Chill Waters

by Hovey, Joan Hall

  “That’s just it, Rachael. I’m not sure he does know they sold the house and moved away. Peter thinks he’s probably spent time in jail without Ethel’s help. The good Lord knows he was headed in that direction.”

  “And you think he’ll be furious when he finds out they took off without leaving a forwarding address. Sounds like an old joke.”

  “But not very funny, I’m afraid. Like most cowards, he’s a bully. It wouldn’t be beneath him to take out his anger on whomever opens that door to him. Especially someone vulnerable like a woman alone.”

  Fear touched Rachael’s heart. “You really think he’ll turn up here.”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible. It’s also possible I’m making far too much of the whole matter. But I did think you should be aware. It seemed more important than keeping Ethel’s secret. This is excellent sherry, by the way.”

  “I’m glad you like it. Her mind envisioned the silhouette out by the elm tree she’d seen on the night of the storm. Could it have been the Bates’ nephew?

  Shaking her head as if to erase the incident from her mind, Iris looked around the room approvingly. “You’re spinning a cozy cocoon for yourself, Rachael. A safe haven, I’m sure,” she added, too heartily. “Truly, it is not my intention to frighten you. Only to alert you to possible danger.”

  The words had a familiar ring. “I know that, Iris. Thank you for telling me.” Like Iris, she too, wanted to dismiss the subject of the Bates’ from further thought or conversation.

  Her gaze wandered to the mantle and the matching off-white candle holders Iris had brought her as a ‘proper housewarming gift.’ Rachael had arranged them at either end of the mantle, flanking the vase of silk daisiesa fitting replacement for the pickle bottle with its plastic rose. Beautifully crafted, the exact thread of moss green ran through the candleholders as was in her new chintz chair covers.

  Maybe Iris really was psychic, she smiled to herself.

  After Iris left, Rachael looked up Hartley McLeod’s number, dialed it. The phone rang a few times before he answered. She could hear a dog barking in the background. She should get a dog. It would be good company, and could also let her know if anyone was lurking around outside. When the kids were little, they’d wanted a pet, but Greg was allergic.

  “This is Rachael Warren, Mr. McLeod,” she said. “I wanted to thank you so much for replacing the windows. If you’ll just let me know how much…”

  “Glad to be of service,” he interrupted. “Couldn’t very well live in a house without windows, now, could you?” He gave his raspy chuckle. “But don’t you worry none about money, you hear, we got a victim’s fund set up for just that sort of thing. Thought we should what with all the vandalism.”

  “I see. Well, I’m deeply grateful. Mr. McLeod, Iuh, wondered if you wouldn’t mind bringing my spare key by when you'rewell, in the neighborhood.”

  “Key?” he said, sounding surprised. “I put that key on the ledge above the door, same as always, ma’am.”

  “Same as always?”

  He paused. “I used to do a little work for George after he couldn’t do it for himself no more.”

  Had she hurt his feelings? She hadn’t meant to. “I’ll have another look,” she said, and thanked him again for his good work. “I must have just missed seeing it.”

  But the key was not where he said. Nor was it under the mat, or anywhere else she could think of as a possible hiding place. Had someone been watching him when he put the key on the ledge? Waited until he left, and took it?

  But the Bates’ nephew wouldn’t need to do that, would he? He would already know where the key was kept.

  And why didn’t that make her feel any better?

  Why was all this happening? She came back here to heal, to try to find her way back to herself, and somehow she’d been drawn in to murder and mayhem, even becoming a victim of vandalism herself.

  Not much she could do about it. Keeping busy was the only answer that came to her. Although the house looked considerably better than it had, it still needed papering and painting throughout. Not easy to summon the motivation or energy when all you really wanted to do was go to bed and pull a cover over your head, but she would put herself to the task. Yes, a project is just what I need.

  When she was working, she didn’t let herself feel or think. She operated on automatic. She functioned better in pleasant, orderly surroundings. She always had. Tomorrow she’d go into town and check out prices on paint and paper at the hardware store.

  Right now though what was in order was a long, hot shower.

  Upstairs, she slipped out of her jeans, shirt, bra and panties, letting them drop into a heap on the bathroom floor. Turning the taps on full, she adjusted the showerhead and stepped into the old-fashioned clawfoot tub. Standing beneath the needle hot spray, she closed her eyes, surrendering to the cascade of water. Gradually, the hot shower began to wash the tiredness from her body.

