Shadow Notes

by Laurel S. Peterson

  “He was flirting, Mary Ellen. We don’t even know each other.” Relief flooded her body. Were those tears in the corners of her eyes? I handed Horace’s reins and my helmet to the barn attendant, a slightly chubby girl whose long blonde hair needed washing.

  Mary Ellen followed suit. She waited until the girl and horses moved out of earshot then put her hand on my arm. Pain prickled through my muscles. The last thing I needed right now was an intuition. I wondered if Mother could control them. I removed Mary Ellen’s hand.

  “I need to know—” Maybe all the power games earlier had been to psych herself up for this, whatever it was. “Could you ask your mother…or maybe you…” She looked into my eyes, as if she could read something there, the right thing, whatever it was she so desperately needed. “I know I’ve been cruel—today especially.”

  “Cruel doesn’t even begin to cover it, Mary Ellen. Did you think that if you told me some titillating bit about my mother, I would do whatever you wanted? Or that your plea about your brother’s campaign might make me feel sympathetic? If so, you need to rethink your methods. If you want something from my mother, ask her yourself. Our deal is officially off. I will not give you any more information, nor ask for anything further from you. Whatever your agenda, work it another way.”

  She reached for me again, but I stepped back. “I need to know about Andrew’s campaign, I need to know what we should do to win. He has to win.”

  That was it? That was what she needed to know? Her exhausted, hollowed out face conveyed a desperation I found surprising, and which almost raised a shred of pity in me if my gut hadn’t been yelling so loudly about manipulation. Was the Democratic contender such a threat? Or was there something else?

  “I don’t know what you think Mother can do for you, Mary Ellen.”

  “She…knows things.” The third Winters to say that.

  I ran my hands through my own unwashed hair, “What do you know about Hetty’s photographs and her little blue cottage? What do you know about Hugh’s death? I know you know something.”

  She stared at me, silent and white.

  “Right.” I paused so she would get that she didn’t get something for ­nothing. “I’ll tell Mother you want to speak to her, but I won’t do anything else.”

  Her face twisted with spite and fear. “You do that. And tell her next time, I’ll let you fall off the horse and break your neck.” She pivoted and walked away to her car. I watched her go. She was even more bitter and distorted than I’d thought. Never mind all the stories she’d told me about Mother’s past. It was clear something had happened the night of the junior prom, but why would Mary Ellen lie and in such a flamboyant way? Roy and Ray—should they exist and not be clowns with Barnum and Bailey—were certainly trackable. Was she trying to shame me into giving her information about the cottage? Make me so off-balance that I would do what she wanted?

  Was something that happened at a high school dance supposed to explain how my mother acted toward me? Threatening my life was certainly calculated to unhinge me, but it only made me more determined to find the truth, especially since her fear made me think I was on the right track.

  Mother was in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading the business section of the Times when I returned. “How was your ride?” Then she frowned, as if remembering who I rode with.

  “I hate it when you’re right,” I said.

  She responded with raised eyebrows.

  I sighed. “Let me get some food, first.” I opened the refrigerator and ­rummaged a bit before finding some relatively fresh English muffins. I put my breakfast together and brought it to the table. She’d moved on to the Arts pages.

  “I have a message for you from Mary Ellen. She wants to talk to you.” I bit into my muffin.

  My mother shrugged. “Nat told me when he visited me in jail.”

  “She told Nat?”

  “Apparently.”

  “So you know she’s worried about Andrew’s campaign.” I decided not to mention her threat to my life.

  She started to raise her mug, then put it down. “Why don’t you quit that job, Clara? I can’t imagine it’s giving you any satisfaction, and it gives me the willies thinking of you so intimately involved with that man’s run for election. Do you really want to see him in office?”

  “All politicians are the same, Mother. They want power, because they think they can do right or because they think they know what’s right. Either way, it leads to hubris.” I took another bite.

