by Vicki Lane
But my dreams was different. It was me in the river and Lydy on the bank, standin there where he had first helped me with the washin. He was laughin an evil laugh as he watched me bein carried downstream, wavin my arms and hollerin fer him to save me. My skirts was heavy with the water, twistin roun my legs and pullin me under. I tried to kick free and then I heard the grunt and squeal of the great fish monster Daddy used to tell of and I hollered out.
I woke all to oncet and lay there blinkin, happy to find myself not in the river but still all a-tremble. So I sat up, fearin to fall back to sleep and back into that evil dream. My heart was poundin in my ears and at first I didn’t hear the sounds outside the barn.
But when the thumpin in my head had quieted and I was full awake, I heard the small little noise in the grass and peered through a crack betwixt the logs, thinkin to see Lydy comin to me, my own true love.
Hit was the bitterest sight my eyes had ever seen. They was down there in the moonlight, Belle and Lydy, ruttin like a pair of hogs. I seen them and hit was black bile in my mouth to know what I had done by usin Mariah’s love medicine.
Chapter 31
Missing Persons
Tuesday, December 26
The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Leave a message at the tone.”
Elizabeth made a face at the telephone, then, in obedience to the beep, began to speak. “Phillip, I found out some stuff. That Bam-Bam girl Thelma and Maxie were telling us about—her name was Bambi Fleischaker. And there’s a whole Web site about her—her parents have been trying to get in touch with her for years. It said they last heard from her in the spring of ’95 when she was hitchhiking through West Virginia. I’m wondering if maybe Bambi ended up here—in the old silo.”
She clicked off the telephone and sat, the instrument still in her hand. God, what a grim message to leave. And that poor girl’s parents—all this time not knowing where their daughter was…or if she was even alive. Like whoever it is looking for Spencer Greer.
Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the computer. Quarter of twelve. Surely Glory’ll be up by now. With a sigh of resignation, she punched in her sister’s number.
“I told you, Lizzy. Amanda’s mother was married to a Spencer Greer before she married Lawrence Lucas. Of course, I never met this Greer; Ronnie was a widow when she and the little boy moved to Tampa. She met Lawrence through mutual friends and Lawrence fell in love with her. Very romantic—you know she’s every bit as good-looking as Amanda and she hasn’t let herself go like some people I could mention. Anyway, Lawrence was completely smitten and they were married within a few months. Lawrence offered to adopt the boy but Ronnie wanted him to keep his father’s name—apparently Ronnie’d been quite in love with this Greer and might have remained a grieving widow forever if not for the financial security Lawrence offered.
“Then Amanda was born a few years later and they were a happy little family. Of course, Lawrence has more money than God on a good day, so there were no problems there. The boy was quite attractive and evidently very intelligent—did well at school and all that. Little Amanda absolutely worshiped him—of course, he was a good deal older. Let’s see, Larry and Ronnie married in ’80—the year Ben was born—and the little boy must have been six or seven at the time. I remember him at the wedding, standing up beside Ronnie in his little white suit, so darling. So there were eight or nine years between the two children, but in spite of that—”
“Glory, what was the tragedy you mentioned yesterday?” God, she’s getting as bad as Aunt Dodie, the way she runs on. Elizabeth switched the phone to her other ear and began to doodle on the list in front of her as her sister continued, undeterred.
“Oh, the tragedy—that’s what I’m getting to. The boy died when he was only nineteen. He was traveling in South America or Africa or one of those awful places and there was a horrible accident or maybe it was one of those gruesome diseases they have. Lawrence and Ronnie flew wherever it was and brought the ashes home. Yes, that’s it, it must have been a highly contagious disease—I know there was a reason he had to be cremated. So there was a small family service and that was that. They never speak of him now. I believe it broke Amanda’s heart. We all think it’s why she’s turned out to be so odd.”
“And the father of this boy, this Spencer Greer, are you sure he’s dead?”
