Now, running after some stranger in the woods where Tori Miller was killed just days ago didn’t seem like the smartest idea I’d ever had, but like it or not, I knew I had to start putting some pieces together if I was going to save my own ass. Someone was framing me. Maybe the killer, maybe not. One thing I knew for sure—you had to have a damn good reason to be out in those woods at midnight. The garden trowel in my left hand reminded me what mine had been. I wanted to know what brought my friend out at this time of night.
Whoever it was, he or she was in good shape. I’m a pretty decent runner and I had trouble catching up, much less gaining ground. But my quarry stumbled, falling to the ground, giving me precious seconds to catch up. I got to the mystery person just as he or she was rising and grabbed the back of the sweatshirt, yanking the poor soul back down to the ground with a grunt.
Had I captured the killer? Or someone playing ghost?
I held my trowel like a dagger and pointed my light at the mystery runner.
The beam hit Opal’s face and she let out a scream.
“Opal? Jesus! What are you doing out here? You scared the hell out of me.” I lowered the trowel to my side.
She started to cry. I leaned down to put my arm around her and she flung herself at me, clinging to me as hard as she could.
She’s just a kid, I thought. No older than Del was.
And as she held tight to me, I thought of all the similarities between Opal and Del. They were both skinny girls with the bare beginnings of breasts hidden under boyish clothes. Their hair was the same washed-out dirty blond. And there was something else, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on—a sort of determined desperation each of them had, I guess; a desperation masquerading as charisma.
I wrapped my arms around her, desperate to protect her, and remembered the last time I’d held her like this, two years ago outside the big barn while she held her arm to her side like a bird with a broken wing.
There’s someone up there.
Opal sobbed in my arms now. “I…thought…you were the Potato Girl,” she gasped.
And I thought you were.
“Easy, Opal. It’s just me. It’s Kate, sweetie. You’re safe.” I was rocking her now, back and forth, back and forth. “What on earth are you doing out here at this hour?”
“Just walking,” she said.
No, I thought, remembering the way her light had moved across the path, you were looking for something. But what?
“What are you doing out here?” she asked, pulling away from me suddenly, as if she’d just realized good old Auntie Kate might not be what she seemed. “And why do you have that?” She was pointing at the dirty garden trowel.
The last thing in the world I wanted was for Opal to be afraid of me. But I wasn’t about to tell her my reason for the midnight trip to the root cellar, either. The kid was hiding something, and until she was upfront with me I sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything to incriminate myself.
“Mushroom hunting,” I told her, realizing how totally absurd it sounded only after the words were out. A nature girl, I am not. I don’t know the difference between a chanterelle and a toadstool, and I prayed Opal wouldn’t give me a pop quiz on the fungi of New England.
By the light of my flashlight, we eyed each other skeptically, each of us fully aware that the other was lying.
“What do you say we head back?” I suggested, and she nodded, looking relieved. We began trudging uphill, side by side, both our flashlights illuminating the path. Every now and then, I had to turn and look at her, then remind myself it wasn’t Del I was walking with.
“Kate?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you mad at me? About the watch, I mean.”
“No, I’m not mad,” I said. “I was just surprised.”
“I would have given it back.”
“I know. And I would have let you borrow it if you’d asked. Do you do it a lot? Take things from people?”
She was quiet. “Once in a while,” she said.
“Opal? Did you borrow anything else from me?”
Like a red Swiss Army knife, for instance.
“No. Just the watch.”
“Promise?”
“I swear,” she said. And her next words made me turn and shine my light on her face like some dime-store novel interrogator. Is your name really Opal? Or are you, in fact, Delores Ann Griswold, back from the dead?
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” she said.
MA, YOUR PAINTING KINDA CREEPS ME OUT,” I confessed. It was late evening, after supper, and she was in front of her easel, adding more layers by lamplight. We had spent the day together at home—no appointments, no discussion of nursing homes.
The only interruption had come earlier that afternoon when I answered a knock at the door and found Zack standing on the front steps with a bunch of flowers. He was wearing jeans, Birkenstocks, and a loose cotton shirt embroidered with mythical-looking birds under the same corduroy blazer I’d seen him in the other day.
“I brought these for Jean,” he said, leaning in to give me a hello hug around the bouquet. This time I nearly got high from the amount of pot smoke that clung to his clothes. He must have toked up in the car on the way over.
“Thanks. Come on in. She’s in the studio. I’m sure she’d love it if you popped your head in to say hi.” Zack followed me inside and made his way to the studio while I took the flowers to the kitchen and found an old canning jar to put them in. I was arranging them on the table when I heard a crash from the studio and went running.
I got there in time to see Zack, ashen-faced, shut the door tight behind him.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I guess she wasn’t in the mood for company,” he said. Then I noticed the left sleeve of his blazer was covered in bright red paint. He started to dab at it with a handkerchief.
“Go on in the kitchen. There’s soap, water, and a brush at the sink. I’ll be right there.”
Zack headed for the kitchen and I knocked on, then carefully opened, the door to the studio, to see my mother hard at work in front of the canvas.
“You okay, Ma?”
