Chill Waters

by Hovey, Joan Hall

  When he was gone, she went upstairs and stood under the shower for a long time.

  Twenty-Seven

  Rachael drove the car into the space between a blue van and a motorcycle, and got out. Three yellow school buses were lined up in front of the double doors, spilling out throngs of studentsnoisy, high-energy, rambunctious teenagers. Normal kids. Unlike the one she was looking for.

  A studious looking girl, arms laden with books, was walking in her direction. She cast Rachael a curious look as she passed her.

  “Excuse me,” Rachael called after her. “I wonder if you can help me?”

  The girl turned around, shifted the books in her arms.

  “I’m looking for someone.” She went on to describe the boy called Derek. “He drives a black Corvette. Do you know if he goes to school here?”

  “Oh, sure, when he decides to show up. Everyone knows Derek.” She gestured with her small dimpled chin. “There he is now, just driving in.” Rachael saw a certain grudging admiration on her face.

  The mere sight of the black Corvette pulling into the parking area was enough to send Rachael’s blood pressure into orbit. Thanking the girl, she took off in the direction of the Corvette, anger fueled by the tormenting vision of the little seagull.

  She reached him just as he was getting out of the car. “I’d like a word with you, Derek.”

  His expression conveyed surprise. Then fear flickered across his arrogant good looks. He slammed the car door shut, shrugged. All defiance now. “What’s your problem?”

  “Why did you do it? That’s all I want to know. Why?” Her entire body felt taut as a guywire.

  He looked blankly at her. “Do what?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Derek. I’m not in the mood. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

  Mumbling something she couldn’t quite discern, he tried to shoulder his way past her, but despite his being several inches taller, she blocked his way. He was a big and muscular, but she was too angry to be afraid. As far as Rachael was concerned, he was a sadistic little boy who mistook himself for a man.

  “I want an answer, damn you, and I don’t intend to leave until I get one. I want to know why you would do such a cruel thing to a helpless seagull. Were you that angry at having your bullying tactics interrupted by two women? Is that it?”

  He actually blinked. “Seagull? What seagull? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, lady.”

  Why did he look relieved? It was as if he’d been expecting her to accuse him of something quite different. His obscene gesture to her on the beach? And now he was off the hook. “Lady, you’re nuts. I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no seagull.”

  “I don’t believe you. I…”

  “What seems to be the trouble?” said a familiar voice at her side.

  Rachael was taken aback to see Peter Gardner standing beside her. But of course, if she’d been thinking at all, she would have remembered that he was a high school teacher, and that St. Clair had only one high school. In her single-mindedness, she’d forgotten that little fact. It had not entered her mind that she would run into Peter.

  “This student has been terrorizing me,” she said, her gaze returning to the boy’s smirking face. “I believe he and his friends broke into a cabin on my property. He may also be responsible for making anonymous phone calls to me. Yesterdayheimpaled a seagull on my cutting board.”

  A few ‘eeoohs’ and ‘yucks’ went up from the girls, nervous laughter from the boys. She had to admit, hearing herself say it aloud it did sound insane, like some gruesome fantasy heralded from a deranged mind. She could feel her face burning. The tears were right there, hot and threatening, just behind her lids. That’s all I need, to start bawling in front of this audience.

  It must have been Derek. Hadn’t Martin said someone had been staying in the cabin. That the stove was still warm when he went inside? If not this boy and his friends, then who? And Martin had seen their car. No, Rachael, he said it might have been their car. He wasn’t sure.

  Standing there, with half the school in attendance, Rachael felt like a complete fool. The epitome of the hysterical female, hurling wild accusations with no proof to back them up. She was no longer sure of anything.

  “Jesus, she’s a basket case,” Derek Chesley said, now on full performance mode. Crude and crafty, but not insensitive, he’d immediately honed in on Rachael’s uncertainty, the wavering in her conviction. “It wasn’t me. No way. I didn’t knife no seagull. Maybe she did it herself.” He turned to her. “And I sure as hell didn’t phone you. I don’t even know you. Not that you’re hard to look at, lady, but I ain’t big on older women.”

  This earned him a chorus of laughter from the boys. Derek was lapping up the attention. A girl’s voice said quietly, “He’s such a jerk,” and Rachael could have hugged her.

  Anger flashed in his eyes at the remark, but then he shrugged it off, refusing to let it ruin his big moment. Making an abrupt switch to self-righteous indignation, he said, “I could have you up on false accusations, you know.”

