by Madelyn Alt
I sat down in my comfy green chair a moment, hoping to relax, but my mind refused to be quiet. I couldn't help replaying the information I'd learned so far. Unfortunately it was only that: information, and all circumstantial. None of it could help Felicity.
Sighing, I reached over and punched the Play button on my answering machine. Steff's voice filled my living room in a message dated late last night:
"Hey, Mags. I have to work tomorrow morning, so I thought I'd better leave this on voice. You'll never in a million years guess who Danny and I saw at the gardens tonight…"
The sunken gardens were the remains of a onetime gravel pit that, years ago, someone had decided to turn into a park and recreation area. At the floor of the manmade crater, a wild tangle of local flora and fauna wove between and around a number of bottomless lakes, the whole of it bordered by walls of limestone that rose like sheer cliffs from the foundation. Year after year, Stony Mill's teenagers used the gardens to answer the call of their hormones. Steff and Dr. Danny were a bit old for the usual crowd, but hey, whatever rocks your world.
"Ryan Davidson, for one," Steff went on. "But guess who was with him. The husband's girlfriend, that's who! I kid you not: They left before we did, but"—her voice took on a sheepish tone—"I didn't notice the time. Danny's a really good kisser. Anyway, I thought it was interesting. Don't know what it means, but you might want to check it out. Talk to you soon, sweets. B'bye."
The answering machine announced the end of the messages while I sat there, stunned. Ryan Davidson and Jetta James? What in the world was going on?
All keyed up and needing an outlet, I grabbed my car keys and headed for the door.
Outside the sun shone brilliantly in a sapphire sky. October had always been my favorite time of year, a time of bright orange pumpkins sporting jocular faces, crisp golden leaves, and spicy multitudes of chrysanthemums spilling out of fences. I'd been so caught up with Isabella's death and the ensuing chaos, I'd forgotten to take a moment to notice the beauty around me. Well, today I was going to make time if it killed me.
Christine beckoned from the curb. I jumped into my seat, revved her puttering engine, then took off with a soul-deep laugh and an appreciation for the moment.
The excitement was short-lived. As I drove past the courthouse and police station, who should be walking out the door? Uh-huh. Tom. He was wearing the same clothes and a full day's growth of beard that made me think he'd not gone to bed at all, yet instead of looking disreputable he somehow managed to look disgustingly, well, gorgeous.
He caught sight of me as I sailed past. I didn't wave. He didn't either.
Damned pigheaded male.
Well, who needed him? I had the whole day ahead of me. I could do whatever I wanted, with whomever I wanted. Footloose and fancy-free, that was me.
Trouble was, I still didn't know what I wanted to do.
Despite my determination to spend the day indulging my every whim, I couldn't help thinking about everything Tom had said about Felicity, which got me fuming anew. It was obvious that he wasn't interested in looking past his own prejudices… and they were many.
I picked up an ice-cold orange juice at Judy's Stop 'N Shop for a quick blast of carbs, then continued my tour of town.
Stony Mill was for the most part your typical Midwestern small town. That meant tree-lined streets, residential areas dating back to the mid-1800s, and the prerequisite modern-bland business strip where Stony Mill shoppers could buy groceries and run the bulk of their errands without leaving the same enormous (and psychotic) parking lot. Downtown renovations, on the other hand, had capitalized on the antiques craze and the river, bringing the two together in the old warehouses bordering its banks. I turned down River Street
, but since it was Sunday, I wasn't expecting much. People were still conservative enough here that all the stores in town remained closed on Sundays. I drove slowly past Enchantments, but as expected, it was devoid of life. I'd hoped to find Felicity there, thinking she might know something about Ryan and Jetta that I didn't, but even she seemed to be honoring the Sabbath. So to speak. I guess even Felicity knew better than to break that rule.
