Shadow Notes

by Laurel S. Peterson

  The bartender placed two chilled glasses with olives on the bar, and, with a great flourish, opened the martini shaker and poured. Bailey thanked him gravely, then lifted her glass in a toast: “To old friendships. May they live long and prosper.”

  Then she frowned, shook her head, and clinked glasses with me. The bartender set out a tripartite bowl of snacks: olives, nuts, pretzels.

  I said, “Ethan designed tee shirts, too, didn’t he? I seem to remember buying one and being so proud that I’d gotten it before you.”

  “That black thing with the band’s name in silver script and a skull, right? I might have one of those in my bottom drawer.”

  “You dirty sneak.” I took a sip of my drink and let the gin linger on my tongue, while I figured out if she was friend or foe by seeing if she would dish on someone else. “Bailey, I had a strange run-in with Hetty the other day.”

  “You and the rest of town.”

  “She intimated we were nasty to her in school. Do you have any memory of that? She still seemed pissed about it.”

  “That’s not hard to believe.” The statement had multiple sharp edges. “It was Ethan Olsen.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “No, I’m not.” She leaned forward, eager. “Remember that dance his band played? Hetty came in that awful red dress with the flower on the shoulder.” A picture formed of the dress, the evening. “She was sweet on Ethan. You and I showed up in designer jeans and spiky boots.”

  “Right,” I said. “Every time the band took a break, we swooped in on Ethan. Hetty tried to be part of it—stayed close to the stage, danced near him, and she came with us once on a smoke break. She even volunteered to buy us cigarettes, didn’t she? Sort of pathetic.”

  “We were dumb and self-absorbed.”

  “Cruel, too,” I said. “I remember making fun of that shoulder flower.”

  “You said it looked like Sears put chiffon through a blender.”

  “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “Your shame blocked it out.” She reached for her drink, then hesitated. “I do remember thinking, though, that it was you she wanted, not Ethan.” She sipped and tipped her head back in pleasure. “If I had an addictive personality, I would surely be a martini alcoholic.”

  “Hetty had a crush on me?”

  “That never occurred to you? It would explain why she still hates your guts.”

  “No, it never occurred to me. Why did it occur to you?”

  “Something about the way she looked at you. I don’t know. Why does anyone ever intuit this kind of stuff? That’s your arena—intuiting things. I just remember thinking it.”

  “If it’s true, it makes me feel even worse for her.”

  “Gives a whole new spin to a ‘woman scorned,’ doesn’t it?”

  I snorted. “You are so full of yourself!”

  “Good thing you’ve returned to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

  Friend or foe? Now was the moment. “Bailey, someone broke into the house last night, left a couple of voodoo dolls.”

  Her shock seemed genuine. “You’re okay? The house?”

  “Everything’s fine. I’m just creeped out.”

  “Is that why you’re asking about Hetty? She’s nuts, but…how would she have gotten in?” She paused for another sip of her drink. “People say she’s into witchcraft or maybe black magic, but I don’t think she picks locks.”

  “I’m not sure I locked the house. I thought I did, and that’s what I told Chief DuPont, but…”

  Something started clicking away behind her eyes. “Any other suspects? Like me, for example?”

  I fished an olive from its gin bath. “While it’s the kind of prank you loved to pull off as a kid, we’re not kids anymore. Besides, the other doll had Hugh’s picture on it. That’s cruel, and I’ve never known you to be cruel.” I paused, gave her room to respond. She adjusted the cocktail napkin another millimeter.

  “So who then?” she asked.

  “It has to be related to Mother’s arrest—someone warning me off?”

  “Your mother has made a fair number of enemies over the years.”

  That was news. “Like who?”

  “You want me to email you a list?”

  “Would you?” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  “Ouch,” she said.

  I couldn’t get a read on her. Was she serious? Or were we just old friends trading bitchy comments?

  I changed the subject. “Speaking of my mother, I found an address in one of her books.” I recited it.

  The red nail started picking at the napkin. Little bits littered the bar top. “It’s a stable. You should know that place. Hetty’s mom owns it. Loretta, remember her? She’s married to your Dad’s partner Ernie.”

  “Mrs. Gardner married Ernie Brown?” No wonder the name and address seemed familiar. “Why don’t I know this?”

  She sipped her drink.

  “Don’t answer that.”

  She watched me carefully, as if the answer to her next question would determine something for her. “You going to check it out?”

  “It was penciled into a book on psychological trauma. I thought it might be important. Want to come?”

  She nodded once, seemed satisfied, drained her glass. “Your mom’s trial, you know there’s no guarantee she’ll get a not guilty verdict.”

  “She’s not a murderer, Bailey.”

  “Everyone is capable, even us.” The red nail drew a line in the air connecting us. “My point is that anything helpful, well, I need it, and the sooner the better. She has no alibi, and circumstantial evidence gives her a motive. You might try to persuade her it’s in her best interests to talk.”

  “She doesn’t listen to me.” Saying it made me feel desperate.

  Bailey just shook her head. “Well, right now, I want some dinner. You in?” She threw a couple of bills on the bar, and we went to eat large hunks of meat and drink a bottle of red wine, like real men and real lawyers.