  “That’s enough, Chesley,” Peter said, freezing him with a look of pure disdain. He turned a wry smile on Rachael. “Sorry. He comes by it honestly. Mr. Chesley’s father is a lawyer. He’s big on litigation. All right, all of you. Go to your class.”

  A reluctant shuffling of feet.

  Peter’s face turned to granite. “Now. Go!”

  Amidst a chorus of mumblings and excited twitter, the lone word ‘seagull’ met her ears, followed by a guffaw, bringing another rush of heat to her face. They don’t know. They didn’t see it.

  “The seagull incident, Rachael,” Peter said. “What time did this happen?”

  “Around ten o’clock, I guess. I’d just come back from my run. I heard it before I saw it. It sounded like a kitten.”

  Another dream? Was she going crazy? The thought had visited her on more than once occasions since she arrived in Jenny’s Cove, perching there on her shoulder like a waiting vulture.

  Peter seemed almost disappointed as he said, “I’m afraid this fellow was in school yesterday morning. All day in fact.” The blue eyes looking into hers were sympathetic. They seemed to say, “I wish I could hand you his head on a silver platter, but I’m afraid you’re way out in left field on this one.”

  Rachael watched a yellow balloon skimming across the ball field. Beyond it, the school banner with its blue and gold colors flapped gaily in the wind. The colors melded in her vision, their lines of distinction blurred. She forced back the tears.

  “I’m sorry, Peter said, beside her. “Ordinarily Chesley would be a good bet for any manner of misdeed, but in this case…” He shrugged helplessly.

  “I feel like such a fool. Coming here like this. But I was so sure. I thought if I met him face to face, he would have to own up to…”

  His hand was strong and steadying at her back as he walked her back to her car. “I’d like to hear more aboutwhat’s been going on, Rachael. I had no idea. Maybe I can help. At the very least I can listen. I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener. How about I come by your place after school? Damn, I forgot. I’ve called a rehearsal this afternoon for the Christmas play, but after that…”

  “No, it’s okay.” She noticed for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a jacket. His white shirt billowed in the chill wind. His hair blew too, exposing a hairline just beginning to recede. A nice face. Kind. Thoughtful. Strong. He was also very good looking, she noted again, a detail not lost on his female students.

  “You must be freezing. I’m sorry, Peter,” she repeated, getting into the driver’s seat. She switched on the ignition, wanting nothing more than to be away from here, away from the scene of her public self-inflicted humiliation. “Have a good rehearsal.” She tried on a smile that didn’t fit.

  “Here’s my phone number,” he said, scribbling it on a piece of paper and passed to her it through her open window. Call me anytime.”

  Driving out
of the parking lot, she could see him in her rearview mirror looking after her, hands in his pockets, fair hair tousled by the wind. He must think I’m mad. She wondered if he might be having second thoughts at having invited a mad woman to be his guest at Iris’ dinner.

  Rachael opened the car door to the echoing ring of an axe, marring the late afternoon quiet. She followed the sounds around to the back of the house.

  Martin straightened, wiped a slick of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and smiled. “Afternoon. Just cutting up a couple of the trees downed in the storm. I thought you could probably use the wood for your fireplace. No point in letting good wood go to waste.”

  “This is very kind of you. But there’s no need…”

  “To show my appreciation? Of course there is. Being on the site will making the book move a lot faster. Anyway, this is good physical therapy for me.”

  “Well, then, I’m glad. Can’t very well stand in the way of art, can we?” she teased lightly. She hesitated, then, “Would you like to come in for coffee, Mr. Dunn?”

  “Thanks. Another time. I’ll just stack this wood here and get on back. I’ve another chapter I want to finish up while there’s still light. The kerosene lamp is fine, but natural light is better. Of course, being an artist yourself, you know that.”

  She smiled. “My grandmother was an artist. I’m just a dabbler.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. Well, I just wanted you to know I’m indebted to you for renting out the cabin to me.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m actually glad to have you there. Certainly better you than…well, I’m just pleased it’s working out for you.”

  Twenty-Eight

  “I’m delighted you’re going to be at the dinner, Rachael,” Iris smiled, pouring the tea into the china teacups, a ritual before every lesson. “It means a lot to me.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I’m surprised you know about it, though. I thought it was supposed to be a secret.”

  “Oh, I knew Peter was hiding something from me,” she grinned mischievously. “He cracked under my third-degree.” She laughed. “Always works.”

  Rachael reached for one of Iris’ bakery sugar cookies. “I bought a new dress for the occasion.”