“Fine, Katydid.”
I shut the door quietly behind me and went into the kitchen, where Zack was scrubbing at the sleeve of his corduroy jacket.
“I’m so sorry,” I told him. “She’s not herself. There’s just no way to predict how she’ll be from minute to minute.”
I went for the lockbox and made a mental note to call Dr. Crawford in the morning. It seemed we were upping her meds every day now with little effect. She was building a tolerance awfully fast. Or was her illness worsening in some profound way?
I put a couple of pills in my pocket, planning to take them in to her as soon as Zack left.
“It’s not a problem, Kate. I shouldn’t have surprised her like that.” He smiled. “Next time, I’ll wear coveralls. And a big old bell, maybe.”
“Jeez. Why don’t you take your jacket off and we can soak it? Or I can have it dry-cleaned.”
“No need. I have to get going in a minute anyway.” He was dabbing at the stain with paper towels now. “Kate, the main reason I stopped by was to talk to you about Opal.”
“Opal?”
“Gosh. This is a little awkward. Raven came to see me in my office this morning. She was beside herself.”
“Look Zack, if this is about the cat…”
“Cat? No. She’s having a hard time with some of Opal’s recent behavior. She’s very concerned and thinks that maybe your spending time with Opal isn’t such a good idea.”
I scowled. “Raven asked you to come here to tell me this?”
“I offered. I was afraid that if she tried to talk to you in the state she was in…”
“I get the picture,” I said.
“Look, Kate, I think Raven will come around; she’s just a little crazy right now, which is to be expected. She’s a stressed-out mom just trying to do what’s right. She’s worried abou
t Opal’s obsession with those silly Potato Girl stories and the way Opal seems to have latched on to you because of your connection with Del.”
“Opal and I had a relationship before all this interest in the Potato Girl,” I said defensively. “She latched on to me during my last visit and it had nothing whatsoever to do with Del.”
“I know, Kate,” Zack said. He put his hands up in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I understand that your connection with Opal isn’t just about Del. In fact, I imagine the truth is that you’re a positive influence on Opal. But that’s not the way Raven sees it right now.”
“Opal needs someone to talk to,” I said.
“I know she does. I’ll try to be there for her as much as I can. And Raven’s taking her to a psychiatrist next week—the grief counselor the school brought in referred her to him. He’s supposed to be the best in the area.”
“A psychiatrist is just going to spend an hour with her, if that, and introduce her to the wonderful world of psychotropic medication. She needs someone to really talk all this through with. Someone who isn’t being paid to listen. Has she told you what she’s seen? That she believes Del is out to get her?”
He took in a breath. “I know. She told me. I know she’s hurting and trying to make sense of what happened to Tori any way she can. I also think Raven’s being unreasonable by saying she doesn’t want you spending any time with Opal, and I’ll do my best to get her to come around, but it seems like, for now at least, the best thing to do is honor her wishes. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I told him with a dramatic sigh. “I should be used to being seen as the bad guy by now.”
Zack smiled, touched his Wheel of Life pendant. “We’re all just working through our karma, doing the best we can.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” I said, looking back at the pendant, at the God of Death perched on top who returned my stare with a menacing grimace.
THE EYES IN THE CORNER of my mother’s painting were starting to develop a body—just the shadow of a form, really. Nothing identifiable.
“I almost feel like those eyes are watching me,” I told her.
“She sees you,” my mother confirmed, dabbing at the painting with her brush.
“Who?”
I was getting tired of this game.
“She’s watching. You have something that’s hers. She wants it back.”
A strange new fear awoke inside me, speaking of impossible things.
“I don’t know what you mean, Ma.”
My mother continued to stand with her back to me, facing the painting. She hunched her shoulders forward, then pulled them back, standing tall—erect as a soldier standing at attention.
“GIVE IT BACK, DEPUTY!” she shouted.
The voice, like the giggling the day before, did not sound like my mother’s. It was a child’s voice. A girl’s firm demand. The voice that came from my mother’s mouth was Del’s.
But that, of course, was quite impossible. Was I losing my sanity? Had the stress of the past week worn me down that much?
“What?” I stepped away from her, terrified, in spite of all my rationalizations, that she would turn to face me and it would be Del’s pale eyes staring out from my mother’s wrinkled face.
“I said you better give it back, Katydid.” Her voice was her own again. Her shoulders slumped forward, relaxed.
“That’s not what you just called me.” My voice shook.
She went on painting. Her body was positioned directly in front of the canvas so I couldn’t see just what she was working on.
“What did you just call me, Ma?”
“Don’t know. Stroke took my memory. Fire stroke.”
“What is it I’m supposed to give back?” I did my best to conceal the panicked frustration in my voice. I must have misheard her, that’s all.
My mother giggled, set down her brush, and stepped away from the canvas. An oil lamp hung above the easel, and a candle burned on the table next to her wooden palette. The flickering light illuminated the painting, dancing over it, making it seem more alive. My eye caught something light and shiny in the left corner. I stepped up to the easel to get a closer look.