  The next morning, with another hangover—I had to stop drinking so much—and earlier than any sane person would rise, I drove to the stables with Mother’s key in my pocket.

  Bailey’s unsettling comments about Mother’s enemies had fueled a restless night. The dreams had woken me every hour. While they still showed me with blood on my hands, they kept pausing with that whisper touch on my cheek, as if my dreams were a record that skipped to the beginning every time it hit that mark. Maybe I hadn’t noticed something critical about the image. Maybe it was my fear that the touch had been made by a real human hand—the intersection of the dream world and the real world—that kept waking me.

  Even now I could feel it creeping along my cheek like a spider.

  Looking for something to distract me, I focused on the bright, sunny morning. An inch of snow had fallen overnight, just enough to make the landscape sparkle. Old stone fences rambled along the road’s edges, competing with manicured hedges and the creep of bramble. Even sleep-deprived and half-frightened, I still appreciated Connecticut’s beauty. The Land Rover easily climbed the long slope of Sunset Hill Road, and just before eight o’clock, I pulled into the graveled drive and found a spot to park.

  I figured visiting the stables would net me only a footlocker of riding gear. But Hetty’s mother and mine had been close once; maybe she would know why Constance was in danger.

  Why did someone want her dead or locked up? The clock was ticking. Once the judge set a trial date, it would tick even faster.

  People bustled around with buckets, tack, shovels, and pitchforks, and walked around large steaming animals. My adolescent riding lessons lurked far enough in the past that I’d almost forgotten the names for all the accoutrements, but the smell of manure started to bring it back. I asked a person with a bucket how to find Lor
etta, and she pointed me across a gravel drive to a white house with dark blue shutters. Muddy prints from stable boots tracked back and forth along the path. I knocked, heard a call from within and twisted the knob, rubbing the key in my pocket, as if for luck.

  The door opened into a spacious country kitchen with an office to one side. Several pans emitting mouthwatering odors simmered on a large gas range. A full coffee pot sat on the counter next to a jug of milk and a sugar jar. Pots and dried herbs hung from a rack over a work table in the center of the room. On the left side of the room, near a comfortable-looking red and white patterned sofa, and a large French country desk, stood a tall, rangy woman in a gray Henley and Levis. Her hair showed streaks of silver, and her well-weathered skin spoke of a life outdoors rather than in the plastic surgeon’s waiting room. Her deep blue eyes were still sharp, and she looked surprised to see me.

  “Why, Clara. How nice of you to stop by.”

  I readjusted the image I’d carried all these years. We step back into the time frame as if we’d never left, as if nothing had changed while we’d been gone. But everything had changed, including the woman before me.

  “Mrs. Gardner?”

  Hetty’s mother nodded. “It’s Mrs. Brown now, but call me Loretta. You’re old enough.”

  “Your place is beautiful.”

  “Would you like coffee?” She strode toward the pot.

  “That would be great.” I accepted the filled mug and added cream and sugar. “I ran into Hetty the other night. She seems to be doing well for herself.”

  Loretta paused. “How surprising that you came to talk about Hetty. I never got the impression you two were close.” She sat down in her desk chair, a comfortably padded tweed model.

  I figured I’d better own up to my purpose. “Actually, I came because Mother asked me to get some of her things. She said all I needed to do was show you the key, and you’d point me in the right direction.” I pulled it from my pocket and set it on the desk.

  She stilled. “Really.” I could feel her searching under my skin for the truth. I put up a neutral wall, something I’d learned to do well when Mother dismissed my dreams.

  Finally, she relented, but not because she was sure of me. “I’m glad that things are better between you and Constance. She always told me how sad she was about the distance between you, wished she knew how to talk to you.” The statements were questions, testing me.

  I laughed. “Talking to me at all might have helped.”

  She gave me a funny look. “But she’s told you about the cottage?”

  I shrugged to keep myself from yelling “What cottage!” and held my breath, hoping she fell for it. “She doesn’t have a lot of options at the moment.”

  “Why didn’t you let yourself in?”

  “I didn’t want to tramp around on your property. Besides, Mother’s ­directions weren’t the clearest.”

  “Constance? Imprecise?” She gave the look all mothers have perfected: the one they give when their child tells an outright lie.

  I kept the neutrality in place and brazened it out. “As I said, she needs some of her things.”

  “In jail?” Her disbelief grew.

  I faltered. Mother might only have riding gear here. But she had hidden that key and address, almost as if she was anticipating trouble. Maybe she had hidden something here connected to her past. “Please,” I said. “I’m just trying to help her.”

  “Well, then.” Her face softened, and she gestured for me to follow. She led me through the house and out the back door. We walked across the yard, following a large boxwood hedge, until Loretta pushed through a thin slot. I flailed through the snow-draped branches, then emerged into the sweetest little space I had ever seen. The high shrubs circled a tiny cottage—a doll’s house. Like the main house, it, too, was painted white, but with green shutters, a little green door and a porch with a snow-covered rocking chair. Two tiny windows peeped from either side of the door.

