Rachael had angled the chairs toward one another, facing the windows, and the bay. Iris’ eye strayed there now. “But I thought I should tell you a little about the last family who lived here.”

  “George and Ethel Bates?” Rachael had never met the previous owners, only read their names on the transfer of deed. As far as she knew they were an older couple who decided to move to Florida for the climate. Iris had alluded to some kind of family tragedy.

  “Yes. Oh, I know all the focus right now is on Tommy Prichard, but I’ve never known Tommy to be violent, and in fact I don’t recall he’s ever been in any kind of trouble. I can’t say the same for the Bates’ nephew.”

  “Nephew?” Rachael repeated, having no idea who Iris was talking about.

  “Yes. His name is Jimmy Ray Dawson. A no-account boy, unfortunately, and also unfortunately, Ethel’s blood nephew. Jimmy Ray got it in his head that his Uncle George had money stashed somewhere in the house, and was determined to find out where. I doubt George had any money, though that is hardly the point. Anyway, Ethel told him if he ever darkened her doorway again, she’d have him thrown in jail.”

  Rachael nodded for Iris to go on, curious as to what all this had to do with her.

  “Ethel loved that boy with all her heart, but she’d reached her limit when he hurt George.”

  The Chantilly lace curtains fluttered gently in the screened-in windows, letting in the scent of the sea, and a momentary chill. Rachael closed the window, let her eye linger a moment on the calm blue bay.

  She sat down again, picked up her wineglass. “He assaulted his uncle?”

  Iris’ blue eyes were at once sad and angry. “By the time I got here, it was all over,” she said. “Ethel was cleaning the blood from her husband’s face. She’d been crying. George was moaning, half-unconscious.”

  “My God.”

  “My reaction exactly. She begged me to keep her secret. It was only because she was a registered nurse herself that I agreed, although against my better judgement. She was ashamed, took it as her own personal failure. A black mark on the family name.”

  “But it wasn’t her fault.”

  “No. It wasn’t. They were good people. Jimmy Ray was just twelve when they took him in. They treated him like the son they never had, doted on him. Especially Ethel. Maybe that had something to do with it. Maybe not. Anyway, he repaid them with not a moment’s peace. Ethel always blamed it on the fact that he came from a broken home.”

  “Iris, I think I’m getting a sense of where you’re going with this. But this place was vacant for a year before I bought it. Surely, he knows…”