“Well, really, Lizzy! When a woman moves to town, a woman with connections to some of the best families, let me add, if that woman says she’s a widow, I, for one, don’t demand to see a death certificate. Of course he’s dead.”
Elizabeth stared at her list. The three items were almost obliterated by her spiraling doodles. So why, if Spencer Greer is dead, is someone looking for him? And who’s paying for this ad?
Amanda. Who else? Previous ads had said to respond to a post office box in Tampa; this most recent one bore a Ransom address. Amanda had moved here from Tampa. Quod erat demonstrandum. And didn’t the girls see her checking a post office box in Ransom? Part of her supposed tie-in with her father’s development companies, according to Laurel.
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” she explained to James, who was watching her intently, waiting to see if she was going to go to the kitchen and fix some lunch. “Even if Spencer Greer is alive, what would it matter to Amanda?”
Instantly, an answer presented itself—fantastic, but—Okay, say Amanda’s mother wasn’t a widow. Say she wasn’t even divorced. That would make her marriage to Amanda’s father bigamous and so maybe Amanda got wind of that and—
“Baloney, Elizabeth! You’re turning this into a bloody soap opera.” She stood, stretched, and started for the kitchen, accompanied by the usual retinue of hopeful dogs. Resolutely ignoring the remains of yesterday’s duck—there’s enough for us both to have some tonight since the kids are going out—she made a cheese-and-chutney sandwich on one of the leftover rolls, absentmindedly tossing slivers of sharp cheddar to Molly, Ursa, and James in turn.
Besides, the ads have been appearing for years, she thought as she took her plate to the table—if they first started in ’95, Amanda would have been…what did Glory say, Amanda was born a few years after Ben…eighty-two from ninety-five…no way. A thirteen-year-old girl placing ads in an obscure out-of-state town looking for her mother’s previous husband? Get a grip, Elizabeth; there has to be another explanation.
A visit to Nola would be just the thing, she decided, to extract her fevered imagination from the tales it was attempting to spin. The day was clear and cold enough that a little snow still dusted the ground, but there was no wind and the air felt wonderful—invigorating rather than punishing.
A stop at the mailbox yielded a few late Christmas cards, a letter for Ben from someone in Delaware…and that, Elizabeth, right there is one reason Amanda might choose to get her mail in town. So Ben’s nosy aunt doesn’t know all her business.
As usual, her trip off the farm included various small errands to be done: Dumpsters, gas at Jim Hinkley’s, go see Nola, deposit those checks…I can take care of all that, pick up some groceries, and, just like James James Morrison’s mother, be back in time for tea.
As Elizabeth neared Nola’s room, she realized that the picture of a completely recovered Nola, tapping an impatient foot on the floor and demanding to be released, was tantalizing her and speeding her pace. The sound of a cheerful voice in the room ahead lifted her hopes.
“That’s okay, Michelle. You go on and take your break.” The voice was familiar but not Nola’s. It continued on. “I wish you could have seen them this morning. Those rascals PC and Opie were playing with my knitting and unraveled half of what I’d done yesterday.”
A bulky form hurried through the door, almost colliding with Elizabeth. “Oopsie, didn’t see you there! Go right in, her and her neighbor’s having a little visit.”
The aide didn’t linger but hurried down the hall, pulling a pack of cigarettes from one pocket and a cell phone from another. With a brief prayer to Whatever or Whom
ever that Nola might be better, Elizabeth stepped into the room.
No change. The disappointment was like a blow. Nola lay on her bed, mouth slack, eyes glazed. She didn’t seem to register Elizabeth’s entrance, but lay unmoving. Only the labored rise and fall of her chest betrayed that she was alive.
Like the voice, the silver hair and bright blue eyes of Nola’s visitor were familiar. It’s the neighbor…what was her name…Lee something?
“Well, hello there, Miz Goodweather. Remember me—Lee Palatt? I guess I’ve about worn poor Nola out, telling her about my kitties.”
The sweet-faced woman stood, looking ostentatiously at her watch. “I’ve got to be running along now—due at a meeting for the spay-neuter clinic volunteers.”
