Rosemary for Remembrance

by Christine Arness

  “Helen. Helen Peters.”

  Julia had remained in the shadowed area by the staircase, her expression revealing a distaste for Abigail’s Good Samaritan efforts. Aware it would be impossible to get both Helen and the heavy bag up the stairs unaided, Abigail leaned the carryall against the wall by the bottom rung of the steps.

  “We’ll finish our discussion later, Ms. Kyle.”

  “We’ll finish it now!” Julia moved out of the shadows and the light fell on her face and on the handbag over her arm. The stain had spread, soaking the entire end of the purse.

  Helen blinked at the woman coming toward them. The face was familiar, dark hair sweeping back from a broad brow and the lips thinned into a triumphant smile. The years fell away and she was looking at the driver of the car, the proud carriage and high cheekbones fitting into the imprint burned in her memory.

  “I’ve always wanted to know—why were you so happy about hitting that woman with your car?”

  Abigail dropped her arm. “Mrs. Peters!”

  “Well, it’s been bothering me for years—why she smiled when she was looking down at the body. At least I think it’s been bothering me.” Helen rubbed her forehead and looked bewildered. “I must have Alzheimer’s. Everything’s so confusing all of a sudden.”

  Julia had frozen at the other woman’s accusation. Recovering, she spoke. “Austin was driving the car.”

  “Both men were in the backseat—I watched them get out of the car.” Helen stopped and blinked, as if amazed at the words coming out of her mouth.

  Julia’s eyes flashed at being thus contradicted. “By what right do you speak? No one saw me kill her—no one! Celeste was asleep and Nathan is dead!”

  Stunned by Julia’s slip, Abigail remained rooted to the floor, oblivious to Helen’s excitement until the little woman grabbed her arm. “I remember now! I was out riding my mare after I got back from the dance—I left early because of a fight with my beau. When cutting between the cornfields, I heard a scream and then a car engine. I got to the road just in time to see this woman get out from behind the wheel and run around to the front. The car had struck a girl and she was lying almost under the tires. I remember that ring you’re wearing—Julia Kyle, isn’t it?—that ring flashed red and white fire as you stood in the beam of the headlamp.”

  “Austin didn’t do it, and you let him think all these years that he’d killed his lover.” Abigail stared at the taller woman in horror.

  Julia shrugged. “The sodden fool passed out and the car swerved off the road. Nathan helped me get him into the back and pushed us out of the ditch. I drove. Which was fortuitous as it turned out, since Nathan lacked the guts to kill her.”

  “Then Rosemary’s death was no accident.” Helen was shivering and Abigail put her arm around the frail shoulders as she accused, “You ran her down on purpose!”

  “Someone had to stop her—she would have destroyed us!” The words came out in a sudden screech of rage and Julia moderated her tone to one of reasonableness. “She bragged about the engagement—I was sure she could be bought off—but when she told me she was pregnant, I knew she had to die. It was only a question of when.”

  Julia’s eyes were inward-looking, her lips curved as if she relived a pleasant experience. “I couldn’t believe how it worked out. When I turned on Kelton Road, she was walking down the middle of the road in that scandalous peach silk dress. It was almost like God had delivered her into the palm of my hand. She waved when she heard the car—she recognized it as Austin’s.

  “I saw her face in the light of the headlamp, smiling, so confident of her power over our family. My foot hit the accelerator—a scream—and then the road was empty. I got out and ran to her—could see that her neck was broken. I felt nothing but a great sense of release—she was dead!”

  The smile vanished and a frown appeared. “Fifty years later, the blackmail starts. But I took care of him and I’m going to take care of you.”

  “Blackmail?” Abigail whispered the word as Julia nodded.

  “He knew about Austin’s illegitimate child—claimed to be his grandson. I knew if the newspapers got hold of a story about a rich white boy getting his black maid pregnant and then abandoning her and the unborn child, my brother wouldn’t have had a prayer of the court nomination.”

  “Who is he, Julia? Who’s blackmailing you?”