  “Maybe if you got your hair done differently, Mom … bought some sharp new clothes…”

  Susan wasn’t the first one to have had that thought. For a moment, Rachael had managed to convince herself that it would work. A few nights after Greg admitted to his affair with Lisa, she’d showered and slipped into the new negligee she had purchased that very afternoon. A lovely thing it was, of ivory satin, the bodice edged in fine lace, cut to flatter her small breasts, camouflage her less than washboard stomach. She’d applied make-up, layers of erase to hide the puffiness from so much crying, brushed her dark hair until it gleamed. Greg used to say she had nice hair.

  Dimming the lights, she waited for his footsteps on the stairs. When she heard them, she panicked, tried to bolster her courage with thoughts of the two wonderful children they’d brought into the world. With the sheer force of her own love, she would bring him back to her. Make him understand that they belonged together. Lisa was a mistake; he would see that.

  But it was she who had made the mistake. One that it was too late to correct. Despite the nightgown, she had never felt quite so naked as she did in the moment, with Greg standing in the doorway, looking at her. She saw embarrassment in his eyes, guilt. And most unforgivable of allpity. She tried to look away, but some perversity within her made her unable to, as if at some level she needed to extract the full measure of this humiliation. Not spare herself one shred of it. When he was gone, she filled the tub with water and held a razor blade between thumb and forefinger for a good half hour, but could not summon the courage to slide it across her wrists. It was her lowest point. She’d heard it said you had to go there before you could start climbing back up.

  She would not have wanted anyone to know about that night. Not even Betty. Maybe especially not Betty.

  Rachael stepped out of the tub onto the cool tile floor. As she towel-dried her hair, she caught a glimpse of her blurred reflection in the steamy mirror and it struck her as somehow symbolic.

  She was reaching for her robe on the door hook when a shadow fell across the threshold. Her heart contracted in fright, sending a shot of adrenaline surging through her body. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry.

  Was someone standing on the other side of the door? Someone who had crept up the stairs while she in the shower? Rachael tried to remember if she’d locked the back door after Iris left. Yes, she could visualize herself locking it. Heard in her head the lock click into place. And then she remembered again the missing spare key.

  She imagined she could hear him breathing. Soft, measured breaths, mouth close to the door. Waiting for her to open it.

  Behind her, water dripped … dripped… into the tub. She continued to listen for the breathing, and soon realized it was herself she was hearing. Her own breathing. As suddenly as the shadow had fallen beneath the door, it lifted.

  Rachael resumed drying her hair, slipped into her robe and, with only the slightest trepidation, opened the door. Stepped into the hallway

  No one there. No sinister being lying in wait for her. Ir
is’ talk of the Bates’ nephew had gotten to her. She let out a long shuddering breath she hadn’t known she was holding and went to the window at the end of the hallway. The sun was still shining, laying a path of light along the polished, brown linoleum runner

  A cloud must have passed over.

  Nineteen

  Tommy sat listlessly on his cell cot, staring at the cement floor. He heard the footsteps approaching, but paid them little attention until they stopped at his cell door. He looked up, fully expecting to see one of the guards, was surprised when it wasn’t.

  “Hey, Tom. How’s it going?”

  “Mr. Gardner. What are you doing here?”

  “I wondered if maybe you and I couldn’t have a little talk. Are you up for that?”

  “Sorrel think because you used to be my teacher you’ll have better luck in getting a confession out of me?”

  Peter remained silent as the guard unlocked the cell door for him. Closeby, another cell door clanged shut. “I got a right to make a phone call,” someone yelled in a slurred voice. “Where the hell is the stinking justice in this place anyway.” This followed by a string of colorful expletives.

  Stepping into the cell, Peter felt the walls closing in on him. “Do you have anything to confess, Tom?”

  “Shit. You mean the cops don’t already have all the answers?” The hard-edged words were no sooner out of his mouth, when the tears came. Grinding his fists into his eyes, he choked out, “The old man’s right. I am gutless. A goddamn baby.”

  Peter fished a handkerchief from his back pocket, shook out the folds and handed it to him. “It’s no sign of weakness to cry,” he said. “Your father might be a better man if he knew how.” He eyed the raised bruise on the side of Tommy’s face. He also knew that beneath the shirt, his ribs were strapped up. Luckily, none broken, though badly bruised.

  Paul Goldman, the lawyer Peter hired for Tommy, told him that when he first saw the boy, he’d been ready to sue for police brutality. Tommy had no choice but to tell him what really happened.

  Peter sat down on the cot beside him, tapped his breast pocket. “Cigarette?”

  Tommy accepted, trying not to looked surprised at the offer. Peter lit two, averting his eyes from the brown stained toilet bowl in the corner. “At least you won’t have to hide in the john to smoke this one,” he said. “Considering you’re already in one.”