She leaned over the bed, raising her voice slightly. “You just rest and get better, Nola. I’ll be back to see you soon.”
As Lee Palatt turned to leave, she threw Elizabeth a meaningful look, nodding toward the door and mouthing the word Outside. Elizabeth glanced at Nola, then followed the other woman out to the hall.
“Poor Nola! Have you seen any improvement? I don’t know; it seems to me she’s losing ground. I’m surprised that so-called niece of hers isn’t around more—they were here and then they were gone. She says she’s a nurse at a hospital in Raleigh and can’t get any more time off. They managed to clean out that little house pretty thoroughly, I’d say.” Lee Palatt’s words dripped disgust. “Selling off everything they can…
“But it’s an odd thing—last night I saw a light in Nola’s house, moving around like a flashlight. I thought it might be those two back for something they’d missed, but when I looked I didn’t see any vehicle. I’ll tell you this: whoever it was, they were definitely looking for something. Good grief, look at the time! I’ve got to run!”
Chapter 32
And One Found Hiding
Tuesday, December 26
The woman on the bed had not moved, but as Elizabeth took the chair beside the bed, her head turned. Closing her gaping mouth, she slowly winked one eye. In a hoarse whisper, she said, “E-liz-a-beth. I. Am. Here.”
A great surge of joy swept over her and Elizabeth grasped her friend’s thin hand. “Nola! Oh, thank god! Let me go get someone—they need to know you’re yourself again. They—”
“No!” The fierce whisper was accompanied by the tightening of Nola’s fingers around hers. “No! Not yet! Not until his…accounts are closed. Don’t tell. Promise me…don’t tell. Elizabeth, come back in…two days. Give me time to find out who…wants me quiet.”
“Nola, what do you—”
A voice from the doorway spoke. “You’re wasting your time—Nola’s done quit talking.”
The chubby aide came into the room, a can of Mountain Dew in her hand.
“They just shut down like this sometimes,” Michelle explained, taking a long pull at the can. “Miss Nola, she’s one of the lucky ones though, so many friends still coming to see her every day, even if she can’t talk and don’t recognize no one.”
“Oh, but she—” Elizabeth felt an urgent tug on her hand. She turned to see Nola, once again gap-mouthed and staring. The hand that had crushed her own so tightly a moment since fell limply to Nola’s side.
“—she seemed like she knew me for just a moment there.” Elizabeth stood to leave. “But I guess I was mistaken. Tell me, does Nola recognize Mrs. Holcombe? I expect she comes pretty frequently.”
“Almost every day. She don’t stay long but she always has a little something for her Nola.”
It was impossible to get the poem out of her brain. Milne’s verses about James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree had been a favorite with the girls as children, especially Laurel, who would shriek with delight at the tale of the naughty mother disobeying her three-year-old son and the dire consequences thereof. She hadn’t been heard of since.
The words flowed automatically without any effort of memory, as if they were following a well-worn groove. Which is why, I guess, it was easier for Nola to communicate with memorized lines rather than have to come up with new sentences. But now she’s making her own sentences. Why doesn’t she want anyone to know she’s better? Why is she pretending to be worse? Is this just another aspect of her illness? Paranoia? Delusion? “Not till accounts are closed”—what was that about? And “come back in two days”?
Elizabeth slowed the jeep in front of the bank, trying to decide if she wanted to attempt parallel parking in the ridiculously small space left between a battered blue Chevy pickup and a massive black SUV, both of which had parked over their allotted lines, when a familiar tall, slender figure with a long flaxen braid caught her eye. Amanda was on her way into the lobby of the post office.
Feeling ridiculously like Nancy Drew, Elizabeth slid her car (no sporty roadster, more’s the pity) into a fortuitously empty space beyond the bank, leaped out, and hurried to the glass doors that gave a view to the post boxes. Amanda was there, fitting a key into one, though what the number was, Elizabeth could not make out. The lock appeared to be stiff and the key turned with difficulty, but at last the little metal door opened, revealing a jumble of letters and flyers.