  Julia answered Abigail as calmly as if they were chatting over tea. “The Albertson gardener. I never thought I’d be grateful for Austin’s silly hobby, but at least he keeps his knives nice and sharp.”

  The stain on the handbag was orangish in color—red and yellow mixed together make orange. Abigail gave Helen a gentle push, forcing her up a step. Julia had killed Quincy and the murder weapon was concealed in that handbag.

  Julia stepped forward. “Move away from the stairs, both of you. I know you’re anxious to spread the scandal, but I won’t let you. When he came home from college, Austin believed my story that Belle had left because she’d been offered a better job and everything would have been fine except that stupid girl listed Austin as the father on the baby’s birth certificate. Somehow, Quincy got his filthy paws on the document—he claimed Austin’s daughter was his mother. Because the court appointment has been at such a delicate stage, I paid his price until he got greedy, demanded too much when I asked him to silence you.” A pulse throbbed at her temple and her voice dropped to a whisper. “He was digging around in my past. I think he’d discovered the truth about Nathan’s death.”

  Quincy was dead. Handsome, smiling, cocky, strong Quincy had gone down under Julia’s insane rage. Abigail might escape, but Helen’s frail legs wouldn’t be able to get her away before the tigress pounced. Squeezing her companion’s hand in reassurance, Abigail held her position and her voice was a study in nonchalance as she asked, “Did your father kill Nathan?”

  Julia’s laughter was bitter. “None of the men in this family have ever been strong. Nathan told me he wanted money or marriage. I agreed to marry him but knew I couldn’t live with his pampered soft hands touching me, making love to me. He knew about Rosemary, too—he kept gloating over our secret.

  “The week before the wedding we attended a party given in our honor. As usual, he had too much to drink and I offered to drive home. When we got to the bridge, I stopped the car and asked him to drive. He crawled behind the wheel and when he put the car in gear, I hit him with a hammer—I hit him until his head was bloody, opened the door, and rolled out. The car, the hammer, and Nathan went off the bridge and into the river.”

  “In that way, you also eliminated the only other witness to the hit-and-run, since Celeste hadn’t awakened. Clever work, Julia, getting rid of Rosemary and Austin’s child.”

  “If it was Austin’s.” Julia’s tone reflected sheer disgust with her brother. “He was quite the great lover, getting a maid and a tramp pregnant. But Rosemary slept with whoever paid her price. She even seduced Father! He was infatuated with her, kept the miniature Austin had painted in a secret drawer of his desk. He made the mistake of bringing her to the house.”

  Her mouth twisted at a shaft of remembered pain. “Austin and I had been in Chicago that day. But I recognized that sluttish scent when passing Father’s room—knew she’d been with him. I went into the bedroom and found the sheets rumpled and a lipstick stain on a pillowcase.”

  Julia’s features seemed shrunken against the bones of her face, the skin clinging like melted plastic wrap to the skull. “In that room where he used to make love to our mother…they were copulating like animals. She stole Father away from me, violated Mother’s memory, and she had Austin in the palm of her greedy little hand. What if she had decided she wanted to marry Father? I had no choice, Rosemary had to die.”

  Opening her handbag, Julia pulled out a knife and ran her finger down the edge of the blade—smiled in macabre satisfaction when a drop of blood welled up from the tip of her index finger. She contemplated the cut, her head tilted to one side and her tone
confiding. “The day of Father’s funeral I got the key from his watch fob and took the miniature out of the secret drawer in his desk. I scratched her face off and buried her in the backyard beside the sundial. I’ve buried her twice. It is unfortunate for the two of you that you dug her up again.”

  The corridor was bare of anything that could be used for defensive purposes. Abigail tried a bluff. “Austin knows we’re down here—”

  Julia’s look was contemptuous. “Austin will do as I say. Start walking toward the storage area—your bodies won’t be discovered for quite a while. No one comes down here anymore.”

  Chapter 56

  Ross had vetoed the use of a siren in approaching the museum. If Julia was indeed desperate enough to have murdered the man in the alley, he wanted at all costs to avoid spooking her into another rash action.

  Scott stopped the squad car at the entrance and Ross got out. “Stay here. If I’m not out in twenty minutes, call for backup.”