My throat opened and I could feel a guttural cry rising up. I clapped my hand over my mouth. I blinked hard, sure I was hallucinating. It couldn’t be. But it was.
There, on the torso of the shadow figure with the pale roaming eyes, my mother had painted a five-pointed silver star, the word SHERIFF spelled out in tiny, dark letters.
MY HANDS SHOOK AS I dialed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Nicky, it’s Kate. Something crazy’s going on. Can you come over?”
He was silent for a moment.
“Is that an apology, then?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m sorry I was such a shit. I’m going nuts here. I need to talk to you.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Bring some Wild Turkey.”
“Gobble, gobble,” he said, and hung up.
I checked on my mother—sound asleep. I fastened the lock and closed her in securely for the night. I went into the kitchen and lit some candles, threw another log in the stove. Back in my mother’s studio, I changed clothes and started to brush my hair. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the bureau and stopped short. My image was not alone. In the upper right-hand corner, I could just make out the figure in my mother’s painting—its eyes watching me watch myself. At that instant, there was an insistent rap-rap-rap at the front door. I damn near jumped out of my skin. Just Nicky, of course. I swallowed hard, grabbed the lamp, and went to let him in.
WE SETTLED AT THE KITCHEN TABLE. I put out some cheese and crackers and Nicky poured us two good-sized glasses of bourbon.
Nicky had shaved, combed his hair, and put on a clean, recently ironed white shirt that made him look downright civilized. To prove he was still a country boy, he had on a denim jacket, nearly worn through at the elbows and fraying at the collar.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, not wanting to waste time with small talk.
“Tell you what?” He eyed me cautiously.
“About you and Zack. I talked to him yesterday and he told me everything.”
“Just what did he say?” Nicky asked.
“Enough. God, I feel like you had this whole other life back then that I didn’t have a clue about. I mean, I had no idea. I thought he was your drug dealer.”
“He was,” Nicky said, looking down into his glass.
“But he was more than that, wasn’t he?”
“In a way,” Nicky admitted, still staring into the amber liquid.
“Look, Nicky, there’s been a lot of weird shit happening here and I’d sure appreciate it if you’d just be honest with me for once. I mean, how can you expect me to take anything you’ve said about the ghost stuff seriously when you’ve been lying to me all along?” My voice started to crack. “I just need one person to be straight with me here. Everyone in this town has secrets piled on like those Russian nesting dolls. So please, I’m begging you, no more lies.”
“I never lied.” He continued to stare down into his glass, then lifted it to his lips and drained it quickly.
“I’d say the omission of the little detail about you and Zack counts as being lied to. Now come on, Nicky. Tell me about it. You owe me that much.”
Nicky chewed on his lip a minute. He raised his eyes to meet mine, then looked away guiltily. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink, downed it, then lit a cigarette.
“I’m not queer, you know.”
“Nicky, it doesn’t matter.” I placed my hand on his.
“No more so than anyone else. I’ve had some lady friends over the years. Never went and got married like you did, but I came close once. This thing with Zack, it was crazy. I mean, when I think about it now, it feels like some far-off dream. Like it was a movie I was watching. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. So many p
arts of my life felt the same way. All the affairs Jamie had had, the years I played the helpless martyr.
“The guy was nuts about me,” Nicky told me as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “And I got swept away in it. I believed whatever he told me. He said sexuality was fluid and being with him didn’t make me, you know, gay. He read me Walt Whitman. Pretty deep shit for a kid whose biggest excitement had been shooting crows and squirrels. Looking back, I think it was the danger, the wrongness of it, that made it so powerful. It happened only a few times, and each time, I told myself it wasn’t gonna happen again, but then he’d show up and put his hands on me, and I couldn’t refuse. It was the fear of getting caught that added so much fuel to it, ya know? Does that make sense?” He looked up at me, his eyes boozy and moist. I nodded.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I asked.
“I tried. I planned to dozens of times. But I didn’t want to risk scaring you off. I was a little in love with you back then.” Nicky’s cheeks colored and he gave me a self-conscious smile. “I didn’t understand it myself, much less know how to explain it to some girl I was sick over.”
Now my face reddened. I squeezed Nicky’s hand, then let go.
“Then Del caught you,” I said, pouring myself another drink.
“Yeah, Del caught us all right.” He let out a regretful, smoke filled sigh. “Little shit snuck right up the ladder and watched. Didn’t even know she was there till we were, you know…through.”
“What did she do then?”
“Hell, you remember how she was. She threatened to tell. She used it whenever she needed to get her way with me. Worked damn near every time, too.”
“But did she ever tell?”
“Uh-uh. Not that I know of. I thought maybe she’d told you, but I guess not.”
“Nicky, is there anything else you’re not telling me? Anything about Del?”
“Like what?” Nicky’s voice had an angry, defensive edge. “Like did I kill her? Jesus, Kate!”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Now it’s your turn,” Nicky said. “How ’bout you tell me something I don’t know.”
I had a bite of cracker and a sip of bourbon. I decided it was time to fess up—to tell Nicky how I betrayed his sister. Nicky had told me his secret at last; now it was time for me to tell mine. I began with the tattoo.
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