  “No, Clara, all politicians are not the same.” The intensity in her voice made me look up. She leaned forward to press home her point, the paper crackling as she crushed it. “Andrew Winters is a wicked man who must never be elected into any position where he has to put the interests of others before himself.” She closed the paper and slapped it on the table. “Take a look at that,” she said, “for examples of leaders who wrong their people. There are a lot of them, but plenty know how to do the right thing, or at least have integrity and their hearts in the right place, even if their decisions aren’t perfect.” She stood and picked up her cup. “I don’t know what Mary Ellen thinks I would possibly ever do for her or her brother, but you can tell her that she needs to ask me herself.”

  She stalked from the kitchen before I could tell her Mary Ellen already knew that.

  Chapter 16

  I should have told Chief DuPont that Mary Ellen threatened me, but I thought I knew what he’d say. Instead, I decided to talk things over with Bailey, thinking her analytical lawyer brain might help me. I persuaded her to meet me after work over drinks. Large drinks. So much for abstinence and resolutions.

  At least the alcohol was keeping the dreams away—not a good trade-off—but I needed the sleep. So badly, I needed the sleep. The slug had transformed into daytime hallucinations, which was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid. This afternoon at the office, I thought I saw my father standing there shaking his head at me. I blinked, and he was gone. My heart had started to pound. Had his expression been accusatory? What was I missing? What else should I do?

  At about seven, after finishing up some projects at the campaign and putting a large check in the mail to the Democratic candidate, I walked to The Peak where Bailey waited at the bar. She signaled the bartender as I walked in, and, by the time I had unwrapped myself from my coat and scarf, a martini sat coyly at my place. Bailey was halfway through hers.

  She leaned over and pecked my cheek. “What’s up, sistah? You look glum.”

  I took a long drink from my glass. “You have no idea.” I filled her in on Hetty’s cottage as well as Mary Ellen and the killer horse ride. I was well into my second martini by the time I finished.

  “I guess we’d better get some dinner. This is going to be a long talk.” She signaled the bartender and we wound our way to a booth. She ordered a bottle of Tempranillo and a plate of fried calamari. “Hetty, a stalker? I suppose I could find out if any of the people she photographed have reported her. You’d think Pete Samuels, with all his cop radar, would notice someone lurking around taking pictures of him. Why didn’t you just ask Kyle when you reported Mary Ellen? You know the man has the hots for you.”

  “I, uh…” A wave of guilt swept over me.

  “You didn’t report Mary Ellen? Are you crazy?”

  “Kyle already gave me a lecture about breaking into Hetty’s place. Plus, I can’t believe Mary Ellen meant it. A murder threat would wreck her brother’s campaign. Besides, she didn’t say she tried to kill me this morning, only that if Mother didn’t cooperate, she would next time. The chief would only berate me for going on the ride in the first place—and don’t you start on me, too. Please. Everyone has told me to stay away from the Winters.”

  “Why bother listening to the people who care about you? You won’t be in town long enough for a relationship anyway.” She tossed it out with a little side glance, a fish
ing line with a baited hook the size of Cincinnati.

  “I don’t know yet whether I’m staying, but I’ve missed you, and I’m going to do my part to keep our friendship going this time.”

  She shook her head, dragging a loop of calamari through red sauce.

  How did you persuade a person you meant what you said? Only action and time would do that job, and sometimes, even those weren’t enough.

  “How will finding out about wrong-doing in the Winters campaign clear your mother of Hugh’s murder? That’s your goal, right?”

  “I came home because Mother was in danger. She keeps telling me to stay away from the Winters, ergo, to use lawyer-speak, I think they are connected. However, I have zero proof of anything fishy, only some strange notations in a couple of files. Maria pointed me toward Hetty. My theory, after seeing her photographs, is that Hetty had a crush on Hugh, which Hugh didn’t return, and she killed him in a jealous rage.”

  She said, “That would fit with one theory, that it was a crime of passion, something to do with all Hugh’s sexual affairs.”