  Ross ran up the steps and burst into the foyer. Several people turned in surprise at his impetuous entrance, but he ignored their curious stares and swept the room with a comprehensive glance, stiffening when he spotted Austin Kyle across the room beneath the sign indicating the location of the basement stairway.

  Turning to the plump woman guarding a box marked “Donations,” Ross showed his ID. “My name is Ross Stewart and I’m the state’s attorney. It’s very important that you get the building evacuated as quickly as possible.”

  The staff member stared at him, her face pale. “What is it? A bomb threat?”

  “No, nothing like that. There’s no immediate danger, but I would like the building cleared. Please make an announcement that the museum is closing early.”

  With another anxious glance in his direction, she picked up the small microphone lying on the desk and flipped a switch. Her voice boomed over a speaker set high on the wall. “The museum will be closing in five minutes. Will all visitors and staff members please leave the building. Repeat, the museum is now closed.”

  Ross pushed his way through the sluggish current of people flowing toward the entrance and caught Austin by the arm.

  “Have you seen Abigail James?”

  Austin’s eyes remained fixed on the dark well of the staircase at his feet. “She’s down in the basement with my sister. They’ve been down there a long time and I’m starting to get worried. I must see what’s keeping them—”

  The older man started forward, but Ross held him back. “I’ll go down and hurry them up. The museum is closing.”

  Frowning, Austin opened his mouth as if to argue, but after a moment nodded. “I’ll be outside waiting for you. I must speak with you on a matter of importance.”

  “We’ll talk later, I promise.” Ross turned toward the stairs again, just in time to see an Hispanic youth put his foot on the first tread.

  Ross lunged and grabbed the back of the young man’s Rolling Stones T-shirt. “Hold it! Where do you think you’re going?”

  The boy twisted to glare at him. “Let go of me, man! I left something down there. Be right back.”

  Relaxing his grip, Ross shook his head. “You can get it tomorrow. The museum is closed. What’s your name?”

  The youth punched his fist into an open hand. “José. But you don’t understand—I’ve got to go down—”

  His distress was evident; he quivered like a bird dog striking a fresh scent. Although anxious to get downstairs himself, Ross asked, “Why, José? What did you leave down there?”

  Jose jerked a red bandanna out of the hip pocket of his jeans and mopped his brow. Biting his lip, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay—an old lady. I left Mrs. Peters down there and I don’t want her to get locked in.”

  Ross corraled him again as the boy started toward the stairs. “You go outside and wait with this gentleman, José. If there’s a Mrs. Peters down there, I’ll bring her back with me.”

  “You don’t understand, man! She won’t come without her bomb!”

  “Bomb?” Ross grabbed Mick Jagger’s face and twisted, lifting José off his feet. “She’s got a bomb down there?”

  José was choking and his face purpled as he clawed at Ross’s hands. “I—it won’t go off—I disconnected…timer—”

  “What does it look like?” Ross let go of the T-shirt and seized the slim youth by the shoulders. “What kind of container?”

  “A straw bag with pink flowers,” José gasped, massaging his throat.

  Ross grabbed Austin’s hand and clamped it on José’s wrist. “Take him outside and wait for me. Tell the driver of the squad car to have the dispatcher code the fire department and contact a bomb disposal squad—get it to the museum as soon as possible. Move!”

  He started down the steps. Red was somewhere in the basement with a murderer, Mrs. Peters, and an unexploded bomb.

  Chapter 57

  As Abigail and Helen moved away from the escape hatch of the stairs, Julia kept pace, the tip of the knife pressed against the younger woman’s spine. “Keep going, you meddling snoop, or I’ll kill the old one. You’ve destroyed everything—Austin was not to know about the baby.” The cold needle of the knife pricked Abigail through the thin material of her shirt and she stumbled as the hoarse voice continued its diatribe. “You ruined my family, Rosemary. Father, Austin, Nathan—you’ve destroyed them all.”

  Fighting back panic, Abigail tried to soothe her captor. “My name is Abigail James, not Rosemary. Rosemary’s dead, Julia.”