  “New hair-do, too, I see. Very nice. You look like the girl in the shampoo commercial.”

  Rachael had to admit she liked also liked it. Since leaving Deering, and Greg, she’d done little with her hair except to run a brush through it, or pin it back to go running, or pull a headband over it. Now her hair was cut in a sleek new style, parted on the side, ending just below her ears. It was silky and sort of swung when she turned her head quickly.

  Iris said, “I haven’t seen Peter this happy for a long time.”

  “He’s proud of you, and with good reason.”

  She gave Rachael her ‘Mona Lisa’ smile. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the only reason.”

  Rachael had needed Iris’ company today like a man wandering in the desert needed water. She wondered if Iris knew about her little trip to the school. But she would have said something, wouldn’t she? Maybe. More likely not.

  Refilling their cups, Iris said, “You seem distracted, Rachael. I noticed you were the last time you were here, too. Is anything wrong? Something you want to talk about.”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Are you sure? I’m a pretty good listener.”

  The very words Peter had spoken to her.

  “I’m sure. And I know you’re a good listener. But I don’t want to talk about me. I want to talk about this wonderful honor you’re receiving. And no one deserves it more than you. You are a wonderful artist, but more than that, you so generously share your gift with others. Me, for instance.”

  “Well, that’s very sweet of you to say, Rachael. But I think this recognition is because I’ve reached that time in my life when dear friends feel the need to give you a pleasant send-off. But it is a lovely gesture, just the same, and I do feel honored. By the way,” she said secretively, “you’re not the only one who’s been shopping. Would you like to see my new dress?”

  “I’ve love to.”

  “Then you shall. But first, there’s something else I need you to see.” Her tone was darker now. “Come into the livingroom.”

  Rachael followed, curious as she watched Iris take a file folder from the sideboard drawer. From it, she removed a sheaf of papers, fanned them across the coffee table. “These articles appeared in the papers seventeen years ago.”

  At the bewilderment on Rachael’s face, she said, “Let me go back a bit.”

  Rachael listened as Iris told her about her vision of the girl on the day Helen Myers came to the house. “I believe the reason this girl appeared rather than Heather,” she said, “is that she’d been waiting for justice for a very long time. I opened a door, and she was simply there. There’s no other way to explain it.

  “Last week I took Cleo for her check-up and picked up this magazine. It had this article in it. I was meant to find it, Rachael.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Iris.”

  “You will in a minute. Believe me, Rachael, I’m no medium. Certainly, not willingly. It was only at Helen’s insistence that I agreed to hold a séance, or whatever—well, that doesn’t matter now. I only hope I didn’t do her further harm. The point is, this is the young woman who appeared to me in the vision.” She handed Rachael a magazine, pages folded back to the story. “Look familiar?”

  Rachael looked at it, shrugged. “No, not really?”

  “Are you saying you don’t see the resemblance to yourself?”

  Giving the photo closer scrutiny, she said, “Well, I suppose if you want to go back a hundred years…”

  “Rachael, she could be you at that age.”

  “I’m still not …”

  “Look, I’m not sure I understand it myself. But take a look at these. I dug them up at the library and made photocopies. This is the man who murdered Marie Morley. Charlie Morley. He was her adopted brother.”

  Rachael picked up the pages and one by one, studied them. But the man in the photo was no one she knew. Looking at the photos, he might have been any college student struggling to make passing grades and drinking beer with his buddies on a Friday night.

  Iris seemed so distraught Rachael almost wished she did recognize him. It was strange, though, the longer she looked at the person in the photo the more menacing he looked. Something in the eyes. Or perhaps more a lack of something. But of course she knew that he was a vicious killerthat he had raped and murdered his little sister. Because the article said so. And because Iris had told her. Would she have seen those same dark qualities if she had not known? She wasn’t sure.

  “Are you certain, Rachael?” Iris asked hopefully. “You might have glimpsed him behind youin a shopon the street. He would look different nowolder.”

  To please her, Rachael continued to look over the photos. As her gaze moved from one to the other, she felt some tiny niggling of recognition. But she knew that what she was experiencing was a bogus sense of deja vu, the result of her brain’s already having snapped pictures and stored them in her memory bank. Then, when she looked at them again they played back to her, as memories. At least that was how she understood the theory presented in a recent television documentary she’d watched.

  “Something else,” Iris said. “This will probably sound crazy to you. God knows it does to me. When I asked her who murdered herthe Ouija spelled outCharlie.”