So I headed out of town. The seed crops in the fields were drying now as autumn settled in for the count—miles of corn and soybeans, all golden-brown and wispy. As I meandered through the countryside, I saw more than one combine lumbering along in the fields, processing the grains in orderly spiral patterns that were as beautiful as the crops themselves. I rolled down my window and let the sun-warmed breeze stream in around me, enjoying the moment. Most of the trees were just starting to lose their leaves, and some of the vivid colors were fading to dusty shades of brown. Someone had set up a hay maze in one of their fields. Good, old-fashioned, disorienting fun. I hadn't been to one in years and made a mental note to try to get out this year. Maybe Steff could tear herself away from her dates for an afternoon.
Slowly, lazily, I wound my way through the rolling farmland and let the sights and sounds of the earth restore me.
Before I knew it, I found myself on Victoria Park Road
, heading toward the scene of the crime from the opposite direction I'd come before. All around me, I saw more of the same fields, gentle hills, new-style fanning operations, and the occasional old red barn. Only as I approached the Harding homestead were the farmers' fields exchanged for a mixture of woods and grassy meadow. I slowed as I passed, but there was no movement inside.
I wondered, not for the first time, about the security gate. It had to have been open when Felicity arrived, or how could Felicity have driven up to the house? Could Isabella have opened the gate as soon as she phoned Felicity, knowing her sister would be on the way? It was possible. But was it probable? Would she have had the presence of mind to do it? More importantly, would she have done that if she were afraid?
Reaching back to my experience at the cemetery, I decided to purposely try to put myself in Isabella's shoes. It wouldn't be easy since the only information I possessed had been filtered through Felicity, but if I truly had the kind of gifts Felicity seemed to think I did, then it stood to reason that I should be able to access them.
Closing my eyes, I walked myself through what I knew. She was home. Presumably alone. She's been hearing strange sounds for weeks. Threatening sounds. Sounds that made her uneasy. Anxious. Scared. That morning, she phones… Felicity, the sister from whom she's been estranged for more than a year. Why? Is it truly because she believes the problem to be supernatural in origin? According to Felicity, Isabella professed not to believe in such nonsense. I couldn't see why that should suddenly change. Even in the face of outright proof, I'd bet my beloved Christine that Isabella was the type of woman who would thrive in a state of denial. No, Isabella would have called Felicity, her sister, because she knew, in spite of everything, that blood is thicker than water. Because she knew she could trust her with her life.
Because she was afraid of someone close to her?
It had to be Jeremy. It made sense. Why else would Isabella have rejected her husband, her partner in life, for the sister she hadn't spoken to for at least a year? I didn't care that he had an alibi for the morning in question. There had to be an explanation.
All right, so back to Isabella. She sits at the kitchen table. Tea and cookies and her laptop. She has wealth. A beautiful home. Her choice of lovers. Life is good, except for the sense that she is not alone. Maybe she'd begun to suspect Jeremy of being a danger to her. Maybe she thought he knew about Ryan. What was that? Is someone in her house?
But wait. Why should she panic if Jeremy came home unexpectedly? He might have forgotten something. He might have spilled coffee on his tie. I couldn't see her panicking enough to call Felicity just because he'd returned home that morning.
I continued slowly down the road, bypassing Felicity's drive with its curlicued gate. I let Christine slow to a crawl while my thoughts spun in a whirlwind of suspicion. Rohypnol… How did the Rohypnol figure into all of this?
; Tea and cookies at the laptop.
Rohypnol in the tea.
What if… what if Jeremy had never really left that morning? What if he'd laced the tea in advance, knowing Isabella would have her usual morning cuppa? He might have pretended to leave, only to somehow circle back. To wait while she sipped her tea, hovering like a vulture, passing the time until she had ingested enough to incapacitate her. Just enough to make her pliable. Unconcerned for her own safety. Suggestible.
Had he convinced her then to phone Felicity? She wouldn't have known what she was doing. Maybe he'd turned it into a joke. Let's play a prank on Felicity, won't that be fun? Maybe he'd fed the words into her ear as she phoned.