  “But Hetty also photographed Mary Ellen, me, and Pete Samuels. If it’s about crimes of passion, well, it’s not like I’m having an affair with Hetty, and I can’t imagine Pete or Mary Ellen having one either. Hugh and I are connected because the photos on Hetty’s wall were the same as the voodoo doll photos. But what’s the connection between the dolls and Hugh’s murder? Did she leave the dolls or did someone else, like maybe Balaclava Guy? Did Balaclava Guy kill Hugh? Why would he do that? Why are he and Hetty partners? And if Hugh was a target, does that mean that Mary Ellen, Pete and I are too?” I paused to swipe the last calamari.

  Bailey said, “Balaclava Guy and Mary Ellen both seem to have you in their sights, so maybe that question has already been answered, Clara.”

  I wiped my greasy fingers on a napkin. “Then there’s the question of why Balaclava Guy warned me off my mother’s past. What doesn’t he want me to find? What does her past have to do with any of this and why won’t she tell me about it?” I was babbling. I stopped.

  The waiter cleared the calamari plate and deposited huge steaks nearly covered in piles of crisp French fries. He added small pots of ketchup and mustard to the collection of bottles and glasses on the table, and drifted away.

  “Are there any…rumors about Mary Ellen’s mental health? I’m telling you, Bailey, she was all-over-the-place-crazy today.” Unlike me. “Between slurs against Mother, freak-outs about the campaign, and threats—a psychiatrist would have a field day. Maybe Hugh was trying to have her committed and she killed him to prevent it because she had to run her brother’s election campaign.”

  Bailey laughed, full-throated and without reservation, the first time I’d heard it from her in a long time. It was a beautiful sound, and I smiled, glad I’d caused it. She said, “Your mother would know, wouldn’t she? Seems like she could answer almost all of your questions.”

  I just shook my head and dunked a fry into the ketchup. Bailey understood. She sawed at her steak, then said, “I think we should tell Hetty about Ethan Olsen.”

  “Whatever for?” Talk about a change of subject.

  “She needs to know we protected her all those years ago.”

  “Would you want to know twenty years later that you’d narrowly missed being raped? That people had to make fun of you to get you to back off? I would only feel more humiliated.”

  “I want her to know we’re on her side.”

  “Are we? Do we need to be?”

  “She doesn’t have anyone.”

  “She has all her fluffy little lambs—until she makes them into lamb chops.”

  “Honestly, Clara. You could have a little compassion.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, officially putting on my ‘compassionate self.’ I still don’t get it. She has family and she must have friends. She has her clients. And apparently, she has a little stalking business on the side. She might even be dabbling in murder.”

  “She’s got Ernie and Loretta, but Ernie’s not even her real father. Her real father died, years ago, like yours. She spun loose after that, remember? She’s at every function in town, but that’s just Hetty. She shows up whether people want her to or not, so they figure it’s better to invite her. You know how people here think: We might have a use for that woman someday—like she’s an old door hinge you store in the garage, just in case. You and I don’t have to become her best friends, but we should make peace. And anyway, if you make nice, she might help you.”

  Bailey seemed determined to hook me into this town, but I didn’t need to make peace with everyone here. “It hasn’t exactly been gnawing at my conscience, and you’ve never had these scruples before. If you feel bad, apologize, but leave me out of it.”

  It wasn’t me at my best. Bailey had a point, but I was already overwhelmed, never mind making up to a woman who had made her dislike of me apparent for longer than I could remember.

  I would deal with it later, after the police arrested someone for Hugh’s murder and I stopped having dreams about blood, and daylight hallucinations of my father. The last step before a trip to the loony bin.

  Bailey slapped her knife onto the edge of the plate. “Those fifteen years might have given you a respite from dealing with all this stuff, but it never goes away. Eventually, even when you live your life as if you have no past, your past is underneath it all, influencing what you do.”

  “You think I’ve had a free ride all these years, while you slogged it out with the same old stuff and people we dealt with in high school?”