  “Say your prayers, seductress. Three times buried—not even a dark angel can rise from the grave again. I’ll be free of you this time.” Julia laughed, a bark of triumph, and the knife jabbed deeper.

  “Stop, Julia!” The point was withdrawn and Abigail leaped forward, dragging Helen with her. Glancing over her shoulder, she gave a choked sob of relief at the sight of Ross Stewart standing on the last step.

  Ross descended to the floor and started toward them. “Let them go, Julia. It’s all over.”

  “I won’t. I must kill Rosemary.”

  His voice was gentle. “Rosemary’s dead, Julia.”

  She stared at him with a questioning frown before shaking her head in disbelief. “She’s standing right there, the cheap tramp. She thinks she’s going to marry Austin.”

  Ross reached into his jacket pocket and lifted out three rose petals, spreading them across his palm like crimson teardrops. “Recognize these, Julia?”

  Abigail gasped, her relief at Ross’s appearance changing to horror—the deep red hue of the flower petals was the same as the rose crushed in the spite posy and dropped on the chalked figure.

  “No,” she whispered in disbelief as Julia raised her hand to her throat.

  “Quincy had that rose in his lapel.” Julia’s voice trembled. “Does this mean he’s not dead, either?”

  “He’s dead and Rosemary’s dead, Julia. You don’t have to hurt anyone else.”

  Ross slipped the petals back into his pocket and Julia staggered as if struck, stumbled to the wall, and stopped. When the man approached and held out his hand, she placed the knife across his palm without demur.

  Her voice was low, husky with fatigue, as she smiled at Ross. “I’m so tired. I can’t believe that it’s all over.”

  “Just relax, Miss Kyle. I’ll be right back.” Wrapping the knife in a handkerchief, Ross interposed his body between Julia and the other two women. “Mrs. Peters?”

  At Helen’s affirmative nod, Ross took her hand and asked gently. “Where’s your bomb, Mrs. Peters? I’ll get it for you.”

  “Bomb?” Helen frowned. “I don’t know anything about a bomb. But I’ve got a lot of gaps in my memory today…”

  Peace had washed over Abigail in a warm tide as Ross approached them; she knew without a shadow of a doubt he would never intentionally hurt anyone—he’d risked his life to protect her from Julia’s insanity.

  Her relief faded as she became aware of the import of Ross’s interrogation of Hel
en. “There’s an explosive device down here?”

  Ross nodded. “Please, Mrs. Peters, think—try to remember—”

  “The bag!” Abigail pointed at the shadowed area near the foot of the stairs. “She was carrying a bag, a heavy straw bag.”

  “That’s it! It might not be armed but I want the bomb squad to deal with it.”

  “My bag was ticking,” Helen remembered. “Even with the yarn on it, it was ticking, but I thought it was only my old alarm clock. A bomb? I just can’t believe it.”

  Ross steered Helen toward the staircase. “Abigail, you and Mrs. Peters go first. I’ll bring Julia.”

  In the hushed silence, Abigail heard the sinister tick of the clock as the two women edged past the bag and started to climb. Helen seemed to have recovered from her spell of faintness and led the way briskly up the stairs. As they neared the top, a uniformed policeman appeared to take Helen’s arm.

  “Hurry!” he urged. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Abigail hesitated, turned, and glanced back. Ross was nowhere in sight. He had faced Julia on her behalf with a full awareness of the explosive’s presence—she couldn’t abandon him now.

  “I’m going back down to help Ross.” Ignoring the man’s shout, she ran back down the stairs, her feet thudding on the wooden treads, and halted her headlong rush just before she careened into the straw bag.

  Turning, she saw Julia still leaning against the wall. The tall, slim woman held her hand against her throat as if she had difficulty breathing. Ross stood about two feet away and a flicker of anger crossed his tense features at the sight of Abigail.

  “What are you doing here? Get out of the building!”

  Tick, tick. Just behind her, the straw bag huddled and muttered its dreadful cadence like a malevolent troll. “Not without you.” She ran to his side and turned to face Julia.