I rejected the idea almost as soon as it occurred to me. Too risky. But what if it wasn't Isabella at all? Felicity mentioned Isabella had sounded strange that morning. A female accomplice?
Could Jetta have played a part in all this?
I didn't see why not. It struck me that I had no idea of Jetta's whereabouts that morning. And after last night I couldn't exactly pursue the issue with Tom. Something to think about.
All right then. That left only the why. Why call Felicity at all?
I could think of a few reasons Jeremy might have called Felicity to the scene of the crime. To witness his handiwork. To pinpoint the time of death thereby guaranteeing his alibi. To cast suspicion on Felicity, the sister Isabella had wronged. His dislike for her had been unmistakable. The truth? Probably a combination of all three.
The more the thoughts played through my mind, the more they made sense. Jeremy could have opened the gate from within using Isabella's code just before he made his escape through the woods separating the two properties. The Rohypnol? Drugging Isabella ensured a pliable victim. No struggle, no embarrassing scratches or cuts to explain away. One vicious blow to the head and Isabella's world blinked out in a flash of darkness and pain.
I shuddered and gripped the wheel harder. Only after I opened my eyes did I realize I'd somehow closed them, probably around the same time I'd nosed Christine to a halt in the middle of the narrow country road. I blinked, queasily, as my own world settled slowly into place around me. Maybe there was something to this empathy theory of Felicity's. I felt—sensed—that I'd gotten close to what had actually happened this time. The focus I'd experienced had made certain sensations seem to be my own. Dizziness. Euphoria. She'd known something was wrong, out of place, but couldn't seem to help herself. The Rohypnol, I suppose. Confusion. A swooping sensation. Crushing pain. Then…
Nothing.
She didn't see it coming.
I couldn't quite allow myself to believe it. Empath seemed to be just another word for someone with an overactive imagination. And mine had been playing tricks on me for days.
But the theory… the theory was sound.
I shivered again and took a good look around to orient myself. I'd stopped just short of the railroad tracks, thank goodness. They stretched in both directions as far as the eye could see, a swath of order cut into the unruliness of woodlands and overgrown fields. To my left, the flattened grasses of a makeshift lane hugged the raised bed of the tracks, leading to the woods farther back. The same woods that skirted Felicity's property.
Furtively I checked the rearview for witnesses, but no one else seemed to be traveling the road with me. Before I could lose my nerve, I shifted Christine into gear and bounced onto the rutted path, offering up a fervent prayer that I wouldn't find anyone already utilizing the, uh, private space.
As it turns out, luck was with me.
Greatly relieved to find myself alone in a small, shady clearing, I switched the engine off and sat quietly in my seat, ears perked. The sounds of the woods surrounded me—the dry rustling of leaves stirring overhead, the drone of a bee as it buzzed around Christine's warm hood, searching for the last vestiges of food in preparation for winter, the lazy hum of an occasional black fly, grown fat and sluggish with the cooler weather. The breeze brought a wisp of sound from somewhere near, a tractor perhaps. My ears latched on to it gratefully as I ducked down to peer out at the swaying treetops above me. It was so reassuringly… normal. And yet, I found myself hesitating to leave the tiny sanctuary Christine provided.
The hand that clapped down on my shoulder nearly sent me through the roof.
"Looking for something?"
You know how, when you're watching a horror flick and the unsuspecting and of course scantily clad heroine walks toward the closed closet door, and you know that the killer is hiding there, just inside, a mask over his face and a butcher knife at the ready? And then she opens the closet door, and to your surprise no one jumps out at her. You heave a sigh of relief, letting go of the tension that had gripped you, and just as you do, just as your anxiety drains down through your toes and you're actually starting to relax, the killer grabs the poor girl and slits her open from stem to stern and you're left drowning in a state of shock and horror and amazement that you didn't see it coming. Now, picture me as the girl. Got it? Except in the role of the killer this evening, we have Marcus Quinn, ladies and gents. Face of an angel, body of a devil. Or should that be face of a devil, body of an angel? Oh well. You get the picture.