Eagerly Amanda reached into the box and pulled out her mail. Elizabeth took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and stepped into the post office. A quick glance confirmed it. Amanda was standing before an open Box 1066. The one in the ad—the Norman Conquest date made it impossible to forget.
“Hey, Amanda.” Why did her voice sound so accusatory? “I need to talk to you.”
“Elizabeth!” Amanda whirled, letters in her hand. “I didn’t see you. I was just—”
“Amanda, I want to know about Spencer Greer.” The words were sharp and impulsive. Somehow all of Elizabeth’s reluctance to pry, her disinclination to get involved, had been swept aside. There was none of her usual careful self-editing and weighing the consequences—the words were coming of themselves. “It may not be any of my business, but Ben’s my nephew and I need to know that you came to the farm because of him, because you care for him in the way he cares for you. I need to know…oh, bloody hell, Amanda…I need to know that you’re what you say you are. I will not have Ben hurt again.”
Amanda stood immobile, staring in amazement at her. Elizabeth was abruptly aware of her own flushed face and of the fact that her voice had become increasingly shrill as she harangued the unsuspecting young woman. Oh god, have I just made everything worse with that little tirade? Will she tell Ben that his aunt is too bloody crazy and thank you but no thank you, she’s outta here, so much for the idyllic life at Full Circle Farm?
Then, slowly, Amanda’s face crumpled and tears began to slide over those perfect cheekbones.
“Amanda, sweetie, please, I didn’t mean…”
Amanda shook her head and in a choked voice said, “It’s fine, Elizabeth. I understand. It’s just…I think I’m crying because I wish that my mother had cared about Spinner as much as you care about Ben.”
Chapter 33
Spinner Greer
Tuesday, December 26
Spinner Greer was…Spencer Greer is my brother. My half-brother. I’m trying to find out where he went.”
They had moved from the too-public post office lobby to Elizabeth’s jeep. Amanda, seemingly relieved to be sharing her secret, had been more than forthcoming. The words had poured out of her.
“When I was little and just learning to talk, I couldn’t pronounce ‘Spencer.’ So he was Spinner to me and, eventually, to everyone. It suited him, in a weird way. He spun from one enthusiasm to another—music, theater, tennis—he was good at everything but nothing held him for long. It was like he was always looking for something that would be It, whatever It was.” Amanda paused to blow her nose. “I was only seven when he went off to prep school. But he sent me funny postcards and letters all the time. And when he was home, on vacations, he was just wonderful. It was Spinner who taught me to ride a bike, to roller-skate, to swim. He had all the patience in the world wi
th me, and I absolutely idolized him and lived for the times that he was home.”
“He sounds like a wonderful brother.” Elizabeth reached out to touch the girl’s hand. “But, I have to confess, Amanda, I talked to my sister this morning and asked her about Spencer Greer. Among other things, she said that your brother had died in an accident or of some illness. Did she have that wrong?”
Amanda drew a shuddery breath and turned to face Elizabeth. She was calm now; only her reddened eyes hinted at the storm of emotion that had just passed.
“I was away at summer camp, actually a camp here in the mountains near Brevard, when it supposedly happened. The director called me into her office and told me, oh very kindly and gently, that my brother was dead. She said that my parents felt that it would be best for me not to come home but to stay at camp. All she could tell me was that Spinner had caught some terrible disease and had died quite suddenly. I knew that he was taking a year off from college to travel—I’d had some postcards from different places.”
Amanda’s soft gray-blue eyes brimmed with tears again. “I still have the postcards—all soft and fuzzy on the edges from being handled so much. I spent most of the last month of camp on my bunk, crying and reading and rereading those cards—Atlanta, Asheville, Charleston, Baltimore, Boston, New York—Spinner said he was looking for a place he belonged.”
“When camp was over, I didn’t fly home with the group of Tampa girls; instead, Papa came for me in the car.”