  “You are the fourth person to know of this place,” she said. “Ernie’s agreed to rent it to your mother for as long as she wants it, but no one else is to know it exists or enter it.” She looked at me. “No one can know it’s here. I assume your mother told you that, but I want to reinforce it, just in case.” Just in case she has no idea you’re here. With that, she vanished back through the hedge and left me in the perfect silence of the circle.

  The snow between the hedge and the porch was unmarred by footprints. I crossed carefully, as if by putting my feet lightly enough, I too wouldn’t leave a mark. Winter wind had blown the porch floor almost clean. Feeling a little dizzy, probably from all my sleepless nights, I wiped off the rocking chair and sat. How many more questions about my mother could I possibly find? Now I had to add why did Ernie rent this space to my mother? and why wasn’t anyone allowed to know it was here? to the list that included wanting to know why she and Mary Ellen Winters were enemies, what the trauma was, whether she’d been having an affair with Hugh Woodward and killed him, and who left the voodoo dolls on my pillow. That was too many questions for a girl of no talent, such as myself.

  I pulled the key from my pocket and rubbed it with my mittened thumb. I wondered how many times she’d sat here and done the same thing. Rising, I stuck the key in the lock and twisted, praying that I wanted to know whatever I found inside.

  Chapter 9

  Darkness greeted me. I stood for a moment, orienting myself. I felt absolute stillness, as if the energy here knew how to curl into a ball and purr. I fumbled around and finally found the light switch.

  The bare walls were painted white. Heavy white velvet drapes covered the windows. A turquoise ceiling echoed more than twenty turquoise cushions of various sizes and color intensities that littered the white carpet and leaned against the walls. A white chair-and-a-half, with a matching ottoman, graced the far corner, draped in a turquoise cashmere blanket. Mother took care of her creature comforts. All outside sound was muffled by the hedge and the walls. I wondered if it was soundproofed.

  Two doors led off this room. I twisted the knob to the first and discovered a slate-floored kitchen furnished with a small table and chair. Randomly, I opened cabinets and drawers. They were stocked with tea and sugar, dishes and cutlery, linens and canned goods. One of the cupboards held books similar to the collection I’d found in her bedroom. In a sudden flash, I saw Mother eating meals here, a solitary glass of wine and white china dish centered before her in silence. Tears streamed down her face. Was this was a refuge for her? Or solitary confinement?

  Behind the other door was a bathroom. Again, I opened all the drawers and cabinets. One drawer was locked, but the key to the house worked on it. Inside rested one thin file folder. I flipped it open and saw a list of what appeared to be injuries and repairs: lacerations, tears, scrapes, stitches, and antibiotics. It looked as if Mother had taken a bad fall off a horse, a long time ago, before I was born. Why keep a description of it in a locked drawer in a house no one was supposed to know about?

  I stuck the file in my purse. I was becoming an accomplished file thief. Maybe the information would add up to something meaningful. In the main room, I sat in the chair and pulled the blanket around my shoulders. What was this place? I let the silence soak into me. For the first time, it felt good.

  At home, we had far more rooms than we needed; half the bedrooms were for “guests.” Why wouldn’t Mother simply use one of those for a retreat?

  What required so much privacy? Had she met Hugh—or others—here for trysts? If I believed what Loretta said, Hugh hadn’t known about this place…

  Unless.

  Unless I was right, and Mother had the same gifts I had. This would be a perfect meditation space. But only one person could answer these questions. I threw off the blanket and collected my purse with its stolen file.

  Time to get some answers.

  I seated myself across from Mot
her at the utilitarian jail table and practiced breathing slowly to calm myself. Same room, same ugly walls. Bailey was right. I had to get her to cooperate with me, one way or another.

  “Clara.”

  “I hear you’re going to trial.” Bailey had called me in the car with the news.

  “Stay out of it, Clara.”

  “Too late.” I slid the key between us. She looked at it, then at me.

  “You’ve gone through my things.”

  “I know what it opens.”

  She gestured to the corner of the ceiling. “We’re being taped.”

  I didn’t bother to look at the camera. “So?”

  “You never know who has access to those tapes.”

  “Are you afraid of someone?”

  “Why won’t you stay out of this?”

  “Because you’re in trouble. Yes, I’ve been gone for fifteen years, and we both know why. But I came home because you called to me in a dream. Why are you shutting me out?”

  She looked resigned. “I shouldn’t have done that.” She slid the key in a circle, thinking, then pushed it back toward me. “Did you talk to Paul about fire?” she finally asked.

  Seriously? How would she know about my police station dream? I hadn’t told her anything. She could only know if she had them herself—and God forbid she tell me that. “Not yet.”

  Paul might not even be speaking to me. He’d persuaded Chief DuPont that he would make a worthy custodian of Hugh’s file on Mother—which still offered me a fighting chance of getting my hands on it. But he was still furious I’d taken it.

  “Get him to teach you to meditate,” she said. “It’s calming and centering, and it provides such valuable and informative insights into situations.”

  “So that’s a medita—”

  “Clara! The tape!”

  I stared at her. “Couldn’t you, for once in your life, be direct and tell me what I need to know?”

  “You and I share some gifts, but you haven’t yet learned how dangerous they are to use.” She shook her head. “I’ve tried to explain.”