Once I'd stopped gibbering in abject terror, I was sporting for blood. "Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, what do you think you're doing, scaring the bejeebers out of me like that? Criminey! You don't sneak up behind a woman like that!"
"Sorry," he said, but his broad grin told me he didn't mean it. "Couldn't resist."
That I could believe. I crossed my arms, not ready to forgive him yet. "What are you doing out here?"
"I might ask you the same thing."
"I asked you first."
His lips curved. "So you did." He looked up at the trees, and I used the few seconds his eyes were averted to get a good look at him. Today he'd exchanged his black T-shirt for one that made his eyes as blue as the Hope diamond, but other than that and the leather thong that held his hair tied back at the nape, the look was pretty much the same. "It never fails to amaze me how quiet it can be out here."
"You've been here before."
The grin again. "Well, you know, this place was in use long before Felicity bought the property. It has a memory you can't miss."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Why don't you get out of your car and find out for yourself?"
Well, I didn't usually rise to a dare, but…
Self-conscious, I reached for the door latch, trying very hard for aloofness. Marcus held the door for me like the gentleman he wasn't.
Once I stood upon terra firma, it took me a few minutes of soul-searching, but I think I knew what he was talking about. The place was secluded. Quiet, but with an undertone of movement. It had an all-over feeling of… intimacy. I drew a breath, looking up at the undulating motions of the treetops. I couldn't help wondering how many seduction scenes had played out here, surrounded by the dark witness of the trees, driven on by the urgent rocking of the passing trains.
Marcus placed a light hand on my shoulder and a flash of heat shot through me. "You feel it?"
My lips parted. Easy, girl. Embarrassed by my reaction—to the place, not the man, I reminded myself—I could only nod.
"These woods have always seemed a little magical. I used to come out here when I was a kid, back when Old Man Beverley used to own them. Lay a blanket out on the grass and stare up at the stars. Well, among other things," he added with a gleam in his eye when I'd shot him a skeptical look.
"Did you." I was determined to ignore that little ping of curiosity that made me wonder what lying next to him on a blanket might be like. For one thing, he was Felicity's man, not mine. For another, I was a little freaked out by being attracted to two men at the same time. Maybe it was my conservative Catholic roots, but I had always been a one-man woman. Anything else would have made me nervous. What was wrong with me?
"Yeah. The place hasn't lost its touch, either, from what I hear."
"Jeremy Harding and Jet
ta James?" I supplied.
"Among others. But, yeah."
"I've been thinking about that. Marcus, how far do these woods go? Toward the Harding property, I mean."
"All the way, baby. All the way," he said with a grin. "They're shaped a little like a crescent here, curving back behind Felicity's property and up in between. They actually continue on behind the Harding house, but more sparsely."
I thought for a moment, biting the inside of my lip the way I always did when I couldn't decide whether or not to share what was on my mind. "I've been thinking," I finally confessed, "about the morning Isabella died. About what you saw in the trees."
"And you thought that maybe it was her killer escaping into the woods."
I nodded, thankful for his quick intuition. Less explaining that way. "Whoever it was might have had a car parked back here, ready for him to make his escape while Felicity discovered the body."
"This area was crawling with cops within minutes."
"Not quite. Not until after Felicity had discovered Isabella's body and had gone to find you." He seemed to be at least considering it. "You say him. I suppose you mean Jeremy."
"It makes sense. His affair with Jetta might have provoked it. Or it could have been any number of things between him and Isabella in their marriage that we know nothing about."
"I've been asking around. Hey, you're not the only one concerned about Felicity. Harding was in a business meeting that morning, and he has a number of witnesses to that effect."
"Including Jetta James, I suppose," I said, disappointed.
"Actually, no. Ms. James had taken a vacation day."
He purposely avoided my suddenly raised eyebrows. Was it possible? Could it have been Jetta who struck the killing blow?