  “Funny,” Tommy said, unable to suppress a small grin.

  “Just for my own curiosity, Tommy. Why did you bust out Rachael Warren’s windows?”

  “I didn’t. I mean, I don’t think so. Oh, what’s the use talking about it?” He stared at the lighted tip of his cigarette as if the answer might be inscribed there.

  “Indulge me, okay.”

  Tommy shrugged. “I’ve been trying to get it clear in my own head. Not much else to do in here,” he said bitterly. When he spoke again, his voice had grown soft. He did not look at Peter, but at the floor. “I know I was really out of it. I, uh, swiped a pint of the old man’s whiskey. I wanted to get drunk, block out everything. I wanted to…”

  “Run away?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “I can relate to that. Do you drink often?”

  “No,” he said adamantly, his head snapping up. “I don’t smoke anymore, either, if you want to know.”

  “Good. Neither do I.” He took Tommy’s cigarette from his hand, and dropped it with his own into the toilet bowl, where they sizzled, adding to the stench of the small space. He turned to Tommy, hands in his pockets. “You ready to ditch this place?”

  Twenty minutes later, they were setting in a booth in Burger King.

  “How did you manage it, Mr. Gardner?” Tommy asked, spearing a French fry from his plate and swirling it around in the puddle of ketchup.

  “I didn’t. Your lawyer did. The evidence was circumstantial. Nothing a good defense lawyer couldn’t poke holes through. Heather’s father had you banned from visiting her so you snuck in in the middle of the night. Besides, Paul thinks you’re innocent. For the record, so do I.”

  “How come? Everyone else thinks I’m guilty.”

  “Not everyone.”

  Watching Tommy salting his fries so liberally, Peter winced inwardly. He was grateful when he finally put the shaker down. “I wanted to see her,” Tommy said. “I needed her to know I was there for her.”

  Sensing Tommy’s need to talk about it, to get it all out, Peter said nothing.

  “I couldn’t even go to her funeral.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “We were going to get married someday.”

  Peter nodded.

  “Funny thing is, we didn’t get together until I quit school and went to work at the scrapyard. I just never figured someone as pretty and smart as Heather could ever be interested in me. She said she sent me lots of signals, but I guess I was just too dumb to pick up on them. Anyway, she was always nice to everyone. I thought that’s all it was.”

  “You sell yourself short, Tom. So,” he prompted gently, “when did you finally get the message?”

  Tommy smiled, and Peter noticed that right side of his mouth tugged down slightly. A weak muscle. Odd, he’d never noticed that before. Then again, he’d rarely seen Tommy smile.

  “She drove out to the scrapyard one day at lunchtime, said she was looking for a good used muffler for a friend. I was so thick I reminded her that her dad owned a brake and muffler shop. She smiled and said, ‘Yeah, I know.’ Then she handed me one of the Cokes she was holding. I thought I must be dreaming.”

  “Not exactly subtle,” Peter smiled.

  “Guess she figured I needed a sledgehammer. I’ll never find anyone like her, Mr. Gardner.” He swallowed hard. “Heather was special.”

  “Yes, she was. And no one will ever take her place. But you’re a young man. You will find else someone one day. Someone special in her own way.”

  Tommy looked squarely at him. “You didn’t.”

  The question came out of left field, catching him off-guard. “I’m an old man compared to you,” he said, brushing the comment off. He had no desire to get into his private life with anyone, much less an ex-student.

  Tommy sipped his coke. Speared another fry.

  “Something’s been bothering me, Tom. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “No.”

  He paused. Then, “Why do you continue to live with your father? You don’t have to, you know. Until things are settled, you’re welcome to bunk at my place. It’s not fancy, but there’s a pullout.”

  “Thanks.” Tommy looked thoughtfully at the ketchup-smeared fry on his fork. “But she wouldn’t know where I was.”

  “Who? Was he talking about Heather? Did he think she was coming back? Maybe he was in serious need of grief counseling. Peter leaned forward, asked quietly, “Who wouldn’t know where you are, Tom?”

  Tommy’s reply was barely audible, almost a whisper. “My mother.”

  As Peter was trying to make sense of the words, the door opened. Sensing a new tension in the atmosphere, Peter turned to see Bob Myers standing in the doorway, crazed eyes scanning the restaurant. Peter’s stomach clenched, knowing who he was looking for. He looked even worse than he did at Heather’s funeral. Bob’s eyes found them, flared with rage. He made for their table. Peter sprung to his feet. “Afternoon, Bob,” he said, putting out a hand, which Myers ignored.

  “Saw your car outside, Peter. Though I’d drop in and say thank you for taking such good care of my little girl’s killer.”