  She sat back, twisting the cloth napkin in her fingers. “I have a past, too—some of it shared with you—and even if you don’t feel guilty, I do, and I’d like to make amends. I have a lot invested in this town, and I don’t want lingering negative vibes from anyone, if I can change them. I want to be central to this town’s well-being and I can’t be if I’m not promoting the well-being of one of its members.”

  I squinted at her. “That sounds suspiciously like a campaign speech.”

  She bit her lip, then shrugged. “So? Will you?”

  “Clara!” Like the sudden explosion of a puffball mushroom, Hetty appeared at our table. Dressed in a red flannel shirt and jeans with heavy work boots and a long down coat, she looked like a dissolute Mrs. Claus. “I should report you for trespassing!”

  “Hetty, honey, you’re shouting,” said Bailey. “Sit down a moment.” She patted the seat next to her. The entire dining room had turned to stare.

  “Yes, sit down. We wanted to talk to you.”

  She gave me a doubtful look, but slid in next to Bailey, who wrinkled her nose slightly. A moment later, sheep barn wafted at me. I pushed my plate away.

  “You had no right,” Hetty reiterated, almost pouting. “I’ve spent all afternoon with the police.”

  “Why were you photographing me, Hetty? Or Mary Ellen or Pete Samuels? I’m sure the police were particularly interested in the photographs of Hugh.”

  Hetty stared at me, furious, her hands crushing a fuzzy red beret. “I…I…took those for a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  She folded her arms, the beret sticking out from under her arm like a tuft of hair. “I can take pictures of anyone I want to. Look at all those paparazzi.”

  “That’s their profession, Hetty. This looks like stalking.”

  “I’m not a stalker!” Indignant now, like she’d never thought of it before.

  “Of course you’re not,” Bailey patted her arm, perky smile glued in place. “So…there’s something else we wanted to discuss with you. Clara has remembered the incident you mentioned.”

  I shot her a dagger look. I didn’t want to talk about Ethan. I needed to find out about those photographs. And how come it was suddenly just me who was apologizing? “Actually, both Bailey and I feel badly. You’re upset about Eth
an Olsen, right?”

  Hetty stared at me, stone-faced, like a Greek column. Okay, so I did remember what it was like to be humiliated. Who could forget how that felt? Here we were humiliating her again, by calling her out on the photographs. Bailey was right; we needed her as an ally.

  I thought a moment about how to shape what I wanted to tell her, then said, “We were trying to protect you from Ethan, and because we were young and stupid and didn’t know what else to do, we made fun of your pretty dress.” I caught Bailey’s expression from the corner of my eye. Never mind. She’d set me up for this, so she would have to deal with my exaggeration.

  I leaned across and put my hand on Hetty’s arm as reassurance, but the gesture backfired. My vision clouded and I saw the man who’d invaded my bedroom, still in his black balaclava, his arm around Hetty’s throat, gun to her head. I flinched, pulled away, but Hetty’s hand had flown to her throat, just where I’d seen the intruder’s arm. She looked terrified. Even Bailey looked a little nervous, as she glanced back and forth.

  “Sorry.” I shook my head to clear it.

  “What was that?” Hetty whispered. Was she intuitive after all? It would be terrible if she’d seen what I’d seen. Should I tell her? Would she believe me? I looked into her eyes, paralyzed by indecision. As I hesitated, I saw her anger crystallize like a sugary sweet she loved to suck on.

  “I…nothing. Ethan was acting weird, all drunk and aggressive. It was a bad time for you to hang out with him, especially since, well, we’re pretty sure he raped Dara Oakford that night.”

  Any color remaining drained from Hetty’s face. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

  “Dara was absent for a week after that, remember? And she came back quiet. Not the same girl.” Bailey touched her hand. “We were trying to keep you from getting hurt.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?” The words stumbled past the dryness in Hetty’s throat. Bailey pushed a glass of water toward her. She sipped. Bailey’s lipstick printed the glass’s rim, but Hetty didn’t notice.